It is a horrible ordeal to awaken to pain, for in those vast seconds in which the mind returns from its dream trance, the pain overrides all other sensations. Suddenly, the most serene dreams take a dreadful turn, adjusting the body to the nightmare to which it will wake. We do not drift. We fall. And the body jerks to wakefulness to avoid the hard realization that it will die.
Harry awoke in such a state, falling helplessly through an airy abyss before landing with a jolt upon his bed. His eyes whipped open, and for a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming. He reached for his glasses, but gasped at the pain shooting through his arm. He was most certainly awake now.
The boy sat up, cradling his right arm with his left, and turned sideways so he could reach his glasses. Before he even slipped them on, he knew what he would see.
His forearm was swollen. Not much, but enough to be painful. It was his wrist and hand that worried him. The wrist was swollen to twice its original size and had turned a grayish-purple over night. His hand and fingers were also swollen enough that he could not make a fist, could barely bend his fingers. His pinkie and ring finger were a deep purple.
Gingerly, Harry touched the swollen areas. He could feel nothing but pain, which seemed to shoot up his entire arm. A gasp escaped his throat before he bit hard on his bottom lip to keep from crying out. Without any magical provisions to help him, he'd have to fix it the Muggle way. He slipped from his bed and stole downstairs to get some ice for his hand.
Unfortunately, the Dursley's were already gathered in the kitchen. He walked past them toward the icebox, praying none would care to take notice of him.
"What do you think you're doing?" he heard as he opened the freezer door. Uncle Vernon stared hard at him over the top of the newspaper.
"I- My wrist is swollen. I was getting some ice."
"And what were you doing when you hurt your wrist?" Dudley asked innocently.
Harry stared daggers at Dudley, then looked pointedly at his uncle.
"I hurt it getting out of the car yesterday," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Aunt Petunia grabbed his swollen hand roughly, wrenching a cry from Harry, and glanced at the arm.
"Stop sniveling. It's not that bad." She placed the spatula in his left hand. "Finish stirring the eggs. And mind you, don't let them burn." She shuffled over to Dudley and wrapped her arms around his round shoulders. "Today is Dudleykin's first day back home, and I want to make it extra special." Dudley smiled angelically up at his mother, then sneered at Harry.
Harry sighed and turned toward the eggs. He couldn't grip the spatula with his right hand (it hurt enough without anything touching it), so he had to stir with his left. He moved the eggs awkwardly around the pan, spattering them on the stovetop more than once, and surreptitiously wiping at them with a nearby hand-towel. Unable to life the pan and serve the eggs, he retrieved the plates from the table, sat them on the counter, and shoveled the food onto them. It was in returning them to the table, one by one, that the morning took a turn for the worse.
As Harry lifted Dudley's overfilled plate to the table, his cousin suddenly kicked his chair out, hitting Harry's swollen arm, which he had kept close to his chest. Harry screamed, dropping the plate onto the table and clutching his injured arm. The plate hit the edge of the table, and broke on the floor, scattering bits of egg and bacon across the clean tile.
"Look what you've done, you idiot!" Uncle Vernon screamed, cuffing Harry on the base of the head hard enough to knock his glasses off. Harry stood gasping and blinking, trying to blink away the spots that danced before his eyes.
"My glasses," he gasped, scanning the floor for their outline.
CRACK!
"Here they are, Harry," Dudley announced, dropping the twisted frame and a lens into his hands. Harry lifted them to his face, but they wouldn't even stay on. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as the fury set in.
"You broke my glasses!" Harry yelled at his obese cousin. "You broke them on purpose!"
"Don't you yell at Dudley!" Uncle Vernon bellowed.
"You fat cow!" Harry continued, unable to stop the words that erupted from his mouth. "You fat muggle-brained –" The vase on the table shattered.
"HARRY!"
"Ugly git of a-"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Vernon roared, hitting Harry hard on the side of the head. Harry's head hit the table as he went down. The boy slid across the floor, his ears ringing, his face burning. When he turned and looked up, he saw the crimson blob of Uncle Vernon's face descending on him. He grabbed the boy by his collar and dragged him out of the room, snarling at Petunia and Dudley to stay where they were.
Harry struggled against his uncle's grip, fighting to breathe despite the fabric of his shirt tearing into his throat. Vernon only released him when they were back in Harry's room. He shut the door behind him, then turned to face his nephew, who was lying in a pile on the floor, gasping for breath and rubbing at his throat.
"How dare you threaten my family," Vernon said, in a terrifyingly calm voice. "After all I've done for you since your parents died- taken you in, fed you, clothed you. And how do you repay me? By threatening my own son!"
"I didn't threaten him!" Harry yelled.
"So now you're calling me a liar, eh?"
"No, sir." Harry pushed himself away from Vernon with his legs until his back slid up against the bed. It wasn't far enough. Vernon's massive paw wrapped itself around Harry's throat, holding it just tight enough to make breathing difficult, but without actually cutting off the airflow. His large face was a few inches from Harry's.
"I could squeeze right now and end your miserable little life."
"And a great many wizards would hunt you down to answer for that," Harry replied, trying to restrain the fear from creeping into his voice.
"Why? Because you're Harry bloody Potter?" The hand tightened.
"No. Because you'd be a murderer." The hand loosened. Harry breathed deep, trying to replenish the oxygen in his lungs, and fell over coughing. He buried his face in the crook of his left arm as his body convulsed in its attempts to draw more air.
"You think you're better than us, don't you?" Vernon continued. "Because you're a little freak who waves around a stick and makes things happen. You think you can do anything you like while you're in this house." He brought the heel of his shoe down hard on Harry's right hand, throwing all of his weight behind it. "You can't do magic if you can't hold a wand!"
Harry didn't hear the last exclamation. His brain was filled with the white flashes of tormentuous pain.
"Stand up, boy!" his uncle roared. Even had he wanted to, Harry could not move. Vernon landed a swift kick to Harry's ribs. "I said stand up!" He landed another swift kick in Harry's ribs, then stomped down heavily on the boy's lower back. "Get up, boy!" He grabbed the back of Harry's shirt and dragged him to his feet. Harry stumbled backward, unable to support himself on his own legs.
Thoughts were unclear. Hands sought anything solid to hold him. His rubbery legs carried him a step toward the door before Vernon's fist collided with his face. Harry fell to the floor again, coughing hard and spitting the blood from his mouth. He was drowning.
"You want to run away again?" Was he drowning? The sound seemed to be traveling over a great distance. Harry tried to push himself up, to face his attacker- his uncle. The shadow loomed over him. "You want to be on your own? Be my guest. This time, don't come back!" He grabbed the back of Harry's shirt and carried him out of the room and down the hallway. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he addressed the boy for the last time. "Get out of my house!" he roared, shoving him off the top step of the long flight of stairs.
Harry felt weightless for just a moment, before he heard a woman screaming. He thought it was his mother for a short instant. Then his body turned in midair and he saw the stairs rushing up at him, and he thought no more.