AN: My Beta is PepermintCas and she's wonderful.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Harry blinked, half squinting as he adjusted to the sudden brightness. When his vision finally did return, the sight of his uncle greeted him. Harry dropped the bread, face draining of color. It lay forgotten at his feet. Uncle Vernon was standing in the doorway, face turning blotchy shades of purple and red, practically swelling up in anger.
"Boy! What are you doing?!" Uncle Vernon bellowed, and grabbed Harry by the scruff, shaking him until his teeth rattled.
"I know you would try to pull something like this! I know how your kind is, you good for nothing freak!" Uncle Vernon growled, and punched Harry with a sick sort of satisfaction. The sound of his glasses cracking filled the air as Harry curled in on himself in pain. For good measure, Uncle Vernon kicked him, and Harry bit his lip, holding back a whimper.
Uncle Vernon smiled menacingly, and tossed the boy out into the yard. Pain shot up Harry's spine- there was a horrible throbbing from his nose, but it was a small agony compared to the ache in his heart.
Harry's glasses fell onto the cold ground, and he shakily picked them up, clutching the broken pieces to his chest. He leaned against the brick wall, wincing at the scraping sting of pain, and curled up into himself. Harry desperately pressed himself against the bricks for warmth. Above him, the stars twinkled as if they were mocking him. He fell into an cold and uneasy sleep.
Harry woke up with a start as the cold water doused him, numbing the pain still present in his nose. He looked up fearfully to see Aunt Petunia standing over him, holding a garden hose, her lips curled up in a sneer.
"Get your sorry arse up and go cook breakfast. We don't have all day. Hurry up,boy," she snapped, and hurried back into the house, lest the neighbors start gossiping.
Shivering from the cold water, and trying futilely to warm himself up, Harry hurried in through the back porch and stepped into the kitchen, the screen door closing behind him. The kitchen was thankfully warmer than the yard; he found his muscles relaxing slightly.
He hurriedly started breakfast and got to setting the table. The bacon sizzled and popped on the stove as he deposited perfect golden pancakes onto the plates. He set out the dishes, not daring to set out his own plate. He didn't want to risk another beating. The Dursleys, when they did bother to, fed Harry once a day anyway.
Harry, in an act of desperation, decided that he needed to eat something, anything. Harry looked around for signs of his relatives, straining his ears. As he reached into the pan, Aunt Petunia walked into the room, and she rushed over, towering over him.
"You ungrateful freak! How dare you steal from us?! You're lucky we feed and clothe you!" she shrieked angrily, but then a smile appeared, a smile that scared Harry a lot more than her yelling. Harry eyed her warily, unconsciously inching away from her predatory leer.
"Well, Harry, if you wanted it so badly, you could have just asked," she said, and paused, waiting for him to respond. Harry watched her like a frightened animal locked in a hunter's crosshairs.
"May I...may I have a piece of bacon please?" he asked timidly, and Aunt Petunia smiled again.
"Why don't you just take it, Harry?"
With that said, Aunt Petunia grabbed his hand and thrust it into the still hot pan.
Harry screamed in pain-it burned, it seared, it was pure and utter agony. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as his aunt finally pulled his hand back, curling her lips in a cruel smile, as she surveyed Harry clutching his hand in pain. Still sneering in disdain, she pushed him out of the kitchen and back into the yard.
"And stay there, freak!" she said with a vicious laugh, locking the screen door with a harsh click.
Harry felt tears stinging his eyes as he bent over the scarred red flesh. He swallowed fiercely. He was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. They would not get the satisfaction of seeing his tears. They would not.
Meanwhile at Hogwarts, in one of the tall spiraling towers, there were two men in a headmaster's office. One, a long haired, dark robed man with an ever-present sneer. The other, a tall, thin elderly man with a long silver beard. The dark-robed man was Severus Snape, of course, the youngest Potions Master in history. The other was none other than Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.
"Severus, I want you to do something for me. Just a simple favor, if you will," Albus said, linking his fingers together and leaning forward.
"What is it now, Dumbledore?" Severus said, impatiently. "I have a potion to make, and it requires stirring at precisely every five minutes. Make it quick. "
"I need you to check on Harry Potter," Albus said, and as usual, at the mention of the name "Potter," Severus bristled.
"I'm quite sure the savior of the wizarding world is fine, being pampered and loved. Merlin forbid he's anything but," Snape spat, sneering.
"Severus-" Albus began in a pacifying tone, raising his hands, but Snape was already turning to leave.
"Fine! I'll do it!" he snapped, and swept out of the room, his black cape billowing out behind him.
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