The Scorching Heat Will Burn Your Head

Trigger Alert: Homophobic slurs, abuse, violence & implied depression 

"Self-preservation is the first law of nature" - Samuel Butler.

*

The manor during midsummer had very little excitement, not even when the closing events of Hogwarts-year-four involved a dead body and a Death Eater conned as the Defence Teacher. While Draco thought those should have been the dinner table topics for at least three nights, he was surprised to observe not only did his parents not bring the controversial events of his schooling year to the surface, but they also had the lack of care to shush him up when he attempted to do the deed himself. This led his summer break to consist of doing his readings in the library and taking casual strolls in the garden if the scorching summer didn't offend his ever-so-pale skin so that he would at least find some peace in watching the ethereal scenery on the Manor's grounds had cast upon him. And if all failed, where it usually did, he would find himself spending an elongated number of hours in his room and brooding over a certain someone; to force every being in his body to not send a letter of sorts to the very individual who occupied his mind almost the entire time ever since he viewed the trauma etched onto the said individual's facade, holding onto the corpse of Cedric Diggory like his life depended on it.

It probably did…  

Draco didn't care much for Potter. No, he didn't care for him at all. Instead, he was a nuisance and an obstacle to his more effective plans of obtaining ultimate popularity and name in Hogwarts to further his father's successes for his later political career as planned for the heir to the Malfoy line. At least, that is what Draco thought of The Boy Who Lived up until the fourteen-year-old was selected as the second Hogwarts champion and was asked to compete in the near-death challenges of the Triwizard Tournament with the bit of knowledge he had as a young student still completing his wizarding education in Hogwarts. 

It was much to Draco's surprise when Potter survived the tournament games, although he thought he would have died at the first challenge once he realised it was to fight against a dragon - not that they would want him to die. Nevertheless, the severity of the games grew more and more until the third task, which Draco observed as the labyrinth. 

Never in his wildest imaginations would he think the labyrinth task would happen to be a plot to lure Potter to a trap set by Death Eaters. 

Draco wasn't a foreigner to the concept of Death Eaters. His father was one, for starters, despite his previous claims against the Wizengamot, to clear his name after the defeat of the Dark Lord back when Draco was a mere baby. Not only his father but most of the Malfoy's close circles were Death Eaters if not all. Often his parents would refrain from talking about such "dark topics" in the presence of their children. Still, the dinner parties they often threw during Winter Solstice or the Yule Balls that followed were an excuse to recruit and discuss the subsequent strategies for the benefit of "The Cause". Draco knew because he was excellent at eavesdropping. He was curious about nature. 

This new curiosity topic made him anxious at the turn of his new age. How did Diggory die? Was the Dark Lord back? How was his father involved in this process? Was Hogwarts safe?

The only person who held those answers was Scarface, and the only way to obtain those answers was to write to him. 

Yet there were two slight problems with his recent revelation. 

He didn't know where to begin writing a letter to Potter because he was his five-year-long nemesis, and two… 

No one knew his address.

A low buzz rang in Harry's ears while he focused on his aunt's petunias. The scorching midday sun was burning his back, but that was the least of his concerns. Instead, his mind was repeating the graveyard scenes while his fingers mindlessly worked on the dry soil, planting the flowers into the bed designated by his aunt. 

His back probably hurt, but he didn't notice. His fingers were sore and swelled from digging without the proper tools, but he paid little attention to it. His mind was only occupied with the thoughts that had never stopped since the incident before the beginning of summer, and no amount of physical strain would distract him from the coldness of the flesh he still felt on his palms since they made contact with the dead body. Likewise, no sunburn would ever erase the weight of Cedric's corpse that fell onto him due to a haphazard portkey transportation he made in his hasty escape to the grounds of Hogwarts.

At the beginning of the summer holidays, he felt less enthusiastic about arguing when the Dursleys tasked him with the tedious chores and limited his access to tools for the duties to ensure he would fail to deliver them in time. But little did they know, they were doing Harry a favour by occupying his brain with mindless tasks and providing to keep him busy to the point of exhaustion, which led him to some nights of dreamless sleep. Only if he was lucky…

However, this did not stop the Dursleys from realising Harry's over-willingness to take any ridiculous task without complaint. Harry Potter was their most significant burden, and they would remind Harry how big of a commitment he was at every chance. So what did they do? They threw him out to do garden work - without tools - in the scorching heat of London. It was odd to see Number 4, Privet Drive, be the lone front lawn supporting the green grass in contrast to the yellowing wisps that took over the rest of the neighbourhood. Harry took pride in that, secretly. 

"BOY!" His uncle's animalistic roar unceremoniously broke him from the train of thought, causing his frail body to jump in surprise. 

He quickly straightened his back to realise how stretched his skin felt on his back due to severe sunburn. It will be fun to sleep tonight, he thought as he quickly wore the shirt he had taken off earlier to keep it clean and made his way to the house. 

"What are you doing?" Aunt Petunia was the person to greet him, spurning in the hallway, "Don't you walk into my clean house with your filth." 

Harry had minimal intention of reminding her; he kept the house clean. So instead, he humoured his aunt and took the shoes and socks off. He wore the slippers presented to him to avoid staining the recently polished floors, which he was sure he would do again sometime soon due to him simply crossing the corridor in this instance, despite his current efforts. 

He made his way into the kitchen to meet his purple-faced uncle, clearly unhappy about certain foldings of events that Harry knew he was about to find out very shortly. 

"Remind me, boy, why do we still keep you in this house?" Uncle Vernon scowled with his hissing tune that was ready to below at the slightest twitch Harry would perform. 

Harry knew better than to reply; the question was rhetorical. 

"We feed you, give you a house to live in, provide you security… for what?" His walrus-like facade was getting more purple by the second, and Harry was fascinated by how fast a person's demeanour could change colour. 

"ANSWER ME, BOY!" Oh… it was not rhetorical after all…

"I am sorry, sir, but not sure what yo–" Harry began, but before he could finish his sentence, his head was yanked back with a firm grip on his hair. His uncle managed to move in godspeed – which should be impossible due to his mass – and made his way to Harry within split seconds.

That's his daily exercise, done… Harry mocked amusedly, never daring to say those words out loud. 

"Now you listen, you… you… freak! When asked to do chores, you will complete every single one of them. Next time I find the table empty, so help me. 

I forgot to prepare lunch… shit! 

"I have been more than patient with whatever is going with you, the midnight ruckus you make with the screams, the careless disrespect, not to mention the freakish stuff and the attitude you give – it will stop!" A few spits landed on Harry's lenses as his uncle hissed the words through his teeth. 

It must have taken Harry way too long to respond, resulting in a smack on his cheek that was strong enough to cause a brief whiteout. 

"Yes, sir," Harry said through his teeth, his mind focusing on the sting on his cheek. 

"Go get groceries. Your aunt has the list." 

*

*

*

"Master Draco, sir, the lunch is served, sir!" Winky, the Manor's house elf, squeaked while she bowed as low as she could that the pointy nose of the poor creature touched the dark parquetry of Draco's chambers. 

"Winky," Draco greeted the elf, not very concerned about the meal invitation the creature revealed, "I have a question for you!" 

"Anything for Master Draco Malfoy, sir – but Master Malfoy, your father, sir, is expecting yo– "

"…me to lunch, yes, I know, I know. Now tell me, you deliver the Daily Prophet to my father's study at exactly half eight in the morning, correct?" Draco spoke animatedly to the house elf, needing to get his information before his father would come to his chambers to call him for lunch and punish the poor elf for failing to complete a simple task such as calling the heir to the meal. 

"Correct, sir. Exactly as Master Malfoy has ordered Winky, sir, half eight, with his morning coffee, before breakfast, sir!" Winky looked terrified, as though Draco was insinuating she did something wrong, as her bat-like ears drooped ever so slightly. 

"Great! Now here is the question, what time is he done with the Daily Prophet, Winky?" Draco asked with an arched brow to further emphasise where he was heading with this silly interrogation with the house elf to indicate she was not in trouble; it was Draco who could get into trouble… big trouble. 

Winky's ears dropped even further to indicate her stress as she squeaked the following words she spoke: "Master Draco is not planning anything bad, is he, sir?" 

Draco sighed. He didn't want Winky, of all elves, to get in trouble for his sake! "No, Winky… I am not planning anything bad. I am simply wondering if I could get my father's copy once he is done with it – Will you walk me to the sunroom?" Draco waited for Winky to step in with him as he slowly made his way to his father, who was waiting for him for lunch. "You see, I want to be updated with the current affairs of the wizarding society for my future position, of course. And what better way than to read about what is going on with the wizarding world! That sounds reasonable to you, doesn't it, Winky?"

"Yes, Master Draco, sir." Winky's ears perked up again as she gave him a wrinkled smile to show her support for the words he had spoken… with pure manipulation.

"Great! So I wondered if Winky could get me the Daily Prophet after Father's done with it so I could do my reading too." 

"Oh, yes, sir, Winky would love to help Master Draco Malfoy, sir!" The poor creature gleamed. Only if she knew what he was up to. Draco smiled at the house elf to show his gratitude as they continued to the sunroom in comfortable silence. Indeed the Daily Prophet would have written about the effects of the Dark Lord's return if he was back, as Potter claimed. Missing Muggles, destroyed towns, increased deaths in wizarding communities… they were great proofs to hold onto, so much so that he didn't need to write to Potter to gather the answers he had been thinking of since the end of his fourth year. 

"Sir…" Winky broke the silence just before he was to enter the sunroom. "I forget to tell you, sir!" Winky squeaked in hesitation. With an encouraging smile from Draco, the frail creature bashfully admitted, "Your godfather, sir, Master Snape, will be joining us for lunches, sir." 

Shit!

Draco stopped in his tracks and stared at the house elf with all the exasperation he could express. If his parents could hear him... 

"Winky is sorry, Master Draco! Winky completely forgets!" 

"Do I have to go to lunch?" Draco pouted. 

"Yes, sir! Your father, Master Malfoy, said Master Draco must attend, sir!" 

This was bad… if Severus was to attend any meal with his father, this usually meant the discussion of his grades from the previous year, and once his father found out he was seconded in the majority of his classes to–

"Hello, Draco." The nasal voice of his Potions Master echoed in his brain as Draco slowly turned to face the bat-like godfather of his with very little enthusiasm than usual. 

Because, in actuality, Draco loved his godfather. Severus was great. He was smart; he understood Draco's passion for learning, so much so that he would often aid Draco with extracurricular Potions tutoring during summer holidays, often treated as little getaways in his usually dull summer that he had grown accustomed to.

But things went south when his father was invited into his rendezvous with Severus Snape. Of course, his father would accept a lot of aspects of Draco. But to be seconded in his lessons to Granger? That was unforgivable. 

"Will you be joining us for lunch sometime soon?"

"Yes, coming, Uncle Snape," Draco mumbled. He cast a short sad glance at Winky, hoping for her to save him, but he knew she couldn't have much power as a house elf. He had to face this himself.

*

*

*

Harry struggled to reason why a household would need ten bottles of detergent as he slowly made his way from the shops to the Dursleys while the weight he carried dug into his sunburnt shoulder and caused him to tear up in pain. Sweat seeping from his back was stinging his abused skin, which momentarily made Harry forget about the events of the graveyard to focus on the pain that was bringing him to the present. The thought of his pain masking his other pain made Harry chuckle out of place. He supposed his head wasn't in the right place, either. 

Heat stroke, probably. 

Just as the thought passed, Harry saw the postman's familiar vehicle through the corner of his eye, which made him lose his train of thought enough to drop his purchases from the markets to run his way to the nearest household that delivered the post. 

Something... anything, come on! So he retreated to a discreet corner to find no news about the recent events. It was a rare occasion for him to catch up on daily events. Ever since the day of the graveyard, Harry would often search for clues that would conform to the rest of Britain.

Yet, just like any other pastime, there were no articles about anybody missing, no terror taking place in any Muggle towns. Which made him wonder…

What is he waiting for?

Why is there no coverage?

"Yo, loser!"

Fucking hell… 

The great mass of a body that was his stupid cousin and his equally matching unintelligent gang made his way to the little seclude Harry had made to read the daily newsletter without disturbance. So much for that wish…

While the crew – did the gang find themselves more intimidating when moving at a slow pace? – made their way towards Harry, the skinny fifteen-year-old who found himself the time to discard the newspaper. Shortly after, he met the ugly smirk of Dudley Dursley, "I hear you crossed the wrong side of my dad. Imagine what he will do when he finds out you threw his money on the streets!" 

"What are you on about, Dudley?" 

Dudley turned to his gang as they all snickered, like what Harry said triggered an inside joke they had been laughing about all day. Only when Dudley pulled out the grocery bags Harry once had possession of did the coin drop, "Dudley, give them back," Harry said with little animation. 

"A-ah, what do we say, Potter?" Dudley tutted his tongue. 

"Give them back, please?" Harry tried. He honestly had no energy for this. He was sun-stroked, his back was hurting with every drop of sweat, and all he wanted to do for the rest of the day was to complete his remaining chores and seclude himself in his room, his privacy, and get the little amount of sleep he would get before the nightmares kick in. 

"Nice try, tosser." Dudley laughed as he threw the bags out towards the street.

"Now, why would you do t– "

"What's wrong, freak? Don't have it in you?" 

"Frankly… no, not really," Harry answered.

"You know, I hear you at night. "Cedric, no! Don't! Cedric!" Who is Cedric, huh?" After a short thought, disgust crossed his cousin's bloated face, "Are you a fairy, you freak?" So this was today's topic, great… 

Harry decided against humouring Dudley with an answer and quickly avoided the gang and their taunting leader to go after the bag of detergents and groceries he had gotten before. Indeed the items were still salvageable. But much to his dismay, Dudders wouldn't fall for the tactical pacifism. 

"Oy, I am talking to you, you faggot!" What a wanker! The thought crossed Harry's mind as they swung him onto the alleyway wall. "You… disgust me…." Dudley hissed and spat on Harry's face to further convey his message. Harry took all the powers of the universe to hold back a gag. Where did this urge to spew come from?

Was it against his cousin's taunt? 

Was it due to the sunstroke and pain? 

Was it the insult? 

Harry wasn't sure, but the words coming out of his mouth were not his conscious decision, "Why, Dudley-kins? Got something in the closet?"  

To be fair, Harry asked for it by insinuating Dudley Dursley is gay. He wasn't thinking. So it didn't come as a surprise when all Big D's gang members came over and started throwing punches here and there, the more significant blows coming from his cousin. At that moment, when Harry Potter's body was thrown and shoved around, Harry found himself thinking about the acceptable reasons for breaking the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Self-defence would count as a reasonable excuse, wouldn't it? 

The blows and punches weren't fatal, that was for sure. As the momentary experience proved, Dudley was the more vital team member, and even his struggling blows were only strong enough to bruise Harry. It wasn't the most painful experience in Harry's life, no. That said, this would end soon, or he would collapse due to the exhaustion of the summer Harry had to endure. 

And just as the thought crossed his mind, the spectacled boy felt the presence of magic. 

Contain it… contain it… contain it!

The very air got thicker, and suddenly there was static everywhere. Oh no!

The overheated summer weather of the months suddenly dropped in degrees, the cloudless sky suddenly darkened, and the colours desaturated to a shallow grey. 

Harry's blood chilled. This isn't good; this isn't good, this isn't good,… his mind chanted. 

"What are you doing? Stop your freakishness at once!" Dudley bellowed. At least the punches ceased as his crew dispersed in fear. Harry paid no mind because all he could think about was reaching for the grocery bags and making it to Number 4, Privet Drive. 

Dumbledore said the house was protected; hence the time had come to test his deceased mother's blood magic. If Harry were strategic enough, he would make it to the house in no time without resorting to magic. 

Only one problem existed. 

Dudders couldn't run as fast as Harry.