Disclaimer- I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter 4- The Whelp

Harry quickly began to lay out the cutlery, careful of making to much noise. The cramps in his stomach seemed to worsen, as the sweet aroma of the roast drifted up his nose. Still stiff from the day before beating, he carefully lifted the silver platter with the potatoes, pepper and roast chicken, and laid it gently on the table. Making sure they were shining, he laid the glasses down, and hurried to find uncle Vernon's favourite juice.

His breath began to quicken as he realized that it had all been finished the day before. Harry was aware that if his uncle noticed the absence of the juice on the table, there would be hell to pay. And after the savage beating yesterday, Harry shuddered at how he would feel after today.

"D...dinners ready," called Harry, his voice trembling slightly.

"It had better be good boy." Vernon came stomping into the room, Dudley and Petunia following closely behind. Vernon took his usual place at the head of the table, Petunia at his right and Dudley at his left. Harry, was left to sit in his normal place, at Vernon's feet, so that he could be, if he was lucky, given scraps from the Dursleys plate.

Vernon went first, carving a humongous piece of meat and plinking it down on his plate, then taking four big spoonfuls of peppers and potatoes to go with it. Dudley took a similar amount to his father. Petunia, on the other hand, speared a small amount of meat into her plate, complete with a couple of spoons of veg.

"Boy," suddenly Vernon growled, dangerously. "Where is my juice? WHERE IS IT?"

Harry began to tremble, but did not say anything, knowing it would be useless.

Vernon stood from the table, and began to crouch down to Harrys level. He crouched down and leaned in, his nose almost touching Harrys. "Freak," he whispered. Then he clenched his fist, and slammed it straight into Harrys stomach. Harry screamed. After slapping and punching him a few more times, Vernon paused.

Ding ding. Dingggg. Dingggggggg.

The doorbell was ringing.

Quickly, Vernon yanked Harry into a seat, and dumped some veg on his plate. Before going to open the door, he whispered menacingly at Harry, "don't you dare eat a thing, freak."

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All the bloody houses looked the same, Snape thought. With their perfectly pruned hedges and flower beds, the same red coloured bricks. He sighed, remembering that the door number was 4. Quickly navigating himself through the street, and onto the Dursleys front porch, Snape rang the door bell impatiently.

Finally, an oaf of a man opened the door. As soon as he saw Snape's wizarding robes, Vernon's welcoming expression turned to one deep loathing, with a hint of fear. Snape sneered slightly, deciding to simply get the brat and leave.

"What do you want, freak," spat the oaf.

Grimacing slightly, Snape answered, "I have come to collect the potter spawn. Your services in taking care if him will no longer be required."

Behind Vernon, his wife walked over, looking ever the image of a perfect house wife. Realizing that this was their chance to be rid of her sisters spawn forever, she quickly agreed.

"I'll just put on some tea while little Harry gets packed. Harry dear?" she called.
She was calling me 'dear'?
"Yes, ma'am?" I answered immediately from inside the kitchen.

"Go upstairs to your room and pack all your things, harry dearest," she called. This was truly odd. 'She must be putting on for the visitor. But visitors never saw me, especially the day after a punishment. As I closed the latching it shut, a tall, thin man with a hard face shouted at me.

"Pack all your things. We'll not be coming back."

I looked back and forth between the man and Aunt Petunia. Who should I obey? I decided that if he was taking me, it had better be him. Aunt Petunia rushed past me.

"We'll just let him say goodbye to this old house in peace. Let's take tea on the patio, shall we?"

She led him away, but he did not seem pleased about it. I wondered what was in store for me. Where is he taking me? Why? He seemed awfully mean; had I done something wrong? These thoughts and many others ran through my head as I packed my spare outfit into my ragged and battered bag. I knew I had to leave the broken toy soldier I had somehow managed to steal from Dudley's second bedroom; they didn't belong to me. I took my I old pyjamas shirt and my broken pencil...and everything else that was mine. I tidied the cupboard as best I could, folded up the cot and the crusty blanket, and locked the door for good.

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