A/N: Welcome to my story. It's been a long time since I've posted anything, but I recently caught the writing bug, and hope to bring you an interesting story. I want to warn you though, that this story deals very seriously with abuse, and I know that can be difficult for some readers. Without giving too much away, it won't be the focus of the whole story though, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

A few other notes before we get started. Harry's treatment will have affected the way he grew up, and the way his personality developed. He will be different than in canon, and as such, events will have unfolded differently. We are beginning at his 4th year, but I will do my best to make it clear how events have happened differently. It'll be a slow burn to the romance portion, and for that, I apologize. I don't like it either.

Constructive criticism is very welcomed, as I am well and truly rust at this.

Way back in the day I think every story needed a disclaimer, so I'll throw one on here now too. I don't own Harry Potter or any of that biz.

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Prologue

"You cannot pass, simply because you have nothing left to do," an oaken, familiar voice called from the trees around her. She slowly lowered herself against a nearby tree, setting her cane on the ground beside her as she sat.

"So rude," she chuckled, leaning her back against the bark with a sigh. "I do not want to cross. Simply to visit my kin, and to tell you all a story."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

It had been a long and terrible summer for Harry Potter. It wasn't that long terrible summers were uncommon for him, but this one felt especially long and especially terrible. He lay in his dark room, his lumpy aged mattress only slightly more forgiving than the plain hardwood floor it sat upon. The only two things breaking up the nightly darkness were the pale moonlight streaking through the window, and the small red numbers of his alarm clock. The Dursley's removed the lightbulb from the single lamp on the ceiling, since Harry only spent time in his room to sleep. The rest of the time he was being worked to the bone. Despite the rock-hard lumps of the bed, and the ancient, unwashed sheets, he felt as though he were laying on clouds. Another difficult day with the Dursleys had left him exhausted, as most days with them did, and he was finding this summer harder to stomach than the previous ones, especially after the end of his previous term at Hogwarts.

His hand reached up to his chest absentmindedly as if to massage his constricting heart as he recalled the grizzled, wild smile of his Godfather, Sirius Black. The words of his only friendly relative, even if not by blood, had given him hope that he could finally be free of the Dursleys, that he could live with someone who cared about him. His dream of freedom was snuffed out shortly after it was born, carried off by Peter Pettigrew as he scampered away, escaping justice yet again, forcing Sirius reluctantly back into hiding.

Harry had tried to keep the crushing sadness and disappointment he felt away from his face as he and his friends disembarked the Hogwarts Express at the end of the term. He must've succeeded since the usually observant Hermione hadn't said a single thing to him about it. He was conflicted about being so proficient at hiding his thoughts and internal struggles, but in the end, he settled on being pleased with himself. It was a survival skill after all. Although the Dursleys were muggles and would abhor the thought of any of them performing a simple card trick, let alone actual magic, he would swear that they had a near-magical ability to discover something that upset him and weaponize it. Besides, he needed to keep the fact that Sirius was his Godfather far from his relatives. He shuddered involuntarily, despite the summer heat, at the recollection of his previous summer, thanks to Sirius being on the muggle news.

He was accustomed to non-stop chores and cleaning during his time at Privet Drive, as he'd been doing exactly that for his entire life. If he was lucky, he was left alone to his work. If he was not so lucky, he garnered the attention of his cousin, or worse, his uncle. The two of them seemed to delight in reminding him that he was unwelcome and worthless. Often choosing to do so violently. But most days weren't quite that bad, and he was left a list of chores by his Aunt, and the Dursleys avoided interacting with their walking, cleaning, source of shame.

His 'normal' days were interrupted when Sirius had appeared on the news one night. A combination of a difficult day at Grunnings, and the news of a wanted criminal, had sufficed to work his Uncle Vernon into a rage about 'ungrateful good-for-nothings', and 'blights on society'. His uncle seemed to gain inspiration from the idea of prison and began a regimen that morphed Harry's life from dismal, to a living hell, overnight.

His uncle worked out a meticulously detailed schedule, broken down into half-hour blocks, with five-minute breaks at noon at six to eat and use the privy. The schedule wouldn't have been quite as bad if it hadn't come along with two 'nightsticks' his uncle had fashioned from branches as thick as Harry's wrist. Dudley and his uncle would 'discipline' him if he lagged behind the impossible schedule, took too long in the privy, or if they were feeling a little bored.

Eventually, the grueling schedule, and the minimal sleep he was allowed, caused him to fall too far behind. A full morning of 'discipline' finally dropped him beneath their blows. His memory was fuzzy after a particularly vicious blow to the side of his head, but he knew they had relented before breaking any bones this time. They avoided taking Harry to the hospital if at all possible. If he went to the hospital, then 'uncomfortable questions were asked, which Harry had to deflect with practiced ease. He'd learned early that he was not to tell the doctors the truth. He'd paid dearly when he'd revealed that Dudley had broken his arm when he was six. It had been made crystal clear what he should, and shouldn't, say to hospital staff.

Harry was given a full week to rest and recover after his 'prison' routine, a week that he enjoyed immensely, despite the constant aches and pains. His bruises gradually faded, and he quit waking up in the middle of the night from the pain of rolling over in his sleep. He was finally allowed to return to his chores, which had piled up considerably during his recovery. Despite the respite, he'd have given anything to have some of Madam Pomfrey's familiar potions, foul as they were.

He was snapped out of the dismal memories by what sounded like a soft rock hitting the window. Repeatedly. He shot out of bed like lightning, adrenaline burning through him. He pushed open the old, creaky window as quickly and quietly as he could. Before he could get it more than halfway up, a brown blur shot past him, hooting as it did so. Harry's sense of self-preservation and trained seeker skills took over, and even without his glasses, he snatched the blur from the air before it could make any more noise, and wake the Dursleys. He kept his hand clamped over the small bird as he froze, listening for any whisper of movement from the old house. A creak from the walls as a gust of wind blew on his sheer curtains set his heart pounding in his chest, but his Uncle's monstrous snores never wavered.

Snatching his glasses from the floor by his mattress, he was finally able to examine the quivering brown mass in his hands. The tiny owl squirmed in his grip, trying in vain to peck Harry's fingers. Upon further examination, Harry found a letter attached to the owl's leg, making the owl look comically small by comparison. Instead of laughing though, Harry felt his throat constrict, and his heartbeat triple. He tried to calm his breathing, which was coming in short, panicked bursts. He had told his friends that he couldn't receive mail over the summer, and to only owl him in a dire emergency. Possibilities ran through his mind, but at the top of the grim list, sat Sirius. What if his godfather had already been recaptured before they'd even had a chance to look for Peter? Trying unsuccessfully to calm his nerves and steady his shaking hands, he pulled the letter from the owl's leg and held it up to the moonlight to read. He recognized Ron's untidy script at once and felt a little of his anxiety dissipate as he read.

Harry,

I'll keep it short since Pig can't carry any normal-sized letters. Dad got tickets to the Quidditch World Cup! It starts in two weeks, and we have a ticket for you and Hermione. Mom said he'd send a muggle letter to your Aunt and Uncle to see if you can come. If you can, we'll be there Sunday to get you, so we can leave on Monday. If you can't come, we'll be there on Sunday anyway. Send your answer back with Pig. Mom reckoned that it'd be polite to ask your family if you could come, even though we're coming to get you anyway. Hermione is already here. She says to tell you hi, and to ask if you've been keeping up with your required summer reading. Don't worry about answering any of that rubbish though, just send your answer about the world cup as soon as you can.

See you soon

Ron

Harry reread the letter with minor disbelief, making sure he hadn't missed any important information about Sirius in the short letter. He sighed as he finished, looking down at the small owl still clutched in his left hand.

"Pig huh" he whispered, leaning his back against the wall as the adrenaline high began to subside. "Trust Ron to think quidditch is an emergency."

Harry often dreamt of Quidditch during his summers away from Hogwarts. The freedom of flight was addicting, and he missed it dearly when with his relatives. As much as he loved Quidditch, it certainly wasn't an emergency. He frowned in concentration, working through imaginary conversations he might be able to have with Ron about the meaning of the word "emergency" without letting anything about the Dursleys slip out.

He'd mentioned to Ron and Hermione that his relatives disliked magic, though he left out how vehemently, and violently the expressed their dislike. He'd spent the first eleven years of his life without a single friend and was pretty sure he wouldn't survive it if they stopped being his friends because they knew his secret. Who would want to be friends with someone as worthless as he was? Just thinking about telling his friends finding out ran cold fear up his spine like he'd been dipped into an ice bath.

At the end of their first year together. Ron had invited Harry over to the Weasley's for a few weeks of the summer holidays. However, Harry knew better than to ask the Durselys for anything. While they would enjoy extra time away from their disappointment of a nephew, they also knew that going to the Weasley's house would bring Harry great joy, and that was unacceptable. He had to warn Ron and the Twins off finding a way to come visit, as he knew that'd just make his time worse once they'd left. That first summer back had been the worst he'd ever been forced to endure. Not necessarily because his relatives were any more horrible than usual, but because he knew what it was to have friends, to learn magic at Hogwarts, and to have a home.

His only company that summer had been the tiny house-elf Dobby, who had tried to convince him to stay away from Hogwarts. The elf had alluded to some mortal danger that was being planned for the school, though he had tried to smash his head on things with just about every other word. Having had some experience with being made to punish himself, Harry had been able to calm the elf down, though the sight had made Harry's heart race, and adrenaline course through him. He had told Dobby, surprisingly frankly, that he would rather be wounded at Hogwarts than leave the school to be safe. The elf had threatened to interrupt the Dursley's business party that was taking place downstairs to get him expelled. Before he could think about it, Harry had bent down do grab the small house-elf and was pleading, on his knees, to leave the Dursleys alone. It took a lot of convincing, but in the end, Dobby had relented.

"Harry Potter and Dobby have much in common," Dobby had said sadly, his big bulging eyes full of tears. "Dobby knows what it is like to wish for freedom. Be safe Harry Potter." The house-elf vanished without a whisper after that, and Harry hadn't seen him since.

Harry shook his head, trying to refocus. He looked back down at the letter and wondered what life at the Weasley's was like. Ron and the twins tended to complain about Mrs. Weasley's overbearing manner, though it was typically while talking about being overfed or given their colored Christmas sweaters. Harry had been mortified when he received his first sweater for Mrs. Weasley, as he had promptly burst into tears in the middle of the first-year dorms. It had been overwhelming to receive a Christmas gift for the first time at eleven, and he just couldn't help it. Ron had mumbled about sending his mother a letter about Harry likely not receiving any gifts, and Harry's jumble of emotions at receiving the sweater had shifted to shame. It had been a slightly awkward morning after that, though Harry had immensely enjoyed the chocolate that Ron had given him. Harry didn't wear the sweater, as looking at it still gave him conflicted feelings about a gift given out of pity, but he kept all the ones he was given in his school trunk.

He shook his head slowly. There was no way the Dursley's would grant permission for him to leave, and sneaking away would result in his worst summer yet come next year. However, the Quidditch World Cup did sound exciting, and the thought of leaving the Dursley's to spend time at the Weasley's was certainly tempting. He decided he was glad Ron had sent the note. It allowed him to intercept Mrs. Weasley's letter to the Dursleys. He glanced down at Pig, who had settled down considerably, likely exhausting itself in its struggle to get free. He slowly opened his hand on the bed next to him, letting Pig walk around.

"Sorry I don't have any food or water for you," he whispered to the tiny bird, who seemed to be looking around for just that. "I'm not allowed to keep my owl here." He didn't want to think about what his Uncle would do if he brought Hedwig home with him. His familiar had to spend the summer flying free, rather than with him, but Hedwig always found him again at the beginning of every school year.

He grabbed the pencil he had stashed under the loose floorboard under his bed, just in case he had been able to sneak some of his school books out from where they were locked up. He sat on the floor under his window, using the moonlight to see by to write his letter. He missed the lavish rooms at Hogwarts, with their four-poster beds and canopies. His spartan room at Privet Drive had only his bed in it, a closet for all Dudley's old clothes that he was allowed to wear, and a small clock to wake him up. He scrawled his response on the back of Ron's letter.

Ron,

I'd love to go to the World Cup, but I'm not sure how you'd come and get me. You would need to arrive after 9 p.m. Sunday, so we don't disturb my Aunt and Uncle.

They have a big business thing early the next morning, and can't be disturbed. I'll need a hand getting my things from where they're kept if you find a way here. They're locked up to keep them safe, so someone will have to help me get them. My room is on the second floor, the first window closest to the front door.

Hope to see you soon,

Harry

"At least he remembered to send the letter at night," Harry mumbled to Pig, as he tied the small letter back to the owl's leg. He tried to quash the guilt he felt at the minor lies he had to put in his letter. "Please take this quickly back to Ron," he urged the small owl as he carried it back over to the window. The owl twittered quietly, looking around one last time for something to eat or drink.

"Sorry," Harry said again, holding Pig out the window, and watched it fly, with difficulty, into the night.

Harry let out a sigh of relief that the excitable bird was out of sight, and settled back into bed. He placed his glasses on the floor, hoping to dream of flying on his Firebolt in the World Cup.

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Harry awoke with a strangled cry. He automatically clamped his hands over his mouth to keep too much sound from getting out as he groaned. His forehead pounded, feeling like a splitting boulder. His scar throbbed painfully in time with his racing heart. As he sat there, he tried to recall the horrible dream he had been having. As he tried to remember, he felt the images slipping from his mind in the way only important dreams can. He glanced over at the small clock next to his bed. It was the only furnishing in his room besides his bed and served to make sure he woke in time to begin breakfast for the Dursleys. The small glowing red numbers told him he still had a little over an hour left to sleep and knew he should make the most of it, as he would have to be extra vigilant on his lookout for Mrs. Weasley's letter. He flopped back down, with his left hand rubbing at his scar. The pain was subsiding quickly, fading with the memory of the dream, and he quickly dropped back into a deep sleep.

He awoke just before he was meant to begin breakfast, cursing himself for having missed his quiet alarm, and hurried downstairs as quietly as he could, trying to make sure his relatives didn't know he was running behind. He pulled out the necessary cookware for the morning meal and cranked the knobs on the stove with well-practiced ease. He pulled the eggs and sausage from the refrigerator and set the table while the food sizzled away. Moving on autopilot he spent his time cooking trying to figure out how he was going to get Mrs. Weasley's letter before either his Aunt or Uncle saw it. Harry didn't usually get the mail, and any deviation from the norm would likely arouse unwanted attention. He knew better than to draw any extra attention to himself. He thought hard and opted for a simple solution. It would be easy to stay by the mail slot in the front door if he were doing the interior chores. There were plenty that he needed to do, and a few of them would have him by the front door.

As soon as the food was ready, he plated each meal, just as the Dursleys began trudging down the stairs. Dudley came last, lumbering down slowly while rubbing sleep from his eyes. Each time Harry was away at Hogwarts, Dudley seemed to grow exponentially. He'd started massively overweight, like his father, but in time, had seemed to grow more and more into his body, and now the weight was more evenly distributed across his massive frame, making his already large stature even more threatening.

Harry tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible while the Dursleys sat down to their sizable breakfast. He inhaled the mediocre breakfast he was allowed and moved swiftly to the hall closet where his cleaning supplies were kept. He made sure to work out-of-sight of his eating relatives in an attempt to avoid being assigned other tasks. He started sweeping the floor near the front of the house, moving furniture from one side to the other as he went, only stopping to clear the table once a grunt by his uncle had signaled they were finished. He felt a pang of longing for Hogwarts where the plates vanished themselves, and food just appeared on the tables.

Soon after finishing the dishes, he began working slowly towards the front door. He knew the mail would be arriving soon, and said a quiet thanks to the mailman for his obsessive punctuality. As he rounded the corner to the front hall, he heard the faint click of the mail-slot as it opened. He saw the usual deluge of magazines fall through first, followed by a few letters to top off the small pile.

Jackpot

Lying partially buried under another piece of mail was a normal-sized letter, covered from corner to corner with stamps. He quickly grabbed the letter and slid it easily into the back pocket of his pants. The pants, like all other clothes he owned, used to belong to Dudley. The large back pocket could likely have held a phonebook with room to spare, and the letter slipped in completely and was hidden. He gathered the rest of the mail, and placed on the table, swerving to avoid his Uncle, who had finished dressing for work. He was awarded a grunt in response, which surprised Harry. His Uncle must be in a good mood if he was only grunting. Usually, he'd be berating Harry for something by this point. Harry could barely believe his good fortune. He quickly resumed cleaning, being sure to stay out of the way unless needed.

Harry hoped the last few days before the World Cup would be just as good, and he'd be able to keep his head down and free of injuries before the Weasleys arrived. He tried to stay focused, and keep his excitement from showing while he was working throughout the day. He didn't want his Aunt to pick up on any excitement, and inadvertently ruin his plans. She wasn't nearly as physically violent as Uncle Vernon was, but she had no qualms about working him to collapse, then complaining to her husband when he returned home about how he'd slacked off all day.

He was eventually allowed to stop for his meager lunch not long after midday. He was used to the smaller portions he was allowed, but this summer had been more difficult to keep his energy up with what he was given. He noticed that he had been growing a little taller, his already slightly too-thin frame appearing to stretch a bit further. He'd felt silly examining himself in the bathroom mirror, but he'd been surprised that he hadn't noticed his small growth spurt. He knew he'd never be as tall as Ron, but wasn't too worried about it. His light weight made him extra quick on his broom for quidditch. He wondered if he'd grown taller than Hermione, who had gotten taller than him in just their second year. He had taken to sneaking down to the kitchen at night to eat a little extra food, so he wouldn't be quite so hungry the next day. He just had to make sure he went down after Dudley had finished sneaking snacks up to his room.

That evening, after grabbing his quick snack, he pulled out Mrs. Weasley's letter. Giving quickly into his curiosity and boredom, he opened the letter and read by the moonlight.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,

We haven't been properly introduced yet, but I'm sure you've heard from Harry about my son Ron. As I'm sure Harry has mentioned, the Quidditch World Cup takes place this Monday night, and my husband Arthur has managed to get top-box tickets. We would love to take Harry to the match with us, as it's been years since Britain hosted the cup.

We would be happy to have Harry stay with us for the rest of the summer, and take him to the Hogwarts Express with us.

Please have Harry send a letter by owl, as I'm not sure we can receive mail the Muggle way.

Yours sincerely,

Molly Weasley

Harry smiled fondly down at the letter in his hands, not sure he could wait until Sunday when the Weasleys would come get him. He glanced reflexively out the window, hoping that the strange, small owl had made its delivery. He slid the letter into the hiding space under his bed, breathing a long sigh of relief. He was overjoyed that he had been able to intercept the letter. If Uncle Vernon had survived the fit he would have at the mention of Quidditch, the Hogwarts Express, and owls, it would have been very bad news for Harry. They were especially intolerant of anything to do with the wizarding world, and Harry learned very quickly to avoid anything that even sounded like it was magical. He suspected the only reason that he was even allowed to go to Hogwarts, was because of the Dursley's prevailing fear of Hagrid, from just before his first year. Harry snickered at the memory of Dudley's tail that Hagrid had given him, though Harry had paid dearly for the 'insanity' that he'd brought into their lives, it was worth it for Hogwarts.

He lie awake for a little longer, planning out what chores he was going to be doing the next day. He knew he would have to be in top form if he wanted to avoid any discipline from his Aunt or Uncle. They usually laid off a bit before the beginning of term, so that their precious 'image' would be protected. He didn't want to have to tell the Weasleys that his cousin roughed him up a little so they wouldn't ask any difficult questions. He didn't like lying to the people who had been so nice to him.

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The next few days went by as slowly as they possibly could. Harry tried his best to forget about the World Cup, but try as he might, he couldn't completely quell his excitement. After 3 grueling days of tedious work, it was finally Sunday evening. He put on his best fitting pair of clothes, something Dudley hadn't been able to wear for many years and sat down to wait. Nine o'clock came and went, and his heart began to sink with his spirits. He wasn't sure if he could bear another few weeks with the Dursleys after freedom had been so close. Especially not after the disappointment of not being able to live with Sirius. Just as he was about to take off his clothes and lay down, there were two soft cracks, and suddenly Mr. Weasley and Fred, or George, Harry wasn't sure, were standing in his room looking around, slightly bewildered. Mr. Weasley caught sight of Harry, staring open-mouthed at them, and smiled kindly at him.

"We got your letter, Harry," he said, glancing around the room, eyes lingering briefly on the bed and clock, a small frown taking the place of his friendly smile. Harry felt his face grow hot with shame and was glad for the darkness. "I brought Fred with me to help you with your trunk."

"My Aunt and Uncle are sleeping, so we'll have to be quiet," Harry said, his voice cracking slightly from disuse. He was happy that Dudley snored so loudly from the next room over, it helped mask the noise their appearance had made.

"George and I drew straws to see who would come to help Dad," said Fred. "Where are your things? Ron said you'd need help getting them out." Harry showed Fred downstairs to the cupboard under the stairs where they kept his things, being sure to point out the squeaky stairs. Harry began to look around in the dark kitchen for the key that unlocked his old cupboard. He didn't get far before he heard a small click from behind him. He turned back to Fred and saw the older boy leaning down to open the cupboard with a triumphant smile on his face. "It's a good thing I came along," he said as he gently helped lift Harry's trunk from it's resting place, "I'm better at muggle lock-picking than George."

They quietly made their way back to a waiting Mr. Weasley, and set the trunk, along with Hedwig's empty cage, gently on the floor.

"I must admit Harry," Mr. Weasley said after a moment, his frown growing deeper, "I don't like the idea of secreting you away in the night from your home. We had planned to come by Floo, to finally be able to meet your Aunt and Uncle."

"They have an electric fireplace inside their regular one, sir," Harry said, hoping the mention of an electric fire would distract Mr. Weasley, "I don't expect you'd be able to make it out of the fireplace if you came that way." He glanced up quickly to Mr. Weasley's face to see if it had worked. He saw the older man's face light up with interest.

"An electric fire?" he wondered aloud. "Is the fire itself electric? No, that couldn't be right...but how does the electricity start a fire?"

Fred laughed quietly at his father's interest, before motioning to Harry's things. "Let's go, Dad. I'm sure Mum is beside herself waiting for Harry to arrive."

Mr. Weasley nodded, abandoning his musings. "Hold onto my shoulders," he said, placing a hand on the trunk, "I'll apparate us back to the Burrow."

Harry felt a very bizarre twisting sensation and was suddenly blinded by the bright lights of a strange house in front of him. He smiled as he took in his first sight of the Burrow, and let out a large sigh of relief. He was free.