Orphaned Slave

Misunderstood

Category: Harry Potter

Genre: Drama/Angst

Rating: PG

Characters: Harry Potter, Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley, Dudley Dursley

Summary: Sick-fic. Eight-year old Harry Potter falls ill at his relatives house, during one of his previous working days. Will his aunt and uncle help him through it, or will he even tell them? Rated PG for mild language.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, just borrowing.

(A/N: Another HP story. Though, this isn't my idea that inspired me to write this, that belongs to my close friend (the one who helps me beta-read my fics, lol, oh, how she does a splendid job at it), so she deserves half of the credit. She is addicted to 'sick-fics', as she likes to call them, and so she came up with this. Enjoy!

Oh, I don't own rights to the characters, I'm just borrowing them for my pleasure.)

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The front door slammed open one afternoon, a sunny and pleasant day it was and was hoping to last into the night. Though the day had been peaceful for what it was, the new disturbance may have been enough to break all of that. The collision of the door against the wall was enormously loud, and made the house almost shake. It was likely that plaster was next to fall if it happened again.

This was not unusual for any ordinary day at the Dursley house. Nine-year-old Dudley bounced into the kitchen, chubby for a child though his mother denied the cautious comments from her closest friends during visits.

He immediately began raiding the cupboards, searching madly and his face rather red from hurrying home so quickly. While he was busy bombarding the cabinets, a skinny young character slinked into the door after him, his head down and looking quite miserable. Stepping inside a lot quieter, he softly shut the door behind him, and stared at the floor.

Dudley was panting. "Where's Mum and Dad?"

The skinny boy shrugged. "I don't know." His voice was tight and his eyes were downcast, he wasn't looking up.

Pushing past him roughly with an exasperated groan, Dudley made it into the hallway, his voice thundering up the stairs as he shouted for his parents. He left the figure alone in the kitchen, staring after him.

Harry finally looked up, his expression terrible. He had never wanted a day to end at that horrible school so long in his life. He hated it, and everyone knew. All of his teachers thought him a bother, and even they could never quite realise how an eight-year old could cause all that.

As far as Harry knew, he hadn't done a thing. According to the school, he had several warnings and notices that he was beginning to turn accident-prone, but he didn't understand why. He didn't know why things just seemed to happen whenever he was around, but the children appeared to think that it was his entire fault, and stayed away from him, sometimes they often hit him.

"I didn't do it!" he always protested. "I don't know how it happened!"

The teachers never believed him. If they had a choice, they obviously wouldn't, for his 'excuses' sounded as common as any other child hoping to get out of trouble and be pardoned for what he'd done. He was always punished, though now this was such a regular thing that it annoyed Harry to the brink.

"I'm telling the truth!" he would continue, his temper boiling. "I am!"

It was most likely that something else would happen afterwards, which just gained his further explanation; of course that Harry couldn't give. Nobody seemed or even wanted to listen to him. Often he felt invisible, never mind being different.

He wondered if he could somehow make it into his cupboard before his aunt began hammering on about the school complaints, he remembered his teacher threatening to phone his home and tell her what he had done. But he knew that he hadn't done anything, and no matter how hard he tried to make others believe him, he knew that he wasn't going to get very far with anyone.

He could already hear much talk upstairs; he wondered how much Dudley was lying to his mother about his success in school. She was probably gushing over him so much that it comforted him to the end of his life.

Sighing humbly, Harry slipped past into the hallway and locked himself inside his cupboard, of which he slept under the stairs. The darkness seemed to calm him down, it kept him protected and he didn't even bother to turn on the light. He flopped down onto his dusty bed and stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

His throat tightening again, he raised a gentle hand upwards, away from his lap and shakily placed it on his arm, upon which laid a mighty bruise.

:--:

"What are you up to today, boy?" Harry's uncle Vernon spat while he was sitting at the kitchen table with squinty eyes, watching his small nephew. Today, he had decided to wake up looking like a very ripe beetroot, his large, beefy face red and puffy. He scowled and tapped his fingers on the table.

Harry had and never understood why his relatives hated him so much. He hadn't asked to be here on purpose, he kept saying time and time again that none of it was his fault, that he didn't know what he was doing to be a nuisance. He had even had the daring to ask his aunt why he bothered them, and she had snapped in his face to not be so difficult and…

…stop asking questions.

That had to be the worst of it. He couldn't even find a sensible reason for it. They made him do everything for them, ordering him about as if he had been paid for the job. It was often that Harry wondered if they could even take care of themselves. He was just a slave in this house, that's all he was.

He was standing on tiptoe in the corner of the room, trying to clear up a mess that Dudley had left while trying to reach something that had been too high for him. He hadn't bothered to clean it up, though. Not Dudley. He didn't have to do anything if he didn't feel like it. He left that all for Harry.

Even though Harry was the youngest member in the house, he acted the older. It seemed that maturity had gained him at a young age, and he had taken to responsibilities quicker than most children his year, often because he had to look after and take care of himself.

He shifted about uncomfortably. "Um…"

"Don't you 'Um' me! Can't you answer a simple question?" Vernon bellowed.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Nothing, Uncle Vernon," he said in a quiet voice. He knew best not to argue. It was the weekend now, and chores would probably be thrown a million at him, it wasn't unlikely. Even if he had managed an excuse, it wouldn't be worthy enough. Now that Harry was growing up, this was a perfect reason to be shown all of the work to be done, whether he liked it or not.

Of course, it was no surprise that Dudley did nothing. He never helped.

A few moments silence followed. Harry wondered if his uncle had even heard that he had spoken. Turning his head around away from the mess, he stared for a response, but received none. His rather high voice spoke up, a little louder. "I said that I'm doing nothing, Uncle - "

"I know what you said!" Vernon roared, finally looking up. "Do you take me to be deaf, boy? Do you!"

"Well, no - "

"Then come over here!" Now Vernon's face could have passed the likeness of a fresh tomato, he seemed furious…although Harry quite knew that he wasn't. His uncle Vernon always went red when he shouted; Harry had learnt at a young age that it was not clever to laugh whenever it happened.

"What for?" he asked slowly.

"Don't ask questions!" Vernon snapped. "It doesn't matter what for, just get over here, now! Do what you're told for a change!"

Harry's shoulders slumped as the spillage was clumsily cleaned up with a cloth, and then put in for the wash. He stared down at his hands, which were covered in the mess and tried to wipe them off on his trousers, something that all children did.

Vernon was becoming impatient. "Now!" he yelled.

"I am," Harry started, picking up another cloth and attempting to clean his palms, which now felt as if they had become smothered in glue. "I just have to wipe down my hands, they're all sticky!"

"Deal with it!" Vernon spat unkindly. "Just get here!"

Harry scrubbed his hands as best as he could and stumbled over to his uncle, who was looking quite murderous now. Vernon pointed out into the garden towards the shed, where a few buckets were gathered outside the door, and frowned up at his nephew, his moustache twitching.

"Sometime today," he said coldly, "I want the shed to have a fresh coat of paint – neatly, mind! Don't take too long, either; I want you to weed your aunt's prize patch when you're done. Do you think you can manage that?"

Harry wanted to reply; "Can't you?" but he didn't think it would be wise. Instead, he stared out into the garden looking confused. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he began, his voice not noticing the danger. "But what are the buckets for?"

"Buckets!" Vernon screeched, clouting Harry sharply on the back of the head. "Those aren't buckets, they're paint cans! What's wrong with you? You wear glasses, don't you? Still blind, are you?"

Harry rubbed the back of his head, and stared up at Vernon. So they weren't buckets, after all. They had looked like them though, it was an easy mistake. His voice stuttered, as if deciding his answer. "Yes, Uncle Vernon – I mean, no, Uncle Vernon – I mean - "

"Well, which do you mean?" Vernon erupted, his forehead scarlet.

Harry, now feeling rather cornered, spoke up logically. "Which question do you want me to answer, Uncle Vernon? You asked two different ones."

"What! I never did!"

"Yes, yes you did! You asked me if I wear glasses, which I do…and then you asked me if I was blind, which I'm not! I couldn't answer both at the same time!" It was moments like this where Harry could simply not understand his uncle, trying to muddle him with questions. Yet, he was hardly allowed to ask one, as he'd been told nearly every hour.

Uncle Vernon lowered his eyes to frown at Harry. Harry just stared back, looked dubious and quizzical, though he was set on his answer and was not going to back down from it.

"Don't act clever with me, boy," Vernon snarled. "Just make sure it's done today, as you seemed to vanish off yesterday afternoon when our Dudley came home. I don't want you to make any mistakes, do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"Good. Don't you forget it."

Harry marched off towards his cupboard, shooting a glare behind his shoulder at his uncle as he left. It was times like this he really wanted to kick something.

{To be continued}

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(A/N: The first chapter is done! I'm sorry if things are picking up a little slowly, Harry doesn't fall ill in the first part. That will happen later, but how, I won't tell. Please R&R, I'll be telling my friend of the news, and we'll work out the next part as soon as possible! Thanks!)