Chapter Text
The heatwave of June, 1996 was the hottest Harry could remember; so hot, in fact, that Vernon loudly considered bringing an air-con unit in from the supply office at Grunnings. For all that the Dursleys laid about like wrung-out rags in the sitting room all day, watching the telly, they did not grant an ounce of leniency to Harry -- who braved the summer sun to repeat his routine of seasonal chores.
Harry’s only respite came in the cooler hours of the night, when he lay, exhausted and dehydrated, on the desk by the windowsill, in the gentle -- insufficient -- breeze let in by the open window.
Early July, in contrast, was an entire week of rain, running colder and colder as time went on. The fog that rolled through on the night between the ninth and the tenth felt almost unnaturally thick, reducing visibility to the point Harry could barely see past the fence in the garden down below; the dim orange light of the streetlamp seemed to reach only half as far, in the haze. He shivered, feeling the mist roll over his skin, and squinted once again at the letter Dumbledore had sent him, as he had been doing all day.
Two days. Two days, and he would be leaving for the Burrow. Or even Grimmauld Place -- no, his mind corrected, not there. Sirius is gone.
Sirius was gone, and the Dursleys hadn’t given him even an hour to grieve in private before handing him a list of chores and threatening him into completing it. Even exhausted as he was, Harry could muster up enough anger to wrinkle his nose, disgusted, at the idea of them.
Just because he could, he decided not to tell his relatives that Dumbledore would be visiting. Two days later, he wouldn’t know whether that was the right move, or the wrong one, because the Dursleys were glaring at him the whole time the Headmaster explained the situation with the inheritance Sirius had left behind.
“He’s been left a house?” said Uncle Vernon greedily, his small eyes narrowing, but nobody answered him.
They managed to resolve the matter of whether the house had truly passed to Harry; he privately delighted in the looks on the Dursleys’ faces when Kreacher threw his tantrum on the carpet.
“It seems that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher.”
Harry was about to ask what to do with the house-elf now -- Do I have to keep him with me? -- when a bright silver rabbit popped into existence, floating about the Headmaster’s head. “Urgent report, code purple, Hogsmeade,” the Patronus spoke in a voice Harry recognized as Sirius’ cousin Tonks, and disappeared.
A look of alarm came over Dumbledore’s face, though he recovered his usual expression quickly. He stood abruptly from his seat. “I must apologize, Harry,” said the old wizard, “but I am afraid I must postpone the second part of tonight’s business for one more day. Please be ready to depart at eleven p.m. tomorrow, instead.” He took his leave without addressing the Dursleys, departing through the front door in a sweep of colorful robes.
Harry wondered what ‘code purple’ was about, but closer at hand was this new situation with his relatives, who had just learned of Harry’s substantial wealth in not so many terms. He wondered whether they were about to butter him up, now that they knew.
But no, apparently treating him politely hadn’t crossed Vernon’s mind. “All of it, boy,” the man was demanding, his grubby hand held out as if Harry could just pull his vault out from his pocket. Petunia and Dudley were still on the couch, staring shellshocked at Kreacher, probably; noticing Harry’s gaze straying, Vernon set a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing painfully. “ Now , boy. Well? We’ve fed and clothed you for this much time -- pay us back.”
Entitled bastard , Harry thinks, trying and failing to shrug off the man’s sausage-fingered hold on him. He levels a look on Vernon Dursley that almost makes his uncle falter. “No,” he says quietly, then more forcefully. “I will not.”
The walrus rears back as if struck, before turning red, mustache bristling. “ What was that? ” Even Petunia looks over, now, at the anger in her husband’s voice.
Harry sneers at Vernon, contempt welling up in him now that he dares to voice it. He means to shout, now, to say all the things he’s never said: that he is ungrateful because they have given him nothing to be grateful for -- that they treat him worse than an animal, because at least animals have food and water -- that none of them will ever get anything from him, not after they have made him so weak with hunger and pain -- but what comes out of his mouth is a savage, wordless snarl.
“Just die ,” he spits, glaring at Vernon --
There is a flash of green, and the bruising grip on his shoulder, the demanding hand in his face, fall away. A heavy thud on the carpet. Vernon Dursley is now just a body on the ground.
Harry barks a laugh, harsh, incredulous -- because he told the man to die, and he has done just that.
Before Petunia can scream, he turns sharply to look at her. “You too,” he tells the horse-faced bitch, thinking of burned hands and frying pans, of the cupboard, which was her idea , he recalls. “Die.”
She crumples like a ragdoll into a heap, and a thrill of something cuts through Harry’s anger. He looks at Dudley, now, who stands frozen, afraid , he realizes with no small satisfaction, in the middle of the sitting room. “Die,” he says, more casually this time; there is a loud thud, and then there is blessed silence.
Now Harry is alone, and the absurdity of what has just happened begins to catch up to him. The Dursleys are dead: he has killed them. He is free .
“‘Dobby is free ,’” he quotes, giddy. He giggles at the thought, then breaks out into full-blown laughter, doubled over holding his sides. Oh, this is great, this is wonderful . What is he going to do ?