He yanked on the chain to light the bare bulb inside the cupboard before pulling the door closed behind him. After skinning out of his baggy work clothes, he quickly slid into an old tatty tee shirt of Dudley's, which the boy used as a night shirt. Then he used the empty bucket in the corner of the cupboard to relieve himself, turned off the light and settled into his bed, an old camp cot that Dudley had once bounced on so hard, the spine had broken.
Light filtered through the cracks around the door, as well as noise from the telly in the sitting room, same as every night. The boy lay on his side, curled up under his thin, patched blanket, and stared at the cupboard door. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see well enough to trace the lettering on a picture he'd drawn in day school last year, done in green, red and purple crayon.
"Harry's Room."
If all else failed, he used this sign to remind him of his name.
Later, after the lights were out, and his relatives had thumped their way upstairs, Harry waited until he could hear his uncle's severe snoring from the far bedroom before he eased the cupboard door open. Pausing after each step, craning to hear any change in sounds from upstairs, he crept to the kitchen and over to the garbage pail. It was the only place Aunt Petunia never thought to count things.
Another pause, and he eased up the lid. Moonlight through the kitchen window was enough to see by, and he reached eagerly into the pail. Fingers calloused and blistered from work sifted past gravy and custard scrapings from the plates, then junk mail and a few used tissues, to potato peels and the gristled ends of the roast, which his Aunt had thrown away before they all sat down to dinner. Harry eased the sliver of meat and fat out of the pail and moved it quickly to his other hand, while he went back to grab peelings. Unable to bear the hunger a moment more, he crammed the handful of peels into his mouth and chewed and swallowed fast.
Reaching for more, he gnawed on the end of the roast, savoring the taste and juice, and even the gristly texture. He sank further into the pail this time, almost up to the shoulder. Even still chewing his first bite, he nibbled again on the rough meat, unable to slow down. He'd just snagged something that felt like the end of a loaf of bread when the kitchen's overhead light flicked on.
TBC
A/N: Will catch up to the opening time line next chapter. At most, the one after.
*Chapter 2*: Chapter 2
Whelp
by jharad17
Chapter Two
Startled by the sudden light, Harry stumbled back from the garbage pail and spun around to see Uncle Vernon in the doorway to the hall. His face was purple, and his bushy mustache quivered over a furiously working mouth. His brown-checked robe was slightly askew over green pajamas, and one of his slippers was half off his foot. But Uncle Vernon didn't seem to notice this, and rushed into the room.
"Disgusting, filthy animal!" he shrieked and grabbed Harry by the neck, shaking him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "I knew you'd pull some trick like this. I told you, boy, no food. I'll teach you to disobey me, or commit your perversions! No good FREAK!" Uncle Vernon shoved him to the back door. "Outside with you! If you behave like a dog, you'll be treated as one. Should've know you weren't fit for living indoors with decent folk. Get out of my house!"
The boy flinched away from his uncle, but Vernon in a rage was fast. And strong. A fist clouted Harry's eye, staggering him, but he clutched at the countertop and didn't fall. Uncle Vernon dragged him away from the counter, and punched him again, this time on the nose. Harry's nose stung and his eyes watered, and the only thing that kept him standing was the grip on his neck. Blood poured over his upper lip and tasted coppery on his tongue. Uncle Vernon's fingers gouged the bread and meat out of his hands. He hit the boy again.
"Please, sir," Harry cried. "I'm sorry!"
"'Sorry' won't cut it! Now, OUT. Get out!" Vernon shook him again and shoved him through the door and onto the patio where he stumbled to his knees. His glasses went skittering off into the night, and Harry scrambled to find them. The door slammed shut behind him, and the sound of the lock turning cut him deep.
Once he had his glasses back on, Harry felt a bit better, even though one of the lenses was cracked. He crouched near the back door, hoping -- though he knew it was pointless -- that his uncle would let him back inside. Arms wrapped around his middle, Harry rocked back and forth under the moonlight to keep warm and wished more than anything for this nightmare to be over.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
In the morning, Aunt Petunia turned the hose on the small boy to wake him, then shooed him off the patio and onto the grass. "Vernon'll sort you out, boy. Wait till he gets home."
Those words always frightened him, though he tried not to show it. Aunt Petunia curled her lip and went back inside. The early morning sky was overcast, and the air was a bit chilly. Soaking wet, Harry shivered and stayed on the grass. Feet tucked under him, he watched the door with all his attention. Cold water dripped from his hair to trickle down his cheeks, washing some of the blood off his lips and chin. He wiped his face absently on a sleeve of his nightshirt and shuddered. Uncle Vernon would sort him out. . . .
After a moment, he edged the shirt sleeve into his mouth and sucked on the frayed material. The water soothed some of the ache in his throat. Tears burned in his eyes nonetheless. He blinked furiously against them; he would not cry! Hadn't in years, really, and he wouldn't give his uncle the satisfaction. Still, he worried. What would Uncle Vernon do to sort him out?
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the boy waited, and watched the door. His right eye was swollen shut, and his head pounded, but it didn't bother him too much until Dudley strutted into the backyard, flanked by two of his mates. The three hulking boys threw stones at Harry, and clods of dirt, then shoved him back and forth between them, chanting insults about his clothes and bruised face. When a particularly hard shove knocked Harry down at last, Dudley started kicking him with his new hiking boots. "Doggie, dodgy Potter, itsy bitsy doggie, eating from the garbage," he chanted. "My Daddy's getting doggie food for you, you know." The other boys sniggered and kicked him, too.
"He isn't!" Harry yelled, and protected his head with his hands. He curled into a ball to keep them from kicking his stomach, and after a little while, they got tired of their game. He lay still until they left the yard. Several of his fingers felt broken, and blood dripped into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. His left arm hurt really bad, and so did his back. Struggling for a few minutes, he finally climbed to his feet. One of Dudley's friends had stamped on his ankle, and it was swelling already. His glasses were broken beyond repair this time, crushed under Dudley's heel. He cupped them in his good hand to keep them safe, though he could not have said why.
The sky cleared in the early afternoon, and the sun beat down on Harry's back and neck, aggravating his sunburn. As the day wore on, he grew lightheaded and nauseous. Though sweat ran down his back and face, he was shivering as if he had a fever. Last time he'd had a fever, he'd been locked in his cupboard for a week. Today, though . . .
Late afternoon, the back door finally opened, ejecting Uncle Vernon onto the patio. Harry squinted at him, and saw that his meaty hands held a length of chain and a long, black rope. "Over here, now!"
It was always very bad when Uncle Vernon didn't even call him "boy." Warily, Harry stood, swayed a bit on his feet, and limped closer.