Disclaimer- the usual
A/N yesterday me and my cousin where playing Marco polo in her pool, and we
got this idea, instead of saying Marco you say Harry, and instead of polo
we say Potter.
"No." Vernon stared at his nephew, face slowly turning darker as the seconds ticked by. "What did you say to me?" he asked dangerously, voice low and menacing. Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter stared back at his uncle not intimidated or frightened. "I said no. I refuse to go and work outside while it's raining." he said stubbornly. "You'll do what I tell you to!" Vernon roared, spit flying out of his mouth as he leaned closer to Harry until their faces were inches apart. "I took you in fifteen years ago and gave you food, clothes, and shelter. And now all I ask is for you to go and do a little work, and you will do what I say!" Inwardly wincing at the alcohol smell on Vernon's breath, Harry replied hotly, "Vernon, you starved me and gave me Dudley's old clothes which were ten times too big for me. As for shelter, you threw me into a cupboard under the stairs until your fear of magic forced you to give me a small bedroom. And that 'little work' was doing your every will, and I refuse to do it now." Vernon's face contorted at the word 'magic', and by the way his face now resembled the dark plum color of a rug in the living room, Harry guessed he'd realized that he wasn't calling him 'Uncle', anymore. He wasn't going to show any signs of respect for him, not after what he'd been through the past couple of months. Over the past three months, Harry had been through a great deal. As an underage wizard attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last year, his school had taken a turn and hosted the Triwizard Tournament. His name had been entered by one of his professors, despite the seventeen year old Age Line. The Third and final task of the Tournament was maze of obstacles, and when he and his fellow champion, Cedric Diggory, touched the winning Cup, they had been transported to a graveyard. Peter Pettigrew, otherwise known as Wormtail, the same man who betrayed his parents fourteen years ago and caused the most evil wizard of their time, Voldemort, to murder them, had killed Cedric. He had tied Harry up and taken some of his blood--"blood of the enemy"--and with other added spells, created the body of Lord Voldemort once again. He and Harry
had dueled, and Harry only got away by the spell Priori Incantatem, which enabled the last spells a wizard had performed to appear in reverse order. With the help of his parent's echoes, he had escaped, taking Cedric's body back with him from a special request. From the Hogwarts Infirmary, Harry had learned that his entering the Tournament was the making of Barty Crouch, Jr., who had been posing as Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. The reason Harry was a deadly enemy to Voldemort was still a mystery to him. Of course, he knew part of the answer--when he had been one year old, Voldemort arrived at Godric's Hollow and killed his parents with the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra. He had turned his wand on little Harry and performed it again, but because his mother sacrificed herself for him, the curse rebounded and instead hit Voldemort. He remained a spirit and came back twice to kill Harry, and had come very close. Then with the help of Wormtail (and unwillingly, Harry), he regained a body. The question nagging Harry was, why? Why did Voldemort want to kill him in the first place? In his first year, Dumbledore told him that he couldn't tell him yet, that he would know when he was older. Was he old enough now? He certainly felt like it. With all of this hanging over his head, it was with a heavy heart that he left Hogwarts and returned to the Dursleys. And his state hadn't improved over the weeks that passed. The Dursleys were very angry with him because of a prank Fred and George Weasley played on Dudley last summer, and they weren't about to let him forget it. He was forced to do the Dursleys' bidding, from working outside in the summer heat for long hours to working down in the cold, dusty basement. About a week ago, he had caught a small cold, but the Dursleys didn't care. In fact, they said he'd been slacking off and made him work even harder. Harry hardly had very much strength lately. It may have been the fact he had sleepless nights, tossing and turning in bed while nightmares plagued him; it might have been that he wasn't getting enough food to eat. The Dursleys had never given him much, but now he was on the brink of malnutrition. All he knew was that he always felt like crawling up into his tiny bed and falling asleep for a long, long time without having to worry about anything. To top it all off, Vernon had started to hit him. Not very often, and never on his face. Harry knew that he didn't want to leave bruises for anyone to see, so it was always on his chest and back. This confused Harry slightly, because he and his uncle knew full well that he could just show them to a full-grown wizard and Vernon would be in trouble. Only when Harry had found empty beer bottles in the trash did he realize Vernon didn't care, because he had been drinking. But now--Harry drew the line. He wasn't going outside to work in the rain, and he didn't care if he got thrown into his cupboard for the rest of the summer. He kind of wanted to, so he wouldn't have to listen to them anymore. A hand connected with Harry's right cheek, and he fell to the ground from the impact. He sat there for a moment, biting back a cry of pain, and slowly stood. He glared at Vernon, who was watching with a satisfied smirk.
"Don't touch me," Harry said softly, trying to remain calm. He knew that he was on the verge of losing control, and the last time that had happened, he had blown up his Aunt Marge. Vernon laughed an insane laugh that had no humor in it at all. "You won't tell me what to do in my own house, boy." Harry's anger grew, and he could barely suppress the rage in his voice when he answered, "I'll do whatever I want to." Vernon seemed to snap, and his little eyes narrowed. He turned his back to Harry and walked out of the room, leaving a confused Harry behind. Why had he just left? Surely he wasn't going to just let him get away with saying that? He turned his back to the door and looked out of the window to the thunderstorm outside. They were having strange weather that summer. The sky would remain dark all day and the sun barely shined, with the exception of a few days. At night, he would go to sleep as a few raindrops fell from the sky, and when he woke up the next morning (or in the middle of the night); the ground would be wet and muddy like it had rained all night. A sudden pain suddenly went off in his leg, and Harry sharply glanced at it to find a booted foot repeatedly kicking it--hard. It was Vernon. He quickly stood up and put his leg out of Vernon's reach, trying to ignore the stabbing pains issuing from it. I will not let Vernon see me hurt, he thought with determination. However, it quickly became too much for him and he toppled to the ground. "What's wrong, boy? Not used to a little pain?" Vernon hissed, standing over him. He took a swig of the half-empty beer bottle in his hand and swayed a bit. Harry bit his tongue, knowing he was in no position to retort. "What, no answer? Cat got your tongue?" Vernon took another long drink of his bottle and stared down at Harry for a moment before throwing the bottle down at his head at breakneck speed. Harry didn't have any time to think before the bottle was cracked on his head and the sticky liquid flowed freely on his face, along with blood from where the glass struck him. Along with causing a searing pain to go throughout his head, his glasses cracked and fell off his face, causing the room to dissolve into a blur of color. Through his haze, Harry noticed Vernon pull a silver object out of his belt. Head pounding, he didn't know what Vernon was doing until a cold, sharp object pressed itself against his head. Harry squinted and managed to make out--a gun. A gun pointed directly at his head. He gasped, but it only came out as a thick, strangled cough. "Not so cocky now, are we, boy? You should have thought of the consequences before you went and disrespected me," Vernon said, slur on his words. "You'll pay, boy, you'll pay." With a sudden strength, Harry shook his head forcefully and began to thrash on the floor. Vernon, heavily drunk and taken by surprise, took a step back. His foot landed on a piece of glass on the floor, and it cracked into even more tiny pieces. Vernon smiled nastily. "Goodbye, boy. May you rot in hell with your parents." His thick fingers closed around the trigger and a dull roar filled Harry's ears. Time seemed to slow down as a bullet sailed through the air. Then it struck. Pain beyond anything he'd ever experienced before exploded in his chest, and Harry looked down at the blood seeping from his clothes near his rib cage. He was dimly aware of Vernon tugging on his hair and his body being forced somewhere. And then came silence and the welcomed darkness.
"No." Vernon stared at his nephew, face slowly turning darker as the seconds ticked by. "What did you say to me?" he asked dangerously, voice low and menacing. Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter stared back at his uncle not intimidated or frightened. "I said no. I refuse to go and work outside while it's raining." he said stubbornly. "You'll do what I tell you to!" Vernon roared, spit flying out of his mouth as he leaned closer to Harry until their faces were inches apart. "I took you in fifteen years ago and gave you food, clothes, and shelter. And now all I ask is for you to go and do a little work, and you will do what I say!" Inwardly wincing at the alcohol smell on Vernon's breath, Harry replied hotly, "Vernon, you starved me and gave me Dudley's old clothes which were ten times too big for me. As for shelter, you threw me into a cupboard under the stairs until your fear of magic forced you to give me a small bedroom. And that 'little work' was doing your every will, and I refuse to do it now." Vernon's face contorted at the word 'magic', and by the way his face now resembled the dark plum color of a rug in the living room, Harry guessed he'd realized that he wasn't calling him 'Uncle', anymore. He wasn't going to show any signs of respect for him, not after what he'd been through the past couple of months. Over the past three months, Harry had been through a great deal. As an underage wizard attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last year, his school had taken a turn and hosted the Triwizard Tournament. His name had been entered by one of his professors, despite the seventeen year old Age Line. The Third and final task of the Tournament was maze of obstacles, and when he and his fellow champion, Cedric Diggory, touched the winning Cup, they had been transported to a graveyard. Peter Pettigrew, otherwise known as Wormtail, the same man who betrayed his parents fourteen years ago and caused the most evil wizard of their time, Voldemort, to murder them, had killed Cedric. He had tied Harry up and taken some of his blood--"blood of the enemy"--and with other added spells, created the body of Lord Voldemort once again. He and Harry
had dueled, and Harry only got away by the spell Priori Incantatem, which enabled the last spells a wizard had performed to appear in reverse order. With the help of his parent's echoes, he had escaped, taking Cedric's body back with him from a special request. From the Hogwarts Infirmary, Harry had learned that his entering the Tournament was the making of Barty Crouch, Jr., who had been posing as Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. The reason Harry was a deadly enemy to Voldemort was still a mystery to him. Of course, he knew part of the answer--when he had been one year old, Voldemort arrived at Godric's Hollow and killed his parents with the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra. He had turned his wand on little Harry and performed it again, but because his mother sacrificed herself for him, the curse rebounded and instead hit Voldemort. He remained a spirit and came back twice to kill Harry, and had come very close. Then with the help of Wormtail (and unwillingly, Harry), he regained a body. The question nagging Harry was, why? Why did Voldemort want to kill him in the first place? In his first year, Dumbledore told him that he couldn't tell him yet, that he would know when he was older. Was he old enough now? He certainly felt like it. With all of this hanging over his head, it was with a heavy heart that he left Hogwarts and returned to the Dursleys. And his state hadn't improved over the weeks that passed. The Dursleys were very angry with him because of a prank Fred and George Weasley played on Dudley last summer, and they weren't about to let him forget it. He was forced to do the Dursleys' bidding, from working outside in the summer heat for long hours to working down in the cold, dusty basement. About a week ago, he had caught a small cold, but the Dursleys didn't care. In fact, they said he'd been slacking off and made him work even harder. Harry hardly had very much strength lately. It may have been the fact he had sleepless nights, tossing and turning in bed while nightmares plagued him; it might have been that he wasn't getting enough food to eat. The Dursleys had never given him much, but now he was on the brink of malnutrition. All he knew was that he always felt like crawling up into his tiny bed and falling asleep for a long, long time without having to worry about anything. To top it all off, Vernon had started to hit him. Not very often, and never on his face. Harry knew that he didn't want to leave bruises for anyone to see, so it was always on his chest and back. This confused Harry slightly, because he and his uncle knew full well that he could just show them to a full-grown wizard and Vernon would be in trouble. Only when Harry had found empty beer bottles in the trash did he realize Vernon didn't care, because he had been drinking. But now--Harry drew the line. He wasn't going outside to work in the rain, and he didn't care if he got thrown into his cupboard for the rest of the summer. He kind of wanted to, so he wouldn't have to listen to them anymore. A hand connected with Harry's right cheek, and he fell to the ground from the impact. He sat there for a moment, biting back a cry of pain, and slowly stood. He glared at Vernon, who was watching with a satisfied smirk.
"Don't touch me," Harry said softly, trying to remain calm. He knew that he was on the verge of losing control, and the last time that had happened, he had blown up his Aunt Marge. Vernon laughed an insane laugh that had no humor in it at all. "You won't tell me what to do in my own house, boy." Harry's anger grew, and he could barely suppress the rage in his voice when he answered, "I'll do whatever I want to." Vernon seemed to snap, and his little eyes narrowed. He turned his back to Harry and walked out of the room, leaving a confused Harry behind. Why had he just left? Surely he wasn't going to just let him get away with saying that? He turned his back to the door and looked out of the window to the thunderstorm outside. They were having strange weather that summer. The sky would remain dark all day and the sun barely shined, with the exception of a few days. At night, he would go to sleep as a few raindrops fell from the sky, and when he woke up the next morning (or in the middle of the night); the ground would be wet and muddy like it had rained all night. A sudden pain suddenly went off in his leg, and Harry sharply glanced at it to find a booted foot repeatedly kicking it--hard. It was Vernon. He quickly stood up and put his leg out of Vernon's reach, trying to ignore the stabbing pains issuing from it. I will not let Vernon see me hurt, he thought with determination. However, it quickly became too much for him and he toppled to the ground. "What's wrong, boy? Not used to a little pain?" Vernon hissed, standing over him. He took a swig of the half-empty beer bottle in his hand and swayed a bit. Harry bit his tongue, knowing he was in no position to retort. "What, no answer? Cat got your tongue?" Vernon took another long drink of his bottle and stared down at Harry for a moment before throwing the bottle down at his head at breakneck speed. Harry didn't have any time to think before the bottle was cracked on his head and the sticky liquid flowed freely on his face, along with blood from where the glass struck him. Along with causing a searing pain to go throughout his head, his glasses cracked and fell off his face, causing the room to dissolve into a blur of color. Through his haze, Harry noticed Vernon pull a silver object out of his belt. Head pounding, he didn't know what Vernon was doing until a cold, sharp object pressed itself against his head. Harry squinted and managed to make out--a gun. A gun pointed directly at his head. He gasped, but it only came out as a thick, strangled cough. "Not so cocky now, are we, boy? You should have thought of the consequences before you went and disrespected me," Vernon said, slur on his words. "You'll pay, boy, you'll pay." With a sudden strength, Harry shook his head forcefully and began to thrash on the floor. Vernon, heavily drunk and taken by surprise, took a step back. His foot landed on a piece of glass on the floor, and it cracked into even more tiny pieces. Vernon smiled nastily. "Goodbye, boy. May you rot in hell with your parents." His thick fingers closed around the trigger and a dull roar filled Harry's ears. Time seemed to slow down as a bullet sailed through the air. Then it struck. Pain beyond anything he'd ever experienced before exploded in his chest, and Harry looked down at the blood seeping from his clothes near his rib cage. He was dimly aware of Vernon tugging on his hair and his body being forced somewhere. And then came silence and the welcomed darkness.
