A/N

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Chapter 3

Thursday 2nd November 1989

It was a mere two days after the Halloween incident. Harry resolved to put the whole ordeal firmly behind him. It was worse than when he had flown up to the roof of the school earlier in the year. This time there was no explanation, no matter how dubious. None at all. He had been bleeding, his glasses had been crushed, and he should have had bruises for days. Just thinking about it made him shiver, the icy chill of that night would not be forgotten for a long time.

He had escaped from that room, from the bloody circle, the mocking laughter of his tormentors, the stink of death and decay. He hadn't dared to look back, fearing that the hounds of Hell themselves were hot on his heels, snapping jaws filled with sharp teeth. Finally, he had stopped running; his lungs burning for sweet air, gasping for a deep breath. His legs were jelly, numb from exertion – the nerves too overwhelmed to process a signal. There was red something smeared over his clothing, a mixture of the mysterious red substance of the pentagram and his own blood, it was all over his face too.

His glasses, which he had reached for instinctively, were not as shattered as he thought they would be. Clutched tightly in his hand, the round wire rimmed glasses were as brand new as the day he got them.

He had explored his wounds, he liked to mentally catalogue the damage done to him, another black mark against Dudley and his gang. But he was left in shock, there was not a single bruise, not even the hint of an ache in his shoulders. The redness on his wrists had vanished, leaving tan unblemished skin. As he stood there panting, he'd almost hyperventilated. Something as freaky as this had never happened before. Not once had someone so inexplicable happened.

Severely shaken and disturbed by the happenings if the evening, he trudged home to the Dursely's, accompanied by the unpleasant smell of urine and a sense of humiliation so deep that he wished that the ground would open up beneath him and swallow him whole. A touch of fear still lurked in the corners of his mind, but he determinedly pushed it aside.

However, the fear didn't really vanish. Since that night he was more on edge, jumping at the smallest sounds. There was a mild itching sensation on his skin, moments when the tiny hairs on the back of his neck would rise, followed by the spread of goose-bumps on his arms. He felt it keenly, he was being watched. Someone, or something was following him, its intense gaze fraying his nerves. He swore that there were moments that it creeped up on him, he could see its shadow in the corner of his eye. When he shifted he gaze, or turned to face it, it would swiftly retreat, the tension of being watched dissipating abruptly.

That's how it was for the next two days after that night. Always something there, lurking just out sight at the boundaries of his vision, never so brazen as to show itself fully. The Dursley's seemed to pick up on his tension, as did his classmates and teachers. They watched him surreptitiously, their eyes studying him when they thought the wasn't looking. He must have looked ridiculous to them, constantly jerking to the side in a vain effort to catch whatever creature was stalking him. He would never admit it to anyone, not that he did have anyone to admit to in the first place, but he was frightened. A profound sense of dread had settled in his bones and weighed him down like lead weights. He was finally going crazy.

'What is it called? Schizophrenia? That's what this is, right? When people go mental and start seeing and hearing things other people don't'. He knew that if he let on that some unknown and possibly supernatural monster was stalking him, the Dursley's would drag him kicking and screaming to the nut-house without a moment's notice and dump him there for the rest of his life. 'It'll go away', he thought to himself, 'I just have to ignore it'. Feeling drained of energy, he went to sleep, curling up on the thin mattress and covering himself with a worn-out blanket. 'It'll get better soon' was his last thought before sleep claimed him.

Sunday 5th November 1989

It didn't go away. It got worse. As the weekend got closer, the shadows increased in number, the feeling of being watched intensifying to such a degree that it was almost constant. There was more than one of them.
Adrenaline was pumping through his veins from the moment he woke in the morning right up to the second his eyes slipped closed from exhaustion and strain at the end of the day. It was utterly draining, and the stress was building to near critical levels.

He was woken up by his Aunt at 8 o'clock sharp, the latest he was ever allowed to sleep even during summer holidays. Her shrill voice pierced his dream – a repeating dream of green lights and a high, cold laugher – and the banging of her fist against his cupboard door was just as impatient as usual. He was awake instantly; the reaction drilled into him for as long as he could remember. His sleepwear was an oversized shirt from Dudley, the article of clothing so thin and full of holes he couldn't wear it outside or around the house anymore. The clothing he had to change into was no better. Permanently stained from Dudley's appalling table manners, it was what we wore on the weekends and summer holidays. His school uniform was the closest thing he had to proper clothes, but even that was not perfect – ripped and tattered from cuts and scrapes (Harry Hunting was a sport that was tough on clothes), and washed-out from the strong chemicals used for removing difficult stains, like blood and grass.

He got ready in practised motions, changing into his day clothes and darting up to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth. In less than ten minutes he was in the kitchen where he began his first chore of the day. Uncle Vernon and Dudley liked to sleep in on Sundays, but he and Aunt Petunia would be up earlier to cook a large Sunday breakfast. Considering how much Vernon and Dudley ate, large was perhaps a bit of understatement, but lunch and dinner would undoubtedly be feasts in comparison.

The kitchen and dining room were at the back of the house, and were exposed to the sun at all hours of the day. The morning sun was streaming in gently through the large windows and the french doors leading out to the patio. Thin lacy curtains were hung up, filtering and softening the light which reflected off the creamy walls and white marble counter-tops. The kitchen was bright and spotless with gleaming pale cabinets and shining appliances, the opposite of his dark and filthy cupboard with its spiders and shabby contents. Entering from the hallway, the kitchen on the right side of the room. The sinks were opposite the doorway under the windows, then the stove against the wall to the right, and the fridge and large pantry beside the doorway. Counter space was abundant, allowing for at least two people to be in the kitchen simultaneously. The cabinets and pantry were fully stocked with equipment and foodstuffs, an essential feature for a household of four people, two of which had black holes for stomachs.

The dining table was off to the left, a light wooden table that was large and round, with four very wide matching dining chairs. There was a lacy tablecloth over the table, although it wouldn't last long, Dudley was a master at destroying tablecloths with his atrociously messy eating. Aunt Petunia went through tablecloths almost as fast as Dudley went through a burger.

This morning Aunt Petunia wanted to prepare the eggs and baked beans, and had already started with her preparation. Harry was left with the bulk of the work; chopping and slicing ingredients, watching pans and pots on the stoves so they wouldn't burn, and setting the table in preparation for the arrival of Cousin Pig and Uncle Walrus.

Sunday breakfast was always a full English Breakfast. Without a word to Aunt Petunia, Harry started on the dishes assigned to him. He sliced mushrooms to be sautéed, and cut tomatoes in half with ease. He ripped the plastic from the sausage trays, and arranged them in a hot pan under the watchful eye of Aunt Petunia, being careful not to let the oil splash all over himself, but most importantly, not all over the stove. The bacon was treated with similar care, filling the kitchen with mouth-watering scents and the distinctive crackling and popping sounds of cooking meat.

Aunt Petunia manned the stove, occasionally flipping or turning something in one of the pans. A loud thumping could be heard from upstairs, indicating that Uncle Vernon and Dudley were preparing to come downstairs, lured by the delicious smells wafting through the house. Harry hurried on with getting everything ready. He filled the electric kettle with water and turned it on, knowing that Uncle Vernon needed to have a cup of coffee first thing in the morning. He pulled out a loaf of square sliced bread out of the breadbox and slid four slices into the toaster, the timer already set to two and half minutes. The timer was never to be touched, anything higher and Dudley would cry that the toast was burnt, anything less and it wasn't toasted enough for Uncle Vernon.

When the slices of toast popped, he transferred them to a toast rack, and placed four more slices into the toaster. He repeated the action twice more, until he had sixteen slices of toast.

Harry took the toast to the table, and placed it in the middle. Aunt Petunia hadn't finishing plating everything from the pans, so Harry decided set the table in the meantime, making sure to bring out a glass for Dudley who liked to drink sweetened orange juice.

Hearing Vernon thud down the stairs, Harry made his coffee, the exact measurements of each element burned into his brain. Two teaspoons of instant coffee, three cubes of sugar, exactly four fifths of water and one fifth milk. His Uncle had the bizarre ability to always tell if it wasn't right. A useless superpower by all accounts, but never wrong.

The walrus-like man shuffled into the kitchen swathed in a blue striped dressing robe, he plonked into his usual seat, the chair giving an alarming groan at the heavy weight. Uncle Vernon was a large man, with light brown hair, dark beady eyes, and practically no neck to speak of. His moustache comprised half of his face, and gave him an uncanny resemblance to a walrus. The association was not dissuaded by the man's beefy anatomy and waddling gait.

Harry brought the cup of coffee over, and it was plucked from his grasp with not even a grunt of acknowledgement. He was always ignored like this, treated worse than a servant, more like a slave; meant to be seen and not heard, treated as invisible until someone needed something, and punished excessively for the smallest slights, regardless of whether they were intentional or not.

Seeing that Aunt Petunia had finished loading up several serving plates, Harry walked over to the counter to collect the large bowl of baked beans. Aunt Petunia carried the heaviest of the serving plates, the one with all the sausages and bacon, not trusting Harry to carry the plate without dropping something. There was a surprising amount of strength in her arms, which where incredibly thin and stick like. She was a perfectionist in almost every way. She cared for her appearance a great deal, spending at least an hour each morning preening, making sure her blonde hair was perfectly arranged, her nails flawlessly manicured, and clothing pressed until wrinkles were nothing more than an abstract concept. While Harry was capable at carrying out most of his chores with impeccable results, for Aunt Petunia would accept nothing but perfect, she still didn't trust him fully in the kitchen. He was, after all, only nine years old.

When the whole table was set and ready, Aunt Petunia took her own seat by her husband. She served Uncle Vernon a hearty portion, piled high as a small tower, and then served herself a fraction of that. Dudley was the last to turn up, still dressed in his pyjamas, wobbly belly hanging out over his low riding pants. The obese boy clambered up onto his seat and sloppily began to arrange his own breakfast, even larger than his fathers. Dudley dove into the meal, not even taking the time to say good morning to his parents.

Harry went to the fridge and grabbed the orange juice off the shelf on the door. Heading back to the dining table, he unscrewed the lid, and poured the juice into Dudley's glass, knowing that it would be better to do it now than have someone snap at him to do it later. He put the carton onto the dining table where it would be in easy reach, and sat down on the last remaining dining chair to wait. He never ate with the Dursley's, instead waiting for them to finish and then making do with whatever leftovers there were. Most often, he could count on at least a slice of toast and some baked beans, maybe some of the tomatoes and mushrooms if he was lucky. Only once or twice could he recall ever having any bacon or sausage, Dudley made sure to eat as much as possible, and Harry thought that Dudley did it just to spite him.

It was tedious, waiting for Dudley to finish stuffing his face. Harry sat on his chair, swinging his legs and focused on looking out the window. The feeling of being watched was not as strong today, a slight prickle, but not the overwhelming aura from yesterday. It made him nervous, yet none of the Dursley's were acting out of character.

"Damn it, blasted fork!" grunted out Uncle Vernon, interrupting Harry's focus. He looked to see what his Uncle was cursing at, and was immediately paralysed. They were all over Uncle Vernon. Swarming around his head and climbing all over the dining table. Harry was in complete shock, and stopped himself from crying out at the last second. Uncle Vernon was not reacting at all.

The things spreading out over the table and its occupants were drawing no attention, as if they were invisible. 'Am I seeing things?' thought Harry. He watched as Uncle Vernon speared some sausage onto his fork, and one of the creatures pushed the chunk of meat off the end, sending it back down onto the plate with plop and a curse from Vernon. It giggled, a high-pitched sound that sent an icy shiver down his spine.

The creatures were tiny, inky black blobs. Some of them were like liquid, dripping and oozing along, moving in strange caterpillar motions. Others were misshapen globules which moved around by rolling or on spindly spider-like legs that stuck up in all directions, the number of which varied by individual creature. Some of them had sprouted wings, butterfly wings, bird wings, fly wings, bat wings, there was one that even looked suspiciously similar to a plane. The little one perched on Uncle Vernon's pest was smokier at the edges than the others, almost fairy like in appearance. It had a distinct humanoid appearance, with buzzing wings and very long thin limbs, but its edges were always shifting and changing, and it had no distinguishable facial features except for two gleaming green pricks of light. 'Eyes, maybe?' but he wasn't sure, although he did find the colour disturbing, eerily reminiscent of his own.

He watched with a sense of horrified amusement (a very strange feeling indeed) as one of the liquid-like blobs slithered over Uncle Vernon's face and dripped onto his moustache where it promptly got stuck. It writhed and struggled in the hairy trap, and was dislodged when Uncle Vernon scratched at his moustache, perhaps because he had felt the strange tugging sensation there. The little "fairy" on Vernon's fork was having the time of its life, giggling as it interfered with the functioning of the fork and squealing in delight every time the fork was shaken about by the beefy hand holding it.

Unfortunately, Harry's horrified expression did not go unnoticed.
"What's wrong with you, boy? Out with it!" demanded Uncle Vernon, who had finally noticed Harry's rather blatant staring.

His brain stuttered to halt. He couldn't tell Uncle Vernon he was seeing strange little blobs crawling over the room, that was a one-way ticket to some mental institute for sure. He had to do some fast talking, preferably now seeing at Uncle Vernon's beady eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

"Err, I-I just realised that I uhh… forgot to, uhm, iron your golf shirt. For today?" He winced as he said it, the last word rising in pitch like a question and sounding like an obvious lie even to his own ears.

"Well go get it done, boy!" Vernon growled out angrily, easily accepting the lie without further interrogation. Aunt Petunia didn't looked convinced but didn't argue the point. Dudley was oblivious to the world around him, a bomb could go off and he wouldn't notice.

Swiping a piece of toast, Harry stuffed it into his mouth and jumped out of his chair hurrying out of the room to a narrow laundry which ran parallel to the kitchen. The truth was that he had ironed the huge shirt and slacks yesterday. However, for the sake of his lie, he switched on the iron and set up the ironing board to run over the clothes quickly, in case either his Aunt or his Uncle came in to check his progress.

The quiet of the room was interrupted by a childish giggling. Startled by the noise, Harry looked up from his chore to find a small swarm of the little black creatures squeezing past the cracks in the door and through the keyhole to enter room. He was surprised by how rapidly they could move, and as they barrelled toward him all he could do was brace himself and pray. As they made contact, he let out an instinctive squeak, expecting some sort of pain or unpleasant sensation. They tangled in his hair, oozed up his trousers, and burrowed into his clothing. One spindly-legged blob even settled on the rim of his glasses. They were all making different sounds, the ones in his hair buzzing and giggling while others chirped, and the one on his glasses, was it purring?

They were not at all what he expected. They were strangely warm and soft, and when he reached over to pluck the spidery blob off his glasses, it curled around his fingers pleasantly. Gently, he dropped it into his other hand and stroked it with his finger. It responded by sprawling out on his hand and keeping a hold of his finger to guide it to the perfect scratch spot.

Confused, but feeling much calmer than he had in days, he felt some strange companionship with the inky blots, a smaller part of him feeling slightly unnerved by the immediate connection that had formed the moment he came into contact with them. Deciding to push it to the back of his mind, he stopped stroking the blob and pulled his finger free from its hold.
"I'm a little busy at the moment, sorry." He whispered to it, not sure why he was apologising and wondering if it was able to understand him. While it didn't reply to him, it did seem to understand his words well enough. Looking sulky and bit put-out, it skittered up his arm and joined the rest of the swarm hanging off his baggy shirt.

As he ironed his Uncle's extremely large pants, Harry contemplated on what to do about the mischievous swarm.

A/N

Yay end of this chapter! Please review and tell me what you think, I would very much appreciate it.

Light typo fixes 14-11-17