Lightning-Dono: I'm going to write 2 chapters at a time and post them up. They won't be very long. I'll only go from when he was 2 years old until he's 8. 9 chapters in all, basically.
-----
The little boy wailed shrilly into his aunt's ear as she picked him up gingerly to drop him into a spare crib that was worn out from her actual son.
"Shut up!" She said dangerously, throwing a tiny rag at the small figure in the crib.
"Waaaah!" A two-year old Harry cried, waving his arms about and throwing off the plaid rag with sheer anger. He wanted his bottle, and he wanted it then. Not that he really had anything that he could proudly call a bottle. His aunt and uncle would take turns pouring formula or milk roughly into his mouth until he stopped screaming at them.
"BE QUIET!" His uncle, Vernon, roared from downstairs. This vicious comment was followed by the crashing noise of dishes being knocked onto the ground. "Oh, Dudley," he grunted loudly, dropping his spoon with a clatter to accompany the last of the crashing sound.
Harry's crying subsided for a brief moment, as the noise startled him. But when his ears stopped ringing, he started to open his mouth and let out a sorrowful wail that would've broken anyone's heart. Other than his aunt's.
This aunt sighed. "Is it a diaper change?" She asked grumpily, checking his diaper carefully. Nothing. "It must be milk, then." Tired of slaving around of him, but not wanting to be accused of murder and letting him starve to death, she walked lightly down the stairs with a very noticeable curve to her back.
"What is it now?" Her husband asked dismally, attempting to clumsily super glue the dishes together. Of course, he didn't succeed.
"He wants milk," she replied simply, pouring some milk into an un-washed cup from a small carton. The Dursleys believed that even sharing a milk carton with their young nephew would result in sickness and bad luck. To prevent this from happening, they bought him his own carton, smaller than the other ones and hardly noticeable.
"Not growing up very fast, is he?" Mr. Dursley spooned food into his son's mouth. "Dudley's only one and he's been eating food!" His wife went over and cooed over Dudley, who was busy consuming as much food as a young elephant. Harry screeched from upstairs, reminding Mrs. Dursley of her duty. She snatched the cup from the counter and gave the stairs a reproachful look, as though Harry were sitting right on them this moment.
"Here you are," she told Harry stiffly. Harry opened his mouth gratefully. Aunt Petunia tipped the cup and milk spilled into his mouth, splattering on his nose and other various parts of his face.
"There." She placed the cup on the stand beside her and seriously considered handing the boy over to the orphanage somehow. Harry made a strange sound and rested his arms, clutching the rag protectively and sucking on his thumb, comforted. His aunt gazed at the peaceful figure that was lying in the crib. To her surprise, she almost felt sorry for Harry.
"No," she told herself, throwing her head up snobbishly. "I can't feel sorrt for him. He's the son of...my sister." The woman shuddered and walked back down the stairs towards her husband who was dipping his finger inside the baby food.
"What are you doing?" She questioned, watching her husband stick the finger into his mouth.
"Sorry," he apologized quickly. "Have to see whether it's fresh or not for our son!"
-----
The little boy wailed shrilly into his aunt's ear as she picked him up gingerly to drop him into a spare crib that was worn out from her actual son.
"Shut up!" She said dangerously, throwing a tiny rag at the small figure in the crib.
"Waaaah!" A two-year old Harry cried, waving his arms about and throwing off the plaid rag with sheer anger. He wanted his bottle, and he wanted it then. Not that he really had anything that he could proudly call a bottle. His aunt and uncle would take turns pouring formula or milk roughly into his mouth until he stopped screaming at them.
"BE QUIET!" His uncle, Vernon, roared from downstairs. This vicious comment was followed by the crashing noise of dishes being knocked onto the ground. "Oh, Dudley," he grunted loudly, dropping his spoon with a clatter to accompany the last of the crashing sound.
Harry's crying subsided for a brief moment, as the noise startled him. But when his ears stopped ringing, he started to open his mouth and let out a sorrowful wail that would've broken anyone's heart. Other than his aunt's.
This aunt sighed. "Is it a diaper change?" She asked grumpily, checking his diaper carefully. Nothing. "It must be milk, then." Tired of slaving around of him, but not wanting to be accused of murder and letting him starve to death, she walked lightly down the stairs with a very noticeable curve to her back.
"What is it now?" Her husband asked dismally, attempting to clumsily super glue the dishes together. Of course, he didn't succeed.
"He wants milk," she replied simply, pouring some milk into an un-washed cup from a small carton. The Dursleys believed that even sharing a milk carton with their young nephew would result in sickness and bad luck. To prevent this from happening, they bought him his own carton, smaller than the other ones and hardly noticeable.
"Not growing up very fast, is he?" Mr. Dursley spooned food into his son's mouth. "Dudley's only one and he's been eating food!" His wife went over and cooed over Dudley, who was busy consuming as much food as a young elephant. Harry screeched from upstairs, reminding Mrs. Dursley of her duty. She snatched the cup from the counter and gave the stairs a reproachful look, as though Harry were sitting right on them this moment.
"Here you are," she told Harry stiffly. Harry opened his mouth gratefully. Aunt Petunia tipped the cup and milk spilled into his mouth, splattering on his nose and other various parts of his face.
"There." She placed the cup on the stand beside her and seriously considered handing the boy over to the orphanage somehow. Harry made a strange sound and rested his arms, clutching the rag protectively and sucking on his thumb, comforted. His aunt gazed at the peaceful figure that was lying in the crib. To her surprise, she almost felt sorry for Harry.
"No," she told herself, throwing her head up snobbishly. "I can't feel sorrt for him. He's the son of...my sister." The woman shuddered and walked back down the stairs towards her husband who was dipping his finger inside the baby food.
"What are you doing?" She questioned, watching her husband stick the finger into his mouth.
"Sorry," he apologized quickly. "Have to see whether it's fresh or not for our son!"