In the silence and the darkness of the cupboard, young Harry Potter lies with his eyes closed. Not that he really has much of a choice, Uncle Vernon and his meaty fist was introduced to his eye today. Keeping both closed was purely convenient to his swollen eyelid. This was the first time in seven years that Vernon left a mark on him and it hurt more than anything Harry had ever felt in the world. Despite the neglect and scorn, the Dursleys never hit him. Sure they shook him around a little bit and Dudley and his friends socked him every once in a while, but Harry always had hope that they would love him one day. Now, with those hopes completely dashed, Harry drew in to his shell. For the first time he felt completely alone in the world.
When he woke up the next morning, Vernon didn't speak to him or look at him. When Harry placed the large man's morning cup of coffee on the table, Vernon only let out a grunt of acknowledgement and didn't look up from his morning paper. After breakfast was served, devoured, and promptly cleaned up, Harry began his morning chores. All of the clothes from the previous day were fished out of their respective wash bins (and Dudley's floor) and taken to the mud room. Harry started a load of his relatives' clothing, as he was not allowed to wash his own clothes with theirs to avoid spreading his "freakishness" onto the rest of the family, and went outside to mow the lawn. He had to make sure the grass was trimmed to perfection and the fence was repainted before his wardens returned from Saturday morning mass. The seven-year-old's muscles strained from the work, but they were used to being torn up and rebuilt over night. Harry pushed his untamable hair out of his green eyes and licked his lips with thirst, tasting the salty sweat that collected under his nose. If the neighbors had been watching the Dursley house hold, they would've seen a raven haired blur rushing around the lawn. A child of that size was moving unnaturally fast and one Arabella Figg was just waking up from her afternoon nap, paying no attention to her mission across the street.
The Dursleys returned and brought guests, as per usual, for Harry to wait on. Company arrived to cucumber sandwiches and biscuits and tea neatly set out on the coffee table that occupied the living space. Petunia made small pointless chatter with a short, stout man with a thin, blond mustache. Harry didn't like how the man looked, he reminded him of Vernon. Harry got very good at spotting men with a temper. Actually, Harry was very good at spotting anything really. His usual montra of "children are meant to be seen not heard, but I am not a child," spoke leaps and bounds to the quiet observant boy that was almost invisible to the guests. If not for his piercing green eyes, he would've gone completely invisible.
A man with brown bushy hair and his wife sat down on the couch and looked quite uncomfortable with the current conversation and were quiet just like Harry. He cocked his head to the side and squinted a bit at the couple, wondering what they were like. Perhaps they have children, maybe a daughter who plays cricket after school and draws pretty pictures they hang on the fridge at home. Most of Dudley's drawings were comprised of red crayons to picture Harry in some perilous situation. One of Vernon's favorites was titled: The Freak versus the Lawn Trimmer. Quite hilarious. Harry was jerked out of his brooding when he realized there was a pair of chocolate brown eyes staring back into his green ones. He stumbled back in surprise and knocked into the table, causing the tray with Petunia's fine china to smash into the floor. Vernon was up without pause, "Boy! Look what you've done now!"
His face began to take a light shade of purple as his brow furrowed into an angry line. Uh oh. Harry knew this wouldn't end well; not well at all. He bent down to pick up one of the shards of glass. The shard pierced his skin and a small droplet of his blood pooled on his finger. But Harry didn't hesitate and hoped none of the guests noticed; then again, when did anything go right for the scrawny orphan? The brown haired man quickly lifted off the couch and knelt to help Harry with the mess. He produced a handkerchief from his jacket and handed it to Harry. He looked at the cloth for a moment before cautiously taking it from him with a small smile in thanks.
"Oh don't fuss over him, doctor, he is quite clumsy!" Petunia pinched his cheek and gave him a smile that made Harry want to vomit. "He'll get this mess right cleaned up."
"Right," spoke the brown haired man, the doctor. "Well, the missus and I must be going. Our little bundle of joy must be tearing apart the house right now!" Mrs. Doctor suppressed a giggle and they made for the door.
"Excuse me, sir," Harry spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "You left your kerchief."
"Oh that's quite alright, son. If you don't mind me asking, what are you called?" 'Freak' was on the tip of his tongue, however he remembered that it would be unwise to say so much around present company.
"Harold, sir." The doctor only smiled at him. It reached his eyes and left little crinkles in the corners, Vernon never smiled like that at anyone. Right then, Harry decided he liked Mr. Doctor very much.
"Well, Harold, you look like you will grow up to be a strapping young lad." He bent closer to Harry to whisper in his ear. "Don't let your uncle treat you that way. Remember something a wise old man said: ipsa scientia potestas est."
Harry didn't even notice Mr. Doctor leave. He didn't notice his aunt yelling at him. Or his uncle's belt striking him. Or his frail body hitting the floor of the cupboard and the door slamming shut and locking behind him. And he especially didn't notice his hands trace the words that carved into his floor: IPSA SCIENTIA POTESTAS EST