Harry James Potter stands in the bathroom at Kings Cross Station staring into the mirror. He grimaces; he looks just about as bad as he feels. His face is thin and pale beneath the sunburn – even more so than normal – while dark bags reveal his many sleepless nights. Not that he can actually see much of this past the black eye and other bruises mottling his features. The rest of his body isn’t much better and as for his ankle, well, he doesn’t think it’s broken…

He looks terrible, but he’s not worried about what people will say at school. After all, it’s not like anyone has noticed before. Not Mrs Figg; not his teachers, at primary school or Hogwarts; not his friends. Well, except for once. When he was six, his teacher Miss Kallen had questioned him about some of his bruises, then talked to his aunt. He flinches mentally. That was when his uncle taught him about tattling to strangers; it was not a lesson he ever wants repeated. No, better to pretend that nothing is wrong; until, maybe, he can believe it as they all seem to. He sighs, it might be safer, but it still hurts that they don’t care.

He bends to splash some water on his face, wincing as he bumps his hip against the sink, the contact sending the bruise spread across his side throbbing. He shouldn’t have that bruise. In the past, he had always been able to avoid the worst of his Uncle’s blows; his foot or fist stopping just before touching him, finding some sort of barrier. Since Hogwarts he had realised it was his magic, protecting him; last year, he learnt to cast the Shield Charm properly. But this summer his magic had failed him. He could feel it building, knew what shape it needed to take, but it couldn’t escape. Without his wand, it was trapped useless within his skin.

It wouldn’t normally have been too bad – he’d gotten good at avoiding his uncle over the years – if it hadn’t been for that fiasco at the World Cup. After the incident surrounding the Death Eaters and Dark Mark Dumbledore had decided it was too dangerous to risk the precious Boy-Who-Lived staying at the Weasleys', so back to Privet Drive it was. Uncle Vernon was not too pleased to have him back for an extra almost two weeks; for once something Harry agreed with. Unfortunately, his uncle chose to express this displeasure to him personally, painfully and often.

A muffled announcement over the station PA system drags him out of his thoughts and causes Harry to reflexively check his watch, noting that it is almost eleven. He takes one more look in the mirror then straightens, ignoring the twinges from various injuries as he squares his shoulders and heads for the door. That was summer, and summer is now over. Now it is time to head back to Hogwarts; Harry-the-useless-freak doesn’t belong there, only Harry-the-Boy-Who-Lived. That is who they want to see.