He rips out weeds in the hot summer sun and tries to ignore his wild thoughts.
It's not right.
Harry tosses out another weed and moves over, knees aching like an old man's. He snorts a little, under his breath. At twelve, he was the opposite of an old man.
He sure felt like it sometimes though.
Checking his more-often-than-not-but-for-once-unbroken watch, he curses under his breath. He had to remember to thank Fred for that word later, but for now he had to move faster or he wouldn't get dinner.
That's been happening more again.
When Harry was little, before Hogwarts, he would go days without a meal sometimes. Withholding of food and the cupboard were the Dursleys' go-to method for punishing Harry- that, or setting Dudley's gang on him. Vernon and Petunia didn't like to touch him very much.
Besides, Harry was getting better at avoiding Vernon's particular shade of purple that overrode that distaste for touching the freak.
(Petunia usually just throws something at him when she's frustrated).
So what if they insulted him sometimes (all the time)?
So what if they didn't give a damn about him?
So what?
That little voice echoes in the back of his head again -it's not alright- and Harry shoves it farther away.
It's fine.
Other people have it worse.
It's fine.
It's fine.
It's fine.
(Maybe if he repeats it enough it'll be true)