Everybody Hates Me... So Do I | A Harry Potter Fanfiction

Chapter four

Harry sat in his sweat, blood and piss, his arms stinging from the salt that rubbed on his now healing wounds. It had been two days and Vernon, Petunia and Dudely were due back. But he couldn't be more scared. He was so tired, having had hardly any sleep since they had left.

His back ached mercilessly, and it was so hot. Ever so hot, sweat making it's way down his back, penetrating the dried blood that stuck his shirt to his back. Everything was horrid, his whole life was scarlet, that was the only colour he saw. 

Blood, pain, scars... it was all too much for him, it made him feel out of control. So he cut so that he could be in control. But now he was a puppet. 'I hate him', Harry thought, 'and he hates me.' Tears began falling down Harry's face as he closed his eyes. 

"NO! NOT HARRY! PLEASE, NOT HARRY!" A scream, a flash of green light... then he was here. On the first day, he was left to sleep in the bathtub. Then, on the second his aunt said to move him to the bathroom sink. 

When he was two, he was moved to sleep on the floor of the cupboard under the stairs. He hadn't been moved ever since then and had never laid on a mattress in his life unless you count the coat mattress he had up until the age fifteen months before his mother and father were killed.

Harry opened his eyes only to see the darkness of the cupboard in which he was retained. The heat stayed in the heat of the summer. Wait... what day was it? it must be nearly his birthday, Harry thought solemnly. It probably already was.

Suddenly somebody knocked upon the door. Harry didn't move, not at all baffled or startled by the sound. There had already been knocks on the door in this short space of time. But this person knocked again before he had had enough and kicked the door open.

Harry couldn't even turn his head and was forced to sit there, waiting for whatever was to happen. Footsteps. Footsteps that were too soft to belong to Vernon, but not pristine enough to belong to Petunia, nor could they possibly belong to Dudley for they weren't making the floor creak in agony. 

"Mr Potter? Mr Potter?" The man called out, his ruffled, old, tired voice making his way to his ears. Harry couldn't respond. "Locate Harry Potter." 

A loud 'whizz' erupted, but Harry couldn't see where the sound was coming from. His breath stopped as a white spark started bouncing around his cupboard before going straight through him and through his chest. Locate Harry Potter? A white spark? What did it all mean? 

"Alohamora!" Came the same man's voice, and stood by the door was an old man who looked to be about one hundred and ten years old. He couldn't move at all, he was helpless as the man looked at him with startled eyes. His secret was no longer a secret. This man knew of everything. It was blatantly obvious that the abuse was taking place, and Harry couldn't do anything. 

"Hello, my name is Albus Dumbledore." He said with a small smile on his face as he waved his wand, causing Harry to be released from his bonds. "A magical vowel seems to be in order. If you break it, your magic shall be suppressed."

Harry blinked in confusion, rubbing his wrists, trying to get the cramp out of them. Dumbledore made Harry take his hand and say these words;

"I promise not to tell anybody of what has happened at the hands of the Dursleys or at the hands of Albus Dumbledore." 

"Now,  McGonigal will arrive here tomorrow to pick you up." Dumbledore said before waving his wand again to re-open Harry's wounds and then to tie him back to the chair in an even more uncomfortable fashion. His wrists began to bleed, and Harry was bewildered. 

What was he to do now?

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