Chapter Text
Harry knew logically that what Hagrid had done would come back to haunt him, but he hadn’t expected it to be as bad as it had been. Magic or anything abnormal had always been taboo in the Dursley household. Hagrid, a giant of a man who had given perfect Dudley a pig’s tail, was most certainly not normal. Hagrid and the tail were of course Harry’s fault. He was the freak. The owls and then the odd man came for him, and the result was that perfect Diddykins was hurt in the process.
Harry waiting for the family to return, despite not entering the home (as he had been told many times that he wasn’t allowed inside unless one of them were there) was unacceptable. Vernon had turned a deep purple color upon seeing Harry creep from the shadows, his anger reaching its peak as he hissed at Harry to get inside. Harry could only bow his head in submission and do as his uncle commanded.
The attack once safely hidden from potential witnesses was expected, but still beyond what Harry had anticipated. The cane had bruised his skin, but the belt buckle had broken fingers and caused open wounds across his body. It was hard to breathe and move once thrown into his cupboard. Harry could only be thankful that he was still breathing despite the pain. He had hope. He had a plan and magic at his fingertips. He had his mother's pouch, his father's cloak, and everything that he had been able to squirrel away while in Diagon Alley. It wasn't perfect and he was only eleven, but it was more than he had had yesterday. He just needed to get up and out now. Magic would take care of the rest.
It had taken a full day and night of flinching and falling in and out of consciousness for Harry to gather the strength to move. His wounds had scabbed over, but he hurt. The family hadn’t let him out of his cupboard and Harry was aware of his filth, but the only thing truly on his mind was to get away. As the cuckoo clock chimed midnight on the eve of the third day, Harry pulled himself into a sitting position. He willed his magic, the warm sensation that always occurred when the “freakish” things happened, to unlock his cupboard door. He knew that the family was well asleep, the snores a distant sound echoing through the thin walls.
The locks fell away and Harry slowly crawled out of his prison. He didn't have much time, his senses ringing and urging him forward, to move and move fast. He had been able to snag his bank key, his mother’s expanded pouch, and his father’s cloak from the bank previously and knew that he needed to grab everything from the garden before he let his magic take him away, but everything just hurt. He was hindered by the wounds that his uncle had given him, but no matter how he tried to reason or slow himself down, his body pushed forward. Now was the time and his magic was burning in his core. If he didn’t go now, something terrible would happen.
He was able to follow the steady tug to his mother’s pouch, the pull unforgiving as the heat of his magic grew more and more insistent. He hobbled along into the dark, letting instinct and magic lead him away from the family home. He wouldn’t be returning. He had everything he needed at his fingertips now, he just needed distance.
Unbeknownst to him, as he hobbled under the cover of darkness, an older gentleman approached Number 4, Privet Drive. The man, also under the cover of Hecate, whispered a spell that raised a beacon on the home of the perfectly normal Dursley family. The beacon marked the home for many things. Above all else however, it was marked to fall into the man’s plans and manipulations. With a smirk, the man vanished as Harry continued to hobble away, his instincts screaming and magic pushing for him to get away.