Childhood Plights: Oneshot

Disclaimer: I own nada. What do you not understand?

Please note that this isn't the typical depressing clichés. According to the books, people, Harry is pretty strong and independent.

Enjoy.

In a rigid, structured neighborhood, a family of three lived, with an absurd notion that life revolved around them. Strict and disciplined, perhaps, this family, shall we say, was normal to the point of abnormally normal. Indeed, this family, although loving and inviting on surface level, bore a history of insincerity and secrets that revolved around a particular boy. At first, when one would stumble across this family, they would be greeted warmly, and I dare say, kindly ― with a superficiality that would form bile in one's throat. However, as one settles in this household, among these warm guests, one would observe that smiles become snarls, and blunt teeth become sharp as nastiness unfolds. And none was too familiar with this formation than Harry Potter.

A small, thin boy, Harry Potter was virtually an outcast. He had personally witnessed how deceptive his aunt, uncle, and cousin could be around strangers. Of course, around him, they were ugly snarls and sly remarks; around others, they were all smiles and compliments. When Harry had finally become conscious of his surroundings, he had always found their change of mood bizarre. Of course, he had always blamed himself for committing wrongs. But overtime, he found he hadn't been doing anything wrong. No matter what he did, he was always met with neglect and indifference. Consequently, he mocked their indifference. Ignoring his so-called family, he turned blind to the world.

He would never be accepted.

Exhaling softly, Harry continued home, vigilant of his surroundings. He certainly didn't want to be caught off guard by his cousin, Dudley. His cousin had been using him as a punching bag ever since Harry had started school. Consequently, Harry would always be the first one out the door by the time the bell rang. Adjusting his worn rucksack, Harry kicked a stray pebble on his way home from school. Struggling to think optimistically, he reckoned he got lucky today. That is, until he was shoved, rather roughly, to the ground.

"Get out of the way, Potter," Dudley snarled, leading his small army through. As his mates snickered and passed, one of them threw a kick to Harry, causing the boy to collapse on the ground again. As they continued, indifferent to the boy's pain, Dudley peered back and remarked. "Nice one, Piers."

As they disappeared, Harry heard Piers snigger. "D'you reckon he'll run off to cry to his mum, Dud?"

"He would. If he had one, that is."

When they laughed, Harry felt it was forced.

"But she wouldn't care, would she?" one of the boys commented. "Not for someone as pathetic as him," he then turned to bellow at the boy, "Hear that, Potter? Your mum hates you!"

The gang laughed and, with a smug air about them, continued towards Number Four as Harry finally managed to stand. Adjusting his rucksack once more, the boy limped to the place he called home. But, of course, if it was his home, then he would speak up and defend his honor. But alas, it was home by title. And as for defending his mother's honor, well . . .

What did he know about his mother?

As he reached the front porch to Number Four, Harry had absentmindedly raised his hand to knock when he startled. His aunt was standing against the doorframe and she was glaring down at him with vulture eyes. Peering up at her horse-like face questionably, Harry wondered what he did this time.

And when she spoke, Harry was surprised she didn't neigh.

"Go change, and be in the kitchen in less than a minute," she barked, pulling him into the house from the back of his shirt. When he opened his mouth to protest, she squawked. "Not a word!"

Begrudgingly, Harry trudged to his "bedroom" under the stairs while resisting the urge to kick the smug Dudley on his way. He knew the pig had lied about something, but alas, Harry had to vow his silence. He was the outcast, not Dudley.

When he had finished changing into his tatty cloths, he made his way to the kitchen where his aunt was standing beside the stove. When she saw him, she began to bark orders.

"Stand here, and stir every minute." she said coldly.

Without a word, Harry nodded. However, to reach the stove (still quite tiny), he drew a chair to stand against. As he did, his aunt glared and went to prepare the salad as he stirred the pot. However, as the work became tedious, Harry felt his attention sweep away with the steam from the pot when things grew interesting. With wide eyes, Harry watched a fly collapse right into the pot. Cautiously glancing at his aunt, he confirmed she was busy. With caution, he craned his neck to see if the fly was still there. To his amusement, it was. Thus, shrugging, Harry contently continued stirring.

After all, he only did as he was told.

"Boy!" A voice barked, and from inside his cupboard, Harry snapped his head up at the sound. Opening the door, Harry scanned his surroundings before he warily stepped out. Treading out to the living room, he saw his giant uncle hanging his coat on a peg. Resisting the urge to groan, Harry adjusted his glasses and approached his uncle.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

Uncle Vernon glared venomously at the boy before he, like his wife, proceeded to bark.

"Is this true?"

Harry furrowed his eyebrows.

"Is what true?"

"Don't use that tone with me, boy!" Uncle Vernon bellowed, and Harry reckoned he would be deaf before he entered his twenties. "Been shaming Dudley, have you? Scorning him? Calling him names?"

Outraged, Harry shouted back.

"I haven't said a thing―!"

"Enough!" his uncle bellowed before he started his mundane talk, "We've offered you food and a home, and this is how we're repaid? Shaming our own son?" with a snarl, the man leaned closer to the boy and pointed gestured with a sausage finger. "Now, listen here, boy. Another incident like this and you'd wish it's just the cupboard for you."

Harry merely scowled.

"Now, Petunia," he addressed his wife, who had just entered the living room. "Have you punished him with anything yet?"

"Not yet."

The man nodded and turned to the boy with a venomous gleam, a gleam oddly similar to his son's. Harry merely watched warily.

"Now, you are to mow the lawn, clean the front porch ― yes, it does need a bit of cleaning ― wash the car, and weed the garden," he said before glaring at Harry again, "And if that isn't enough. Well, I'll find something for you. Mark my words, boy."

"But that's not fair!" Harry protested.

"Yes, and I think dusting the house will do." Uncle Vernon spoke over him. "Or is there anything else?" he glared murderously at the boy. Despite Harry's temper flaring, he kept his mouth shut and shook his head in defeat.

"What's that?"

Harry glared at his shoes.

"No."

"Speak up, boy!"

Harry peered up at his uncle from beneath his messy fringe.

"No, Uncle Vernon."

"Very well. Now, take your leave," but as Harry turned to stomp away, his uncle added. "You'll be earning your dinner tonight. If you haven't finished, boy . . ." Harry heard the menace in his tone and ignored him. As he left the room, he heard his uncle speaking to his aunt. "If you want him disciplined, dear, you ought to beat it out of him."

At the end of the day, Harry collapsed on his bunk like a rag, until, after five hours, he was abruptly awoken by a loud banging on his door.

So much for the weekend.

As Harry finished dusting from the day before, his mind far off with the wind, he was abruptly snapped out of his daze when he was elbowed roughly by his cousin. As he passed, Dudley smirked. Harry, still furious with the boy, endeavored to ignore him as he rubbed his arm, but the effort proved futile. Feeling his grip on his temper weaken, he internally willed Dudley to shove off.

Unfortunately, the boy was as thick as his size.

"Hey, Harry," Dudley began tauntingly, chewing on his cake loudly as if pressuring his cousin to be envious of him. "Mum made cake for me. Hear that? Just for me, not you." when his cousin didn't respond, Dudley frowned as he pushed Harry again for a reaction. "Hey, what's wrong with you? Why aren't you saying anything?"

But Harry, shaking with rage, glanced down at the duster in his hand before glancing up. Narrowing his bright green eyes, he pinned Dudley with a stare, daring the boy to shove him again.

"Hey!" Dudley frowned as he tilted his head to look at his cousin's downcast eyes. "Aren't you jealous? Didn't you hear? Mum made me cake."

With that last note, Dudley finally shoved his cousin again.

"MUMMY!"

Petunia dropped the plate in shock. Whirling around, she shrieked when her eyes befell a mass of dust replacing her son.

"Dudikins!" she raced towards her bawling son, who was coughing up dust. Endeavoring to conceal her expression of disgust, she grabbed a towel, stayed a few feet away from her son, and attempted to bat it away. However, when some dust fell on her dress, she screamed again.

When her husband, startled awake from his position on the couch, had raced to the scene, Petunia screamed.

"Vernon! Look at poor Dudikins! Look at him!"

With the purple vein in his forehead pulsing madly, the man turned to the boy, who hastily dropped the duster and had attempted to scurry away from the scene when his uncle caught him by the shirt.

"In the cupboard," he said in a menacingly quiet tone at first; then, he began to bellow. "NOW! NO DINNER FOR A WEEK!" With that, he threw his nephew inside the cupboard and locked the latch.

Groaning, with his bones aching from exhaustion and from his uncle's throw, Harry heaved himself up, thankful that he could, at least, sleep in.

With no purpose to live, Harry gradually lowered himself on the bed, wary of sleeping on his aching back. Hoping to forget about the pain, he dozed off the minute his head touched the pillow.

The next day, Harry spent the day as silent as an owl. Starving and bitter, Harry hoped that, if he stayed silent enough, they would ignore him. He wasn't in the mood to argue or talk to anyone today. He just wanted a peaceful day.

Of course, Harry's life was filled with trial and error. This time, he had an error.

Vowing to be obedient today, Harry was silently working in the kitchen, pretending like he didn't exist (as usual). However, as he scrubbed the floors, on his hands and knees, the devil came swarming in to test Harry's patience. Indeed, Dudley, who had just returned from the garden, had purposefully stepped into the kitchen with his soggy shoes, and who was imitating skating on the floors as Harry scrubbed furiously. However, with Uncle Vernon sitting at the kitchen table, Harry wasn't permitted to do or say anything. And besides, his current punishment was already enough. Instead, he merely watched as the entire kitchen filled with mud and shoeprints.

After an exacerbating minute, Harry, feeling his patience snap, tossed the brush down and protested.

"Uncle Vernon!"

His uncle peered from behind the newspaper and smirked at the scene. As his son passed, he ruffled his hair proudly before addressing Harry again.

"Keep scrubbing, boy!" he bellowed.

Well, he tried.

Consequently, with his chest boiling, Harry continued until Dudley, exhausted from going to and fro, had left towards the living room to watch television while Harry was left with the scrutinizing gaze of his uncle. However, after a while, even his uncle grew frustrated with the tense silence and left (not without a threat). As he did, Harry, with his temper still engaged, saw no other way to mitigate it except by muttering incessantly.

"Stupid Uncle Vernon. Stupid Dudley. Stupid Aunt Petunia. I'll show them. One day I'll leave this place. And they'll never stop me." And like that, he finished his work, slammed the brush into the bucket, causing the water to splash, and dragged the bucket under the sink where he slammed the counter shut, loud enough for Uncle Vernon to shout.

Scowling, he continued to mutter, passing his aunt, who gave him a strange look as he stomped away. As he approached his cupboard, he entered it and slammed the door shut. He felt his eyes sting with frustration. Irritatingly sniffing them away, the boy collapsed on the bed on his stomach and simply laid there, staring into the dark room. As the laughs and cheers of the family reached his ears, he turned to bury his face into the pillow.

He promised himself he'll leave. He will. Even if he had nowhere else to go. He would find his parents, if they were really dead. He would visit their graves, if they were. If they were alive, he wanted nothing to do with the people who had possibly abandoned. In a twisted way, he hoped they were dead. It was much easier to think they were dead.

But no one would answer his questions. Harry had incessantly questioned his parents' whereabouts, but no one would ease his anxiety. He had even tried asking his neighbor, Mrs. Figgs, but even she had panicked. Harry was a naturally curious boy. He wanted to find someone – anyone! – who would answer his questions.

But, of course, Harry had learned from a young age that dreams were dreams.

But hope, perhaps . . .?

Frowning, Harry sat up slowly and looked towards the wall. Shuffling closer to the wall, he lifted his comforter to reveal a picture he had unconsciously drawn during his moments of melancholy. The picture depicted a red-haired stick figure holding the hand of a tall black-haired stick figure. He was still speculating over the appearances of his parents, but when he had tried to erase that one, he found he couldn't.

Slumping back down on his bed, he gazed at his ceiling in thought, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pouted. However, after an hour or so, his heavy eyes betrayed him, and Harry rolled onto his side and forgot the world.

The next day, Harry silently went about in routine. Still starved, he worked laboriously: washing the dishes, dusting the houses, cleaning the rooms, washing the car, sweeping the front porch. So exhausted, he reached his final chore for the day: the garden.

As he worked, he exerted his final will of energy into the garden. His tiny, deprived frame trembled with exhaustion before he decided to quit. He didn't care if it was finished.

He had exhausted his energy.

With the sun merciless in its rays, Harry dropped the rake and limped towards a tree, where he was sure no would bother him. However, ever vigilant, he scanned the area for Dudley before he began to climb. When he reached the desired height, he slumped back against the tree and watched the mundane neighborhood for a moment until the sun set. Before his heavy lids folded shut, he promised himself freedom and surrendered to sleep.

Meanwhile, Petunia Dursley scanned the house for her missing nephew. He had been awfully quiet today—behaved, for better words. Feeling a twinge of concern (which she denied firmly), she approached the garden, where she had ordered him to clean. However, as she emerged, she frowned. The garden was trimmed and cleaned, but her nephew was missing.

However, what she had thought was a branch was a human arm. As she approached the tree and looked up, she found her nephew, sprawled on a branch exactly his size, with one arm dangling. He was breathing so deeply and peacefully that Petunia, with her self-fashioned cold heart, decided to let him be. The boy simply looked exhausted, and Petunia, despite being cause for his exhaustion, felt guilty when she imagined how lively and spirited Lily had been, unlike her son. Even the boy's father had been an enthusiast, and here she was, causing pain for the blameless son.

However, as she heard Vernon shout a greeting, she rearranged her features and walked away from her nephew. Her heart was as cold as ice, but she would spare him.

For now.

A/N: Er—no comment? Actually—wait. I just hope I got Harry's character right and that this is believable enough based on the books. And about some mechanical errors, well, I'll get around to fixing them . . . Eventually.

Review.