Chapter 4
He wasn't sure when the last time he was that happy was, but he didn't even care to remember. He was feeling at peace, calm, content, and that was more than enough.
He would write his friends longer letters, sleep deeper, smile occasionally, live less halfheartedly, and that was only because of her, Nada, the soothing morning dew.
He wasn't sure how he liked her, but he did like her company; he liked her conversations, and the times they'd spent silently watching the sun set over privet drive from the roof that abandoned shop.
They'd listen to mix tapes on her walkman, eat cookies that she baked, she'd smoke and he'd pretend that he was not bothered by it, and they'd sneak to the park after the sun sets to play with the see-saw. That was when he once felt that he didn't really know how he liked her. She was wearing a very short pair of shorts and a checkered shirt that was tied in a knot around her waist bringing to his attention a very narrow waist, and those quite good thighs.
But away from her quite good thighs, and that dimple that appear on one cheek when she smiles, and her wide hazel eyes, what he liked most about her that she didn't ask any questions. She notices things, she certainly does, but it was like she had some oath no to ask.
Sometimes he thought that maybe, maybe if she asked, he would want to talk to her, because he knew that she would listen.
He couldn't off course, there are worlds between them, literally. Even the parts that didn't include magic or prophecies or dark lords, even the parts that only involved loneliness and sadness and a poor home life, because those parts were also another world to her.
She is a kind person, she'd listen, and she'd be sympathetic, in his lowest moments he'd need someone like that. However, she wouldn't understand, and she might pity him, and he can't stand pity, and he'd lose her if she pitied him, and he didn't want to lose her.
It was one particular Sunday morning when all these thoughts were swirling inside his head while he was laying the table for breakfast. He hated Sundays with a passion, for his uncle would stay longer at the breakfast table ordering him around, his aunt would have him all day in the kitchen to help with her "Sunday dinner", and most often they'd have guests and he would have to spend the rest of the day in his bedroom.
That particular Sunday was different, a bad kind of different.
Later on, he couldn't ever remember what happened clearly, all what he remembered was his uncle roaring at him, a sharp pain on his cheek, the sickly contact of his head and the sharp edge of the kitchen table, and the deadly silence of the kitchen.
Petunia Dursley stood in the middle of her kitchen in shock, staring with wide eyes at her nephew's still form.
She haven't seen her husband that shocked ever in her life, she believed that he didn't intend for the blow to be that hard, she also believed that he expected the boy to move away quickly as he always did, for she was also expecting the same.
The boy has been particularly annoying that morning, slow and unresponsive. He didn't answer her when she talked to him, twice. And when Vernon asked him for a coffee refill, more than three times, he ignored him, he intentionally had it coming, she thought, maybe even he didn't move away on purpose to get Vernon in trouble.
She was sort of relieved when the boy moved a little, then moved in a sitting position touching the side of his head. But she was horrified when she saw the bright red colour covering his hand. At this point her husband stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later she heard the front door being slammed shut.
She felt uncomfortable being left with the boy alone, especially that he didn't move from the floor, and that he didn't say anything at all. He just looked at her in the eyes, and she could have sworn that he didn't even blink for a whole minute.
Eventually, he used the chair for support to get up. Then used the table for support to get to the sink. He washed his hands, then leaned forward trying to wash the injured part of his head. His hands slipped twice from the edge of the sink, but he managed to support himself as long as he thought was necessary. He then scanned his surroundings with his eyes in search for something, then his eyes stopped on a clean kitchen towel. He moved, an inch to reach for it, grabbed it, and held it in a ball to the side of his head, using the table again for support to get to a chair.
Petunia Dursley stood there, watching her nephew contaminating her neat kitchen towel with blood, wandering which cleaning supplies should she use to get rid of it.
It was almost midnight and the bleeding wasn't stopping, she started to panic.
She could hear the bathroom door open and shut every couple of minutes, when she finally got out of her bedroom to inspect it, she found the boy leaning on his forearms with his head bowed on the washing basin, a bloody towel on the floor beside his feet.
She rushed back to her bedroom waking her husband, "Vernon..Vernon the boy needs to go to the hospital"
He merely stirred and said not bothering to open his eyes " I am not paying for hospitals and doctors"
"But what if.."
"They will ask questions Petunia" he said sternly, more awake, and that shut her up for a moment
She tried to reason with him more calmly "if something happened to him, more questions will be asked..from everyone" she looked at him meaningfully stressing on the last word, and that moved him from bed.
He started getting dressed and they fell in stressful silence when she finally got up "I am going to let him know- to get himself presentable"
"Let him know what? I am not taking him anywhere"
"But-"
"I won't let anyone ask me questions because of that ungrateful brat- I know someone who can help" he said while finally putting on a jacket " He owes me anyway" by that he left the room, and a moment later she heard the front door being closed.
It was after midnight when she finally heard the keys working their way on the front door's lock, her husband appeared with a smug look on his face on the doorway, behind him a young man in scrubs. He looked somewhere between angry and nervous, but didn't say anything.
"honey, bring the boy down to the kitchen" Vernon said, using his guest formal tone "we don't want to keep the doctor for too long or his patients would miss him"
Petunia teared her eyes away from the suspicious looking Doctor and hurried upstairs to get her nephew, when she reached the boy's room she found it empty, she turned automatically to the bathroom where she found him holding the same bloody towel to his head.
"Come downstairs, Vernon brought someone to look at it" she said coldly, but he didn't move.
"You- you should be grateful!"
"Yes I should go thank him for splitting my head open" he said with a low but defiant voice.
His hand almost lost its grip on the basin, but he was still managing to stand straight. A calculating look had passed over his features before he finally moved albeit reluctantly.
The silence following the buzzing sound of the shaver was heavy but somehow relieving. The sound of the machine made her too uncomfortable, especially when she pictured how her kitchen floor will look like when the supposed doctor is done.
He told them that the boy will need stitches, that he can do it here but without anesthetic, and that he needs a shaver to shave the part of the boy's head where the stitches are needed. She was thankful that Duddly was away at Piers's summer house this week as she could imagine vividly the tantrum he'd throw if he knew that they used his electric shaver. She took a mental note to replace it with a new shaver, and dispose with this one once the Doctor is done with it, despite the fact that her son rarely uses it.
The silence became heavier as the minutes passed, she assumed that the doctor started working on the wound but she didn't hear a sound from the boy. She looked at Vernon questionably but he was just flipping through some old drillers' catalogue. From the looks of it, she knew that he was ignoring her on purpose; she couldn't blame him however.
She walked carefully back to the kitchen to inspect was going on, however, she couldn't bring her legs to move further when she heard the young Doctor muttering to her nephew.
"Come on mate, one more time" he said, "Almost there"
She gathered her courage and strode into the kitchen, but was stopped in the doorway transfixed for a fraction of a moment by the scene before her. The boy's eyes were tightly shut, his jaw was clenched as he held on to the edge of the table, his knuckles white by the strength of his grip.
That wasn't the source of her shock though, the now exposed wound was both the source of her shock and disgust. The boy will have to stay at home until his hair grows back enough to cover the wound, the neighbors can't by any means see this. She was relived however, that the kitchen's floor was not as dirty as she has imagined it would be.
There were other thoughts as well that crossed her mind, thoughts that involved Dudley sitting instead of her nephew on that kitchen's chair. She flinched at the idea as the boy flinched in pain. Dudley won't be that silent, she thought. Dudley won't ever have to be on that chair, she decided to comfort herself, and brush the bad thoughts away.
She was startled however when the boy's eyes flung open, he looked her in the eyes without blinking, like he did in the morning, this time she didn't look away.
"Leave," he said between his gritted teeth still looking her in the eyes. When she didn't move he repeated it again looking away, she could have sworn that she saw a glint of a tear in his eyes. She left.
That night she couldn't sleep. later on she'd tell herself that it was the stressful long day, but deep down she knew that what kept her awake was her sister lily, her son, and thoughts about Dudley sitting on that chair.
She wouldn't admit to herself ever that she felt a pinch of sympathy to the boy.
He was so mad at himself, so mad that he didn't mind the constant throbbing in his head, the nausea, and the pain. He was hurt, and he was so mad that he was hurt.
When his aunt entered the kitchen there was that stupid part of him that thought that she was concerned. The same stupid part that thought the same thing in the morning, when he saw the blood covering his hand.
He searched her eyes for any sign of sympathy, any sign of emotion, of remorse, but all what he saw was loath and disgust. She looked at him as if she was looking at a wounded animal.
He was distracted by the urgency of the situation in the morning, but this time he couldn't stand looking at her; he couldn't stand that she saw him that weak, and did nothing. He couldn't stand that she saw him that weak at all.
He felt stripped of his dignity, he felt vulnerable, and he felt naked. Not because of the pain or the wound or the needle that was being stuck in his head, but because he wanted her to care. After all this time he still wanted her to care, but she didn't and it hurt.
Eventually he drifted to sleep, not bothering to change his clothes or to get under the covers. He just curled on himself, hands between his knees and thoughts about his aunts fading away leaving a bitter aftertaste that shadowed the constant throbbing in his head.