Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space	By : SparklySprinkles Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Dudley/Harry Views: 10089 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Fictional story based on fictional characters. I own nothing of Harry Potter, and make no money.

Chapter List
- 1-chapter one
- 2-Chapter Two
- 3-Chapter Three
- 4-four
- 5-five
- 6-six
- 7-seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-nine
- 10-ten
- 11-eleven
- 12-twelve
- 13-thirteen
- 14-fourteen
- 15-fifteen
- 16-sixteen
- 17-seventeen
- 18-eighteen
- 19-nineteen
- 20-twenty
- 21-twenny one
- 22-twenny two
- 23-twenty three
- 24-twenty four
- 25-one more to go!
- 26-the end (26)
- 4
- 5
- 6
Dudley seemed to be a different person, but Harry remembered his panic at Dudley being in his room, his regret at opening his door. It stayed with him until he was tearing himself down for never thinking before acting. He remembered nearly every beating Dudley had given on those occasions he managed to catch him. Years of experience told Harry that he had been more than stupid to open his door. Dudley's news and how deep his improvements went preoccupied Harry for most of the night. It took him so long to sleep that he found it easy to doze through the wretched sounds of his aunt and uncle starting their day, then the awful news when Dudley came down and turned on the TV. It almost lulled him even as the words worked into his sleep.

"And in other news today, Ministry Aurors have managed to apprehend notorious rebel Mundungus Fletcher." Harry's eyes snapped open. "He was caught in the middle of a terrible scheme to attack several businesses in Knockturn alley as an attempt to bring upheaval to our secure new order." More like breaking in for some light robbery if they were even half telling the truth.
"Questioners have already managed to pull from him several insidious schemes, all of which have been countered already by authorities. Fletcher, as you might or might not know, was responsible for many of the Order of the Phoenix' doings, and was the mastermind behind the revolt that happened at Hogwarts school last year." Harry snorted into his mattress, still feeling the sleep he'd been wrapped in so recently. Were they serious? "He has been working to undermine the Ministry for years; it's a great relief to finally have him in hand. We expect a lot of the little bumps we've been experiencing to smooth out from here, in fact."
Poor Mundungus. But if Harry knew him at all, he'd flopped like a fish the moment he was nabbed. No loss to the order, if there even was one anymore. Nothing in what Deirdre said suggested it was still going or not. Aside from the little "bumps" she'd mentioned, but no way of knowing if they even existed.
The day went blessedly without anyone coming near him, and the next. There was a knock at the front door, though, and it sounded to Harry as though food was being delivered. Funny that any effort was taken, and he supposed that this was happening for any "chosen" muggles. How else would they survive if they couldn't leave their homes?
Dudley delivered another candy bar to him that night, but Harry was feeling a lot more circumspect about things, and stayed quiet, waiting to retrieve it after his cousin had gone back to bed. He didn't need to take any stupid risks, not when it wouldn't help anything. Not really. He had been lucky that Dudley happened to be in a good mood the other night, and he would be stupid to push it.

"Good morning muggles! Just a little bit longer, and we'll be there. I can't wait for the day when we can say it's all over, and you may go outside again. I really mean that. But to a few of you, who haven't been trying as hard as the rest, know you're just making it all take longer. We just want the streets safe for you."
"And to that point, five people were found this morning in Harrow, who it seems, thought to take advantage of all the emptied shops and do some late night looting. Unfortunately for them, the dementors got to them before authorities could. None of them survived the encounter, not in any meaningful way, and have been disposed of accordingly."
   Harry chewed on that bit of horror as he ate half the candy bar, and out of nowhere, Harry's fingertips and toes started to hurt. It was easy to ignore at first, since he was so accustomed to ignoring what his body told him about things like this, but it became apparent after a while that the pain was growing. It spread to his feet and hands. Later, to his ankles and wrists, and the pain only increased, very gradually. He rubbed the extremities, but that did nothing; it had no root, like muscle or joint pain, just a very vague spreading, and Harry knew it for magical pain; it was just too even and complete.
By dinnertime it was to his shoulders and hips, and the pain that had started in his toes and fingers had become something hard to ignore. On a wild guess he entered Voldemort's mind, to see if he was causing it, but saw nothing but paperwork. Surprisingly dry stuff for a great dark wizard, and Harry took in what he could, but it was dreadful boring. Land and territories being labelled properly. How had the man been dragged into this? Funny that he was thinking the same thing. But it was apparent that he wasn't focused on giving Harry grief right then.
The TV was turned back on for the evening meal, and Harry tried to put the chipper voices before his pain, even as it continued to spread, causing nausea to start its dull takeover. Harry was afraid he would lose the little he'd eaten when the TV was turned off, and Harry heard his uncle ushering his wife and son to bed brisquely.
   "I don't care if you're not tired. Get up there and don't come down again." Dudley sputtered at being spoken to like this from his father of all people, but went to bed anyways when Vernon for perhaps the first time in his life yelled at him.
   Harry was unsurprised when the man came to his door. But new and strangely much more disturbing was the man squeezing himself inside. Harry, despite his full knowledge of what this was, got off the bed and backed himself against the little shelves behind, hunching from the cramped space. His uncle glared at him, daring him to say something this time, but Harry had nothing to say. He could feel a terrifying confusion from the man - lust and anger and resentment and lust. His mouth felt glued shut from thirst, his tongue some foreign furry creature that wouldn't have obeyed anyways.
   Everything hurting took a backseat and the man reached over the bed to grab Harry by the arm. "Over here." Harry let himself be pulled back over the bed, and he was turned around, pushed down to kneel over the bed. His uncle was almost panicking to get at him.
   "Don't say a bloody word. Keep quiet." Harry was glad to hear it, to have something that would keep his sounds from being uttered, and gripped the bed as Uncle Vernon got behind him, hands fumbling at his zipper. Harry had every muscle rigid, tensed in anger against the man and against the shakes caused by everything hurting like it was, when his uncle grabbed his arse and slowly shoved himself inside. As he did, the pain started to pull back from his edges, and he heard Vernon sigh loudly, as though something was being relieved in him, too. Harry wished he'd also been ordered to not hear him.
   It hurt, burned and tore like every time, but everywhere else in his body relief was spreading. All the pain receding, until the only things that hurt were his abused hole and the bits of bony flesh his uncle was gripping. He almost sighed in relief at it, but stopped himself. What would Uncle Vernon have thought of that?
He lowered himself over Harry, placing his hands just outside Harry's on the bed, then thrust steadily, the man's sighs accenting his movements, and setting the tone as almost leisurely, almost intimate. Whatever the man said about it, there could be no doubt in Harry's mind that he was enjoying himself. He could feel it, could feel the man's heavy satisfaction.
   Grunts and harder thrusts combined with a growing need in the man he could feel, and Harry hunched his shoulders against the breaths, hating that his uncle was so close to him this time. His mustache was grazing his neck every few thrusts, and Harry's hole never stopped burning. But by the time Uncle Vernon came, all other pain was completely gone. His muscles still shook from it, but it was gone. The man got up with a loud sigh, as though he'd just eaten a great meal, and Harry was aware of him towering over him. "It smells in here." Harry said nothing to that. Then he left and Harry listened to him grab a bite from the kitchen before going upstairs.

Harry was left on his shaking confused limbs, to ponder the newest bit of information. What in the name of Merlin's hairy ballsack had Snape done to him? Pain to let him know the bond wasn't being fulfilled? Dark magic from an even darker wizard. And it seemed Uncle Vernon had experienced something that drove him to it as well, though not pain like Harry had felt.
   The pain from the bond hadn't been ... unbearable, but there had been a sense of urgency to it. And the pain had been growing for hours. Harry hated to think what it would have grown to if given the time.
   He stayed as he was until his limbs had regained the strength to lift himself on the little bed, and he curled up against the chill under a couple of towels, contemplating the evilness of the bond. He hadn't been ordered out of his room this time, so no stolen water from the washroom, and his lips were cracked from want of it. No emptying his bucket, but he still had plenty of room in it.

The house had gone quiet; Harry laid there in a haze of stunned listlessness, and he heard a door close softly above him. He tightened in his ball as he heard the steps creak above his head, listened to the footfalls stop his door. A whisper of a knock. It had to be Dudley. No one else would knock. But Dudley wouldn't have knocked, for that matter. Harry stayed still and tried to wish himself invisible, then the door opened. He stole a quick look and saw it was indeed Dudley. Who else could it have been?
   Harry gripped the towels and didn't move, and Dudley came in, then closed the door behind him. If he noticed the smell he kept it to himself. "Are you alright?"
Harry had no answer to that. How could he be alright? Was Dudley making fun of him? It would have been the only thing that would make this make sense.
   He came closer and Harry suppressed the cringe it tried to evoke but pulled the towel on the top half of his body up higher and felt air on his hips from his efforts. Dudley sucked in breath. "Harry, you don't look good." Harry almost laughed, but that could have set his cousin off.
   Dudley backed his hulking form up to the door, and left. Harry was relieved, and listened carefully to the boy in the kitchen, to the sound of him trying to keep quiet and not always succeeding.
   After a time he came back, with another sandwich, and a cup of tea. Harry stared, really trying to fit this Dudley in with the Dudley he'd grown up with, and had as hard a time as he had in the summer. There wasn't enough room for the both of them in his head.
   The tea was offered first, and Harry sucked it back, scalding his mouth and hardly caring. He almost choked trying to swallow it, but didn't dare lose a drop. It was sweeter than any drink should be, but it put enough moisture in his mouth to speak, but he wouldn't risk more than a quiet "thanks." Dudley frowned furiously over the word, and Harry was sure he'd messed it up somehow, but the sandwich was passed over anyways. Harry set it down, not really hungry, even though he fully knew he was starving.

Harry passed the cup back quietly, silently pleading for it to be filled again. He was going to die in here, a dried out husk. Dudley took the cup and bless him, asked Harry if he wanted some more. He nodded, and Dudley left. Harry tightened the towels around himself and stared at the sandwich as though it might take on life and reveal the secrets of the universe to him. And whether or not this was a reliable permanent change in Dudley, because it truly seemed so. Harry had just spent too many years with the old Dudley to trust this. He came back soon with another cup of tea, this one just as cloyingly sweet. Harry slurped a bit, but set it down carefully on the floor, for later. He needed to make it last.
   Dudley stood there, still looming dangerously close, but he seemed to be drowning in his own sea of awkwardness, and Harry had nothing to offer him for it.

The week dragged, with little bits of snacks from Dudley, candy bars and Harry only knew it to be a week by pain that came on the seventh day. That time Uncle Vernon came into his room again. He looked him over and derided him for just sitting there, naked, waiting for him. Harry had no energy to argue.
   The room had shrunk by seemingly all its spare space, and Harry was struggling to breathe as he was bent over his little bed. At least his uncle hadn't asked for the impossible and actually put his weight on it; the bed would not have survived.
He hadn't been ordered out of the room, and so he was stuck in there until his uncle would come again. His room changed after that, but Harry wrapped himself in the new found numbness, finding it to be comfortable enough to lose himself for most of most days. He was lulled by Diedre and Culver through much of it. The summit had gone splendidly, they said, and Harry was almost glad for them in a detached way. They just sounded so infectiously delighted about it.
   Dudley was surely keeping him alive with the tea he was bringing every other night. Harry tried to make it last, and he was terribly weakened when his uncle ordered him out into the living room seven nights later.
Time dragged until it stopped having any meaning. Harry was awake or asleep. He was hungry or cold or both. Nothing else mattered. He still got a number every now and then from the happy voices on the TV, one day Diedre said it was day forty of the New World, and then one day she said it was day fifty. Harry blinked almost dumbly over news like that, it hardly seemed real. Beyond that he could almost see the weeks go by through how his uncle used him. That was the marker that hit an unvarying point, as Uncle Vernon never came to him more than necessary from then on. Harry made sure not to eat of what little food he had as soon as his finger tips started to hurt, as the pain would be left to grow until after bedtime, and he would be near puking by that time, shaking and sweating.

Muggles were let outside again, for limited periods of time, and in certain areas throughout the day. It was all very controlled, but meant less than nothing to Harry. It was background noise, like a fan in a room, like "day sixty". Except for the growing fear that Dudley might not be so interested in him now that he could leave the house again. When Harry saw he was afraid that Dudley would go to ignoring him, he was of course disturbed by the thought, saw how far he'd sunk that such a fear was so very real to him, but tried not to think about it too hard.
   Dudley however, continued to bring a candy bar or a bag of crisps or whatever he seemed to think food was, and Harry mostly stayed silent in his room when it happened; it was just so hard to trust this new change in his cousin. And aside from that, there was nothing from Dudley he wanted to hear, nothing from anyone, and the only reason he still listened to Culver and Diedre was because the sound was enchanted to reach him, and, he supposed in his more lively moments of thought, the rest of the house as well. When he could, he would sneak out to the kitchen and glean bits of things to eat to take back to his room. When his uncle had ordered him out to the living room and left without more orders to get back in his room. Then Harry had the house to explore silently. And as soon as that happened he found a jug to fill with water.
The night after that he stood in the darkened living room at a window and studied his street, wondering which of the homes on his block had been emptied. "Cleansed". But with all the lights out it was impossible to know the difference. Oddly enough, it looked much as it had his whole life.
   He emptied his bucket when he could, but it never got past half full.
   His hateful thoughts gave way to his self blame, and he would spend hours mulling over what he'd done wrong. Dumbledore had messed this up, too. It was impossible not to see it. The old man had put too much trust in Harry. And it was his major failing to trust the wrong people - how could Harry not see he was now in that list? But he wouldn't judge the man too harshly, he couldn't. After all, Dumbledore was the first person Harry had felt or shown loyalty to. How cold he turn on him?
   But, in all honesty, who takes a kid to hunt horcruxes? If Dumbledore had taken an actual adult, he would have survived that night, Harry knew. It was like he had been trying to fail. Had he been setting Snape up for that moment? Hard to think less than as much of a man who seemed near omniscient at times. Maybe all this was what Dumbledore had been trying to avoid? Maybe he never wanted to see how badly Harry would louse it all up.
   And if he had, just once, told Harry the truth, told him what he was supposed to do, since Dumbledore had indeed known what that was, then Harry wouldn't have been caught in the woods with his wand up his arse. Why had everything needed to be a secret? From him? He was supposed to do everything, and how was he supposed to do anything at all if he didn't know what to do? Not that any of it mattered anymore.

One night Dudley knocked on the door, and Harry quickly jumped off the bed to hide under it. Candy bars aside, Dudley had shown him nothing but grief and abuse for years, and this was the perfect opportunity for more of the same. Harry's newfound faith in the importance of suspicion had extended itself naturally to anyone he may ever encounter again, and that seemed to have been boiled down to two people. Harry was feeling more than ever that the stupidest thing he could do was stay on his cousin's radar.
   A few nights later he knocked again, and Harry did the same thing, as quietly as possible. The door opened, almost silently, but Harry didn't move, waited, and then the door shut. Was the boy that simple? Did he think Harry was gone? Harry didn't move until after he heard Dudley's bedroom door shut above. There was another bag of crisps on the floor outside the door with a wonderful steaming cup of tea, and Harry wondered if maybe he was being too hard on poor Duddleykins. After all, the things he brought him were surely keeping him alive. Harry knew that on a certain level. But he wasn't going to risk anything. Life was horrible enough.

Two more times, two more weeks, where Uncle Vernon came into the room, leaving Harry with no way out. No orders to leave the room to override the order to stay in there, and he barely had energy to reach his bucket. His family argued much of the time lately, but Harry hardly heard it. It wasn't Dierdre's lovely voice, so it meant nothing.
   He began to spend time in Riddle's head, at first by accident, like he could hardly avoid it when he had no energy to stay in his own, and drifting there was the most natural thing in the world. Like breathing, like looking left. Just the change of scenery was a lovely thing, and he drank that in as much as he could.
   Riddle had taken the headmaster's apartments in Hogwarts, and Harry could feel the satisfaction at owning what was rightfully his, what felt very close to home. He spent a bit of time searching the room for more memories like Snape had found, but there was nothing left. Not that he could find, anyways. The old man had been clever enough, though, and not finding them didn't mean they didn't exist, so there were always times when he would dwell on it, and eventually begin another fruitless search. Not that it mattered, Dumbledore was unlikely to have any more secret weapons left. The war was over.
   He was strolling the grounds of Malfoy Manor with Bellatrix at his heels, where she belonged, instructing Bourkes on how to watch the streets Knockturn Alley at night. He was looking for someone. Harry strained just a bit a saw it was Professor MacGonagal Riddle was looking for, and he wanted everyone everywhere looking for her. She might have known something. Something Dumbledore had told her. Harry could have strained just a little more to find out more while he was there, but it didn't matter. Not really. He had the beautiful grounds to enjoy. And out of nowhere a lovely vision in yellow. Luna Lovegood. Or Malfoy, Harry supposed. That had happened. She was Luna Malfoy now.
   She quickly disappeared when she saw Harry coming, but it had been enough. A vision of something fine and soft. She was beautiful, Harry realized. He'd never seen that before.
   A flash of surprise and then of outrage and anger answered the overwhelming fondness, and Harry knew that Voldemort knew he was there. Pain lanced through his scar for the anger, and Harry felt his body. He was being shook, and he came back to the little closet he lived in. When he focused back on Dudley's face he started away and fell off the bed, forgetting how small it was.
   "Look. You're killing him!"
   Harry had to protest, he'd done nothing for forever. "I'm not! I was here the whole time!" His voice was rough from dryness and it felt as though just speaking the words cracked his lips some more. Dudley looked down at him and smiled. Odd. And such an out of place thing to see. It couldn't mean anything good, and Harry wondered if he should scoot under the bed, but it would take a lot of work.
   "Look what he's done to my towels!" Harry winced. How could he have wanted to hear her scream over that? He changed his mind quickly, lying there and actually hearing it.
   "Mum. You're killing him. Look at him!"
   "Dudley, you -"
   "NO! COME HERE!"
   And Harry could make her out then, as she looked at him from over the bed. She was in his room. What was all this? She looked incredibly disgusted by all she saw. Harry wished he had more to hide in than the towel she was so concerned about.
   "Why aren't you wearing anything? You're filthy!"
   Yep. What he'd been feeling as well. Filthy. Harry looked away from her, and his eyes found Dudley, who wasn't looking at Harry, so it was safe for his eyes to rest there a moment. But the boy was looking at his mother with anger. Harry felt he'd rather not see that, and closed his eyes. Much better. This was all giving him a killer headache. And he'd had some major ones in his day.
   "You didn't give him any clothes. You were supposed to. You were supposed to feed him, too."
   "Feed him?" As though Dudley were trying to explain in a foreign language.
"He's dying. Look at him, mum. Look at his ribs." Harry pulled the towel up higher, hoping to cover whatever they were talking about, but his own body weight on part of it was enough of a barrier for him, and he gave up.
   "It smells in here."
   "Yeah, it does," Dudley agreed. Harry heard his aunt leave, and felt only relief. Her voice was nothing on Diedre. She was a bloody harpy, vicious and harsh. His cousin followed, and Harry could hear the vague sounds of them arguing through the house, ending in the kitchen, but he didn't try to hear what was said. It was enough they were gone. He tried to remember what he'd been doing before they interrupted. It wasn't easy to get the thought back, but eventually he remembered seeing Luna. Under a bright beautiful summer sun. In the garden, on her own, as though she was allowed to wander around outside unguarded like that. A nice thought. It suited her.
   Stray words reached him from the rest of the house. "I'm sorry Dudders, I didn't think,"
   "Yeah. You didn't. You don't know what will happen. You're stupid, just like the wizard said. You both are."
"Now look here," Harry was ripped from his dreaming from the sound of his uncle's voice. They hadn't shut the door.
   "What? How can you both be this blind?" Then Dudley was in his room again, and Harry could only wait for whatever it was. He clenched a fist into the towel and brought his other hand up over his stomach and braced himself. "Come on Harry," in a curiously softer voice than he used on his parents, "supper's ready." Harry stared at him blankly, replaying what he had said in his head. What on earth did that mean? Dudley held out his hand and Harry stared at that too. What game was this? What did he want? Dudley came closer and grabbed Harry, who clenched his whole body, but it was too late to hide from it. Whatever it was.
   "Come on, Harry. Mum wants you at the dinner table tonight." Harry breathed out a dry laugh. That was unlikely. Dudley picked him up and set him on incredibly shaky legs, and Harry grasped his cousin so he wouldn't fall. "God, Harry. There's hardly anything left of you." The towel fell; it was pinned under Harry's feet. He clutched too slow, at nothing, and Dudley helped him with that too, wrapping it around his hips and tucking it so it would stay in place.
   Harry thought quickly, as quickly as he was able. He was being taken out there? To dinner? Is that what he'd said? Yeah, it was, but was it what he'd meant? Harry grabbed another towel from the shelf as they passed it coming around the bed, and Dudley waited with a funny face as Harry wrapped it around his shoulders. Aunt Petunia would make a noise, but it would offend her less than him not covering himself decently.
   It was an awkward slow thing, but Dudley practically carried him, and he was actually shocked when the journey ended at the dining room table, and saw four plates made up. He kept his eyes down, not interested in Aunt Petunia's opinion of any of this, and Dudley helped him to a chair. How had he ended up being helped anywhere for anything by Dudley? It was a hard question, so he let it slip away, and put as much of his attention into his fork and knife as he could.
   "So he's going to just sit here like that?"
"Yes, Mum, he is. You didn't give him clothes. What's he supposed to do?"
   "It's not my job to clothe him. Not this time. He's his." Harry could feel the jerk towards her husband, and tried to make himself smaller. He was just too weak for this bitter resentment. He'd always been afraid that those were her true feelings - always. And now he knew. Dudley might think he was helping, but how was any of this helping anything? No one was enjoying the present company. He took a bite of potato, and chewed extra slow. That was the point, after all.
"I didn't see why he'd need clothes. I didn't think of it." The sound of his uncle's voice turned the potato in his mouth to ash, and he had no saliva to help.
   "That's what I'm saying. You haven't thought about any of this. And we'll all pay." Everyone quieted for a time, but Harry enjoyed that more than the talk.
   "He smells."
   "Anything wrong with him is your fault. Stop it."
   "Dudley! I don't know what's gotten into you!"
   Harry took the glass of water and drank half of it before he could stop himself, and he tried. But it was just too good. His stomach immediately cramped around it, but it was something. It was a terrible wonderful feeling. Painful and tight, but there was something inside him. He couldn't eat anymore, but he could sit there and feel that for a while.
   "You don't let him use the washroom, either."
   "What do you mean?" Harry's uncle was talking again, and he stared into the potatoes as hard as he could. Why was he out here? "Let him? Who lets people use the washroom?"
   "He's stuck in the room if you tell him to stay there. And he can't even leave for the toilet." His cousin spoke slow and deliberate like he was trying to explain arithmancy to a first year. "That's why it smells in his room. You're just too thick to understand what this means." Wow, Dudley. Harry was almost coming around just listening to this. How had the boy been able to say all that? But he'd always been a bit more wordy with his folks. They normally jumped for him whenever he said so.
   "What do you want me to do about it?"
   "Dense, Dad." He shook his head like he was shocked. "You're dense. Tell him he has permission to use the washroom whenever he needs it. Even if you've told him to stay in his room."
   Harry hardly breathed, hardly moved, half suspecting this might be a dream. "You may use the bathroom, boy. Whenever you need to, even if I've ordered you to stay in your room." Harry swallowed, feeling the depth of the order as it was spoken. It sounded and felt like freedom. Use the bathroom? That included showers. He could feel it as he asked himself, could feel the shower available to him. He felt the urge to look up and say thank you, but that would entail looking at the man. He nodded, choking up over it all. As soon as he could walk around without falling he would wash the bucket for good, and maybe never need it again.
   He snuck a look at Dudley, hoping it was safe, and Dudley gave him another smile. Harry looked quickly back down, storing the smile for when his brain could handle it. It was a weird thing, something he certainly wasn't used to from Dudley.
   By then the cramping in his guts had stopped, and he risked another bite of potato. It was unbelievably delicious after he had saliva to chew it with, and Harry wanted to eat it all, but when he took another bite it hurt again, so he stopped. Plates emptied around the table, where Harry was willing to look, and he pushed anther bite down before it was over. He wished he could have just taken the plate to his room to nurse on for a few days, but this was it.
And perhaps it wasn't, because Dudley told Harry that he would be wanted at the table every other day. Aunt Petunia said nothing, and Harry felt he would just wait and see if they came for him. If not, he'd be more than happy to stay in his room. It hurt in a few ways to sit with them and try to eat. He didn't need to seek out such an experience.
   Dudley helped him back to his room after, and Harry laid down without a word. He closed his eyes, exhausted by the day, and wondered if he'd even said a word through all that. He couldn't remember.
   He woke hours after of a full bladder. He regretted drinking so much water, but then he recalled the permission to use the bathroom. He fought his way up, determined to avail himself of such a wonderful option, and nearly pissed himself by the time he got there, it took so long. But he made it, and when he was done, he put his face under the tap and chugged until he puked. He wasn't so pleased then, but he just slurped some more, careful to not fill himself, and went just as slowly back to bed.
   Now that he was a little more aware he felt as though he still might use the bucket in the day time. He didn't need to remind them any more than was necessary that he existed. But being able to use the washroom at night? That was more than enough for anyone.
   Harry woke in the morning feeling almost like a new person, overtaken by a thirst he felt was even more powerful than anything he'd felt so far, but the family was awake, so he stayed where he was. But he felt like perhaps he could even walk around without walls to keep him up. It would be a long day, but every day already was.
   He found it much harder to ignore the things said on TV, and so he paid attention instead. And quickly wished he could ignore it. Old families in Europe and the United States were closely aligned with the Great Lord, eager to hasten the takeovers there with all the money and influence they had. The old families there were the same old families that were here. No one seemed to be fighting, until Diedre spoke of resistance pockets holding out. Harry was shaken to hear they were not here, but in France. It seemed like a complete win over here.
   Muggles were being let out in the day for most of London, just a few places being listed as still under constant surveillance and cleansing. She warned that the longer it took, the more complete the cleanse would be, in a motherly tone that said she wasn't enjoying this nasty business. Harry took little pleasure in being aware enough to know that what he was actually hearing wasn't the victory they were painting, but the death of everything.
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