Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters, they belong to the genius that is J.K. Rowling. I'm not making any profit from writing this.

This chapter isn't betaed, any mistakes are my own and English is definitely not my first language. Constructive criticism is much appreciated, flames are not.

Thoughts

§§§

Harry had known that Harry Potter lived in the cupboard under the stairs, what he hadn't realized was that he, being Harry Potter, would live there. He did know it would happen, but he hadn't really known, not until he found himself there: a 1 year old baby stuck in the dark.

At first, it didn't bother him much. Sure, it was dark, but he wasn't cold and being alone gave him time to process that nothing had changed. Peter still betrayed them, his parents were dead, Sirius was gone (Not Azkaban, we're soulmates he can't have chosen revenge over me, please no) and Remus was god knows where.

Harry hoped his godfather would return from his mission with the werewolves soon and take him away. Voldemort is dead, the Order will soon be disbanded and he'll come. In the meantime, Harry focused on the itch he could feel on his arm and scratched it. He could feel something squishy under his hand.

Hesitantly, he made a small light appear on his right pointer finger. It was small, no bigger than a marble but it was enough for him to see. His left hand was smeared in black and red and small insect legs. He screamed.

The light brightened even more and he could see the cobweb on the cupboard ceiling right above his head. He screamed louder and louder, felt his magic bubbling beneath his skin, fed it all his grief, rage and fear accumulated since Halloween until it poured out of his tiny body in a surge that blasted the door off its hinges.

§§§

Years later, Harry was torn between being proud of that bout of accidental magic and cursing his phobia. The Dursleys tried keeping him inside the cupboard, but his reactions got worse and worse until his magic actually set the door on fire. Just the door, but the Dursleys had been so scared they never locked him in the cupboard again.

Harry had to admit, if only to himself, that near the end there, his reaction had little to do with the spiders, which scurried off after the first week, and more to do with scaring his 'relatives'.

Sure, they starved him as a result, but he refused to let them get away with abusing him without a fight (I hate them. I want them to fear me. If they fear me enough they'll learn to leave me alone).

Dudley Dursley only had one bedroom to fill with his junk. Harry Potter was the proud owner of what would've been Dudley's second bedroom since December of 1981, based on the Christmas decorations at the time. The Dursleys had lasted longer than expected, mostly because they only fed him once a day and he had to recover his strength between outbursts.

Still, things weren't good with his housemates. Harry, other than the cupboard incidents, had decided to be polite at all times to try and stave off the physical abuse that Petunia indulged in whenever he did something to "upstage little Diddykins, you little freak": walking, talking, potty training, etc.

Harry would have gladly held back, but he literally didn't see Dudley for any significant length of time and couldn't accurately gauge his development to pace himself. His cousin was in kindergarten, while Harry was stuck home since he was 'special'. Harry privately thought that Petunia just wanted more time to spread rumours about him to make his school life impossible so he couldn't "upstage" her precious son.

He tried being mute, to hide his intelligence, but Vernon took this as a sign of "disrespect" and hit him with his belt. Hence the politeness, since he still couldn't accurately predict the results of his magic. It did seem to have an inclination for throwing or setting things on fire, but the only magic he could purposely cast was his Lumos finger and telekinesis.

His approach of keeping his head down and manners going at all times, had… mixed results. Sometimes, the Dursley couple seemed perfectly content to forget he existed and treat him like a maid, there but to be left to his work and ignored. Other times, every "Yes, ma'am" a "Immediately, sir" were "mocking" or proof of his "freakishness".

That's when Vernon got the belt. It was never more than ten lashes, but they burned like blazes and being locked up in his room with no food didn't help. Harry had lost count of how many nights he spent clenching his teeth against the pain in his back, lips breaking from dehydration and stomach trying to eat itself. That was the only time he was grateful for his meager meals since they at least stayed in his stomach.

Anna had always wanted to learn how to cook, but Harry couldn't help but hate it since Petunia had first placed a spatula in his 4 years old hands to plate the eggs. Where Anna had fantasized of studying herbs and having her own garden, Harry cursed every weed he had to pull and bush he had to trim that made his toddler palms bleed until calluses formed.

Harry hated them for taking this from him. So he focused on the warm magic he could feel beneath his skin, searched the cave maze in his mind he accidentally created trying to escape the pain for every theory, every spell, to get stronger. He'd make them stop.

§§§

Things were better once he started primary school. The belt was nowhere to be seen on weekdays and, after he fainted in class, he got the normal sized school lunch plus two mini meals at the Dursleys. He was even allowed to shower every other day during term time.

After a vase close to him exploded when he pushed him down the stairs, Dudley was encouraged to leave the 'freak' alone. Harry didn't have any friends at school, thanks to Petunia's rumours and Dudley bullying, but the librarian let him stay inside at recess and read as much as he wanted. Mrs Richards even took her time to talk to him if she wasn't busy.

Harry had spent years staring at the sky outside his window, waiting for a knock on the door from a sandy haired werewolf or his gray eyed soulmate. He screamed into his pillow and cried bitter tears before accepting that they hadn't come for canon Harry, they wouldn't come for him.

§§§

Harry looked at the barking dog, no sounds coming out of his mouth. He looked away and his barks filled the air again. Not good enough.

§§§

Harry looked at the wild cat in his lap, lured by stolen morsels over a course of weeks. Sighing, he cradled the dirty and emancipated cat in his arms and left the park, heading for Mrs Figg's house. The cat lady-squib would take care of him.

Later that same day, Harry glared at Mr Blair who lived beside Number 4, at Number 6. His wife had run away with her lover, she'd been terrified of him.

Harry watched and wished and imagined, right until Mr Blair went down with a scream of agony. He stayed on the ground for a second then called an ambulance.

§§§

Harry stares into the glazed over eyes of Miss Caitlyn, the primary school teacher who accused him of cheating so often that the label stuck. She was a member of Petunia's Sunday book club.

Her mind was an absolute mess. Harry focused on seeing her kiss Mr Richards in the locker room and wrapped guilt around the image, blanketed with the suggestion that the guilt would stop if she talked to Mrs Richards.

He repeated the process for every memory of her and Richards' adultery he could find connected to that first memory.

It only took a week for Miss Caitlyn to be banned from the book club, a month for Mr and Mrs Richards to leave Privet Drive.

§§§

Mr Blair visited a lot of hospitals for the sudden pains that hit him. The last one had lasted three full minutes and ended with him writhing on the ground in silent agony and losing control of his bladder. His dog barked silently beside him and ran around the hedge covered yard.

Harry turned away from the hole in the hedge and went back inside. Ten minutes later, the dog started barking madly.

Mr Blair was admitted to the hospital and later to a prison cell when he confessed to abusing his wife. He seemed to think that God had been punishing him for it.

§§§

Harry was 9 years old when he decided it was time. His back was on fire from the lashing last night and Petunia had just returned from bringing Dudley to a friend's house. He will be out of the house until tomorrow morning. Harry finished plating the food and watched as Vernon and Petunia set down for lunch. There was a full plate on the counter, more than they ever gave him.

Petunia was the first to notice, "You think we're going to let you eat all that?" she sneered.

"Yes." Harry stared at Vernon and wanted. Him. To. Hurt.

The lard of fat screamed in agony and fell out of the chair that overturned. Quickly, Harry used his magic to silence both of them and watched as the man writhed on the floor. Like a worm on a hook. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petunia coming closer and raised his hand, a stream of fire appeared in his palm and formed a ball.

"Careful, Aunt Petunia," he sing-songed, "You don't want me to set you both on fire, do you?"

Harry stared at Vernon: face red, tears streaming down his face, eyes scrunched shot, mouth wide open in a soundless scream, limbs twitching and laying in a pool of his own urine. Revenge is sweet.

He looked away from Vernon and turned towards his Aunt. He stared in her terrified blue eyes and smiled happily, "I have demands, Auntie. I expect them to be met, clear?"

She whimpered and nodded frantically.

"I said," he enunciated, "are we clear."

"Yes! Yes!" she gasped.

Harry clapped happily, "That's great." He gestured towards the table, Vernon's seat righted itself. "Sit, both of you." he ordered.

Petunia quickly helped Vernon sit back on his chair then sat down beside him. She held a white knuckled grip on her husband's hand as they both stared at him in fear.

Harry hadn't expected to enjoy this as much as he was, but they had tormented him for 8 years so he'd cut himself some slack. He sat down at the table in front of Vernon and intertwined his fingers beneath his chin.

"You'll give me three full meals a day. No more chores other than gardening and keeping my room clean. No belt and no locking me up in my room." Harry could see Vernon's face getting redder and redder as his demands progressed. " You'll give me an allowance of 20 pounds a week while I'm living here, but don't worry, I'll be going to Hogwarts soon and you'll only see me for three months. Are we clear?"

With a roar, Vernon stood and leaned over the table, hand extended to strangle him. Harry sighed and glared hard. Vernon went down, head hitting the table before he reached the floor. Harry couldn't see him anymore, but he could still feel the pull on his magic and knew that the Cruciatus was still active.

"Please" Petunia Dursley begged, teary eyed.

Harry looked her right in the eyes for a moment or two and then cut the connection. He could now hear Vernon gasping for air on the floor. Maintaining eye contact, Harry pushed into Petunia's mind and pushed the suggestion that 'the demands aren't so bad. It would be worse if we told anyone. They'd find out what we did'. He wrapped this up in her distrust of the wizarding world, in her desire to keep up their image as 'normal' people, and in the memories of Privet Drive sudden hatred for the once pitied Mr Blair after his abuse was revealed.

Petunia broke eye contact, none the wiser to his interference, and dropped down beside Vernon. "Vernon, Vernon, are you alright?"

Harry walked around the table to the couple and glared down at Vernon, at his beady black eyes. He repeated the same process he did with Petunia and added fear of being hurt again and a memory of the pain for whenever he thought of hurting him from now on.

Satisfied, he left the kitchen and went back to his room. He wanted to make a list of everything he'd buy with his allowance.

§§§

Harry was enjoying his newfound power. Oh, he wasn't piling on demands, he didn't want to push them into doing something stupid, but he couldn't deny the thrill he got from Petunia's fearful glances and Vernon's pained winces. It looks like my dear old Uncle just can't control his thoughts.

Dudley was pretty confused about the change, but he was used to ignoring Harry at home, so he was quick to adapt to his parent's change in behaviour. Privately, Harry couldn't help but be impressed that Dudley had never accidentally revealed the horrors going on at the Dursleys. He wondered if his parents had told him to keep the secret, but wasn't interested enough to investigate.

To all outsiders, things were as they'd always been, other than Harry suddenly not dressing like a slob. Harry had no idea how Petunia had convinced their neighbours that he willingly wore Dudley's castoffs, but the Mrs of Number 3 and Number 8 had complimented him on 'not dressing like a ragamuffin anymore'.

Harry had been elated by having his own clothes and toiletries, and furious that the Dursley made something so basic seem like the height of luxury. He had delighted in showing off his new clothes around the neighbourhood to the blind people of Little Whinging, and he now only used Dudley's castoff in the garden to avoid grass and dirt stains.

After freeing himself of all his other chores, save cleaning his room because there was no way he'd trust Petunia in his space, Harry felt mulish at having to keep working in the backyard. He only kept at it to keep up appearances for any watchers he might have, a sudden change in such a longstanding routine would not go unnoticed. He didn't want anyone to know what he had done, heaven forbid Dumbledore started thinking of him as the next Dark Lord.

Harry was… torn about Dumbledore. On the one hand, canon Dumbledore was the textbook definition of 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'. On the other hand, Harry had deliberately shown his scars and prominent ribs to Mrs Figg on more than one occasion and dropped hints about the abuse… and yet he was still stuck here.

Either Figg didn't consider it important enough to report, Dumbledore didn't believe her, or he simply didn't care. Harry wasn't sure which option he preferred, but the bottom line is that he didn't want the Headmaster's attention, and he didn't trust the man and his squib one bit. Even in the eventuality that Mrs Figg had reported it, the woman didn't really do much to help him. Offering to babysit for free twice a month and letting him pet her cats wasn't really that useful.

It was a good thing Harry loved cats, or having to listen to the squib prattle on and on about them for hours in her cabbage smelling house would be unbearable. Being able to cuddle the fluffy beasts made it almost worth it. He fully intended to kidnap one when he finally left the Dursley for good.