Welcome to the Underground

"Harry at Privet Drive"

By xHiddenM

Note: Sorry guys, second chapter and I'm already making you wait two months for the next. Anyway, this chapter does not take place directly after the last! This takes place before Harry goes to Hogwarts.

Questions about this chapter or the story so far in general? Drop a review or PM me, but if not just review anyway, please! Please follow me on Instagram for sneak peaks and awesome facts from the Harry Potter fandom and more. My username is writer_lighter

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned and created solely by JK Rowling. The original characters are mine alone, however.

Warnings: Violence, character death, crude language, disturbing and graphic imagery, gore, possible slash.

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-Harry Potter-

January 8th, 1990 (Number Four Privet Drive) United Kingdom, 5:04 PM

Harry Potter was nine years old and locked away in his cupboard. It'd been a bad day for him, that Monday. Dudley had been poking fun at him for longer than usual. He was pretty good at ignoring his cousin, so Harry walked away and continued shoveling snow out of the Dursley's garage and sidewalk, and then proceeded to shovel the knee-deep snow – well, for his relatives it was knee-deep. For Harry, it was getting to his waist because he was so small.

He coughed violently into his elbow and shivered. Harry had been outside for almost four hours, as their driveway was very big and he was thin and weak, and not at all suited for heavy lifting, much less the continual hours of it. He had also been forced to skip lunch, as Petunia promptly threw him back out to finish the job. It didn't really bother him that much – he was quite used to skipping food for a day. The young boy could sneak a roll of bread into his hoodie pocket easily, or perhaps an apple and the like. As long as he had a little, he'd last just a little bit longer.

Harry's arms and shoulders jerked as he forced the shovel deep under the snow and struggled to lift it high enough to toss into his pile – which was now taller than him. With a grunt, he finished off the last of the snow. The driveway was a little bit muddy, and there was no doubt that Petunia would give him an earful for it. Or perhaps, if she was in the kitchen, she might just let it pass and let him make the rest of supper.

It all depended. Glancing at the sky, he saw how dark it was getting already, and guess it was around four-thirtyish. He grabbed the heavy bag of salt, and began to distribute it as evenly as he could along the ground, which was a lot harder seeing as his arms were already weakened.

It took him another good twenty minutes, but it was much easier then shoveling for hours nonstop. By that time, he was very pale, but his ears and fingers were pink, and it had already started snowing again, turning his black hair into a salt-and-pepper mess. It clung to his sweatshirt and oversized jeans, the piece of twine he'd taken from the garage when he'd been cleaning it this morning had long gotten cold, and he could feel it though the denim. His sneakers had mud on the soles, and it was steadily soaking up into his socks, which drooped over the edges of his shoes and got just as disgusting.

As he dragged the bag back to the entrance to the garage, he inspected the driveway once more. The salt was a little heavier in some places than others, so Harry swept it evenly along the ground with his bare hands (Dudley had for once, been smart enough to steal the garden gloves he'd been planning on using from the shed) and sneakers.

The moment he'd finished, Harry ran back inside the house, taking off his sneakers before stepping inside the pristine doorway and going by the kitchen to his cupboard to put them inside so he wouldn't leave a mess in the house.

"Boy! Are you finished yet?" Aunt Petunia demanded, setting out a plate of uncooked, half chopped vegetables and steak. Harry nodded his response as she tossed a knife at him, which he jumped back to let clatter to the countertop before grabbing. "Get cutting. We're having stew tonight. I've already prepared the meat, and the pie is cooling. You'll be preparing the rest yourself. Don't you dare forget about my rolls. Move!" she barked.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, gripping the knife she'd thrown tighter and started with the onions. He didn't hesitate as he moved in the kitchen. In fact, if he hadn't had Petunia barking orders at him, Harry would've enjoyed it. Soon enough, the whole house smelled delicious, and the timer for the rolls went off.

He was quick to snatch up the oven mitts and take out the pie. The heat didn't bother him, and at the same time, he monitored the pot in which the stew was cooking. Around then, Harry heard his uncle pulling up in the driveway. Aunt Petunia sent him a glare for good measure before leaving to open the door. Nervously, Harry began to set the table for three, as he knew he would not be eating with them. Pouring their drinks, he made a split second decision and grabbed a plastic sandwich baggie and scooped up some soup from the pot. It was hot and burned his skin, turning it red. But that didn't stop him. He was hungry, and he ran back to his cupboard as he zipped it up, making sure it didn't leak and left just as quick.

Harry was pouring the stew into their nice bowls and put it on the tables. His uncle sneered at him and Dudley waddled in from the living room. As the Dursleys took their time eating, he waited in the kitchen and watched them, imagining eating that delicious smelling soup, that it was his hand holding the spoon, and him that was eating it, enjoying it. But he bit his lip and kept quiet as they finished. He poured Vernon and Dudley seconds, and then thirds, while Petunia ate in tiny, dainty amounts and never bothered with seconds.

Once they were almost done, Harry got out new plates and began to carefully cut the pie. This was always hard for him, as it generally came out crumbled. Thankfully, he was actually doing an alright job tonight.

"BOY!" his uncle roared from the dining table. Swallowing, Harry called back, "Coming, uncle!" He hastily finished off the last piece and picked up all three of the plates at once, one in each hand and another balancing on his left arm.

He was in a hurry and concentrating on getting to the table without dropping the third plate. Most times, they never fell. But he noticed when Dudley stuck his foot out to trip him. He nimbly stepped over it, but then his stupid, stupid cousin raised his foot upwards, and cut him off at the ankle.

Harry, the first plate going to his uncle, had almost touched the table when he fell. The two plates on his left crashed and hit the floor. His knees hit the ground first, but he'd been close enough to the table for his forehead to get clipped on the corner.

If he'd been a little bit further away, he wouldn't have hurt his forehead, and in turn, the right plate that had been half balanced on the edge wouldn't have fallen. But it did, and crashed beside him. Pie sprayed everywhere, a mess by the glass.

Dudley outright began to laugh at him, as Vernon's face turned a nasty shade of purple, and Petunia clenched the napkin in her lap tightly. Shame burned his face as he tried to get up off of the floor. Ignoring as sharp bits scraped his palms, his throbbing head was only that, throbbing, and he shook off the distant ringing.

"BOY! GET UP!" his uncle finally snarled. Harry nodded, wincing as it made his vision swim. He continued to ignore his pain and swept the glass directly into his palms, pieces of pie and took it to the trashcan. Vernon was ranting, something about his 'kind' and his horrible parents. His vision blurred again, but this time it wasn't from his injuries as he scrubbed apple off of the floor and Petunia went ahead and gave her husband and son pies, balancing the plates the same way he had and easily making it to the table.

With a nasty look at her nephew, she sniffed and sat back down as he cleaned. Vernon grabbed him by the back of shirt, forcing him off of the floor and back to his feet. He had pie in his mustache.

"You," he growled, breathing heavily, mustache puffing with his heavy breathing, "Will-go-hungry-tonight, boy!" and then he tossed him back to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. Vernon rose from his seat and grabbed him by a fistful of hair, dragging him across the floor as Harry struggled to both get his hair released and to get off the floor.

Vernon didn't notice, or maybe he did, since his grip got a little bit tighter, and he jerked him forward roughly before throwing his cupboard door open with a loud bang that made Harry flinch violently, and he cried out as his uncle threw him inside.

Just as the door began to close, however, something caught Vernon's attention.

Why was he still here? Harry wondered, feeling the overwhelming panic bubble up from his stomach.

Eyes wide, he gripped the blanket on top of his mattress tightly with his tiny, pale fists as Vernon snatch up the bag of soup and threw it at him, causing it to split open and splash across. Cold liquid and little pieces of meat and vegetables filled his gaze and dripped across his front, trickling across the floor and into the hallway.

"So, you think you can steal from us and get away with it, huh, boy?" he sneered at him and raised his hand, smacking him roughly. It threw Harry to the side.

Now, Harry's cupboard had five shelves. Two by his feet and three by his head, if you went from where he was lying down. He was practically thrown to the third shelf, and the little light bulb above trembled with the force. All the same, he only felt extremely dizzy after. He'd barely recovered when Vernon rammed his fat foot into his side, and his shin and ankle banged into the other two shelves. Pain flared from different parts of his body.

This continued for several more minutes before Vernon finally relented and hefted him up by the shirt once more, pulling him close to his face. "If you ever steal what was never yours again, you will regret far more than you've ever imagined you could!" spittle flew around, and Harry blinked violently to try to protect his emerald eyes.

On that note, Harry felt himself being thrown back once more, and it knocked the breath out of him. He collapsed and laid there for a few minutes before finally getting up.

He changed into his pajamas, an extra, extra, large plain white shirt and loose, thin sweatpants. His messy clothes were rolled up into a little ball and gently put onto one of the shelves, where it'd sit until laundry day. Carefully, he scooped up the leftovers of the stew and didn't spill it. It was cold, but even cold food was better than no food. It tasted good anyway, Harry figured.

He took his time eating what he could save, shivering. It was very cold in the cupboard, especially in the winter time. The nine year old curled in on himself until he finished. There were little tiny cuts on his palms, and his head ached.

But still, he forced himself up onto his knees and searched the shelves of his cupboards, pulling the string down to turn on the light. He didn't like turning it on unless he had to, because it wasn't like his aunt and uncle were just going to let him take a light bulb and replace it anytime he wanted. That didn't make sense, now did it?

So he tried to be as quick as possible and scanned for the little First Aid kit that he sometimes used. It had been a while, however. A full week since he'd last had to use it. The shelves were filled with little things, old towels Aunt Petunia never used anymore, a burnt out light bulb, extra buttons, some sewing needles and black thread, a bucket he sometimes used if they wouldn't let him out to use the bathroom, and then, behind a broken snow globe, he found the little white package with the bright red plus sign on top.

Harry quickly flipped it open. Were his wounds severe enough for the gauze? Did he need stitches? No, he decided. He'll use them when he really needed it. This kit had lasted nine years so far, and they'd have to last another nine until he turned of age and could leave Privet Drive.

He took out the thin band-aids and a little disinfectant spray bottle, which he used after picking out the shards. Harry neatly cleaned up afterwards and put it in the bucket. Afterwards, he relaxed and turned out the lights and began to daydream.

Harry Potter knew nothing about his parents, what life had been like before he came to the Dursleys. He was a bit too young to remember that time, but he liked to pretend that deep down, he could. What were their names? Where was the car crash? Where were they buried? Didn't they have other friends, someone besides his relatives? Were they really 'nasty old drunks'? He hoped not. His relatives were probably saying it to spite him, anyways.

Absentmindedly, he tried to picture what his parents had looked like. Maybe his mother had dark black hair, his pale skin, and nose, while his father could've been blond with the green eyes he'd inherited, and maybe he was as thin as him too. He wasn't sure. What were their jobs? His relatives said they had no jobs, but Harry didn't like to think that. But, to be brutally honest, there was always a possibility that they had not been lying to him, and they had all the reason to treat him so horribly and to hate his parents.

Where had they gone to school? How old were they when they had him? Harry wanted to know so badly, to find all of the answers to his questions, but he wasn't sure. It pained him.

Sighing, Harry rolled onto his side and changed the subject of his thoughts . . . he'd been doing well in school, recently, during a parent-teacher conference that required the whole family, because Dudley was doing so bad in school and it was truly worrying their teacher.

She'd informed his aunt and uncle, and Petunia had burst into tears, shrieking and holding onto Dudley, howling about how it wasn't his fault, and then the teacher, mildly disgusted but handling it very professionally (Harry wanted to applaud her,) had continued and mentioned his obesity. It brought both parents to a shouting match, and the teacher was more than a little scared.

Finally, after much apologizing from her, she moved onto a 'better' topic. Harry was doing very well in school, and she then suggested that, as cousins, he could tutor Dudley. Harry was unable to hold back a snort and another screaming match had begun. From then on, he was forced to fail his classes, didn't do his homework, and didn't study for tests. However, that didn't mean he didn't pay attention. He loved learning, but was forced to not be able to prove it. He got mostly C's (he couldn't be held back, now, could he?) and the occasional B. But nevermore did he get an A, not without getting beat up.

Harry wondered what he would do when he got older. His grades were hardly helpful to him anymore, unless he somehow began to find the courage to raise them in middle school. Perhaps, a year or two from now, he could hit a growth spurt, and get some sort of leverage over his relatives. He didn't know what he'd do later on in life, but he did know that when he could, he would leave. And never look back.

They'd never be worth the time for him to look back. Harry shivered under his blankets. It was so, so cold in the dark. There was only a little light, as it was getting late. The hallway light was soon turned out and he was left in total darkness.

Harry sighed and took off his glasses, pulling the blanket up to his neck and shoulders. He wondered then, just as he was falling asleep, what it would be like to get presents on Christmas, on his birthday, what a real family dinner would taste like, what talking with friends, laughing, and being able to eat whenever he wanted feel like.

He'd never had any of those things, but maybe someday he would. Someday, he would leave and get all of the answers he wanted. Someday, everything would be perfect.

Not just yet, however. For now, those things, to Harry Potter, would never exist.

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Summer of 1995, (Grimmauld Place) United Kingdom

Harry James Potter, the son of James and Lily Potter, had gotten his eyes from his mother, was virtually a thinner, younger copy of his father, and spent his school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His mother had red hair and his father had black. They were killed by Tom Marvalo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, on Halloween of 1981. He only saw the Dursleys partially over the summer, had gotten a real bedroom, and had friends and family dinners with the Weasleys, Order, and his father's best friend and Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, in said man's house.

He was a wizard, and had killed Professor Quirrel when he was eleven, faced off a basilisk, saved his best friend's sister and killed his parent's killer (sort of) twice, chased down a madman who was actually Sirius, and was actually framed by another friend of Harry's dad, Peter 'Wormtail' Pettigrew, and got attacked by another of his dad's, Remus Lupin, a werewolf and the best Hogwarts DADA teacher he'd ever had. And then he got attacked by over a hundred dementors, which he fought off. In his fourth year, he was chosen for a tournament he hadn't signed up for, faced a Hungarian Horntail, Merpeople, was part of Voldemort's rebirth, dueled him, watched Cedric Diggory die, and got turned down by his crush, Cho Chang, when he asked her to the Yule Ball.

Although it didn't sound like paradise, Harry decided it was heaven to him.

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Harry at Privet Drive end.

Chapter Three to follow.

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