Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Warnings: Mentions of abuse.
Note: Written for Psychological!AU Competition (#1: anxiety) and the Quidditch League Competition (task: portray the feeling of surprise without using the word; prompts: overwhelmed, icicle, and "Numb" by Linkin Park).
Freak
A sharp sizzling sound filled the silence, a pungent smell permeating the air so much that he could almost taste the thinly sliced meat. Seeing the fat pieces bubble nearly sickened him as much as it compelled him to covertly sneak a bite. However he knew that his relatives would enter the kitchen any minute now, and he wouldn't dare risk the chances of getting caught again. His hands started to shake, the little tremors causing the pan to follow the minute movements. Green eyes shut tightly as an overwhelming wave of fear washed over him, threatening to carry him with the tide. A memory of him, when he was barely tall enough to reach the stove. Little Harry had been performing the exact same task as he was now, only then he wasn't as well versed in the art of culinary cooking, given the fact that he could hardly see what he was even doing. Harry wasn't quite sure what happened next; he probably burned the bacon or something as equally trivial, but his uncle had stormed toward him like one of those territorial hippopotamuses in a science documentary, shouting until he was purple with rage. If that wasn't enough to instill fear inside his four year old mind, the man roughly grabbed the tiny wrist, shoving it ruthlessly into the pan, searing the delicate skin with the boiling grease. He still had scars to this day.
Releasing a shuddering breath, his grip on the handle of the pan tightened as he tried to still the shaking of his hand. Don't panic, don't panic. If they see him like this, their reaction will just be worse. They won't hurt him this time, he did nothing wrong. When Harry was sure that he would not collapse into a ball on the floor, he wearily turned the knob of the stove, taking great care to not splash the hot grease as he slid the pieces of bacon onto the waiting, pristine white plates.
When all the plates were set with a muted clink, the food was arranged widely until it covered every inch of the table, presented almost like a buffet though Harry knew that between Vernon and Dudley, no small amount of egg will be left untouched, no drop of syrup unlicked, regardless of its size.
Breezing through the kitchen, he hurried to the front door, stooping down to collect the mail. Just as he set the pile by his uncle's place at the table, a certain envelope caught his attention. It was simple and white, unsuspecting. It would have been normal, except for his name printed proudly on top.
His eyebrows drew up at the curious green letters looping into his name as he inhaled sharply. Heart picking up speed, Harry stared at the envelope in shock. His fingers pinched the edges of the paper as they began to tremble. A million thoughts clouded his mind, rushing dizzyingly in and out like a crowded street in New York during rush hour as people elbowed each other and power walked to their destination.
What was in it? Who sent this to him? But more importantly, why?
He swallowed his suddenly dry throat. A trickle of sweat trailed down the side of his face.
"Boy!" Without thinking, Harry turned around to face his uncle, shoving the letter into the back of his pants, knowing the loose shirt and baggy folds would hide it.
Vernon stared at him suspiciously. "Quit taking up space and get out of here," he muttered, trudging to his seat.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact with the man and quickly leaving the kitchen. He walked to his room, receiving a harsh shove from Dudley who had been stomping down the stairs and snickering when Harry collided with the wall.
Ignoring the soreness in his shoulder, Harry shut the door to his room quietly, the letter burning a hole in his pants.
With bated breath, Harry gingerly pulled at the seal flap, savoring the feeling of opening an encased letter sent solely to him. Little, insignificant him.
The paper made a soft fluttering sound as it danced its way to the ground.
Harry stared unseeingly at the words mocking him, fingers twitching uncontrollably.
His first instinct was to rip it to shreds, or better yet, light it on fire until it became an indistinguishable pile of ash, because no once can read it. No one. DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY
We know what you are.
No one needed to know how much of a freak he was.
His breath came in short huffs that couldn't quite capture enough oxygen for his needy lungs. Why was it so cold? Hands rubbed uselessly at his arms. It felt like he had swallowed an icicle, one that forced its way down his throat, stabbing into his stomach and making him want to throw up the little contents it contained.
You can't hide something that is a part of you.
His world tilted on its axis as his vision blurred, knees giving out. He fell to the floor with a thump, ignoring the pain as he huddled into himself instinctively.
Come to Godric's Hallow by the end of this week.
And suddenly, the panic that had attacked him stopped abruptly, unlike the countless times where it lingered for days. The nauseating anxiety was replaced by an eerie calm.
The letter spoke of a way out of here, away from the Dursleys and their routine hate. He was tired of pretending to be normal, but he knew he wouldn't, couldn't stop.
With a swallow, Harry closed his eyes, resting his head against his knees as he curled deeper within himself.
Why? His fingers pulled sharply at his dark hair, yanking madly. Why did he have to be so different?
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as teeth punctured his bottom lip.
With a frustrated snarl, Harry shut his eyes tightly, tears collecting at the edges.
He wanted so desperately to be normal, but deep down he knew that he always and will be a good-for-nothing freak.
We are expecting you, Mr. Potter.