Sometimes Bad is Good

Chapter One

Author's note: Fair warning to everyone, I've been updating SBIG in small bits and pieces, so the writing may not match up as neatly as I'd like!

Please no judgement.

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Harry awoke in the early hours of the morning on the first of August with a frown already perched across his face. His body - most notably arms, legs and back - were so uncomfortably stiff that he felt almost brittle. His mouth held the texture of sandpaper and tasted as if he'd swallowed one of his uncles dirty old sock's.

He opened his eyes to peer at the alarm clock beside him and groaned at the sight of the illuminated numbers, but he was soon distracted by something utterly peculiar.

He could see the dust moats floating about in the sunlight, swirling with every breath or change of breeze in the room. If he strained hard enough he could observe the individual brush strokes of the chipping white paint on the walls around him, the small flecks of rainbows from the forever trapped dust particles gleaming in the sunlight.

Harry had never known there were so many colours in his plain little room, all he saw and ever had seen was white, off-white and more white. This proved that his eyesight was far better than before, far better than Hermione or Ron's, in fact. He'd never known that there was so many shades of white in his room. He could even see the small holes around the window that used to hold the bars his uncle had once put up, and he wasn't even that close to the window itself!

He tried to swallow but was stopped by something damp and limp caught between his teeth. He blinked, utterly befuddled as to how he'd ever missed that significant discovery.

There was a gag in his mouth.

Not to mention that both of his wrists and feet were tied to the bed, and to add insult to injury, with what looked to be remnants of one or two of his old shirts. He cursed upon trying, struggling, and failing to free himself when all he'd managed to achieve was the tightening of the knots.

He had to get out there as fast as possible - ties be damned! As much as he hated the despicable family that'd given him such a farce of a childhood, he had to make sure they were alright. He pushed his tongue forcefully against the gag in his mouth and felt it give way. Not entirely, but a few more millimetres further and he'd be able to spit it out.

He needed to get angry. He had to get worked up, to get his magic moving about.

"B-b-but you'd never hurt me, Harry! Your father wouldn't! He was a good man — a great man. Such a great wizard. Don't let them kill me, Harry, I beg of you!"

If Wormtail had killed his relatives before karma got to them he didn't know what he'd do, but Voldemort's end would look like a mercy killing in comparison.

His jaw tensed shut hard around the fabric in his mouth at the very thought of that particular moment in time, and with a dull snick that echoed in his skull, the fabric fell limp on the either side of his cheeks leaving spittle behind. He spat the pieces of leftover gag from his mouth and blinked in disbelief.

Moving tentatively, he could feel that some of the hair on the back of his head was snagged in the knot there. Whomever had done it had done it sloppily, indeed. Wormtail's stupidity obviously hadn't ended with his master.

Fucking brain-dead, worthless, snivelling pillock. I'll gut him with Aunt Petunia's salad fork and send his entrails to his worthless, cowardly mud munchers. He arched his wrists away from the headboard as far as he could, pushing against the fabric straining tightly on his skin, ignoring the burn in the muscles of his shoulders and upper back with a mighty scowl.