Save the Saviour

Epilogue

Harry Potter, of No. 4, Privet Drive, Surrey, England, lay on a tiny, thin mattress, or rather, huddled on a tiny, thin mattress in the cupboard under the stairs. His slight frame seized and shook with the force of his nightmare, and the infant sized, blue, threadbare blanket did nothing to subdue the fever he was suffering with.

His emerald green eyes, now dulled to a murky swamp green, were shut tight against the outside world, filled with pain, tears leaking down his gaunt face.

The welts on his back and torso also wept, oozing a sickening smelling substance and burning with every minuscule movement.

BANG! Harry startled awake, crying out when his back hit the solid wall. BANG BANG BANG!

It took him, in his bleary state, a moment to realise the racket was coming from above him, rather than from the door.

Dudley Dursley, Harry's whale sized cousin, was leaping up and down on the stairs, right above Harry's cupboard.

"Wake up, Potter! I'm hungry. Make breakfast or I'll eat you!" The obese boy laughed - not a pretty, innocent sound, more of a malicious, evil cackle.

Harry groaned as the thumping continued, this time down the last few stairs and past his cupboard door, before the door to the living room slammed open and the T.V was blasted loud enough to wake the whole of Surrey.

A hideous 'so called' comedy blared through the speakers, the comedian ridiculing the minorities while the audience laughed along, Dudley's the loudest of them all.

The onyx haired boy under the stairs took a steadying breath, testing the pain in his ribs, before heaving the door open and crawling out.

A swift kick from behind, however, made him land on his bruised face, dirtying the pristine tile floor.

"Get up, you useless piece of filth! And clean that mess up!" With a shove to the back of his tender neck, smashing Harry's poor head back onto the floor, Vernon Dursley joined his son in the living room.

Climbing up from the ground, using the kitchen doorframe for leverage, Harry limped into the kitchen.

Food. Right. Eggs, bacon and mushrooms for Uncle Vernon and Dudley, and half a grapefruit and a glass of water for Aunt Petunia.

Harry set to work, frying first the bacon, then adding 6 eggs and 20 mushrooms to the pan. While they were cooking, he snatched a ripe grapefruit from the fruit bowl and sliced it deftly in half, wrapping the rest and placing it into the fridge. He then filled a pint glass with filtered water from the fridge and started serving up the three plates of food.

Of course, Harry had no breakfast, only the fat off the cold bacon when Vernon and Dudley had slobbered all over it, the burnt bits of egg (for which he had to dodge a flying fist), and the rind of Aunt Petunia's fruit.

He stood in the corner, hands behind his back like a good little slave, until they had finished, only to collect their plates with nary a 'thank you' and wash them up, sneaking the leftovers into a napkin and shoving them deep into Dudley's oversized hand me down trouser pockets.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon bellowed, "I thought I told you to clean this up?" His voice was low and dangerous as he glared down at the boy in question, beady eyes glinting in dissatisfaction, and a beefy finger pointing down at the dried up blood on the landing.

"Y-yes, sir." Harry stuttered, nerves getting the best of him, "I'll do it now, Uncle. Sorry."

"Not good enough! I told you to do it half an hour ago. Tardiness is a punishable offence, you know that, don't you boy?" A wicked gleam shone in the mans eyes now, and Harry new better than to protest.

"Yes, Uncle. Sorry. It won't happen again."

"It had better not, or you'll be sleeping in the garden until that ruddy school of yours starts again, you hear me?" And with a swift kick to his ribs, the man waddled out the door, to his car and down the road to work.

School started again in two days. Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry - his sixth year - Harry thought as he set to scrubbing the floor. 'I'll be 17 this year, then he can't hurt me anymore.'