Disclaimer: I own... nothing. Not Harry, not Draco, not any of the characters, they all belong to JK Rowling. The only thing that belongs to me is my capybara, which may or may not be appearing.

Warnings: abuse, angst. I think that's all, so far.

SO. This is maybe my... second fic? First one on this account, and the first one I've written in... a couple years, actually. I hope it's not too bad!

Harry stepped off the Hogwarts Express, wondering when the next time would be that he saw the school that had become his home. Would it still be safe to go back? After all, Dumbledore was the only person keeping Hogwarts really safe, the only person Voldemort was really afraid of, and with Dumbledore gone and – no. Harry's grip tightened on the handle of his luggage, and he shook his head sharply to rid himself of the thought. Dumbledore wasn't dead, he refused to believe that; there had to be some way to reverse it. After all, it was Dumbledore, it –

"Harry!" a voice called from twenty feet away. Harry glanced up just in time to see Hermione Granger launching herself at him. Behind her, Ron took his time strolling over and Ginny followed reluctantly with somewhat of a scowl. "Oh Harry, make sure you take care of yourself this summer," Hermione was saying. "Keep safe, and if you need anything, you know how to reach me or Ron or Si –" She cut herself off. She was still so used to Harry being able to write Sirius, and she was talking without thinking first, and remembering that he had been dead for about a year now.

Harry's face instantly fell more, if that was possible. He was already dwelling on Dumbledore; Hermione had just had to remind him of his godfather too, didn't she? He could tell she knew her mistake, though, because she immediately flushed and backed off awkwardly.

"See you over the summer, I hope," Ron said, thumping Harry on the shoulder. "Take care, mate." Harry nodded. Ron began to sense the tension radiating from Ginny, and quickly said, "Well, I expect Mum's waiting for us now, c'mon Ginny…" He led her off before she could bite Harry's head off for dumping her. Hermione gave Harry a trachea-crushing hug and followed Ron.

With nobody left to say goodbye to – the platform was beginning to clear out anyway – Harry left to meet up with the Dursleys. Joyful, he thought. He didn't see them among the Muggles in the train station, so he climbed the stairs up and out onto the street. There was the familiar car, parked several spaces down; there was Uncle Vernon, honking his horn impatiently at Harry when he noticed him; there was Dudley, trying to hit unsuspecting pigeons on the sidewalk with spitballs from the open car window; and there was Aunt Petunia, looking more giraffe-like than usual, trying to wipe a speck of dust off of her precious Dudders's nice new pants.

"Well, Hedwig, looks like we aren't at Hogwarts anymore," Harry said to his owl, who hooted at him, before dragging his luggage to the car and shoving it all in the trunk with difficulty.

Most students might get a "So, dear, how was your year at school?" or a "Oh, we missed you and there's so much to tell you about our vacation to Malaysia…" when they returned from Hogwarts. Not Harry Potter. He was used to greetings such as "Your hair needs to be cut," or "Why do we ever put up with this? You'd better be grateful, boy…" This year he was met with the ever-charming "Why must you bring that ruddy owl into the car, it's going to stink up the seats. Tie it on the roof, that's what I'd do…"

"She wouldn't make it home," Harry said, annoyed, letting Uncle Vernon know that (a) Hedwig was a 'she,' not an 'it,' and (b) he wasn't in the mood.

However, the Dursleys weren't known for taking hints very well. Vernon kept complaining about Hedwig, Petunia kept making comments about Harry's hair, and Dudley kept poking Harry in the most annoying and inappropriate of places. It was really wearing on his nerves.

By the time they reached Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry had had more than enough. He grabbed his bags, slammed the car door (with a "HEY, watch it, boy" from Vernon), and stormed inside and upstairs with a huff. Hedwig's cage he put down carefully; the rest of his belongings he shoved across the room. They slammed against the wall and fell into a heap. Harry then flung himself backwards onto his bed, where he laid for quite some time with an arm pressed across his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark outside. 'Must've fallen asleep,' he thought. He was about to roll over and look at the clock, but he heard the grandfather clock downstairs begin to chime off a new hour. It was nine o'clock. Harry sighed. So he'd missed dinner. The Dursleys ate at 7:30 every night, and if you weren't ready to eat, you didn't get to. If you were Harry, that is. Petunia and Vernon would put off dinner for several hours if their Duddle-lumpkins wasn't ready. He usually was, though; the kid liked to eat.

Harry pulled himself out of bed to let Hedwig, who had been hooting at him and ruffling her feathers, which meant something close to "Oi, you're not the only one who hasn't eaten tonight, y'know." After patting her on the head to assure her he hadn't forgotten, he opened his bedroom window so she could go hunting. She hooted gratefully and took off.

Harry then noticed his luggage still sitting in a heap on the floor, and his inner neat-freak decided to take over and clean up the mess, carefully stowing his wand and books under several loose boards in the floor. He was going to put away his robes as well, but when his stomach grumbled and threatened to tie itself in a knot, he decided to see if there was any food left over from supper.

As he went downstairs, avoiding the squeaky parts of the stairs to try not to make too much noise, he saw the whole of the Dursley family exactly where they should be: planted in front of the TV. Vernon was watching some American football, Dudley was whining about something involving "Not enough! Five and a half scoops of ice cream is NOT ENOUGH, I want at least SEVEN!", and Petunia was trying fruitlessly to calm her son. The whole diet idea for Dudley had died long ago; after Dudley came home day after day with at least twenty Twinkie-like substances and other feeble imposters of food, Vernon and Petunia had dubbed dieting an utter waste of their time.

Harry made it down the stairs without a problem, but as he crept past the living room, Vernon's head popped up.

"Where do you think you're going, boy?"

"Leftovers," Harry replied nonchalantly, continuing to walk to the kitchen.

Vernon's normally ruddy face turned a different shade of red. He stood up from the couch and stamped out into the hall. No one had ever quite figured out why, but Vernon hated one-word responses to his questions. "Show some respect, boy!" he barked at Harry, preparing to launch into his favorite lecture about how he and his family had been kind enough to take Harry in as a baby, caring enough to raise him and feed him and send him to school, and outrageously generous enough to let him go to Hogwarts. "For sixteen years, this family has raised you and fed you and clothed you and sent you to school, and what do we get back? Disrespect and delinquency! Unacceptable!"

"Eating dinner counts as delinquency now?" Harry asked, calmly shifting the contents in the fridge. He was hungry, he was tired, he was certainly far from the happiest he'd ever been, and he didn't feel like paying his… family … any more attention than he had to.

Vernon's face turned even redder (some might even argue that it was purple), and he reached down to slam the refrigerator door on Harry, who removed his head and hand just in time. "We ate dinner hours ago. If you missed it, that's your fault. And don't talk back to me boy," he blubbered madly.

That, of course, put Harry in the mood for talking back. "D'you realize you always add 'boy' to the end of your sentences whenever you're talking to me?" he pointed out, as the telephone started ringing.

Harry, unfortunately, thought about the consequences to his actions just about as often as the Dursleys could take a hint – that is to say, hardly ever. Vernon had had enough; in a split second, he had shot out a pudgy hand and caught Harry by the throat, pinning him against the refrigerator, a twisted look on his face. "You ungrateful little –"

"Vernon, dear," Petunia sang from the living room. "Your mother's on the phone."

"Tell her I'll call her back," her husband replied.

"She, er, says it's urgent."

Vernon huffed and released Harry to take the phone, but not before leaning in so far that he was nose to nose with his nephew to growl at him, "I'll deal with you later."

Harry's hand reached up to feel his throat as he coughed and stared after his uncle. He'd known Vernon to be volatile – irrationally so – but not to actually be a threat. He could have sworn he smelled beer on his uncle's breath, though. That wasn't good. He'd never seen Vernon drink any more than an occasional glass of wine with dinner: Petunia made sure he didn't have too much to drink because his entire family had a history of alcoholism. That obviously didn't matter to Petunia now, since sometime between the late afternoon and 9:00, her husband had gotten as drunk as a skunk.

Harry had no idea what Vernon was going to do to 'deal with' him, but he sure wasn't liking the sound of it. Making sure Vernon was still on the phone, Harry dashed upstairs to his room, where he found Hedwig perched on his bedpost, waiting for him.

"That was a short hunt, girl," he said, picking her up and stroking her feathers. She hooted at him. "Listen, I'm going to send you off to Ron's for a little while, okay?" As much as he wasn't as close to his friends at the moment as he normally was, Harry didn't want anything to happen to his owl. Better safe than sorry. Hedwig hooted again at him, confused this time. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled a short note:

Ron –

Everything's fine, just wanted to send Hedwig off until a few things with the Dursleys blow over. Nothing to worry about.

-Harry

Harry tied the note to Hedwig's leg, and she hooted once more, nibbled on his hair affectionately, and took off.

Just in time, too, because not a minute later, Harry heard his uncle pounding up the stairs. There was a bang at his door, and then Vernon burst into his room. Harry jumped a little and spun around as the door slammed back against the wall. Before he had a chance to react further, Vernon was upon him, yelling various obscenities at him, practically spitting in his face he was so close. Harry couldn't actually make out any sentences because Vernon was more blubbering more than actually talking. He caught a couple words like 'authority,' 'fool,' and 'ungrateful filth.'

And then he felt a hand collide with his face. Vernon shoved him against the wall so hard that he stumbled and his head snapped back, hitting the corner of the windowsill; Harry saw stars for a moment.

If only he could reach his wand… it was still under the floorboard. Several times, he had been able to do magic without a wand, but not on purpose. Although even if he could reach his wand, he'd be taking a chance. Even though it was highly unlikely that he would return to Hogwarts next year, it was still against the law for an underage witch or wizard to practice magic outside of school in the Muggle world. Maybe if he was being attacked by a dementor or something as dangerous, but certainly not for getting mad at his uncle. Although he didn't get in trouble for sending Aunt Marge floating away with the clouds… but still, that was an accident, and Harry wanted as little to do with the wizarding courts as possible. Caught up in his thoughts, he was taken by surprise by one of Vernon's fists sailing into his stomach. He doubled over, coughing.

When he got his breath back, he threw caution to the winds and began to dart between Vernon's legs to reach the floorboard and his wand. He didn't know what the Ministry of Magic would do, and he decided he didn't really care. However, he didn't get very far. His uncle caught him by his hair and the back of his shirt and threw him back against the wall again.

"Where do you think you're going?" Vernon growled. Harry's eyes widened slightly as he watched his uncle move to take off his belt, and he quickly tried to move out of the way, but a swift shoe caught him in the stomach. Vernon raised the strip of leather, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut to prepare himself for the blow. He felt the sting of the belt across his back, which quickly turned into a throbbing pain, followed by the metal buckle that whipped around and hit him square on the shoulder. Harry flinched, but refused to cry out, instead kicking out at Vernon's shins. Too slowly. Vernon grabbed him by the ankle and lifted him into the air and flipped him over onto his back. All the air in his lungs escaped him as he landed with a loud thud on the wooden floor. Vernon's hands were then around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Harry choked and sputtered, trying to twist out of his uncle's vice grip on his throat. Vernon was like a pit bull, however, and he held on. Harry's vision began to go black, starting from the edges. He was disoriented from lack of oxygen, but he felt his head slam back against the floor as Vernon shook him. Then everything went completely black, and he passed out.

-->end chapter 1 -->

So, there it is. ) I don't know exactly why I wrote it; I guess a plotbunny decided to whack me on the head with a skillet while I was on vacation in New Hampshire.

The capybara says, "PLEASE REVIEW!" That little blueish-purple button is an author's best friend! Flames are okay, I guess, just please make them constructive and about the writing style. None of those ones where you tell me "Omggggzzz this iz so stewpiddddd" and then... don't tell me why. Thanks!