Penname:  Kiara

Title:  Little Whinging Primary

Email:  angeldlsm00@hotmail.com, lavenderrain00@hotmail.com

If you want to be notified of when this is updated, the email is angeldlsm01@hotmail.com.  Let me know that its Little Whinging Primary you want to be notified for, otherwise you'll be notified for my story, Falling.

AIM:  LavnderRain00, FoxyD227 – feel free to IM me.

Disclaimer:  See chapter one.

Lela Potter:  Don't worry about the double review.  Glad you liked the story.  Hope you like this chapter, too.

IamallthatisHarryPotter:  Ladies and gentlemen, the real Staci.  *claps wildly*  You know this is written for you, hun.  Doesn't it feel good?  So this is the second story I've written for you (Family Affair being the first, of course), so let us hope I actually finish this one.

Rowenna:  For the longest time I've wanted to read a story like this.  I wanted one where Harry was a wimpy little kid in primary school, getting picked on by Dudley.  They all were kind of flat.  Like you said, no one liked Harry in them.  Yes, JK has said Harry had no friends, but that's from Harry's point of view.  Maybe he felt like he didn't have any friends, but I doubt that no one ever talked to him.  And I made it girls because at that age, I think a girl is more likely to talk to Harry and be against Dudley than a boy would be.  As for basing my characters on people, yes, there is one on myself.  How could I just base my characters on friends and family without sticking myself in there?  Hell, Staci and Jennifer (Bree) are my sisters in real life, and those are their real names, too.  Even Sara was a friend of theirs.  Sadly, the character I based on myself is Amanda Graves, Nikki's sidekick, who can't think for herself.  I'm brutally realizing just how brainwashed I was as a child as I write this story.  What can I say?  Nikki was all talk, and I had to run from big kids with bikes for it.  *smiles*

Chapter Three:  Sandrine

Harry had, begrudgingly, walked the two streets over to Mrs. Figg's house on the Saturday morning after the pudding incident with Kevin at school.  Though it hadn't been as terrible as Harry had expected, he spent most of the day in the hot sun, wondering why it was warm outside when it was already mid-September and should start getting breezy.  He had tossed his hair out of his eyes for hours, brushing it away from where it clung to his forehead and his scar.  She had been incredibly kind, bringing him lemonade while she walked around her garden in large khaki pants, a bright pink t-shirt, and a large, wide-brimmed hat.  Of course, her insanely large number of cats had also been present, and Harry had heard all about them, everything from Tufty's cold to Mr. Paws's temperamental mood swings.

"And this beauty," said Mrs. Figg, signaling over to the porch where a pure-white cat was basking in the sun on one of her patio chairs, "is Sandrine.  That dear girl, Staci Bree, brought her to me a few weeks ago.  You know her, don't you?  I believe she lives right behind the Dursley house."

"Staci's in my class at school," supplied Harry, pulling out a radish and eyeing the white fluff of fur.

"Well, she seemed to think I needed a - what did she call it?  Oh, yes.  A more elegant, sophisticated pet.  Sandrine is a bit of a snob, but the others seemed to get along with her well enough.  Spends all day lounging, especially on the red velvet cushion that Staci brought her to me on."

That was Staci, all right.  From what Harry had observed of her demeanor, he wouldn't put it past her to have sincerely thought that Mrs. Figg needed help in acquiring her cats.  As annoying as she was, Harry couldn't help but think that at least her heart was in the right place, even if she was calling him Jason.  At least she was talking to him, and in a manner that didn't involve the words slaughter, run, or break.  Her intentions, however, though noble, were slightly misguided.  The small smile, which tugged at the corners of Mrs. Figg's lips, indicated that she thought the same.

It wasn't right to complain about that day with Mrs. Figg because he hadn't had one that came even close to being as nice since then.  Sunday was awful.  Dudley had gotten into a foul mood before breakfast even started, and it only increased when he discovered that his friends couldn't hang around the back yard today.  Harry suspected that Dudley wanted to keep an eye on Staci's house, and that his bad mood was a result yielded from his expedition over to the Bree home yesterday.  How could Dudley not see that Staci wasn't even remotely interested?

Pretending to cry, Dudley had thrown one of his tantrums and even overturned the kitchen table by the time Uncle Vernon pushed Harry out the back door, toward the shed.  He had to mow the lawn, weed, and start preparing Aunt Petunia's flower garden (that Harry maintained more than she did) for winter.  Dudley, fully intent on getting back at Harry for ruining his afternoon of Staci-gazing, came out shortly after lunch with Malcolm, and the two mocked him about everything from his clothes to his scar until their game got old and they fell back into hitting him, only stopping when Petunia called them in for dinner.  There was no dinner for Harry that night, and he had to sneak out of his cupboard after everyone was asleep to eat enough so that he could get through the next day at school without passing out, but not so much that the Dursleys would notice.

School all week long had been nothing short of torture.  David had learning how to make a paper clip arrow, and he was launching them at Harry from Monday through Friday, laughing whenever one stabbed Harry in an open piece of flesh.  Not even Nikki and Amanda had come to his refuge.  They had decided at the beginning of the week that they weren't talking to anyone, and had taken to drawing some sort of plans and sketches during their recess.  In Staci Bree's mind, and anyone else who followed in her gang, Harry's name had officially become Jason despite any attempts he made to inform her of his real identity.  Dudley . . . well, Dudley was Dudley, and the fighting never ended.  By the time the bell rang, Harry was almost longing for his cupboard, but he still had detentions to work off, and he was forced to stay behind with Miss Hudson.

The only good thing about that week at the end of September was that the Dursleys were letting him eat again, though in smaller portions that before.  Harry wasn't complaining.  After his stomach protesting for days, he was glad to finally have something in it that wasn't nicked.  If he wasn't at school for class or detention, Harry was locked away in his cupboard, only allowed out for meals and the bathroom, his punishment until his detentions were completed.

Aside from doing homework, those long hours in his cupboard gave Harry time to think.  He thought about everything from Mrs. Figg and her cats to Staci Bree and the charity she tried to bestow upon those she thought to be less fortunate in her own, odd way.  He analyzed every member of his class, from Jennifer Bree to Gordon Turner.  He wondered about Nikki and Amanda, what they were doing, and how much it was going to make Dudley want Gordon to catch them so he could pound the last breath of oxygen out of them.  The last thing that had happened before their silence, never a good thing with a dream team like The Run Girls, was the fight with Kevin and Dudley, after all.

More than anything, and probably more than he ever had before in his life, Harry thought of his parents.  Who were they?  What did they look like?  He had never seen photographs of them, and they were never talked about by Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.  The only things they had supplied him with was that their names were Lily and James, and they died in a car crash when Harry was only fifteen months old.  He also knew that he had been in the car crash when they died, but miraculously survived, leaving only the scar on his forehead.

It was times when he was locked in his cupboard, away from the world, that Harry wondered how different his life would be away from the Dursleys.  Something wonderful and extraordinary had to be out there for him; he just knew it.  There had to be more to life than being locked away in a cupboard with only spiders for company.  He had heard about love in books, and in movies, and on television, but Harry had never felt it.  He had never known (that he could remember, anyway), a mother's touch.  You weren't just left to live life like that, were you?  Something else had to be out there.  It was the feeling that something was missing, something important, that kept him from falling apart as it was.

It was with such an attitude that he sulked into classes on the last Friday of September, his last day of detention for being found on the school roof.  Trying to detach himself, not to allow his small, ten-year old heart feel any pain when the inevitable paper clips came flying at him from David's direction.  He told himself that at least it wasn't Kevin sitting back there, and that it was only a slight sting on his skin.  It wasn't painful, physically, anyway, and Harry was determined not to let it be emotionally painful, either.

Just keep on going, Harry told himself, over and over again.

"Hi, Jason," Staci had said during recess.  Her gang echoed the greeting.

"Hello," replied Harry, not bothering to correct her.

"How are you?" she asked, eyeing his baggy pants, oversized cotton shirt, and round glasses held together by tape.

"Fine," answered Harry.  Best to make his answers short and simple.  Staci responded to them better that way, and they always seemed to make her go away faster.  That was always a good thing in Harry's book.

"When was the last time you went shopping?" she asked, tossing her head, and her hair in the process.

"And cut your hair?" added Jennifer.

"And bathed?" added Kristy.

"Kristy," said Mindy.  "He doesn't smell.  You should ask that to the fat boy who follows Staci around."

"Sorry," said Kristy.  "He looks dirty."

"I am dirty," replied Harry.  Staci, Jennifer, Mindy, and Kristy took a step away from him, holding their hands up as if they were afraid he would infect them.  Sara looked at the other four girls and threw her hands up, smacking herself in the chest, and taking one awkward step back.

"Ew," said Mindy.

"Grimy, much?" said Jennifer.

"Haven't you ever heard of soap?" added Kristy.

"I bathe," said Harry.  "Just not every night."

"I shower twice a day," said Staci.

"Me too," said Sara, nodding so hard it looked like her head would pop off her neck.

"Doesn't that - like - waste water?" said a high, shrilly voice, and the girls turned around to see Nikki, giggling, batting her eyelashes, and tossing her hair once every six seconds.

"Not if you're using it to be clean," said Staci, cocking her head to the side, tossing her hair, and not even picking up on the insult.

Nikki and Amanda made high pitched laughs, batted their eyelashes so fast it looked like they wouldn't even be able to see, and Amanda paused to wink at Harry before they walked away.  Clutched in Nikki's hand was a rolled up piece of paper, and she brandished it at Amanda for not joining her right away, causing Amanda to bite her lip and nod.

"She is so mean," said Staci.  "That poor Amy girl."

"Her name is Amanda," said Harry, though he wasn't quite sure why.  Staci would just change it to Amy, anyway, he thought.  Instead, to his surprise, Staci said, "That's right!"

"What?" said Harry.

"Amanda!  I don't know why I thought it was Amy.  Still, that Nicole girl is very mean to her.  Unfortunately, she's a good dresser, so I can't dislike her too terribly much.  You know?" she said, flipping her hair.

Harry, grimacing, decided just to nod.

The day hadn't gotten worse, but it hadn't gotten better, and everything staying stagnant was almost worse, because Harry didn't have any variety after lunch and recess.  Sitting back in Miss Hudson's classroom, Malcolm continued to poke Harry in the neck with his eraser, occasionally pinching the exposed flesh.  David was still shooting his paper clips across the room, smacking Harry anywhere from his cheek (where one dangerously almost grazed his eye), his neck, and his arms.  The sting was temporary, short, but then one would fling again, and Harry was aware of Anthony Lundin, who sat before David, silently cracking up at this display, and that was what made Harry's face turn bright red as the bell neared.

Detention hadn't been awful, sitting in silence as Miss Hudson went about grading homework assignments, quizzes, or whatever it was that teachers did at their computers all the time.  Only when there was thirty minutes left did she cover over, turn Piers's chair around to face Harry, and sat down across from him at his desk.

"Do you mind if we talk for a bit, Harry?" she asked, carefully.

Shrugging, Harry shook his head.  "I don't mind."

"Harry," she started, looking first at his glass, his shirt, his pants, and then his shoes, "how long have you known Dudley?"

"For as long as I can remember," he answered, honestly.  She seemed slightly frustrated.

"I know it must seem like that, but how old were you?  Was it when you first started school here?"

"No," said Harry, plainly.  "Dudley's my cousin."

"Your cousin," she repeated, trying not to look as surprised as Harry imagined she must have felt.  He supposed she had a right.  Dudley and Harry's feuds never did come off as the image of a perfect, happy family.  "I take it you don't get along."

"We never really have."

"Harry - this aunt and uncle you live with - are they related on the same side as Dudley."

She really didn't have a clue.

"I live with Dudley.  They're his parents."

No use lying.  She was bound to find out eventually, and he wasn't surprised that she hadn't known before now.  The Dursleys had always been very good about concealing their relationship to Harry, and Dudley never wanted to speak of it in front of others unless he was trying to win someone over with the sympathy card.  In fact, many of Harry's teachers had only found out that Dudley and Harry lived together, much less were related, when Harry had gotten in trouble and a conference was required with his guardians.

"But, I met them at the open house.  They never said a word."

"And?"

Her young face looked slightly worried, her honey blonde, almost brown locks cascading gently around her face.  For a moment, Harry thought she was beautiful.  He had never seen this before.  Pity was what usually resulted when his teachers learned about the Dursleys.  Some of them even seemed to take to the intense dislike of him that the rest of his classmates did.  Sometimes, Harry even thought they were afraid of him, like he was a dangerous boy because of his glasses and clothes, about to hurt someone at any second.  Miss Hudson, though, didn't look at him like that.  She was concerned, and Harry shifted in his chair, his cheeks suddenly flushing.

"Harry, have you thought about talking to one of the school counselors?  You seem to . . . things don't seem like they're making you too happy.  I hate seeing one of my students struggle, and I'm talking academically as well as emotionally."

"I'm not struggling," said Harry, plainly.  "I don't want to talk to a counselor.  I don't need a counselor.  I'm not a freak."

Her expression softened.

"I didn't mean that you were a freak.  I've noticed that you don't have many friends -"

Any friends, you mean, thought Harry, mournfully.

"-and I think you would benefit from having someone to talk to.  Not just about your feelings or your cousin, but also about things like football, or to play games with.  Someone just to talk to.  If you don't want to talk to one of the counselors, you can always come to me."

"I don't need therapy," said Harry.

"I never said that you did.  You don't have to make a decision right away.  You can think it over if you'd like."

Think it over.  Right.  Like that was going to happen.

"Harry," she said again, and Harry braced himself for what he knew was coming, "I don't mean to implore, and if I offend you, just say so.  We should be honest with each other.  I don't only want to be your teacher -"

"You want to be my friend," he finished.  He'd heard that one before, too.

She seemed frustrated, linking her fingers together and staring down at her hands.  Harry sighed.

"Sorry.  S'just that I get that a lot."

"No reason for you to be apologizing," said Miss Hudson, smiling broadly at him.  Harry couldn't fight the corners of his lips as they returned the sentiment with an impish sort of grin.  "Right then, Chuckles," she teased, and though Harry knew what she was doing in trying to get close to him, he allowed himself to laugh anyway.  It had been too long as is.

"You want to know what happened to my parents, right?" said Harry, and her happy expression turned somber.  "Don't worry.  Everyone asks when they find out I live with Dudley.  No one can understand why I'd live with Dudley's family if I have to dress like this and fight with him all the time.  You aren't the first."

"I think you're guarding yourself from me."

"I don't know you very well," said Harry.

"Of course, but being your teacher, I'd like you to trust me."

"I do.  Sort of.  The thing with my parents is, whenever people see me, all my teachers think that I must be abused or something because I'm so skinny, or that I'm not properly taken care of cause of my clothes.  I'm fine where I am.  Really."  Liar, Harry hissed at himself.  "They think that if I live with the Dursleys, then my parents must be really bad."

Miss Hudson nodded.  It had been no joke when Harry said she wasn't the first.  His first year teacher had thought that Harry was beaten by his parents, taken away from them to live with his relatives, who, in her eyes, weren't much better.  She hadn't liked Dudley very much at all.  Another one of his teachers, second year, worshiped Dudley, and thought that Harry's parents must have been alcoholics or drug addicts, but that Harry should count his lucky stars he lived with the Dursleys.

He had heard it all.  From the look in her eyes, Miss Hudson was expecting the worst.  Probably a murderer for a father, who had beaten Harry as a child, raped some dead sister she didn't know about, and killed his mother before being shipped off to prison, because in cases like this, the convict always seemed to escape death.

"My parents are dead," Harry said, as bluntly as he could make it.  "They weren't criminals.  They weren't rapists.  They weren't drinking too much.  They died in a car crash when I was a baby and I have no other family."

There it was.  It took all of three seconds, the process of digesting the information through her brain, and then Miss Hudson stared at him with more pity than Harry had ever been lavished with before in his life.  It felt dirty, disgusting, and Harry wanted the feeling off of him before it got a chance to infect something.

Miss Hudson said very little to him after that, though most of it was more encouragement to talk to someone.  Now, though, it wasn't to talk about Dudley and the way he was always getting into fights with Kevin.  She thought he needed therapy to deal with his dead parents, as if he hadn't been dealing with it since he could remember.  Harry didn't even want to think about how Miss Hudson would look at him if she knew he didn't even know what his parents looked like.

*****

"Hello, Harry dear," said Mrs. Figg as he returned to the Dursleys from his detention.  "Why back so late?"

"I had detention," he mumbled, stopping before her front yard and shuffling his feet, a bad habit he used to have that Uncle Vernon had tried to cure him of.  It still had a tendency to come back from time to time.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Figg, a hint of a smile on her lips.  "That roof incident, wasn't it?  Petunia was telling me all about how you were discovered up there.  Said you wouldn't admit to climbing the building.  She assumed it was for attention."

"The wind caught me," Harry explained, feeling rather stupid.  Mrs. Figg's lips twitched, and held a sort of smile that, to Harry, looked like she was trying to keep something from him.

"Why don't you come inside for dinner?" she suggested.  "I'm making a vegetable stew from the vegetables we gathered on Saturday.  The hard work deserves some sort of profit, don't you think?"

"I don't know.  The Dursleys probably want me back as soon as possible."

"Don't you worry about them.  I'll take care of them."

She must have, anyway, Harry later reflected as he sat in her cabbage smelling living room while she cooked the vegetable stew.  There was one small television in the corner, and on top sat Tibbles, one of Mrs. Figg's cats, napping.  After inviting him in, Mrs. Figg had immediately been on the phone with Aunt Petunia, and after she hung up, she told Harry that if the Dursleys asked, he was assisting her in moving furniture for a bridge party she was holding tomorrow afternoon.  Handing him the remote, she walked into the kitchen.

Having never been in control of the remote before, Harry stared at its many buttons for a long time before finally hitting power.  Breezing through all the channels, Harry couldn't find one that had anything that really caught his eye.  He decided that this had to do with the fact the only television he had ever seen was either one of Dudley's programs, or the news.  Finally settling on a movie that had three little girls who were witches (mostly because the Dursleys hated anything or anyone acting in a way it shouldn't), Harry tried to make himself comfortable until dinner.

"Excellent choice," said Mrs. Figg, coming into the room and taking Tibbles off the television.  "Don't sit on there when we have company.  It's time for you to eat, anyway.  Go on.  And don't fight with Sandrine while you're eating.  She isn't used to things being so common."

One of the strangest things about Mrs. Figg was not how she was always talking to her cats, but how they actually seemed to understand her.  Tibbles seemed to give Mrs. Figg a reluctant, resentful look before arching his back and slinking off into the kitchen.

"Dinner is almost ready, Harry, if you'd like to go wash up."

Though the bread was hard and the cookies for dessert were stale, the stew was wonderful, and Harry was grateful.  He hadn't had a truly decent meal since . . . well, Harry couldn't remember the last time he had a truly decent meal that didn't involve wolfing down a large portion of what was on his plate before Dudley started to pilfer it.  Because it was already getting dark when they were finished eating, Mrs. Figg insisted on walking him back to Privet Drive.

After reassuring Aunt Petunia that he was very helpful and no trouble at all, Mrs. Figg said goodbye and Aunt Petunia sent him to his cupboard.  Locking him in, she called from the outside, "I hope you didn't expect us to keep food just because you were late.  You can eat again in the morning."

Typically, this kind of comment would have made Harry angry, but he was still feeling warm inside from dinner.  Crawling under the covers, Harry tried to go to sleep.  There never was telling what the Dursleys were going to want him to do tomorrow.  Weekends were their only times to use Harry as a servant during the school term, after all.

If you have any ideas or suggestions, please don't be shy.  Send them my way.  If you liked this, let me know.  You can leave a review, or if you want to contact me in a more personal way, my email and IM screen name are at the top of this chapter.  I promise to get back to you.