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Scales, Wings and War	By : PaintTheLily Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 13743 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters pertaining to the series. These are property of J. K. Rowling. I do not make any money from the fanfiction that I write.

Chapter List
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A/N: I will update the rating and warnings as necessary as the fic progresses. Please tell me if I need to add a category and haven't realised it.

Also, reviews are appreciated, as is constructive criticism.

I will try to keep A/N's to the end of chapters from now.

I would really appreciate it if people would read the author's note in the first chapter before commenting - just to reiterate, the fic starts in this chapter. The first chapter is the original fic that I have adopted. Also, the author of the original fic stated that more than one person was allowed to adopt their idea!

<3

~yaoinessdotcom

Chapter 1: The Dursleys

It was a warm July day in Little Whinging, Surrey. The sun shone brightly, reflecting off the leaves of the carefully pruned rose bushes that lined the front garden of every perfectly kept house in Privet Drive. In the garden of Number Four, a skinny, pale boy could be seen absentmindedly watering the vibrant plant life that adorned the property. His shaggy black hair hung in front of his eyes, sweat drenched from the heat of the day and sticking to his glasses. These glasses, which had been broken several times and were now held together by a single piece of sellotape, framed vibrant green eyes, which were looking with disinterest at the plants before him. His oversized clothes, full in leg and sleeve length, were clinging to his body, and the boy shifted uncomfortably every now and then in a vain attempt to detach them from his frame.

Someone new to the street would wonder who the tatty boy working in the garden of Number Four was, for he seemed so out of place in such an upmarket area. The residents of Privet Drive knew who he was, for they had been informed by the Dursleys to take great caution around their delinquent nephew. They kept him busy with menial tasks so he wouldn’t lash out at those around him and cause more damage than he usually did.

Harry Potter, however, was no delinquent.

The young wizard was content to attend to menial tasks around the home of his only living relatives. It was somewhat relaxing to get lost in thought whilst cooking dinner, cleaning the house or, as with today, tending the garden, and it allowed him to avoid his relatives. The Dursleys were as normal as their nephew was abnormal, at least as far as they were concerned. Petunia Dursley had been enraged when she had found her sister’s son on her doorstep one morning, with a note explaining that Lily and her husband, James, had been killed the night before. They had taken the boy in, not really sure what else to do with him, and once the boy had reached the age of four, had found a useful source of free labour.

Free labour wasn’t the only thing Vernon Dursley found the boy useful for. He was also a good outlet for the large man’s anger. ‘He’s not even human,’ Vernon had reasoned to himself on more than one occasion, refusing to believe that the freak that now resided in his house was, in some ways, more human than himself. Vernon Dursley found it very therapeutic to yell at the boy whenever he did something wrong, or accused his son of doing something that clearly wasn’t his fault.

And so, when Vernon Dursley discovered a barn owl tapping at his living room window, trying to get someone’s attention so it could deliver its letter, Vernon Dursley snapped. He grabbed the owl by the torso and stormed out into the garden where the boy was working.

“What have I told you about these ruddy birds?!” he bellowed, before quickly looking around to see if the neighbours were watching what was happening. He reduced his tone to an enraged whisper and continued to berate his nephew. “What have I told you about these ruddy birds?! They are not allowed near our house. We live a normal life. None of your ‘watching the news’ funny business, no owls, and no Mag…” Vernon stopped himself before he said the dreaded M word.

“I can’t control them,” Harry said calmly. “There’s not much I can do if someone decides to contact me this way. The owl will turn up no matter what I tell them.” Harry winced as he felt his uncle’s chubby fingers take hold of his ear.

“I will not accept these blasted birds coming and going as they please in my house,” his uncle hissed into his ear. “Tell your freaky friends that either the owls go, or you go.” Without waiting for a reply, Vernon Dursley stormed back into the house.

Harry rubbed his ear where his uncle had grabbed him. The man was needlessly unfair sometimes, and Harry didn’t doubt the threat that he would be thrown out on the street. His uncle had been waiting years for a chance to get rid of him.

A small ‘cheep’ alerted him to the battered owl lying on the ground by his feet. The poor bird’s wings were damaged, and it would need to heal for a while before it would be able to fly again. Harry decided he would send the return message with Hedwig.

He turned towards the house, choosing to delay the rest of the watering while he tended to the injured creature. Hurrying back into the house, he made it to his room without anyone noticing and proceeded to bandage the injured wing to the best of his ability. Over the years he had learnt to tend the wounds of the various birds that tried to bring him post. It was either that or let them attempt to find somewhere to heal by themselves, and he was never confident that they would get very far without some help. He left the barn owl in Hedwig’s cage and began to head out to the garden again, but he was intercepted on the stairs by a furious Vernon Dursley.

Vernon had just settled in the living room and picked up the paper, intending to catch up on the sport, when he realised he could no longer hear the sound of the hose in the front garden.

“If that boy has gone to look after that ruddy bird…” Vernon muttered to no one in particular. His wife gave him a strange look from across the room, before settling back down to her latest book club book. Vernon stood up and looked out the window. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s it,” he said, his huge face turning purple. “That boy has used his last chance.”

Petunia Dursley restrained herself from pointing out that her husband had said the same thing about the boy at least once a year since he turned seven. If she spoke out of turn now, she had a feeling that she would be the one to suffer his wrath, rather than her nephew. She didn’t particularly approve of his methods, but her self-preservation instincts were strong.

Vernon Dursley did not run up the stairs to confront Harry – his weight would not allow him anything more than a light jog. To look intimidating he decided to march, although attempting a full out sprint would have better suited his mood. His nephew was about to begin his decent down the narrow staircase when he reached the bottom. As though sensing his current predicament, the boy took a step back from the top of the staircase and waited for the large man to approach.

Vernon hauled himself up the stairs, his anger increasing with every step he took. He had all he needed with him to punish the boy – he kept it with him at all times, because the boy inevitably screwed up at least once a week. When he reached the top of the stairs he was slightly out of breath, so instead of speaking he merely pointed to the boy’s room.

Harry understood the silent command and walked to his room, no questions asked. Of course, asking questions in this house was asking for punishment anyway. He knew from experience that it was best to accept this silently and hope the man’s rage abated soon.

Walking into his room, Harry removed his shirt and laid it over the back of his desk chair, then went and sat on his bed. Vernon entered the room shortly afterward and closed the door carefully behind him. A quick finger to his lips told Harry that his uncle wanted him to make no sound during his punishment, or it would become worse. Harry nodded once to show he understood.

Faster than seemed possible, his uncle was on top of him, fists flying everywhere. Where the boy was struck, bruises began to appear almost instantly. Within seconds he was a bloody mess.

Harry felt every blow as though he were being hit with a sledgehammer. His ribs began to crack and fracture, as they had so many times before. Madame Pomphrey had healed the wounds every time she had found them, but he had never sought her out to heal them, and he had never told her how he acquired them. He brought his legs and arms up in front of his torso, trying to protect it as best as he could. Vernon didn’t care, as long as he could keep raining down the blows upon the boy. Harry’s arms and legs bruised quite badly. With any luck, Harry thought, he would be unable to do any housework tomorrow. The less chance he had to get beaten, the better. There was only one week until he was out of this house for good.

It seemed like hours before the large man stopped hitting Harry. When his uncle pulled back he was grateful for the small reprieve, but he knew it wouldn’t last.

Reaching into his trouser pocket, Vernon pulled out a Stanley knife, the type used in supermarkets to open boxes. Harry turned onto his back, and grabbed hold of a pillow to bury his face in. He hadn’t made a sound so far and didn’t want to ruin that during the next stage of his punishment. Harry felt the knife bite into his back and begin carving. Vernon didn’t like to leave random scars on his nephew, and as such wielded the knife with purpose. He followed the lines of scars left previously, making them deeper and longer lasting, much like Umbridge’s blood quill.

Freak. Slut. Fag. These were the words carved into his back over and over. Freak had been somewhat bearable, as he’d been hearing it his whole life, but Harry had been mortified when his uncle had found out he liked men. Harry had never slept with anyone, but that didn’t stop his uncle thinking he was a slut, and having a gay nephew was one more abnormality that the man couldn’t stand to have in his house.

Once he was done, he got Harry to sit up. Pressing the knife against the boy’s throat, he whispered a few venomous words. “Only one more week until I never have to see your face again. I’m going to make the most of it.”

When Harry woke, it was nearly dawn. The greyish light filtering through the curtains told him that soon the household would be awake, and expecting him to complete the same chores he did every day, despite his beating.

Harry tried to recall the night before. He had passed out from blood loss shortly after his uncle had finished his beating, barely managing to hear his uncle’s threat. He could remember those words clearly enough now, and he was filled with dread.

He reached around to feel his back, testing the wounds. They had scabbed over and begun to heal, although they stretched painfully whenever he moved his arms. His arms were bruised, but hadn’t taken much more damage than that. His face would be fine, he knew, because his uncle wanted all evidence of the beatings to remain hidden. He tried moving his legs, finding they were stiff and sore, but not much worse off than that. Walking would be tricky, but he could manage. His breathing was a little laboured, but he could manage for now.

Harry had discussed with his relatives when he had first returned home what would happen when he reached his 17^th birthday. They had decided that Harry would leave the safety of the wards a couple of days before hand, so that he would be safe when the wards fell on his 17^th birthday.

His uncle was right, only a week to go.
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Scales, Wings and War