Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers and its affiliates; it does not belong to me.

Rating: M.

Note: I'll use first POV for the overall chapter, as I'm trying to depict Harry's thoughts on cleanliness. Additionally, flashback imagery is in Italics

Warning: I'm not a Christian, but I was educated in a Christian catholic school as a child, and even now I read in Christian affiliated university; hence, I'll use some of the views based on Christian themes and elements on cleanliness. I hope this does not offend you; if you're affronted, then I'm sorry.

Chapter 3: Clean

Cleanliness is next to Godliness. This was one of the Muggle axioms I had to learn very early in my life. Aunt Petunia's first and foremost discourse was to compel this adage into me – since I was a babe residing in the cupboard under the staircase with the Dursleys. The school where I studied also did a very good job in coaching me this dictum as well.

Aunt Petunia was obsessive with being clean. I would often call her a clean freak, although not out loud. She couldn't stand dirt and grime in and under her house. Even the slightest amount of soot or tarnish on the floor, or even on the carpet or furnishings, gave aunt Petunia an epileptic fit. Everyday she would make me the clean the entire house, every single room, from top to bottom and from left to right. Only exception: Aunt Petunia's and Uncle Vernon's bedroom; she would never let me enter their bedroom. Aunt Petunia would clean it herself; she said that she would never let me, a freak, blemish her bedroom.

Dudley's room was whole another business. My aunt and uncle had always taken a special delight in making me clean Dudley's room. As a youngster, he was completely contradictory and opposite to aunt Petunia. Whereas aunt Petunia hated dust and filth, Dudley loved it. He was always filthy. There was always some sort of dirt or pollute on him, whether be it in his dress, or his face, or even his room. Why shouldn't it be? Dudley usually stayed out in the neighborhood playground with his posse during the daytime; he would often go there to bully and terrorize someone, usually someone weak and vulnerable. I know that because I was once one of his victims, but not now. Now he fears me because he knows that I'm a wizard. Ironic, isn't it? Dudley, the bully, gets scared of someone stronger than him, particularly when he is facing that someone alone and unaided. Well, lets not get off-topic here. Dudley frequently came home after dark, say at around six-thirty or seven P.M. And when he came home, his shirt was stained sometimes with blood; soot and dust often accompanied him on his pants and shoes. Long trails of muddy footprints were usually seen going from the entrance of the door to his room. In the end, I was the only one to wash his muddy footprints on the floorboards. Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come.

When a person entered Dudley's room, one would've felt as if he or she penetrated into a jungle, rather than a person's room. Clothes were strewn across the entire room haphazardly; several clothes even had some sort of odor on it as if it hadn't been washed for months. Toys, action figurines, and crayons were frequently scattered all across his floor, sometimes even under the clothes and his divan. Occasionally small sharp razor blades could also be found, if one scrutinized his room very carefully. His schoolbooks and notes were never kept in order. I had once found his mathematics class notes on Fractions and Divisions in his reading table and the homework notes in a cabinet filled with his video games and other toys. The homework notes were completely frayed. I actually felt sorry for Dudley because he had a quiz on it the next day, and he couldn't find it (homework notes) anywhere. I had found those notes two days after Dudley had given the quiz. He did very poorly on it. Moreover, Dudley never made his bed nor ever did his chores, let alone cleaning his room. The only reason of orderliness in the room was because I cleaned it; if the room didn't appear pristine and immaculate, I would often receive special treatments from the Dursleys.

Lastly, came me, myself, and I. I always looked skinny and scrawny for my age, even now. People say I have my father's messy jet-black hair, which uncle Vernon as well as aunt Petunia greatly abhorred; they frequently tried to cut my hair, virtually every week to be precise, but unfortunately, my hair wouldn't cooperate with them. My hair seemed to have a mind of its own. Therefore, when hair grew on my head one night unexpectedly, I was penalized to be in a cupboard for a week. I remember that incident quite apparently, since aunt Petunia cut my hair the previous day.

"BOY! Tell me how did you do it?" Uncle Vernon screamed at the top of his lungs. "And tell me NOW!" My uncle, aunt, and I were in the living room.

"What did I do, Uncle Vernon? I whimpered. I didn't know what they were talking about; uncle Vernon started hollering at me as soon as I entered the kitchen to make their breakfast. Suddenly he hit me on my face for no apparent reason. My face hurt and it burned, especially, the place where his hand came in contact with my cheeks.

"How did you grow all of your hair back in one night?" Uncle Vernon shouted. His face became a shade of deep mauve.

I touched my hair, and I was shocked to find that all of my hair was back. It felt as if aunt Petunia had never cut my hair in the first place. After all, when I stared into the mirror, right after she nicked my locks of hair, I looked as if I was a complete bald. And I was scared to go to the school after that because I knew everyone would make fun of me, especially Dudley and his tormenter squad.

"I don't know…"I only wished my hair to grow back the night before I went to sleep, I thought.

"It's because of his parents' dirty blood, Vern" Aunt Petunia said, coarsely. "After all, Vern, one rotten apple not only putrefies the other good apples but their progeny as well, doesn't it?"

Suddenly a boiling rage exploded in me, in my blood and veins. How dare they insult my dead parents? I know for some reason they hated my parents but calling them "dirty blood." I could withstand being called a freak, a boy, an idiot, and every other insult and abuse, but I could never stand if they or anyone else insulted my parents.

Suddenly something happened. Light and television went haywire; a fire started in the couch of the living room we were in. I don't remember what happened after that except for the last part where uncle Vernon ordered me to stay in the cupboard for a week after punishing me few more times.

I was always punished whenever I did something out of ordinary, according to their view. I was punished when I talked with the boa constrictor at the zoo and removed its glass tank barrier, on my eleventh birthday. They had locked me in a cupboard for a couple of weeks.

See, I drifted off again. I wanted to think about being clean, not Dursleys' castigation. So lets' go back to what I wanted to think about basically.

Like some facts of life, one of the mysteries that always eluded me was this? How a young toddler, no a freak who dwelled in dust and grime, managed to stay clean enough for my clean freak aunt Petunia will always continue to puzzle me. It's a conundrum to me, really. After all my chastisement never centered on my poor hygiene and cleanliness. Furthermore, I was never permitted to have any human contact besides my family. Hence, dust, mice, cockroaches, and spiders were the only constant company I grew up with. By the way, the only human companionship I got, besides my family, was with old Mrs. Figg. I had often thought of her as being peculiar because she kept only cats for camaraderie.

"Colloportus!" "Lumos!"

Harry was in the bathroom; he had placed a locking charm on the door so that no one can open the entryway. Moreover, he lighted the room as well. Slowly, he took off his nightwear one by one and left it on the floor. Harry then wore a light black bathrobe and waited for Dobby to come and take his clothes. Harry then went near the bathtub and turned open one of the tap knobs to let the water flow. He had chosen the knob that appeared scarlet red; this was only for hot water. The din of water falling on the empty white limestone tub was quite vociferous and boisterous; Harry was frightened that it may possibly stir someone up some to investigate the raucous; hence, he spelled…

"Silencio!"

Gradually, water filled the entire bathtub; Harry then opened his bathrobe and entered into it completely naked. Naked as the newborn babe. The nightdress that were scattered nearby a few moments ago unexpectedly disappeared, as if it were never there. Dobby and the other house-elves had taken to it the washroom to clean it. He whimpered as entered the bathtub. Harry sat on one side of the tub with his feet alongside his chest and both hands enclosing the space between it; he then went back to his thoughts and musings.

Even in the middle school, which I regrettably attended with my cousin Dudley, being clean was heavily emphasized. The hair should have to moist, meaning before coming to class you had to take a bath. Everyone had to be spotless, flawless and perfect; Dudley and I had to wear uniform of a specific size and color. Every week everyone had to cut his or her finger nails to a specific size. The instructor in my physical training class checked the nails every time we entered his class. Girls were not allowed to wear bracelets, ornaments, or any other form trinkets. The school authorities permitted no nail polish or lipstick on girls. Boys all had to wear ties and full suits. Even the shoes were checked to see if it was spotless and gleaming. Hairstyle depended on the size of the hair, especially for girls. For boy cut or very small hair, a girl had to wear a red hair band; for medium length hair two plaits, for extremely long hair, the girls had to tie two braids. No girls could tie either one ponytail, one braid, nor could keep the hair open. If anyone didn't follow the rules and regulation of dressing conduct seriously, well woe for them. Furthermore, if anyone student was late in reaching the school then that student had to stand outside and was not allowed to join the school assembly for Morning Prayer and mass. The headmistress lectured those students annoyingly, after the Morning assembly, and then wrote a note to their parents about the importance of dressing up properly and other conduct as well; moreover, she wanted the students to sign that letter by their parents and bring it back to her. In short, if you're not clean and dressed properly and follow the proper conduct, then beg for clemency.

One of my favorite subjects was Moral Science. I loved Moral Science because I could sketch and paint; this was only other class where I could draw pictures, besides my painting class. One day, Ms. Matilda Rhubarb, my sixth grade Moral Science teacher, told us that she would give everyone of the students a topic to write about. She would give us three weeks to complete our assignments and at the end of the three weeks we had to read it in the class what we wrote and submit it for a grade. This essay would account for twenty percent of the grade for the final exam. My topic: Cleanliness.

I don't remember much what I wrote, but nonetheless, I could recollect the opening lines of the introduction as well as some of the lines of the first paragraph; it's as if those jargons and sentences were embossed into my psyche. I wrote something like this:

Being Clean: What, Why, and How

Cleanliness is emphasized to us since we're infants and toddlers by our parents, close relatives, and friends. Being clean means being pure; it signifies innocence, purity, and being untainted. Even the religious manuscripts and passages tell us that we should be clean. God wants us to be clean, spick and span. Why you may ask? The answer is simple and straightforward: Cleanliness is an all-embracing, all-encompassing, principle of sound living.

Sound living is the base of healthy mind and physical body. Cleanliness helps a person attain this sound living because it is a characteristic that belongs to and derived from our Father in heaven. According to God, a person should be clean in four ways: spiritually, mentally, morally, and physically. To be spiritually clean has to do with a person's expectations and views of eternal, everlasting life. It is the most imperative of the four characteristics of cleanness and purity. Mental has to do with a person's mind being clean, being free from polluted and impure contemplations and deliberations. Moral has to do with a person's ethics and beliefs. Whether he or she is honest and truthful or not. Lastly, the physical of a person had to with his or her body. Holiness and physical purity are intimately associated because the body is our temple…

I don't remember much after that. But now, all these thoughts and meditation is butchering me, overwhelming and consuming me. I cannot get these feelings and emotions out of my mind. Never have I ever felt so unduly scarred and fixated by these sentiments. Obviously, psyche can be a malicious and spiteful friend, in times of unhappiness and grimace. It is far more pitiless and vicious then a couple of bigoted and xenophobic muggles that were compelled into taking the guardianship and custody for a contaminated freak.

After a while, I came out of my daydream and the visions of castle in the sky.

I'm clean, not dirty.

I scrub harder. I wash harder with an incisive jagged rag. The vapor and the mist rising from the scorching and blistering hot water rolls upward around me, the high temperature making me dizzy and lightheaded. But, like always, I don't feel clean; hence, I begin cleaning again from the pinnacle of my head to down, way down to my feet and toes. The water around me appears somewhat dark red. As I look at my body, it seems that my old abrasions and lesions had opened up again; crimson fluid flowing from it into the water below. Furthermore, some areas of my skin had taken on a pasty appearance. Regardless of this, I go for extra soap.

I chant the same thing all over again, "I'm not unclean." This axiom doesn't help much, but it doesn't hurt me or upset me as well. Therefore, I say it all over again with more force and conviction.

I spent nearly two hours in the bathtub, scrubbing myself, reheating the warm water even more, when it cooled down even slightly, using my wand. But now it's time to conclude my bath and wear the freshly dry-cleaned clothes, left by Dobby. My body doesn't want to get up from the tub, but mind tells me to do so. I do not want to listen, but I have to. I could very well see sun's light and radiance coming into the bathroom. Not to mention, I could hear the murmurings and whisperings coming from the other room, which told me that others were just getting up from their well-deserved sleep.

Bit by bit, I feel fairly clean enough to get out of the sweltering red-hot water. Then I walk slowly towards the shower shelf where Dobby had left me some clean towels and other garments for me to wear. By some strange phenomenon, I finally managed to soak myself waterless and dried up and feel untainted and pure. Since all of the garments are freshly dry-cleaned before I used it, it couldn't have contaminated me, could it? Please someone tell me? Do you all the notice the proof, the attestation concerning I'm going crazy in every way. All these thoughts make me cry, especially the likelihood of losing my mentality. The tears have started falling again from my eyes, but I do not sweep away the tears. Do you know why? Because it helps me, it helps me alleviate and appease my physically abused and battered body. My body looks more like dead carcass rather than a living human body. But the worst torture is yet to come; well, it actually comes now, something that I cannot circumvent.

Here comes my worst frightening entity: the mirror. I couldn't evade the mirror, even if I desired and wanted to. After all mirror imitate and reflects whatever is presented before it, whether it be a human, animal, or an object. The colossal Victorian-era mirror ahead of me reflected my complete body on its exterior surface. It reflected my sullied unclean facial appearance, and hence I started washing my face in the basin nearby. I confess I rinse my face as many times as I wash my hand or take a bath. You see making myself clean is my New Year resolution. Not to mention, a Gryffindor never backs down from a challenge.

After a while, I reached for my pants and cotton suit and put them on, when suddenly someone knocked on the entrance…

Author Notes: The story action will take place beginning next chapter. Chapters will no longer deal with Harry's emotions so evocatively and vividly as the last two chapters and this one. Even if it does, it will be light, and will not include detailed illustrations. By the way, thank you for the reviews.

The school dress conduct that was described here was actually my school, in India. It's a private Catholic girls school called St. Mary's English Girls School. Moral Science is one of the subjects taught there; it's almost related to the Bible.

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