Disclaimer: Not mine. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling. The story idea stem,ed from Harry Potter and the Spiritual Heirs by PhoenixBurst on ff.n. (It's also on wattpad)
All The Same
"It was small solace from the guilt, in truth it felt wrong to have someone comfort him after what he had done, but for now, for now, it would do."
The walls were chipping.
That's what he noticed after hours of staring at them. They were a faded shade of white, but age wore them down to some lackluster hue. It wasn't a color you would notice, nor was it something you would grimace at. It was just...there.
Harry sighed. It was the beginning of summer, and the sun's temperament was only just making itself vocal. Perhaps in another world, he would enjoy the warmth. Even the plain grass of the lawn looked ethereal under the light. But here, holed up in the smallest room of Number 4, Privet Drive, Harry could scarcely do more than look out the window in longing.
It wasn't as if he was forbidden from the outside world, per say. It was more of unsightly grimaces and carefully placed death threats from his "family" that made him stay in his room. The Dursleys wouldn't outright say that Harry was not welcome on the lawn, but the barred teeth from Uncle Vernon and the look on Aunt Petunia's face were reason enough to stay away.
He rolled in his bed, which was strewn with baggy clothes and textbooks. Some of the books wriggled, and Harry saw his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters snap its fangs.
For any normal teenager, this itself would cause a multitude of reasons to worry, but for Harry Potter, the books were perhaps the most normal things in his life. No matter how you would frame it, the end of conclusion would always be the same. Harry Potter was far from normal.
For one, Harry hated the summer holidays more than anything. He also wanted to go outside, but was frightened in doing so. And of course, Harry Potter was a wizard.
Nearly five years ago, Hagrid, a kind giant whom he considered his first friend had come to rescue Harry and introduce him to a hidden world he was to be part of. Harry had been ecstatic to get away from the Dursleys. Hagrid could have come from the slums and offered to take him away, and Harry would have readily agreed. But Hagrid had given him a letter in fanciful script that he was a wizard. A wizard.
The next day, Hagrid had taken him to Diagon Alley, his first magical visit, and from that moment onwards, Harry had never looked back. For the first time in his life, whatever hidden hope he still had emerged from the dusty misery of his existence. The wizarding world was a haven to Harry. It was a chance at a life with some form of happiness. He had friends there, and maybe even a family. And then there was the magic.
Almost five years later, he was still in awe of magic. Whispered words and strong intent, and it was magic. For years, magic was nothing but a fantasy, something to play around with in a children's book. Now, it was all very real, and all very possible.
And yet, the magic which Harry sung praises of also condemned him to an existence of misery. Nearly sixteen years ago, a wizard called Lord Voldemort had come to his house in Godric's Hollow, and killed his parents. When Voldemort raised his wand to kill him, somehow it failed, and rebounded off of Harry, killing Voldemort, or so it seemed.
In Harry's fourth year, he had been falsely entered into the deadly triwizard tournament. He had to face dragons, merpeople, and a plethora of dangers only to meet Voldemort resurrected. It was found that Barty Crouch Junior had been impersonating Mad Eye Moody, and he, under the orders of Voldemort had entered Harry under a false school.
He had spent fifth year under continuous slander. The ministry wanted to hush the return of Voldemort, and denied his claim. Why worry the people if you can deny the truth? Perhaps that was Fudge's motto.
At the end of the school year, he had gone to the Department of Mysteries along with Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna. There was a fight, where his godfather died in. Harry blinked back tears and swallowed the stinging sensation as he thought if Sirius.
Sirius was the closest thing he had to a father. In two years, such a short period of time, Harry had grown to love the man. For two years, it was like he had a parent. Someone who cared.
Perhaps what pained Harry the most was the fact that he had led Sirius to his death. He foolishly believed Voldemort had Sirius, that his godfather was in any kind of danger. No- Sirius had been safe, only to be betrayed by his elf. Harry once again condemned Kreacher to hell, a special kind of elf hell where he would rot in clothes.
But still, as evenly as he could spread the blame, it weighed heavily in Harry's conscience. How could he do that to Sirius? Intentional or not, Harry had killed his godfather. Harry killed Sirius. He killed him. He killed him. He killed him.
It was killing him.
With nothing to otherwise occupy his thoughts, Harry had taken to sitting perfectly still and staring at the wall. Perhaps he had gone insane, for the color of the plaster became noticeable and the small creases in the paint seemed to shine. He was in such a pitiful condition, his hair unkempt, not that combing it would do any good. He hadn't changed his clothes in two days.
"It's my fault Hedwig," Harry whispered in a small voice. His cheeks had grown sunken and any luster in his eyes had ebbed away.
The beautiful owl stared at Harry unblinkingly. She pierced her eyes into Harry, leaving him feeling exceptionally uncomfortable. With a sudden sweep of motion, she hooted softly and perched herself onto Harry's shoulder. Her talons cut his shirt.
She hooted once again, and it was as if she was trying to comfort him. A repetitive warble came from her beak, and she leaned over so her feathers would touch Harry.
The heat from the owl ebbed into Harry, and he relaxed ever so slightly.
It was small solace from the guilt, in truth it felt wrong to have someone comfort him after what he had done, but for now, for now, it would do.
~magic~
Night dawned cold and windy, leaving Harry wrapping himself in his ragged blanket the best he could. The blanket had been his ever since he could remember. It was small, tattered, black , and seemed seconds away from giving up all together. Yet, it was the only warmth Harry had, so he clutched it tighter and and leaned in to its warmth, whatever little it offered.
The chill was surprising considering the soft warmth that had fell onto the neighborhood earlier. There was possibility that it was the dementors seeping the heat away, though Fudge certainly wouldn't admit it. It would certainly explains the sudden grouchiness of Uncle Vernon, even more so than before, if it was even possible. Even Aunt Petunia who had attempted to keep her temper in check since Dumbledore's letter had turned sour.
The night was still young, it was only eight but at this point sleep was more appealing than another hour of staring at the wall. But the immeasurable cold kept on waking Harry, who desperately wished he was back in Gryffindor common rooms, or even had Hagrid's coat. Uncle Vernon was still up- so Harry couldn't ask Aunt Petunia for another blanket. She may have given it if her husband had been asleep, but with his wrath so close, Harry couldn't risk it. He'd probably have his only blanket taken away as well.
Harry desperately closed his eyes. He turned over a couple of times, but sleep wouldn't come. Or maybe it did, because the voice of Uncle Vernon jolted Harry awake. He groaned. All he wanted was sleep- could he not even get that?
"BOY! GET YOUR RUDDY ARSE DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"
Not wanting to risk his temper, Harry quickly thumped down the steps, out of habit missing the fourth one to avoid the creak. It was useful knowing what made what sound when trying to get some food in the night.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon?" He said with grit teeth, nearly biting his lips from spewing insults. The faster he could get this over with, the faster he could get to sleep. Uncle Vernon scowled.
"Don't use that tone on me boy, it would do you good to at least appear grateful for us taking your freaky hide in our care. It's cold, if you haven't noticed- make us some tea. Extra hot, four sugars. Make Dudders's with six, and Petunia's with honey. Stop dawdling, get to work. NOW BOY!"
He jumped at the screaming, and disgustedly wipes away the spit that Uncle Vernon had spewed. He wanted to talk back, but Uncle Vernon's face was meaner than he ever saw, so he got to work, heating his hands over the flame. When the tea was ready, he sabores the few seconds of warmth it emitted.
Harry was glad to see a little tea left. He poured it in a cup- it was half a glass, more than he dared to hope for. It was warm in his hands. He raised the glass to his lips.
"Dad, I want some more," Dudley whined. Harry set the glass down carefully, preparing to make another batch. Maybe he could get some more too.
Uncle Vernon seemed to read his mind. Just as he was reaching for the milk, he stopped him.
"No boy, just give him what's in your cup." Uncle Vernon grinned nastily.
Harry cupped the glass, unwilling to part with the solace from the cold. It was so nice and warm- it was as if he had doused his hands in a hot bath.
"DO I HAVE TO REPEAT EVERYTHING TWICE? GIVE DUDLEY THE TEA, FREAK!"
He handed the cup with a scowl. He wouldn't be allowed to make any for himself, and he was so cold...
Harry shivered softly. He wrapped his arms around his torso, as if giving himself a waywards hug. The clock ticked away, and Dudley stood up, with Harry's tea in his hands.
"I guess I wasn't as thirsty as I thought I was," he said.
Harry jerked his head up in surprise. The tea would have cooled by now, but it was better than nothing.
"I think I'll just pour it down the drain."
Harry watched in despair as the last of the warmth spilled into the sink. Dudley hadn't touched the glass.
Uncle Vernon and Dudley smiled in the same nasty way. Both their faces were fleshy and red. He could see how Dudley was Uncle Vernon's son- he was an exact replica down to the fat of their bodies.
They left the kitchen.
Harry busied himself in washing the dishes, turning the water to the highest heat. His hands burned, but it was a welcome relief. As he dried the last of the cups, Aunt Petunia handed him a glass.
"Here," She said. The cup was full of tea. "Drink it." And take an extra blanket, they're in the back closet.
Harry glanced at her, surprised. He had never known his aunt to show any kindness. He wouldn't find out now if it was a fluke- he rapidly downed the glass.
"Don't look at me that way," she snapped. "I'm not losing the gardener to a cold, that's all. Go to bed now." With that, she turned away to the upper floor.
When he was sure there was no one down, Harry smiled.
A.N. Well, that's how you know it's my story. We start of with Harry feeling insanely guilty.
Se disclaimer!
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~try1ng2B