Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe does not belong to me. If it did, I probably wouldn't be sitting here writing fanfictions. Wait, scratch that. My twisted sense of humor probably would.
Summary: AUish. At the age of eleven, Harry Potter finally had enough. Frayed nerves and tentative holds snap, resulting in the seemingly utter disappearance of the Boy-Who-Lived from the muggle and wizarding worlds. At sixteen, he's back, and attending Hogwarts for reasons nobody knows. Bold!Harry HPDM
Warnings: This is slash. Don't like it, I don't care.
Author's Note: This thing was a beast to get typed out. It just kept going on and on, until I finally managed to cut it off at about 17 pages. Not bad for a first time, eh? I just hope things don't sound too muddled, and if they do, hopefully you'll be able to understand more as the story goes on. So, yes, first fanfic, and nervous doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. So, I know you people have probably heard this like a bazillion times, but I do like reviews. Just not crappy flamer ones. Just the non-crappy. Makes them easier to cook smores with. Yeah, so R&R please!
Edit: Some small changes, but changes nonetheless. Re-reading is optional, though advised.
2nd Edit: That's it! I'm posting this up and not touching it anymore! I'll just have to live with it the way it already is! I can't believe how many times I've sat down and stared at this chapter, thinking 'What the hell is this? I'm supposed to pass this crap off as a readable chapter?'! But no more! I've decided that this will be the final product for this chapter, and I don't care if I don't like it. I've become far too anal-retentive over such a small thing, and it really isn't helping me progress and get more chapters done. I'm supposed to enjoy this, yet I've turned it into this horrible project. But this is me kicking myself in the ass and telling myself to get over it. So hopefully I won't have anymore problems with putting out more work from now on. Ahh, I hope you guys appreciate this chapter, since it screwed me over so many times. At least I'm mildly satisfied with it now.
HPDM
Chapter One: Recalcitrant Renegade
Emerald eyes blinked as a trail of sweat blurred a salty path down his nose. Sluggishly, he raised a dirty hand to remove the drop, nudging thick glasses out of the way. It was a useless process, though. Another spot took its place almost as soon as he rubbed away the first. Harry Potter gave a frustrated sigh and pushed himself back onto his haunches for a moment's rest.
Bloody weather would just not give him a break.
The sun was a relentless tyrant as he gazed up at the turquoise colored sky, vainly trying to find at least one stray cloud on a canvas of unbroken blue. Attempts to brush the dirt from his hands onto a worn pair of baggy jeans turned up just as fruitless as his hunt for a merciful cloud. His palms were so caked in soil from working in the garden that only a good scrubbing would get them clean. Flicking beryl-green eyes down at his handiwork, though, Harry gave a mute nod of appreciation.
A better part of his morning had been spent working on planting the flowers spread out before him. Most of it had just been wasted time – the result of his earlier decision to be anal about arranging the flowering buds into neat rows to compliment their colors and varieties. Not because he really cared about the garden looking nice. Common sense said digging in dirt was minutely better than scrubbing grease and mold from week old pans and sweeping crumbs out from underneath the oven. And call him a pussy, but he never really had appreciated the smell that accompanied molding food. So it was hardly a choice in Harry's books.
But while he hadn't really been too concerned over the visual appeal of the bed of flowers, absentmindedness was evidently the key to success. The garden looked like it had been cultivated by a paid professional. Although Harry hardly considered himself a certified botanist. 'Florist' wasn't exactly his dream job, and if he had his way, flowers wouldn't play a big part in his future life.
Lifting his eyes to search through the skies again, Harry squinted at the horizon, barely making out the faint silhouette of dark clouds looming in the distance. While he had thought planting flowers in the garden before tackling the kitchen was a good idea, the small boy hadn't expected the cool, early morning weather to turn brutal so fast. Common sense forgot to mention he'd also be working out in the sun for the entire morning.
Head hanging, Harry gave a pitiful sigh. A break definitely wouldn't be in the forecast for today. And even if a miracle happened and those looming clouds were suddenly overhead, it would just end up being a pointless miracle. The last flower was planted, albeit sloppily, so he was just getting ready to go inside and get to work on the rest of the house. There was still a large list of pointless and demeaning chores to be done and he planned to accomplish most of them before his family got home. Sarcasm fully included.
Gathering the gardening tools together with nimble hands, Harry stood, a slight wince of discomfort accompanying the motion. His legs were stiff from crouching over the small pad of dirt for so long. Flexing the numb muscles, he moved towards the shed in a familiar routine to put the dirtied utensils away.
His family. Ha. Ha-ha.
Only by blood, at the very least. A fact that the Dursleys took every opportunity to remind Harry of how much they hated it. And he didn't exactly hide his mutual dislike for them, either. Which – considering his uncle was a seasoned drinker with anger management problems to boot – probably wasn't one of his more health conscious decisions. Of course, he didn't go out of his way to position himself in the line of fire when his uncle was around, but sometimes he'd get cornered and it would happen anyway. Although if Vernon got it in his head that Harry needing a beating while he was drunk, no amount of avoiding would prevent the inevitable from occurring.
Harry twitched and rolled his shoulders a bit.
He still had thin scabs of red criss-crossing his back from the last time the bastard had thrown all decorum and reasoning out the window after a tire blew on his car. Seemed to think Harry had been very air that'd made it explode. He never was able to wear that shirt again, either. Shame, too, because it was one of his few nicer shirts.
Carefully closing the shed hatch, Harry turned and entered the house through the backdoor, toeing off his shoes and leaving them outside. Petunia would throw a fit if they were anywhere on her clean floors. She seemed to have some personal vendetta against the dilapidated sneakers, yet still hadn't been driven to the point of purchasing him a new pair. Harry had purposely tried to spite her once and left the shoes inside after walking through a particularly nasty mud puddle. The look on her face had been priceless –akin to the appearance of someone who'd just swallowed a whole lemon while in the process of having an epileptic seizure.
Though, while her reaction had been absolutely gratifying, he really hadn't appreciated trying to fetch his shoes from over the fence in the neighbor's yard. Where a large, slobbering mastiff harboring a certain dislike for him had been waiting for the day the brunet got close enough to bite.
Needless to say, he barely made it out alive.
Eyeing the kitchen with distaste, Harry turned instead and made his way upstairs, sparing a glance at the clock on the wall. His shirt was clinging to his back in the most uncomfortable of manners and he wasn't going to clean the kitchen without having a shower first. Entering the bathroom, he stripped down and hopped into the stall, not bothering to wait for the water to properly warm up. The cool spray was a much appreciated relief after spending hours outside working in the blistering heat.
Fortunately, Petunia and Dudley had decided to go shopping earlier that day. His Aunt had mumbled something about needing new clothes, while Dudley had whined full-heartedly as she attempted to pull a clean shirt onto his body. Harry had struggled to muffle snickers as he wandered away from the unfolding scene, shuffling into the kitchen under the pretense of seeing some chore or another that needed to be done.
Quite honestly, he was relieved more so than usual that they had decided to take the impromptu trip. Harry had marched to the nearest mirror soon after they left to thoroughly examine his face for any foreign objects. Dudley had taken to staring at him lately with some of the oddest expressions on his face Harry had ever seen; so absorbed at moments that he would even pause with food only halfway to his mouth, something completely unheard of regarding his cousin's eating habits. Although it didn't explain the non-violent fixation towards him, the ebony haired boy was relieved to find no massive pimple staring back at him from the middle of his forehead.
Scrubbing the dirt and grime from his tanned body, Harry made short work of his hair before stepping out of the shower, snatching up his glasses and a towel to wrap around his waist before he stalked downstairs to his cupboard. A clean, faded black T-shirt, some underwear, and a pair of baggy blue jeans with a gaping tear in one knee provided suitable clothing and he shrugged them on. Shortly after deeming his face pimple-free, Harry had decided to drop the subject entirely. Though Dudley's strange behavior made him decidedly nervous, it wasn't a habit of his to look a gift horse in the mouth. The reprieve was welcome while it lasted.
Damp white towel tossed onto his meager bed, Harry lethargically ambled towards the kitchen. Scanning the kitchen with narrowed eyes, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Honestly, these people didn't even knowing the meaning of the word 'clean'. His Aunt seemed to be the only one willing to make an effort, yet that usually employed getting him to do it. There were crumbs scattered in all those little crevices crumbs were not supposed to be and Harry didn't dare peek into that cup huddled in the corner lest his eyeballs burn out. One monstrosity on the counter had him stiffening.
Oh god.
Last weeks casserole dish was winking at him.
Harry lingered in the entryway, tapping his fingers agitatedly against his thigh, before raising the hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and utter a long, suffering sigh of defeat. Shaking his head, he reluctantly went for the cleaning supplies stored under the sink.
Dusk crept up silently while the raven haired boy was busy scrubbing everything from the floors to the counters. Once he got over the initial aversion of having to stick his hands in greasy dishwater and get close enough to smell the sour rot of molding food, the routine of cleaning came smoothly. In all actuality, it was almost peaceful going through the motions of scrubbing and organizing. Dudley and Petunia were taking their sweet time in getting back and his Uncle wasn't due for a few more hours. He had the house to himself; it was a rare luxury, which made him all the more grateful for the peace.
Although one annoyingly stubborn stain on the counter was doing a fine job of ruining his good mood. Harry furiously scrubbed at the blotch, which was steadfastly refusing to relinquish its hold on the tiled surface. It was the only thing standing between him and a clean kitchen. A stiff growl left his lips as he added another squirt of cleaner onto the mess, followed by a short bout of hard wipes.
It was still there.
Drowning the infuriating spot in the shitty, brand-name cleaner and using both hands to scrub with the dirty cloth, he vigorously wiped at the fixed stain, whole body rocking with the force of his movements. So when the incensed boy bashed his forehead against the cupboard door above the counter, the resounding flurry of curses and angered gestures was – not surprisingly – enough to scare away a cat wandering across the lawn.
The neighbor's lawn.
Carefully releasing the death grip he had on the wet cloth squelching piteously in his hand, Harry scrunched his eyes shut and took a few, calming breaths. What a shitty day it was. There were unfair forces conspiring together to foil his attempts at a good mood, he knew it. It was clearly foul play and he was about ready to take his complaints to the Bureau of Celestial Negotiations. Try and get a few Fates fired, or something. A soft clink had the irritated boy turning his head towards the front door, a taut frown settling over his tired features. That sounded like the mail slot.
'Seems a bit late for receiving mail,' Harry thought peevishly, rubbing the tender red mark on his forehead still a little sore from the collision.
Hooded green eyes surveyed the counter in disdain, before he tossed the cloth into the sink with a little more force than necessary. It gave a satisfying splat upon impact, and Harry stalked away, slightly mollified by the vent of frustration. Pushing his glasses up his nose, the raven haired boy sauntered down the hall to stop in front of a small pile of letters resting on the worn carpet beneath the mail slot. He paused to eye the seemingly harmless mount of paper, before pursing his lips and casually scooping up the missives to shuffle through them.
Muttering distractedly to himself, Harry let his feet carry him towards the living room, softly listing off probable subjects for each letter as he moved. "Bill, bill, letter from Aunt Marge – that fat cow – bill, letter for me, pointless advertisements… H-hey…what?"
Harry's shins smacked painfully into the edge of the coffee table that he'd unknowingly been in a straight-on collision course with, causing him to drop the envelopes as he yelped in pain, hands instantly falling to rub his wounded legs. The venomous glare he gave the piece of furniture would have had it bursting into flames if he were any sort of higher being, but since spontaneous combustion was out of his reach, the small boy settled on aiming a sound kick at the innocent looking table instead. Gathering together the scattered papers, Harry fumbled for the envelope he'd seen his name on. "A letter for… me?"
Tossing the other packages carelessly onto the tacky oak table, he delicately ran his fingers over the yellowed parchment. Now this was an interesting development. The emerald-eyed boy had never received a letter before in his life, and this thing had the audacity to pop out of nowhere without any return address.
The nerve.
But aside from non-existent return addresses, no one had ever written to Harry. Ever. Things like that just didn't happen. He was inclined to believe it was addressed wrongly, but there was no mistake in the directions written on the front;
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whining
Surrey
'They know where I sleep?' He thought incredulously.
Stalker. Harry was the victim of a stalker.
Oh god, he was going to die.
Flipping the large envelope over, he ran his thumb nervously over the small coat of arms pressed into the purple wax seal; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake decoratively surrounded a large letter 'H'. It didn't exactly look like something that would come from the stalker type. Unless he was being shadowed by some rich, pedophilic old guy.
A shudder ran down Harry's spine. He prayed to whatever deities were listening that he wasn't being stalked.
The thing looked like it belonged in some official person's house and not in his pruned hands. From what Harry knew, letters were generally of the white and lick-closed variety. There must have been some mistake in the delivery. The small boy gently ran his thumb over the wax again. Contemplating the law that said one wasn't supposed to look through other people's mail, Harry decided it was for the sake of making sure the letter was returned to its proper owner. And because whoever had written it didn't include a proper return address on the outside, he would just have to look on the inside. Laws be damned. They couldn't imprison him for good intentions. Cautiously sticking his thumb underneath the flap, Harry broke the seal and removed a sheaf of parchment from inside.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Well. That explained it.
He was the victim of a prank, and not a stalker. He was not going to die.
'Thank god.'
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, previous bad mood completely forgotten as Harry ran an amused eye over the letter again. It really was a fine piece of work. The paper alone must have been very expensive.
He pulled out another piece of parchment and rolled jade eyes as he scanned its contents, a soft sound of incredulity escaping from his lips.
"A wand? My god, this is brilliant,"
This was definitely one of the more colorful jokes Harry had seen in his lifetime. Someone had clearly gone through a lot of work to make it appear realistic. He was almost inclined to believe what the papers said. That is, if he wasn't so sure that magic didn't exist.
Tossing his untidy ebony hair revealed a tiny glimpse of a lightning bolt scar in the middle of his forehead, before the black locks fell back into place. That was one thing his family had made sure to press onto him. Magic didn't exist. If someone so much as breathed the word in their house, the Dursleys went mad and began a ranting tirade of why magic didn't exist. Harry had mentioned it once, but he was skipped the lecture and locked into his cupboard for a week without substantial food. Never said it again.
But a school for wizards? Wouldn't that be something that would just tickle the Dursleys pink? Harry knew that if he was a wizard, they'd be hopping around and eating flies before he could even say the word 'frog'. The tentative grin slowly bloomed on his face when he imagined what fun life would be in a world with magic. The possibilities were endless. Completely ridiculous, but endless.
This was definitely his pick-me-up of the day. It was almost better than that one time he'd set that constrictor on his cousin at the zoo. Harry had no idea how, but the bloody thing had started talking to him and asked to be let free. Dudley had elbowed him out of the way before he could reply, screeching in delight at the snake was now swaying in front of the glass. Glaring at his fat cousin, the thought of releasing the large boa and setting him on Dudley hadn't been such a bad idea, when the next thing he knew, the glass was gone, the snake was free, and Dudley was squealing in terror as the constrictor slithered out of its tank right in front of him. It even thanked Harry before crawling towards the exit, hissing at people who happened to be in the way of the door. He must have been the only one smiling in the reptile house that day.
Fiddling with the parchment, Harry really thought about that little event. When it first happened, he hadn't much time to think about it between the swift drive home accompanied by hunger pangs and sore wounds after his Uncle was through with him, but it really was kind of odd. For glass to disappear just like that, one was likely to believe it was magic.
Harry glanced down at the papers again. In fact, he recalled a few moments in his life where odd things had happened with no reasonable explanations to them. This Hogwarts thing was almost starting to sound plausible. It very well seemed completely unreasonable, yet it sounded like the only reasonable explanation he had to clarify the events. Magic. But even if it did exist, why was he only finding out about it now?
Harry shook his head and snorted at himself in disgust. He was reading way too much into a simple prank letter. Jaded part of society or not, he was still being completely ridiculous. There were other explanations for whatever strangeness that happened around him, like hallucinations and whatnot, but he was becoming a little too interested in a subject that only five year olds believed in.
The sudden slamming of a car door had Harry jumping out of his reverie, parchment crackling as he gripped too hard on the edge held in his hand.
'Dursleys…'
Shit. The letter. They'd probably skin him alive and use his hide to make a Harry-throw rug for the living room if they ever caught him with it in his possession, nevermind the fact that it wasn't his fault in the first place that he'd received the damn thing. Magic was more than taboo in their household. He needed to hide it. The jingling of a key had Harry sprinting towards his cupboard, mind whizzing through possible worst-case scenarios. He quickly threw open the door, green eyes frantically searching for a place to conceal the forbidden item from view.
'The pillow case.'
He hastily shoved the paper in place, before hopping out of the room and snapping the door closed. Letting out a wispy sigh of air, Harry quickly straightened into what he hoped was a casual pose just as the door opened. Relieved satisfaction coursed through his body – letter safely hidden away and house cleaned to perfection. Nothing could go wrong. Until the clouded face of his Uncle rounded the door and focused almost instinctually on him. Harry cursed vehemently in his mind, even as he felt the blood drain from his face.
'Damn it. Damn it all to hell.'
Vernon was drunk. And apparently, very pissed.
"Youu!" He slurred, face darkening a deep red when he laid eyes on the stiff form of his nephew.
Red was such an unattractive color on him, Harry thought distantly, hackles raising as the appearance of his Uncle managed to completely ruin his day in the worst way possible.
He stumbled in and Harry watched warily as keys were dropped onto the floor and a jacket was flung furiously into a random corner. No sudden movements. That was rule Number 1 when dealing with maddened animals. Maybe if he played dead the beast would forget about him. Although it was strange that Vernon had made it home before his Aunt. Usually he'd be at work until at least seven o'clock. It was only six.
His Uncle began making clumsy steps towards him, puffing like an enraged bull. So much for no sudden movements. "I dun know how you did it," He bellowed, "but youu got me FIRED you little FREAK!"
'Oh. That's why.'
Before Harry could move, a flying hand came out of nowhere, brutally colliding with the side of his jaw. The force of the blow flung him unceremoniously to the ground, cracking his head painfully on the hardwood flooring and producing a thin line of blood from the corner of his mouth. Harry winced, raising a hand to tenderly caress what would likely become a bruised jaw, and tried to push himself up onto his knees. He managed to get as far as lifting his body off the floor and wiping the blood from his chin, before a booted foot slammed into his ribs, curdling any more attempts to raise himself back up onto equal footing with his Uncle. The air left his lungs in a sudden whoosh, and Harry worked his mouth like a landed fish while curling in on himself, trying to breathe.
Another kick was drunkenly smashed into his ribs, and then another. Emerald eyes clenched close as hands fisted, and Harry bit his lip to keep from crying out. That was one satisfaction he would never give his Uncle. A final harsh kick landed on his already abused ribs, giving an ominous crack under the strain.
'Fuck,' Harry wheezed as white spots put on a brilliant light show across his vision.
Rough hands fumbled for the collar of his shirt, dragging him up and slamming his back against the cream-colored floral wallpaper. Wincing, the stench of alcohol met Harry's senses and his Uncle's blurry face appeared in his sight.
'Glasses are gone. Please, don't step on them,' he pleaded in his mind.
"I dun kno why we ever took you in!" A large fist snapped Harry's head to the side, and he made sure to spit a large spatter of blood onto the tacky wallpaper. He had never liked the cheesy floral pattern on it. "You… you must've found sum way to tell my bosss abou' my deal wif the other cumpany!"
Ah. So that's what he got fired for. Was about time someone found out. Vernon never really was good at hiding things. Always had representatives coming over to his house from whatever rival drill company Grunnings was always competing with. Stupid ox had even brought one of them into his work, claiming he was a friend interested in what his Uncle did for a living.
Another fist collided with his face and this time a picture hanging on the wall nearby went crashing to the floor, sending glass everywhere. The photo inside was one of when Dudley had been younger, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had taken him to the beach that day for his birthday. Harry was probably six at the time, when he thought about it. Hadn't been a bad day for him, either. He thought he remembered spending the day watching T.V. and snacking on some of the chips Dudley had left lying around. The Dursleys wouldn't have believed Dudley when he said he hadn't eaten them all anyway. The little beach ball had been on a see-food diet. He saw food, and he ate it. No, it hadn't been a bad day at all.
Vernon tossed his nephew to the ground and Harry's hands went out to prevent himself from landing on his stomach. Although his save resulted in a large gash across his left palm from the glass, he managed to catch his weight. One of his ribs was probably already broken, and he didn't need another one. Breathing evenly in the small respite gained as his Uncle's attention was focused on something else, the sudden eruption of fire across his back had whatever breath fleeing his body in an anguished gasp.
The clasp of the belt tore through his thin, black T-shirt, exposing the angry red lines left behind in its wake. Harry's nerves screamed in agony and blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, jaws clenching as his arms trembled from the strain. Another lash, and this time his mouth opened and beryl eyes scrunched closed in a silent scream. No sound. He wouldn't scream.
Vernon raised his arm again; the metal end flashing down upon his nephew's back, tearing another strip of his shirt open. "You filthy wretch! We feed you! We clothe you! AND NOW I'M FIRED! You should've died with yer parentss when they wer murdered! But we were landed wif YOU!" He bellowed, completely consumed in his alcohol fueled rage.
Cloudy green eyes opened in shock. Murdered? The Dursleys had always told him his parents had died in a car crash. A drop of blood from his mouth splattered down among the hundreds of small shards of shattered glass. Murdered?
The belt flared across his back again, dancing to the furious rhythm of his Uncle's anger.
"Tha stupid Dumble-somefin', telling us what ta do! We were gracious enough to take you in! WE can do wif you WHATEVER we WANT!" Vernon's purple face shouted, punctuating words with lashes of the leather. The shirt was in near shreds now, and blood was beginning to color the tattered clothing a darker black.
Dumble-something? That sounded almost familiar. Everything was starting to numb.
Blood flicked from the end of the makeshift whip, spraying across the wallpaper in small, crimson flecks.
"We should nevr have tak'n you in the first place! You an' yer ruddy magic! Tearin' up the place since day one!"
Tears splashed onto the glass below him, mingling with the ruby drops smeared across the floor. His arms stopped trembling. Everything was so cold.
Vernon was puffing now, his arm starting to tire from constantly whipping back and forth. The bloody kid just wouldn't scream. He brought the belt down a few more times, interest waning as his anger mellowed under the rise of his need for another drink. He tossed aside the belt, and laid a last, savage kick across the ribs of the limp body curled in front of him. It was the entire freak's fault he got bloody fired. Huffing, he stumbled out of the glass filled hallway towards the direction of the kitchen. He needed another brandy.
Face still bowed towards the ground and one arm wrapped across his mangled ribs, Harry stared unseeingly at the mixture of tears, blood and glass, displayed in a morbid arc of gore across his vision. He hurt. He could live with the bodily injuries, but this throbbing ache coming from his chest was worse than any flesh wound. The absolute self-loathing and indescribable pain was enough to make him wish he could tear his own heart out just so he wouldn't have to feel it anymore.
He hurt because he was weak. He was so weak and Harry hated himself for it. Every fucking moment of his life spent submitting his will to someone else tore him apart. They were smothering him, and he couldn't even attempt to do anything to stop it because he was too damn feeble. He couldn't fucking breathe anymore. Tears blurred the battered boy's vision as a fiery shame burned its way through his blood, fueling the ache as it spread from his chest.
Harry blinked, clenching his fists as he drew in a few shuddering breaths. No. Now was not the time for a breakdown. He desperately pulled himself together, every muscle in his body tensing as he fought for his control, the iron will he clung to that kept him going through each day. The urge to scream and cry and yell rose higher, but he clamped down and dragged the urge back into the depths of his mind, burying it and turning his focus away from the primal need of the thoughts that were screaming at him.
He battled away the ache in his chest, trying to forget, trying to remember, and told himself he could deal with it later, he could scream and cry and yell all he wanted to later, but now was not the time, he had to get, get up and forget, and not concern himself over such a frivolous thing as a breakdown, such a thing as his sanity hanging mere inches from the edge of despair.
He trembled as his mind fought back, asking why he couldn't take this time, take the moment to scream and cry and yell. Why couldn't he relent and take when everyone else had already taken everything from him, why couldn't he take back? Harry pushed back and silenced the echoes with a snap, telling himself that he was stupid for lingering this long. He had to get up and take care of himself; he was still bleeding and that wasn't going to go away anytime soon. If he stayed any longer, it was possible his uncle could come back, and he was being stupid for lingering over such a thing as a breakdown.
With one great shove, he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind and into the Pandora's box they had exploded from, silencing the need and restoring the order in his mind. Emotions firmly reined in place, Harry gently rose from the floor, arm still braced across his ribs. The dull throb echoing from every bruised part of his body was more apparent now. Things would be painful in the ongoing days.
Retrieving his, thankfully, unharmed glasses from the ground, the raven-haired boy carefully placed them on his face. Ice seemed to have taken root in his bones as a latent chill seeped through his body, eliciting a shiver that traveled from the very base of his spine to all of his extremities. A numbing effect was sometimes a repercussion when he knowingly turned his mind away from his emotions. It made him cold understanding that he had to stoop to such levels just to deal with his life.
A trickle of blood dripped off his left hand, and he blankly looked around him. Blood and glass was everywhere, with Vernon's stained belt discarded against the wall.
'At least it's hardwood flooring.'
Limping towards his cupboard, Harry removed his arm from around his ribs and opened the small door. Mechanically, he grabbed a clean outfit, then trudged his way out and up the stairs. His Uncle would go to the kitchen, have a glass of brandy, and then pass out on the couch. He was safe to have a shower for now. This process was one he knew almost as good as the back of his hand. If he recalled, there was a little white scar on one of his knuckles.
Flicking the shower on, Harry placidly tore the rest of the shirt off his back, not wanting to lift his arms up and aggravate his ribs any more than necessary. The rest of his clothes were removed in the same gentle manner, and with glasses placed on the sink counter, he delicately stepped into the shower. Water turned pink as the blood was washed off his body in tiny, distorted rivulets. Just standing under the spray was painful, but it was necessary to rinse all the blood off. He'd dress his wounds after. The emerald eyed boy rubbed at his arms, trying to bring some heat to his numbed skin. Even the warmth of the water wasn't enough to drive away the cold that nipped at his flesh, raising goose-bumps along the back of his forearms.
Harry exited the shower carefully, before crouching down and searching through the cupboards for a black towel. If he used a white one, Petunia would have a seizure if she couldn't get the stains out. Finally finding one, he snatched the small first aid kit also and closed the cupboard as he stood. Setting them on the counter, Harry finally allowed himself to measure the damage done this time. Placing his glasses on, he looked into the mirror.
And promptly flinched.
A glorious purple bruise was already appearing on the right side of his face, giving Harry the look of someone who had just lost a fight with a girl's make up kit.
'Oh lovely. I should wear purple more often.'
His bottom lip was also swelling, and there was a small red cut in the corner of his mouth. It was definitely going to hurt eating later on. But what demanded his attention the most was the sickly purple and yellow bruise mottling the left side of his chest, swirling in an angry show of abused tissue.
Harry winced. 'No,' he decided. 'Purple definitely isn't my color.'
Tenderly, he poked at the battered flesh and felt along his ribs, gnawing on his lip at the painful sensations the action caused.
'Thank god. Not broken. Probably just a small fracture.'
One last thing needed to be examined, so Harry twisted his back painfully to get a glimpse. On top of numerous old whipping scars, about ten new ones stared angrily back at him, weeping blood.
'Crap.'
Picking up the towel and gently dabbing at his back, Harry reached for the kit and grabbed a roll of gauze. He set the towel down and began to carefully wrap the gauze around his chest, making sure to do it tightly enough to support his ribs but not so much that it hurt extensively or he couldn't move. He used up most of the roll before cutting it and pinning the end in place.
Experimentally shifting, Harry deemed his patch job worthy. 'There. That's better.'
The last bit of gauze was wrapped around the hand with the cut from the glass on it, and after one last examination in the mirror, Harry dressed in his clothes and made his way back downstairs. He kept his eyes on the ground and avoided the mess in the hallway, ignoring the feeling of shame that nipped through his thoughts, teasingly remaining just out of reach of full-on self-loathing. A loud snore from the living room prompted him towards his cupboard, and Harry entered and closed the door with a small snap. However pathetic it was, he felt a bit of peace with the thin wooden door between him and the outside world. His cupboard was his sanctuary and one of the only places on earth he had ever felt safe.
Sitting down gingerly on his bed, the raven haired boy stared blankly at the dusty wall in front of him, duly acknowledging the unhindered creak of the front door opening once more. A small gasp was sounded, followed by quiet mutterings and soft footsteps trailing up the stairs. He didn't blink when he heard noises of what was obviously someone cleaning up the mess in the hallway. He didn't wince when his Aunt begin screeching at his Uncle about ruining the walls. He didn't move when the smells of cooking filled the house, and footsteps came back down the stairs, pausing at his door before rushing to the kitchen. It was nearly eleven thirty before Harry made any movement at all, long after his family had all gone to sleep, and when he did, it was to lean over and let a few tears escape from his eyes.
'Murdered?' A few more tears trailed down his face. Why… why hadn't they ever told him? They couldn't hate him that much…
He gave a shallow laugh. 'Of course they could. They have ever since I came to this bloody prison.'
Salty rivulets burned there way downs his cheeks, blurring his vision and agitating the sensitive flesh on the side of his face.
Harry wished he had known his parents. He ached for that wish. At this point, any sort ofparental figure would have been met with exclamations of joy. He just… wished that he had at least known his parents were murdered. It might not have made a shining difference in his life, but he would have at least known. Harry knew nothing about them. He had no pictures, no memories… nothing. But he had at least wanted to know how his parents had died. And even that was a lie. To learn that they were murdered was at least something. Why hadn't he ever known? One person had taken everything he had away, condemned him to this life, and he had never known.
An anguished sob left his lips. Why did today have to be fucked up in so many ways? Why couldn't things wait for tomorrow?
Hands fisted into his untidy, black hair. This absolute mockery of a life was all someone else's fault. If his parents were alive, he would never have had to live like this. None of it would have happened, and maybe, just maybe, he would have been able to exist with some amount of normalcy in his life. Celebrated birthdays and Christmas' like a normal family would. But he would never get to experience that kind of love, because his parents were dead. Dead, because they were murdered.
Fire ripped through Harry's blood, rising in temperature as his tentative control slipped once more at the onslaught of buried memories and suppressed thoughts that raced through his mind. He wanted to place his nails on the wall in front of him and tear through the wood with every ounce of his fury. He wanted to smash every piece of expensive china Petunia had, and break every bone in his Uncle's body. It wasn't fair.
He wanted revenge.
Revenge on so many different levels, served on the same cold platter that his life had been dealt to him on. Fuck morals. Screw any speech that, 'Your parents wouldn't have wanted it this way'. Things were going to go his way. Revenge would be taken for every possible moment that Harry had wondered why he was alone, why he was hated so much. And he would get it. He'd strive for it. Live for it. He'd get out of this place, and when he found out who had killed his parents, people were going to die.
He twisted and a silent snarl crept onto his face as he fought with himself. The urge, the need, to scream and cry and yell was consuming his senses. Gods, he couldn't handle this. His control was slipping again; he couldn't handle a second onslaught in just one day. But he also couldn't let his emotions blind him so thoroughly. He reasoned with himself, trying to rein back his anger. If he was going to get revenge, he needed to be able to think. He needed to be able to plan how he was going to do it, needed control so he'd do it properly, without screwing up. He was being stupid again, why was he being so stupid? The rage relented momentarily, and Harry used that opening to snap back on the reigns and pull in his anger.
A sudden beeping had Harry's flushed face turning towards a battered alarm clock, resting peacefully on the shelf above his bed. '12:00 a.m.' flashed at him in glowing, green letters, and Harry's vision blurred once more as he celebrated another birthday, completely alone.
"Happy Birthday, Harry," he whispered to himself in a familiar midnight ritual. And made himself a promise, alone and filled with pain. He promised himself his revenge. Because if he had that, he could live without anything else, didn't need anyone else. What were people, what were things, if he had his revenge?
Soft footsteps had him blinking and wiping at his face quietly. The action stung his bruised cheek, but he didn't care. No one was usually up at this time. The unknown intruder trailed down the stairs and stopped in front of Harry's cupboard, before the door began to open slowly. Harry watched with red eyes as the person hesitantly pushed open the door and blinked at the unmistakable countenance of his cousin stepping into the light from his room. Dudley gave a similar reaction, obviously not expecting his cousin to be awake, either.
His day was just full of shitty surprises.
Pinning Dudley with a suspicious look, Harry asked warily, "What do you want Dudley?"
Overcoming his shock, Dudley straightened and attempted to scrutinize him with a superior gaze. "Something from you," He sneered, as if it was so obvious and Harry was just too stupid to understand things.
Harry stared at his fat cousin blankly, mutual thoughts of stupidity drifting through his head. "If you haven't noticed, Dudley, I have absolutely nothing you would want."
And it was true. There was barely anything in his small cupboard, except for his bed, a very small dresser, and a few battered knick-knacks here and there that Harry had collected. There was definitely nothing in there that Dudley would ever want. Unless he was interested in dirty socks, but Harry highly doubted it.
"No, you idiot, I mean from you. Piers has been going on about how some girl gave him a blowjob, and how great it was, so I want one, and you're going to give me one," Dudley huffed, trying to give Harry a menacing glare.
Harry's right eye twitched. "Get. Out."
Not to be denied anything, Dudley had the audacity to step closer and growl at Harry, "You are going to give me one, because I want one," Harry's right hand twitched, "And you're going to give me one right now, or I'm going to say that you were using the M word."
That was the last straw.
Harry stood in a single, fluid motion, drawing his arm back and launching a furious punch at the pudgy face of his cousin. Dudley didn't even have the time to be shocked.
Plummeting backwards onto his arse, Dudley stared dazedly up into the wrathful viridian eyes of his incensed cousin, unable to precisely comprehend what had just happened. A Harry that fought back didn't exactly occur everyday. When shock gave way to pain, the events finally caught up with his floundering mind and Dudley slowly raised a trembling hand to cover his smarting face. Punch confirmed, he let loose a foghorn like wail, and began to sob and moan in an echoing barrage of pathetic agony.
Thunderous footsteps sounded down the stairs, but Harry was too pleased with himself to care. 'I've been waiting years to do that.'
Petunia and Vernon halted at the bottom of the steps, both clad in hastily adorned house robes, paralyzed into silence at the scene displayed in front of them. What they saw was not exactly what they had expected to find. Someone maybe trying to break into their house, but not this. Dudley was crying like a wounded animal on the floor, nursing his injured jaw, while their nephew was standing over him, unsuccessfully trying to prevent a satisfied smirk from blooming across his face and ruining the innocent air he was going for.
"He punched me!" Dudley wailed, moving his hand to show the irritated red mark that was already darkening into what would become a lovely bruise.
Harry had to turn his face away at that. Despite the impending doom that his Uncle's darkening visage was foreshadowing, he just could not bring himself to feel any sort of remorse for the remarkable swing he had launched at his cousin's face.
'And it was remarkable,' he congratulated himself. In fact, he rather felt like adding a kick towards the blubbering lump of flesh sprawled on the ground in front of him.
That made both adults jump into action. Petunia heaved her son to his feet and began frantically fussing over him, ushering Dudley towards the stairs as he cried pitifully. Vernon's face reached an all new shade of red as Harry watched, not even trying to look sorry for his actions. The fucking idiot deserved it.
"You…you… FREAK!" He backhanded Harry across his face, the blow launching the thin boy backwards and onto his bed. "You'll not be seen out of this cupboard for WEEKS!" Vernon roared. He slammed the cupboard door shut, locking it in place before storming up the stairs.
When he heard the closing and slamming of doors from upstairs, Harry finally let loose a long course of muffled snickers. If he had known that hitting his cousin could be so immensely satisfying, he would have done it a long time ago.
Dudley was such a total moron. The brat probably didn't even know what a blowjob was.
But as hysterical as the stupidity of his cousin could be, white hot anger was still pulsing through his body. He couldn't stand it anymore. Not for another second. Staying in this house was no longer an option. Rage merged into an inflexible steel determination, thoughts of murder drifting through his mind. Harry had a vendetta to fulfill, and the Dursleys no longer had any part to play in it. Which brought him to another major turning point the day had led him to.
Retrieving his letter from the flattened pillow resting at the head of his bed, Harry scanned the parchment with calculating eyes, mind working out the beginnings of a plan.
There. Right under the Hogwarts heading, was 'Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore'. Vernon had clearly expressed the beginnings of that name in his drunken rage. And if he recalled, the accusations of Harry doing magic was also mentioned. There was a sort of irony in the fact that this unbelievable subject seemed to be the only reliable information Harry had ever received in his life.
It made sense.
It made sense with how his Aunt and Uncle treated him. They were the most normal-obsessing people he'd ever known. And the accidents. It did explain all the accidents. This had to be true. And he was banking on this new revelation being reliable. Harry was going out on a massive limb with this plan. He was going to leave the Dursleys for good.
If this school was real and magic really did exist, the emerald eyed boy needed to find someone who also knew about the place. And he was not going to find out about it in this household.
'My turn to play.'
He carefully tucked the parchment back into the envelope, then grabbed his school bag and began to pack. Harry made sure that he had at least two pairs of clothes, and fished around for anything else he would need. His thin blanket went on top, and the letter was shoved into one of the bag's front pockets. Now, his only obstacle was the door lock. It was a fairly simple mechanism that you'd usually find on the locks in a school bathroom, and he'd become adept at picking it years ago. The Dursleys usually forgot to feed him whenever he was locked in and he would have starved long since if he hadn't learned the useful skill.
Retrieving a thin strip of metal that had been acquired from a paperclip found in his room years ago, Harry carefully pushed it between the wall and door, and slid the lock back. Easing the wooden panel open and placing the wire in his pocket, he quietly looked down the hall both ways. The Dursleys were sound asleep, and the lights were off.
'Perfect.'
Leaning his bag against the wall, Harry's eyes flashed in the darkness as he wrote down a mental inventory list. 'The first aid kit will be coming with me, as will some food that'll keep. A weapon would also be nice. And I'm going to need money.'
Check list in place, Harry turned towards the kitchen to retrieve the easier items. The insanity was back and dancing across his mind, but he didn't care. Revenge was all he needed, revenge was all that mattered. He had a purpose now. The steely determination ironed his thoughts, and everything seemed so simple. He would do this and he could be happy.
Prowling towards the cupboards, he began to sift through the boxes, searching for the package of candy bars that Dudley always whined for. A little bit of vindictive revenge would not go amiss. Finding the box and removing the last three, he absentmindedly replaced the empty cardboard package and moved towards the fruit bowl. Cradling an apple and an orange in the crook of his arm, Harry made one last stop at the utensil drawer along the counter. A small knife that could be easily hidden on his body was swiftly taken and he was once again headed towards his bag left in the hallway.
Food safely packed away, Harry knelt down and lifted his right trouser leg to hike up his sock. It was the only place he could think of where he'd be able to safely hide the knife. Carefully, he slipped the blade point-first into his sock, meticulously adjusting the band to keep the weapon pinned to his ankle and discourage any excessive movement. The last thing he needed was a slice on his foot to add to the already lengthy inventory of injuries he had.
Rising to his feet, the raven haired boy took a few experimental steps. The knife moved a little, but he wouldn't have to fear it stabbing him or falling out of place.
Satisfied, Harry turned his bruised face towards the stairs. Money was next on his list.
Swiftly creeping up the flight of steps, he expertly avoided every squeak, the knowledge garnered from years of stepping silently around the Dursleys. Passing doors, beryl green eyes instinctively fixed on the plain white wood of his Aunt and Uncle's bedroom. He moved silently along the shadows, reaching the entrance in a few, short strides. Harry was light on his feet, lean build aiding in his sleek gait as he crept unheard into the forbidden room. Jade eyes glowed in triumph at the undisturbed forms of his Aunt and Uncle, sleeping peacefully unaware in their bed.
This was going to be far too easy.
Turning to their dresser, Harry slunk towards the mahogany furniture, ignoring the wallet that sat in the middle of a clear spot on its surface. He was going for far bigger money than just pocket change. Carefully easing open the top drawer, his gaze was met with an assortment of patterned socks and undergarments.
'That is not a lacy black thong.'
Face contorting into a mask of silent mortification, Harry soundlessly gagged at the discovery. As much as he wished to turn and chat with the contents of his stomach, blowing his cover was not an option. Death was only a mild penalty for being caught. Hesitantly lifting his hand to search through the clothing, he took a deep breath and reluctantly dove into the mass of socks and underwear.
Harry had learned of a particularly juicy tidbit of information while cleaning the living room one day – perhaps about a month ago – and it was the only reason he was risking infection by touching the expanse of personal items stored in the dresser. While he had known that his Uncle was making side deals with some other drill company, he hadn't been privy to the form of payment Vernon was receiving for his services. A little bit of eavesdropping had cured that problem.
It was on one of the days Vernon had been entertaining some high ranking drill person or another. He had been tall and dressed in a slate-colored suit, trimmed to perfection and infinitely immaculate. Harry would have been inclined to call the man attractive. His demeanor commanded attention and his business dealings were full of ruthless purpose. The man had been able to charm and coerce his Uncle with false promises and insincere smiles without once betraying the smug smirk dancing in his eyes. Vernon hadn't even noticed the rattle of what was clearly a poisonous snake toying with its prey. Harry had admired the man in the first few minutes of meeting him. He was evidently a very successful person, and one had to admire the skill and control it required to dance someone around on a string while they believed it was their own idea to perform in the first place.
Harry had dutifully served refreshments and tidied the living room as his Uncle and the man chatted over business topics, listening with half an ear to the virtually one-sided conversation. The raven haired boy was sure that the man in the suit would have been able to talk Vernon into giving out his bank number, if the rate at which his Uncle was spewing forth information was any indication to go by.
Silently stepping forward to retrieve the empty plate of biscuits from the coffee table, Harry had left the living room for the kitchen, intent on refilling the platter. The conversation was becoming a bit tedious, his Uncle beginning to wander off onto random tangents. That man was definitely skilled; his face not once having wandered from the encouraging smile of feigned interest plastered on his visage.
Harry had been in the middle of organizing cookies onto the plate at the counter, when the turn of conversation had his ears pricking with interest. The deep timbre of the man's voice carried into the kitchen, and the words that came out had him pausing his actions in fascination.
"Quite interesting, I'm sure. Which reminds me, I have a little surprise for you, Vernon. Mr. Harper has been very impressed with your performances as of late, and has decided to give you quite the bonus on top of today's payment. He tells me that you'll go far in business and wishes for me to relay his gratitude for your continued dedication towards his company. I take it bills are not a problem?"
"N-No, of course not! Send my best regards to him! It's always a pleasure doing business with the man, and tell him, if he needs anything else, just call!"
Harry quickly plated the last of the cookies, interest perked to an unbearable point, and turned to re-enter the living room, tray in hand. He emerged to the scene of his Uncle lovingly thumbing a large wad of cash, so focused on the money in hand that the satisfied smirk directed towards him from the predatory expression of the man in the suit went completely amiss.
Harry had stepped forward and placed the platter on the table, eyes lowered as he moved to retake his position at the bookshelf across the room, where he had previously been organizing magazines.
"Thank you."
That deep timbre voice had him halting, glancing up through his eyelashes to gaze into the hazel eyes of the man in the suit. He had a calculating glint on his facing, sizing Harry up as one would an unknown object. His pose was relaxed and reclined, identical to the appearance of a basking snake.
'He's testing me,'
Harry definitely admired this man.
Raising his head just a tad more, a feral glint rose in his own emerald eyes, slow smirk curling the corner of his lips in an answer to the challenge. I known what you're up to and I admire you for it.
"You're welcome."
He held eyes long enough with the man to catch the slow raising of an eyebrow and the curve of a smile, before he turned and wiped his face, proceeding with the organization of the magazines.
Harry remembered that day particularly well, if not because of the interesting encounter, then for the garnered information he had learned. The man had left shortly after paying his Uncle and Harry had followed them to the front door to hand the man his coat and hat while the two adults exchanged pleasantries. He recalled the man insisting that Uncle Vernon cash the money soon, to which Vernon replied in a joking tone that he kept all of his money in his sock drawer. The men had laughed as the businessman donned his coat and hat, wishing farewells to both Vernon and Harry. They had caught eyes one final time, fake smile taking on an edge when he directed it towards the small boy, an answering smirk of respect between two predators. Harry hadn't seen him since.
As he pondered the gesture of the given information, Harry continued to dig through the dresser. He concluded that it was an exchange, his silence for the location of the cash, in case Harry as a kid was ever in need of money to go buy candy or something. His fingers brushed the edge of what felt like paper, and he triumphantly closed his fist around the money. That man was his idol.
Retrieving the thick wad of bills Vernon had foolishly hidden in his sock drawer, Harry carefully removed the money and silently slid the drawer closed. Fate seemed to be compensating for his shitty day by helping him with his escape plan. It was about time someone paid him some due respect.
Just as he was turning to reach the door, a heart-wrenching screech echoed from the floor beneath his feet.
'For the love of-! I was just kidding!'
Harry froze, blood draining from his face as he stared at the still forms of his Aunt and Uncle on the bed. Vernon's snoring stopped, making Harry cower and shrink towards the floor. His balls were literally on the line here! Waiting in silence, the emerald-eyed boy nearly sobbed in relief when the soft snoring started up again, confirming his misstep hadn't woken anyone. He gingerly crept the rest of the way out of the room, sighing in relief at the successful reconnaissance mission. He had the money. Life was good.
Grabbing the first aid kit as his last stop before he made his way downstairs, Harry silently halted by his bag and placed the kit inside, cash safely stored away in his pocket.
'Mission accomplished. Bag packed and ready to leave,'
Grumbling in protest, his stomach made its presence know for the first time that night. 'I guess not.'
Harry retrieved one of the candy bars from his bag and quietly nibbled on the chocolaty cereal bar. Snagging his jacket from a hook on the wall, he carelessly shrugged it on and slipped on his sneakers retrieved from the kitchen. Harry was actually going to leave.
He really didn't know what to say to that.
Harry picked his bag up and slung it over a shoulder, taking one last look at the house he would promise to never see again.
'That wallpaper really is ugly,' he mused, a slow smile spreading on his face.
Making one last stop to his cupboard, the bespectacled boy went through one of his drawers and grabbed a large, violent red marker. Stepping out, he examined the wall, dramatizing his actions as he pictured the perfect scene to draw. And then, inspiration hit. Uncapping his felt, the small words 'permanent' flashed on the outside in bold, black letters, before Harry attacked the wall like a madman.
Stepping back, he admired his work with a smug smile on his face, eyes glinting in mirth. In bright red letters, the words 'FUCK YOU' took up a good portion of the wall, with the Dursleys in various states of torture surrounding the phrase. Harry had made sure they knew who was who. He'd labeled them. 'I always knew I had potential as an artist.'
Throwing the plastic wrapper of the candy bar onto the ground, Harry turned and stepped out through the front door, humming a soft tune as he took off down the lamp lit street.
TBC