Another Place To Be Hurt...

Bad Blood.

With a weary sigh, Harry planted the last of the many flowers after gathering up his garden supplies that he had used. He headed towards the door slowly, his brittle bones aching from being crouched on his hands and knees in the boiling sun.

Knowing Aunt Petunia would never let him in the house so dirty, he shouted to her from the door way.

“Aunt petunia, may I come in now? I’ve planted the flowers, cleaned uncle Vernon’s car and pulled up the garden weeds.  Harry’s aunt spun around with a horrified disgusted look on her face, she walked towards her nephew, lips curled in disgust.

“Freak, look at the state of you. You’re covered in dirt, how dare you soil my house!” Startled Harry looked at his clothes, surprised at how much dirt and mud had glued to his too big jeans, the knees of his jeans were caked in a dark brown substance that he hoped was only mud. With a weary sigh he set his eyes to meet the ground, “A-aunt P-petunia, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t clean your clothes does it now boy? Outside now! I won’t have you soiling my house.” The bitterness in her voice was enough to send Harry scurrying back into the garden, he knew what was about to happen, but he couldn’t help but dread it. She was about to set him under the painful spray of the hose, just like a scruffy mongrel. Harry lowered his head further at these thoughts, Pad foot, His God father…. With a shudder of remorse, he shook himself back into his surroundings. His aunt was starting the water spray, he wasn’t necessarily scared of the cold water, in fact, and on a hot day like this Harry would have welcomed it. But it was because of the way his Aunt would do it, that he was scared. As always she unscrewed the cap of the hose, before squirting Harry with the painful jet of water. These actions left blotches of rash like skin over his body, in his mind he left out a cry of agony. But he stood tall just as he had been taught to when accepting a punishment; he would have to keep quiet. Otherwise he wouldn’t get the scraps of food that his body desperately needed...

 Today had been a bad day, uncle Vernon demanded that Harry had to repaint the garden fence, in the afternoon they had a light summer shower, erasing all of Harry’s work as the rain collided with the fresh paint, running down the garden path in glistening beads of white.

When uncle Vernon returned home his mood was on a downwards path. With a malicious grin he invited little Harry into the kitchen, then threw his stale lump of cheese in the bin with a satisfied smirk. Throwing the wretched boy into his cupboard, he locked the door tightly. Harry’s stomach growled in protest, unable to manage with only a thin slice of bread lining his small stomach.

With an empty stomach and despondence racking him, he settled onto the old crib lying miserably in the tiny broom cupboard that was his room.

Now that the sun had rose to signal the new day, his whole body craved food.  At the crack of dawn, his aunt’s voice pierced his ‘room’,” GET YOUR FREAKY SELF OUT HERE THIS INSTANT AND MAKE DUDDYKINS HIS BREAKFAST!”

Exhausted, Harry dragged himself out. Just as a spell of dizziness struck him, his brain barley registered the impact as he felt himself fall on to his knees. At the same time this occurred, his aunt had come out of the kitchen, only to see her burden of a nephew resting on the floor. “How dare you lie upon my floor, how dare you tarnish my house with your freakishness, When I tell you to do something you will f*****g do it! Do you understand?” she hissed in a menacing voice, she towered over Harry, unleashing sharp kicks on his ribs.

The sickening crunch of splintering bones filled the air, his aunt gave him one last look of hatred before turning her back on her nephew as his face contorted in agony. Harry lay on the floor, a fire burning within his blood, he yearned for Hogwarts, for his friends, a place where he could finally be safe.

Standing up slowly, his ribs gave groans of pain. Harry dragged himself into the kitchen, hearing Dudley’s laughter at him. The first thing he realised was the eggs and bacon that he had to cook for his ‘family’, as his stomach unleashed another growl. Reaching down into the draw, Harry pulled out the breaking saucepan. His Aunt did not allow him to use the better equipment, for worry of Dudley catching his freakiness.

Half an hour later, the smoky aroma of cooked bacon filled the house, catching the attention of the two over weight Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon stormed into the kitchen sniffing the air. He pushed Harry towards the stove not caring that his multiple rolls of fat were squishing his nephew, “You better not have burnt our food, you good for nothing b*****d, do you need another reminder of what happens when you burn our food boy ?”

“Please uncle Vernon, your food is not burnt Sir.” Harry did not need a reminder of that night; the reminder was etched into the skin of his back, a constant reminder that was always with him. Uncle Vernon had taken the boiling saucepan off the stove and placed it on the small of Harry’s back, whilst whispering “Burn our food we ‘feed’ you with boy, and I burn you…”

With an empty sigh he waited for his relatives to finish eating, waiting desperately for any scraps. With a disheartened feeling, he began to wash the Dursley’s empty plates, mentally calculating how long it would take him to do the chores that uncle Vernon set him. On his aunts plate the slivers of fat left lay, when an idea struck him. Looking carefully over his shoulders for peeping eyes, Harry rammed the morsels down his throat hungrily. He had been fed so rarely over the last month; the pain of his stomach had eased. Instead the pain that used to reside in his stomach spread everywhere. He sat against the bins in the kitchen, as the pain began to intensify over his body.

Gathering up his aching limbs, he decided to complete his next chore, with his head spinning Harry walked over to the small garden shed. The beat of his heart seemed to echo in his head, pounding harder and harder, he’d been in worse pain than this before he scolded himself. By the time he reached the shed door, the spells of dizziness were getting worse; he stuck his hands out to catch his fall. The impact sent pain across his arm, as he registered the dark liquid seeping from the long gash dripping onto the perfect lawn below.

Inside the suburban house aunt Petunia had just sent Dudley out to “play” with his friends, when she realised from the clock that her nephew had been missing for hours. With a long sigh and mentally promising to give the boy a thrashing she descended the steps into the garden.