Author Notes: sorry I haven't updated anything in a while. I was determined to update this story next, and I wrote two pages then just froze and didn't know what else to say. So yeah here it is, and after I've got this up I'll update the eagerly awaited chapter eleven of 'Must Be Love…', so enjoy, and gimme gimme gimme more reviews! This is a bit of a short chapter, but seeing as I how I haven't updated for ages, I thought I'd better throw it up anyway.

Boy With A Problem: Chapter Two: Or So He Thought

I was his Uncle Vernon. And he was holding two knives. One in his left hand and one in his right. He clicked them together, an evil grin imprinted on his face.

Tap-tap-tappity-tap

Tut-tut-tuttity-tut

That was the noise he had heard earlier. It was the noise of two knives clicking together. And it sent shivers down Harry's spine. For they weren't any old two knives. They were two knives in Vernon's hands. And from the look on his face, they weren't for cutting birthday cake.

Vernon lunged forward, and, with surprising accuracy considering his size, slit both of Harry's wrists. Harry turned pale; the blood was trickling down his palms, it was warm on his finger tips, and bloody hell was it painful.

"Ha!" Vernon laughed manically. "Caught you! Caught you … red handed! In more ways than one." He grinned slyly and chuckled at his little joke. He walked up to Harry until he was looking down his nose at him. Harry watched his uncle stare at him, spit on his face, and scratched at his cheeks with his blunt fingernails until they bled. His face was clammy with fear, wet with tears, warm with blood, and sticky with spit. Harry flung his arms out wildly, panicking, but his uncle just stepped smoothly away, laughing at his weakness. Then he felt it, that terribly familiar blackness washing over him… and then he was on the floor, in a mangled heap, breathing, but not at all fine.

He awoke in the morning, back in his cupboard. He grimaced, and felt the dry blood crackle on his face. His every limb ached from all the times he had been beaten over the years. He could not recall a day that he had not been beaten at least once, even if it was only a slap. He could not even recall the last time he had a friend. A smile. A hope. He had dreams, all right, dreams of a better life, but he had no hope that it would ever happen. No hope at all. Not even a glimmer of hope.

A few bars of light filtered through the vent and around the door, and Harry could hear a bang as Dudley slammed his door open. Minutes later, Dudley's heavy footsteps sounded on the top steps, and then he was on the steps above Harry's cupboard, jumping up and down. The noise was horrendous, and dust fell from the ceiling, getting into Harry's eyes, blinding them and making them stream. He shut them tightly, and buried his head in his pillow.

He did not wish to get up and face the day. He knew he would have to face more rebuke from his uncle. And most certainly his aunt and cousin, too. But, no doubt, the consequences would be worse if he didn't get up, and with that in mind, he made a hasty journey to the bathroom.

Just as he was rubbing his face on a towel, a shriek came up from down the hallway.

"Boy! Get yourself here at once! Breakfast and then chores!"

Harry groaned, then consented and left the bathroom for the kitchen. He presented his Aunt Petunia with his hands, as she always wanted to check their cleanliness. Her eyebrows rose as she saw the red marks, and then she snarled.

"What did you do this time, rat?" she said. If looks could kill, Harry would have been limp on the cold floor faster than you can say 'dead'. Mind you, the way the Dursleys treated him, he should already be dead.

"I'll tell you what he did this time!" Vernon butted in, and Petunia and Dudley listened to his exaggerations as he told the story of the previous night. When he had finished, there were three people in the room who wanted Harry's blood. They all started towards him, and he ran away like a coward. But then, anger overtook him. He was sick of this. He was sick of them. He was sick of his life. It was time for some changes. Without knowing what he was doing, Harry grabbed up the nearest thing to him- an umbrella- and brandished it in front of himself, knowing his attempt at a weapon was fruitless. Or so he thought.

Golden light surged out of the end of the umbrella, and it flew in all directions. It smashed the dishwasher to smithereens, broke an ancient vase clean in two, flipped the table (and all the food on it) upside down, and levitated Dudley in the air, before it faded, the dust around the dishwasher cleared to reveal a big hole in the wall, the flowers rolled limply to the floor, the squashed food squirted from under the table to splat on the walls, and Dudley came crashing down, landed on his bottom, and ran out into the back yard, wailing.

Petunia had gone very pale, and looked at her husband, who had gone very quiet. His temple was bulging.

"This is the last straw!" he shouted, and began to make his way towards Harry, although his wife stopped him.

"No, Vernon. You know what his parents were like. We don't know what he could do. He's turned out a… he's turned out a… one of them!" she wailed, burying her head into her Vernon's shoulder, who turned to Harry. It took him all his strength to speak calmly and not lash out, but eventually, Vernon said

"Go back to your cupboard, boy."

Author Notes: hope you like, I should get a chapter of something else up soon, so watch out for that. Also, if you want to check out some of my other works, go to fictionpress and search for my name, scatter-brain. I haven't got any stories up there yet, only a couple of poems, but I should have a story up sometime in the near future. So please review, even if you thought this chapter was crappy! Ty xxx