Title: Love Not Wanted
Author: CR
Summary: A very young Harry reaches out for affection, with results both disastrous and great.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter, I'm just indulging in some character exploration.
Feedback: Just be gentle. BTW, thank you for all the wonderful reviews of my last story.(Foolish Gryffindor Son).glad I could make you all cry. Erm..I think you all know what I mean. : )
The four year old watched from across the room as the heavy-set boy and his mother cuddled on the couch. For a while, the mother seemed determined to read to her child, but the appeal of the television set could not be denied and she didn't bother to pick up the book that the chubby boy had thrown yet again.
He bided his time, waiting until his aunt seemed distracted and dozy enough not to notice his slow progress across the room. Doing his best not to create a disturbance, he carefully climbed up himself, but kept as far away from them as he could. Still his presence when unnoticed.
It wasn't long before mother and son were both sleeping. He was safe to move a little bit closer and did so, moving so gradually that he barely seemed to be moving at all. By this time he was quite tired himself, and he took another cautious glance at his aunt's face before he made up his mind. Reassured by her inattention and drawn to the warmth of her body, warmth that he found both welcoming and surprising, he leaned against her.
The reaction was instantaneous. She shrieked, shoving him roughly back onto the floor, not caring that his head had hit the edge of the coffee table. Dudley started to cry so loudly and heavily that his own tears of pain paled in comparison.
She was busy trying to comfort her son even as the pain at the back of his head seemed to worsen. He glared at the offending table, wishing it would just go away and make the world a safer place for little boys everywhere.
It did.
Then she started to yell words that he didn't fully understand. He didn't know what it meant to be a freak, or what he'd done that made him one (after all, it wasn't as if he had moved the table himself, someone had just taken it away) but he knew that it was bad. Somewhere in the angrily spoken words he heard that he was just as stupid and weird as his mother had been. He didn't understand this either. His aunt was a mother, and she didn't seem stupid. He wasn't sure what it was to be weird, but it didn't sound good. And he didn't even know his mother, so she couldn't have taught him how to be weird.
The last words he understood all too well, having heard them all his life. Following his aunt's orders, he marched off to his cupboard, trying so hard to ignore the pain in his head that he didn't even hear her slam the lock home.
Hours later, he still couldn't figure out what he'd done to make her so angry. He thought it had a lot to do with the table, but she had been angry even before that. All he had wanted to do was the same thing Dudley always did. She seemed to like it when her son snuggled with her, why was he any different? Somewhere in his young mind, he knew he'd done it before, had once been snuggled and held close to a soft, warm body instead of being pushed away.
He wished he could remember who it had been.
Heavy footsteps announced the presence of his uncle and he shook with fear as he heard the lock slide open, blinking as the light hit his eyes. He was still seeing spots when he was grabbed roughly by the arm and dragged out into the hallway.
"What did you do boy?"
"I dunno." It was the truth, but his uncle didn't seem convinced.
"Where's my table?"
"It hurt me and someone took it away." A small rush of satisfaction filled him. No one ever did anything for him, so he was glad that they'd done so this time.
His arm was squeezed even more tightly now, and he was unable to keep from crying out.
"You're a filthy little liar." His uncle looked like he was about to get even angrier before a strange smile appeared on his face. Encouraged, he smiled back hesitantly. "Your aunt tells me that you wanted to sit beside her."
He nodded excitedly, wondering if Uncle Vernon would be willing to let him do it instead.
Then the smile seemed to get scarier, the grip stronger, and he tried to back away. "What's the matter boy? I thought you wanted to be close to us."
"But you're being mean. I just wanted." he trailed off, fearful of the reaction his words would get. He'd waited so long before trying to get close to his aunt, and he wanted so badly for them to see this, to see what it meant to him.
"Well come on boy, spit it out. We can't give it to you if you don't ask." Uncle Vernon sounded so cheerful now that he thought he must have imagined his earlier fear.
Twisting his fingers awkwardly, he smiled shyly up at the man. "I wanted her to l-love me like she loves Dudley."
Silence fell and seemed to last forever before Uncle Vernon reacted. But the reaction wasn't what he'd been expecting. Instead of reaching out to hug him as he so often saw his uncle do to Dudley, he laughed. Not the kindly laughter that he heard when Dudley had done something his uncle and aunt thought was "cute". This was a cold laugh, the one he heard whenever he did something stupid or clumsy, or when his aunt had caught their neighbors doing something embarrassing.
Uncle Vernon was still laughing, but finally spoke again. "Why would we love a freaky little runt like you?"
He was pushed back into his cupboard and the door was again locked up after him.
He listened as his uncle walked towards the kitchen. He listened as his aunt joined in the laughter. And he knew it was him they were laughing at.
Tears long held in check started to pour down his cheeks, and he had to use his over-sized shirtsleeve to wipe them away. He ran out of tears long before he ran out of anger and hurt, but he wasn't sure who it was directed at. Was it at himself, for being stupid enough to ask for something so ridiculous, or his family for not wanting to give it to him?
Was his uncle right?
Then he remembered the table. The table had hurt him and someone had taken it away. Surely that someone must love him. Maybe it was even the same person who he had been allowed to snuggle with. He remembered the warmth and was sure this was so. He didn't need his aunt and uncle anyway, and he definitely didn't need his pig of a cousin. They were the stupid ones.
Smiling now, he stretched out on his cot and fell asleep, dreaming of a pretty woman with red hair and a man who had messy black hair and wore glasses just like his.
**
Wanting one last glimpse of his nephew's misery before he went to bed, Vernon was surprised to see him asleep and content. He frowned suspiciously before shutting the door and locking it. No sense letting the brat follow through on the mischief he was undoubtedly planning.
But his confusion then was nothing compared to what he felt the next day when his nephew didn't even spare any of them a glance. When he didn't react to their loud and showy declarations of love for one another or care when they laughed at him.
Years passed and the brat grew up. He kept largely to himself, stayed silent and sullen most of the time, proving again and again how ungrateful he was. He protested when he had a punishment he foolishly insisted was unfair, but otherwise said little and asked for even less.
Vernon knew this should have satisfied him, but he'd seen the look in his nephew's eyes too many times. The boy was hiding something, and if he hadn't known for certain that the brat had no knowledge of what he truly was, Vernon would have sworn that his calm demeanor was only a cover for the power he could wield.
Whatever it was, it hardly seemed worth analyzing. But when the boy spoke out in uncharacteristic defiance or just ignored the miseries heaped upon him, Vernon found that he missed the helpless and pathetic little boy who had begged for love.
It just wasn't any fun, holding back that which was no longer wanted.
Author notes: I just wanted to explain why I ended the story the way I did. The Harry we meet in the first book is not resentful or angry towards people in general, though you could certainly understand it if he were. Nor is he afraid of them. He's unsure of himself and how he'll be treated, perhaps. And he seems surprised at first when others genuinely want to be friends with him. But he's also very open and willing to give people a chance. This indicated to me that Harry realizes that "his" muggles are just the exception to the rule and most people are actually worth getting to know, as is he. He must have somehow come to this realization early in life. This is just how I chose to show it. If this realization isn't something a 4 yr old could come to..well...I apologize..but it's been a while since I was 4 and I can't quite recall what my thought processes were at the time. : )
Author: CR
Summary: A very young Harry reaches out for affection, with results both disastrous and great.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter, I'm just indulging in some character exploration.
Feedback: Just be gentle. BTW, thank you for all the wonderful reviews of my last story.(Foolish Gryffindor Son).glad I could make you all cry. Erm..I think you all know what I mean. : )
The four year old watched from across the room as the heavy-set boy and his mother cuddled on the couch. For a while, the mother seemed determined to read to her child, but the appeal of the television set could not be denied and she didn't bother to pick up the book that the chubby boy had thrown yet again.
He bided his time, waiting until his aunt seemed distracted and dozy enough not to notice his slow progress across the room. Doing his best not to create a disturbance, he carefully climbed up himself, but kept as far away from them as he could. Still his presence when unnoticed.
It wasn't long before mother and son were both sleeping. He was safe to move a little bit closer and did so, moving so gradually that he barely seemed to be moving at all. By this time he was quite tired himself, and he took another cautious glance at his aunt's face before he made up his mind. Reassured by her inattention and drawn to the warmth of her body, warmth that he found both welcoming and surprising, he leaned against her.
The reaction was instantaneous. She shrieked, shoving him roughly back onto the floor, not caring that his head had hit the edge of the coffee table. Dudley started to cry so loudly and heavily that his own tears of pain paled in comparison.
She was busy trying to comfort her son even as the pain at the back of his head seemed to worsen. He glared at the offending table, wishing it would just go away and make the world a safer place for little boys everywhere.
It did.
Then she started to yell words that he didn't fully understand. He didn't know what it meant to be a freak, or what he'd done that made him one (after all, it wasn't as if he had moved the table himself, someone had just taken it away) but he knew that it was bad. Somewhere in the angrily spoken words he heard that he was just as stupid and weird as his mother had been. He didn't understand this either. His aunt was a mother, and she didn't seem stupid. He wasn't sure what it was to be weird, but it didn't sound good. And he didn't even know his mother, so she couldn't have taught him how to be weird.
The last words he understood all too well, having heard them all his life. Following his aunt's orders, he marched off to his cupboard, trying so hard to ignore the pain in his head that he didn't even hear her slam the lock home.
Hours later, he still couldn't figure out what he'd done to make her so angry. He thought it had a lot to do with the table, but she had been angry even before that. All he had wanted to do was the same thing Dudley always did. She seemed to like it when her son snuggled with her, why was he any different? Somewhere in his young mind, he knew he'd done it before, had once been snuggled and held close to a soft, warm body instead of being pushed away.
He wished he could remember who it had been.
Heavy footsteps announced the presence of his uncle and he shook with fear as he heard the lock slide open, blinking as the light hit his eyes. He was still seeing spots when he was grabbed roughly by the arm and dragged out into the hallway.
"What did you do boy?"
"I dunno." It was the truth, but his uncle didn't seem convinced.
"Where's my table?"
"It hurt me and someone took it away." A small rush of satisfaction filled him. No one ever did anything for him, so he was glad that they'd done so this time.
His arm was squeezed even more tightly now, and he was unable to keep from crying out.
"You're a filthy little liar." His uncle looked like he was about to get even angrier before a strange smile appeared on his face. Encouraged, he smiled back hesitantly. "Your aunt tells me that you wanted to sit beside her."
He nodded excitedly, wondering if Uncle Vernon would be willing to let him do it instead.
Then the smile seemed to get scarier, the grip stronger, and he tried to back away. "What's the matter boy? I thought you wanted to be close to us."
"But you're being mean. I just wanted." he trailed off, fearful of the reaction his words would get. He'd waited so long before trying to get close to his aunt, and he wanted so badly for them to see this, to see what it meant to him.
"Well come on boy, spit it out. We can't give it to you if you don't ask." Uncle Vernon sounded so cheerful now that he thought he must have imagined his earlier fear.
Twisting his fingers awkwardly, he smiled shyly up at the man. "I wanted her to l-love me like she loves Dudley."
Silence fell and seemed to last forever before Uncle Vernon reacted. But the reaction wasn't what he'd been expecting. Instead of reaching out to hug him as he so often saw his uncle do to Dudley, he laughed. Not the kindly laughter that he heard when Dudley had done something his uncle and aunt thought was "cute". This was a cold laugh, the one he heard whenever he did something stupid or clumsy, or when his aunt had caught their neighbors doing something embarrassing.
Uncle Vernon was still laughing, but finally spoke again. "Why would we love a freaky little runt like you?"
He was pushed back into his cupboard and the door was again locked up after him.
He listened as his uncle walked towards the kitchen. He listened as his aunt joined in the laughter. And he knew it was him they were laughing at.
Tears long held in check started to pour down his cheeks, and he had to use his over-sized shirtsleeve to wipe them away. He ran out of tears long before he ran out of anger and hurt, but he wasn't sure who it was directed at. Was it at himself, for being stupid enough to ask for something so ridiculous, or his family for not wanting to give it to him?
Was his uncle right?
Then he remembered the table. The table had hurt him and someone had taken it away. Surely that someone must love him. Maybe it was even the same person who he had been allowed to snuggle with. He remembered the warmth and was sure this was so. He didn't need his aunt and uncle anyway, and he definitely didn't need his pig of a cousin. They were the stupid ones.
Smiling now, he stretched out on his cot and fell asleep, dreaming of a pretty woman with red hair and a man who had messy black hair and wore glasses just like his.
**
Wanting one last glimpse of his nephew's misery before he went to bed, Vernon was surprised to see him asleep and content. He frowned suspiciously before shutting the door and locking it. No sense letting the brat follow through on the mischief he was undoubtedly planning.
But his confusion then was nothing compared to what he felt the next day when his nephew didn't even spare any of them a glance. When he didn't react to their loud and showy declarations of love for one another or care when they laughed at him.
Years passed and the brat grew up. He kept largely to himself, stayed silent and sullen most of the time, proving again and again how ungrateful he was. He protested when he had a punishment he foolishly insisted was unfair, but otherwise said little and asked for even less.
Vernon knew this should have satisfied him, but he'd seen the look in his nephew's eyes too many times. The boy was hiding something, and if he hadn't known for certain that the brat had no knowledge of what he truly was, Vernon would have sworn that his calm demeanor was only a cover for the power he could wield.
Whatever it was, it hardly seemed worth analyzing. But when the boy spoke out in uncharacteristic defiance or just ignored the miseries heaped upon him, Vernon found that he missed the helpless and pathetic little boy who had begged for love.
It just wasn't any fun, holding back that which was no longer wanted.
Author notes: I just wanted to explain why I ended the story the way I did. The Harry we meet in the first book is not resentful or angry towards people in general, though you could certainly understand it if he were. Nor is he afraid of them. He's unsure of himself and how he'll be treated, perhaps. And he seems surprised at first when others genuinely want to be friends with him. But he's also very open and willing to give people a chance. This indicated to me that Harry realizes that "his" muggles are just the exception to the rule and most people are actually worth getting to know, as is he. He must have somehow come to this realization early in life. This is just how I chose to show it. If this realization isn't something a 4 yr old could come to..well...I apologize..but it's been a while since I was 4 and I can't quite recall what my thought processes were at the time. : )