Chapter Text
The car was entirely silent.
It was not the resentful, prickly quiet to which Harry had grown accustomed over the years whenever the Dursleys were forced to endure his company. This was a thick, suffocating sort of silence, tense with a mixture of raw terror and fury that seemed to fill the car like poisonous gas.
Uncle Vernon’s meaty hands were gripped so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles had turned the color of old paper. His jaw was clenched, his thick neck flushed with the dark, mottled purple that usually preceded a spectacular explosion. Yet, he did not scream. The parting threats of Mad-Eye Moody, Lupin, and Mr. Weasley back at King’s Cross Station were clearly still echoing in his ears: “If we get a hint that you’ve been treating him badly…”
Harry pressed his forehead against the cool window pane, watching the grey blur of the motorway sweep past. The loud parting threats of the Order, and the dark, furious face of Uncle Vernon in the rearview mirror, felt terribly distant—no more important to him than the humid breeze drifting through the dashboard vents.
He was conscious of nothing but a deep, throbbing ache.
It seemed to have settled into his very bones. His ribs, where the Death Eaters’ jinxes had bruised them in the Department of Mysteries, throbbed with every breath he took. His muscles trembled with a profound, hollow weariness that made his arms and legs feel as though they had been filled with lead. Sickly-yellow bruises ran down his forearms, and right over his breastbone lingered a strange, icy ache—a phantom chill that refused to warm.
Beside him, squashed so hard against the opposite door that his round face looked entirely misshapen, was Dudley. His cousin had not looked at him once since Harry had climbed into the car. Dudley was breathing in short, shallow gasps, as though terrified that a single loud exhale might prompt Harry to whip out his wand and summon Dementors directly from the leather seats.
In the passenger seat, Aunt Petunia was behaving very oddly indeed. Under normal circumstances, she would have spent the journey glaring at him through the rearview mirror, her lips pursed as though he were a particularly foul-smelling stain on her clean upholstery.
But today, she was not looking at him at all.
Her extraordinarily long neck was turned toward the side window. Her thin fingers were twitching restlessly, continuously twisting her wedding band around her knuckle, and her foot kept up a rapid, erratic tapping against the floorboard. She seemed completely oblivious to the fury radiating from her husband, lost in some private, anxious world of her own. Harry watched her peer down at her wristwatch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Does she have to be somewhere? The idle question flickered in his mind, but vanished almost instantly, swallowed up by the vast, cold numbness that filled him.
As the car finally turned onto Privet Drive, a familiar, sickening weight settled in Harry's stomach.
The street was offensively normal. Beneath the blinding summer sun, the square lawns lay immaculately green and manicured, and automatic sprinklers whirred over neat flowerbeds. At number seven, a man in his shirt-sleeves was washing an already spotless estate car. It was a picture of pristine, suburban peace, entirely untouched by the shadow that had fallen over Harry's life.
It felt entirely wrong. The sky, Harry thought bitterly, ought to have been black and choking with ash. How could the woman at number seven stand there deadheading her begonias as though nothing had happened? How could the sun still be shining on these stupid, tidy gardens when Sirius was gone, and Voldemort was free?
Uncle Vernon slammed on the brakes, jerking the car to a halt in the concrete driveway of number four. The engine died, and the suffocating silence returned.
"Out," grunted Uncle Vernon. It was the first word he had spoken since they had left London.
He did not wait for Harry. Uncle Vernon shoved his door open, hauled his massive frame out into the heat, and heaved open the boot. Aunt Petunia was out just as quickly, practically fleeing up the driveway. Without a backward glance at the luggage, her heels clicked frantically against the pavement as she fumbled with her keys at the front door. "I must make a call," she muttered to herself, slipping inside before Uncle Vernon had even reached the threshold.
Harry slowly pushed his door open. His legs felt like leaden weights as he stood up, and a sharp pain flared in his ribs as he walked to the back of the car to reach for his trunk.
Normally, Uncle Vernon would have been barking at him to hurry up, to stop dragging his feet, and to get his abnormal trunk out of sight before the neighbors spotted it. Today, however, he merely stood by the open front door with his arms crossed, watching Harry’s slow progress with an expression of mingled loathing and deep apprehension. Dudley scurried past him like a frightened rabbit and vanished inside.
With a great effort that made his bruised ribs throb viciously, Harry dragged his clumsy wooden trunk out of the boot. Taking Hedwig’s empty cage in his other hand—she was making her own way from London by air—he began to lug his belongings toward the front door.
He did not look at Uncle Vernon as he crossed the threshold, and Uncle Vernon did not look at him, either. The moment Harry’s trunk cleared the mat, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut and turned the deadbolt with a loud, definitive click.
He did not go into the living room. Instead, Uncle Vernon rounded on Harry, his beefy face purple, the thick vein in his temple pulsing rapidly.
"I don't care what those freaks threatened," hissed Uncle Vernon, keeping his voice so low he sounded as though he half-expected Mad-Eye Moody to burst out of the umbrella stand. He jabbed a thick, sausage-like finger toward Harry's chest, though he was careful to keep his distance. "You keep your bloody head down. No funny business. No owls. If you bring any of that... that abnormality near this house, you’re out on your ear. Do you hear me?"
Harry did not flinch. He felt none of the burning desire to argue that had consumed him the previous summer. He merely stared at his uncle, his green eyes dull and unblinking. It was this absolute lack of reaction, rather than any show of defiance, that seemed to throw Uncle Vernon off. He swallowed hard, the purple flush rapidly fading from his cheeks. Stepping backward, he turned on his heel and retreated into the kitchen without another word.
Aunt Petunia brushed past Harry a moment later, pressing herself so flat against the floral wallpaper to ensure not a single fiber of her dress brushed against his clothes. "I must make a call," she muttered, her eyes fixed determinedly on the upstairs landing as she hurried up the steps.
Harry was left standing alone in the silent hall.
Slowly, his gaze drifted down to the small, wooden door beneath the stairs. The brass latch of the cupboard was slightly tarnished. For the first ten years of his life, that dark, cramped space had been his bedroom.
He stared at it, a cold, weighty sensation sinking deep into his stomach. Looking at the small wooden door, he felt a wave of bitter irony. For five years, Hogwarts had been his escape, his home—and yet, after everything, he had ended up exactly where he had begun.
Taking a firm grip on the handle of his trunk, he began to haul it up the stairs.
Each step was a struggle. His bruised ribs protested sharply at the strain, but he ignored the pain, dragging the unwieldy wooden box up the carpeted stairs with a sort of numb, stubborn determination.
When he reached the landing, he saw that Aunt Petunia's bedroom door was firmly shut. Her muffled, rapid voice filtered through the wood, cutting off abruptly the moment his footsteps creaked on the floorboards. Paying her no attention, Harry dragged his trunk to the very end of the hall and pushed open the door of the smallest bedroom.
The bedroom was incredibly hot and stuffy, smelling faintly of dust and closed-up drawers. Harry hauled his trunk to the foot of the unmade bed and set Hedwig’s brass cage down on the desk.
As he drew his hands back, his elbow caught the door of the battered wardrobe. It swung open with a loud, rusty squeak, revealing the small, cracked mirror attached to the inside of the door.
Harry froze.
The face staring back at him looked like that of a stranger. His cheek was swollen and heavily bruised in shades of dark purple and yellow. A shallow, crusted cut split his lower lip where a stray jinx had clipped him, and the collar of his oversized T-shirt was speckled with rust-colored spots of dried blood—some of it his own, some from Neville’s broken nose, and some from… He forced his eyes away from the stain, his stomach twisting.
But it was his eyes that made him stand so still. The bright, emerald green that everyone had always told him looked so like his mother’s seemed entirely flat. They were sunken into dark, bruised hollows, staring back at him with a blankness that made him look like a ghost.
He turned away from his reflection and looked around the room.
Everything was exactly as he had left it. There was the loose floorboard under the desk, the broken alarm clock on the bedside table, and the wardrobe with its squeaky door. Nothing had changed since the previous September.
It seemed impossible that a room could remain so utterly unchanged when he felt so completely ruined. Since he had last stood here, his world had shattered. The back of his hand still bore the scarred words of Umbridge’s quill, his ribs still ached from the Ministry, and his mind was still reeling from the knowledge of a prophecy that condemned him to either kill or be killed.
And Sirius was gone.
Harry turned back to the door and slid the lock into place.
As the bolt clicked shut, the numbness that had protected him since King’s Cross seemed to vanish, leaving him entirely defenseless.
He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, his breath hitching in his throat. Then, a sudden, frantic thought struck him, piercing through his despair.
The mirror.
He had swept the shattered pieces of Sirius's mirror into the bottom of his trunk before leaving Hogwarts. He had broken it in his anger, but surely—surely there was still a chance? Magic was unpredictable. Voldemort had beaten death; why couldn't Sirius?
Harry spun around and dropped to his knees, his joints cracking against the floorboards. With shaking hands, he snapped open the brass latches of his trunk and began tearing through the contents, throwing folded robes, thick spellbooks, and his brass cauldron aside. He did not care what he spilled or tore. He dug deeper, his fingers scraping the bottom until they closed around a jagged, thick piece of glass.
The sharp edge sliced into the pad of his thumb, but he felt nothing. A thick drop of blood welled up, smearing across the dusty glass as he pulled the shard up to his face. His chest was heaving, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold the mirror steady.
"Sirius," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Sirius Black."
Silence.
"Sirius, please... I’m here... Sirius..."
He stared into the jagged glass, his heart hammering against his ribs. He waited for the familiar bark of laughter, the dark hair, the warm grey eyes. But nothing happened. Only his own bloodshot green eyes stared back at him through the smear of his blood. Just him. Just Harry.
The shard slipped from his blood-stained fingers, falling soundlessly onto a pile of crumpled school robes.
Harry crawled backward, pulling himself onto the edge of the lumpy mattress, and sat down. Slumping forward, his elbows resting on his knees, he stared blankly down at his hands.
There was still white dust trapped beneath his fingernails—remnants of the shattered prophecies in the Hall of Prophecy. There were raw, red scrapes across his knuckles from where he had fought the Death Eaters. And there, stark and white against the tanned skin of his right hand, were the words: I must not tell lies.
I couldn't hold him, he thought, the voice in his head sounding terribly cold and distant. I couldn't grab him.
He saw the stone archway again. He heard the fluttering of the black veil. He saw the look of mingled shock and fear on his godfather’s face as he fell backward, slipping away into nothingness. Harry had reached out, but his fingers had closed on empty air. Lupin had held him back. Lupin had stopped him from following.
“Neither can live while the other survives.”
His chest hitched, and he took a sharp, painful breath. He waited for the tears to come. He wanted to scream, to smash up this room as he had smashed up Dumbledore’s office, to shatter the window and make enough noise to wake the whole street.
But nothing happened.
There was no anger left in him, only a vast, cold emptiness that seemed to have hollowed him out completely.
The square of hot sunlight slowly migrated across the dusty floorboards, climbing up the side of his wardrobe before finally fading away altogether.
Downstairs, the house woke up with its usual evening rhythms, but they felt further away than ever. Harry lay unmoving on his side, his cheek pressed against the rough, familiar fabric of his pillow. Through the floorboards, he heard the faint, metallic clatter of Aunt Petunia preparing dinner, followed by the dull, rhythmic thuds of Uncle Vernon’s footsteps as he came home from his study. Soon, the muffled laugh-track of Dudley’s television program filtered up through the ceiling, accompanied by the low, rumbling murmur of Uncle Vernon’s voice reading the evening paper.
The rich, savory scent of roasting chicken and potatoes began to seep under his bedroom door, filling the stuffy room. Usually, the smell of food would have made Harry’s stomach rumble with hunger. Tonight, it only made him feel slightly faint. Nobody came up the stairs to knock on his door. No plate was left on the landing, and no angry voice barked at him to come down and do his chores. For the first time in his life, the Dursleys were ignoring him completely, behaving as though the smallest bedroom at the end of the hall were entirely empty. He had become a ghost in their house, and he was grateful for it.
Although his body ached for sleep, his mind recoiled at the prospect of closing his eyes. If he slept, he knew exactly where he would go. He would be back in the dark, echoing corridors of the Ministry.
He could already feel the phantom sensation of it—the icy, snake-like coils of Voldemort’s mind wrapping tightly around his own, forcing him to speak with a tongue that was not his. Kill me, Dumbledore... The memory of that terrible possession made his skin crawl. Voldemort had been inside him, using Harry’s own brain and Harry’s own voice to beg for death.
If he slept, he would be entirely defenseless. The black corridor of the Department of Mysteries would be waiting for him, and the veil would be fluttering in the cold wind. He could not go back there. He could not watch Sirius fall again.
As the long afternoon wore on, his exhausted mind refused to grant him any peace, instead forcing him to relive every detail of the last few days.
His thoughts drifted back to the train ride to London. He remembered walking down the swaying corridor of the Hogwarts Express to use the toilets, and catching sight of Cho through the glass of a compartment door. She had been laughing. Actually laughing. Her long dark hair had fallen over her shoulder as she leaned against a Ravenclaw boy who had his arm draped casually around her shoulders.
Only a few weeks ago, she had been weeping over Cedric. She had been crying over Harry. But now, the term was over, and she had simply moved on.
A cold, hard knot of bitterness swelled in Harry's chest. He hated her.
He hated her for being able to smile. He hated her for being able to leave the war behind. She, and everyone else on that train, were going home to safe, normal families. They could spend their summer worrying about O.W.L. results or summer plans, while Harry was sent back to his prison, carrying a weight that felt too crushing to bear.
Let them fight Voldemort, a dark, bitter voice whispered inside his head. Let them see what it feels like.
They were all so blissfully ignorant. The wizarding world wanted a hero, but they did not want to see the scars he bore. They wanted him to fight for them while they sat safely in their carriages and laughed.
Hours passed. The square of light from the window faded from a deep purple into pitch blackness. Downstairs, the television was finally switched off. Footsteps creaked on the stairs, bedroom doors shut, and number four fell into a dead, stifling quiet.
As he lay in the dark, the walls of the smallest bedroom seemed to be closing in on him.
Harry’s breath hitched. The air in the room felt thick and hot, as though he were breathing in steam. His chest tightened painfully, and a wave of panic washed over him, making his head spin. He needed air. He had to get out.
He scrambled off the bed, his legs trembling under him as he stumbled toward the window. Grabbing the latch, he shoved the sash up as far as it would go.
The cool night air rushed over his face, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. He leaned his forearms on the sill, looking down. It was a straight, two-story drop to Aunt Petunia’s neat stone patio below.
Harry stared down at the dark concrete. The panic in his mind began to recede, replaced by a strange, quiet stillness.
Neither can live while the other survives.
If I die, he thought, what happens to the prophecy? Does it break? Does Voldemort just become mortal? If he were gone, the Order wouldn't have to risk their lives protecting him anymore. Ron and Hermione wouldn't be in danger. Nobody else would have to die because of him.
It's just a step, said a very quiet, calm voice in his head. Just one step, and the noise stops. Just one step, and you can go find him.
Harry did not realize he was moving until he felt the cold breeze on his bare legs. He had climbed onto the desk. He swung his right leg over the ledge, resting his knee on the narrow sill, and gripped the wooden frame. He leaned forward. The ground below looked remarkably close.
In the hallway outside, a floorboard creaked.
Harry did not care. He swung his other leg up, crouching on the narrow ledge. He closed his eyes, the wind rustling his hair, the imaginary sound of the veil fluttering in his ears. He let go of the window frame—
"HARRY!"
The bedroom door did not simply open; it burst inward. The flimsy brass lock splintered with a sharp crack as a massive weight threw itself against the wood.
There was a loud smash of ceramic as a mug of tea hit the floorboards, and before Harry could fling himself forward, two thick, meaty arms wrapped violently around his waist.
With a panicked, terrified yelp, Dudley hauled him backward.
Harry crashed hard onto the floorboards, taking Dudley down with him. Harry’s head slammed against the edge of his school trunk, and a shower of bright sparks exploded before his eyes.
"No!" Harry yelled, the cold numbness vanishing as a wave of hot fury took its place. "NO! Let me go!"
He fought desperately, thrashing on the floor, driving his elbow backward into Dudley’s ribs and kicking out, trying to scramble back toward the open window.
"Stop!" Dudley gasped, his voice cracking in a high-pitched panic Harry had never heard from him before. He did not let go. He clamped his thick arms tighter around Harry’s chest, using his massive weight to pin Harry to the floor.
"Get OFF ME!" Harry roared. He twisted around, punching blindly in the dark, and his fist connected solidly with Dudley’s jaw.
But Dudley did not strike back. He merely squeezed his eyes shut, his round face pale and slick with sweat, and dragged Harry further away from the window, pinning him back against the wardrobe.
"Let me go... let me go..." Harry choked out, still trying to wrench himself free.
But his body was too weak. After days of barely eating and the crushing weariness of the Ministry, his strength gave out. His struggles grew feeble, and his punches turned into weak, uncoordinated shoves against Dudley’s thick forearms.
Quite suddenly, the fight left him.
Harry slumped against Dudley’s chest, his fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of his cousin’s oversized T-shirt. A great, shuddering sob escaped him, followed by another.
He felt completely defeated. He had not been able to save Sirius, and he could not even do this.
He buried his face in his hands, shaking from head to foot as the tears finally came, sobbing so hard that he could barely breathe.
Dudley did not say a word, nor did he ask any questions. He simply sat quietly on the floorboards amidst the spilled tea and shattered pieces of his mug, his thick arms still wrapped tightly and awkwardly around Harry in the darkness.
Slowly, the shaking began to subside. The dry sobs turned into shallow, shuddering breaths. Harry felt completely hollowed out, his limbs cold and lifeless.
Suddenly aware of what he was doing, Harry pulled away, dragging himself backward until his back hit the side of his bed. He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms, utterly unable to look at his cousin.
For a long time, the only sounds in the bedroom were their ragged breathing and the gentle rustling of the leaves outside the open window.
Dudley shifted awkwardly on the floor. He reached out with a thick hand, blindly gathering the sharp, shattered pieces of the mug he had dropped, piling them together in the dark. The smell of spilled peppermint tea was very strong in the small room.
"You can't," mumbled Dudley.
He did not look at Harry, keeping his eyes fixed on the broken pieces of the mug in his hands. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable, his massive, sloping shoulders hunched forward in the dark.
Harry didn't look up. "Go away."
"No." Dudley shifted his weight, his large shadow blocking the window. "Not if you’re... if you're gonna do... that."
Harry finally raised his head, glaring at Dudley through the darkness. His eyes were swollen and stinging. "Why do you care? You’ve spent your whole life wishing I was dead."
Dudley swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He blindly piled another piece of shattered ceramic onto his palm.
"In the alley," Dudley muttered, his voice dropping so low Harry could barely hear it. "Last summer. When those... those cold things got me." He shivered, his round face turning a pale, sickly color in the shadows. "Everything went... it went dark. In my head. I felt like... like nothing was ever going to be good again. Like there wasn't any point to... to anything."
He finally looked up, his wide, frightened eyes meeting Harry's. "Is it like that? For you? Right now?"
"Worse," Harry whispered. "Much worse."
Dudley let out a slow, trembling breath. He nodded once, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. He stood over Harry for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking entirely out of his depth.
He leaned forward, awkwardly placing a hand on Harry’s mattress as he hauled his bulky body up off the floorboards.
"Keep your head down this week," Dudley mumbled, looking nervously toward the splintered bedroom door. "Dad’s furious. He’s trying to make up for... you know, whatever happened at the station. He’s got some bloke from Grunnings coming over on Friday. A new director or something. Dad wants a promotion."
He hesitated, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Mum’s been acting completely mental about it," Dudley continued, his voice dropping into a nervous whisper. "Pacing about the kitchen all day. Cleaning. She's already going on about the roast."
A bloke from Grunnings, Harry thought numbly. The words barely registered. It did not matter. None of it mattered. The Muggle world felt a million miles away.
"Okay," said Harry numbly.
Dudley lingered for another second, looking from Harry to the open window, and then back again.
"I'm leaving the door open," said Dudley firmly.
He turned and walked out into the hall, his plodding footsteps retreating into his own bedroom. He did not close his own door, either.
Harry was left alone in the darkness. He listened to the wind rustling through the open window, feeling the cool night air settle over his skin. He did not get up to close it.
He did not know how long he sat there. It was long enough for the wind to carry the scent of damp, cut grass from the neighbors' gardens, and long enough for his hands to stop shaking.
Then, he heard the soft rustle of wings. It was a familiar, comforting sound—the one thing that had always managed to find him, no matter where he was.
Hedwig landed on his knee without ceremony. She knocked against his shin as she adjusted her grip, ruffled her feathers importantly, and went still. She looked up at him with her large, amber eyes, as though she had fully expected to find him sitting on the floor in the dark.
"Hey," said Harry quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
She clicked her beak softly and pressed the flat of her head against his cheek—just once—the way she always did when she was impatient for a fuss.
Harry buried his face in the warm, soft feathers of her neck, curling his body around her small, indignant weight.
"Don't go anywhere," muttered Harry. "You're all I've got left."
She hooted softly, looking deeply offended by the very suggestion that she would dream of leaving him.