Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry's worn trainers hit the solid ground of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, a dull thud that echoes the heavy beat of his heart. He steps off the Hogwarts Express, the steam of the engine mingling with the weight of recent events that cling to him like a second skin. The platform swarms with families reuniting; their laughter and tears mix into a discordant melody that grates on Harry's nerves.

He moves through the crowd, a spectre among the living. His eyes, usually bright with curiosity and determination, now dimmed by grief, scan the faces around him. None match the sorrow etched into his own youthful features. Mothers embrace their children, fathers hoist little ones onto their shoulders, and siblings chatter excitedly about their summer plans. Every joyous reunion is a stark contrast to the emptiness gnawing at Harry's insides.

The warmth that once welcomed him here feels as distant as a fading dream. The train whistle shrieks, a jarring sound that sends a shiver down Harry's spine. It pulls him back to another whistle, another train—the one that took him to the Triwizard Tournament. Cedric's lifeless body flashes before his eyes, a memory so vivid it steals his breath away.

He blinks rapidly, pushing the image to the back of his mind only for another to take its place—the rebirth of Voldemort. The cold, high-pitched voice that once haunted his nightmares now resonates in the memory of reality. A chill runs through him, despite the hustle and heat of the crowded platform.

"Are you okay, Harry?" A voice cuts through the cacophony of King's Cross, but he doesn't answer. The words feel too far away, muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. Harry nods, more to himself than anyone else, unwilling to voice the turmoil that threatens to consume him.

As families disperse, leaving the station with their noisy trolleys and caged owls, Harry's isolation deepens. Each step feels heavier than the last, carrying him further away from the world he belongs to and back to a place where he is nothing more than an unwelcome burden.

King's Cross fades around him, and the shadows of his mind beckon, promising endless nights filled with the echoes of a past he can never escape. Harry's scar prickles, a cruel reminder of the connection that binds him to the darkness he so desperately seeks to leave behind. The platform, once a gateway to magic and friendship, now ushers him back into a world of solitude and pain, each echo of happiness around him a fresh wound on his already scarred soul.

"Boy!" The sharp bark of Vernon Dursley's voice cuts through the waning hubbub of departing families. Petunia stands beside him, her face pinched as if she has just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. Her eyes narrow upon catching sight of Harry, and she leans in to whisper something to Vernon, her words tainted with disdain.

"Finally decided to show up, have you?" Vernon growls as they approach. His large, beefy hands clench and unclench at his sides, mirroring the storm brewing behind his furrowed brow. Petunia's lips twist into a bitter line, her gaze fixed on Harry's forehead—as though the very sight of his scar offends her more deeply than his presence.

"Your lot always causing trouble, making decent folk wait," she mutters, her voice a poisonous hiss that slithers into Harry's ears, reaffirming the reality of the next few months—away from his world, away from understanding.

"Let's get this over with," says Vernon, not bothering to hide the disgust in every syllable. They turn on their heels, expecting Harry to follow like an obedient shadow.

The car is stifling as Harry shoves his trunk into the boot and slides into the back seat, his knees pressing against the faux leather. No greetings or questions of how his term was—only the heavy silence that envelops them like a suffocating fog. Vernon's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel while Petunia's reflection in the rear-view mirror shows a woman trapped in perpetual dissatisfaction.

Vernon's occasional "hmph" punctuates the quiet, a gruff reminder of his discontent. Petunia whispers to herself, casting furtive glances at Harry through the mirror. Each muffled word from her lips is a barb, designed to remind Harry that he does not belong—that he never will.

Trees and houses pass in a blur as the car winds through London's outskirts, but Harry barely notices. His mind is filled with the echo of Voldemort's cold laughter, the memory of Cedric's vacant stare. Every jolt of the car over uneven roads feels like a jarring snap back to a reality where he is nothing more than the 'strange boy' who lives under the stairs.

With each mile that draws him closer to Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry tucks away his memories of warmth and magic, bracing himself for the bitter days ahead. He knows all too well the routine that awaits—a routine devoid of kindness or comfort. A routine that will demand every ounce of patience and courage he possesses.

The car rolls to a stop with a finality that churns in Harry's stomach. He steps out, his trainers scuffing the pavement of Privet Drive as the Dursleys' glares bore into him like ice picks. The front door looms before him, the threshold a boundary between worlds—one filled with magic and wonder, the other with disdain and malice.

"Get inside," Vernon commands, his voice a low rumble of contained anger. Without waiting for Harry's compliance, he marches toward the door, keys jangling with each heavy step.

Harry follows, the weight of his trunk nothing compared to the oppressive atmosphere that awaits him within the walls of Number Four. As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, the familiar scent of lemon polish mixed with something sour assaults his senses. It's the smell of home, if one could call it that.

Petunia rounds on him, her lip curling as if she's just bitten into something rotten. "Didn't you bring enough trouble last year?" she spits out, the words slick with venom. "We don't need more of your... kind bringing their filth into our house."

"Mind how you speak to the boy, Petunia," Vernon chides, not out of concern but as a warning. His tone suggests an unpleasant consequence should Harry dare to answer back. "He's not worth the energy."

Every glance they exchange over Harry's head, every muttered insult, is an obvious message: he is the unwanted element in their otherwise mundane existence. They move around him stiffly, as though he's contagious, their faces twisted into permanent masks of disapproval.

"Your freakishness has no place here," Vernon grunts, blocking Harry's path to the stairs. "Any funny business, and there'll be consequences."

Harry nods, barely registering Vernon's words. His focus narrows to the task at hand—surviving the summer without breaking. Vernon points towards the cupboard under the stairs, a place he hadn't slept since he was 10 years old.

"Remember, boy," Petunia calls after him, her voice sharp as a knife's edge. "You are here because of our goodwill alone. Don't you forget that."

Goodwill—that's a laugh, Harry thinks, but doesn't dare say aloud. Harry's hand grazes the wooden frame of his cupboard under the stairs, a familiar shiver crawling up his spine. The musty scent of neglect assaults his senses as he stoops to enter the cramped space.

It's a far cry from the four-poster bed and enchanted ceiling of his Gryffindor dormitory. Here, there is no laughter of friends to soothe the sting of isolation, no shared whispers of plans and dreams—only silence and the oppressive weight of solitude.

"Get in there," Vernon orders, his voice a gruff bark that brooks no argument. Harry ducks his head, avoiding the man's gaze, and complies. The door shuts with an ominous click, the sound final, like the sealing of a tomb. Darkness envelops him, and he sits, knees pulled to his chest, on the thin mattress that offers little comfort.

In his mind, Harry turns over the memories of Hogwarts, each one a precious gem. The camaraderie at Hufflepuff's table during the celebratory feasts, the fierce joy of Quidditch matches, the solidarity in facing dangers together—all seem distant now, lost to the shadowy confines of this cupboard. He closes his eyes, but the vivid images of smiling faces and shared laughter only deepen the ache of absence.

"Your kind doesn't deserve comfort," Petunia's voice slices through the thin door, sharp and cold. "Remember that."

Harry's fingers curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He doesn't need the reminder. Every inch of this space screams it, from the cramped quarters that restrict his movement to the faint light that struggles to penetrate the gap beneath the door. His very existence here is a testament to the gulf between the world he belongs to and the one that claims him out of obligation.

"Boy!" Vernon's shout startles Harry from his thoughts. "Don't think you can just laze about all summer. There'll be chores waiting for you when I decide you can come out."

The promise of tasks looms overhead, another chain binding him to this place, this life. But it's not the work that troubles Harry—it's the return to invisibility, the suppressing of who he truly is that grinds away at his resolve.

"Understood," Harry replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. He doesn't mean it. Understanding is the last thing he feels in this house that has never been a home.

He leans back against the walls that have known his sorrows since childhood. They offer no comfort, only a stark reminder of the many nights spent wishing for a different life. And yet, they are familiar, these wooden panels that have borne silent witness to his growth, his pains, his fleeting hopes.

As the daylight fades and shadows creep along the edges of his vision, Harry Potter, the boy who faced down the darkest wizard of all time, braces himself for another night in the cupboard under the stairs. Alone, but not defeated. Always fighting, even in the quietest of battles.

The air in the cupboard grows stale and heavy, pressing against Harry with an almost physical force. His eyes, wide and alert despite the late hour, trace the familiar cracks in the ceiling above him. Each line seems to inch closer as minutes tick by, a silent encroachment that mirrors the tightening grip of dread within his chest.

In the darkness, his glasses sit useless beside him, but he doesn't need them to see the scenes that play across his mind's eye. The images are burned into him, clearer than any reality: the maze, the cup, the graveyard. Cedric's body crumpling to the ground. The cold, high laughter of Lord Voldemort, resurrected, power-hungry and cruel.

A shudder ripples through Harry, his thin blanket offering no real warmth. He tries to shake off the memories, but they cling like cobwebs, stubborn and pervasive. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing sleep to come, to grant him even a moment's respite from the relentless replay of that night.

But sleep, when it does claim him, is a traitor. It drags him not to rest but right back into the nightmare. Cedric's face, pale and lifeless, haunts him. The echo of Voldemort's voice wraps around Harry, a serpentine hiss that promises destruction.

"Kill the spare," the dream-Voldemort commands, and the world fractures with the sound of a spell being cast, the thud of a body hitting the earth. Harry's pulse races, his hands clench into fists beneath the blanket.

Suddenly, he's awake again, gasping for breath in the suffocating closeness of the cupboard. His scar throbs dully, a lingering ache that speaks of horrors past and yet to come. Sweat slicks his skin, and he struggles to steady his breathing, each inhale a sharp and ragged endeavour.

"Focus, Harry," he whispers to himself, voice barely audible. It's a mantra, a lifeline he clings to amid the terrors of his own mind. "It's just a dream. It's not real."

But even as he mutters the words, he knows the lie in them. Because for Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the nightmares are all too real—memories twisted into torment, fear made manifest. And as the night stretches on, inexorable and unyielding, Harry braces himself for the next onslaught, knowing there is no escape from the darkness that lives inside him.

The morning light does little to chase away the darkness clinging to Harry's mind. He blinks against the faint glow seeping through the cracks of the cupboard, but it's not the brightness that unsettles him—it's the shadow of fear that lingers from his dreams. It coils around his thoughts like a persistent fog, refusing to be shaken off by the simple act of waking.

Harry pushes himself up, his joints aching as he unfolds his body in the cramped space. Every movement is heavy, every breath a conscious effort. He rubs at his scar, the skin there sensitive, a tingle of dread pulsating beneath his fingertips.

"Up now," he mutters, steeling himself for another day under the Dursleys' roof.

He steps out into the silent hallway, the Dursleys still asleep. The house feels oppressive, as if the very air is thick with malice. Harry moves quietly to the kitchen, craving a moment of solitude before the storm of the Dursleys' contempt descends upon him.

But as he sits at the table, a glass of water in hand, solitude proves to be a double-edged sword. His own thoughts betray him, turning traitorously loud in the silence. And then, unbidden and unwelcome, comes the voice.

"Harry..."

It slithers into his consciousness, cold and insidious. Harry's hand tightens around the glass, knuckles whitening. It's a voice he knows all too well, one that has haunted him in sleep and now dares to invade his waking hours.

"You cannot escape me," the voice continues, a cruel mockery of familiarity.

"Leave me alone," Harry whispers fiercely, though he knows it's futile to speak out loud. The voice is not really there, at least not in any form the Dursleys could hear. But to Harry, it's as real as the cupboard's stifling walls, as tangible as his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

"Such a brave boy," the voice taunts, and Harry can almost see the red eyes, the pale face. Voldemort. The name is a curse, a reminder of terror and loss that Harry can't forget, no matter how desperately he wishes he could.

"Stop," Harry grits out, pushing back from the table. The water remains untouched, forgotten as he stands and braces himself against the kitchen counter. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on something—anything—else. His friends' faces, the memory of laughter, the thrill of flying on a broomstick.

But the voice is a relentless tide, washing over every other thought, eroding Harry's defences. It whispers of power and darkness, of pain and retribution; it's a warning, a harbinger of more suffering to come.

"Kill the spare," the voice hisses, a phrase etched into Harry's soul, an echo of a command that changed everything.

"NO!" Harry's cry is a sharp crack in the quiet house, a burst of defiance against the invasion. He can't let Voldemort win, can't surrender to the fear that seeks to paralyse him.

"Harry?" The voice changes, becoming Petunia's sharp, disapproving tone. She stands in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What are you carrying on about?"

"Nothing," Harry says quickly, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Just... talking in my sleep, I suppose."

"Sleepwalking, more like it," she sniffs, looking down her nose at him. "If you've got energy to waste on nonsense, you've got energy to work. Get started on breakfast, and don't wake Vernon."

"Right," Harry agrees, but as he turns to the stove, his heart still races, and his hands shake ever so slightly. Voldemort's voice may have receded, for now, a spectre retreating into the shadows, but the fear it brings remains, a constant companion that Harry knows all too well.

Harry flips the eggs with a practised flick of the wrist, the sizzle of the pan a mundane soundtrack to his morning. But beneath the crackle of cooking, there's something else: a whisper so soft it's almost drowned out by the sounds of the kitchen. It slithers into his consciousness, uninvited and insidious.

"Harry... Potter..."

The words are barely audible, yet they carry the weight of an unmistakable malice. Harry grips the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening. He tries to focus on the mundane task at hand, willing the voice away, but its cold tendrils wrap tighter around his thoughts.

"Can't you hear me, Harry?"

The voice grows in strength, its tone laced with an icy familiarity that sends shivers down his spine. Voldemort's voice, once confined to nightmares, now encroaches upon waking reality. It's a chilling reminder of how closely darkness trails him, even within the walls of Number Four, Privet Drive.

"Leave me alone," Harry mutters under his breath, not wanting to draw Petunia's attention again. She's already watching him like a hawk from the corner of her eye, searching for any excuse to criticise.

But the voice doesn't heed Harry's silent plea. Instead, it grows louder, more persistent, echoing through the hollows of his mind. "You can't ignore me, Harry... I am part of you."

Harry clenches his jaw, desperation clawing at his chest. He scrambles for a memory, anything bright and powerful enough to repel the darkness. His friends' laughter, the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, the thrill of flying—these are his shields against the encroaching fear.

"Get out of my head!" he whispers fiercely, the spatula trembling in his grip. The eggs are forgotten, the edges crisping into a golden-brown as the butter in the pan begins to burn.

"Focus, Harry. Focus..." he urges himself, closing his eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. When he opens them again, the kitchen swims back into view, the harsh fluorescent light glaring above him.

"Is breakfast ready yet?" Petunia's voice cuts through the stillness, sharp as a knife.

"Almost," Harry replies, his voice steadier than he feels. He quickly scoops the eggs onto plates, the mundane task grounding him for the moment.

As he sets the table, the voice recedes into a low murmur, lurking just beyond the edge of his senses. Harry knows it's only biding its time, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike again. And though he's shaken, he is determined. He will not let Voldemort's shadow consume his daylight hours—not without a fight.

Harry's fingers are raw, the skin peeling at the edges as he scrubs the last of the Dursleys' dinner plates. The sink overflows with soapy water, sloshing onto the floor with every vigorous motion. His back aches from hunching over, the rest of his list of chores unfurling like a scroll in his mind, each task more daunting than the last.

"Boy!" Vernon bellows from the living room. "What's taking so long? And don't forget to polish the silverware!"

"Almost done," Harry calls back, his voice barely concealing his fatigue. He glances at the clock; its hands tick mockingly towards midnight.

With a final rinse, he stacks the dishes with care, avoiding the precarious tower of pots looming beside the stove. He moves on to the silverware, his movements mechanical, the soft clink of metal against metal punctuating the silence that hangs heavy in the air.

"Lazy," Petunia mutters under her breath as she passes by, eyeing the still-damp floor. "Can't even mop properly."

The word stings, embedding itself into Harry's thoughts like a thorn. Useless, lazy—each barb is a weight added to the burden he already bears.

"Look at this mess," Vernon growls, entering the kitchen. His face is red, veins bulging at his temples—a sure sign of the storm brewing within him. "You're a disgrace. Can't even complete simple chores."

"I'm trying," Harry protests weakly, but his words evaporate before they can gain any real conviction.

"Trying?" Vernon snorts. "I'll show you trying."

The world tilts as Harry's back slams against the wall, the plaster cracking slightly under the force of Vernon's shove. His head snaps forward, and stars burst behind his eyelids, a violent display of pain that leaves him momentarily disoriented. He can feel the rage emanating from Vernon like heat from a furnace, unyielding and scorching.

"Useless freak," Vernon bellows, his face contorted into a mask of sheer fury.

Harry's glasses skew sideways, distorting his vision, but there's no mistaking the dark shape of an object hurtling toward him. Instinctively, he raises an arm to shield his face, but it's a futile gesture. The impact resonates through his body, a sharp agony that blossoms outward from where the heavy book connects with his elbow.

"Couldn't even do one simple thing right! All day you had!" Vernon's voice is a thunderous roar in the confined space.

Gritting his teeth, Harry attempts to stay upright, but another blow sends him reeling. This time, it's a lamp, its base shattering against his shoulder, sending shards of ceramic skittering across the floor like ice on glass. Pain flares, hot and immediate, and Harry stifles a cry that threatens to escape his lips.

"Vernon, please—" Harry's plea is cut short by a backhand across his mouth that silences him with a metallic taste of blood.

"Silence, boy!" Vernon's eyes are wild, unseeing in their anger, and Harry knows better than to expect mercy.

The room spins, and Harry can barely register movement before his body is hurled once more, this time colliding with the sharp edge of the dining table. His ribs protest, a chorus of sharp twinges that steal his breath away. He crumbles to the ground, the carpet rough against his cheek, every nerve ending screaming in protest.

"Maybe now you'll learn," Vernon sneers above him as he undoes his belt, his words dripping with contempt.

Harry's only response is a low, involuntary whimper as he curls into himself, trying to make his bruised body as small as possible. The onslaught seems to go on forever, each second stretching into an eternity of suffering, each strike a message of hate etched into his flesh.

As Vernon's shadow looms over him for what feels like the final blow, Harry's consciousness wavers on the brink. His mind drifts, seeking refuge in memories of Hogwarts, of Ron and Hermione, of laughter and whispered secrets in the Gryffindor common room. But the sanctuary of those thoughts is out of reach, smothered by the suffocating darkness of the cupboard under the stairs.

"Enough," Vernon spits out the word like a curse, and with a final disgusted look, he turns away, leaving Harry alone in his misery.

Lying there, Harry's breathing is shallow, each inhalation a battle against the throbbing pain that envelops him. His body is a map of bruises and welts, a testimony to Vernon's unchecked wrath. The silence of the house settles around him, heavy and oppressive, a tangible reminder of his isolation, and Harry begins to drag himself back to his cupboard, hoping he doesn't leave any stains.

In these quiet moments of solitude, with his consciousness ebbing and flowing, Harry clings to a sliver of defiance buried deep within him. It's not much, but it's enough to keep the encroaching shadows at bay, enough to whisper that he is more than the Dursleys' hatred, more than the pain they inflict.

But as the adrenaline fades and reality seeps back in, so does the sensation of his battered body, aching and heavy, struggling to hold on to the thin thread of awareness. And in the dimming light of consciousness, Harry feels utterly and completely broken.