Harry James Potter lay panting in his cupboard under the stairs in Number 4, Privet Drive, fuming silently. The Dursleys had never treated him with the remotest sign of respect, but they were taking things too far.
Harry was fairly certain that beating a child was an illegal activity in modern England (not that he'd know, though; the Dursleys had never let him near any kind of law book), but he'd kept his peace. He didn't want to stir the pot and give his monstrous relatives yet another reason to hate him.
Starvation, however, was another thing entirely. The willing starvation of a young child… now THAT was an act of hatred. All of the years he'd lived with the Dursleys he'd hoped beyond hope that maybe, just maybe, they had a tiny spark of love in their hearts. This naive hope was crushed underfoot, stomped, and spat on. No, they had no love for him. He was vermin.
And now here he was, slowly dying of starvation and hypothermia, huddling under the stairs, struggling to keep warm under a pathetic excuse for a blanket. He hated every moment of it.
For the fiftieth time that day, a cold draft blew through the staircase, sweeping down upon the small boy like the hand of the devil. He huddled ever tighter and sneezed. The sound echoed through the empty house.
Empty… oh, of course. The Dursleys would never abide with a week without heating. They'd packed their bags and left at the first sign of the snowstorm, leaving Harry with a cruel 'Wish you were here!' postcard from their vacation in the Bahamas and the slightest bit of overdue cereal and milk.
His empty stomach rumbled and growled. Harry sighed. It looked like he'd have to find some food for himself. He unfolded his arms and legs and stood, draping the tattered old blanket around him to fend off the biting wind.
Ah, the dreaded hallway. The Dursleys had never bothered to pay for a heater; as such, the hallway was always drafty and cold. Shivering for the hundredth time that day, he slowly ascended the spiraling staircase to the upper floors, trying to find some refuge- and perhaps some tiny morsel.
There were four rooms in the Dursley household- one master bedroom, one guest room and two rooms for Dudley. It came as no surprise to Harry that all of them were locked. "Figures!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. He pounded his fist against the door frame for a while, panting in fury.
He walked back down the stairs and into the empty kitchen. It was a very strange feeling; the Dursleys never let him near any type of cutlery, and here he was, rummaging through their silverware drawers. From under a stack of spoons and forks, he produced a long, thin knife. He grinned. Perfect.
He traipsed up the stairs and tried the handle again, studying the small keyhole with a scrutinizing eye. With a careful hand, he inserted the knife into the small hole and twisted it for all it was worth.
He was rewarded with a faint click! With bated breath, he pushed open the door.
A glorious sight filled his view.
Sheets! A bed! Pillows galore! Harry gaped, wide-eyed, as the solution to his problems presented themselves in one bundle of heavenly goodness. He gave a piglike squeal and pounced onto the bed, covering himself with loads upon loads of blankets, loving every moment of it…
Joy quickly turned to hatred. The Dursleys had all this, and they weren't willing to divulge even the smallest part of it for their freezing, starving nephew!? Harry's emerald-green eyes flashed; under the lamplight, they looked almost scarlet. He stood, draping himself in the sheets, turned around, and unbuttoned his pants. With a special care he let loose on the glorious bed. By the time he was done, the entire room stank of urine.
He grinned and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
The grin quickly faded as his stomach growled, reminding him of his second predicament. He stalked toward Dudley's room and forced the metallic door open, hoping that the fat boy left a small portion of his mountain of snacks behind.
He was not disappointed. Half-eaten potato chip bags littered the bed. Candy wrappers, carelessly tossed aside, filled the floors like a minefield of junk.
Picking his way across the threshold, he grabbed at a bag of chips and shoved everything down his throat. They were delicious, by far the most amazing thing he'd ever tasted- but that wasn't saying much; he'd been fed refried beans for 6 years. Gathering up the rest of the bags, he left the room and returned to the cupboard. Even scavengers and beggars, he realized, lived a nicer life than him. The very thought made his insides boil.
Harry finished the bags within half an hour and tossed them onto the couch and floor, ruining the immaculate picture. He yawned, stretched himself, and returned to his cupboard for a long nap, the Dursley's massive blanket strewn around his small frame.
He woke up around an hour later, feeling quite refreshed. Yawning, he made his way to the kitchen and checked the tattered calendar nailed forcefully to the wall. The Dursleys would be back in four days.
And then the full realization of what he'd done hit him like a baseball bat. He'd peed on the Dursleys' bed. He'd defiled Dudley's room. Oh, god. They were going to be SO angry. For some reason, the thought made him giggle.
It was funny in a strange way to Harry. The weeds, which were tended usually by him, were spiking in their growth. The house, which had remained immaculate thanks to him, was falling into disrepair. The living room, which was tidied so carefully by him, was now littered with trash. He idly wondered what the Dursleys would do without their slave.
His current predicament was not unlike the survival TV shows Dudley had insisted on watching. The contestants were made to survive in a forest; the Dursley's house was a veritable forest now. They were given no food; Harry had ran out of food a little while back. They were made to survive several days in the harsh wilderness; Harry was made to survive without his 'family' for several days.
Now… what did the contestants do, again? Most of them had panic attacks and withdrew without twenty-four hours, he knew that much. One nearly died of dehydration and was forced to drink his own piss. Harry wrinkled his nose. He would never drink his own piss, at least not of his own accord. He had one advantage over the survivalists, though: he was in the city. In the city, the possibilities were endless. The possibility of thievery crossed his mind; he dismissed it. No, he wouldn't steal unless he absolutely had to.
An idea suddenly sparked in his head. He raced down to the garage to the Dursley family safe- something that the stingy family had forbidden him from even seeing. He'd heard his aunt talking drunkenly to her neighbor one day about the backup riches stashed in the large, black box. The only question was: how to open it?
The knife trick certainly didn't work. He tried configuring the locks several different ways. None elicited the satisfying click of a lock opened. In a bout of frustration, he slammed his knife onto the top of the crate. It split open with a dull thwack.
Harry glanced in amazement; then he grinned. Stupid Dursleys, keeping their treasures in cheap, unreliable safes. With both hands, he ripped open the container.
Mounds upon mounds of cash lay in the box. He looked, his eyes glazed, upon the stacks of fifty pound notes. Small Post-Its lay in the center-
"Government adoption funds." was written in bold, black ink. He cursed, disbelieving, as he filed through the notes. The money had been from the British government for child care! It had been sitting here, accumulating dust, for God knows how long. Disbelief hardened into a cold resolve. He picked up the container, safe and all, and dumped all of the money to the floor. The sheer amount made his head spin. He'd never seen so much paper accumulated in one place before. There must have been thousands!
He knew of a Mcdonalds nearby; perhaps he could spend the money there. It wasn't the healthiest option, but it was the only option, really. He pulled out a fifty pound note. It was still shocking to him to own such a large quantity of money. And to think! It had been here, under his 'room', for years! At any given moment, he could've had the money to afford to be sent to school, to afford three meals a day.
A sudden, incessant knocking filled the room. Harry's heart sank. Had the Dursleys cut their vacation early? With a shaking hand, he forced open the door…
"Girl scout cookies!" a cheery voice exclaimed. A small girl, no more than 6 years old, dressed in a plaid shirt, presented him with a large stack of cookie jars. Harry grinned. "I'll buy the lot! Keep the change." He passed her a fifty pound note. The girl's eyes widened in surprise.
"Thank- thank you…" she stuttered, her eyes disbelieving. She ran off, eager to show her parents. Harry chuckled and brought in the cookies.
His food problem was solved, it seemed. Water was no issue either; the tap water would have to do. It seemed that all of his living requirements were settled. Now all he had to do was play the waiting game. He settled into the couch, turned on the TV, and tried to bury himself in the thick cushions.