AN: So I'll make this short and sweet.
This story starts out a lot slower.
I have this story for the most part planned out, so updates should be regularly, though this one took me one week to write, I'd assume updates to be every two to three weeks. Sooner if the muse is generous.
This is AU, an eventual Snape mentors (and possible adopts) Harry. I tried to stay book canon, but some things are nearly impossible.
I do not have a beta, so please be kind. I do take corrective criticism though :D
Warning: This deals with child abuse. Not as graphic as some of the stories I've read, but not intended for younger viewers. Please be warned it is not a light topic that this story contains.
Disclaimer: I in no way own this story, its characters, or anything else. I am not making money off this story, it is purely fandom pleasure. Thank you.
-Chapter One-
=Just Not His Luck=
The Dursley family prided themselves on their normal, albeit well off, lives. They had a perfectly normal son, who was thirteen this year. At the beginning of summer, Dudley returned to their home from his private school, not that much thinner than when he had left the previous year. Petunia Dursley, the matriarch of the household, fawned over her son who complained that he had been 'starved' at the school.
"That's my boy," Vernon said proudly as he looked up from his newspaper. "Got it in 'im to stay strong even if they put you down, right my boy?" He smiled.
"Well, mummy won't let you starve this summer," Petunia had replied. Thus Dudley spent every waking moment perched on a seat at the kitchen table.
Harry sat opposite Dudley, swinging his foot back and forth and waiting quietly for his aunt to announce his next chore. He scuffed the side of his shoe against the linoleum floor, freezing at the sound, and waited for the very angry telling off.
When nothing happened, Harry looked from the telly to his aunt and uncle, who both were too busy to notice the other boy in the room. He let a small sigh of relief escape his lips, and returned his gaze back to the dull show that the rest of the 'normal' family seemed to like.
Harry was not considered normal by the Dursleys; not by a long shot. When his parents had died when he was a baby, they had taken the boy in, as Petunia was his last living relative. He was abnormal, even as an infant, causing things to happen without physical contact. In recent years, especially before receiving his acceptance letter to Hogwarts, weird things happened more and more often. As punishment, Harry was locked up, sometimes starved, and often spanked or slapped when these occurrences happened.
Thankfully, his studies at Hogwarts helped prevent him from accidentally causing things to happen.
"Do the dishes," Petunia said pointedly to Harry, shaking him from his thoughts. She motioned him towards the sink, where the breakfast dishes sat, waiting for Harry. She moved from the kitchen, giving her son a quick kiss on the head, which Dudley didn't notice, before she gathered the keys and bag. "I'll be back shortly, just running to the market." She gave Vernon a quick peck on the cheek, glancing towards Harry with a sharp look. "I expect those done before I come back." She turned and began walking out, only to pause by the cupboard, Harry's old cupboard, and added, "I also want this place vaccumed. It's a mess." She turned her nose up and proceeded out the door.
"Yes, ma'am." Harry replied quietly, almost silently. As angry as he felt, as much as they drove him insane, he would keep his opinion to himself; at least until they went too far. A wry smile spread across his face as he finished scrubbing the plates and silverware. He rinsed them off in lukewarm water and set them on a towel to dry, then began on the cups and cookware. If he really wanted, he could tell them off, he didn't have to live there. In fact, he could walk out that door right now.
As appealing as the thought was, though, Harry knew better. He had nowhere else to go, really. He could ask the Weasley's. Their youngest son, Ron, was his best friend. They would welcome him, he was sure, with open arms; he only needed to ask. But they didn't have that much money. Harry reasoned they probably had just enough to be comfortable. They didn't need another teenage boy, growing like a weed, intruding on their lives and making it even more difficult. He was happy for them, having read in the Daily Prophet that they had won not only gold, but a trip to Egypt. They deserved a little extra money, but he knew it wasn't enough to get them that far ahead.
Harry hand dried the cups with another towel, his smile now a frown. The Dursley's could afford him, no matter what they said.
"Quit taking your time, boy." Vernon announced suddenly, shaking Harry (yet again) from his thoughts. He hurried the last of the dishes, though making sure they were spotless, and walked out of the kitchen.
Vernon's watchful eye followed the boy to the living area, where he promptly began vacuuming the carpeted areas of the house.
It was nearly half an hour later before Harry finished, wiping sweat from his head onto the forearm of his shirt. He heard the car pulling up and quickly deposited the vacuum back into its place, returning to the kitchen to put the now dry dishes in their places.
Petunia opened the door, a bag in her arm, and set her keys and bag on the table stand. "There's more in the car," she looked at Harry.
He nodded, walking to the car and gathering the other bags and returned to the kitchen.
"It's still early. Why don't you call your friend over for a snack, Dudley?" Petunia asked, putting breakfast cornflakes into the cupboard above the plates.
Dudley replied with a grunt and a wave of his hand.
The phone rang, apparently in the middle of an important part of the show, because Dudley's face went red and he told it to shut up.
"It can't hear you," Harry replied shortly.
Dudley turned to glare at Harry as Petunia answered it.
Vernon stood from his chair, his face pinched, and walked(or more like waddled) towards Harry. "You think you're so smart, eh boy?" He grabbed the boy's ever messy hair pulling it back so Harry's face was directly in his own.
"No, sir." Harry replied, staring his uncle in the eye.
"Then why are you telling my boy what is and is not. Getting too big for your britches, are you?"He said.
"Kinda hard when I don't even fit his." Harry spat.
His uncle slammed him into the wall, causing lights to dance in front of his eyes.
"Vernon," Petunia hissed, glancing to the open window. If someone walked by, they would have a clear view as to what was going on.
The purple faced man led Harry from the kitchen down the hall, out of eyesight of anyone. "When you earn your keep around here, boy, then you'll eat proper meals."
"I do more than you!" Harry yanked himself from his uncle's grip and started towards the stairs.
A sharp tug on his pant leg sent him sprawling face first into the stairs. Harry wiped his mouth on his forearm, tasting blood, but wasn't sure if it was from his tongue, which he'd bitten, or his lip, which he knew was split.
Vernon glared at the boy, unsure what to do. He'd knocked some sense into the boy a few times, (and by knocking sense into him, he'd slapped the boy across the face and on occasion thrown him. It wasn't really his fault if the boy couldn't catch himself before running into something.) "Into your room. And I don't want to see hide nor hair from you till I tell you to come down. I have half a mind to put some more sense into your head," he shook his fat fist in the boy's face.
"Go ahead!" Harry finally broke. " Knock some sense into me! See what happens!"
"Are you threatening me!" Vernon bellowed, pulling Harry to himself by the collar of his oversized shirt.
Harry suddenly felt stupid for provoking his uncle, sure that this time would be the time his uncle would leave him a mess.
Harry's determined stance, his 'come get me' face, fell.
"Vernon," Petunia hissed, tugging on the man's sleeve and glancing towards the door. "I think Dudley's friend will be here shortly. I'll see him to his room."
Vernon let go of Harry's shirt, causing the boy to fall with a thump onto the stairs.
"Next time it'll be my belt, boy." He threatened before turning from Harry and making his way back to the kitchen.
Harry stood, wiping his lip again on his shirt. 'It was my lip, then.' He thought.
"In your room," Petunia said. She followed the now silent boy up the stairs into Dudley's spare room, locking a few of the locks on the door after he entered the room. "And keep that bird quiet," she said, then left.
Harry sat on the rather uncomfortable bed, moving around until he found a spot where the springs weren't pressing painfully into his bottom.
He waited until he heard the telly turn up downstairs before he loosened the board in the floor and pulled a quill and some parchment out.
Hedwig had yet to return from Ron or Hermione's, so he didn't really have anything to reply to.
He pulled the stopper from the ink and dipped the quill in a few times, but couldn't think of anything to write.
He pressed the quill to the paper, the black ink bleeding into the page, and just started writing. He didn't know what really, the sentences didn't make much sense, but when he stopped he felt slightly better.
Exausted, or perhaps the first signs of a concussion (his uncle had shoved him pretty hard into the solid wall) Harry made his way to his bed. He pulled the shabby bedclothes back far enough to crawl in and lay down, closing his eyes. Almost instantly, he was asleep.
When Harry woke the last vestiges of the sun were peaking through his curtains, and one such ray had slipped across his eyes. At first he felt warm, thinking he was back at Hogwarts and the sun was just rising. Then, as he fully woke, the pain in his lip and the throbbing in his head told him otherwise.
Springs pressed uncomfortably into his back, and his stomach rumbled in hunger.
"I'm still here." Harry muttered bitterly. He sat up, pausing and rethinking what he'd said. He wasn't sure how he'd meant it, but the darker meaning didn't seem so silly. He slowly pushed the bedclothes back and shifted so his feet hung off the edge of the bed. He tenderly touched a finger to his lip and winced, sighing as his hand fell back to the mattress.
Hearing footsteps come up the stairs, or more precisely very heavy footsteps, Harry rushed to hide his the ink, quill, and parchment underneath his bed. He heard the locks clicking, one by one, and deftly slipped the loose board back into its place; not a moment too soon.
"Out here, boy," Vernon pushed the door open. He glared, "Hurry up. Bring Marge's bags inside."
Harry obeyed, ignoring the sudden wave of vertigo, and walked out of his room. He held tightly to the rail down the stairs, and kept his arm out in case he fell.
"Ah, so the boy does peek his head out." He heard Marge's cynical voice. "I would hope this school you send him to would teach him manners. Sorely lacking, I'd say. What school did you say you sent him to?"
"Saint Brutus's," Vernon said promptly. "It's a first rate institution for hopeless cases."
Harry fumed on his way to his room. He pushed roughly past his aunt and cousin and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Marge really did have a way with words; especially the ones that stung when she said them. Harry was used to it, though, and left it at that…. for the most part. He had gotten really angry when she said some things, he wasn't even sure he remembered what they were he was so mad.
Vernon had made the promise to come up and talk to him once the night ended.
Harry looked forward to the 'chat.'
Squinting through his smudged and broken glasses, Harry tried reading one of his textbooks.
Harry jumped when he heard the locks on his door being turned; he flew to the floor, forgetting his book on the bed, and put the plank back in its place.
The door opened and Harry stood quickly.
"What're you standing in the middle of the room for, boy?" Vernon asked, a scowl on his face.
Harry shrugged. "I was surprised…" He froze. In his uncles hand was a belt, folded together by the ends, and gripped tightly in his sausage like fingers.
"Marge had a wonderful idea," Vernon said, remaining in the doorway, leaving Harry with nowhere to go. "Your punishment, I mean. You see, she doesn't realize that you are a freak, and the glass wasn't her fault." His voice got dangerously low. "Shirt off and turn around."
Any other time, Harry would have laughed him off. Any other time, he would have thought his uncle was just in a fit of anger, that he couldn't control himself; but his uncle was calm, his breathing rather even. That scared Harry worse than anything. It wasn't as if he were angry, or suddenly violent. He was planning to do this, and Harry knew, to make it 'memorable'.
As much as he wanted to bolt out of the room, he obeyed, slipping the too-large shirt over his head and tossing it onto the bed and turned around. He closed his eyes, prepared for the worst.
The first time the belt made contact with his back surprised him, but he didn't know if it was from the loud smack or the sudden pain.
The second one slammed across his other shoulder; Harry tried concentrating on something, anything, but all he could do was anticipate the next blow (they came irregularly, as if Uncle Vernon was amused at watching the boy flinch at nothing) and hope it would end soon.
"Maybe that'll make you think twice about using your freakish abilities in my house again." Vernon finally said, slightly out of breath. He had put a lot of muscle behind the blows, intending for a lasting effect that Harry would not soon forget.
Tears ran down the boy's cheeks and he shuddered, holding back a sob.
"Put your shirt on. You have twenty minutes in the bathroom. If you don't finish washing then I don't care if you go to bed with soap still in your hair."
Harry obeyed, grabbing his shirt and slowly putting it on. The fabric scratched against his back and he hissed slightly.
"What's that?"
Harry glanced to his uncle before he looked to where the portly man was looking: on his bed.
"A, uh, book on p-politics… or something," Harry replied quickly, praying his uncle would leave it at that.
His luck was never that kind, though, and Vernon walked forward, picking the rather large book up.
"Potions?" He spat, whirling on Harry.
Before Harry knew what was happening, his uncle had grabbed him by the shoulder, digging his fingers into the fresh welts, and shoved the boy backwards.
He tried to catch his balance, but tripped on his own feet and fell backwards. His hand shot out automatically, causing a fresh wave of pain to shoot across his back, and tried to turn midair.
His hand met the ground and he felt a snap in his wrist. He curled on the floor in agony, not sure which one hurt worse, but positive he was about to vomit from the overload.
Uncle Vernon stood there in shock for a moment. By the way the child was cradling his wrist, it was surely broken. "Twenty minutes in the bathroom," Vernon said. He turned around, book in hand, and walked out of the room.
Harry lay there a moment, catching his breath, before he struggled to his feet and walked to the bathroom.
He took a short shower, struggling to keep his back away from the spray, his wrist throbbing. He knew he should probably run it under some ice-cold water, but he didn't get to shower often and he felt dirty.
He dried off, with great difficulty, and dressed in another pair of Dudley's clothes. "Never thought I'd be thankful for oversized pants…" Harry muttered to himself, pulling the belt with one hand until it caught. He let the end of it hang out, not caring if he looked sloppy or not. Maybe he could spend the rest of the summer in his room, only coming out to go to the bathroom or do the occasional chore.
He left the bathroom and made his way to Dudley's spare room. He smelled desert, a fresh pie, and his stomach growled.
"Harry," aunt Petunia said, stopping halfway up the stairs. "Come down here and…" She paused. "What happened to your hand?"
"I think I broke my wrist…" he replied flatly, keeping all emotion from his face as best he could.
She pursed her lips, folded her arms, and sighed. "Then go to bed," she turned and walked back down the stairs.
Harry sighed, but obeyed. He closed the door and looked around the room. He had to find something straight to tie to his wrist, or it would set wrong. He learned that the hard way from Dudley.
So Harry set about finding something to tie around his arm and something to hold it straight.
-Chapter End-
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