Chapter 3
The heat was suffocating, closing in around everything contained within the realms of an English summer. Stickiness clamped onto hot bodies, and no wind blew with the promise of fresh air. Harry succumbed to the stifling conditions and pulled off his thin t-shirt. The brick of his new hiding place was rough and scratched his back, but it felt blessedly cool against his flushed flesh. Sweat gleamed on his body like an extra layer of shiny skin, occasional rivulets pooling in his navel. A soft sigh escaped him as he relaxed completely, trying to think of the cooler winters that would bring stinging gales and pounding rain.
Harry had fainted five times in the midday sun. His face was red with sunburn and his lips had cracked because he didn't have enough water. In the middle of the night the thirst was almost unbearable. It was that afternoon, having fainted for the fifth time, that Harry decided more desperate measures were needed. He had watched others do it to impress their friends, seen them laughing as they drank refreshing coca-cola, so Harry was going to march straight into the Co-op across the street when it opened and steal a bottle of water.
The very thought of thieving something that wasn't his made him cringe and think of all the times Dudley had stolen his things; or the incidents where he had taken food from the kitchen because he was so hungry, but had been found out and locked in the cupboard as punishment. Harry didn't know what else to do though. He was desperately thirsty, but the pond in the park was just too dirty. He had tried the water and quickly spat it out again, so horrible did it taste. Harry had come to his last resort.
If nothing else, he was stubbornly persistent when his mind was made up. As he had promised himself, he walked into the Co-op when it was busiest, tagging behind a woman with a stroller so that people would think he was her son. Silencing all last minute debates in his mind, Harry wasted no time in making his way over to the aisles with bottled water. Before he could change his mind, Harry stealthily slipped one bottle beneath his baggy clothes. They hid it expertly, leaving him free to panic over getting out of the shop without being caught. Calmly, he rejoined his 'mother', keeping just enough distance so that he didn't attract her attention anymore than the staff's. He trailed her silently out of the shop, then began walking away, telling himself to slow down yet unable to obey that order because of his fear.
The hot, sticky air smacked his face as he left the air-conditioned building. He looked up, took a deep breath to clear his body of the last remaining shreds of terror, then took off at a dead run back to the new alley he had found. He didn't stop until he was there. Sweat flooded off his body, burning and chilling simultaneously. The shade was a welcome relief from the merciless sun, and he sucked in gasping breaths to calm his racing heart. The bottle he now clenched tightly in his hand trembled with the rest of his body. He couldn't believe he had done it. Giddy with excitement, he carefully unscrewed the lid and took a few tentative sips. It tasted clean, and it was wet on his swollen tongue. Harry was content.
Careful to save some, Harry only took a couple of mouthfuls before storing the rest away in his bag. Suddenly he wavered with dizziness. He recognised the warning signs of another black out and immediately moved to the little space he had created, laying on his side with his head on the rucksack. The fast sprint in the burning heat had taken its toll. Harry found no trouble in dropping off to sleep to rid him of the pounding headache, which had returned with a vengeance.
It was pitch black when someone grabbing him around the waist rudely awoke him. He was yanked carelessly off the ground. Squawking in shock, Harry's arms flailed for something to hold onto, accidentally whacking his captor around the head. An angry voice growled out a muffled curse word and promptly dropped him like a hot plate. Harry sprawled in a painful heap, his bare arms flaring where they scraped the concrete.
"Stupid brat," the stranger muttered, glaring down at him. Harry attempted to crawl backwards, but hit another pair of legs. Before he could react, a sharp pain shattered through his skull and true darkness claimed him.
It took a long time for his senses to return, but eventually Harry's mind righted itself to the extent that he was able to take stock of his immediate surroundings. The world was rocking back and forth, shaking and jumping and growling mechanically. Whatever surface he rested on was icy and metallic, yet seemed to burn at his skin. Cold air chilled his bones, slapped at his face, whipped his hair. His arms were cramped, but he couldn't move them for the rope tying his wrists behind his back. A throbbing headache pulsed in his skull. Harry groaned.
"Shut up!" someone growled. He recoiled as the sound struck like an axe to his brain. The world suddenly swerved left, and his head thudded painfully. Harry briefly saw stars, even though his eyes were closed and covered. Biting his lip to keep from whimpering, Harry strained his ears to listen to the voices at the front.
"…small enough, but he needs work. Needs training," someone grunted. He sounded young, his voice both petulant and eager. Harry fought to keep himself utterly still so he could hear better.
"The carnival is still a couple of days away," an older man said calmly, coldly. "We have time. If he values smooth skin, he will learn quickly." A silence enveloped the two men, filled only by the sound of wheels on the road. Despite his fear, despite his curiosity, the pain in Harry's head flared again and he quickly slipped back into blackness.
Reality hit once more when hands grabbed him roughly and tugged him across the floor. His bare arms burned with the friction, and something sharp gouged deeply into his cheek as he was hauled over a ledge. And then he fell, landing painfully on one shoulder. The breath was forced from his lungs in one heaving gasp. Harry lay there quite still, panting. Those hands gripped his shirt, hauled him to his shaky feet. He swayed with dizziness.
"Hey! Lookit this! He's near pissing himself!" laughed the younger man. Harry tried to stop himself from trembling, but even if he could beat his absolute terror, the night had turned remarkably chill. The older man chuckled.
"C'mon," he ordered, and the hands still clenched around his arm guided Harry. He stumbled over the uneven ground, slipped in the mud, provoking cruel sniggering from his assistant. "Hurry up!" snapped the older man. Harry's guide growled.
"Yes dad," he grunted beneath his breath. Their pace increased, and Harry, already breathless with fear, found it increasingly difficult to keep his legs moving up the slippery hill. At the very peak he splashed into a puddle, evidently they had had rain here, and tripped. Before he could struggle back to his feet he was being dragged through the wet mud. It was slimy and cold, soaking through his thin clothes and freezing him to the bone. It had been so hot earlier, his body wasn't adapted to the drastic change in temperature. He slid to a stop, his entire back utterly submerged in the mud.
Another set of hands yanked him to his feet and ripped the blindfold from his head, simultaneously yanking out a lock of his hair. Harry winced, and blinked repeatedly to see what he could make of his surroundings, but without his glasses it was all a dark blur. The presence of the two men either side of him made him cower, but they did not notice. Instead, Harry was pulled towards a gaping black square that was close to the ground, darker than the night coating them. Tumbling to the floor with the force of the shove, Harry turned swiftly and squinted in an attempt to see them better. It was a futile effort.
"Pleasant dreams," the younger man sneered. With a squeak the door was shut, and Harry was left in the oppressing dark. He could hear the pair trudging away, could hear the wind whistling through the gaps in the wood that made his prison. The cold mud was drying to his clothes now, and he shivered. His head hammered, his body ached. Harry felt utterly alone.
Curling up into a ball in the corner, he rested his head on his knees. He wanted to cry, but for some reason he couldn't. With a choked sob, he lowered his eyelids, effectively shutting out the world, and allowed the inner darkness to encompass him.
The light blinded Harry with its intensity, flooding into the square of his cell. He raised his head slowly, blinking at the brightness. A silhouette appeared in the door, crouching so it could see in. It beckoned to him, so Harry, stiff with cramp, slithered cautiously towards it. A hand reached in, and Harry flinched from it skittishly, but it caught hold of his shirt anyway and hauled him out into the sunshine that burned his eyes. Harry tried to find his feet, but his weak knees gave out beneath him and he sagged in the death grip of the hand.
"Stand up!" a voice barked. The words clattered around Harry's head, and he sought to obey it out of habit. He succeeded, to a degree, but the effort wore him out. The voice sniggered. It was familiar to him, and Harry tried to place it, eventually connecting it to the younger man of the previous night. He squinted again, peering up at the man's face. He had to crane his neck to look because the man was so huge, tall and muscled. His head was bristly with light-coloured hair only just growing back, and from beneath pale eyebrows stared a pair of grey, blank eyes. They were cruelly amused at Harry's struggles, and thin lips smirked in response.
"Ethan!" The young man spun on the spot, dragging Harry wildly around with him. The older man was marching across the grass towards them, a scowl gouging familiar lines in his forehead. "Don't just stand there, boy! Take him to the caravan!" he snapped. Both Ethan and Harry jumped at the word 'boy'. A growl rumbling in his chest, Ethan dragged Harry off towards a run-down campervan. Harry scraped his shins against the metal steps as they staggered inside.
"Sit!" Ethan snapped. Harry did, discreetly staring at the mess the room was in. The wallpaper was peeling, the carpet was threadbare, the settee he was next to was stained in unimaginable filth, and there were food cartons and dirty clothes all over. It made him cringe when he thought of all the cleaning he had undertaken at the Dursleys. Perhaps that was to be his job in the caravan.
Ethan stomped around the caravan's tiny kitchenette. The vehicle shook with every angry stamp he made. Harry backed himself against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. Ethan perched on the work surface, eating cereal out of the box and glaring at the door, which his father soon came through.
"Off the cabinet," he hissed. Ethan slid to the floor, but glared at his father's back when Harry became the subject of attention.
"You, boy," the older man addressed him whilst crouching. Harry looked up fearfully, tightening his arms around his knees. "My name's Cracker. What's yours?" Harry shifted slightly, curious at this friendlier approach to him.
"Harry Potter," he said. Cracker peered at him with piercing eyes. Harry jumped out of his skin when a fist suddenly shot out and grabbed at his baggy clothes, pulling him unbearably close to Cracker's lined and worn face.
"You're not him no more, understand?" Harry was shaken violently, his head snapping back painfully. "You're not Harry bloody Potter. You're no one! Understand? No family, no name, no home." Tears began to bead at the corner of Harry's eyes, but he managed to choke out 'yes'. Cracker abruptly released him, and he slumped against the wall, watching the two adults with a watery stare and rubbing at his sore neck.
"Move," Cracker snapped at Ethan. His son glared moodily at him, and didn't shift. Harry watched in morbid fascination as Cracker's shoulders tensed, and he seemed to swell, overpowering the room. Almost in slow motion Cracker's foot lashed out, catching Ethan in the ribs and making him curl into himself. The cereal spilt over the floor. Cracker's callused hand grabbed Ethan's grubby shirt as it had grabbed Harry's, yanking him to his feet. Cracker was much smaller than Ethan, but he was still strong, and evidently he was the one in command.
"'m sorry, sir," Ethan stuttered, head bowed submissively as he clutched his bruised chest. "'m sorry, 'm sorry." Cracker released him, taking a step back. Harry recognised the twitch in his hand though, and watched as it backhanded Ethan across the face. Blood splattered up the cupboard door. Ethan didn't move from his landing position on the worktop. Harry got a good look at Cracker's face, twisted into an angry snarl, and tried to disappear inconspicuously. He didn't want to annoy Cracker, ever. He looked to be worse than Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia; they had never hit him much, preferring to lock him in the cupboard for days at a time.
With a final, warning slap to the back of Ethan's head, Cracker opened the cupboard with the blood splatter and pulled out a pack of biscuits. Then he left the caravan. Slowly, Ethan straightened, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. It left a thick red smear up to his wrist. His grey eyes flicked up, and caught sight of Harry, whose own green eyes glowed out of the gloom he was crouched in.
"What are you looking at?" he growled. Harry blinked, and quickly switched to looking at the table leg in front of him. It was made level with the others by a large block of wood. He jumped when a cereal grain hit his cheek. Ethan flicked another one at him, smiling cruelly. Harry pulled his knees under his chin and buried his head in his arms as Ethan continued to ping grains at him.
