Disclaimer: This is for amusement and no gains, monetary or otherwise are being amassed from it, excluding the comfort of writing, of course!
Author's Notes-
Harry has been running. From all that makes him The Chosen One. It has all been much for this 11 year old boy. How long can be run untill it is too much?
Till Now: Harry is on the Quidditch pitch contemplating his life, as hopeless and hard it has been...
The Durselys
Harry stood cowered beneath the wooden cupboard. Trembling from fear after spankings from his uncle. His pale white hips shined a brilliant red, paining from all those canned thrashes. Dudley had been calling him names, testing his temper until he could control no more. And then like a flash of light everything had become blindingly white for a moment, the surrealism broken only by the loud crack of the cane. Supple and faded, it was the one thing he feared more than anything! Because the welts and bruises it caused made it even more difficult to contain his righteous anger, which barely controlled could erupt anytime. After all, was it his fault that Dudley had to have his hair cropped which wouldn't grow for another month while Harry's lush black crop hanging at his forehead would be quite the same as the day before! Aunt Petunia once even took a pair of scissors to have them chopped till above his ears, in quite a ridiculous hairstyle, only to have them springing the next day!
He was on his knees, caressing the aching flesh with delicate cautious hands. A tear trickled down his face, hot and salty which he wiped with his dirty hands ; dirty at having cleaned his moth breeding cupboard, leaving a muddied tear-trail which had to be scrubbed using an old coarse towel with fibres escaping from its rough surface. It was painful, scrubbing all the dirt and grim from his face but atleast it cleansed those unhappy memories that inevitably came with such incidents.
There was no baby fat; he was all skin and bones and though this made it difficult for Uncle Vernon to hit his bony body with skin barely clinging on it, it also made him angry enough to use all the force his jiggling hands could muster. His glasses were askew, dangling on his nose, made to do with cracks and splints on its worn surface. He stood and still sobbing, sat on the bed, thinking of that fateful night when his mom and dad fell down a cliff, never to be seen again.
Harry saw a bolt of green light zooming past a heap of red before there came a small round man, rubbing his hands and then a big big someone took him somewhere. He was crying the whole time, tears spilling and cries echoing the entire way. He was sure the lemon yellow walls and the unmistakable softness of a pillow was not to be found in a old rented car driven by two drunkards, as his aunt and uncle often reminded through words unkind and harsh. Strange, how he never felt bitter about those last moments which led to his miserable existence with the Dursely's. Maybe the feeling of warmth and comfort was the only remembrance of his parents.
Those warm gurgling playing moments were those soft silent moments before everything came to a maddening halt.
He had opened his green eyes in an old rickety cradle which made creaking sounds as it rocked or rather rattled against the rusty iron joints. Aunt Petunia would sometimes feed him a half heated bottle of a white liquid, passing as milk before silencing his high cries of "Mummy" with a glare. Sometimes, a big jiggling man like a huge pot of jelly, though surely of a rotten taste would come wobbling inside. He had once called him"jewwie" and the huge man stared at him, boring his small black beady eyes into his soft innocent ones and then strode out of the room with brisk steps muttering words drenched in spit. He grew up and met a round glowing boy, grinning at a jar of cookies snuck at the far end of the kitchen cupboard. Harry tried to reach with all his might, hopping to befriend this kid, when there came a shattering crash with the jar now smashed into glittering pieces and the cookies all scattered on aunt Petunia's spotless marble floor. There was a sound of footsteps, heavy and angry, then a resounding slap across his cheek. He woke up to the darkness of the cupboard.
Light filtered thorough a a tiny hole, probably chewed by mice. The clock read 1:00 in the morning. It was dark and silent, almost comforting with no one shouting or screeching to get work done. He rubbed his sleep filled eyes and took a deep breath. He smiled. A soft smile which made him look just a little bit healthier, made him the 7 year old he was.
Author's Ramblings-
I know much of this is unintelligible. Please review. They motivate me to continue