Ashes and Resilience

The house was filled with muffled voices, some he didn't recognize and others he did. He heard Dudley leave, and his distinct voice wasn't heard again for some time. It must have been a weekday, Dudley leaving for school.

Time passed and Harry alternated between nearly screaming or collapsing motionlessly for hours on his cot.

Things didn't matter, while at the same time, everything mattered.

"It's not fair," Harry raged quietly, hands clawing in a repeated motion over and over on his exposed hipbones where his shirt rode up. The skin was red and irritated from his long untrimmed nails digging in.

"Why?" He cooed half calm and half hysterical.

'Magic is an extension of the soul,' Harry thought almost from an outwards perspective, 'The soul is derived of emotions. I have to mean it, to crave it,'

Harry's head lolled to the side, piercing the dark with dulled green as he spotted the faint outline of the quill on the floor some distance away.

"I want it," Harry hissed, the words nearly distorting with how long he carried the vowels. His face twitched and he extended one hand towards the quill, a headache pounded against his skull and exhaustion weighed painfully on his bones.

"Incendio."

The quill burst into flames.

Indiscernible in the dark, Harry smiled.

 ....

The first plants started to sprout, heralding spring. The warmth was a welcome change from the numbing cold. The Dursleys went out and bought Dudley an entirely new wardrobe; he had somehow managed to outgrow all of his shorts over the winter.

Harry was now outside more often. There were weeds to be pulled and flowers to be tended to. He continued his manual labour with sharper glares and louder silence. He refused to speak, oftentimes not even responding to Petunia's hissed demands from the kitchen window. He had learned to nod after she spoke, better to avoid getting smacked by the broom once again.

(The broom had broken. Aunt Petunia was obviously startled and hadn't intended for it to leave such a large bruise on his back, yet didn't confess her guilt if it existed at all.)

His daily tasks consisted of working outside in the hotter months, occasionally taking quick drinks from the hose when nobody was watching. He planted the many flowers and shrubs Petunia purchased from the garden centre, digging holes and removing grubs when he found them.

Dudley would return home and casually smack him around, sometimes with friends if any accompanied him, and he would resume work until Petunia had scrounged dinner. Then he would be sent to his cupboard, occasionally being allowed to take a quick shower. The whole thing would repeat itself the next day when Dudley woke up.

It was busy work, physically demanding but it let him have plenty of time to think.

Harry knew that underage wizards weren't allowed to perform magic outside of a certified premise or outside of a proper estate. He knew for sure that he wasn't allowed to perform magic in front of muggles.

Looking around furtively, he set a sickly looking tulip aflame, sweating with the exertion.

He spent the rest of the day scanning the skies and the fence posts of Privet Drive, looking for the sure sign of a Ministry owl.

None showed up that day.

Or the day after.

Harry smiled grimly. He now knew he could perform magic, without the Ministry knowing.

Late February he thrust himself into studying the single aged tome he had secured a lifetime ago. He read and muttered and practiced quietly in the dark when he couldn't sleep, or when he was sent outside for hours alone.

Harry grinned breathlessly, twitching his hands and whispering under his breath in the middle of the day. Anthills smoldered and the small insects scattered. Dried and brown leaves from last autumn burnt the fastest. Anything green, he learned, smelt foul and only gave off loads of smoke.

The more he practiced, the easier it became to set things on fire.

Unlocking his cupboard, although he hadn't found an actual spell in his book for unlocking things, was easier now than it had been. Despite how horrible his living conditions were, and how he loathed the Dursley's, he was rather optimistic now.

(He still occasionally had days where he didn't bother crawling out of his cupboard; when he woke up still expecting to see Lily and James. He became better and better at just ignoring those thoughts.)

....

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