Title: Concrete Angel
Genre: Songfic/Angst
Rating: PG13 for violence
A/N: You can guess what song it was that inspired me to this =P Random "what if" popped up and wouldn't go away until I had written something.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and other characters belong to J.K Rowling, Song lyrics of "Concrete Angel" belong to Martina McBride
The Dursleys had never been known to be tolerant people. Sure, they would give a few coins to anyone passing around collecting to charity, but that was only for appearance sake, and they were always polite to their neighbours in one way or the other.
But they were not tolerant people in other matters. Had anyone been able to look inside the Dursley household, they would see the true faces of this wicked family. Behind the walls of the little house on Privet Drive, many a bad thing happened once everyone else were looking the other way.
/She walks to school with the lunch she packed
Nobody knows what she's holding back/
Harry Potter, the son of Petunia Dursley's late sister Lily could have told you all you would have wanted to know when it came to his relatives intolerance. His aunt and uncle made him sleep in a cupboard, and the most charitable thing they had ever done was to give him a pair of glasses. Even then, it was only because the school nurse had informed them of his bad sight, and to not do anything would give them a bad appearance otherwise. Harry had come to school the next day, with a new pair of glasses and a broken arm, telling that he had just fallen down the stairs.
/Wearing the same dress she wore yesterday
She hides the bruises with the linen and lace, oh.../
Other than that, he wore his cousin Dudley's old clothes, making him appear smaller than he really was. But then, the clothes had other advantages. They hid the bruises and scrapes he got over time. Bruises and scrapes that were not from falling on the playground.
One time, a teacher at school had come up to Harry while they were doing a test, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. The boy had flinched hard, and while the teacher frowned when he saw the brief grimace of pain over the boy's face, Harry just smiled at the teacher.
"Sorry sir, you startled me." And the teacher thought no more of it.
/The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask
It's hard to see the pain behind the mask/
Harry never quite understood what he had done to make his aunt and uncle hate him as much as they did. He just knew that he couldn't make one move without it being seen as a mistake. A mistake that always deserved some kind of punishment, even if it was just the simplest of things like getting food slightly burned or forgetting as much as a speck of dust whenever his aunt set him to clean up in the house.
/Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Sometimes she wishes she was never born/
One day, a new family moved in across the street. They had a little girl who was Harry's age named Marilyn. She saw Harry working in his aunts garden, pulling up weeds, and as soon as she got the chance, Marilyn ran over to the fence where she beamed at Harry.
"Hello!" She said. Harry froze, looking up at her in surprise.
"Uhm.. hi." He said, looking confused. He was clearly not used to people talking to him.
"What's your name?" The girl asked.
"Uh.. Harry." The boy said carefully.
/Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above/
"Hi Harry." She said, beaming at him. "My name is Marilyn! Do you want to play with me?"
Harry frowned. "I.. I can't." He said quietly. "I'm weeding out the garden for my aunt."
"Oh." Marilyn said with a frown, then brightened. "Well maybe we can play later!"
"I can't." Harry said again. "I have to help my aunt make dinner."
"Oh. Okay." Marilyn said, disappointed.
"Marilyn!" A woman called. "Come over here and help us out, would you?"
"Coming!" Marilyn called back, before she looked to Harry. "Bye Harry, it was nice to meet you!" And then she ran off. She hadn't noticed that Petunia had been watching them out the window, her eyes narrowed.
/But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place
Where she's loved concrete angel/
"Who was that?" There was a whiplash-like sound as the wet towel hit Harry over the shoulder. He flinched, backing away instinctively from his aunt.
"N-no one Aunt Petunia.. just-just some new girl.."
"What did she want?" When Harry didn't answer quick enough, the towel lashed out again. "What did she *want*, you *brat*!"
"I-I-.. She wa-wanted to play.. I told her - *ow*!" Harry cried out as the towel hit him again. "I told her I was helping you with chores!"
Petunia fumed, glaring at the poor who cowered from her.
"You know you are not supposed to talk to strangers." The woman said coldly. "Keep that in mind, you ungrateful brat!"
"Yes Aunt Petunia." Was all Harry said, looking down at his feet.
/Somebody cries in the middle of the night
The neighbors hear but they turn out the light/
Marilyn came home from school two weeks later, looking quite upset.
"Daddy, I think something is wrong with the neighbours boy, Harry." She told her father as he was reading the paper.
"Oh? What would that be?" He asked.
"I don't know." Marilyn said quietly. "But.. something is *wrong*! Harry doesn't really play with the other kids, he just keeps to himself unless his stupid, mean cousin is chasing him with his stupid, mean friends! And.." She bit her lower lip. "I think his aunt and uncle are being mean to him... He had a really bad bruise on his cheek today, but he told a teacher he had hurt himself playing."
"Well then perhaps that's just what it is?" Marilyn's mother said, but the girl shook her head stubbornly.
"He had a bruise like that last week too! But that's the thing with Harry, mom! He doesn't play! He keeps to himself, and if someone tries to play with him, his cousin chase them away. And when he's at home, he's always doing chores!"
"I say..." Marilyn's father, Andrew Thornton said with a frown. "That doesn't sound quite right.. All the time?"
"All. The. Time." Marilyn insisted.
"I'll tell you what." Marilyn's father said. "I'll go and have a talk with mister Dursley in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday, so he'll be at home from work and we can all sit down and have us a nice chat. Is that alright with you, sweetheart?"
"I guess so.." Marilyn said with a sigh.
/A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate
When morning comes it will be too late/
"Blast it! That stupid boy! You saw what happened, it was his own fault!"
"Vernon?"
"The damn freak, getting in my way like that!"
"Vernon!"
"What! What is it?"
"Vernon, he's not breathing!"
"..What?"
"I can't find a pulse either.. Oh! There! Right on the door handle, there's blood! And it's getting over my carpet too!"
"Damn! Do you know what will happen if *they* find out this happened!? Who knows what they will do to us!"
"What are we going to do, Vernon?"
"We have to get out of here, Petunia! Go upstairs and get Dudley, pack only the most necessary things while I start the car!"
"And.. What do we do about it?"
"Put it in the cupboard. If anyone comes, no one will notice."
Somehow, no one noticed in the night how the Dursleys hastily packed their car (the only trouble coming from a sleepy and cranky Dudley who got slapped when he tried to bring his TV and computer in a sports-bag) and then disappeared, wanting to get as far away from Privet Drive as humanly possible.
/Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above/
Saturday morning came, and Mr. Thornton got up, ready to head out for what was otherwise his usual morning jog. Then he remembered how he had promised to head over to the Dursley's and decided to get that done right away.
As he headed over to the Dursley's home however, he frowned when he noticed something odd. The front door had not been properly closed, and for a moment, Mr. Thornton entertained the thought that Dursley had gone to get his mail and forgotten to close the door when he went inside. Finding it only polite to do so, Mr. Thornton knocked on the door.
When no one answered, he carefully pushed the door open. "Hello? Mr. Dursley? Mrs. Dursley? It's Andrew Thornton, from across the street? Anyone there?"
No answer. From where he was standing, Mr. Thornton could see the hallway and the stairs, the door leading to the living room, the kitchen and the small door to the cupboard. Mr. Thornton frowned when he noticed the door had not been properly closed, blocked by what looked like.. a child's foot.
"Hello?" He called again, frowning more as he carefully pushed the door further open. Perhaps there had been a robbery and someone had gotten hurt? Or the child was unconscious and couldn't answer. Carefully, Mr. Thornton went over to the cupboard, not noticing a red stain on the door handle to the kitchen and on the floor before he got close. When he opened the cupboard door, he froze.
"Oh my God."
/But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place
Where she's loved concrete angel/
The news were all over Little Whinging in a matter of hours. It started when someone saw Mr. Thornton come running out of the Dursley's home, running over to his own house. Half an hour later, you could hear the sirens of police cars and an ambulance.
A crowd soon gathered around the house, the police making certain that people kept their distance. The ambulance people went in with a stretcher and came out with a small boy who was far too quiet. When the doctor had given the boy a mandatory examination, he shook his head and one of the ambulance people pulled up the zipper, closing the bag.
As the ambulance drove away, the crowd began to slowly dissolve, a few people staying behind to talk with the police officers in case they knew something. Among them was Mr. Thornton who told them why he had been to the house in the first place. Marilyn was woken up by her parents so that she could talk to the police and she told them as much as she could. Of the bruises, of how his cousin had chased him and of the seemingly endless chores.
An older lady that everyone knew as Mrs. Figg (or "the Catlady") spoke to the police as well, as she had sometimes watched Harry whenever the Dursleys had been out on the town.
When the police left, Mrs. Figg went to an old bureau in her bedroom. From there, she brought out a small hand held mirror, fighting to keep back her tears as she spoke to her own reflection.
"Albus Dumbledore, I need to speak with you."
/A statue stands in a shaded place
An angel girl with an upturned face/
The coroner walked into the morgue, carrying his tools on a tray and a small tape recorder. When he saw the boy on the table, he gave a heavy sigh. He hated it when the victim was a child. Still, there was nothing he could do, and so he took the recorder and turned it on, setting it on a nearby table before he began to speak.
"Time: 3:30 PM, 24th of June.
Medical examiner: Logan Smith, M.D.
Victim is a young male, about 9 years old, Caucasian.
Time of death, approximately around 9:30 PM. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to the back head. It doesn't help that he was obviously quite malnourished, and X-rays show that the boy had fractured bones in different places. His jaw, his ribs, his arms *and* his legs. Why no one caught these bastards before is beyond me. Last bit there is of course off the record."
The coroner looked the boy over, brushing a forelock away. "Victim has a curious scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt. It is an old scar, so it isn't possible to say if the scar has been made on purpose or by accident."
"Excuse me?" A polite older voice sounded behind the man. The coroner spun around with a gasp, then frowned when he saw the intruder who had startled him.
"Hey, who the hell are you!?"
It was a strange man that stood before him, tall and looking old enough to be someones grandfather had it not been for the blue colored robes with moons and stars. The old man regarded the coroner calmly, though he had a sad look in his eyes.
"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am... a relative of young Harry Potter."
The coroner frowned. "There has been no evidence found that told us the boy had any other relatives, aside from his uncle, aunt and cousin." He said. "How did you get in here anyway? This is for authorized personnel only!"
"Obliviate."
The coroner blinked, looking around with a slightly dazed look. What was he doing here in the morgue? According to the clock, he was supposed to have been home hours ago.. Damn, his wife was going to be so angry at him for working late again...
/A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot/
At Godric's Hollow there was a small cemetery where the parents of Harry Potter had been buried 9 years ago. Dumbledore remembered the funeral that had been held then. It had been such a bittersweet day back then, mostly bitter because of how the Potters the night before had been killed by Voldemort, and sweet because their son had survived and in some way had vanquished the Dark Lord.
And now here they were, 9 years later. It was too soon, far too soon for the Potters to be reunited with their son. But alas, it happened because of a fatal mistake on behalf of Albus Dumbledore and the old Headmaster knew it very well. He could practically feel the burning glares of some wizards and witches as the small casket was lowered into the ground. Somewhere nearby, Dumbledore could hear the gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid bawling helplessly into a large polkadotted handkerchief while the Weasleys stood with their own family, Molly hiding her face in Arthurs shoulder.
It seemed as if the entire magical community had gathered here today, all wearing their finest robes just like they had 9 years ago. But the robes were not in bright and cheerful colors, but dull and dark to signal the grief that everyone carried like a heavy weight on their shoulders.
"Brings back memories, doesn't it Albus?" A familiar voice said next to Dumbledore. When the Headmaster looked, he saw his brother Aberforth, who was giving him a cool glance.
"What do you mean, Aberforth?"
"Oh please." Aberforth said with a scowl. "You know exactly what I mean. First Ariana, and now this, the Boy who.. Oh right." He cocked his head to the side, giving his brother a snide look. "He doesn't live anymore!"
When Dumbledore said nothing, the other continued. "You couldn't protect Ariana, and you couldn't protect Harry either! And here you were supposed to be some kind of amazing guardian, if not a mentor, for him! How very *wise* it was of you Albus, to get him placed with Muggles who saw it more fit to kill him than care for him!"
"I am very well aware of my mistake, Aberforth." Dumbledore replied quietly.
"Are you now? It certain doesn't look that way to me, considering where we are today." Aberforth said coldly.
/Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above/
"It was not supposed to be this way." Albus told Minerva McGonagall later. They had returned to Hogwarts and sat in the Headmasters office, cups of untouched tea sitting on the table. Minerva just looked at him with her usual calm mask, but Albus knew that behind it, she was angry, accusing him in the same manner that Aberforth had.
"Then what was it supposed to be like, Albus?" She said, her tone calm, but with a chill to it that made Albus flinch. "Please do enlighten me!"
"Petunia Dursley was supposed to keep him safe!" Dumbledore said. "The spell that was supposed to protect Harry from outside dangers would not have been enough! And she being his only blood relative should have been keeping him safe..." The Headmaster shook his head slowly. "Why... Why did I not foresee that there could be such.. hatred?"
"Because in the end, Albus Dumbledore, you are but an ordinary man, just like everyone else." Minerva said. "And like any ordinary man, you are bound to make mistakes."
"And this was possibly the most fatal one of them all." Was all Dumbledore could think of saying in return.
"Either way, Albus." Minerva said gently. "Wherever Harry is now.. he is in a better place."
/But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place
Where she's loved concrete angel/