Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters therein belong to JKR. I am using them for non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: slash (male-male relationship), AU (alternate universe).
Harry woke a few hours later, feeling irritable and not refreshed at all. Great.
The smell of something cooking wafted up from down below, and he realized belatedly that he was hungry. Starving, in fact.
For a few minutes, he lay in bed debating between lying there and going hungry or getting up and getting food, which would also involve interacting with the Dursleys and dealing with things he didn't really want to be bothered with at the moment. Hunger won out, and he forced himself up into a sitting position and then to a stand, feeling groggy and lightheaded and regretting his decision.
As he made his way out of the room and to the stairwell, he caught the sound of voices. From the sound of things, the Dursleys had sat down to dinner without him. He couldn't say he was overly surprised. He wondered if they'd even bothered to set a place for him.
Approaching the dining room, he saw that they hadn't, and sighed internally. Well then.
He didn't want to deal with this, didn't want to deal with them. Didn't want to take their shit or see their ugly faces or be in this goddamn house at all. But he'd already come all the way down here, and he was hungry, and what did it matter anyway?
He walked in, and sat down in the one empty chair.
"Well!" Petunia looked affronted. "You don't have any manners at all, do you, child? Barging in like a hoodlum, without even a proper greeting for us."
So it was well-mannered to not invite a member of the household to dinner, and then make him feel unwelcome when he came anyway? Harry's irritation increased, and some of his irritation must have shown on his face, because Uncle Vernon took that as a cue to concur with Petunia.
"The consequence of a bad upbringing, no doubt," he said knowledgeably, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork and shoving it in his mouth. As he chewed the food, he made an impatient gesture, then swallowed. Harry kept his face carefully neutral, though he very much wanted to punch the smug expression off of Vernon's face.
"Well? What are you waiting for, boy? Apologize!" He banged his fork on the table to punctuate the command, setting it shaking and almost creating a disaster as his glass wobbled dangerously.
"I'm sorry," Harry said through gritted teeth.
"And?" Petunia looked at him expectantly.
"Good evening." If they were expecting more than that…
Vernon waved his hand imperiously, his mouth full of chicken and rice. Bastard.
"May I dine with you?" This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
Petunia frowned. "Very well. Go fetch yourself a plate and drink from the kitchen." She looked at him as though he ought to thank her for her generous concession. Fat chance.
He was this close to slamming his chair back and storming into the kitchen, but he knew when not to push his luck. He stood tamely, and got himself a plate and a glass of milk from the kitchen, his actions stiff with forced politeness.
Returning to his seat, he sat down—the flatware making the barest clink as he set it down with deliberate lightness—and began to serve himself with precise movements.
The Dursleys seemed to have returned to their policy of ignoring him, which he was absurdly grateful for. He was on edge right now, feeling sharp and raw, and he didn't think he could take much more from them without exploding.
He began to eat, though his appetite had faded since he'd sat down with the Dursleys. Funny, that. Not really tasting the food, he chewed and swallowed mechanically, just wanting to be finished with it so he could go back up to his room and go back to bed. The last thing he wanted right now was a lecture on ungratefulness and wastefulness for not finishing his plate.
Hearing Uncle Vernon clear his throat, Harry looked up. Vernon glared at him, and nodded towards Petunia. Harry just stared at him dumbly, not understanding. Turning red with rage, Vernon nodded again. Harry turned to look at Petunia, who was occupied with serving Dudley another plate of food (Harry was guessing it was at least his third, if not his fourth). He turned back to Vernon, who was now purple and looked about to explode.
The tension continued to build, the two of them staring at each other, until Vernon brought his fork down to the table again with a crash. He'd managed to pick the worst possible time, and not only did his glass fall over and spill its remaining contents (which, thankfully, weren't enough to spread very far), but Petunia, having been jolted by the table and surprised by the sudden noise, spilled hot chicken and rice all over Dudley, who promptly began screaming. If Harry had been in a better mood, it would have been side-splittingly funny.
Just feeling tired and exasperated now, he slipped out amidst the melee. This wasn't a family, it was a freaking three-ring circus!
Harry was lying in bed again when Vernon came in to yell at him, face and neck all red and swelled up, and puffing a bit from having just climbed the stairs.
Harry had really just wanted to continue lying there staring at the ceiling, but he'd made a monumental effort and turned to face the door when he'd heard Vernon pushing it open. Well, slamming it open, more like—the door had flown open so hard that it had left a mark on the wall where the doorknob hit, then bounced back, then rebounded back towards the wall when it collided with Vernon's massive body.
He stomped over, coming to a stop a couple feet away from Harry's bed.
"Well, boy?" He demanded. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Sorry," Harry muttered, not looking—or feeling, for that matter—very contrite. It hadn't really been his fault, after all, and all he wanted right now was for Uncle Vernon to go away and leave him in peace.
Vernon didn't look at all satisfied with that. "Oh, you're not sorry now, boy," he growled, "but you will be." He took a breath, visibly calming himself. "You'll go downstairs and clean up the mess you made, and starting tomorrow, your aunt will be giving you a list of chores to do. You'll earn your keep for once, and you'll learn some respect. We won't be soft on you, boy, so you'd better start shaping up."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. It shook the whole room, and a few things fell off the pile of junk in the corner, landing on one of Harry's bags.
He didn't move to pick them up, or to start unpacking or trying to make the room more habitable, just turned onto his back again and stared at the ceiling, the patterns of the chipped paint occupying his vision until the light faded and he was staring into nothingness.
