A fat and grubby hand took Harry's wrist, holding it still so that a hot knife's blade could pierce his flesh. He bit his lower lip to avoid crying out, but that just meant that blood flowed from his chin as well as his forearm. But it was better than actually making a sound. After all, if he'd screamed in pain, it would have just excited Vernon more, injecting even more enthusiasm in the thick thump thump thump of his uncle's too-big fist on his ribcage. His eyes squeezed shut and a whimper broke free of his tightly closed lips,
"N-No!" It was faint and more breath than word, but Vernon still managed to hear, and he still managed to get very, very angry, and very, very offended.
"'No'?! 'NO'?!" The knife fell with an enraged clatter and his uncle back-handed him, sending him flying into the kitchen counter. "Don't you talk back you ugly, miserable thing! Do you think you deserve to speak? To express worthless ideas that wander in and out of that poor excuse of a head?!" Harry swallowed the blood that gathered in his mouth and didn't respond. It would just make things worse if he had. He didn't think that though, that he deserved to speak, to force his own ideas onto somebody else. If one of his friends had asked him though, if he deserved that kind of thing, he'd have snorted and told them of course. Who wouldn't deserve something as basic as that?
But in his heart, his subconscious, he knew that he did not deserve it.
The hand continued hitting him, forcing him onto the cold stone counter top. He closed his eyes and out of habit, raised his arms in defense, but it didn't matter, it didn't change anything.
He didn't deserve this though! He was still a child, still innocent and good, not quite wise to the world around him.
He almost snorted in his bitterness, but managed to repress it; a child would know a parent's love. Harry wouldn't know a parent's love even if his dead mother walked up to him a hugged him tightly.
His innocence died with Cedric's death, Sirius' capture, the dementors' attacks, Vernon's daily beatings—
And his good, was he ever good? Harry squinted through the haze that plagued his mind and tried to swallow him into its inky depths. No; a voice told him quietly, in his ear as just a whisper, you aren't good. Never have been.
Then he lost consciousness, and his limp body was thrown back into the cupboard under the stairs.
"Why hasn't Harry written us?" A semi-distressed Sirius sat in some type of room or other, watching Remus do some of the most pointless paper work imaginable.
"I dunno Padfoot, maybe he's just too busy." He sighed, glancing at his watch again.
"He always writes back! And—and—" Sirius couldn't finish his sentence, a cold feeling of rejection settling in his stomach. What if Harry just, didn't want to speak with him? Was angry with him? Hated him?
He set his face in his hands, and any fight that'd been in him suddenly gone. But all through his feelings of not being wanted, and the guilt from being absent in Harry's life for so long, (thirteen years!) he just couldn't forget that worry, deep in his gut, that something had happened to his godson. That something was wrong.
He stood swiftly and left the room with an air of importance that was dampened only by the ragged state of the robes that flowed easily from his shoulders. He gathered a quill, some ink, and a roll of parchment so that he might send Harry a letter. He scowled at the kitchen table. Was this all he could do? Send little pieces of paper to his family and hope that they care enough to send them back? With a growl he began to write, it was all he could do, so cooped up in that dammed house.
Dear Harry,
How are you? I'm really worried that you aren't answering any of my owls. Is something the matter, have the muggles been bothering you? You know you can tell me anything, tell me that you need help and I'll be there in a moment, wand at the ready. –Here he started to get frustrated, angry even, and a little desperate to hear from his best friend's son.—Just please, write back, I'm worried. I love you kiddo.
Sincerely,
Snuffles the Great (it was his hope to be funny, maybe get harry to open up to him)
He creased the letter into three sections, and gave it to a slightly underworked owl who was peeved to have his sleep broken by Sirius' agitated prodding.
The letter never made it. Not quite.
"BOY!" Harry ran out of his cupboard like it was on fire, scared that he'd be lit with matches if he took his time to answer the call.
"Y-yes Un-Uncle V-Vernon?" He stuttered, standing straight, so as not to look like the heathen he was and kept his eyes down so as not to let Vernon think that he thought himself Vernon's equal.
"That no good godfather of yours—Black or whatever it is—he's sent you another dammed owl!" Harry gulped thickly, fear and anticipation clogging the inside of his mind. He hated this, when it happened. Harry had begun to wish, almost feverently, that Sirius would stop trying to help him, and just leave him alone. It wasn't like he could answer the letters, and the love that shone through his godfather's words were starting to become a worse torture than anything the Dursley's could come up with.
"'Dear Harry," the fat man sneered. "'How are you?'" Vernon's ugly, twisted face laughed. "As if anyone could care, how you are!" But here, unbeknownst to Harry, his uncle had censored anything else that might make him feel like someone could, or did, love him. "'You know you can tell me anything, tell me that you need help and I'll be there in a moment, wand at the ready. Just please, write back… Snuffles'" Vernon restrained a squeal as he saw any lasting shred of hope die in his nephew's eyes. He could never call for help, the damn bird had been released into the wild quite a few weeks ago, probably had already been eaten by a wolf or something. Vernon gathered himself pompously and smiled at the young teen, almost warmly, if Harry hadn't known any better.
"Well then, boy, aren't you glad I let you know what your dear, ah, Snuffles, had to say?" He laughed maniacally, and a shudder tore down Harry bruised back. Harry bowed to him, biting back angry tears.
"Yes sir, thank you very much sir." Vernon nodded to him.
"You can go back to your cupboard now." He tossed the parchment into the fire, and when Harry was stupid enough to watch the letter go up in flames rather than take his leave, Vernon's happy façade fell and he stood. "Little bastard." Harry heard the curse, and looked up, understandably terrified. A stubby hand took Harry's face like a baseball and shoved it into a wall, careful not to do it too hard only because he didn't want an ugly crack in the nice wall of his normal living room. Harry slid to the floor and grunted when his uncle's boot made contact with his stomach. Oh please—Harry thought helplessly—oh please. But he couldn't finish the thought; his mind was too muddled, too starved. Ten minutes later, Harry stumbled quickly to his cupboard, careful not to spill blood on his relative's perfect carpet.
The next morning, at the ungodly hour of 5:45am, Harry found himself where he was every morning, scrambling eggs, cooking bacon, and biting back sobs every time he moved wrong and spasms of pain made his mind reel. Of course, his range of mobility shrunk every time he'd been beaten, and he'd been beaten almost everyday that summer. Harry frowned into the liquid-y eggs that still swished around in the pan and wondered how he'd fallen so out of step with his relatives. They'd always hit him, but it only took a few years for him to figure out what to avoid to earn the full-blown beatings that he'd been suffering so far this summer.
He hadn't said 'magic' or 'wizard' or—or—had he?
Did Dudley gain more weight because he left too much grease in the bacon? Oh what if—
Could he have left too many weeds in the garden?
Mentioned his friends?
Mentioned school?
Spilled blood in the hall?
Tracked mud through the house?
Harry knew none of these could be true; he always did things quickly and efficiently. He didn't want to actually deserve the beatings he got! He painted quickly, cooked well, and kept his mouth shut. What could it be? But harry didn't really mind, it wasn't like he could do anything to make it all stop. He finished breakfast just as the Dursleys sat at the table. He made their dishes and set them in front of each in turn, then brought them their drinks. Chocolate milk for Dudley, Orange Juice for Petunia, and a coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and a half cup of milk for Vernon.
"Boy," Vernon hissed, letting his newspaper droop so that he could see the dread hit his nephew's eyes.
"Y-Yes Uncle V-Vernon?" he whispered, not trusting his voice to go much louder.
"You are still being punished and are not to sneak any food." Harry bowed. He'd expected as much, and was just grateful that it wasn't anything worse.
"Yes sir." He had eaten enough in the last month so that he wasn't dead, but he was still so hungry that his stomach didn't bother to growl at him anymore. His uncle told him his chores, which Petunia added to whenever she thought of something. It wasn't too bad, he did basically the same thing each day; cooked, cleaned inside the house, and weeded the outside. The only thing that actually bothered him were the beatings, not the work.
THREE DAYS LATER
Harry coughed, and was displeased to find blood in his hand. Why was he coughing up blood? That was never a good sign, he knew that. He curled up on his cot, hiding beneath the blanket and listening for any thud above him that might indicate someone coming down the stairs to command him to do something, or hit him. He hugged himself tightly and without meaning to; fell into a fitful sleep.
Sirius was sitting just outside of the whomping willow's reach.
"Sirius!" Harry ran to the ragged man, too excited to feel embarrassed about crying, and missing his godfather so much.
"Wait boy." The escapee commanded, holding up his hand and avoiding Harry's eyes. Harry flinched at the name his uncle had given him. "Boy". He was called that so much at Privet Drive, he was sure that his relatives had forgotten his actual name.
"O-Okay. W-Why?" The teen asked, angry at the stutter that littered his question. Sirius stood up from the stump that he'd been sitting on.
"What. Questioning me now? Do you not trust me? It's not like you can trust anyone, can you?" He rubbed his face wearily. "Talking back to his own godfather." He'd muttered it under his breath, but Harry had heard anyways. Then he said louder, "Look, I'm sorry. I thought I loved you, but all it was was my missing James. I guess I just replaced him with you when we first met. I don't love you." He began to walk past Harry. "Sorry." He said again, then disappeared into the Forbidden Forest. Remus walked up to him, looking tired.
"Ah, Harry." He said, with a very slight wave. "I've been looking for you. I-I need to talk to you." Harry cringed at the guilt in his old professor's voice.
"Yes Professor? W-What is i-it?" Lupin pat Harry's shoulder distantly.
"I'm sorry Harry, it's just that…I have a lot of stuff on my shoulders, I'm very busy, and being a werewolf causes enough problems for me. I just can't help you. I know you're in a lot of pain, but I can't be bothered with your crap right now." Then he walked away, and disappeared into the forest as well. Harry bit his bottom lip and gripped his arm tightly, trying to fight back what threatened to kill him. He glanced up, trying to dry the tears.
Cedric was standing right in front of him. Tears were trailing down the hufflepuff's face. His eyes were so accusing.
"Y-You know," his voice was cracking. "I wish I were like them!" He pointed to the woods. "If I'd been as smart as them, I'd have rid myself of you before you could kill me!" He fell to his knees and looked up at Harry. "W-Why Harry? W-Why did-d you k-kill me? I miss my D-Dad! Why w-would y-you do th-this t-to m-me?" His hands were palm up, and he looked up at Harry, his eyes desperate and his face crumpled with pain. Harry reached down to take Cedric, to hold him. To apologize to him. But as soon as his hand brushed his classmate's arm—Cedric fell to the ground. Dead.
Harry screamed. He sat up in his little cot in his dark little cupboard, his hoarse voice reaching volumes wrong for any human. He was disoriented, still at Hogwarts.
But reality hit him with a harsh swiftness. His jaw shut abruptly, and his teeth clicked together painfully. He waited silently, holding his blanket to his chest, and didn't dare to breathe, waiting for those heavy footsteps to warn him of the impending disaster.
Thud
Thud
Thud
Thud
Thud… Harry bit back the fear that was inspired from his uncle's approach. The cupboard lock slid open, and the door flew open. Harry bit back another scream, and instead, held his hands above his head, preparing for what he knew would come. He heard the snap as the leather belt went over Vernon's head, and Harry tensed in answer. The stinging, burning of metal on flesh paraded along his back and arms, mercifully missing his head. Harry whimpered into his knees, trying to hide within himself so that he might not have to be aware of what was happening.
"You deserve this." Vernon hissed at him. But he didn't have to. No, Harry knew that. He knew he deserved everything his uncle had to give. "Nobody could love some bastard like you, waking everyone up at some horrible hour with your freakish shouts." Tears lit down Harry's face, and this time he didn't fight them, instead, he just settled for quieting his whimpers and sobs. For ten minutes, he bit and clawed on his knees, trying to hide from the pain that ate away at him from above. But then Vernon got tired and with a yawn, he tossed the belt onto Harry.
"Clean off the blood by tomorrow morning, you worthless piece of shit." Harry took the belt, but didn't trust himself to speak. If he opened his mouth, he probably just would have screamed even more. But luckily, Vernon was too sluggish to care or notice.
Harry silently wiped his blood off of the metal clasp off of his uncle's admittedly large belt and then sat there, staring into the darkness, not trusting himself to sleep again.
