Abused.

The word is on repeat; it's like a carousel, something Harry has never seen in person only on the Dursleys' living room tv, in Harry's mind ever since he left the dinning room (since he left Dobby). It weighs heavy in his chest and mind. And Harry can't do this-

It's weird and suffocating. This strange new freedom of being at Black's home that's been shoved unto Harry. He doesn't know what to do with it. As far as he can tell through his mindless wanderings of the dusty house no one but Kreacher has lived here for years. The dust and cob webs make Harry's fingers twitch; Aunt Petunia would have a fit if she ever saw her home in this state. There's a part of Harry that wants to hide the photo in-between the mattress and bed before finding the supply closet and just cleaning. Cleaning is not comfort to Harry but it's something to do besides wandering about and wondering about his future. His fears gnawing at him, demanding for Harry to panic about no longer going to Hogwarts - seeing Hermione and Ron - and no longer being a wizard once they snap his wand. Would the ministry send him back to the Dursleys? If the Dursleys would still - the word isn't want but rather...deal with him?

And if they did what would Harry do? The idea of living with the Dursleys a full year again was something Harry couldn't deal with now that he knew what it was like to live without his aunt and uncle. He would take the orphanage or St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys over them.

Suddenly Harry remembered one of Aunt Marge's brutally direct questions (her favorite way of asking questions) about him during her visit: "Have you been beaten often?"

Unlike last time Harry didn't have sarcasm to respond with. Or have someone that wasn't himself he had to answer to. What was the piece of over used wisdom? You are you're worst enemy. You can lie to everyone but yourself. Something, possibly a mix of those two sentences, like that. But Harry wasn't lying! Frustration was building in his stomach. This whole inner questioning about abuse was simply stupid along with angering. The threat of unknown (of never going to Hogwarts) made it worse.

He didn't really know why he was here at Black's home. He didn't know if this Sirius bloke was alive. And if he was where was he? Did he and Harry's father have a falling out right before Harry's parents died? The other two boys in the photo Harry could barely put faces to since he had been so focused on his dad. Where were they? Why had no one came and whisked him away from the Dursleys - why did Harry need to be whisked away from his relatives? Harry's head fell on the wall with a dull thud. The urge to-to do something was overwhelming. About to burst from Harry and he didn't know why.

His vision was blurrier than before (which said something since Harry hadn't asked Dobby where his glasses were before waking out of the dinning room). His eyes were wet from frustration, dust and nothing else. His nails dug even deeper into his elbows as he slid towards the carpet of the room. Hunger gnawed at his stomach but Harry paid no mind to familiar sensation. He breathes. Or least Harry tries to. Despite it being summer and Harry could remember the heat of it, of how hot yesterday was, here it's cold. The cold that's frigid in the air, harsh to breathe in, and slowly but steadily seeps through Harry's too big socks. Despite this Harry feels too hot. Like he's being burn and not with the spell that make the flames tickle that Harry had read about for homework.

Eventually, unsteadily, with the grace of a baby deer learning to walk for the first time, Harry gets up from the floor and makes his way back to the room he slept in. A room who knows how many years ago was Sirius' room.

When he gets there everything the same and Harry doesn't know how to feel about that. He makes his way to the desk before he searches for a quill and parchment. In it's place there an ink pen and paper. For some reason Harry finds it comforting as he wipes the dust off the sheet of paper with his sleeve.

The pen twirls in his fingers as he stares down at the paper and suddenly (or maybe not) Harry doesn't know what to say - what to write to this stranger his dad and mom once knew. He taps the top of the pen onto the letter. The blankness of the paper seems mock him as if it was homework instead of a very important letter that Harry hasn't even put a word on. He leans back on the chair, head tilted back as he vacantly stares at the dusty chandelier.

Does it even matter? Hedwig was still at the Weasleys. Sirius was either dead or he didn't care. He would have visited or checked if he had. Except, Harry thinks or rather grasps onto the idea as if it were a lifeline, maybe the Dursleys had kept the man away since they didn't like Harry's kind. Suddenly it's a lot colder as Harry remembers his uncle's vehement yell about beating him to stamp the magic out. Harry's lip thinned dangerously. His uncle had never beaten him. Harry wasn't abused despite what Dobby thought with judging eyes. (But why would he being willing to live with a stranger he only knew through a letter than with them?)

Harry glanced back down at the wordless letter. Slowly, Harry starts to write down a word only to stop. Without a thought, Harry bring the bottom of the pen and licks it before trying again. He has to write over the first word a few times before ink starts to properly come out.

[\]

There's a sharp knock on the door. Harry immediately and without so much as a thought hurriedly shoved the finished recently (as in just finished like two minutes ago) letter under the motorcycle manual. It's stupid. He's trusts Dobby. The new house elf not so much. So maybe it's not stupid.

When Harry opens the door it's Kreacher whose behind it. Kreacher immediately stops his muttering that so softly spoken that Harry would have to strain to hear whatever the house elf was saying (and even then he wouldn't understand whatever the language was). Kreacher with a frown looked up at Harry but not at his eyes.

"Dobby has cooked. The traitor and the mudblood not-whore-but-really-was son should eat before its cold otherwise Dobby shall impose on Kreacher's time and proceed to annoy Kreacher when Kreacher has things to do."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the speech Kreacher just gave him that basically meant: humor Dobby otherwise Dobby will annoy me if you don't and I don't want to be annoyed when I can have some alone time.

"What is that you do?" Harry asked as they made their way to the stairs.

From the corner his eye Harry noticed how for just a split second Kreacher tensed up before relaxing as much as Kreacher would. Kreacher, Harry had already guessed, was not an easy going and relaxed person.

"Kreacher is trying to finish a task," was the vague answer Harry was given.

Harry squinted his eyes; not because he was trying to see better without his glasses but because he was confused. Why had Kreacher tensed up before answering him? Why had he answered Harry? It wasn't like he had to which peaked Harry's curiosity.

"What are you trying to do?" Harry asked even though he suspected he get blood from a stone before he got a honest answer from the house elf.

Kreacher's long fingers curved into his dirty palms. His filthy nails digging into the flesh of his palm. Harry felt unsettled at the sight that took place in the corner of his eye.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher not to tell poor old Mistress. He never told Kreacher not to tell a Master. Kreacher still doesn't want to tell," Kreacher muttered to himself in English thankfully but Harry was still confused. Was Mistress perhaps Sirius' wife or the Regulus Kreacher mentioned, Harry wondered as they made their way to the bottom of the stairs. Or one of their mothers? Maybe their aunt? Grandmother?

"Wh-" Harry was interrupted by Dobby coming out of the dinning room and into the hallway.

"Dobby has cooked for Harry," Dobby enthusiastically informed Harry. "Harry should eat while it's still warm."

At seeing the look on Harry's face Dobby asked, "Did Kreacher say cruel things about Harry and Harry's mother?" Dobby inquired.

Harry shook his head. "No Dobby." There was a pause as Harry sorted through his thoughts.

"What did you make?" Harry finally asked and Dobby smiled warmly before listing off a large meal with multiple courses (Where did he get the fresh food? ...Please let it be fresh. Harry wouldn't even satisfy his curiosity of where it came from if it was fresh.) that Harry could not possibly eat by himself.

The two house elves, when Harry asked them to join him, did not share his opinion. Kreacher looked absolutely done and Dobby shook his head so violently Harry was afraid it might fall off.

Dobby reached for Harry's hand and guided Harry to head of the table. "Harry is much too thin. Let Dobby fatten you up with good and warm food."

Harry raised a tired eyebrow. "Why so you can eat me?" He dryly teased Dobby.

"No sir!" Dobby screeched loudly and wow. That was rather loud. "Dobby would never eat his friend! Dobby will gladly prepare food so his friend won't be thin as a twig. Not to eat Harry. Dobby likes Harry. Dobby is honored that Harry would bury him-" Kreacher made a sound of protest at the news "- instead of forever looking over Harry's home as his head is mantle on the wall but not since Dobby will have the honor of being buried."

Harry, with blinking eyes as Dobby pushed his chair in, wondered where the idea of Dobby's head being on a wall even came from.

It, Harry realized as he lifted a spoon to his mouth, must be a crazy wizard thing.