Chapter Text
Sprawled across the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, Harry’s mind hummed. His heart in his throat, all distractions exhausted, the darkness ready to envelop him – slowly, entirely. His face contorted into a grimace, fists clenched, a knot forming in his torso, as he saw it all over again. That limp body, those eyes made empty in a mere second, colour bleeding from skin and mouth hanging open. Living and breathing one second, a moment later, no more than a pile of lifeless flesh sitting on bone. Harry clutched at his shirt, pressing a fist to his mouth in order to stay quiet.
His guilt had swallowed him whole and spit him out disfigured and shattered beyond reparation. He could hardly stand to think about it. Remorse gnawed on his insides, running down his veins and enveloping him so completely, it made sure that every kernel of reasonable thought, every seed of sense was snuffed out before it could take root. He had never felt so intensely before. A thought crossed his mind – gone almost as quickly as it had formed – this was surely, surely, how the cruciatus curse felt.
He shot up suddenly – eager to rip himself away from his thoughts – and realized he was surrounded by pitch black. For a moment he panicked, his body seizing up and eyes closing on their own accord. He felt sick, sick of the dark for there was only one thing the dark reminded him of nowadays. His body trembled violently as his mind churned and spiralled – a pale arm and lank straw-coloured hair, hollow sockets, a rotting hand reaching towards him, closer and closer until–
A gentle glow.
A warm light bloomed over the wretched scene, wrapping all around him in a hazy mist, dissolving the horrible figure. Harry realized, his eyes slowly opening, that the light was real, bathing his room in a languid glow.
He looked at his hands in wonder – light was spilling from between his fingers, previously clenched into a furious ball, in gentle, floating waves; a familiar opaque mist spreading its tendrils outwards in a mesmerizing fashion. Bewildered, Harry realized he had cast lumos without his wand.
He stared as the flowing mass of light, shapeless and shimmering, followed the movements of his hands, contracting or expanding as he squeezed or relaxed his palms. It grew, he noted, as he joined his hands, doubling in size, though still not emitting any more light than a simple torch. Harry furrowed his brow and tried to make the light grow brighter. It did not change. Perplexed, he balled his fist in an attempt to extinguish it, but a glow could still be seen from between the cracks of his fingers. The light seemed to have dimmed a tad, the glow dulling steadily.
The light faded ever so slowly, and Harry jerked. Horror rising in his chest, he realized that he had just done magic outside of Hogwarts grounds. The light flickered weakly and extinguished. The lithe boy stumbled his way towards the door of his room, feeling like he had been punched in the gut. He ripped the door open and stepped into the bathroom, desperate to be out of the darkness. His back against the closed door, he slid down and hit the cold, gaudy tiles with a thump, hands raking through his hair.
Now he had done it. Doing magic in the muggle world was prohibited and now he was going to be expelled. His grip on his hair tightened even more as he curled into a ball, the despair from before slamming into him at full force, mingling with the newfound realization that he might never be allowed to come back to Hogwarts.
Bitter tears pricked sharply at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision and threatening to fall. Why did these things always happen to him?
Harry knew he had nothing without Hogwarts. He had built a life there, had found a family in his friends, had replaced his miserable existence at the Dursleys’ with wondrous magic; peculiar new people, the excitement and exhilaration of breakneck speed quidditch, curious magical creatures and a new world of spells he knew he had barely even begun to scratch the surface of. Leaving it all behind meant the destruction of everything good he had ever known in life.
What would Ron and Hermione think on the first day of the new year, when they noticed he was absent? He thought of kind Neville, who he had begun to find a friend in, his gentle demeanour refreshing to Harry. He thought of the Weasley twins, as brilliant as they are cunning, their antics having brought him to tears on multiple occasions.
He even thought of little Ginny Weasley, who had steadily become akin to a ball of fiendfyre, having burned away at the shy, demure little girl she had been back in the Chamber of Secrets. Gods, he couldn’t live without them.
He thought of Sirius. The manhunt for him had not died off entirely, but the urgency of his capture had dimmed in the minds of many a wizard and witch, alleviated no doubt in part due to not having done much of anything in the public eye since his escape.
He was certainly still seen as an outlaw and a danger, but wizard minds are fickle and prone to losing sight of the bigger picture, looking eagerly for the next new scandal.
For a moment the jet-haired boy wondered as to why he hadn’t been visited by the man’s Grim form, aware that the wizarding world was still in the dark regarding his Animagus. Nothing was stopping Siri from slinking through the streets, becoming just another mutt by the side of the road, large enough so that nobody would approach, cunning enough to stay away from danger.
The thought of it put Harry in a sullen mood. Deep down, he knew that Sirius was likely being monitored, no doubt being kept on a short leash by Dumbledore as part of some grand, all-encompassing plan. It still stung. He was still lonely.
They had begun to talk in earnest previous summer. Sirius had really dived headfirst into Harry’s life, wanting to know everything, immediately, like an excitable puppy who had found company for the first time in a long, long while. And he had, in a way. Azkaban and its dementors might not have broken his spirit, but they had made him crave human contact.
Whenever they talked, Sirius had taken the chance to drill Harry on his time at Hogwarts and the Dursleys, and where he saw himself in the future, drinking the information greedily, like a parched man having a sip of water for the first time in years. And after they had exhausted every conversation topic, after they had descended into silence, Sirius would hesitate to be the one to say goodbye. He would linger, looking like he desperately wanted their interaction to continue, mouth opening but closing immediately after, the mind not being able to follow suit.
Harry knew that Sirius was likely gripping onto the last remaining piece of James and Lily that existed, reminded of them every time he spoke to his godson, not quite ready to let his best friends go even after all this time.
He had even called Harry James, one time. But Harry tried not to mind, he liked to think that it did not take away from the affection his godfather felt for him, not just his parents. The boy was, after all, himself starved for parental affection, and he enthusiastically made plans with Sirius to talk again and again, by that same fireplace, just to be able to enjoy his company one more time, basking in the thought that this was his very own godfather.
What would happen to him if he were to get expelled? He wasn’t sure if he would even be allowed to see Sirius ever again. For a moment, he entertained the idea that he had in fact cast accidental magic. It would be a relief, as he did not think Hogwarts expelled students for that.
But he was hesitant. It had not felt like any accidental magic he had ever experienced, this spell felt steadier somehow, and he had been able to control it somewhat. Harry was hesitant to call it accidental, it felt risky to place his hopes on a wish – he had too much to lose.
The boy sat on the floor, leaned against the door, head tilted upwards, staring blankly at nothing in particular on the plaster ceiling. Around him, he heard the steady buzz of electric appliances, heard only in the dead of night, when the sounds of life had died down to nothing.
The faucet was leaky, he noted absently, letting through a steady drip, drip at regular intervals. Engrossed in thought, he wondered whether he could escape before someone came to get him. He could run away, though he would have to limit himself to the muggle world. Too famous to step foot in wizarding Britain, he would be swarmed before he even had the chance to say treacle tart, yet he would be completely penniless. Running was futile, but Harry couldn’t bear to sit around and wait for his destiny to chain him up.
So, he returned to his room, unpacked and repacked his trunk for the fourth time that summer and unlocked Hedwig’s cage. The bird seemed to understand his soft murmurs and sad look, and took flight, spreading her snow-white wings and gliding silently into the night. She was a clever girl, he knew, and she would keep track of him. But he needed to be able to run at a moment’s notice.
His trunk by the foot of his bed, a shrinking spell at the tip of his tongue, and angst still brewing in the pit of his stomach, Harry flopped onto the bed and waited, steadily, for any hint of muffled voices, or the telltale sign of a car backfiring. He waited, resigned to what was to be a life so different from what he had enjoyed the past few years.
The tears could come later, for now he had to focus.
But nobody came.
The next morning, Harry woke with a start, jerking his head towards the door, then the window, still sleep-kissed and groggy, his intuition telling him to be alert. He cursed himself for having fallen asleep when he was supposed to have been vigilant.
The digital clock at his bedside glowed 9:13 A.M., and Harry was baffled. A full six hours had passed without as much as a knock on his front door. He got up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, still stumbling slightly as his body adjusted to his mind. His trunk was still neatly packed and sitting beside the window.
Harry’s mind spun. Nobody had come to get him all night, which was reassuring, but he doubted that meant he was in the clear. He must have gotten a letter, a warning of some kind, while he slept. He inspected the area around the window, left cracked open to let the breeze in during the night, and saw nothing out of place. No envelope at all, everything exactly as it had been last night.
He left his room and slunk down the stairs. The Dursleys’ mail ought to have been delivered by now, he concluded, and he would likely find the letter in that same bunch.
The smell of rashers wafted up the stairs, along with the sizzling sound of eggs frying, signifying his aunt was awake. The Dursleys had been tolerating Harry ever since Hagrid had set them straight, no more cupboard under the stairs, and no more of Dudley’s harassment, though he still had an inordinate number of chores to do each day, the list getting more and more ridiculous as Petunia ran out of petty tasks to saddle him with. But Harry did them all, and he did them quietly, and when the very last splinter had been pulled off the fence and each tiny hedge branch had been hand-trimmed so as to align perfectly with the rest, there had been nothing else for Petunia to do than to let him be.
He had even been spared having to cook breakfast every single day, as his aunt had seemed to have found a newfound love for cooking, no doubt as yet another way to prove to her neighbours what a model wife and mother she was.
Even still, there never seemed to be quite enough food for Harry himself. He would usually wait until they had their fill, waiting patiently for Dudley to lumber along to the living room to play some stupid game on his brand-new handheld. The amount of food left over was symbolic - just enough so they could claim they were being gracious, but not really enough for him to have a proper meal. Harry was not sure whether his cousin and uncle went out of their way to not leave him any, or if Petunia purposefully did not make enough in the first place.
As such, Harry did not even bother to stop by the breakfast table, mumbling only a quiet ‘g’mornin’ to his aunt, heading straight for the front door. A couple of envelopes lay strewn about the floor, and the teen eagerly scooped them up, rifling through the addresses. Most of them were addressed to his uncle, a couple for his aunt, and none for himself. The knot in his chest eased and he breathed a sigh of relief. He seemed to be safe.
He dumped the stack of letters on a side table and made a beeline towards the fridge. His aunt was nowhere to be seen, and the pan of eggs, still sizzling, was cooling on a rack next to the stovetop. He snatched a piece of toast from the toaster and an apple from the fridge and retreated back to his room.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling light, gnawing on the crispy slice of bread. He hesitated in letting his guard down, as there was a chance the envelope had gotten stuck in wizard transit somehow. But the memory of hundreds of letters pouring into that little shack in the middle of nowhere on his eleventh birthday popped into his mind and he snorted – wizarding post was many things, but tardy and inefficient were not two of them.
Harry was all but convinced that he had somehow, at almost 15 years of age – a maturing wizard in his own right – done accidental magic. It was almost embarrassing in a way. The last time that had happened was right before his third year, when he had inflated nasty old Aunt Marge, but he liked to believe his control over magic had grown enough since then. Feeling glum, the teen let his arm flop off the side of the bed. He was so juvenile still.
He rolled over and thought about what he was going to do. His eyes narrowed at his window when he caught glimpse of a black speck. It seemed to be floating, growing larger and larger, as if it were moving closer.
An owl – a foreign owl – carrying something in its claws. Harry froze. The bird swooped noiselessly into his room and perched gracefully on his dresser, dropping its package onto the floor. He stared suspiciously at the large package, – somehow, he doubted the ministry sent official mail wrapped in shiny snowman paper. He took his glasses, placed them on and approached the mystery parcel.
To Harry, from the Weasleys, in a familiar chicken scrawl.
Harry’s eyes widened – it had to have been his birthday present. He hadn’t even realized it was the 31st. The summer days had all blurred together, and the multitude of sleepless nights had not helped in that regard. Harry smiled for the first time since the end of the school year. He had missed his friends something fierce, and this reminder could not have come at a more desperate time.
He enthusiastically ripped the snowman paper open and tore through the cardboard box to get to its contents. A couple of smaller boxes greeted him. The first one declared From Gred (and Forge!), and he was almost hesitant to open it, lest something blew up in his face.
He deliberated for a moment.
He gave the box a little shake and put his ear up to the fold, listening for just about anything – growling, ticking, hissing. But it was silent. He cautiously cut the tape sealing the opening, tugged on the folds of cardboard until they came free, peeked in and –
KABOOM.
Stumbling backwards, face full of glitter, he let out a string of expletives. Coughing, he frantically waved his hands to disperse the malicious sparkly cloud clinging to his every bloody pore. Furious stomping up the stairs made him curse even more, as he scrambled towards the door. He cracked it open just in time to meet Aunt Petunia’s furious beady eyes.
“What kind of ruckus-?!” She hissed out, her face turning an ugly puce colour. “You had better not be doing any of that freakish nonsense under my roof, boy.”
Her immediate hostility set him off. Harry, sparkling in the morning light, snapped back a biting “Oh, must have been the wind.”
Petunia jabbed a shaky, manicured finger into his face, “I will not tolerate your mumbo jumbo corrupting my family, do you hear me? I won’t have you filling this house with your unnaturalness!”
That shrill voice of hers had to count as abuse, Harry was sure. He could feel a headache start to form. He decided to mess around with her, just a tad. Hopefully, he’d scare her silly and she’d leave him alone.
“Careful Aunt Petunia, I might just make the walls bleed next.” He responded, cracking the door open a tad bit more.
His aunt seethed, finger curling down into a fist, jaw clenched so hard Harry was almost expecting teeth to start flying out. After a moment she loosened up slightly, voice dropping down in a practiced fashion, despite the two of them being the only ones around. “Just make sure the neighbours don’t see.” She hissed, her eyes darting towards the window, “That Mrs. Number Seven – she watches this street like a hawk. I will not be made a fool of!”
His inability to bite his tongue would one day be his undoing. “You don’t need me for that. You’re a natural,” Harry groused out.
Her lips pursed into a colourless line, face flushing wildly. She looked positively murderous and for a split-second Harry thought she would actually raise her hand on him. But they were interrupted by the slam of the front door closing and his uncle’s bellow of “PETUNIA!”
Seething with repressed rage, his aunt hissed a quiet “…mongrel, just like that no-good mother of yours – dragging dirt into decent lives, thinking you’re better when you’re nothing but a stain.” With that, she turned tail and marched back down the hallway.
Harry slammed the door shut, viciously satisfied that he had been able to make his aunt bristle. Returning to his presents, he carefully sorted through them. Now that the glittery cloud of death had settled, he could see the twins had gotten him a set of enchanted treats – Burping Bonbons, Wailing Wafers and Cockroach Clusters – along with a note that said ‘subtle enough, for dear Dudleykins! -G&F.’
Harry could feel the onset of a wicked plan forming somewhere deep down, making a note to himself to thank the twins for their gracious gift. He continued inspecting the boxes. A pack of Honeydukes chocolates from Ron and a box of delicious looking fudge from little Ginny. His heart swelled.
Over the course of the day, more gifts arrived. Sugar-free sweets from Hermione, a box of dried herbs from shy Neville Longbottom, no doubt from his own garden, and –
An egg, from Hagrid.
Harry balked. It had to have been a creature egg. He picked it up carefully – it was a little thing, quite cold to the touch, no bigger than a quail egg, looking remarkably like one as well, with only a very faint iridescent gleam that he could only see if he squinted.
Hagrid had sent him a mystery egg. Nervous, he checked the box for any hint of a note. A flash of white could be found beneath the crumpled-up paper filling the box and he snatched it up. He scanned the contents quickly and felt his body sag in relief as he read the contents.
Dear Harry,
Happee Birthday!
I know it ain’t much, but one of me Ashwinders petrified a whole entire batch of eggs. Thought they looked real nice, all shiny like. Thought ye might like to keep it on yer desk – a bit of a lucky charm!
All the best,
Hagrid
He felt his body sag in relief as he read the contents. It was no more than a pretty trinket.
Bloody. Hell.
He would live to see another day.
A couple of days later, Harry was fiddling with his wand, swinging gently on a swing set in a play park near Magnolia Road. It had been a favourite haunt of his for a couple of years. No one came there at night – it was an upstanding neighbourhood, after all, and children had curfews, so Harry knew he’d be unbothered, though he himself never stayed after dark.
He played with his wand absently, deep in thought. The Dark Lord was back. A truth so heavy he had buried it deep, deep down. He had kept the idea at the back of his head, too struck with grief to go into action-mode. But denial had its limits, and Harry could avoid the thought no more.
Voldemort was likely gathering forces at this very moment, whispering poisoned words to those who had once sworn loyalty to him, spreading the news of his rebirth.
A strategy would have to be made. They would have to find where he was headquartered, who he was contacting, and what his next moves were. But Harry was stuck in the muggle world for the next month, cut off from the resistance he knew had to be forming.
And yet, he was getting no meaningful information from his friends, from Dumbledore, or even his godfather. Every letter he would send asking about anything, any tidbid of information they could have gleaned on what Voldemort might be up to, was met with vague deflections, half-truths, or long silences that felt louder than any reply.
It left Harry feeling disheartened and useless. He was supposed to be front and centre in this fight, yet he felt like a pawn deliberately taken off the board, a child escorted gently away from the adult table.
Frustration swelled in his chest, and for a moment he just wanted something he could lash out at, to ease the weight off his shoulders. But there was nothing to fight here but old, creaky swings, a crooked roundabout, and silence. He pushed himself to his feet.
Kicking a pebble out of the way, he started to make his way out of the play park, back towards Privet Drive, when he heard a distant rumble of raucous laughter down Magnolia Road. He narrowed his eyes – he could recognize his beefy cousin’s voice from a mile away. And he was truly beefy. Not chunky, not anymore. He had filled out and muscled up, and Vernon had been bragging to anyone who would listen that his Dudders had recently become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the Southeast. A true villain, striking fear into the hearts of ten-year-olds all throughout the neighbourhood. Harry scoffed and kept walking, almost itching for his cousin and his little gang to come up to him.
And he got his wish – with a gleeful yell, the rat-like boy – Piers Polkiss – pointed in his direction and called, “Potter!” At once, the gang picked up speed, their expensive bikes rattling over the pavement as they neared. Harry stayed where he was, leaning on the wrought iron fence, and waited. He could hear their jeering as they approached.
“…all alone, scarhead?” A tall lanky boy crowed out when they were in earshot. Harry kept his stare locked on his cousin. Dudley seemed unimpressed, even nervous, as his friends called out taunt after taunt, itching to strike a nerve. One of the boys hocked up a gob on the pavement. Dudley started mumbling something to Piers, gesturing to the street across.
Harry pushed off the fence slowly. He pinned his gaze on his cousin.
“What’s the matter, Big D?” Harry said quietly, a crooked smile curling his mouth. “Cat got your tongue? Or do you just need your little friends to do the talking for you?”
Oh, that struck a nerve. He could see his cousin bristle.
“Shut. It. Freak.” Dudley ground out, fists cracking theatrically.
Behind him, Piers sniggered. “Go on, Big D. Show him who’s boss.”
Harry took a step forward, making a show of putting his hand in his pocket. “Oh, me personally, I wouldn’t risk it, Dud. Never know what might happen.”
Dudley’s eyes were firmly locked on the hand in his pocket, where he could no doubt see the outline of Harry’s wand.
“Big talk, Potter,” Malcolm jeered. “What’re you gonna do, glare us to death?”
The boys jostled each other, sniggering under their breath, but Dudley didn’t join in. He had not forgotten the pig tail, nor Aunt Marge, or even his cousin’s crazy, murderous godfather. He had gone rigid, his fists tightening at his sides.
“Shut up,” he snapped suddenly, rounding on them. The laughter faltered at once. He jerked his chin at Harry, voice low and tight. “He’s not right in the head. Best leave it.”
Piers blinked. “What? You scared of him now?”
But Dudley did not answer. He turned and made a couple of steps in the opposite direction, turning around when nobody followed. He opened his mouth, released an annoyed “Well, come on then,” The words had barely left his mouth when he stopped in place, confused as he saw his breath come out in a puff in front of him.
“Christ, it’s freezing,” Gordon mumbled, rubbing his arms vigorously to warm himself up. The air ‘round them went frigid in a matter of moments, the sky darkening steadily.
“What in the bloody fuck is this, a freak storm?” Piers blurted out, eyes darting nervously at the darkening street.
“Come on, my place is the closest.” Gordon called out, breaking out in a run down towards Privet drive, two of his friends hot on his heels. Piers hesitated for a second, looking at Dudley. ‘His little Number Two,’ Harry snarked to himself. But he felt a coiling in his stomach, the weather didn’t just turn like this on its own. He set off at a brisk march, calling out an impatient “Let’s go!” over his shoulder at his cousin. Dudley, unsettled and shivering, had to jog to catch up to him, Piers not far behind.
“What did you DO?!” Dudley shouted at him, his arms wrapped around his torso, the cold seeping down to his bones.
“Me? I didn’t do anything!” Harry countered, speeding his pace up until he was all but running. A feeling of dread – familiar, and intense – cloaked itself around him and he had a sinking feeling as to what was about to happen.
His voice trembled slightly as he called out to his cousin and his friend, “Dud, you’d better leg it.”
Harry had always been faster than Dudley, that much hadn’t changed. For all his newfound mass, Dudley was falling behind. “I can’t,” he gasped, “M’legs have gone stiff.”
Thankfully, he didn’t stop, and at last they stumbled across an overpass, where they could pause to catch their breath. The two muggle boys panted madly, happy to be away from the elements, even as their bodies still shook violently from the cold.
But Harry knew they could not relax. He slipped his wand out of his pocket and gripped it tightly, waiting. He could hear it at the back of his mind – a faint, familiar voice, pleading for his life, and the muted laughter that followed. A roaring filled his ears, getting louder and louder until he was doubled over, clutching at his head as though it might burst apart. His eyes screwed shut, face contorted into a grimace as he tried, with all his might, to grasp onto that one happy straw that he was desperately searching for. Then, all at once, a rush of wind surged around him, his wand slipped from his hand, and the world seemed to fall from beneath his feet.
The pit in his stomach widened until it became a gaping abyss, until he was consumed by the fear and horror of the dread-beasts surrounding him. He had to have passed out, just for a moment, because the very next instant he felt himself jolting awake. He had managed to regain part of his consciousness – small, but sufficient. His hand shot out to grasp his wand, but it clutched at empty space. Harry’s breathing picked up. He had dropped his wand. He twisted his head, looking madly around the tunnel – but his field of vision narrowed, swallowed by the inky darkness cloaking the Dementor like a macabre shawl.
Icy dread filled his veins.
His mother was screaming bloody murder now, memory-Harry wailing in response to Lily’s howls, a rotting hand reaching up to claw at his face, an upturned grimace and accusing amber eyes staring into him, as the Dark Lord contorted in the cemetery, glistening appendages bursting out of the sallow skin of his previous vessel. Harry felt sick to his stomach as it all came rushing back. His throat constricted – and then he saw the gaping maw of the Dementor’s face, closing in on him.
Desperate and wild, clawing at the edge of sanity, Harry clutched at what he could grasp – quiet conversations with Sirius, summers at the Burrow, snowball fights with the Weasleys. Ron and Hermione laughing in the background. His godfather’s fond eyes as he listened to his rambles. His tentative, but gentle embrace.
Harry’s eyes scrunched up, all of the determination he possessed gathered at his fingertips, followed by a frenzied mental chant of ‘Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. ExpectoPatronumExpecto-’
Then it came – an eruption of brilliance, covering his entire world in white-gold, a blazing fireball of molten platinum, searing and unstoppable. The dementor unraveled in front of his eyes, bursting into a storm of ash-like particles which themselves disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving behind nothing but emptiness, as though there had been nothing there at all.
The fireball, white-hot and fuzzy at the edges, with no hint of hooves and antlers, stood frozen for a second, pulsating on the spot, before hurtling in the opposite direction, whizzing towards Dudley, who was lying motionless on the floor. The spell devoured the second dementor, whose greedy maw had already descended onto his cousin’s face, feeding on his life-energy. Piers cowered in a corner of the tunnel, huddled in on himself, observing the scene with impossibly wide eyes.
The second dementor disintegrated in the same manner as the first. His patronus glided back towards Harry, coming to a stop in front of him. Harry stared numbly. It flickered for a second before dissolving into a silvery mist and fading into the evening air.
Feeling light-headed, Harry stumbled towards his cousin. His body felt fatigued, arms and legs dragging as though they were full of lead, but the adrenaline kept his mind sharp. He was still on edge, though he did not think any more dementors would come, as the chill had abated noticeably, giving way to the cloying humidity of summertime once again. He crouched down next to Dudley and shook him hard.
“Dudley!” He whisper-shouted. “Dud, c’mon!”
Panic coiled around his heart as he looked at his cousin’s motionless body. Anxiously checking his vitals, he huffed out a sigh of relief when he could feel a pulse. At least he hadn’t died from the shock, though he could only hope that Dudley hadn’t been kissed.
Harry stood up and turned toward Piers, making his way over to the shell-shocked boy.
Piers was still staring in Dudley’s direction, not even looking up at Harry as he approached.
“We should really get out of here, help me out with him, will you?” Harry muttered out, jabbing a finger towards his cousin, extending his hand towards Piers. Piers grasped it with a shaky hand of his own, hoisting himself upwards.
Harry turned and started walking back to the boy on the floor who stirred ever so slightly. But Piers did not follow. He blurted out a “Potter what the fuck were those things?”
Harry leaned over his cousin, eyes narrowing as he noticed the larger boy shift, relieved that he seemed to be coming to. Himself and Polkiss had a slighter build, and he had his doubts whether even just the two of them could so much as nudge the great lump. He turned back to Piers as he processed his words, frowning as he asked, “Things?”
“Things!” Piers said, a hysterical titter in his voice, “Dark, caped… rotting bloody ghoulish things, Potter. Don’t act like you didn’t see them.” He was gesturing wildly, his voice rising in pitch and volume, his last sentence sounding almost like a question, pleading for Harry to confirm he hadn’t gone mad and lost his mind.
Harry was stunned. How in Morgana’s name had he seen the damn beasts. Harry had no doubt that muggles could sense the things, but there was no justifiable reason for one to be able to actually see the form a dementor took. He hesitated on giving an answer – he couldn’t bloody well admit to Piers Polkiss that what he’d seen had been real.
“And that light, I know you did that,” Piers kept going, before Harry could even get his thoughts together, “It shot out of you Potter, came out of your hands, I saw it.” Harry kept his eyes fixed on the boy.
Now that was a question. How had he cast the Patronus?
It was as if he had willed it to life, as if it had ripped out of a cage deep within, bursting through dam after dam until it had finally erupted outwards. The energy had pooled in his hands, but Harry could remember feeling as if every pore on his body had dilated simultaneously, as if adjusting to release the immense pressure inside. Every hair on his body had stood up, electrified, leaving goosebumps in their wake, every nerve having lit up for the briefest of seconds. For a moment, it had been agonizing. Now, it felt transcendent.
His heart was pounding in his chest.
Accidental or not, he had done magic with no wand.
The possibilities were endless.