Harry Potter fanfiction. I don't know where the plot was going, and I don't even know if this has a plot at all. Probably Harry/Draco or Voldemort/Harry, if anyone fancies a little LVHP later on. Anyway, AU fics. Yay. About a thousand eight hundred words.
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Half-whispered sounds in the dark.
"Father?"
"Quiet, Draco."
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In a little town in Surrey, England, the wizarding world's saviour grew up. He was three when Vernon Dursley first hit him, and he was seven when he first understood that it was called domestic violence and that it was wrong.
By that point, he didn't see any way to stop it.
"Get the mail, boy," Vernon grunted, heaping more pancakes onto his plate.
"Yes, Uncle," the boy replied, slipping off his chair and darting into the hallway. Spending time with the family was tense. Difficult. He never knew when Uncle Vernon would get angry - he never knew when Uncle Vernon would suddenly decide that the good for nothing orphan needed another beating.
He was nine. Stick-thin and all sharp bones. His skin was an unhealthy shade of white striped with red. One eye was swollen shut and the other was disproportionately large in his skinny face.
Each day he prayed that Uncle Vernon would forget about his existence.
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"Your son is so well-behaved and neat. Why, my boy - he's always running around and spilling things on himself! You must be so proud," some socialite said while patting Narcissa Malfoy's arm.
"He'll do you proud," said another woman coldly, her fingers toying with her necklace of pearls.
Narcissa was sure that both women were childless. She gave them both a placating smile. "You flatter me, Draco is merely obedient by nature." She glanced at her husband and child - Lucius tall and imposing, Draco standing straight and expressionless beside him. "My son is hardly as angelic as you make him out to be. Why, just last week..."
But as she turned away, her smile slipped a little, froze a little. A meaningless action of the flesh, disconnected from any emotions. She was a trophy wife. She had no wish to know about the actions of her husband or child, as long as her reputation was unaffected.
Yet not wanting to know was not the same as not knowing. Narcissa Malfoy knew about everything that happened in the manor. Narcissa Malfoy knew exactly why her husband's hand tightened its grip on her son's shoulder. She knew exactly why her son paled.
But Narcissa Malfoy was not a charitable woman.
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Harry Potter turned ten years old in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. All he had for company was the small rat that he had managed to tease out from the holes in the wall with bits of food over the years. His stomach grumbled in hunger - a sort of protesting, unhappy sound - but he was used to it. He didn't react.
He was so tired. He had spent the day hanging up wet laundry for his aunt, and then taking it all down again when they had dried. It was hard work, and his boney arms ached from the exertion. Uncle Vernon's clothes had been especially heavy.
All he had eaten all day was two sandwiches - one in the morning, put together with the leftover vegetables that Vernon and Dudley didn't like to eat, and one more at four in the afternoon, when Petunia threw out the expired foods and greens. Perhaps he could sneak out to get an apple or two, but he wasn't sure that he had enough energy for it.
The rat under his cold fingertips make a soft screeching noise. He stroked its fur again, hardly feeling anything with his calloused hands. It made another sound.
"Sorry," he whispered to the rat. He thought that maybe he had poked it, it felt all the same to him.
He licked his lips. They were peeling. He made a note to drink more water when he could.
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Draco had learned not to make any sounds when his father's silhouette appeared in the doorway. It didn't matter, not really, because every room in the manor was soundproofed, but his father seemed to like him being quiet.
"Turn over," came the harsh whisper, and then a soft finger made its way down his back, over the thin, raised scars, and down. He wanted to shiver but didn't dare. He could hardly breathe. He didn't know whether he was breathing.
"Stop that, Draco," his father said, annoyed. Oh. He was trembling after all. He clenched his fists and tried not to move. Be a statue, he told himself, digging his nails deeper into his palms. A statue. Don't move. Father doesn't like it when you move.
"How many times have I told you? You'll only hurt yourself this way." Shit. Maybe father was angry.
"S-sorry," he bit out through his teeth. He had stress issues. He tended to grind his teeth and bite down really hard when he was scared and nervous or stressed. It made his jaw ache.
"No matter."
And then Draco couldn't tell if he was breathing. It was quiet, so silent, but it felt like the pain was rebounding off the walls in his heads. Rebounding and magnifying.
He was fucking terrified. He didn't know what was up or down. He couldn't feel the strong fingers gripping his hips. His feet were cold. He tried not to cry.
And then it was over.
He let out a breath that he didn't even know he had been holding, but it came out uneven and stinking of fear. He curled in on himself as his father left, wrapping his childish fingers around his arms and hugging himself to sleep.
He was still trembling.
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Harry Potter turned eleven in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. The rat had died a few weeks after his tenth birthday, and he had no crumbs to spare to lure another companion from the walls. He was hungry all the time. He was so hungry. He thought that maybe if the rat hadn't died, then he might have been tempted to eat it.
He was thinner than ever. His skin had a grey tinge to it now, even though he sometimes did weeding in the garden, under the sun. Weeding was a good chore, because it meant that he could drink from the hose as much as he wanted and Petunia didn't care as long as the weeds were gone. Sometimes he'd get more food too, because Petunia said that she couldn't stand the disgusting sight of his ribs.
Life was better, he thought. Not good, but better. Even Uncle Vernon didn't beat him much now, not after the time when he was pushed down the stairs and broke three ribs, his left leg, fractured his ankle, and got a concussion. It wasn't too bad, because his leg didn't heal for a month and he was allowed to do fewer chores. The family didn't like to mention that, though.
But as he sat in his cupboard, he wondered about the future. Was he to be starved and locked away for ten years, and ten more years? He knew that the next day would be a repetition of the previous day. He knew that it was useless to daydream and ask stupid questions. But he was too hungry to sleep, and in five more hours he would have to get up and make breakfast for the Dursleys.
Harry Potter hoped that he could steal a scrambled egg or two without Uncle Vernon noticing.
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"You'll be going to Hogwarts soon, Draco," Lucius Malfoy said while circling his son slowly. His sharp eyes examined his son's clothes for any disarray, any stain. Finding none, he continued. "Don't bring shame onto the family."
A nod from his obedient son.
"I warned you," he breathed. "Eleven years down the drain, I see."
"No, father. I'm sorry, father. I won't make that mistake again." Draco's jaw was beginning to freeze up. It was making it hard for him to speak. He should have known better than to reply with a nod. He should have said 'I understand, father' as he did every other day. He was already bringing shame upon the family.
"I'm sorry, father," he repeated softly, just in case.
"I expect a letter informing me of your... acceptance into Slytherin." Lucius Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and he waited for a barely audible 'yes, father' from his son before striding away.
---
There was the electric bill, the phone bill, and a letter addressed to Mr. H. Potter.
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"I can't go," Harry half-gasped, half-sobbed to the giant. "Please, don't make me go, Uncle Vernon will kill me."
"Y-you hear that, imbecile? The boy doesn't want to go!" Vernon's aim wasn't as steady as he'd always claimed, and there were beads of sweat on his nose. Dudley tried to hide behind his father, but he was even wider than Vernon by that point.
"Nonsense, 'arry! O'course you want 'ta go, that's where yer parents got their schooling!" Hagrid, as he had introduced himself, wasn't taking no for an answer.
"I can't pay for it," Harry said desperately, "so I definitely can't go."
"What are yer on about? Yer parents paid for 'ogwarts the day yer were born!"
Harry made a noise of frustration and tried again. "It's too far from my relatives! I-I'll be homesick!"
"Yer'll be all right, 'arry, there are tons of holidays!" Hagrid patted him on the back, and he nearly fell over. "So it's settled, we're setting off tomorrow!" He then proceeded to fit himself into the sofa and grin at Dursley. Harry heard the wood crack.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, please," he begged. He didn't want to be shot. He'd been shot, once, and it had been far more painful than any beating he had ever received. "Please," he added, voice faltering.
Vernon hesitated for a moment, before glaring at Harry and the giant. "I'll have no part in this!" he bellowed, and stomped upstairs with Dudley at his heels.
There was silence for a while, and Harry began wringing his hands. He'd be punished. He wouldn't be allowed food for two weeks, and Uncle Vernon would beat him again. Dudley would beat him. Maybe Aunt Petunia would beat him too.
He began breathing faster and faster, and somehow there was never enough oxygen, and he was clenching his teeth, and there wasn't enough air, and the edges of his vision began to go dark.
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"So you're Harry Potter," the blonde boy said, sneering at how his robes hung off his frame.
"Yes," Harry replied nervously, wanting to bite his lip but not quite daring to.
"My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and you'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You wouldn't want to go around with the wrong sort. I can help you with that." He stuck out his hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Draco," Harry said, and stuck out his own hand, but he hadn't eaten anything since the previous morning and swayed before collapsing senseless onto the floor of the train compartment.
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