Rated T: This chapter contains child abuse

(Disclaimer: don't own, never will, don't plan to. Just doing it for fun.)

I'm sorry this chapter is a little shorter than normal. Hope you enjoy it all the same!

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Chapter 20: Awakening

Morning rose after the Full Moon. In the Shrieking Shack, the child woke in confusion and agony. Harry felt nothing but pain; so much pain, but he wasn't sure why. He couldn't even open his eyes. He whimpered before he began to cry. Tears burned fresh scrapes on his face and his whole body ached and stung sharply. His bones throbbed worse than he could ever remember experiencing and his muscles felt as if they had been torn apart and then fallen back together. He couldn't move, he couldn't think, and he didn't want to wake up. But he began to shiver with cold and his bare skin burned with pain, pressed against the cold, gritty floor. Feeling horribly dizzy and confused, he wondered what had happened. Had Uncle Vernon come home in a bad mood last night and beat him again? He couldn't remember anything wrong he had done. He was sure he hadn't even taken any food from the rubbish. He couldn't remember ever feeling this awful after a beating before, but he automatically reached for his freakishness to heal his body, as he usually did. There wasn't much relief since he was so weak, but he was finally able to open his eyes and look around.

He was lying on his side near a grungy wall. There was a crooked staircase in his line of vision, and a dusty hallway. Faint rosy light was filtering down on him, but it was chilly and a breeze stroked his bare skin, making him shiver painfully. He could smell fresh blood and a musky, dog-like scent. Blinking and squinting, he managed to turn his head a fraction and looked down at himself. He was naked; his thin body was trembling with pain and streaked with drying blood, and more was slowly dripping from nasty-looking cuts and gashes on his ribs, legs, and arms. His older scars had not torn open, but they were painfully red. The boy wondered what in the world had happened to him. Uncle Vernon rarely drew so much blood, and he didn't think Dudley was even capable of this much damage and pain. Harry groaned softly and closed his eyes, forgetting about the why and how so he could concentrate again on his power. But no matter how hard he pushed at it, his cuts didn't respond very much. Harry was forced to let go of the Freakishness, gasping and crying with agony. He just wasn't strong enough to heal himself. He suddenly thought of the Professor, and wished with all his heart that the man were here to put his stinging, burning potions on his cuts and then soothe them with the cold slimy ointment.

He jerked in surprise as he heard the clear scrape of footfalls approaching from somewhere behind him. Harry tried to get up, to turn and see who was coming. Was it Uncle Vernon? He didn't recognize this place, but he couldn't remember what he was doing here. He was in so much pain that he could barely think, let alone reason. Terror caught his chest and squeezed his throat, and Harry screamed hoarsely, clutching uselessly at the cold, filthy floor to try and push himself upright. But he was too weak, and in too much pain. He flinched violently as a gentle hand touched his bare shoulder and carefully rolled him onto his back. Harry sobbed and kept his eyes closed. He was too exhausted to fight and in too much pain to even cover himself with his arms. His hands trembled weakly at his sides and convulsed as he struggled to grab hold of something. He could hear a soft voice somewhere above him, but his ears were ringing and he couldn't understand the words or recognize the voice. The stranger's hands gently examined his cuts, eliciting groans and whimpers from the suffering child. Harry felt a sudden wave of something foreign wash over him. It felt like some of the sensations he had experienced before when the Professor used magic on him. The cool breeze of magic settled into his aching body, easing his torment and sending him blissfully into darkness.

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Remus Lupin opened his eyes and slammed them closed again, grunting in pain. The sunlight was too bright and the rough ground under his naked body aggravated his aching, throbbing skin and muscles. The groggy confusion and dazed agony he was experiencing muddled his thinking for several minutes, and he breathed slowly as he pulled his pain under control. Guided by habit, he mentally marched backward in his memories before he immediately realized that it was just another Full Moon spent outside. Clenching his teeth with long practice, he fought the torment in his body as he slowly got to his feet. It had been a particularly bad night, he thought weakly as he glanced down at the fresh, bleeding gashes slashed all across his pale skin. He welcomed the pain as a just punishment and felt a grim satisfaction in the blinding agony. It was well-deserved.

He almost smiled in relief as he suddenly realized that he would soon be able to shed his miserable existence. Severus Snape would be free before long, and he could count on the sadistic Potions Master to kill him properly for his sin against Lily's son. Harry had experienced unbelievable agony last night, and it was all his fault; as if the poor boy hadn't suffered enough.

Remus resolutely stood, steadied himself against a tree, and stumbled slowly down the mountain, instinctively headed toward his cabin. He needed clothing, and he needed to sponge the blood off his body. The cuts he would leave to heal on their own, welcoming the well-deserved pain of the raw flesh. As he stumbled his way from tree to tree, he clenched his jaw fiercely against groans of pain, and fought the tears of agony that threatened to pour from his watering eyes. He was overwhelmed with grief and guilt all over again as he thought of Harry. Was he alright this morning? Had his new Wolf hurt him too badly? He was certain that Dumbledore would have Madam Pomfrey take care of him. Back during his own days at school, the medi-witch had been so very comforting as she tended to his tormented body after the ravages of the Full Moon. Harry was in good hands.

Remus knew that his Wolf was upset because he wanted the boy in his pack, and Moony had not had a pack since … well, since the Marauders, anyway. Albus Dumbledore had ordered him to join Fenrir Greyback's pack briefly during the war, but Remus eventually fled to protect his own miserable life. Being the Omega of a large Werewolf pack was not an experience he wanted to repeat. He didn't count Greyback's pack anyway. He wasn't like that monster. Fenrir was a savage beast; a murderer, torturer, rapist, and sadist. He turned children and left them to be broken by their transformations before dragging them into his pack and turning them into monsters like himself. Remus wasn't like him. He wouldn't be like Fenrir Greyback. He refused.

But his most terrifying thought was that he really was like Greyback. He had infected Harry, and then abandoned him. His Wolf wanted Harry in his pack now, but was that such a terrible thing? He could remember the agony of loneliness that he had experienced as a child as the worst of his tortures. He had longed for an Alpha and a place to belong, for comfort and protection, for understanding and company. When James, Sirius, and Peter had joined him as Animagi, he had suddenly found himself with a pack. He could still remember the powerful relief and joy that had filled him on those nights of freedom, running through the Forbidden Forest. A Wolf, a stag, a Grim, and a rat had been the strangest pack Remus had ever heard of, but all he truly had wanted was not to be alone anymore.

Cold sweat broke out on Remus' burning skin as he wondered if perhaps he was making a dreadful mistake, seeking out his death in reparation for his guilt. Was it his rightful punishment after all? It would be far more torturous to go on living, to atone for his sin, to look into the gold-streaked eyes of Harry, knowing that he was the Werewolf who had tainted the child and infected him with a curse. After all, who else would help the boy? It wasn't as if there were any animagi around to keep him company during Full Moons, besides Padfoot, of course. But Sirius (if he was truly innocent) would not be foolish enough to join Harry if Dumbledore was keeping an eye on him during Full Moons. His pup was all alone. Remus stopped and leaned against a smooth, tall tree trunk, clutching his head in one hand as he struggled with the force of his thoughts. Did he deserve to die for infecting Harry? Certainly. But would his dying only make things worse for the child? Perhaps. Sirius would help Harry, but it would require Severus Snape to either never return to the boy, or to accept and hide the Azkaban escapee. But if Remus could overcome his own pitiful self-loathing and guilty conscience to care for the child he had hurt …

Remus lifted his head, suddenly making a decision. He was normally a weak man, but his Wolf was not weak. The Wolf was strong and authoritative. Remus Lupin could call on the Wolf's assertiveness and add to it his own grief and humility. He would face Severus Snape, and Albus Dumbledore, and Harry, and likely Sirius Black as well. He would confess his wrong and accept their judgment. He would not beg for death (or even Azkaban) as he longed to do and as he surely deserved, but he would beg them to choose what they felt would be best for his pup. Harry did not choose this, but he did not deserve to be punished further by the Werewolf curse. He did not deserve to be alone.

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Harry opened his eyes, surprised to find himself in less pain. His body was swathed in bandages and soft pajamas. He was lying in a clean, white bed, covered with warm blankets, with a soft pillow under his head. He blinked up at the high, unfamiliar ceiling and turned his head, looking for something to tell him where he was. His bed was surrounded by other beds. High windows let in cheerful sunlight that seemed to be bright enough to make the hour sometime close to noon. It all seemed a little bit familiar and he suddenly wondered why he was here.

Footsteps clicked rapidly toward him and Harry blinked up at the familiar lady who bustled up to him with a kind smile on her plump face.

"You're awake," Madam Pomfrey said softly, laying her soft hand on his forehead. "How are you feeling, dear?"

"Th-thirsty," Harry croaked, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He couldn't remember what had brought him here. Was the Professor nearby? Had his return to the Dursleys been nothing but a fevered dream? He was almost certain that his Uncle had beaten him. Maybe the Professor caught them beating him and brought him to the School Infirmary. Harry opened his mouth to the water glass Madam Pomfrey held to his lips. She gave him a couple of nasty-tasting potions, which he recognized as a fever reducer and a painkiller.

"You're healing nicely," the medi-witch gently informed him. "I think you'll be good to go this very afternoon."

Harry blinked in confusion. "The P-Professor?" he asked hoarsely.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head with a kind smile. "I haven't seen him for some days, but I haven't really been here. I'm surprised he isn't hovering over you."

Harry shook his head and shut his eyes, going back over his memories. Suddenly he remembered the Shrieking Shack and his transformation last night. Wolves and a man with golden eyes … He jerked in shock, his head throbbing at the sudden influx of new memories. His clothes and the little flower from the Professor were still in the rickety house!

"The flower," Harry croaked, trying to sit up. "The … Professor's f-flower. I left it. M-my clothes …"

"Albus picked up everything of yours when he fetched you this morning," Madam Pomfrey soothed him, gently pressing him back down and tucking the blanket around him. "Take another nap and you'll feel so much better when you wake up, alright? I'm sure Professor Snape will be by later."

Harry wanted to fight her, to protest that he knew the Professor was gone, that he remembered everything now; but he was too exhausted. The potion in his stomach was easing some of the burning pain in his skin and he was feeling sleepy and groggy. Before he could even protest, his eyes slid shut and he tumbled away into sleep.

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Severus Snape could not say that it was altogether horrible to be back home, but it was so much later than he had anticipated. The sun would set soon and he had been filling out forms and answering questions all day long. The Ministry's fondness for paperwork had to have been invented as a form of torture. Severus could attest to the fact that prolonged exposure to stuffy bureaucrats and lengthy paper forms was enough to drive anyone mad. He also resented the fact that Dumbledore had divulged his address to the Auror Department. It wasn't so bad to be given a one-time-use portkey directly to his home since he was obviously too exhausted to apparate home, but it was disconcerting to realize that the Ministry had a clear record on where he lived now.

He was still angry with the Headmaster for any number of reasons and had no wish to speak with the old man anytime soon. He just wanted to go to Surrey and see Harry, if Remus had not succeeded in taking him away from there. The boy was likely in rough shape after last night. But Severus had been in custody for a week and a half and he had only been allowed two brief showers in all that time. He had not had a change of clothes or a proper wash and he decided that he may as well take care of himself first. Unhappy as he was to leave the suffering boy for one more minute with those hateful muggles, he didn't really want to go as he was, exhausted, dirty, and certainly not looking very intimidating.

Severus wandered upstairs, propping open a couple of windows to alleviate the stuffiness of the house. Stepping into his bedroom, he was surprised to note that the bed had been made very neatly. He wondered if Harry had made the bed. It was unlikely that Dumbledore would bother to do something like that, so it left his little houseguest. It was rather touching to think of that small boy making sure the house was neat and clean before he left.

After his shower, (a long, hot shower which nearly put him to sleep) he decided to do laundry. The short note left on his dryer made him stop. Harry had apparently washed laundry, made the bed, and tidied the house before he left to return to the torment of his relatives. Severus was not sure he knew many eight year olds who would do something so … thoughtful. Thinking of the boy made anxiety pool up in his gut again. What was the old man thinking of, sending Harry back to those vile muggles? Honestly, Severus was a little surprised at the ferocity of his own thoughts. But he couldn't help but feel protective toward the child. Potter or not, he was Lily's child too, and hadn't Snape sworn to help Harry if only for the sake of his mother? He couldn't imagine Lily willingly leaving her son to the care of Petunia, so why should he go along with it?

Dumbledore was a much wiser man than he, Severus knew that. But he also knew that the Headmaster was not all-powerful. Albus Dumbledore was a leader, and he thought too much like a general. He lost sight of the trees for the forest. Severus refused allow the old man to make yet another dreadful mistake. In neglecting Tom Riddle, he allowed Voldemort to rise. In ignoring Severus Snape in favour of the Gryffindors, Dumbledore unwittingly drove the young man to the Death Eaters. Severus did not want to see what tragedy would befall Harry Potter, thanks to the old man's blindness and bad judgment. No man knew better than Severus Snape the damage childhood abuse could inflict. He refused to let the boy continue to suffer if he had any power to help. If the magical world was powerless to do anything, Severus knew that he did have the option to involve muggles. To the ordinary folk, Harry would just be one more unfortunate child abuse case in a thousand, and there would be no danger in allowing muggle law enforcement to take the boy away from that house. Or would there be? The biggest problem with that idea was that Severus didn't really know how muggles handled that sort of thing. What would happen to Harry while his relatives were being investigated? Would he end up in an overcrowded, underfunded orphanage? Would he be put with neglectful, possibly abusive, foster families, further harming the child instead of helping him? Would Snape even be allowed to care for the child after the fact? There were too many unknowns and Severus was suddenly wary of involving muggles at all.

One thing was certain: Severus needed Dumbledore on his side. He couldn't afford to work at odds with the old man, no matter how angry he felt. He was powerless and uncertain on his own. His grand dreams of taking the child and fleeing to New Zealand evaporated like the mirages they were. He was watched too closely on account of his Dark Mark and he would never be able to leave England with a boy in his care when everybody knew he wasn't married. He really couldn't afford to be thrown in Azkaban for kidnapping if his entire goal was protecting Harry. He needed allies. Harry was simply too important to far too many people to be treated like any other child. Dumbledore was the boy's magical guardian, and if he could convince the old man of the truth, it would go a long way to helping Harry. It would help the boy much more than simply running away. Despite how it irked his pride, he clenched his jaw and determined to go have a word with the Headmaster as soon as he made himself presentable.

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Padfoot crouched in the shadows behind a rubbish can and peered at the deceptively quiet house across the street. He had been watching number 4, Privet Drive since early morning and the sun was about to set. Moving silently between shadows all day long, crawling under stinking vehicles, and crouching behind bushes that made him sneeze all in an effort to keep out of muggle sight was not a comfortable way to stake out his target, but he was determined to do this right. The last straw, honestly, had been spotting Albus Dumbledore himself. Sirius about had a heart attack, but just in time, he realized that he looked just like any stray dog, and there was no way the old man would recognize him. All the same, he stayed where he was, crouched under two very low trees in a next door yard, feeling his canine heart hammering at his ribs. He knew better than to break cover and run anyway.

The old man, dressed in a colorful suit that was so bright it burned his retinas to look at it too long, came striding confidently up the sidewalk, holding the hand of a small, messy-haired boy. Harry plodded along behind the Headmaster with a bowed head and a resigned air. His movements indicated pain and exhaustion, and Padfoot nearly growled and rushed out to protect his pup, but he held himself still, snarling slightly. Couldn't the old fool see how tired Harry looked? How his feet dragged and stumbled? Couldn't he see the boy wincing with every step? Did the old man even care? Padfoot watched, his teeth showing in a snarl, as Dumbledore exchanged pleasantries with the boy's Aunt, handed the reluctant child over like a lamb to the slaughter, and sauntered off back down the street with a satisfied air. Padfoot shut his eyes and crouched down, using every ounce of willpower to keep himself from leaping out in a bloody fury. He ordered himself fiercely to stay hidden, to act like a Marauder on the Prank trail … and it worked. When he was calm enough and opened his eyes, the Headmaster was gone and Padfoot was safe, meaning that soon, Harry would be safe as well. He peered grimly out at number 4. His plan was still in place.

The vile woman sent Harry back outside to paint the fence, despite his obvious exhaustion, and the dog growled softly. If he dared, he would tear that woman's throat out tonight. But patience and cunning were needed now, unless he wanted to get Harry in even more trouble. Think like a Marauder, he ordered himself fiercely. James is counting on you!

He anxiously watched the child painting the fence all afternoon, fully prepared to throw his hiding place to hell if the boy looked like he was about to pass out or something, even though Harry's Aunt was watching him from the front window. His heart ached with sympathy for his godson as he watched the child's slow, painful movements. The only thing keeping him sane and hidden was the grim thought that by tomorrow, number 4 Privet Drive and the Dursleys would be nothing more than a bad memory. He was fully determined to carry out this kidnapping to the best of his abilities. It would be the greatest heist in the history of the Marauders.

The afternoon was nearly gone before Harry's overweight Uncle returned home and viciously dragged the boy into the house, leaving the bucket of whitewash behind. Padfoot's healing shoulder throbbed suddenly at the memory of that lard-bucket firing the muggle weapon at him mere days ago. He growled softly and fought the bloodthirsty urge to leap on the abusive bully and teach him a lesson for hurting his godson and shooting him. Tonight, he told himself fiercely. Wait until tonight. It was absolutely important that he leave everyone unharmed, or else the police from both worlds would be after him. Harry would disappear mysteriously, and not even Albus Dumbledore, (may his beard turn into a noose and choke him!) would ever be able to find the child. Sirius would care for his pup as he ought to have years ago. Now that Harry was a Werewolf, (turned by Moony, the filthy traitor!) the boy would need someone who knew how being a creature like that went. Who better than Padfoot to teach him the laws of the pack?

The dog glanced up at the dim purple sky and decided it was time to find a new hiding place. Slowly, Padfoot crawled away from the rubbish can, slunk across the street, and crouched in the shadow of the Dursleys' garden shed. He settled down to wait, resting in the cool grass and watching the glowing windows of the house. Soon, Padfoot would make his move. He could only hope that his pup was well enough for the escape.

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Harry's hands trembled as he washed the last of the supper dishes. His body still ached abominably from last night, despite the potions Madam Pomfrey had given him, but he was dutifully doing his chores anyway. His Aunt couldn't abide laziness and neither could his Uncle, and Harry really wanted to avoid making them mad tonight. He just wanted to hurry up and finish so he could go hide in his cupboard until tomorrow. His blanket and old mattress sounded quite cozy right now.

The telly was blaring away in the sitting room where Dudley was watching a show, Aunt Petunia was gossiping on the phone, and Uncle Vernon was watching him from the kitchen doorway, glaring all the while. Harry didn't know what he had done to earn his uncle's attention, but it made him nervous. His whole body throbbed with exhaustion, even though he hadn't been working very hard today at all. After Madam Pomfrey declared him well enough to go after lunch, the bearded Headmaster had simply whisked him off without even letting him beg to see his Professor one last time. They never got to say good-bye, after all. But the old man said the Professor was busy and they had to get back to Privet Drive before Black found him.

They fireplace-jumped to Mrs. Figg's again, and she wasn't home. Harry still remembered the strange (and terrifying) conversation he had with the old man as they walked down the street.

"Harry, have you noticed any strangers watching your home?"

Harry had shaken his head, bewildered by the question and too tired to answer properly.

"I noticed some magic at your house the other day and it didn't really look accidental," Dumbledore went on calmly. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone, Harry? Or did you cause any magic?"

"No sir, I didn't," Harry had whispered, his heart thumping in his chest as he thought of his Werewolf. But Snuffles ran him off, so he shouldn't be causing any more trouble. Besides, Harry knew that the old man was talking about the escaped criminal, not the Werewolf-man. He felt a little guilty lying to Dumbledore, but he didn't think it was a total lie because the old man wasn't even talking about the Werewolf, and Harry hadn't done anything Freaky, no matter what Aunt Petunia said.

"Well, Harry," the Headmaster said kindly, and seriously. "If you see any strangers hanging around, you ought to tell your Aunt. Black is still out there and he still wants to hurt you. If he finds you, we need to protect you, alright?"

Harry had nodded and that was the end of their conversation. Dumbledore had looked thoughtful as they went on up the street, but he didn't ask any other questions before he left Harry at number 4, and it was back to life as usual. Aunt Petunia forced him to change his clothes again, but she was busy with something in the kitchen and Harry was able to change in the privacy of his cupboard. He hid the nice clothes under his little mattress and went outside to paint the fence in his cousin's oversized hand-me-downs. It was nice weather outside and Harry really didn't mind. It was a quiet afternoon and nobody bothered him. But when Uncle Vernon came home …

Harry wiped down the kitchen counters, nervously avoiding his uncle's glare. He really didn't understand why his Uncle was so interested in watching him clean up. After he got dragged inside earlier and clouted on the ear for being a lazybones and an idle brat, Uncle Vernon let him go and ignored him the way he always did. But now …

"Hurry it up, brat," Uncle Vernon growled from the doorway. "You're working too slow, you lazy good-for-nothing."

"Y-yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry whispered. His heart banged against his ribs and he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hands shook with nerves and he fought the tears burning his eyes. He never used to cry so much, but after the Professor, who let him cry as much as he wanted and never told him to stuff it or shut up, it seemed like Harry's eyes were permanently leaking. He just felt so miserable. All he wanted to do right now was curl up under his blanket and sleep for as long as he could.

He opened the dish cupboard and slid the dried plates in, then went back for the salad bowls. But his trembling hands didn't grip one of the slippery bowls tight enough and it fell, shattering spectacularly on the kitchen floor. Harry yelped in fright and clapped both hands over his ears as he dropped the towel. In terror, he tried to run, but Uncle Vernon caught him. It wasn't as if there was anywhere to run anyway. The laundry room and the back door were the only things in that direction. Harry squirmed in his Uncle's grip and cried ad apologized incoherently. He couldn't understand any of the ugly words that his uncle was using because his ears were ringing with panic. He just needed to apologize, to make it better, and maybe he wouldn't be punished as bad.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Harry sobbed, trying to shield his head from his Uncle's furious slaps. "I'm sorry, Uncle; I'm really sorry! I'll clean it up, I'll be good, I promise!"

"You ungrateful Freak!" Aunt Petunia's voice screeched as she joined them in the kitchen. "What did he break now?"

"One of the salad bowls," Uncle Vernon answered with a sneer. "Dropped it on purpose, the disgusting ingrate. Didn't like me cracking the whip in here."

"I'm so sick and tired of you and your tricks, boy!" Aunt Petunia shouted, slapping him hard while Uncle Vernon held him up by the back of his shirt. "After all we do for you, this is how you treat us? Get your hands off your face! Don't you dare block me!"

"I'm s-sorry, Aunt P-Petunia," Harry sobbed helplessly, clenching his fists in his T-shirt and struggling not to hide from the next slap that split his lip wide open. Blood dripped down his chin and stained his shirt. His whole face hurt from Uncle Vernon's smacks earlier and his head was swimming dizzily. "I a-am g-grateful, r-really; I'm s-sorry!"

"Thrash him properly, Vernon," Aunt Petunia hissed. She grabbed Harry's face viciously with her strong fingers, her nails pressing painfully into his cheeks. "And then, Freak," she spat the word in Harry's face like a curse word. "You can have a week in your cupboard to think about your behavior! We'll see if that curbs your attitude! I can't believe you keep being such a brat after all we've done to teach you your place!"

Uncle Vernon dragged him roughly upstairs and threw him into Dudley's extra room. Harry scrambled for a corner, though that was hard since the room was so crowded with old junk that didn't interest Dudley anymore. Harry curled up, shaking and apologizing frantically as Uncle Vernon shut the door and unbuckled his belt, his eyes practically glowing with glee.

"You should be grateful, boy," Uncle Vernon sneered. "We do our best to make you a good boy, but all you do is fight. You're a lazy, ungrateful, disobedient little brat, and you ought to be glad we didn't give you up to an orphanage years ago. You think they would treat you as good as we do? We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, brat; and you constantly show us how ungrateful you are."

"I'm s-s-sorry, Un-Uncle," Harry sobbed helplessly. "I d-don't mean t-to be b-bad."

"Get over here right now," Uncle Vernon growled. "If you're really sorry, you'll show it, won't you?"

Harry somehow managed to uncurl himself from the corner, he staggered over to his uncle, sobbing and apologizing with every breath. He knew what was expected of him and somehow, he managed to make his shaking fingers unbutton his jeans and strip off his shirt for his punishment. He dropped his shirt on the ground and his jeans around his ankles before he pressed his hands to the wall.

"Those are some ugly scars," Uncle Vernon suddenly sneered. "Think anybody'll notice if you get a few more?"

Harry shivered in terror and slowly turned to look up at the hulking man. "P-please, Uncle V-Vernon …"

"Nope, I don't think anybody will care," his uncle snorted, suddenly grinning again. He raised the belt, and Harry shut his eyes and hunched his shoulders, but he didn't dare raise a hand to protect himself. He knew better.

His uncle wielded the belt with precision, laying fiery stripes across his bare back and legs until Harry could barely stand. The blazing welts burned across his backside, from his shoulders all the way down to the backs of his knees, (some might have been bleeding) and somehow Harry managed to stay standing. But it was a near thing. He felt so dizzy by the time the thrashing finished that he could barely cry anymore, and when his uncle jerked his arm, he crumpled to the ground, screaming hoarsely in pain. He couldn't think, he couldn't see, and all he could feel was pain. His skin was on fire and he wanted to hide. Something else was howling in his head with the pain, and Harry suddenly thought of the broken shack with the shattered furniture before he shoved the howling thing back. He wouldn't let his freakishness get in the way here. He couldn't let his uncle see what a real monster he was. He deserved to be punished and he wouldn't fight back. Besides, he knew he would just get punished again if he fought back.

Harry opened his eyes. He was moaning and whimpering, but his voice was scratching his throat and sounded squeaky. Uncle Vernon didn't seem to be in the room, and that was odd. He tried to get up, to go back to his cupboard where he was supposed to be, but the door suddenly opened and he could recognize his uncle's heavy feet and his grumbling. Harry choked on more tears of terror as his Uncle, (still grumbling under his breath about Petunia and Freaks) grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down the stairs. Harry tried to get back on his feet, but his back was on fire and he could barely move. He clenched his teeth and tried not to whimper too much as his legs were bruised on the steps and his arm was jerked almost out of its socket.

After an eternity of thumping down the stairs, he was flung into his cupboard and the door was slammed and locked. Harry crawled dizzily to his feet, determined to find something to wear so he didn't have to sleep naked, and groped for the light switch.

Click.

Nothing. Uncle Vernon had left him alone upstairs so he could come down to unscrew his lightbulb, leaving him in the dark for a week. They did that sometimes, and even though Harry wasn't necessarily afraid of the dark, it freaked him out to be left in the cupboard like this for days without a lightbulb. It was the last straw for the exhausted boy. He fell on the door, shrieking, kicking and pounding and clawing frantically at it, begging to be let out, promising that he would be good, and pleading for help. He didn't know when his croaking sobs turned to pleading, but he knew that he wasn't picturing Aunt Petunia, or Uncle Vernon, or even Dudley coming to his aid. He was pleading for his Professor to come find him again, to pull him out of this nightmare, to hold him and rock him and call him a silly brat for being so afraid of a bad dream.

"Prof-fess-ssor …" Harry croaked helplessly, hiccupping on his sobs. His mind swirled in confusion, he was falling into darkness, and his body slid slowly to the floor. The small boy shivered with pain and fear. He was chilled from the sweat drying on his skin and his teeth chattered together from cold. "'M s-sorry; s-sorry for b-bein' b-bad." The child coughed painfully, unable to cry anymore. "P-please d-don't l-leave m-me, P-Prof-fessor …"

He curled up on the floor, still shivering, and fell into an unconscious state that could hardly be called sleep, dreaming of wolves and a walrus with a belt, and a Professor with a black cloak who stood by and watched the walrus beat him. Then the wolves ate him until he died and was thrown into a pit of darkness because he was too bad to go to heaven.

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I know, I know, another evil cliffhanger. But I promise things will get better for out poor Harry very soon.

As always, thank you so much for your reviews and your love. You guys are awesome and thanks for reading!