The Fire That Didn't Spark

He had opened his books many times in the dead of night, when he'd woken up unexpectedly, finding himself locked in the small cupboard. Watching Eelhounds swim through drawn water, or Swedish Shortsnout's breathing fire into the sky was enough to help him forget where he was, for a time anyway.

The days became longer and warmer and the frosts less frequent and less harsh. Harry's hands bled as his relatives put him back to work in the garden again.

His stomach had shrunk as he grew accustomed to less food. He found that fewer things amused him. The pages in his book only brought back nostalgia which was only painful to think about.

He set the book in his trunk, and locked it with a snap of his fingers. He had gotten good at unlocking and locking.

Dudley found it funny that his cousin had to work even in the rain, and he took great pleasure in tripping Harry and smashing him into the cement, soaking him to the bone while Dudley stayed dry in his brand new anorak.

Harry stumbled inside, dripping water only to be knocked back outside by a broom. Petunia had screamed angrily about how he was ruining her floors, never mind that Harry was the one who cleaned them.

Dudley came outside, having invited his friends over. One particularly rat-faced boy sneered at Harry and pushed him roughly to the ground.

Harry hit the ground, blinking blankly. He nearly hadn't realized what exactly happened- except the sudden throbbing on his back. He was distantly aware of them chortling at him.

It hurt.

Something in Harry snapped.

And then suddenly the rat faced boy screamed, his hands flew to his face and blood seemed to absolutely pour.

Dudley screamed, scrambling backwards and the blood spurted onto the wet pavement between them, staining the concrete crimson.

Petunia threw open the front door, screeching something in horror as the boy, Piers, was shouting and flailing.

People were shouting, shouting directly at him.

Harry felt someone grab the back of his waterlogged clothing, dragging him away from the mess on the cement driveway.

A fist hit his cheek, knocking his skull even harder onto the ground, and making him see stars. There was a deep throbbing and a small flash of warmth pounding behind his eyes. His neck felt wet and his stomach twisted with the sudden jerk of nausea.

His eyes rolled into his head when he felt something wet slide further down his neck. It was uncomfortably warm.

Harry was told that he had punched Piers in the face, breaking his nose and sending him to the hospital to have it reset. The Dursley's promised the mother of the hysterical boy that they would punish Harry for his outlandish behavior.

Harry was locked in his cupboard for three days. They'd given him just enough food to last, two cans of soup and a few bottles of water thrown at him before Vernon slammed the door shut and locked it with an ominous, final click.

Harry was returned to darkness, his uncle's unintelligible shouts and curses just on the other side of the thin door.

He didn't dare unlock the door or turn on the light when he could still hear the creaks of heavy footsteps just outside his cupboard.

Time blurred and distorted in a strange mixture of lethargy and restlessness.

His fingers ran over the pages of his books, already read and reread multiple times and each spell nearly memorized. The comforting smell of old paper was gone and had been replaced with the faint smell of rat urine.

He could hear Vernon laugh loudly, a muffled clinking of silverware on precious porcelain plates. They were having dinner; Harry's stomach cramped hungrily.

His fingers twitched as he trailed them over the worn vanes of the quill he had snuck into his trunk. It was old, fraying and broken on the very tip. Entirely useless.

"Incendio," Harry whispered. Nothing happened.

He leant forward slightly more, holding the quill closer to his face with more determination. "Incendio- Incendio!"

Harry snarled his nose angrily and threw the quill forcefully away. Instead, it fluttered disappointingly down to land with the softest of whispers. He couldn't even throw a proper tantrum.

Harry flopped backwards, hands rising to rub against his eyes. They burned, and for no comprehensible reason he felt a hoarse sob escape from his throat.

Knowing that the Dursley household could and most likely would, punish him further for interrupting dinner, he rolled and pressed his flat pillow against his mouth to muffle any cries.

Why was it fair, that they hated him for being a wizard?

'Skylar probably already knows how to do this.' That treacherous voice whispered in the silence. Harry felt a mess of anger and self-pity rise up, warring for control of his thoughts. He trembled in the dark, 'He's already so much better than I am.'

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep or when he woke up the next day, he didn't bother actually getting up. He didn't actually have the space to anyway. The room was dark, and there was no difference between standing or lying when you couldn't see as well.

He didn't see the point.

....

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