A/N: It's been pointed out that, because it's been so very long since this story was posted anywhere, very few people know enough about the story to serve in the betaing capacity I'm asking for. That in mind, I'm going to suspend the beta-hunting process until after this version has run its course; by that time, any regular reader will know quite enough to edit well.
In case you haven't noticed, I post a new chapter every Sunday. So enjoy this one, and check in next Sunday for chapter four: Origin Unknown.
Chapter Three
Harry and the Dursleys
From the day Harry Potter, however grudgingly, entered into the Dursley household he was treated with disdain. His uncle took great amounts of time every day and night to criticise Harry. Harry would simply stare at him with large, green eyes and make sounds not at all uncommon for babies.
Vernon's scorn for Harry was matched only by his wife's. She seemed to take Harry's existence as something of an insult to her previously perfect life. Where Dudley was pampered, Harry was neglected. Petunia gave him only bits of food and would smack him across the back of the head for any number of reasons.
Dudley found Harry to be quite amusing and went to great lengths to get him in trouble of any sort. Should Dudley knock over his baby food, he would wail that Harry had knocked it over. Typically, Petunia would react by slapping Harry on the back of his small head and yelling at him to treat his cousin better.
Every time Harry would be smacked by his aunt he would cry, resulting in Petunia hitting him again and again until his sobs ceased.
When Harry would sleep, he would do so in a small basket that was kept in the cupboard under the stairs of the Dursley home. During the winters the cupboard was freezing cold, and during the summer it was sweltering hot.
After a few years, Harry still slept in the cupboard, Aunt Petunia still smacked his head for his mistakes, and Dudley still found him an ideal punching bag. To make matters worse, Uncle Vernon had joined in with the family's entertainment.
Should Harry commit any number of errors, he was punched in the ribs by his Uncle and thrown into the cupboard that he resided in despite its miniscule size. On one such occasion Harry asked how his parents had died. The effect of this simple question boggled the mind. His Aunt Petunia yelled at him not to ask questions; his cousin Dudley laughed at him; and his Uncle Vernon took off his belt and fingered it menacingly.
"What did you say, boy?" Vernon's harsh voice growled at him.
"I—I just w-wanted to know how m-my p-parents d-died—" Harry stuttered in a high pitched voice typical of a small boy.
"They died in a car crash. They were no-good freaks and they stuck us with you!" Vernon spat at the terrified boy, all the while fingering his leather belt.
"I've told you a thousand times," Vernon then purpled and bellowed to the boy, "DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS!" With that, he grabbed Harry's arm and drug him to his cupboard. Once they were outside of the cupboard, Vernon raised the belt over his head and beat it back down upon Harry. Again and again the belt whistled through the air as it hit Harry.
Harry screamed in anguish, tears streaming down his young face. "No! Uncle Vernon!" again the belt beat down, this time accompanied by Vernon's large fist. The beating continued on for several more minutes before Vernon ended his assault. His back bled fiercely from the impromptu whip, his face bruised purple and blue, his nose bled freely, and several lacerations covered his already bruised face.
Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and bodily forced him into the cupboard. Indeed, he forced him in so powerfully that Harry's head collided with the wall of the cupboard. Darkness started to consume Harry's vision and the last thing he heard before succumbing to this darkness was Vernon's oath that Harry would not be let out for a week.
Harry's body fell to the make-shift bed (two sheets folded) in his cupboard as the lock on the door clicked and he knew no more.
Years went by and Harry's treatment by his family had not improved. If anything, the treatment his uncle, aunt, and cousin bestowed upon him became even more harsh and brutal.
During this time, Harry learned many things. He learned that it was never a good idea to be near Dudley. He learned that no matter where he was, if something went wrong in the lives of one of the Dursleys, he was blamed for it and beaten mercilessly. If he breathed too loudly he would be punished. If he expressed any form of imagination, he was beaten without mercy and locked in his cupboard for days. He learned that he should never eat more than a third of what Dudley ate because he would be accused of free-loading off of the Dursleys; this, too, resulted in a beating. He learned that if Vernon were to have a bad day at work, he would be beaten with such savage disregard for human life and well-being it would incline the average person to lose the contents of his stomach.
Typically, Vernon was the one to induce physical abuse, but Dudley doled out his share as well. Petunia often settled for shrieking at him and attacking him with frying pans or, on really bad days, cutting shears.
It did not take Harry long to realise that the quieter he was, the less he was attacked by the other members of the Dursley household. He realised, quite quickly too, that ducking and dodging saved him great pain and anguish.
Throughout the years, the Dursley home had not changed to a great extent. The home remained the same state of immaculateness, due to Petunia (and Harry's) constant cleaning. The kitchen of the Dursley home was the same surgically-clean place it was in the years before. The bedrooms of Number Four had increased in content, but nothing so radical as to constitute significant change. The pictures on the sitting room's mantle provided the only real markers of time's flow.
Where there once had been pictures of curiously shaped blobs and brightly coloured beach balls, there now were pictures of a large, blonde boy opening brightly coloured presents, eating a cake in front of him, riding a bicycle to where his father stood with outstretched arms, standing outside of national landmarks (usually with some sort of snack in his overly-large hands and one or both of his parents at his side). Dudley Dursley really did need to go on a diet—perhaps some new clothes as well. Despite his age, Dudley still looked like a beach ball.
There were no signs of the other denizen of the household whatsoever. Indeed, it would take a thorough searching of the home to even find Harry Potter. Harry was, quite constantly, locked away in a cupboard under the stairs, with nothing but the spiders and darkness for company. He was only ever left out to use the toilet or perform chores for the other members of the Dursley home.
Harry Potter was a small boy. He weighed less than and was shorter than the average boy his size. He had stubborn ever-mussed, jet black hair. He had vibrant green eyes—eyes that shone in the dark like inquiring searchlights. His appearance was altogether unordinary and easy to forget—at least, it would have been, save the most curiously shaped scar that resided upon his forehead. It was in the shape of a lightning bolt and was something that Harry liked very much about his appearance. Consequently, it was also something that mortified the Dursleys.
Harry once asked his Aunt how he had gotten the scar. This had resulted in her, with a tone of deepest great disgust, telling him that he got it in the car crash his parents had died in. Then she stuck his hand in a pot of boiling water. It took two weeks for the burns to disappear entirely; Harry was good at that, healing. Harry was thankful that she had not informed Uncle Vernon; he was sure a severe beating would have resulted.
Harry was now five years old and about to begin at the local grammar school. Harry was very much excited by the prospect. Going to school would enable him to escape the Dursleys—well, most of them anyway; Dudley would still be there. Dudley had grown more and more violent as the years past and would now consistently punch or kick him whenever in his presence.
Harry was awake at dawn (although he did not know it), in anticipation of his first day of school. Harry was looking forward to the day. Nothing, in his mind, could make this experience bad. Not even Dudley's presence in Mrs. Blackburn's class could deter him.
Two hours after Harry awoke his Aunt Petunia rapped he knuckles on the cupboard's door.
"Get up! Up! Now!" she shrieked shrilly through the door.
"I'm up, I'm up!" Harry responded to her.
The lock on his cupboard clicked and the door creaked open slightly. Harry pushed the door open with his small hand and stood outside of the cupboard, located in the hallway of the Dursley home. He walked quickly to the kitchen and began to prepare breakfast, as he did every morning. Harry was too small to see over the stove, so he stood on a barstool that his aunt had found in a rubbish bin. It was easily the shoddiest and filthiest thing in the immaculate kitchen of Petunia Dursley.
Ten minutes later, the other Dursleys trailed in, one-by-one. The Dursleys reached the table and Vernon immediately barked at Harry to hurry up with the food. Harry rushed over, clad in an old. stained, and battered apron, with a tray of eggs, bacon, and toast which he promptly placed in front of his uncle.
"Coffee, boy!"
"Yes, sir."
Harry hurried over with the coffee (three lumps of sugar and more cream than coffee) before bringing Aunt Petunia her herbal tea. Dudley was already wailing for his food, causing Aunt Petunia to scold Harry and console Dudley, so Harry had to quickly bring over his enormous breakfast consisting of four eggs, six strips of bacon, three slices of toast (extra butter), and eight sausages with a rather large side of ketchup for the lot of it (all of this on a rather larger-than-normal plate). Harry then placed Aunt Petunia's plate of toast and eggs in front of her before going to retrieve his breakfast.
Harry was at the stove and about to climb on his stool when his Uncle shouted at him. "Boy! Bring Dudley his chocolate milk!" Harry complied silently, turning from his stool and retrieving Dudley's chocolate milk from the Dursley's refrigerator, all the while berating himself for forgetting Dudley's drink—it never altered, after all. Harry quickly prepared the drink the way that Dudley demanded (with real chocolates inside) before hurrying to the table and a waiting Dudley.
He placed the drink before Dudley, who promptly took a swig. Harry had just turned to the stool to collect his own meal when Dudley began to wail once more. "He got it wrong! He got it wrong!" the fat child wailed to his mother and father.
Vernon was quickly turning purple. "BOY!" he bellowed before rising from his seat and crossing the room to where Harry stood. He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and bellowed once more, "HOW DARE YOU? YOU KNOW PERFECTLY WELL HOW DUDLEY TAKES HIS DRINK! TRYING TO MAKE HIM SICK ON HIS FIRST DAY, ARE YOU?" all the while spraying Harry with spit and the foul stench of Vernon's coffee, eggs, and bacon mixed with a stench of cigarettes and peppermint.
Vernon reared back his fist and pummeled Harry in the gut, rising Harry off the ground with the blow before he fell to his knees on the floor. Gasping and sputtering for breath, Harry looked up at his Uncle. Still purple with rage, his Uncle kicked him in the gut kissed his wife on the chuck, pinched his laughing son's cheek and departed for work.
Harry wheezed on the floor, but was snapped at by his Aunt almost immediately, "Boy! Clean up these dishes. And there had best not be a spot on them, understand?" poking him painfully in the spot where his uncle had just kicked him. Harry had once, when he was younger, been washing the dishes only to have multi-coloured spots appear on them; he had been blamed, and punished, for it and, ever since, had been admonished not to let it happen again.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry managed to gasp out, without any breath in his lungs.
He quickly gathered the plates from his relatives' seats and began to wash them in the sink. Before long he placed the still spotless plates in the dishwasher and, after drying his hands, walked over, hand on his ribs, to Aunt Petunia hoping to be taken to school.
It was a ten minute walk to the local school and Harry, having just turned five years old, was making the trip himself. Dudley was being taken in Petunia's Mini Cooper (which she adored) and Harry was told to walk. "Good boys get taken to school by their Mummies," she told Dudley, "Freaks without parents have to walk to school by themselves without burdening good people with their presence!" snapping the last part to Harry.
When Harry arrived at Little Whinging Primary, he stood looking up at the school. It was quite small, due to the equally small number of primary school age children of Little Whinging, whose residents were mostly successful business men or retired grandparents.
It took five minutes of Harry wandering around the diminutive school for him to find someone to follow to his class. Unfortunately, the only person he knew happened to be Dudley.
"Hey, freak. Why are your clothes all muddy?" Dudley asked. A manic glint was in his young, porky eyes.
Harry grabbed his shirt with his middle and forefinger and thumb, examining it and finding no mud he asked, "What mud? There's no—"
Just as he was about to finish his sentence, Dudley pushed him. Unbeknownst to Harry when he began to examine his clothing, one of Dudley's bullying friends got on all fours behind his feet. When Dudley pushed him, he fell backwards, tripping over the boy, and landing in a puddle of mud—murky, watery, foul-smelling mud.
Dudley and his friend roared with laughter at the now mud-drenched Harry. Harry, for his part, was shocked. It was not unusual for Dudley to try and make Harry look bad, nor was it unusual to enlist the help of others to pull it off. What made Harry so shocked was that this had happened on his first day of school. He was mortified that now he would have to explain to his teacher why he was covered in mud.
"Hey, Marcus, what should we do with muddy head, here?" Dudley asked the other boy, who was, evidently, named Marcus.
Marcus laughed loudly, "Let him sort it out! Mrs. Blackburn won't be happy with him."
Dudley grinned before nodding his fat, blonde head and walking off with Marcus, both roaring with laughter over their victory. Harry sat still in the mud and watched as they walked away. Sighing, he got to his feet and began to follow them to Mrs. Blackburn's.
Mrs. Blackburn was an elderly lady, sixty-four to be exact, and had a rather strong dislike of both mud and troublemakers. So when Harry Potter, whom she had been warned was uncontrollable—a menace to society as a whole, walked in, caked in mud, she was quite angry indeed.
She marched over to the other side of the room, grabbed Harry by the ear, and began to demand he explain to her why he was covered in mud. Harry's attempts to explain that it was Dudley's doing where wasted on deaf ears. Mrs. Blackburn knew that Harry Potter was a troublemaker, and Dudley Dursley his cousin was a very nice, sensitive boy, who was misunderstood because of his larger than average size.
The rest of the day did not get much better for Harry. He was told to stand in a corner, facing the wall, until he was ready to "tell the truth" about what happened. The fact that he had told the truth seemed irrelevant. Harry stood in that corner, occasionally trying to explain to Mrs. Blackburn futilely that Dudley had pushed him, for the whole day before school got out. When the bell rang, signifying the end of the school day, it was the first time he had been allowed out of the corner all day (he had been kept inside when the other children went out to play, being told it was his punishment for telling lies and that he would probably go play in more mud if they let him out anyway) and he was quite ready to leave.
Mrs. Blackburn had safety-pinned a note to Aunt Petunia on his back, intended to tell her what Harry had done or, at least, what Mrs. Blackburn thought he had done. Mrs. Blackburn had just finished safety-pinning the note on a trembling, crying Harry when the glass window in the room shattered clear out of its pane.
Mrs. Blackburn was startled, as was Harry. Mrs. Blackburn had never seen something like this before. Harry, however, had. It had happened on more than one occasion at the Dursley home, and every time it did happen, Harry was beaten mercilessly. Harry did not know how the glass had exploded, he just knew it had. That did not stop his Aunt from calling his Uncle. When Vernon came home, it was with the intention to beat Harry senseless. And beat Harry senseless, he did.
When Harry arrived back at Number Four, Privet Drive, fifteen minutes after Dudley had, he walked through the door, it was to be encountered with the sight of Dudley wailing loudly and demanding that Harry be punished for trying to get him in trouble. It worked magnificently.
Harry had to immediately duck as Aunt Petunia tried to hit him with her empty tea cup. It shattered against the wall behind Harry, sending Aunt Petunia into a tirade. "Boy! What have we told you about trying to get Dudley in trouble? And now breaking my tea cup! Oh you will pay, boy, you will pay!"
Later that night, when Uncle Vernon had arrived home from Grunnings, Harry did, indeed, pay. Dearly, did he pay. Vernon immediately broke into a violent attack. He grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and punched him in the stomach until Harry began to sputter violently, coughing up blood. He then took off his belt, peeled off Harry's over-sized shirt and whipped his back. With every lash an anguished scream escaped Harry's mouth, which only spurred Vernon. It did not take long for Harry to be little more than a whimpering heap on the ground. Blood flowed freely down his back, and on his face from a wound caused by an errant whip of Vernon's belt; his arms bled violently, from his attempts to block Vernon's belt, and his elbow was bent at an impossible angle from his fall when Vernon had punched him.
Harry was then lifted off the ground and bodily thrown into his cupboard, landing on the blankets that act as his bed after hitting his head on the wall. He lay there as Vernon shouted that he would have no meals for a week (as if it were not bad enough that he had been cheated out of both breakfast and lunch) and would only be allowed out to go to school. He would have to use an old coffee can (put in the cupboard years ago) as a toilet.
This trend continued for years; the only break in the monotony being freak-accidents that always involved Harry in some way. He had turned his headmaster's wig blue (or rather, he had been there at the time and been blamed for it), caused the glass in the science lab to shatter (or so said the Dursleys), been chased by Dudley's gang only to appear on the roof of the school (he was unable to explain to the Dursleys that he couldn't explain how it had happened), his hair re-growing after a dreadful haircut (bald, save his bangs to "hide that terrible scar!"), several pairs of Dudley's casts-off shrinking to puppet sizes (Petunia, thankfully, thought they had been shrunk in the wash, therefore Harry, this time, evaded punishment), and the ever infamous occasion when, after Harry was forced to re-trim them after Dudley had destroyed them with his working toy tank, Harry had been accused of setting the rose bush on fire after it burst into great, roaring flames that seemed to be ever-burning.
Harry, as he grew older, was beaten more fiercely than during his younger years. He assumed that Vernon reckoned he could survive the more brutal beatings now that he was older. Harry did not know how he had managed to survive some of Vernon's onslaughts. He was often left in a condition that made significant movement nearly impossible.
More than once, Harry had drunk a bottle of cleaning fluid in an effort to rejoin his parents. The Dursleys had never once expressed concern, let alone taken him to the hospital. The Dursleys would simply throw him into his cupboard, take away his meals, and tell him he was to stay for a period of time that could last between a day and a month.
And so it continued for many years, until one day….
