"On your knees."
Harry darted a look at his uncle's face, then quickly away. The glint in Uncle Vernon's eyes was frightening. But Harry's legs were trembling, so it was no hardship to sink to his knees. In seconds, his uncle had slipped the chain around his throat and cinched it tight like a collar. In the next moment, he clipped the end to the black rope. A leash! Harry realized with a jolt. His hands went immediately to the chain collar and tugged at it. No matter what his uncle said, he wasn't a dog!
"Leave it!" Uncle Vernon bellowed and slapped his bruised hands away. Then he held up the last item for inspection, and Harry squinted to see a large screw topped with a loop. Taking the other end of the leash, Uncle Vernon led Harry to a far corner of the yard. With a heavy mallet, he hammered the screw into the side of the shed, far above Harry's head, and hooked the other end of the leash to it. He sneered at the boy as he headed back to the house. "If you're a good dog, you'll get some dinner tonight. Otherwise . . ."
Harry stared after him, silent with shock. Crouched in the shade offered by the shed, he tried to figure out what he could do to fix this. Was it even possible? Was he really just their dog now?
Just before nightfall, Aunt Petunia turned the hose on him again. Her horsie face was screwed up as if she smelled something bad, and she didn't say a word. She did pat Dudley's head, where he stood, grinning, on the steps, as she passed back into the kitchen. Harry wiped water from his eyes.
Uncle Vernon returned then with two bowls. He placed them just beyond reach of Harry's line, and toed them forward, as if he were afraid of breathing the same air as Harry. One plastic bowl held water, and the other . . . no! This just wasn't on! Harry glared up at his uncle and pulled at the lead to the shed. He was not going to eat that!
"That's your dinner, whelp," Uncle Vernon told him. "That or nothing." He smiled nastily. "Straight out of a tin, too, so it's better than garbage." Turning on his heel, he went back to the house, leaving Harry with a bowl of dog food, as promised.
Dudley continued to laugh at him and stare from the patio. He'd already eaten, he pointed out cruelly, and listed off what his mum had cooked special, just for him: gammon steaks and potatoes and green sugar snap peas, and they'd had ice cream for dessert, with fudge sauce. Harry glared at him with his one good eye, but stayed silent. He knew better than to respond to Dudley's taunts when his aunt could be listening.
The sun went down before Dudley went back in the house. Light from the television flickered from the windows, and it was turned up loud enough that Harry could hear canned laughter. Still barefoot and in his dirty, bloody shirt, Harry waited as long as he could stand it before he went to the bowls. Using his good arm, he slowly lifted the water bowl and tipped it back, balanced to avoid jarring the broken fingers. The water was cold and clean, and he slurped it down. Hopefully, it would fill his stomach enough to ease his hunger. He would not eat that food.
When the water was gone, Harry wrung out his shirt over the bowl, to save more. He had no idea when they would fill the bowl again. He couldn't help looking at the other bowl, filled with a disgusting brown paste and unidentifiable chunks. The smell alone made him want to puke. He wouldn't eat it. He wouldn't. They couldn't make him. He'd run away first. It wasn't like he couldn't unclip the leash, with a bit of climbing. Or jumping, maybe. There was just the question of where he would go.
TBC
*Chapter 3*: Chapter 3
Whelp -- Chapter 3
By jharad17
A/N: Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers. Here's the next chappie, just for you!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no money from this. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling. I only borrow them for a brief while.
--
In the morning, when he woke for the fourth day with only water in his stomach, but for a few scavenged peels, the thought of the second dog bowl sounded almost tempting. Almost. But he wasn't going to touch it.
Harry had slept badly, curled into as small a ball as he could manage where the back fence met the lee of the shed, knees tucked up to his chest and arms hugging them tight. His left arm still hurt like it was burned, and the fingers on that hand were swollen and purple, like his ankle, and he couldn't bend them. His head hurt, too, and he had wished he could just go indoors for a little while and get warm. But the night had passed, with no sign anyone even remembered he was out here.
When the sun rose, he hobbled over to the two bowls to sip at the water he'd squeezed from his shirt the night before. Ants had crawled into the second bowl and covered the brown paste in a swarm of black. He looked away quickly, trying not to hurl. The little bit of water he'd saved did not sit well in his stomach, or not well enough. He was hungry, and tired and more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
--HPHPHPHPHPHP--
Late that same afternoon, at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk and peered over the rim of his glasses at his newest staff acquisition. Severus Snape peered back at him with nothing less than a scowl. He tended to rely heavily on that expression when he was unsure of something. Or frustrated. Or bored.
"You are the newest member of an elite group," Dumbledore told him, as if he did not already know. "The staff here is beyond compare, and I daresay you will fit right in, in that regard. I very much appreciate you accepting the position as Potions Master here, Severus."
"Of course, Headmaster," Severus replied, keeping his tone even. He had no choice, really. Despite being cleared of all charges years ago, he was still distrusted by so many, too many, and a hard time finding work that utilized his skills. He could sell potions of his own creation, and had a little business doing just that, in truth, but it was not terribly lucrative at this juncture, and would not be until he'd made more of a name for himself. A name he could create at Hogwarts.
Dumbledore smiled. "Call me Albus, please. You will have your own suite of rooms, of course, and access to whatever house elves you require. The grounds are open to you, as are all castle facilities. As we have discussed, you will be responsible for the Head of House duties for Slytherin in addition to your classes, but I imagine you will not find those too taxing. There is a schedule for weekend duty during the school term, and you may work with your colleagues to find how best to implement that." The Headmaster paused, and his blue eyes twinkled brightly behind his specs.
Severus suppressed a sigh. He knew the man too well; twinkles of that kind never boded anything good. "Yes?"
With a fond smile, Dumbledore continued, "You will find I ask little in return for your compensation, save a well-run classroom, with well-stuffed student minds, the safety of all the castle's occupants . . . and one other small thing."
Severus' scowl deepened. Here they came to it at last. This "one small thing" was likely to be the utter bane of his existence. Well, if it came to be too much, he would refuse. After a pause in which he steeled himself, he said, "What is it then, Albus?"
"Harry Potter."
"What?" Severus shook his head, bewildered. "What are you talking about? What do I have to do with him? He can't be more than six or seven years old now. Not a student."
"He has just turned seven, Severus, yes." In truth, Severus knew exactly how old the Potter boy was, could calculate it down to the hour if need be. He'd had to, in the maddening months between his one short encounter with Lily and her subsequent whirlwind marriage to that idiot, James. But no matter how he counted or calculated, the numbers always came up the same. The whelp was James', not his.