Author Notes:

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, not for profit. J.K. Rowling is the wonderful creator of every character, place and thing that you recognise in this story. Written solely for my (and hopefully your) pleasure.

Theme: Dark

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Drama.

Partly AU after Order of the Phoenix. Set at the beginning of summer before Harry's sixth year. First time I'm attempting to write in the present tense so please excuse any mistakes you may find. I have briefly edited this, so you should hopefully not run across anything that's amiss.

This will be a short story (three or four chapters max after the prologue). I've had this idea in mind for a while and needed a break from the other story I am currently writing. I hope you enjoy it and please review! Comments, questions and constructive criticism are very welcome.

Enjoy!

Carcass

Prologue

The early July morning dawns clear and bright and by mid-afternoon, the air hangs heavy, suffusing the atmosphere with a lethargy that makes almost everyone in Surrey hide indoors like vampires. The buzzing of numerous fans can be heard through the open windows of Number Four Privet Drive, taunting the sweaty raven haired boy bent over the camellia shrubs by the shed.

Harry has been outside since early morning, trimming, pruning and weeding the garden in preparation for the Dursleys' evening fiesta, where a number of Grunnings top-notch executives are to come over and discuss a "very important business proposition" that could considerably escalate Vernon's salary. As it is, Harry has been scrubbing, cleaning and gardening for the better part of two days. Not that he minds much; in fact, he welcomes the hard menial jobs and complementary exhaustion that comes afterwards. If being worked and starved like a Malfoy house elf is what it takes to keep the thoughts of Sirius at bay, then so be it.

Harry is getting better at recognizing the memory triggers which send him into the all-familiar, stomach twisting guilt traps. So each time a memory wave comes, he just scrubs harder, washes the dishes in gradually more scalding water, and digs his fingers so hard into the soil that his fingernails bleed. Physical pain, he learns, is instrumental in keeping the other kind of pain at bay. Because once the other kind sets in, there are no distractions. Harry knows that sooner or later he will have to face the truth, the tears that constantly prick the inside of his face like sharp needles, the cavity in his chest that is larger than he is, eating away at him like corrosive poison. Because Harry deserves to feel that pain, that monumental guilt of having killed Sirius.

But not today, Harry tells himself as he laboriously digs his fingers into the soil until he can grab the crabgrass roots and pull them out, not even wincing when his knuckles graze over a sharp stone. He then takes the bottle of vinegar and sprinkles the earth with it, careful not to get too close to the camellia shrubs and unwittingly kill them off. Like he killed Sirius.

In the heat of the afternoon, the poignant acrid smell of vinegar reminds Harry just how dry his mouth is, but he knows better than to go into the kitchen when Uncle Vernon is sitting there. So he wipes his bleeding hand onto his oversized t-shirt and swallows down his thirst as he continues to angrily weed.

"Boy!" Vernon shouts half an hour later, wobbling into the garden, his face red and covered in beads of sweat. Harry notices that he is holding a tub of chocolate flavoured ice-cream underneath one arm, and a crumpled ball of pound notes in the other, which he is holding rather impatiently towards him. "Go to the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk and get two new tubs of ice cream. Vanilla and chocolate, and mind you they better be the Blue Ribbon ones, not those tasteless Soft Scoop ones that melt after two minutes."

Harry stares blankly at his uncle for a moment and then says: "Uncle Vernon, you know I'm not allowed to leave the property. The blood wards-"

"Now listen here boy," Vernon says, brandishing a meaty finger at Harry, "I will have none of your cheek today, is that clear? We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, and I don't believe it's too much to ask that you do a few chores from time to time. Your aunt is busy enough as it is today!"

Harry doesn't think that getting your manicure done is the same sort of busy as spending hours weeding and cleaning, but he is smart enough not to say so to his uncle. Still, Vernon cannot possibly expect him to leave the protection of the blood wards for some sodding ice cream, can he?

"But Professor Dumbledore-"

"Do I need to remind you what happens when you disobey me?" the corpulent man asks, his lips curling into a crooked sneer as his meaty fist begins to wiggle his belt.

No, Harry did not need to be reminded. "I'll need my wand," he says after a moment, rationalizing that he can do without another beating. The old welts are still smarting.

"Oh no, you won't see that stupid stick until you go back to that freaky hocus pocus school of yours!" Vernon says as he wobbles some more towards Harry, his face becoming somewhat purple form the effort.

Harry grits his teeth but says nothing else. Ever since the Dementor incident the previous summer, Vernon insisted on confiscating Harry's wand, trunk and magical books for the duration of the holidays, keeping them locked in the safe behind that hideous dog painting Aunt Petunia keeps on the wall.

"I'll go change my t-shirt," he says after a while, watching as Vernon gives his stained top a disapproving look, wrinkling his face in disgust.

"You do that," he grunts, throwing the money at Harry before turning on his heels and wobbling back towards the kitchen door.

Picking the crumpled notes from the lawn, Harry places them inside his pocket and follows his uncle back inside the house, careful to leave his dirty shoes outside. The last thing he wants is having to explain mud stains on Aunt Petunia's cream coloured carpet. For a moment, he watches Vernon deposit himself into an armchair, turning the TV on and beginning to button the remote until the fake laughs of a dumb comedy show fill the living room. He probably wouldn't hear if Harry were to slip into the bedroom in search for his wand, but even so, he would have no way of opening the safe. Not without magic.

Sighting in resignation, Harry makes his way up the stairs and disappears inside Dudley's second bedroom, a strange idea suddenly popping in his mind.

As it turns out, there is one thing that Vernon Dursley didn't confiscate, and that is Harry's invisibility cloak. Turning it inside out and hiding it underneath a pile of Dudley's old toys wasn't a rotten idea after all, Harry muses as he walks down Privet Drive hidden underneath its silky folds, trying to ignore the droplets of sweat that begin to run down his back. Still, it is better than walking outside the wards with no cover at all. That way even if his presence is detected, at least he won't be seen. Not straight away, at any rate.

Veering left, Harry hurries down towards the dark alleyway that connects Privet Drive to Wisteria Walk, noticing the way the heat quivers from the asphalt and gives the neighbouring houses an almost nimbus quality. It is quite a contrast to the foggy frost that enveloped the alleyway the previous summer when the Dementors glided over it with their despairing aura, and Harry is thankful that this time his skin is not prickling with the warning of anything suspicious. Everything is still and quiet and hot. Oppressively hot, he corrects himself as he slides his spectacles back up his nose and wipes his sweaty brows with the back of his hand.

But as he starts walking down that deserted alleyway, Harry suddenly realizes there is something deeply unsettling about the thick silence of the summer afternoon, and the eerie way the air is so still it seems to be holding its breath. Like the calm before a storm, a little voice inside his head suddenly adds before he can quell his weariness.

It is not long after that Harry finds himself unable to shake off the feeling of being watched. Studied, even, his movements assessed in an almost predatory way by a pair of eyes in the distance, as if whoever is watching him can see straight through his invisibility cloak and knows exactly where he is headed. Hurrying his steps, Harry's breathing becomes increasingly shallow, the concrete walls closing in on him in a foreboding way. Suddenly feeling suffocated, he breaks into a run but, just before he is about to emerge from the other end of the alleyway, he knocks against an invisible barrier and falls hard to the floor as his cloak flies off his shoulders and ends up in a nearby bush.

It then all happens so fast that Harry hardly has time to blink. In quick succession, he hears the sound of three decisive apparition cracks not far behind him and just before he has a chance to stand up, thick ropes bind his legs and arms so tightly that he groans in pain.

He knows it's pointless to fight against Incarcerous, but the conjuration is so powerful that he can't even turn his head to look behind him. The sound of approaching steps makes his skin crawl, his heart beating so fast it threatens to come out of his chest, almost as if in tune with the clinking of boots on concrete.

"Well, well, well, M. Potter. You are a reckless lad, aren't you?" a regal voice purrs from somewhere above Harry. "You thought we wouldn't detect you under that tatty old thing?"

"Fuck off Malfoy!" Harry spits.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, such foul language," Lucius chides, turning Harry around with a kick in his ribs. Harry doesn't want to give the older man the satisfaction, so instead of groaning from the pain, he bites his bottom lip as hard as he can. He tries not to shudder as Lucius' chiseled features come into view.

"Though I suppose one cannot count on those filthy muggles to teach you proper manners. Or that felon your parents chose as your godfather. Such a pity you didn't get to say goodbye, but then again, one would think you are accustomed to people dying around you," Lucius says, his lips curling into a cold sneer. "Perhaps I ought to demonstrate what happens to little boys who don't respect their elders," he says, pointing his wand at the bush behind Harry. "Incendio!"

"No!" Harry exclaims as the bush erupts in flames, the smoke so pungent that it makes his eyes sting.

"Crying Harry? I don't suppose that mangy old invisibility cloak belonged to your dear dead father. That's right, I know of it. Even in his first year he was insufferably arrogant, brandishing it around Hogwarts as if it were a precious stone in a goblin-made chalice. A wonderful artefact really…such a pity it had to burn. But, as you know, sacrifices have to be made, and if that is wat it takes to teach you a lesson, then so be it."

"You bastard!" Harry spits, his nostrils stinging from the smoke. He wants to wipe the sneer of Lucius's perfectly sculpted face, but he can't. Every time he tries to move, the ropes only wrap around him tighter, cutting off his circulation. From the corner of his eye, he sees the other two Death Eaters approach him, their cranium like masks plastered onto their faces, their black robes billowing behind them as they walk.

"Oh, Harry, you never learn, do you?" Lucius asks, as his cold grey eyes bore into Harry's angry green orbs. "Crucio!"

This time, Harry can't stop himself from screaming; the agony is so piercing that his body begins to convulse despite the tight ropes, his muscles pulling themselves into unnatural angles. And just when he thinks he will pass out from the pain, Lucius points his wand at him and calls off the incantation. "That will have to suffice for now. I can't deny the Dark Lord the pleasure of torturing you himself, now can I?"

Harry doesn't have time to say anything else, because in the next moment, Lucius unceremoniously grabs his arm and disapparates into thin air, followed by the other two Death Eaters.

Later that day, a curious stray cat uncertainly sniffles the remnants of a burned cloak before it wrinkles its nose and leaps away.

All is quiet on Wisteria Walk.