A.N.: Please, please tell me in case I missed something and I do own Harry Potter. That'd be awesome, and I wouldn't need to worry about next semester's tuition anymore ... hehe. So, for everyone who read this last sentence half asleep: As far as I know, I am not J.K. Rowling, I also do not own Harry Potter, nor his parents, nor his friends, nor - well, you get my point. If I were J.K. Rowling, I wouldn't post here, but rather publish new books exploring all kinds of AU and plot holes. And make money, of course. Toodles.
A.N.: I know that the following story may not be all that realistic – !ALERT! Sarcasm !ALERT! – but this is fanfiction, people ;). Don't think about this happening in your backyard, it won't – or rather, it should never… Child abuse is a very serious thing, but it is very rarely/never as bad as I portrayed it here. It's meant to be exaggerated, and I'm not being graphic. I don't attempt to romanticize the concept or to lessen its severity in any way. If I have offended anyone, it was not my intention and I'm sorry. Having been a victim myself, though my case was very light, I can understand very well the sensitivity and severity of this topic.
Warnings: Spoilers, spoilers, spoilers. ChildAbuse.
"Bold" – quotes from the HP books
"text" – quote
'text' – thoughts
November 1st, 1981
"One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...
He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!" "
It was a rainy Friday morning and had a stranger stumbled unto Privet Drive number 4 he would have come across a very unusual sight. However, no stranger passed the quaint little house that day at quarter past five, and thus no stranger saw the – to the neighbours – long no longer unusual sight.
At first glance, it would have looked as if a thin mountain of dirt was placed right in the middle of the garden, behind two big shrubs of privet. Nevertheless, had one moved close enough, one could have seen the slight tremor in the 'mountain', too strong to be explained away by the slight autumn-wind that was rustling the leaves of the trees and bushes.
The neighbours had long learned not to pay attention to the sometimes unusual and harsh punishments of the Dursley's ward, for it was a vile little vagabond that would rob you blind the moment you turned your back on it. Mrs Spencer from number 5 was continuously missing apples from her favourite tree, Mr Longley from number 7 (he was living alone with two little girls and no mother to speak of – what a scandal!) knew that it was him who had trampled his roses just one day after he had given the menace a friendly greeting on the street. And he was only trying to be polite!
The lump knew nothing of that, it just knew that it had to wait. That it wasn't to touch the roses, or the walls, " 'cause they'd get dirty, freak!" as Dudley had helpfully pointed out. Somewhere deep down it knew that something about its whole situation did not fit, but it did not really care all that much.
All it knew was that it was cold, that it had been cold 10 hours ago when he had had to go here for his 'attitude adjustment'. It felt the all familiar all-encompassing hunger, but it was used to that and did not act on his sentiment. That would have overstepped its boundaries. It was different from all the humans living on the street it knew that. Sometimes it would wish for warmth, but these rare times it squashed that feeling immediately, for comfort was never known and deemed impossible.
It rarely felt anything. 'Feelings', emotions, those were for real people. For real children who had parents, who had friends, who mattered. Its sense of self was all but squashed. It didn't even know what it meant to feel, to be someone… The only things that ever mattered to it were whether it would get food or not, whether it was cold or not, whether it had been good or not. More often than not, it had been bad. At least that's what 'Aunt' Petunia said. ("Filthy lying disgusting freak! We feed you, we clothe you and how do you pay us back?! Be good for once in your life!") Dudley was good, Dudley mattered. It didn't quite understand how or why, but it knew that it was so.
That Dudley was good was true, and true was good. Lies, on the other hand, were bad. It lied all the time. It didn't quite understand how that could be, how he could lie, without ever talking, but it accepted that it was so. 'Aunt' Petunia had said so, and she knew it all.
The birds had long started to sing, and the sun was already peeking over the roof of Mrs Figg's house, when the first cars started to pass by, but number four remained silent and It did not move.
When the milkman passed by around quarter to seven, a shudder seemed to go through It. As soon as he had left, It moved from his spot near the scrubs of privet and made his way towards the house, only stopping to pick up the bottles of milk left near the front door. It took both of its shoes off, used the key left under the flowerpot to open the backdoor, and tiptoed into the kitchen.
There was breakfast to prepare.
The date was the 31st July 1987.
It didn't know the date, and even if It would have known, It wouldn't have cared.
Harry James Potter had just turned seven years old.
So? What do you think?