Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Years After	By : Araea Swiftwind Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2598 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off the writing of this piece of fiction. The views expressed herein do not in any way reflect the views of J.K. Rowling or Warner Bros. and their affiliates.

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Part 3- Chapter 1 - Jul. 31, 1991

The day dawned just the same as any other. The popinjay's were chattering gaily over fences, a few stray cats were meandering about the street, and everyone knew their place. The occupants of number 4 Privet Drive woke the same as they did every morning. Petunia rose first, quickly and quietly dressed and slipped downstairs to make breakfast. She paused on the stairs the same as she did every morning and listened to the house. Quiet, as it should be.

Moving into the kitchen, she eased out the frying pan from its dresser and set it carefully on the stove. It would do no good to make too much noise in the morning. Vernon got quite cross if his sleep was interrupted before it absolutely had to be.

As the eggs were frying, a large blond child ran down the stairs, jumping up and down in the middle as if it were a trampoline. He laughed loudly and continued down the stairs and into the kitchen. Petunia cringed, worried that the loud noise would wake Vernon before he was ready. When he didn't immediately roar his disapproval, she relaxed.

“Ready for breakfast, my Ickle Diddydums?” Petunia crooned to her overweight son. He gave her a happy grin that obviously said, “Food!”

Not long after Dudley raucously descended the stairs, Petunia heard a loud grunt coming from her bedroom. Good, Vernon woke on his own. As soon as he was dressed and cleaned, he also entered the kitchen and sat at the table next to his son. Petunia placed a plate in front of him of eggs and sausages. He took a few bites before grunting again.

“Good nosh, Pet.” Petunia smiled and dished up a plate for herself.

There was no mention of another person in the house. There was no food left over for someone else. The day went on as it always did. But in the cupboard under the stairs was a boy, curled up in a tiny ball in the middle of a grubby mattress. His name was Harry, though that would have been news to him. And today was a special day. Harry turned eleven.

Harry lived a very odd, and very hard life. He'd been living in a cupboard for the last ten years. He'd been beaten when he'd had a bout of accidental magic—that he didn't even know was magic—that'd affected Dudley. He'd been starved whenever he'd done something strange and un-Dursley-ish. And he'd been lied to about who he was.

The Dursleys hated magic, and strangeness, and the mop-haired boy who had his mother's eyes. Petunia could see her blasted sister in the child and she hated it. In an attempt to solve that problem, she simply didn't look at him. He was not allowed to ask questions, or to speak if not spoken to. He was not allowed to cook their food, lest he poison it or sneak more food that he was allowed. He was only allowed to be in his cupboard or in the loo, and even when he was in the loo, he had to leave the door open a crack so that someone could make sure he was not doing something strange in there or breaking anything.

Harry had no freedom, not that he knew the meaning of that word. He hadn't ever gone to school, as it would be more trouble than he was worth to provide his history for his enrollment. He didn't go to the doctor, as it wouldn't do to have anyone asking questions. In fact, he didn't go out at all. For as long as Harry could remember, he had never been outside the four walls of the Dursley house. He didn't know what trees looked like, or how the wind felt on his face, or the smell of fresh-mown grass. Whenever Petunia had to leave the house, she made sure to lock the boy in his cupboard--if he'd been especially well behaved, she'd leave a couple of crusts of bread and a small cup of water for him.

And on this day, his eleventh birthday, he didn't know that it was any different than any other day. He never got the letter that was address to 'Mr. H. Potter, Cupboard Under The Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.' He had no idea that anyone outside of the Dursleys knew he was alive. He sat in his cupboard whilst the Dursleys went about their business as usual and tried very hard to pretend he didn't exist.

Harry was very different than other children his age. He had no idea that today—July 31, 1991—was his eleventh birthday. He didn't even know he was eleven. He didn't know his name, or where he had come from. As far as he was concerned, his name was "Boy" and he was just someone that the Dursleys had to put up with, but didn't want. He was told that he wasn't related to them in any way. They didn't like him; in fact, they downright hated him. But they wouldn't get rid of him, either. He didn't know why, and he was not allowed to ask. But sometimes he wondered.

For as long as he could remember, he'd had dreams that seemed like things he should remember instead of something his mind created. He dreamt of blinding green light, softly whispered words, a tall man with dark hair and eyes, and a loud explosion. He didn't know what this all meant, but sometimes it made him wish he could experience some of it for real—if he could hear that woman whisper to him softly; if he could see that tall man again. He pretended, as quietly as he knew how, that the man and woman were his parents and were thinking of him as he was thinking of them. He wished, as fervently as his little heart could, that one or both of them would come for him so that he didn't have to live like this anymore. But he knew, deep down, that no one would ever come for him. No one even knew he existed.
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The Years After