Unfinished, credit to Laterose for the idea. I do not own the Harry Potter universe or any of it's inhabitants.
Dear Journal,
I've been thinking about something recently – I know it's weird but then so is my life right now. Would you rather freeze to death, burn to death or starve to death, get beaten to death, or die of disease? I mean, normally you could pick a quick, probably painless Avada Kedavra, but what if you didn't have that choice?
There are other ways to off yourself, if you want a quick, painless death. I would know, I've been researching it. I know for a fact that I'd rather go by my own hand than someone else's, especially not that tub of lard I call an Uncle. Even old Mouldywarts would be better than this living hell.
It's almost like some sort of competition around here this summer; who can kill Harry first. Although that doesn't make sense if you think about - my uncle seems to enjoy prolonging the process. He never goes too far with any of his torture methods, but he's starting to get pretty close. Just the other day I blacked out for over two hours after a beating.
I've been doing my best to win this particular competition, Merlin knows I've got enough experience in that department (ha ha, I hope I never win a tournament again!). Since I obviously can't use magic – wizarding laws aside, Uncle Vernon let Dudley snap and burn my wand ages ago – I'll have to go the muggle way.
I've heard of muggles overdosing on pills before, maybe I can try some of Aunt Petunia's pain relievers from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. How much Mersyndol would it take to kill a person? Maybe I should just take the prescribed limit and double it.
Well, enough with the self-pity, that's enough to depress anyone. God, I hope no one ever figures out how to read this. But I have to write something, if only so that when I'm older I can look back and laugh. Wait, what am I talking about? Get older? Who's getting older? Not me. Well – some other Parselmouth in the distant future. Maybe when I get to Hogwarts I'll hide this in the Chamber of Secrets and it won't get found for centuries.
I hear Dudley's bellows from downstairs; he probably wants me to go 'play' with his gang. Ah well, we can't disappoint our precious Duddikins now can we?
I wonder if swallowing all those pills will be painful.
Harry.
Dear Journal,
Would you rather freeze to death, burn to death or starve to death, get beaten to death, or die of humiliation?
After a simply delightful session with Dudders, Aunt Petunia's medicine cabinet was looking more attractive than ever. I hobbled into the upstairs bathroom and found the right bottle. It was surprisingly easy to keep the gag reflex down once I got going. I was half way through the second bottle when they found me.
Vernon had apparently come home early, for no reason other than he's a lazy bastard, and came up to fetch his vitamins. Aunt Petunia's been making him take them since before I got back from school, I think they're supposed to keep his blood sugar levels down or something. What a joke.
Uncle Vernon hates the damned things, why did he feel the urge to take them in the middle of the afternoon?! He must have been pretty determined to get those pills because he didn't stop even at the sight of a closed door, which usually indicates that someone is using the loo.
Oh yes, he just barged on in an interrupted my dramatic death scene. Selfish arsehole(ha-ha, look who's talking…).
We were both frozen for a few seconds, and then I dropped the bottle. Little white cylinders rolled over Aunt Petunia's frilly bathmat and stopped at Uncle Vernon's feet.
He had shaken himself out of his stupor and was working up a pretty good bellow, when my aching stomach gave a lurch and emptied itself on my Uncle's perfectly polished (by yours truly) leather work shoes.
True, there wasn't a lot to empty in the first place, but a rather large amount of dissolved Panadol and other mixed medicines decorated much of the bathroom by the time I was finished. It was actually quite an impressive display, if you ask me. Who knew projectile body fluids could spatter like that?
It took a few minutes, but Uncle Vernon finally overcame his disgust and reluctance to touch me long enough to drag my quivering mess of a body downstairs and into my old home. Either he forgot that I'm far too large to fit in with all the clutter that now occupies the cupboard, or he meant for me to be stuffed in like that. Sadistic bastard.
It didn't really matter to me at the time; I was still too sore and altogether out of it to even notice the bolt being driven home on the cupboard door. Combined with my impressive collection of injuries from earlier days, the stomach ache and bile-burned throat were enough to make me sorely regret failing my objective.
Damn my sturdy constitution.
I'm sort of glad my woozy mental condition didn't allow me to recognize that I was covered in vomit or in a severely uncomfortable position. It would've been too much to take; I really hate being dirty these days. Probably due to my wonderful 'showers', courtesy of Petunia Dursley.
Hours, possibly days passed before my relatives saw fit to let me tumble out of my prison. I positively reeked by then, and had I been more aware of myself I would've realized what was coming.
Aunt Petunia frog marched me outside to stand around the side of the house, in clear view of the street. She normally wouldn't do such an outrageous thing in public, but I guess this counted as special circumstances.
I was wobbling on my unsteady legs when the blast of icy water first caught me on my vulnerable side, the one with the bruised (cracked?) rib. Aunt Petunia had decided to give me one of her 'showers' with the garden hose.
Prior to this summer, I hadn't had one of these washings since I was seven. I don't know what prompted Aunt Petunia to take up the practice again, probably one of her insane fits of superiority. She would not have one of those Freaks bathing in her tub, oh no.
Over the next half hour she blasted me with a maniacal thoroughness, eventually asking me to take off my sodden clothes. We argued briefly over the removal of my undergarments, but I really didn't fancy adding to Uncle Vernon's promised punishment so I reluctantly removed my oversized underwear and stood naked for all the world to see.
Unfortunately, the world did see. Aunt Petunia kept her gaze firmly affixed to the grass in front of her, so as not to see my battered, skeletal frame. Some passing Girl Guides did not have the same issue.
They were to far away to see any bruises, I guess, so they just pointed and tittered. I know I'm not much to look at, never have been really, but the way they carried on you'd think I was the only male they'd ever seen. Honestly.
After a while my righteous indignation couldn't keep the abject humiliation at bay. An ugly flush crept up my neck and I wanted to die; not that the last part is anything new. The freezing water coming at me seemed to blast on forever, but eventually it did end, as all things must.
The Girl Guides continued to laugh as aunt Petunia bustled me into the house, and their laughter haunted me even as I was shoved back into my normal room.
I can still feel my cheeks burning as I lay hear sopping wet under my pitifully thin sheet. No one bothered to dry me off, I guess I'll have to drip dry. Ha. I'll be covered in ice by morning.
Humiliation is one thing, cold is another. Would you rather…
Bring on the Freezing.
Harry.