A/N: I am posting this at the request of my good friend. She's too shy to say it's hers. FLAME FLAME FLAME! Er… constructive criticism please. *Grins*
Disclaimer: Lucky for you, I don't own Harry Potter. Heaven knows what would happen if I did. It all belongs to J.K Rowling.
Harry's head spun, made worse by the dancing dots in front of his eyes. Dimly, he reached out and tried to catch them. Why were they flying so fast? Why did his hand go right through them? Why did he have pain rolling up and down his back like a steamroller…
He didn't realize he had crashed to the floor until two large sausage-like hands picked him up. He was shaken back and forth until his head rolled forward and he vomited.
"Get up off my clean floor! Do you realize how long your Aunt Petunia worked to get it polished and perfect? DO YOU?" The fat beefy pig yelled this question in Harry's face so forcefully all Harry could do was nod numbly. He couldn't even see…
Harry's world got darker and darker. He searched for the reason for all his pain, but found instead an unfeeling, reassuring sleep.
A/N: I know that Uncle Vernon would never be that abusive, but, ya know, it's for plot purposes.