The wind howled through the streets of Little Whinging, rattling
the windows of Number Four, Privet Drive. The tidy lawns and
pristine hedges of the suburban neighborhood betrayed no sign
of the darkness festering behind the curtains of the Dursleys'
home. Inside, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the
ticking of a clock and the faint creak of footsteps pacing above.
Harry Potter sat in his tiny bedroom, though "bedroom" was a
generous term. It was more a storage closet with a rickety bed
shoved into one corner, a wardrobe too small to fit his
belongings, and a window that barely let in light. His hands
trembled as he turned the pages of a book he wasn't reading,
his gaze fixed on the door—the door that never stayed closed
for long.
The summer after his fifth year at Hogwarts had been worse than
the previous ones. The Dursleys, emboldened by Harry's return
after his supposed "antics" with the Dementors last summer, had
escalated their punishments. Aunt Petunia's sharp tongue cut
him down daily, her venomous words always ready to remind
him that he was a freak, unwanted, a burden they were forced
to bear. Dudley—his cousin, now bloated with both physical size and a cruel sense of power—took sadistic pleasure in cornering Harry, his taunts and shoves growing increasingly violent.
But it was Uncle Vernon who left the deepest scars. Harry's mind shied away from the memories, his stomach
churning. The nights were the worst. Vernon's heavy footsteps and Aunt Petunia's sinister giggle would echo in the hall after Dudley had gone to bed.
The click of the door handle turning was enough to freeze Harry
in place, his breath catching as the looming shadow would fill
the doorway.
"You've caused us enough trouble, boy," Vernon would growl,
his voice low and dangerous. "Time for night session."
The began subtly at first. Vernon's favorite was to watch Harry while his Aunt was taking pleasure, and after that locking Harry away in the cupboard or his room for days without food or water. But soon, isolation became
insufficient for Vernon's boiling rage. The man's hands, once
content to shove or slap, grew heavier. Fists landed with calculated cruelty, bruises blossoming on Harry's arms, ribs, and face.
The physical abuse was only part of it. It was meant to humiliate. He took pleasure in stripping Harry of what little dignity he had, using words like knives to cut deeper than any blow. The sharp,
mocking laughter of Dudley often joined in, creating a chorus of
disdain that echoed in Harry's ears long after the house fell silent.
Harry learned early on that fighting back only made things worse. The bruises would multiply, and Vernon's rage would spiral. So he endured. He endured the pain, the humiliation, the
invasion of his space and body. Each morning, he'd stare at the
ceiling, the sunlight mocking him with its warmth. Another day
survived. Another piece of himself lost.
He felt like a prisoner in his own body, trapped between the walls of this
house and the invisible chains that bound him. He had learned
long ago that no one was coming to save him. Not Dumbledore, who sent him back here every summer with vague assurances about "protection." Not his friends, who didn't know
the extent of what he endured. And not the wizarding world, which alternated between worshipping and vilifying him
depending on the latest headline in the Daily Prophet. The prophecy weighed on him, too. It had been weeks since he
learned the truth in the Department of Mysteries, weeks since Sirius fell through the Veil, weeks since he realized his life would always be defined by one word: sacrifice. Either he would die at Voldemort's hand, or he would kill Voldemort and lose himself in
the process.Harry stared at the cracked ceiling above his bed, his vision
blurring. He wanted to fight back, to scream, to tear down the
walls of this prison. But the weight of everything—the abuse, the
prophecy, the grief—pressed down on him like a boulder,
crushing what little strength he had left.
He didn't know how much longer he could hold on.
Aching from the beating he had taken the night before. For a fleeting moment, he thought about staying put, about refusing to answer the summons.
But the thought evaporated as quickly as it came. He knew what would happen if he didn't go. Vernon's punishments always escalated when Harry disobeyed, and the man had made it abundantly clear that there was no limit to how far he would go to assert his dominance.
With a shaky breath, Harry pushed himself to his feet. His head
spun, and he grabbed the edge of the desk for support. The room tilted slightly before settling. He took a step toward the door, his heart pounding.
"Don't make me come up there!" Vernon's voice was closer now, angrier.
Harry opened the door and stumbled down the stairs, his hands
gripping the railing tightly. As he reached the bottom, Vernon's
face came into view, red and bloated with fury. Aunt Petunia
stood behind him, her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin
line of disapproval.
"Took you long enough," Vernon snarled, grabbing Harry by the
collar of his shirt. The force of the grip made Harry's head snap
back, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.
"Lazy, good-for-nothing freak," Vernon hissed, shaking him. "Do
you think you can just lounge around all day while we do all the
work? Think again, boy. You'll earn your keep in this house."
He shoved Harry toward the kitchen, where a mountain of dirty
dishes awaited. Harry stumbled but caught himself on the edge of the counter. His arms trembled as he reached for the sponge.
The sharp sting of a fresh bruise on his wrist made him flinch.
The hours dragged by as Harry scrubbed, swept, and mopped,
all under the watchful eye of Petunia, who took every opportunity to bark insults or shove him roughly when he wasn't moving fast enough. Dudley, meanwhile, lounged on the sofa,
shoving fistfuls of crisps into his mouth and occasionally tossing
the crumbs at Harry with a cruel laugh.
By the time the sun began to set, Harry's body felt like it was
made of lead. His arms ached, his knees throbbed, and his
head was pounding. He tried to retreat to his room, but Vernon
blocked his path.
"Oh, no you don't," he said, his voice low and menacing.
"We're not done yet."
When Harry finally returned to his room, hours later, he collapsed
onto his bed. Every inch of him screamed in pain, but the
deeper wounds were the ones no amount of sleep could heal.
He lay there in the dark, staring at the cracks in the ceiling,
trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.
",I couldn't take anymore", Harry thought to himself. While contemplating the idea of giving up. He looked at the album Sirius gave him months ago. Hello moved his fingers on the picture of his mum and dad smiling at him. Harry was oblivious of the tears on his face. "Would it be so wrong to give up"?, asked Harry. He laid down on the rickety bed moaning and groaning with all the bruises and broken ribs. "I want to end this, may be Aunt Petunia is right. I am good for nothing " . Atleast I will be with my mother and father and Sirius. He smiled at this thought. Although this little smile resulted in another groan due to his teethered lips. "No one's gonna come", he thought again while going deeper in dark tunnel while thinking there might be light at the end. With eah step into the tunnel he felt lightweighted, his pain reducing. "Come on Harry, just few steps, and you will be free". Harry was ready to take those last few steps when he heard someone calling him. Calling him by his name, not Boy, not good for nothing, his name. He wanted to avoid it, cause the light was so close. But the sweetness and concern in the voice made him stop. Although he didn't want to, but he opened his eyes. "Harry!!".