Author's Note: Harry gets hurt badly in the aftermath as a consequence of Snape's arrival. TW: Hints of blood and maybe a bruised or fractured rib, but there's nothing too gory. I do get detailed though, so if you're uncomfortable, just read what's under the break at the end of this chapter. The more plot heavy chapter is in the next one. Although I recommend this one for its focus on Harry and his fragile state.
Harry scanned where he could run next while avoiding other broken things his uncle had thrown at him, from clothes hangers to laundry detergent bottles, all lying on the floor. The man became easily infuriated that he had dodged to his best abilities earlier, waiting until he was tired to eventually tackle him. Harry fought, struggling to get the heavy man off him but a meaty fist connected with his jaw, leaving the scrawny boy sliding across the room, ending up slumped against the laundry machine. The left side of his chin was searing with pain, the back of his head throbbing from its collision to the metal with a bang. His vision sparked, seeing fuzzy stars in his haze. The punch had knocked his glasses somewhere Harry couldn't tell, although he had heard the clattering of the spectacles across the floor and the crunching of glass as his uncle got closer, targeting and playing with him like a cat with its prey.
"Where's that speed you had?" Vernon taunted, "I wonder if you can dodge this?" pounding a fist against the palm of his other hand.
Harry didn't answer for his own betterment, but he also didn't have any intention to become a punching bag, an unmovable piece of flesh and bones for Uncle Vernon to hit. Laundry was scattered everywhere and his only escape was going to be hard to reach, his bull of an uncle blocking the way. The only way to stun a bull if you were to be charged at would be to dodge. At least, that's what Harry remembered hearing from the snippet of Animal Planet while cooking breakfast a year before. The man was too close for dodging, however, and as much as he tried to get up, his legs burned, struggling to find the energy as fear paralyzed him. Harry prayed to whatever gods would help him in a tactical advantage. Uncle Vernon had a habit of messing with his cap before throwing a strong punch that required him to swing his entire body weight. Unfortunately, the boy had been on the unsavory end of that kind of punch twice for other serious misdemeanors that they found he slighted them for. Harry was certain he'd have exactly three seconds to get out of the playing field.
One, Harry counted in his head as his uncle did just that, fastening his cap before putting his foot back, ready to diverge power. Two. The powerful bull reeled his arm back, grinning as if he was about to win the lottery. "Three!" Harry shouted, ducking with ease, as his legs gave way to gravity and a cool whoosh of air passed above his head. A loud bang reverberated around the smooth room. His uncle's arm was extended out as if frozen in time.
"AAAH!" his uncle cried in pain, clutching his reddened hand and blowing on the back of his hand. The man's knuckles were white and there was a dent in the dryer side door where Harry's head would have been. "I'll get you for this!"
Harry scrambled to his feet, heading for the door. He didn't know where he was going to go, but getting out of harm's way was a must. Maybe reaching the park or Mrs. Figg's on Wisteria Walk would be a grace, even in the dark and cold or in the company of the batty lady and her horde of cats. His feet ran up the few steps that led to the wooden door. His hands closed over the copper doorknob, turning it. The door rattled, the knob barely moving, rigid no matter how much he jostled it.
"Come on, come on," Harry urged, his hands sweating and terror clutching his heart, his uncle stomping madly and dangerously close. The door was locked from inside the kitchen.
"You thought it'd be that easy?" his uncle guffawed, grabbing him by the back of his jumper and flinging him back onto the concrete, face first.
His teeth were fine but his nose wasn't. Although his hands and knees flew out to brace for the impact, his nose had hit the back of his hand hard in the impact. It roared in red fury, drops falling down his chin and onto the concrete and his jumper. He was glad the pain made him want to sneeze rather than warning him of it being broken. In an attempt to clear out his airway, he leaned back a bit, trying to swallow the blood before standing back up. It was a failed attempt, leaving him choking on the odd feeling of the iron tasting liquid trickling like a waterfall in the back of his throat, doubling over. Harry spit out some blood, dropping to his hands and knees again. Inside, Harry was twisted with a chuckle. His aunt would probably make him clean up the drops of red if he ever got out of the situation alive, he thought. His thoughts scattered, making jokes in an attempt to preserve himself and pretend he wasn't physically there. The boy was sure his body was screaming, telling him that he'd be bruised all over. He didn't bother with standing. There was no escape. He gave into his exhaustion, lying on the floor of the garage, his body and hands feeling the cool concrete. Harry remediated himself with a moment of rest. His uncle usually gave up when he was beaten into submission and did not bother to get up, letting the stocky man believe he was defeated worse than he was. It wounded Harry's pride to not fight back more, but he was certain there was no way he'd ever win in a fist fight, his mind urging him to be smart and prioritize his survival to the next day.
"Look here," his uncle beckoned as his eyes followed suit, halfheartedly caring. The man dangled a golden key in his hands. "You're not getting out of here until I'm finished with you."
The joy faded from the man's face as Harry didn't react in any way, not giving him the satisfaction he craved. He huffed, loudly slamming the key back on the top of the second refrigerator they had in the garage. "Not that you could grab it anyways," Vernon grumbled.
The man walked over quickly and kicked him. Harry yelped, expecting his uncle to pick him up and punch him some more like usual, maybe even whipping him with his belt. "That's more like it." The moustached man chuckled, satisfied, but clearly not done.
If there was something the two had in common, it was their stubbornness. Vernon had to have his way, and would if there was no one to stop him. Harry was just as defiant, not willing to cry in front of his oppressor if he could help it, even though his chest burned and eyes watered in response. He knew he was in for a long night and just wished everything would be over quickly.
The unrelenting man continued, decisively trying to kick him in different places, planning to paint him in unsightly colors. Harry's lower back ached, his sides burned more, and his shoulder blade felt wrong. He coughed, wheezing as his lungs struggled to take in air against the blows that bashed it from them. The slow upward trajectory of kicking made his head the winning bell to hit in a test of strength carnival game. Harry, dazed and his vision spotting, pulled his arms up as he burrowed nearly into a fetal position. A storm of stomps landed on his forearms, causing him to grit his teeth and bite his bottom lip to the point of bleeding for fear of crying out. Whimpers and squeaks came from him as the barrage seemed to last for minutes on end despite seconds having passed.
"Shut your yap, boy!" his uncle bellowed, wiping the sweat off of his forehead and taking off his coat, throwing it on the dirty laundry pile.
Silence filled the void as Harry softly bit on the inside of his cheeks and clasped his unruly locks with his spindly fingers in stress. He dared not to lower his barricade and have his uncle surprise him with a kick, giving him a black eye or worse. He could hear the man heavy panting, too close for comfort, neither out of the ring yet. Harry's breathing was frantic, a desperate consumption of air with his heart beating in his ears too loudly as he tried to regain his vision, whatever normal blur he could make out. Vigilant as he was, the boy wasn't ready for what happened next.
A stabbing pang spread inside him, a blood-curdling scream erupted from Harry as fire seared across his upper abdomen. His hands cradled his stomach as his face contorted in discomfort, panic causing his body to be overwhelmed. As his scream died down, his voice was hoarse and he wanted to breathe in rapidly but every breath was a struggle, a jagged knife plunging into his midsection with each inhale. There was no way it was just a bruise. Something was entirely wrong. Harry hoped the injury wasn't fatal or a broken rib. Close to silent screams unconsciously came as he tried to quiet himself, focusing on his breathing, a chance to distract himself and lower the chances of getting into an extra world of hurt. Taking in deep breaths and holding it at times numbed the torment enough to clear his sight.
One glance at his Uncle Vernon, boot still extended from a kick, staring at him, bridled Harry in terror. It didn't take a genius to take caution, for the man's unsettling face turned a darkened shade of scarlet, likened to purple, from lack of proper breathing while enraged. His uncle's narrowed gaze was sharpened eerily, eyes bulging with deranged madness, smiling like this was just another rugby game. Harry had never seen him in such a state, what his nightmares would have likened to a demon given corporeal form.
"Quiet! Dudley needs his sleep. Can't have Petunia nagging at me about your screaming." Vernon became a vulture, circling the boy as his prey. "Unless you'd like more where that came from." The threat was a seething hiss the man would be glad to take up.
Harry shook his head in desperation, stifling cries of pain that came forth. The man's stomach grumbled and he let out a hearty laugh. "Would you look at that? Dinner time." He grabbed the key from the top of the fridge and went to unlock the door. "Get up, boy," he barked.
Sluggishly obeying the command, one arm still wrapped around his middle as he tried to lift his body to his knees, using his elbow and side of his arm, eventually his hand to prop himself up. Every movement made him want to succumb to the pain, heaving as his mind screamed in distress. Harry counted his blessings that there wasn't anything undigested to upchuck. He managed to get to his feet, legs feeling like jelly, wobbling side to side. The door was held open by his uncle, but the move from the concrete space to the kitchen was perilous. Unfocused visibility on the brighter setting and bodily change in attitude made his head swim in dizziness, his fatigued legs giving way to an inevitable fall as his knees buckled, leaving him sliding across the linoleum. He screamed again, short and sudden, verdant eyes glassy with immeasurable agony. The telly was louder than he'd ever heard it, a precaution by his aunt to keep his cousin from waking. She came over, heels clattering, after readjusting the volume.
"Good heavens, Vernon." Petunia massaged her scrunched up face with her hand in disappointment as she looked at the sight of the boy laying on her kitchen floor. "You went too far! Look at this mess. He won't be able to do anything tonight."
"Well, what do you want me to do about it? It's the Freak's fault for making me so upset, prime game that he is," her husband whined.
"Get it out of my sight," she groaned. Petunia worried she'd get more gray hairs from stress. "I'll deal with the Freak after I heat up a can of beans and make us some macaroni and cheese, yeah?"
He kissed her on the cheek and held her hand in his warm clutches. "Darling, you know how to get to my heart."
Petunia looked at his hand and worry set in her brow. "What happened to your hand?! It's all purple and red."
"It's nothing that won't heal. I banged it too hard somewhere."
She kissed his knuckles and headed to the pantry as he set his sight back on Harry. "You little runt," he growled as he grabbed Harry by the neck of his gray jumper, causing him to flinch, "Can't even do the few things you're tasked with."
Vernon dragged Harry quickly across the tiles, ignoring his pain induced utterances as he opened the stair cupboard. The boy briefly saw the white paint as he was flung into the cramped and dark enclosed space. His back hit the shelf as he let out a discomforted groan. He could hear as his uncle fiddled with keys before a click sounded, confining Harry to indefinite imprisonment.
Through the golden grate that gave Harry his small window to the interior of the house, a bushy moustache was all he could make out as a shadow casted over what little light the opening let in. "You know, if that freak that came here truly wanted you, then he would have fought me like a man instead of leaving like a coward," the stout man taunted with a chuckle.
A smell reminiscent of cafeteria bean and cheese burritos wafted into the cupboard. Harry supported himself as he leaned against the wall with the small of his back. The words his uncle said made it hard to swallow. He grounded himself and his breathing in the untouchable scent as the tightness in his chest from sorrow only increased his incapacity to breathe and the torment shooting through him. Although the darkness wasn't the most relaxing of places, the reprieve from things out of his control calmed him.
As the minutes passed, his uncle trotted up the stairs with a dinner tray for Dudley. While the man was occupied, Harry heard the unnerving sound of his aunt's short pumps until she was in front of the cupboard. He was hardly out of the woods as she graced him with her presence. Aunt Petunia excelled in the art of manipulation, but her sneakiest soul-crushing aspect was her cruel tact.
"I hope you understand that your actions have consequences. You only have yourself to blame for bringing that bastard into my precious household. Let those wounds be a reminder." Her words were dashed with poison as she sneered at his hopes with fabricated sweetness and a high falsetto, "Save me, mister! Hypnotize me with your wretched words!"
His aunt continued proudly, back to her normal tone, "It's out of the kindness of my heart that we took you in after your selfish parents passed. We clothe, house, and feed you what was rightfully Dudley's." Her face turned a shade of blush. "Yet, you dare be ungrateful! You don't want our hospitality? Fine! Stay grounded and repent in there for all I care," she shrieked.
"Please, Aunt Petunia," Harry begged. He held his tongue about his defense that he didn't intend to have the man follow him back and gave a deign apology. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Give me a chance to show you I can be good." He was used to sleeping in the spider-filled cupboard, but the last time he was locked in, it had been for three agonizing days, only let out for chores or bathroom breaks.
"Like I'd believe a liar." She scoffed, her arms crossed. "Nice things come to good boys, not freaks like you who misbehave at the slightest chance."
His aunt walked away as his uncle started coming back down, the debris falling like snow on Harry's clothes. The boy's lips quivered as doubt seeped in with the words he wished didn't mean anything. All his life, he'd tried to be good and normal. When he was younger, he'd even tried to please his aunt and her scrutinizing perfection with each task he was held responsible for. Harry swiftly learned very few adults were dependable enough for him to give his trust. Professor Snape had seemed to be kind enough past his stern exterior, but like everyone else, he felt the man had turned his back or abandoned him when the time of change to pass. False promises and hopes were all he'd given, Harry thought, as he let a few tears glide down his cheeks. How could anyone save him? The only person he could trust and rely on was himself.
Soon enough, the house fell quiet, hums of snoring being the remaining noise. Moonlight caressed Harry through the small gaps of the grate. He couldn't sleep, the pain stirring him from his slumber. There wasn't a comfortable position. The dark haired brunette took the lack of danger and his crumbling mental state to assess the damage to his body. Bruises riddled his small frame and leaning anywhere was uncomfortable to say the least. He didn't dare look even if he had accessible lighting. From memory and touch, Harry unearthed some napkins and half a water bottle that he had stashed along with his folded clothes, the items comprising his makeshift first aid kit. Usually, he'd wash his wounds in the kitchen or bathroom when he had the chance but the possibility was closed if his aunt and uncle had any say on it. Pouring some precious water on a napkin and taking a mouthful for hydration, he wiped his face, the smell of iron stinging his nose. The sweatpants and multiple jumper layers had protected him the best they could but he could feel and partially see the holes that were caused in the falls. Moving slowly so as to not disturb the horrendous pain in his upper abdomen, he placed the wet paper cloth against his knees and palms, eventually his ankle, wiping them free of debris and blood from their scrapes, which made him hiss slightly but relieved too by its cool touch. He knew well of the importance of keeping a cut from getting infected from school and past personal experiences.
With his precautious care done, he laid himself back down on the old cot and pulled the blanket over him, his bones feeling a chill as the heating didn't quite reach the inside of the cupboard, the insulation in shambles. Staring at the ceiling, unlimited space to float as the dark took away all sense of depth, Harry knew he was barely just surviving. The encounter with the mysterious cloaked man had sent his world into stark contrast and clarity. Everything was too much. Some part of him blamed the man for leaving him after what he had offered so confidently, a place the boy could call home. Harry had been so close to happiness, the hope of being somewhere warm and nice, maybe even loved and cared for if the man had the capacity to do so. Hot tears of anger and sadness flowed down the side of his face onto his pillow as he let out little sniffles, as much as his physical and internal pain allowed him to muster.
As much as he could imagine himself going with Snape instead of succumbing to being at the Dursleys' beck and call, potentially a rotting corpse in the cupboard if they forgot about him or a vacant body with his soul whittling away under their constant beratement, Harry felt a deep seated confliction. Dread of the worst overtook him as questions invaded his mind. Would the professor keep his promise and come back for him? Could he ensure that the man wouldn't be worse than his blood relatives? Did he even deserve kindness? Harry put an arm over his face, to wipe away the burning tears and gradually, to muffle his sobs of loneliness. His body shook in tiny tremors as he sobbed, until his body gave into weariness and the soft hooting of an owl in the night.