Struck Down
(A/N: Another chapter. This is where the story begins to get into it a little. Thanks for the reviews that I got from my first instalment! Yes, this story will be rather long.)
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"Out, boy! Out, out, out!"
"I'm going!" Harry called back, scurrying under his uncle's watchful eyes as he frowned down at him, clapping his hands over his head and marching him out of the house. He was off to paint the shed like Vernon had told him to, and according to Harry he had made perfect time and hadn't left it for too long.
His Aunt Petunia and Dudley had arrived home from shopping moments after his confrontation in the kitchen, and right now outside seemed a comfort. It was open and free, and away from his relatives. He didn't care if he had to do chores, it got him some distance. It was when thoughts like this ran through his head if he really hated them, or not.
Harry stumbled down the path as he tripped over the back door frame, and made his way down the garden. The shed suddenly seemed so much bigger than Harry had remembered, it loomed over him…strong and tall. Thinking back to the tiny shed he had looked upon after his uncle's pointing finger, he shook his head slowly and stepped up to the paint cans.
"Oh, no." They too, were also rather large. They looked heavy too, sitting there on the path staring up at him, as if laughing and knowing that this task was impossible for him. They carried the same colour as the shed held now; apparently Vernon didn't want a change.
Harry lowered himself to his knees and stared at the colour printed on the can. His lips read the words and he spoke them aloud, whispering under his breath. "Marron…oh, great. Uncle Vernon wanted brown! He must have picked the wrong can," he sighed, straightening up to his feet and staring down in dismay.
Now what would he do? He suddenly felt afraid to try asking for other cans that could be lying around. A sick feeling began to gather in his stomach but he forced it down, his throat tightening. Then his eye contact returned to the paint.
Well, the colour looked brown. Harry wondered if his uncle would even notice. He couldn't quite say that he had chosen the wrong shade for the job, maybe the words were mixed up or something. It could as well be the correct paint tone; he certainly wasn't going to go back.
Harry picked up the brush lying on top of one of the cans, and twirled it in his fist thoughtfully, his mouth pinched together. He could paint, he found it rather easy. But a whole shed…he'd never done that before. He glanced up at it again, swallowing. Then he frowned.
Getting the paint can open was tricky. Harry had to pry his fingernails under the rim and pull as hard as he could manage. The effort was hard for his smaller arms, and the metal often scratched the bases of his fingertips. He bit his lip and gritted his teeth as he struggled, giving the tin serious death glares.
Finally, the top popped off with one final tug, sending Harry flying onto his back, rather firmly. He gasped in surprise and sat up straight, staring into the sick brown colour of the paint. It looked almost like mud; a boggy puddle and small bubbles lay on the surface.
Picking his brush from the floor, he dived it into the colour, sending tiny droplets spraying onto his trousers. He then got to work painting, stroking the wood up and down in a vertical motion with the brush, just as he'd been told to do by his uncle. It wasn't as easy as he thought, being as the same colour he found that it was hard to tell which areas he'd painted or not.
But he was managing. The sun grew hotter as noon drew in close, making the job even more unbearable, and causing Harry to feel more uncomfortable as the time stretched on and on. His knees began to ache as he bend down to load up his brush with more paint, and his little body began to feel very unnerving.
"Would've been easier with buckets," he grumbled under his breath, sloshing some of the foul-looking mess by accident onto the garden path.
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Time seemed to drag so slowly for Harry that day. He had painted the bottom half of the infernal shed by closing afternoon, and was now managing to weed his aunt's garden patch whilst he waited for it to dry. He took his quiet time to consider his annoyance for what had happened at school the previous day. It really hadn't been his fault.
Dudley's best friend at school, Piers Polkis…who often reminded Harry of a rat, had dared him to climb a tree in the school field. Harry, who had begun to think that it might be some sort of trick, had refused at first, but had quickly bolted up its branches as both Dudley and Piers had started to march towards him threateningly.
He had done it, and Piers hadn't been impressed. Knowing that if Harry could have climbed it, he most certainly would have been able to, but as soon as he grabbed for one of the highest branches, it just didn't seem to be there anymore. Harry had stared in amazement as Piers took a tumble down onto his backside, knowing for a fact that he had grabbed that very branch as he had scurried up earlier.
He had just been thinking too, how angry he was at both of them for daring him to climb the tree in the first place, and it just sort of happened.
Just like that.
He had taken a punch for it too, being held by Piers by the arms as Dudley swung out. He hadn't broken down; he hadn't shown them any pain. He just took the hit as if it was a regular thing, as if it happened every day for him.
That bruise he still had…that had appeared because of that time. That was the main reason why he had avoided his cousin coming in from school. He didn't want Dudley to know he had bruised him; it would only make him feel stronger and bolder. Partly because he didn't want his cousin to hold any pride out of it.
That was another thing that Harry had learnt over the years, it wasn't helping if you cried over everything that happened to you. It annoyed others, and it just made them feel a lot more powerful to see their victim crumble. As he grew, he had known it best to hide his tears, away from the cruel world around him.
He was really beginning to hate going to school. He didn't know why, mainly it was because of the feeling that nobody liked him; nobody tried to make friends with him for fear of Dudley's wrath.
He sighed miserably, and pulled up another weed.
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Harry felt water on his face. Soft drips cascading down upon his cheeks and trickling down his neck. It was cold, almost like ice, and he shivered. The darkness was against him, as the water fell past his glasses. He opened his eyes to a speckled world…
…and gasped.
It was raining. But how…he should have known! Deep puddles settled on the path and his aunt's flowerbed was flooded. Near yonder, towards the back of the garden, the shed was in streaks as the new paint soaked through. The grass was tingling and mingled with dew.
Harry was soaking.
His hair was matted to his forehead and his clothes were drenched. They felt heavy and weighed him down as he tried to move. He felt stiff and cold, and he scrambled to his feet as he wiped down his face, rubbing his numb cheeks.
His heart rose in his chest with panic as he eyed the shed. Rushing over to it, he found to his relief that he had closed the lids of the paint cans, so they did not water the mixture down. He hid them behind the side of the wall and looked with a heavy feeling at the work.
It didn't seem so bad…he could paint it again when it cleared up a little. Now that rainwater dripped off his hair and down his nose, he wiped his forehead with his soaking sleeve and fled back to the door of the house.
How could he have fallen asleep in the rain? It seemed pretty silly now that he thought about it…he could only imagine trying to explain it to his relatives. Wrapping his arms around himself, he ran with sopping trainers to the door, his breath came out in a light fog as he took hold of the handle and pulled.
Nothing happened.
Harry's eyes grew wide with shock as he tried again, and again to open the door. But it still never budged. "No," he whispered out, tugging on the door with all his might, feeling the last despair groan out of his body.
The door was locked. He was locked outside, with the rain and the cold. How could his uncle forget to bring him in when the weather began to darken? Didn't anyone think that he could be caught out in the shower whilst he was still at work?
Maybe Vernon hadn't forgotten. Maybe this was a reminder to stay on the job and not fall asleep, as a sort of punishment. Harry felt his mind scream as he pounded now on the door, wanting to shout but thought it best not to. His throat was so tight that it was hurting him, and he choked back on a shiver as he knocked his hardest.
The rain continued to fall down, down in sheets that pelted Harry's little body until it looked as if he had been swimming. The jacket of Dudley's that he was wearing fell past his smaller arms, and his socks were wet inside his shoes. He couldn't feel his toes and he could sense they were numb too.
He offered one feebler knock on the door as a last hope, and was still holding up his hand to try again when the door swung open violently. Still shaking, Harry looked up into the face of his aunt at her astonished cry. It was probably surprising for her, seeing a wet creature standing at her door, dripping to the bone.
However, the reaction was different to what Harry thought that cry was for. He thought that she was horrified to see him so wet and cold, so shocked that he had been left outside all of that time without anyone to let him in, so distraught that his clothes were soggy and his body was shivering.
There was always a 'however' though, in Harry's life.
Petunia let out another shriek, unable to believe her eyes. "You!" she cried, gasping down at her nephew. "Look at you! You're not fit to be seen!" she wrenched out an arm and grabbed Harry by the shoulder, dragging his wet form into the kitchen, his teeth chattering so loud that he could hear it in his head.
Petunia was scolding him so badly that Harry stopped listening after a while. She made it sound like that he had brought it on himself, which, when Harry reminded himself that it was partly his fault for falling asleep anyway. A towel was thrown at him and he quickly began to rub down his hair.
"Why are you so wet?" Petunia demanded. "Why didn't you have the sense…the ideal sense to come indoors when the rain began?" Her eyes were burning; Harry couldn't remember the last time she had flared up so quickly as this. Her hands were on her hips and she glared down at him as if she had noticed a stubborn spot on the carpet.
Harry found his voice in a hushed squeak. "Fell…fell…" he shuddered.
"You fell? In the ocean, was it then?" she shouted back.
Shaking his head, Harry wiped the drips from his cheeks. "No…no, I-I fell…"
"Oh, fine – stick to your impertinent story!" his aunt snapped back, cutting him off before he had a chance to finish. "I don't want you dripping everywhere – here!" she threw another towel at him. "Get yourself dried up!"
Harry made the best of it, rubbing down most of his clothes and skin, until he was only damp instead of drenched. He retreated back to his cupboard, searching for some new garments, as he couldn't bear the thought of having to wear what he had for the rest of the day.
He locked himself in, and was alone in the quiet. Turning the light on, he quickly stripped himself of his wet shirt, jacket and trousers and left them aside to dry whilst he changed. He had to go without wearing shoes for a while, as his socks had soaked through to nothing and his trainers were heavy with water.
He shivered again, looking about the room, his hair still drying as it stuck up at the back. Turning back towards the cupboard door, he drew himself in as he hugged his knees, his chest shuddering as his breathing racked from the cold.
He had tried to tell what had happened, but maybe nobody would have believed him if he had managed to explain. Letting out a huge sigh, he turned and listened to the rain pattering outside the house…it was that loud.
So loud…how could he have slept through it?
He rested his head on his knees, feeling terrible, and listened to the sounds in the house as he sat in silence. Footsteps on the carpet, a humming sound here and there, and the coming and going of people on the stairs.
Harry gave off another violent tremble as the door slammed, his heart falling into his stomach and yet jumping into his throat at the same time. He reached a shaky hand out for the light, and turned it off, his relief growing.
No one would find him in there.
To be continued
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(A/N: As you can see, poor Harry is beginning to feel neglected. I suppose I would too, but this story isn't about me, lol. Thank you for all of the reviews I got for the first chapter, I hope to get as much feedback from this one, but I'm only hoping. : smile : Please, please R&R!)
