AN:Kudos to all the reviewers! I must admit I grew a bit lax with this story and didn't think of it for ages… then when I was clearing out my inbox I noticed that someone had commented on my story- then I went back and read all the reviews. They made me feel so guilty that I went to work on this immediately!
Actually, I own Harry Potter. I stole the copyright from JKR.
Memoriam
I am young. That much is obvious. My body is clumsy and thin. I am easily dwarfed by the stinky giant that leans over me. No, not giant. To call this thing I giant would be insulting- to the giants. It is Dursley, unfortunately.
He grabs my hair and wrenches my head back. His words are indiscernible to my ears- they are too loud and too angry. I shiver, looking up at my Uncle with wide, betrayed eyes as he shoves me back into my cupboard.
What makes him like this? Am I truly as worthless as he thinks I am? I must be. For if I am not, why does everyone hate me so? What makes me a worthless freak? It must be my fault. If I am better, maybe they will like me better, maybe they will accept me- maybe they will love me.
Wishful thinking. Freaks aren't loved.
o~O~o
Many scenes like the first repeat themselves. I am beaten, starved, caged like an animal. How could I have possibly forgotten this?
o~O~o
This is new. I am school- preschool. I am eager, wanting to prove myself worthy of attention that is not cruel.
The teacher –Miss Delark- is lecturing us on abusive parents. I am tuning her out- after all, I am not abused. Then a sentence she says captures my attention. 'Abuse is classified as an action or inaction that results in serious harm, mental, emotional or physical to the child. Purposefully breaking anothers arm is serious harm. Straving someone by giving them less than three meals a day is serious harm. Making them believe that it is their fault it the worst thing possible for the abuser to do to their victim.'
This makes me stop and stare at her. Does that mean that I am abused? I did not think so, but…
Perhaps I am. I resolve to look it up later.
o~O~o
After school, I visit the library. This is not as abnormal for me as it would be for a normal four year old. I had thought that I could prove my worth by getting the highest grades in the class. Of course, my relatives did not care for my efforts. They just yelled at me for getting higher grades than Dudley the Dumbass.
I continued to come to the library, for here I could escape. The books I read were not the normal level for my age group- I had advanced far beyond that. Sometimes I thought that I had somehow forced my mind to improve and develop at a faster rate than is usual. I would always dismiss this idea- such a thing was too like magic.
But what was important was that I was smart. I had to hide my intelligence, but that did not mean it ceased to exist. I could easily read the adult books- like the one I had open right now.
It was titled'Act Against Abuse'–an amusing alliteration. Cracking the book open, I glanced over the Table of Contents, quickly deciding to flip first to the page entitled'Are you abused? Take the test and see!'
There was a quiz set out with different sections forPhysical, Mental, Emotional and Sexual. I took my pen in hand and snuck a glance at the librarian to ensure she would not notice me desecrating one of her most prized possessions. I quickly glanced over the instructions, then began ticking the boxes I thought suited me best.
When I tallied my results, I found myself with high scores in all but the sexual column. This last was not surprising; the Dursleys only ever touched me in anger, to come into such intimate contact with me would kill them. They think I carry some disease.
Trembling now, I go back to the start of the book. I wish to read this through. The very first words have already captured my attention irrevocably.
'Any human who willfully harms a child placed in their care is undeserving of the title. An abuser is nothing more than an animal, a monster. They are lower than dirt upon your shoe, inferior to Hitler himself, for at least that man had a reason. There is no excuse for damaging an innocent. Anyone that does is naught but a cruel, heartless, worthless Freak.'
Jesus Christ. Could this be true? Could they really be the ones who are bad, freakish?
Re-reading the words makes my heart all but explode. I am not the devils child; they are. I am superior to them. Maybe not in knowledge, perhaps not in experience. But morally, I will always hold the higher ground.
o~O~o
Vernon has taken Petunia out shopping; I am there to carry the bags, nothing more. We are passing a cheap jewelry store that sells only fake gems and painted gold when a call makes my Uncle stop dead in his tracks.
Turning around curiously, I recognize at once the woman whose sugary voice has interrupted the trip. She is the talk of the neighborhood; recently moved in, you cannot see her face for the amount of makeup that covers it, causing her to look as though she is wearing a mask. It is rumored that she conned a doctor into giving her breast implants, then fled the town instead of paying. Her clothes are considered a scandal in the conservative Privet Drive.
She is also Vernon's latest slut.
As such, she sashays her way up to her bed partner, draping herself over him like a bad smell. No doubt she heard word of his bonus and is looking for money. Petunia's lips, already thin, compress into non-existence as a wet kiss is planted on her husband's lips.
"Kindly remove yourself from my spouse at once!"
"Oh, your spouse? Petunia, honey, surely you must be mistaken, for Vernon proposed to me just last week!"
"I didn't!"
"Oh, hush dear. I think it's time to announce it to the world!"
"Vernon wouldn't do that!"
"Oh, but he did."
"Prove it, you slut!"
"Now, honey, there's no need to get all upset about it."
The woman gives my aunt a faux concerned look, then very deliberately places a hand on her arm. On her hand is a ring- a ring I know very well. It is one of Petunia's most prized possessions, given to her by her mother on her mother's deathbed. A simple golden circlet with a single diamond embedded in it. For the first time, I pity my aunt.
"Pet, you know I-"
"Don't call me that! I am not your pet! Not- Not now."
"But-"
"SHUT. UP! Don't talk to me! Don't you DARE talk to me!"
"Now, now, honey. There's no need to shout. I do apologize if my fiancé led you on- I'm sure he didn't mean to."
She gives a smile that looks at fake as Santa Claus. They stand there, staring each other down, my lipless, furious aunt glaring at the lazily blinking prostitute. Vernon has no idea what to do- it's debatable whether he even realizes what is going on.
"Pet, please. I have no idea who this woman is!"
"I'm sure."
"Now come on, dear, don't deny it. You know you love me- why else did you propose?"
" I didn't-"
"Now, now, dear, please stop pretending you don't know me. I don't like it. It's not right to deny your love for your other half. Denial is not good for marriage. If you keep it up I might break off our engagement."
"But we're not-"
"Oh, don't worry, dear. I won't break off our wedding for something as trivial as this. There is no way I would leave you fornothing. It would have to bebigfor me to let you go."
"What do you mean?"
I sigh. Though it is obvious to me what the woman is asking for, yet Vernon seems clueless.
"She wants money, Uncle Vernon."
"Wha?"
Good lord. His mind must truly be frozen if he's acting like this. No, I'm not meaning the troll-like grunt he communicates in. I'm talking about the lack of vitriol aimed at my personage for daring to speak.
"She wants money. Then she'll leave."
"Oh."
I hate the fact that I had to spell it out so clearly for him. My words have had a detrimental effect on Petunia. She is now trembling, her hands spasming. She steps up to my uncle's mistress. When she speaks, her voice is the cool calm of chilled whiskey.
"Have you been fucking my husband for money, slut?"
"Yes."
The woman does not even bother to hide either the fact or her smirk. My aunt is speechless. Luckily, my Uncle finally takes the hint I gave him and shoves a twenty pound bill into the woman's hand.
"Go. Just go."
"Whatever you say, dear. But if you want anyspecialservices later, you know who to talk to!"
"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, BITCH!"
"Now, now, no need to through a temper tantrum, honey. You'll burst a blood vessel if you're not careful."
There is a definite sway to her step as she releases Vernon and walks away. She stops just once, to wave over her shoulder at Petunia. The hand she waves with is the one wearing my grandmothers' ring.
I look back at my aunt. She is crying silently, a look of utter betrayal on her face. I have never seen her look so despairing. Then she turns to her husband, a question in her eyes. 'Why?' it screams. 'Why, why, WHY!' I know that question, that despair. It's what I feel with every slap, every cuff, every hurtful word. I know how much it hurts.
That's why I walk up to the scarlet woman who has her back to me, walking away. Not because I care for my aunt, not because I sympathize with her position. But because I understand what she's feeling. Because I know what it's like to know that nobody cares for you. I know what it's like when someone who should care for you proves that they don't. It's like you were walking high over an impossibly dangerous river when the wooden slats of the bridge suddenly disappear from beneath you. When you look down and there's nothing there apart from dark water, white waves and sharp rocks. When you fall and all you can do is reach out blindly and hope you catch hold of the handrail. When, even if you catch it, you have to spend the rest of your life holding on to that slim metal rope. When you just want someone to come along and give you a hand and a smile, to pull you up. Because if they don't, then eventually you're hand will go numb and you'll fall into the uncaring waters below.
I've been there. Hell, I'm still there. Every day, I wish that someone will come and help, will pull me up and carry me to the other side of the bridge where I can fall on my knees and kiss the ground.
I've always wanted help. I've cursed everyone I've met for not giving it. Now I see my aunt, her being screaming out for help just as I do in the privacy of my mind. I would be a hypocrite if I gave nothing. And I am no hypocrite.
That's why I walk up to the scarlet woman who has her back to me, walking away.
I dart around her and in front of her. There is no way she can avoid tripping over me. Just as I want. She's angry though, screaming abuse at me. I ignore it with practiced ease.
"Oh, I'm so sorry Ma'am! I didn't mean to trip you up, I swear! I'm so clumsy!"
I take her hand and give a futile pull, grimacing inside when I fall on my ass instead. I continue to blather nonsense lies as she starts shrieking at me to get lost. Adopting a scared, innocent look, I run to hide behind my aunt. I already have what I want.
Petunia turns on me as Vernon's mistress walks away in a huff. She is already tense, and there is no doubt that I have pushed her to breaking point. However, before she can start her tirade, I press something into her hand.
She looks down in confusion, then slowly opens her palm. There lies a golden circlet with a single diamond embedded in it.
She looks at me. Her mouth closes.
She never thanks me.
o~O~o
Sun is shining, sky is blue
Grass is wilting in summer heat
Flowers every scent and hue
Asphalt burns my bleeding feet
The children's afternoon siesta
For I alone, no escape to dream
Parents preparing for fiesta
Left abandoned, my tears stream
Nature's perfume teases my nose
I yearn to see, to be free to roam
To feel green clover tickling my toes
Instead of writing in my blood this poem.
My finger pauses on the cupboard wall as I finish my little rhyme. It is no masterpiece, no speech to be remembered for a century or more. It is no sonnet for love-struck children to woo each other with.
I am glad. I do not want others to use this poem. It is my poem, my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences. To allow anyone else to speak it would feel wrong, insulting. They would not understand it, they would not realize the truth, the pain, the rejection it holds.
I give the wall a bitter-sweet smile and cry myself to sleep.
o~O~o
I watch apathetically as the obese ignoramus in front of me proves that shit can come out from both ends. He seems to have contracted that unfortunate two-fold malady that is so prominent in the modern world;Diarrhea of the mouth; constipation of the brain. Whenever he grows angry with me, he tends to spew out whatever comes to mind- be it of his distaste for the breakfast I cooked, the superiors who –correctly- suspect him of being the thief who has embezzled millions from the company coffers or the argument he has had with his mistress, the nymphomaniac at number 23.
He disgusts me.
After my revelation in the library, I had, for a while, believed that holding the moral upper ground meant caring for them, loving them, even when they hit me and cursed me. I tried, God knows I tried. Yet I couldn't.
This puzzled me much. Iknewthat I was the better one; the righteous one. Yet I could not bring myself to care for thisape.
His hand comes down on me again, slapping my face so hard that my small frame goes barreling into the cupboard door. I don't bother tensing- I know that the pain will only be worse if I do. Besides, I have suffered this so often that it is not difficult to keep myself lax, unmoving. I slide boneless to the floor, not bothering to protest the unfairness of my life.
"Freak that you are-"
"-so now May-May is mad at me, won't even let me kiss her-"
"-all your fault, off course-"
"-not that you'd know gratitude if it bit you on the ass-"
"-no wonder nobody can love you-"
"-unworthy bastard-"
"-Pet's mad, ever since she discovered-"
"Why did you tell her, you freak?"
"-no idea why I married her, she's good for nothing- just like you-"
"-ashamed to call you a human being, let alone a relative-"
I stare in incredulity at his last comment.He'sashamed ofme? More like the other way around!
"And stop looking at me with those god-damned freaky eyes! Devil's eyes, they are. Devil's eyes!"
"I thought Satan had red eyes, Uncle."
His visage turns the colour of day-old beetroot casserole. I wonder absently whether his face would feel the same squelchy not-quite-liquid as the casserole did. He does not like it when I challenge him in any way, nor does he appreciate being reminded of his unfortunate relation to me.
I barely hold myself back from screaming as he stomps on my foot, most certainly breaking many of the delicate bones. It is pointless to protest, pointless to cry. Weakness will only encourage my bastard of an Uncle.
God, how I hate him.
I am now certain that I was wrong in thinking that I must care for him in order to be better than him. I do not believe I have to do anything to be better than him; he is so thoroughly low and disgusting that Stalin could be considered more moral than he.
Stalin, after all, could be looked at as a crusader, doing what he thought to be best for the populace.
Vernon is simply a prejudiced, hateful slug.
o~O~o
Holly garlands on the doors
Presents set in groups of fours
Merry red decorates the floors
My life's blood
Entire house clean and neat
Tis the season for a family meet
Door opens, Aunt Marge I greet
She shoves me aside
Dinner with all Dursley kin
Chatter abounds, stories spin
Happy laughter as they turn-in
I listen through the wall
Mine are not the gifts under the tree
Who would by a present for worthless me?
Caged in a cupboard, for naught but work let free
Why can't they just let be?
I have a collection of poetry now, all written in the colour carmine. It decorates the walls and the ceiling of my little room, though not the floor. The floor is entirely covered in blood, making writing in it pointless.
I ran out of space after a while, so started using some of my old schoolbooks instead. Sometimes I manage to smuggle a pencil or a couple of crayons into my cupboard and use those instead. Yet it does not matter what I write with or where I write my creations. They are still truth and I will always remember them. They symbolize my life. The pain, the loneliness, the bitter ache in my chest.
And I will always remember them.
Sometimes I wonder if I am a masochist.
o~O~o
I hurry down the street, my head bowed. It would not do for anyone to notice the red slap-mark on my face; someone might accuse me of being abused!
Yeah, right.
Nobody in Surrey gives a fingernail cutting for anyone but themselves. They don't look, they don't notice, they don't think, they don't care.
Story of my life.
o~O~o
slip-slap
slip-slap
slip-slap
The old, scraggly brush rhythmically strokes the picket fence that runs around the Dursley property. It's white, of course. Whenever it gets the slightest bit off-colour due to dirt or weather, I'm forced to repaint it. Like now, for instance.
slip-slap
slip-slap
My chores are always boring and tiring, but they give me time away from my relations to think. It is a pity that most of the time I find myself thinking about those same relations. They are driving me insane.
slip-slap
slip-slap
slip-slap
slip-slap
I hate them, God I hate them. I despise them and everything they represent. I fear them as well, of course. I wish they did not affect me so much, but I cannot stop myself from dreading them.
slip-slap
A picket fence is supposed to represent a peaceful, middle-class life, full of children and happy days.
slip-slap
To me it represents back-breaking labor and sun-stroke.
slip-slap
slip-slap
slip-slap
I pause in my work and lean tiredly against the fence. My forehead hits paint that is still wet and I know I will need to sand and repaint that area again. In my lethargy, I cannot bring myself to care. It is minutes more work for a job that will take hours anyway.
I look through the crack between slats into the garden next door. The young boy who lives there, Nigel, is sitting on the steps. His knees are curled up to his chest, his forehead resting against them. His hand lies curled on the step beside him. His shoulders are slumped. No doubt his parents threw him out so that they could yell at each other in private. Petunia would have a field day with this news.
Cooie comes up beside his master and snuffles gently at the hand. Nigel musters up a somewhat watery smile when he looks up at the golden Labrador that is giving him a concerned look. He strokes the dog's muzzle and Cooie leans into the touch.
My heart clenches. I wish I had a pet, a friend who would comfort me. Instead I am cursed with relatives who in no way are family.
Vernon is a rabid cur, pouch-jawed and thick-set. He is quick to fury and never calm. He takes what he wants, when he wants, like a berserk mongrel chasing after a stick. After he catches the stick, he worries it, gnawing and clawing it to shreds.
Petunia is a small yappy type of dog, annoying you with her incessant high-pitched bark. She is no terrier, preferring not to leave her couch or indeed to anything else at all.
I snort as I realize that I do indeed view my Aunt and Uncle as dogs.
Severus Snape
I stand over Potter's bedside, wanting nothing more than to collapse in tears. He is alive, but I have failed. Iswore- I gave a magical oath- that I would protect Lily's son. I failed. It is only pure chance that he survived. Even now, it is questionable whether or not he will wake, or simply continue in the near coma he has been in for the past hour. Even if he rouses it is unknown as to what his mental state will be.
He whimpers in his sleep.
When I heard what had happened, I rushed here immediately. It did not hit me until I saw the still figure in the bed did it strike me that the boy might be dead. It felt like I had suddenly found myself in the last stage of Dragon Pox.
He curls into a small ball, pressing his chin into the mattress.
Only now do I notice that he has his mother's nose. The realization is like a punch to my gut. I had kept thinking of him as Potter's brat. I had forgotten he was Lily's too. Now my eyes dart over him, searching for other recognizable features. His ears are hers. So are his hands.
I spin around and leave the Wing in a whirl of black.
As I stride down the darkened corridors I feel a solid ball of guilt making itself at home inside my stomach. I have hated him, scorned him. I treated him despicably. What would Lily say if she knew?
I order the portrait to open, reaching my quarters just before my façade crumbles and I cry.
She would punch me, probably breaking my nose again. She would curse me for treating her son as I have. For bullying him.
Because I did bully him. I place my head in my hands and tremble as I realize that I, myself, am no better than James Potter was. No, I am worse. I picked on an innocent, on one who has no way to fight back. I belittled a boy who had done no wrong.
God, I think I hate myself.
I AM NOT ABUSED!
I've just read too many abuse fanfics.
