The Hero's Brother: Tournament Tableau
Author: The Magicians Wish
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. All belongs to J.K. Rowling
Summary: Seen as a social outcast at best and a functional sociopath at worst, this year at Hogwarts will bring much unwanted mystery and excitement into Harry Potter's life.
Warnings: Violence, child abuse, language, mature themes, mentions of SLASH. No pairings yet.
Rating: M
Prologue
Up in a moderately sized tree, an adolescent robin, plumage newly grown, hopped from foot to foot nervously on the edge of a branch, preparing to take his first flight. His mother and sibling warbled encouragement from their place in the nest, but this did little to get the bird going. Soon the father swooped in with a thick grub trapped in his beak, and after feeding the nested baby joined in with the rest of his family in cheering their chick on. With such staunch support behind him, the little bird gave a few experimental hops before plunging off the branch and taking flight.
Harry Potter smiled a soft, imperceptible smile at the peaceful scene. The robin circled once around the tree before landing in his nest, not quite bold enough to go any farther. Regardless, the little bird seemed proud of his achievement and puffed out his chest as his mother preened him and his father and brother chirped their congratulations. Ah, if only human families could be so compassionate, Harry thought wistfully. Other people would probably find it odd that he envied the familial bonds between a bunch of silly birds, but if anyone were to know of his travesty of a home life they'd be far more understanding of his jealousy.
"Boy!" The banshee like screech caused Harry to wince and grit his teeth. "Get in here! Get in here immediately!"
Harry placed the gardening tools he had been using neatly into the bucket beside the door and then slipped out of his shoes before entering through the back door and into the kitchen.
Smack!
Harry's head whipped to the side, but other than that his expression showed neither the surprise nor the sting of pain that the sudden slap to his face caused.
He turned to his Aunt Petunia Dursley, the deliverer of the smack, and asked with perfectly polite curiosity: "You called Mrs. Dursley?"
Mrs. Dursley merely shoved a gloved finger into his face. There was a bit of dirt smudged on the tip, and Harry immediately knew what the problem was. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to rectify it without getting into deeper trouble. "Well?" She finally hissed after the tense silence stretched too long. "Explain this!"
Petunia Dursley was a germaphobe to the extreme. And as the unwilling house keeper of the Dursley family, Harry was expected to keep up with his Aunt's impossible standards of cleanliness.
Or else.
Just today Harry had washed all the dishes, mopped the floor, and cleaned and disinfected every inch of the rest of the kitchen; including the stove, the inside of the cupboards, and all of the food that was canned or boxed…
Three times.
But apparently he'd missed a spot.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Dursley. I must have –"
"Tried to get away with doing only the bare minimum of your chores," Mrs. Dursley barked. "You horrible, dirty little thing! Just like your father with your tricks and lies. Well, I can see through them all you good for nothing…"
Harry tuned out the rest of the rant, having heard it all before. Instead he lamented on the end of his winning streak. And he'd been doing so well this past weak too! It was unusual to not be yelled at even if he did a good job, but up until now the Dursley matriarch hadn't had anything to say about a single room in the house.
And seeing her unable to come up with any nasty criticisms was as close to praise as Harry would ever get.
"…won't pull the wool over my eyes you little hellion! Now stand over there against the wall and take off your shirt!"
Harry did as he was told without protest, but inwardly he was quite nonplussed. Just to make sure Mrs. Dursley was really about to do what she was about to do, he peaked over his shoulder, and to his dismay saw her rifling through the broom cupboard and coming out with a polished walking stick. The stick used to be apart of his cousin Dudley's school uniform before they were banned on account of the students using them to whack each other's brains out.
Since then the Dursley's had used the old stick as a disciplinary measure against Harry.
And while Harry could admit (being the victim and all) that his relatives were abusive at the best of times, and down right disturbed sadists at the worst, even he thought it was a bit much to get a beating over a speck of dust! Muddy foot prints, sure. Canned foods not sorted alphabetically or turned facing forward, yeah, he could see Mrs. Dursley going ballistic over that. But a measly speck…?
"I cannot believe you would dare be impudent right before my afternoon tea with Victoria Nazbit!" Mrs. Dursley hissed while frantically spraying disinfectant over the stick before wiping it down.
'Ah, of course! How could I have forgotten?' Harry mentally bemoaned. Today was Petunia's Afternoon Tea Party – a little get together Mrs. Dursley hosted every other Tuesday with several other select house wives around the neighborhood. Today was a day where Mrs. Dursley would accept nothing less than perfection, and something like a speck of dust would not be tolerated.
"…Ten! No! Eighteen strokes! Clearly we've been far too lenient with you lately!"
Well, there was no use in self recriminating. He was going to pay for this mistake and all he could do was brace himself –
THWACK!
A small gasp escaped his lips as he flinched minutely. Nearly fourteen years of living with the Dursley's, and the first blow always caught him off guard.
"Count!" Mrs. Dursley snapped. Spritz, spritz, spritz, went the sound of the spray bottle as she coated the stick once more with disinfectant.
"One," Harry replied, voice normal, not even a hint of strain. He could've been discussing the weather. Mmm, it was rather nice outside for summer. Sunny, but with a cool breeze…
THWACK….spritz, spritz, spritz.
"Two."
THWACK…spritz, spritz, spritz.
"Three…" The welts on his back split open as Mrs. Durlsey struck the same spot with inhuman like accuracy. The disinfectant soon formed a cloud and made contact with Harry's wounds, causing the ordeal to be even more agonizing.
But still Harry made no sound other than the counting. Years of careful conditioning from Mrs. Dursley had seen to that.
"Twelve." Harry's arms and legs felt like rubber. It probably wouldn't much please Mrs. Dursley if he fell unconscious at that moment. Not because it would disrupt his punishment (Mrs. Dursley severely disliked not finishing what she started and during those occasions when Harry had passed out he would awaken to her still beating him), but because she would take it as him being cheeky and disrespectful.
"Fourteen…" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He only had to stand this torture for a little while longer, just a little while longer…
The front door banged open. Stomping footsteps followed until the intruder reached the kitchen door and swung it open with the same carelessness.
"Mum! Where are you! I wanna – " Dudley Dursley, Harry's cousin, started to demand before cutting himself off. As he was still facing the wall, Harry could only assume he had paused because of what he had walked in on. Dudley had always been funny about Harry's more hands on punishments, far from the righteous satisfaction that it gave Uncle Vernon.
"Diddy-dums!" Mrs. Dursley squealed, going from torturer to doting mother in a split second. "I didn't expect you home so early. I thought you were going to be playing with your friends after boxing practice?"
"I - I am. We're gonna meet in the park in an hour to fly our remote control airplanes. And – and I was gonna ask if you could get me a new one?" he added hurriedly.
"Oh but, Duddums," Mrs. Dursley's simpering voice was now hesitant; "didn't we just buy you one a few days ago? I'm sure it's perfectly fine – "
"No!" Dudley rudely cut her off. "That one sucks! It's small and doesn't turn right and the stickers look stupid! I want the new one that shoots darts and dive bombs and glows in the dark at night!!"
"Maybe I can get it for you tomorrow sweetheart – "
"NO I WANT IT RIGHT NOW!" Harry was startled into craning his neck to see what was going on. Dudley's face was quickly turning red and it looked like he was a hairsbreadth away from throwing himself to the floor, despite being fourteen years old, and screaming with all his might. "I WANT IT I WANT IT I WANT IT!!!!"
"Alright, alright darling! I'll get it for you! See, mummy's going right now!" Mrs. Dursley quickly put the stick and disinfectant away and scrambled for her keys. She stared at Harry for a moment. "Off the wall!" She barked. "I'll give you one more chance. If this kitchen isn't cleaned by tea time then you'll be sleeping in the shed tonight, understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Dursley."
She turned back to Dudley with a smile and just like that the loving mother and wife was back. She pinched his cheek and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "My precious little Dudley is so good! Mummy will be back soon with your brand new toy."
Harry waited until he heard the car pull out of the driveway before falling gracelessly to the floor, feeling safe enough to curl into a little ball and whimper quietly.
Taking a few moments to just breathe and get used to his new wounds, Harry felt he had enough of a grip on himself to go over what had just happened…and could barely believe it.
Had Dudley just…actively helped him?
The two had never been close. In fact, during most of his years in Primary School his cousin and his gang of friends would constantly bully and humiliate him. That is until Dudley had first seen his mother implement one of her harsher punishments upon him. Since then their relationship had been one of indifference – re: pretending that neither existed, which suited Harry just fine.
And yet, there Dudley stood, shuffling his feet and scuffing the previously clean floor with dirt. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as if he were torn on what to say. He made abortive moves towards Harry, as if he were torn on what to do.
Harry could envision a world where he and Dudley started a tentative friendship. Where Dudley might help him occasionally with the housework, and sneak him scraps of food when he was being starved as punishment. Where his cousin would demand menial games or clothes from his mother before she could start beating Harry, and interrupt his father in the middle of his long rants about what a worthless burden Harry was. Where he would argue with his parents about Harry's little room, the cupboard under the stairs, and how the guest room was a much better place for Harry to sleep.
And Harry could see, with perfect clarity, his Aunt and Uncle's proud smiles toward their son; twitching slowly down and down and down…
Harry used the wall to pull himself up, and waited for the wobbliness in his legs to fade.
He gave Dudley a barely visible nod, then went over to the cabinet to retrieve all the cleaning supplies he would need to make the kitchen as sterile as a hospital room.
The seconds ticked by. Harry dutifully scrubbed the counters first…make sure there's lots of suds, wipe from side to side to reduce streaks…
Dudley turned around and left the room, the door making a soft snick sound as it closed.
Harry let out a shaky breath, and wiped the counter clear of soap.
With practiced ease, Harry poured tea into the two floral print tea cups gracefully with one hand while he balanced a tray of freshly made mini quiches in the other. "Would you like any sugar or milk ma'am?"
"A splash of milk, if you please," replied Mrs. Nazbit.
The newest middle aged woman to be entertained by Mrs. Dursley was Victoria Nazbit of Number 5 Privet Drive. Granted, it looked like she was doing everything in her power to not appear to be in her early forty's. Her clothing was small and tight, her hair dyed bleach blond, and by the plastic quality of her face it was likely she had had undergone multiple Botox injections.
Harry set down the silver tea kettle, not too fast so the tea wouldn't slosh and not too slow so his hand wouldn't shake, and poured a little milk into her cup. He then went about doctoring Mrs. Dursley's tea without asking, having long since memorized her preferences.
"Quiche?" Harry asked as he swiveled the tray in front of him.
Mrs. Dursley smiled benignly at him, and plucked one of the tiny pies off the tray. Harry was impressed. The expression on her face actually looked natural for once, not at all strained and reluctant like it usually was. She must have been practicing.
"Just one for me, I have to watch my figure you know," Mrs. Nazbit twittered.
"Watch your figure!? I won't here any of that! You look absolutely gorgeous Victoria!"
"Do you really think so? Timothy's been hinting about liposuction lately…"
"Well he can't be talking about you! Perhaps he meant Mary-Ann."
"Mary-Ann Bibbs? You can't mean skinny-as-a-toothpick Mary-Ann? "
"Oh that's right, you've been in and out of town for the past few weeks haven't you? Yes, she's really let herself go since you last saw her. Why, just the other day I saw her eating a whole pie by herself!"
Mrs. Nazbit was duly aghast. "Oh goodness! Tell me she was at least using a knife and fork?"
Mrs. Dursley leaned over the table slightly and said lowly, as if Mary-Ann could be near by and might be twice as offended. "Well, let's just say I've seen Gorillas at the zoo with better table manners."
They both erupted into giggles. "And I bet the Gorilla would have better use for the silverware too!" Mrs. Nazbit added in between her fits of laughter.
"Oh stop! You're so bad!"
After a few more moments of laughing at the expense of their neighbor, Mrs. Nazbit calmed enough to take a bite out of her quiche. She moaned in delight, chewing slowly as if it would allow the flavors on her tongue to last longer.
Harry allowed a slight smile to slip through his stoic butler façade. He'd been a little daring today and had tried a new recipe of his own making. He really did love cooking – one of the few chores he was forced to do that he did without mental complaint – and liked it even better when one of his inventions was well received.
"Ohhhhhhh Petunia! This is heavenly!" Mrs. Nazbit moaned in near ecstasy. "Did you make them yourself?"
"It's just a little something I cooked up earlier."
"Would you like another ma'am?" Harry asked.
"Maybe just one more…You should definitely enter this into Gourmet magazine. I think they have a monthly recipe contest going on or something…"
"Gourmet? I don't think my little quiches would make it there."
"Nonsense! Better than the blueberry cheese cake that won last month…"
The egg timer went off in the kitchen, interrupting Mrs. Dursley in the midst of fishing for more compliments.
"Ah! That must be the fruit tarts done. Bo – Harry, go and fetch those for us, please?"
"Yes ma'am." Harry bowed before the two Ladies of Suburbia and retreated from the dining room into the kitchen, Mrs. Nazbit's twittering giggles following him.
He took out the already prepared crusts and bowls of fruit from the refrigerator, making sure that none of the chocolate lining the inside of the crusts had cracked. He then set about squeezing in the cream and artfully arranging the fruits on each one. Harry's tarts – or rather Mrs. Dursley's tarts, since all the food and recipes Harry made were claimed by her – were a favorite during these tea parties, so he couldn't be very creative with them. All the fruits had to be perfectly arranged to Mrs. Dursley's tastes…approximately two slices of kiwi, three slices of peaches, two raspberries, four blueberries, one strawberry (and God help him if the strawberry was bigger than the kiwi or smaller than the raspberries!), two blackberries, and they all had to be placed in an inward spiral counterclockwise…
Harry wondered if it was possible to be born without an imagination.
"…and that nephew of yours is quite the gentleman!" Harry heard Mrs. Nazbit gush from the dining room. "I'll admit I'd heard some…things about him…but I can see that none of it's true…?"
"Oh no, not at all. At least…not anymore…" Mrs. Dursley gave a long suffering sigh, as if what she was about to divulge pained her greatly. Harry knew better than that. Mrs. Dursley loved nothing more than to tell the story of how she had single handedly turned her heathen of a nephew into an upstanding citizen.
"What do you mean, Petunia?"
"Well, when he was younger he was just a horror. Always yelling and causing a fuss when he didn't get what he wanted, never doing what he was told, tormenting the neighbors and the children at school…" There was a pause. Harry presumed it was from Mrs. Dursley attempting to hold back tears.
Some sniffling noises, followed by a choked sob…or a cat hacking up a fur ball. Mrs. Dursley really needed to practice her fake crying, Harry thought, otherwise her guests would feel less sympathy for her and more of a need to send her to a veterinarian.
"Oh, I'm so sorry Victoria," Mrs. Dursley said in between delicate sniffles, "It was just such a dark time for our family…"
"Don't worry about it dear," Mrs. Nazbit cooed, probably handing her a handkerchief. "That boy seemed like a real bad apple. How ever did you get him to act right?"
"Well, Vernon wanted to send him off to St. Brutus' as soon as he was able, but I couldn't just abandon him and let him become like his parents. So I dedicated every moment I was available to teaching him proper manners and how to behave."
"That's amazing! I'm not sure I wouldn't have agreed with your husband and just sent him off to boarding school. You have a good heart Petunia."
"Thank you dear. I do hate to go against Vernon in anything, but that school is no better than a prison! The boy may be a handful but he is family."
"Hmph, speaking of family, where are the boy's parents in all of this? He's your sister's son, isn't he? Oh no! Pet, don't cry! I really seem to be sticking my foot in it today, don't I?"
After another bout of crying, Petunia said: "It's alright, I know you don't mean it. It's just that…I love my sister and I know she's not a bad person, not really, but…she's put our family through so much grief and I…"
"Oh, it's ok Petunia. Let it all out," Mrs. Nazbit cooed encouragingly.
"Well, my sister's never been one to make good decisions, but she got worse after she began secondary school. Started hanging out with a bad crowd – drinking and smoking and doing who-knows-what at all hours of the night! I tried to talk sense into her of course, but she wouldn't hear anything from me. And then she ran off with that awful trouble maker James Potter and one drunken tryst later she's got twins without a steady job or a complete education."
"Well I never! Still in school and having children! How completely irresponsible of them! They were still babies themselves!"
"I know, I know. So of course you can see why I had to take young Harry in. I would've liked to have their other boy too, but it was hard enough convincing them to let me keep Harry…"
"And just as well that you didn't take him in! One troubled boy is enough to drive anyone 'round the bend, but two!? You'd be drinking your headaches away by the time they finished potty training, and I wouldn't blame you one bit!"
"Well, I'm not so sure about all that. I'm not Sheila Becket after all."
"Oh darling, there's no one quite like Sheila. Did you know the other day I was outside watering the garden and saw her drinking scotch on her porch. It was seven in the morning for goodness sake!"
"Hmph! How despicable…"
At that point Harry thought that his and his parents' condemnation was winding down, and time to reenter the room. Mrs. Dursley preferred that he stay out of the way while she spoke about his "reform", which was fine by him. He certainly didn't want to school his expression into gratitude and contriteness at the appropriate moments on top of everything else.
If the quiches were good, then the tarts must have been orgasmic, because some of the sounds Mrs. Nazbit was making would've been more appropriate in a bedroom. Even Mrs. Dursley couldn't hide a faintly scandalized look, and Harry was sure that Mrs. Nazbit's fetish like response to food would be discussed at her next tea party with Cynthia Lennox.
"Thank you for all the help Harry. Do you mind tidying up the kitchen before you finish practice?"
"Not at all ma'am."
"Thank you d – dear." Mrs. Dursley coughed to cover up her stuttering, taking a long sip of her tea.
"Practice?"
"Piano practice. I have him play at least three times a day. A structured, positive activity helps him keep his focus," Mrs. Dursley said, as if she had written the parenting manual on how to reign in troubled kids. "I hope you don't mind. It's very important that he keeps to his schedule."
"No, no it's fine. Is he any good?"
"Well, let's just say that the student is very close to surpassing the teacher," Mrs. Dursley said with an indulgent chuckle.
"Aren't you full of surprises today, Pet! Since when have you known how to play the piano?"
"My mother taught me when I was younger. I'm just glad that some of my skills have been able to help the boy in the long run. And he does seem to be catching on to it quickly; his playing makes for some lovely atmosphere."
Harry approached the upright piano with barely hidden disdain. What could potentially have been a well loved hobby had been completely destroyed by Mrs. Dursley's teaching style. His fingers twitched in remembered pain as they hovered above the keys. Hours of having his knuckles smacked for making a mistake or not playing up to Mrs. Dursley's standards, and then having to clean off his own blood from the keys, made him want to do nothing less than set fire to the infernal instrument. But he supposed it was better than standing in the middle of the room reciting poetry, as if he were some courtly orator from the sixteenth century. At least while he was playing he could tune out the two Ladies inane babble.
Chopin's Nocturne in E flat emanated from the piano without his notice. He reflected on how disturbing it was that Mrs. Dursley kept referring to his parents as if they were alive. Harry wondered how much of it was Mrs. Dursley trying to gain more pity from the neighbors or simply her being demented.
But the fact remained that there was little truth to her tale. For not only were Harry's parents dead, but they had been brutally murdered by a Dark wizard, some would say the darkest and most fearsome wizard of the age. They fought back valiantly, or so Harry heard, for they were wizards as well, trying to defend their children. But he was too powerful and so struck them down despite their efforts. Then the Dark Lord Voldemort, the name few wizards would ever dare speak aloud, leveled his wand on a then one year old Harry and his fraternal twin brother Ayden. He uttered a deadly curse that no man woman or child had ever been able to block, but when it struck Ayden, instead of dying like all others before him, the curse rebounded back to Voldemort and nearly obliterated him, leaving the Dark Lord as little more than a parasitic wraith.
Harry wondered what Mrs. Nazbit would have to say if Mrs. Dursley told her of these events. Probably quite a bit, and a lot of it to the nurses at the local psychiatric hospital.
She'd certainly be the talk of the town then, Harry thought amusedly.
The story didn't end there though. His brother, now dubbed The-Boy-Who-Lived and famous throughout all of Wizarding Britain, had gone on to live with their mutual godfathers Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. And Harry…
Harry had been sent to the Dursley's.
As for why? Harry had his theories, but he valiantly tried not to dwell on them. His home life was horrific enough, there was no need to torture himself further with "What if's?"
He shook himself out of that depressing line of thinking, instead focusing on what he was going to do tomorrow. Tomorrow was July 31st, his birthday and the day he looked forward to most out of the summer. Not because there was going to be any kind of celebration or presents of course; Harry had never been given a gift in his life. Tomorrow Harry would be able to go to the hidden wizarding shopping district Diagon Alley in London to get his new books for the year and replenish his school supplies. He would have to find his own way to downtown London – as he did every year – but that was fine with him. The more time he could spend away from the Dursley household, even if the majority of that time was on the bus, was always a good thing.
"…Really? He sure doesn't have the look of a singer."
"I'm telling you the boy sings like a Nightingale. I certainly wouldn't have enrolled him into all of those voice classes if he couldn't!"
"Oh now I have to hear it to believe it."
"Well, he's a bit shy in front of an audience…but maybe we can convince him. Harry dear! Would you come in here for a moment?"
Harry's fingers twitched, briefly hitting an incorrect note. Tomorrow couldn't come any faster.
To Be Continued....