At the Dursley's
On a Tuesday evening in September, Harry is setting the table when the oven dings.
He puts down the last fork and walks back into the kitchen, finding his aunt ignoring the oven.
Taking out the roast chicken, Harry’s stomach growls.
Lunch had been nothing more than a cheese sandwich and he was looking forward to the spiced meat more than he could say. His mouth salivates at the idea of green beans and chicken and mashed potatoes.
After bringing the pan to the table and making sure everything is in place, he turns back to the kitchen, hoping to make a plate before the Dursley’s sit down to eat.
“I want you to finish weeding the garden first,” Aunt Petunia says, lifting her nose into the air and pointing towards the back door.
“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he shoves down the hunger pang and heads outside.
The sun has dipped far enough in the sky that it isn’t as hot kneeling in the garden.
Harry doesn’t bother with the gloves this time. They are too big on his hands for him to get a firm grasp on the weeds.
The window above him, the kitchen window, is still open. It doesn’t take long before he can hear the Dursley’s eating. Silverware clinking against their plates.
The same niggling feeling swirls in his stomach but it isn’t hunger.
Harry manages to finish the garden in half an hour, but Aunt Petunia doesn’t let him join them at the kitchen table. She insists that he shower first, to get the filth off.
In a fit of frustration, Harry turns the shower stream to as hot as he can make it. Then, he stands under it until his Uncle Vernon bangs on the door, shouting to finish up.
The burn of the water helps loosen his tight muscles and he feels cleaner than he has all weekend.
Now he just has to try not to do anything too messy before tomorrow.
After his shower, Harry makes his way back to the kitchen to find his Aunt putting the leftovers in the fridge.
“Your plate is on the counter,” Aunt Petunia says, pointing towards a plate with a cheese sandwich on it. “When you are done, wash the dishes.”
His heart falls into his empty stomach. Why did he think he’d have a chance at a warm meal?
“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry climbs up onto the seat at the counter and reaches for the glass of water next to the plate.
His aunt doesn’t keep him company. Instead she heads upstairs. Harry can hear the television set in his aunt and uncle’s room turn on.
Eating the sandwich in front of him, Harry glares at the sink full of dishes.
The good part about his chores is that his mind doesn’t get very long to be idle. It is only in moments like this, when he tries to stretch out his dinner, that his mind turns to distressing thoughts.
Reminders that his family hates him. That he is a freak. A burden. Something to be tolerated, but not cared for.
He’d wondered if once the school year finished, maybe his aunt would be nicer. Afterall, he was no longer getting in trouble with his teachers and he had more time to do tasks.
It was silly really, expecting things to change. If anything, his aunt’s mood was more foul than before.
Harry thinks it is because he is always “under foot.”
If he had his way, he’d spend all day in his cupboard, reading or playing make-believe.
Knowing how fruitless it is to dwell on impossibilities, Harry climbs down from his chair and carries the empty plate and cup to the sink. He turns the faucet to cold and fills his glass before turning it to hot.
Gulping down the glass of cool water, Harry keeps his ear out for movement.
The dishes are one of Harry’s least favourite chores. He hates the way his fingers prune up and the feel of soggy food, clogging the drain.
Plus, it is never ending. No matter what, there are always dishes.
Still, he’d been ordered to do worse chores.
Harry stares out the kitchen window, looking at the fall of dusk. Another day trapped with people who can’t stand him.
After he finishes washing the dishes, he dries them and puts them away.
Just because Aunt Petunia doesn’t expressly say something doesn’t mean Harry isn’t supposed to know to do it.
He’d once forgotten to hoover the front hall and she’d locked him in his cupboard all weekend.
She’d said, “If you aren’t going to be useful, then you can just stay in there.”
Harry had glared at the hoover that he shared his own storage place with as though it was a person. As though it could feel how mad Harry was at it.
Aunt Petunia comes back downstairs just as Harry is putting away the last of the plates.
“How long could it possibly take you to put away a few pots and pans,” she sniffs, opening the freezer and removing a pint of ice cream. Harry assumes it is Chocolate Chunk, Dudley’s favourite flavour.
“Sorry, Aunt Petunia,” Harry closes the cabinet, not even thinking about asking for some ice cream.
Ice cream is for good little boys.
Which Harry has never been.
“Good night, Aunt Petunia,” he heads for the door hoping she just lets him go to his cupboard.
She does. In fact, she ignores Harry as though he hadn’t spoken, pulling a spoon from a drawer.
Harry is closed into his cupboard when his aunt walks by. He frowns when he hears the telltale click of the cupboard door locking.
Usually, she makes sure he doesn’t need the bathroom before bed.
She was distracted, he supposes.
Harry wishes he hadn’t had that second glass of water now.