AN: I know this story belongs to JKR, not to me. Unfortunately. This story is obviously AU, with a physically abusive instead of a just neglectful Vernon. And no, I don't know what came over me. It's a bit darkish. It would serve as a prologue to another story, so if someone is in need, just PM me.
Pushed
A man, a large man, looking like a walrus.
A child, young, so young. A little boy, with bright green eyes, with hair as dark as night. So small, too small for his age.
And the man, so big, so big, with fists like stone.
When fist and child connect, the boy screams.
It doesn't help.
The boy, so small and broken, crouching as close together as he can, in a small, dark cupboard.
He's crying.
It isn't helping.
There's blood on his shirt.
The boy finds a box, with matchsticks inside.
He's still bloodied and bruised.
There is a grin on his face, a large, wide, almost manic grin, that lights up his whole face.
A matchstick in his hand, lighting up the place, shielded by a small hand.
A bed, walrus-man, sleeping besides a horse-faced woman, snoring, loudly.
A manic grin on the child's face.
A bed. The matchstick is brought closer, the flames begin to spring over.
The smell of burning flesh, as a child laughs.
A police officer, the fire brigade, a burning house.
A small boy, outside the house, in his nightclothes. The others didn't make it.
The boy is crying. Sometimes, his mouth twists until it almost looks like he's smiling, but he can't be, can he? After all, none of his family made it outside.
The crying boy telling the officer how his cousin had a matchbox.
The police officer picking up the boy, carrying him somewhere safe, to a better place.
And the boy's face turns toward the house. No one is looking at him.
There it is again: The grin, the wide, manic grin, lighting up his whole face.