Disclaimer: It's not mine.
A/N: This is an incredibly stupid plot which struck me over the head the other day. It's very pointless and no doubt incredibly NOT funny. Please, feel free to ridicule me as much as you would like. I plan to include some Romance later on, with a very mental Harry.
The cupboard-under-the-stairs had started to make very suggestive remarks to its sole occupant, one Harry James Potter. And it was disturbing, very disturbing, especially when you were ten years old, and hated by your aunt, uncle and cousin.
'I love it when you're inside me,' came the by now familiar, somewhat sleazy voice Harry had come to associate with the cupboard-under-the-stairs. He shuddered at the crass insinuation, but said nothing. Perhaps if he didn't, the cupboard would get bored.
'I'm hard as wood… for you Harry… all for you.' Obviously the cupboard had not yet cottoned onto the 'I'm-not-talking-because-I-want-you-to-shut-up' strategy. Harry wished it would. It was almost midnight, and he was about to turn eleven. He didn't want to celebrate another year of successfully avoiding being murdered by Dudley by being sexually harassed by a hollow wooden structure.
'Oh boy, if you took your hammer to me… now that would be one good time.' Harry sighed, it was still going. Outside, the grandfather clock in the hallway began to chime.
'Happy Birthday Harry,' he muttered to himself, conveniently forgetting his mute stance. This turned out to be a big mistake, as the cupboard took this as the affirmative to continue with its terrible pick-up lines.
'That's right sugar,' the cupboard cooed, its seemingly masculine voice taking on a distinct feminine edge. Harry shuddered, as the cupboard continued speaking, seemingly unaware of Harry's repulsion, 'with me, everyday will seem like your birthday!' The cupboard subsided into loud, high-pitched giggles, and Harry had finally had enough.
'SHUT UP! I DON'T WANT TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!' Harry cried loudly, forgetting in his frustration exactly what he was dealing with, 'YOU MAKE ME SICK! TAKE YOUR DISGUSTING PICKUP LINES AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR--'
Harry's tirade stopped abruptly (convenient, as he was as of yet unsure how he would have finished that particular insult, did cupboards have backsides?), as the sound of noisy wailing filled the air. Taking a moment to ponder this abrupt change in events, Harry was forced to conclude that it was the cupboard which was emitting the loud, childish cries. Against his better wishes, Harry was assaulted with a sickening wave of guilt, not unlike what he'd felt the day he'd accidently dropped Dudley's pet hamster in the blender. He'd only been trying to make a point! It was the stupid Hamster's fault for biting his finger! Jolted back to reality by the same insistent weeping, Harry decided to make things right.
'Er, sorry…' Harry mumbled inaudibly. Or so he thought. Abruptly, the wailing stopped, and the cupboard spoke,
'So you should be!' Came the indignant reply, and Harry almost thought it sounded self-righteous. What right did a cupboard have to sound self-righteous anyway?
'I don't think that apology is good enough, you'll have to grovel some more,' came the smarmy voice of the cupboard, and Harry's guilt was replaced with anger. No way was he spending his birthday apologising to a cupboard, which by rights, shouldn't even be able to talk! As if sensing his displeasure, the cupboard spoke again, 'bare in mind, that should you leave my feelings hurt, I'll raise such a racket that your Aunt and Uncle will most certainly be woken.'
There it was, the clincher. Harry was forced to resign himself to the fact that he had just been outsmarted by a cupboard. The thought was not at all pleasant, and Harry was very glad no one else was around to witness what he was about to do.
'Oh wonderful cupboard,' he began, feeling slightly squeamish as he did so, 'I am dreadfully apologetic for the terrible wrong-doings I have caused you. Can you ever forgive me?' Harry was glad it was dark, there was no way the cupboard would be able to see the face he was pulling. Pausing for a second, Harry considered the stupidity of his words, cupboards didn't have eyes. They don't have a mouth either, said a treacherous voice in his head. Harry hated that voice, it always turned up at the most inconvenient times.
'Apology accepted,' said the cupboard, Harry fancied it sounded quite smug now, 'go to sleep, I'll wake you up in the morning – oh, happy birthday sugarlips!' Barely containing the moan that threatened to escape his lips, Harry settled down on the thin mattress his Aunt Petunia had thoughtfully provided for him to sleep on. Pulling his ragged, moth-eaten blankets closer around his body, Harry tried to block out the strange events which had just occurred. Hopefully he'd wake up in the morning and it would all have just been a dream. As his eyes fluttered closed, Harry could have sworn he heard a soft tenor voice singing Rock-a-by Baby, but then his eyes closed fully, and sleep took him.
'Oh sugarlips, wake up.' Harry moaned fitfully as he tossed and turned. He was having a nightmare, Dudley was chasing him down Privet Drive except his head was a giant marshmallow. Under normal circumstances Harry would have found this ironically amusing, but this marshmallow-headed Dudley could also breath fire, an interesting development which had caused dream-Harry to sprint away as fast as his match-stick legs would carry him. Which was another interesting twist to his dream, Harry was completely made out of matchsticks, adding to his fear of fire, for if Dudley caught him he would almost certainly be--
'WAKE UP!' Harry's head shot up in alarm, and whacked into the beam above his head. Groaning in pain, Harry cast about him for the source of the yeller. Closer inspection revealed no Aunt Petunia outside his cupboard, and no Dudley on the stairs above him.
'Who woke me up then,' Harry muttered out loud, scratching his head in a crude imitation of a gorilla.
'It was I!' came the cheerful voice of his cupboard, and Harry almost shrieked out loud as memories of the previous evening came hurtling back towards him, with all the grace and finesse of an out-of-control train.
'You!' he cried accusingly, wanting to point his finger for added effect, but not quite sure which part of the cupboard to point it at.
'Me!' the cupboard agreed cheerfully, and Harry was sure that if it had had a face, it would have poked out its tongue playfully. Thankfully, it didn't Harry didn't think he could handle the idea of a cupboard with a face. It was just too… bizarre. He was sure this was going to haunt him for years, he'd be mentally scarred, forever afraid to walk into a cupboard, lest it should sexually harass him.
'You should be thanking me,' the cupboard continued, in the same smug tone, 'your Aunt is just about to wake you. I totally helped you out here.' Harry did not reply, his mind too caught up on the idea that the cupboard had just employed the use of American slang. They were in Surry for crying out loud!
'You just used American slang!' Harry said in surprise, and the cupboard laughed.
'Of course I did, haven't you noticed my accent, it's North Virginian.' Harry had not noticed this, but he didn't want to appear ignorant and/or stupid, so he pretended he had.
'I did, but I thought you just had a bad head cold,' he said quickly, trying to cover up his momentary lack of worldly knowledge. The cupboard seemed not to notice, and if it did, it very tactfully didn't say anything.
Further conversation was impeded by a loud knocking, and the sound of a bolt being slid across.
'Boy!' came Aunt Petunia's high pitched, nasal voice, 'get out of there and make breakfast.' Harry hurried to obey, eager to get away from the cupboard.
'Get the mail!' Came his Uncle's loud bellow, from this Harry surmised his Aunt, Uncle and cousin must be in the kitchen, by far their favourite room in the house. Walking to the front door, Harry picked up the mail and sifted through it, tossing some important looking bills into a pot plant in the hallway.
Halfway through his relatively short walk (when compared to your average hallways, this one was relatively short) and glanced down at a thick envelope in his hand with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. This really was turning out to be a very strange birthday, first his cupboard strikes up a conversation with him, and now he was receiving mail. Who could it be from? Harry had never had any friends, Dudley's bullying tendencies, coupled with the fact that Harry was rarely allowed to wash had ensured that, yet here he was receiving mail.
Accompanying the mail into the kitchen, Harry deposited everything but his letter in front of Uncle Vernon, before turning away to open his own letter,
Harry Potter,
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive, Surrey.
Harry found it decisively odd that whoever was sending the letter knew of these particular sleeping arrangements and for a wild second he thought they might be in league with the cupboard. Quickly dismissing the absurd thought, Harry began to open the letter.
But was stopped. By Dudley.
'Bollocks,' he said loudly, as Dudley quickly took control of the letter, hoping around like the three little pigs after the wolf failed to blow down the brick house. Though Dudley's hopping had the unwanted side effect of making his massive love handles jiggle unpleasantly, until Harry began to feel slightly sea-sick.
'HARRY'S GOT A LETTER!' Dudley exclaimed non-to-brightly, his piggy eyes fixated on the parchment in front of him, gelatos fat still jiggling unpleasantly, Harry couldn't help it, he gagged and closed his eyes.
When he opened them, his beloved letter had made its way into his Aunt Petunia's hands, and she was eyeing it with distaste.
'Who would write to you?' Vernon asked scornfully, but Petunia's eyes had fallen upon the address and she gave a frightened squawk, before rounding on Harry.
'You- Dudley's spare room- now,' she managed to get out, before collapsing back into her chair, face red.
'You heard her, GO!' Uncle Vernon snarled, and Harry found himself roughly thrown out, Dudley not far behind.
'Bollocks,' Harry muttered angrily as he trudged upstairs to what would no doubt be a very boring couple of hours. He wouldn't even have the terrible pickup lines of his cupboard for company.