The Inciting Incident
July 1994
~~~
Harry grunted as he was thrust against the wall for what he hoped would be the last time that day.
“I’m getting bored, and hungry, let’s go to yours for lunch, eh Piers?” Dudley’s thick, insolent grunts echoed in Harry’s ears along with the pounding of a brooding headache. He stayed slumped on the warm tarmac until Dudley and his thugs were out of sight, then, cradling his right arm in his left, got up.
Harry groaned, the street was swaying slightly around him as he slowly hobbled back to Number Four Privet Drive. It was a sweltering afternoon, Harry’s hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead and it felt like all the air in his lungs was being sucked out by the sun.
By the time he entered the Dursley’s pristine kitchen, three plates along with a few pots and pans lay mockingly in the kitchen sink. Petunia had left them there just for Harry. ‘How thoughtful of her.’ He sighed and picked up the sponge that was lying on the side.
I Harry scowled at himself in the reflection of the pooling water on the countertop. Washing up was much trickier than usual, seeing as one of his hands just sort of… pathetically limped and refused to comply with what Harry’s brain was telling it. The chore became even more difficult when it came to dry the dishes, but Harry thought he’d figured out a half decent method of drying one handed, and was pretty pleased if he said so himself, when that thought was immediately shattered, along with a plate which was now in pieces on the linoleum floor.
Oh shit.
Last time he had smashed a plate, it had been two weeks in the cupboard. That couldn’t happen again - Harry had grown so much, it would be hell, especially in this heat, and only a glass of water every day or so, maybe some bread if he was lucky. Maybe he would get away with one week instead, or maybe Uncle Vernon would just give him a beating. Not that he didn’t deserve worse, he was utterly stupid for dropping it.
Harry’s stomach did several somersaults, and he was trembling slightly as he heard thundering steps approaching.
“I- I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean…“ but Harry’s voice abruptly died in his throat when he saw Uncle Vernon’s obscenely threatening frame lumber into the kitchen. The man’s small, piggish eyes flicked toward the ceramic shards on the floor, then swiftly back to Harry’s cowering body.
“You good for nothing, ungrateful little brat. The things I do for you? And you repay me by smashing my possessions with your greasy little hands?”
“Sorry.“
“You dirty wretch! Do you expect me to clean up after you? You can't do anything right, can you? Now look what you've done, boy! Do you even realise how much money that costs?” Harry tried not to grimace as spittle sprinkled his face.
“Sorry. I’m so s-“ Harry retracted further into himself, and backed into the countertop as Vernon seized his neck with a swollen red fist.
“No, of course you don't, because you're too busy being a selfish, disgusting freak. I work my arse off to provide for this family, and what do I get in return? Nothing but arrogance and disrespect. You're nothing more than a financial burden, you are useless, you are revolting. You are just like your freakish drunkard father.” Dursley paused to spit in his nephew’s face.
“My father w-wasn’t a drunk.”
Harry forced the hoarse words out of his bursting lungs. Uncle Vernon’s grasp was inexorable as always.
“What did you say, boy?” Vernon hissed, closing his fist tighter around Harry’s wind pipe and rammed his head into the marble countertop with a raw crack. It was all foggy after that.
~~~
Harry’s eyes flicked open, and he was immediately thrown into darkness as his Uncle manhandled him into the cupboard under the stairs, slammed and locked the door behind him.
Harry waited for a while, a dull ringing had started to emanate from the walls, or his mind, it was hard to tell.
Then, the little hatch on the door slid open, and his uncle’s small watery blue eyes glared at him from a background of ugly, rage induced red. A vein had burst in his eye, and now his right iris was surrounded by a bloody colour which matched the rest of his face.
“Like I said, you are a good-for-nothing, burden. A waste of space, just like your filthy parents. I don’t know how they lived with themselves, knowing you were their offspring.”
Harry could not see his uncle’s mouth, but it did not matter, as the sneer he had flashed crept right up to his hairline.
Harry felt himself get very hot, and then suddenly he could not hear anything or see anything, and then suddenly he could. And then all the light fixtures were smashed, glass was scattered over every surface in the vicinity, it glistened orange and yellow in the dusky summer light. Uncle Vernon was on the floor, and let out a raspy groan. The smell of smoke filled Harry’s nostrils, and his pounding heart screamed in his ears.
Uncle Vernon muttered something - although Harry could’ve sworn he was unconscious - maybe he talked in his sleep. But it meant he was alive, that was good right? He wasn’t dead.
He wasn’t dead.
But he wasn’t dead. What just happened? Shit. Shit. What would happen? He had to go. He had to leave, he couldn’t face an alive Vernon anymore than a dead one.
Harry scrambled out of the hallway, the door to his cupboard lay on the ground, the brass hinges mangled to disrecognition. The boy seized his rucksack with shaking hands, and started to franticly pack. His invisibility cloak, his precious album, the Marauder’s Map, and some other stuff, along with whichever textbooks happened to be strewn on his desk. He stuffed his wand into his waistband, grabbed Hedwig’s cage and his broom, balancing everything precariously in his one working hand, and swiftly left.
Harry’s vision swam, orange streetlights seemed to flash on and off, and cars appeared to swerve all over the roads as they passed him.
Harry walked until he couldn’t anymore, which was for around a half hour, and then he stumbled for five-ish minutes, before sitting down on the curb. His head thumped and everything had started to sway around him, or maybe he had only just realised, and it had been going on all this time. Colours and shapes began to blur, and he swore he could hear something - a voice, maybe? A man shaped blob walked towards him, but it might’ve been his imagination. Or maybe it was Dumbledore…
It was midnight when Harry passed out.