Chapter 1
"Boy!" Uncle Vernon raged, his face taking on a deep purple hue.
"How many times" whip "am I going to have to tell you-" whip "that you are never" whip "going to amount to bloody" whip "ANYTHING!"
With one final whipping, Uncle Vernon left Harry on the ground, his bloodied shirt tattered to shreds, lying in the spilled contents of the boiling pot.
"Now look what you've bloody done. Bloody ruined another shirt is what you've done! I spent hard earned money on clothes for you, and you're bloody unappreciative as hell!" Vernon spat, flecks of spittle flying all over Harry.
"I'd say that deserves another ten lashes," Vernon smirked, clutching his belt tighter in his hands. "What do you say Petunia?"
The horse faced woman sat at the table. Her face was white, and she was biting her lip as she nodded, watching her husband beat her sister's son until his backside was completely raw. She had just been sitting there, peering out the window to watch the new neighbors across the street move in, when Harry's knees had given out and he had dropped the boiling pot of pasta and water that he had been transferring to the sink to drain.
Now, Harry lay on the ground, watching as his arms and legs turned bright red from the scalding water that he was kneeling in, and as blood swirled with the water around him, now flowing steadily from the lashes on his back.
The tenth clang of the belt buckle signified the end of the lashing. Harry tried not to let out a sigh of relief. Suddenly, Vernon's beefy hand grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet, his torn and bloodied shirt hanging loosely by his sides. From behind him, he heard Petunia gasp.
"Vernon," she breathed as her husband shoved a mop into Harry's hands. "I was going to send him to the market tomorrow morning to get fresh fruit for the potluck. We can't send him looking like that!"
Harry's chest constricted in anticipation and disappointment. He didn't want to know what a new shirt was going to cost him from Uncle Vernon, and he was slightly upset that his aunt's reaction was only because of selfish reasons, not out of concern for her nephew's well being.
"Mop this up, boy! And don't you dare even think about eating any of this!" He snarled, turning to Petunia. "Dudley! Where would you like to go for supper?"
Thundering footsteps sounded from the hallway as Dudley waddled into the kitchen.
"I thought we were having pasta!" Dudley exclaimed. His eyes widened as soon as he saw the mess in the kitchen, looking between Harry's bloodied back and blistering burned skin, and the spilled pasta and water.
"The boy bloody messed up! We are going out now," Vernon announced. "Where would you like to go?"
"I want to go to Angelo's!" Dudley cried, jumping up and down excitedly, making the floor shake.
"Dudders, Angelo's is awfully expensive..." Petunia said softly from her place in the corner.
"I want Angelo's!" Dudley whined, stomping his large foot in protest. "I want Angelo's! I want it, I want it, I want it!"
"Angelo's it is!" Vernon announced proudly, slapping his son's back heartily. "Petunia, he is a growing boy. If he needs Angelo's for supper, then he will get Angelo's for supper!"
"Alright. Let me run upstairs and grab my purse, and a new shirt for the boy," she responded. "I'll meet you in the car."
Uncle Vernon scoffed as he looked at Harry, who was silently mopping up the mess. He had already disposed of all the food he dropped, and was now almost done soaking up all of the hot water.
"You don't deserve the other shirt, but I suppose if you're going to the market tomorrow to get groceries, you will need a new one," Vernon growled at Harry, "and if you touch any of the food in this house, I will personally make sure you wish you'd never been born."
Harry closed his eyes and bowed his head. Little did his uncle know, but he already wished that on a daily basis. Life with the Dursley's was a living hell, but what other choice did he have? Ron wasn't responding to any of his owls, and neither was Hermione. He suspected they might be mad about something, but he didn't know what it was.
The door slamming made Harry flinch, snapping him back into reality. Petunia was walking back down the stairs, a 3XL maroon shirt clutched in her fist. Without even looking into the kitchen as she exited the house, she tossed the shirt at him.
"Clean yourself up first!" She cried from the foyer, slipping on her high heels, and leaving the house.
As soon as the door behind his aunt closed, Harry let himself crumple to the floor, the mop falling with a clatter. This was by far not the worst beating Uncle Vernon had given him in the last month, but he was still recovering from several nights ago when his uncle had 'loaned' him to a group of his work buddies for the night. The men had done vile things to Harry, leaving him tied to a bed to wake the next morning, so sore he could hardly walk.
He hadn't meant to drop the pot, it was just that he had felt so lightheaded, as if his head was made of cotton, and when he turned around, his legs just gave out beneath him. The pasta had smelled amazing, and even though he wouldn't have been allowed to eat any of it, he would have loved to watch Dudley scarf it down, smile on his piggy face the entire time, moaning every so often to rub it in Harry's face.
Harry looked around the kitchen. He knew that the 'new' shirt would cost him. Uncle Vernon always hated 'giving' him things. They always had to be earned.
Pastries. He would make pastries for Uncle Vernon-- maybe that would spare him a bit of punishment. Perhaps Uncle Vernon would completely forget! He knew he was being too hopeful, but even so, baking pastries would keep him occupied and help him forget about the mess of flesh that was his back.
I should be grateful, Harry thought to himself, scoffing. This was a light beating. It could have been something way worse.
Lost in thought, Harry went through the familiar steps of making Uncle Vernon's favorite pastries. Before he knew it, the oven timer was sounding, signaling that the flaky desserts were done.
Careful to watch the burning rack, Harry pulled the pan out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack. The smell of the sweet, gooey insides wafted towards him, making his stomach do flips in anticipation.
"Sorry, not today," Harry found himself whispering. Suddenly, the sound of a car door slamming echoed from outside, and Harry jumped. Peering out the window quickly, Harry saw that the Dursley's were back.
Before they could see him, Harry raced to his cabinet, closing the door behind him right as he heard the front door open.
"Dad! Mum! What is that?" Dudley asked in a greedy voice.
"Smells like my favorite pastries," Vernon grinned, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He hoped by the tone of voice his uncle was using that it meant that he was off the hook for the night.
Relaxing, Harry sat down on his blanket on the floor, and picked up one of the books from where it was balanced on top of his trunk.
After about a chapter, Harry's eyes grew heavy. His mind was screaming at him not to fall asleep, that there was danger just around the corner- literally- but his aching body was telling him to give in.
Deciding to give into the drowsiness, Harry laid his head down on the single feather pillow that he had snagged out of the trash bin one day and had smuggled back into the house. Uncle Vernon was going to be too tired and too full of food to have the desire to do anything, anyway.
"I'm going up to bed," he heard his Uncle's voice say from down the hall. His heavy footsteps shook the floor as he walked in Harry's direction. Out of instinct, Harry's body tensed.
Please walk past, please walk past, please walk past, Harry willed. He was too relieved to even sigh when he heard his uncle climbing the stairs above him.
After hearing his aunt, uncle and cousin all go upstairs and get in bed, Harry was finally able to drift into a light, dreamless slumber.
But just after midnight, a hand grabbed him around the neck and yanked him out of the closet. Looking up groggily, still half asleep, the first thing Harry saw was his Uncle's malicious grin staring down at him. Before he could process what he was seeing, his head was slammed against the wall violently, and his eyes closed once again. And maybe this time, Harry hoped, maybe this time they would close for the last time.