Title: And I've Been Hungry for a Long, Long Time
Genre: Harry gen
Rating: G
Summary: The most fundamental thing Harry needs, really, is love. And food. Sometimes those are the same thing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but I would treat him very kindly if I did.
Harry Potter had always been a small boy. This was not entirely his fault—in fact, a great deal of it really wasn't his fault at all.
His aunt and uncle had never particularly liked Harry—they hated him, they said—and, after they took him in at the tender age of one (through no choice of their own, let's make quite clear), they made sure to let him know their opinion of him each and every day.
Petunia hadn't been happy with having to raise her strong, strapping Dudders with her sister's mangy brat; oh, no, she would not let her darling baby be outshone by precious Lily's precious whelp—no doe-eyed little freak would take the attention away from her good, sweet, normal child, her angel.
Petunia had a very concrete way of showing her loyalties: toys, praise, affection—they all went to Dudley. Everything, for Dudley. Most of all, the food went to Dudley—every full plate said, I love you, every extra helping said, I love you, every mouthful that went to Dudley and not to Harry said, I love you, I love you more than him.
Harry could go without the toys, and the praise, and the affection, but he could not go without the food. He got so skinny there! At first he cried, but then he learned not to cry. He learned what being hungry felt like.
Dudley got an extra scoop of formula for his big warm bottle, and Harry got his cool and watered-down. Dudley got extra little jars of baby-food—oh, those brilliant spoonfuls of bananas, the applesauce and sweet pear mash, the soft little cereals for soft little gums—they were Dudley's and all Dudley's, and Harry's hungry little tummy was an afterthought, and his little outstretched hands, asking, undemandingly, please?, were ignored.
Harry was not loved the way Dudley was loved, which was why, as they grew up, his homemade lunches were so much plainer, and weren't quite so big (Petunia made them herself every morning, to make sure Harry wouldn't sneak something from the fridge, or from the pantry close to the floor).
Harry's tummy frequently complained—which was funny, because Harry didn't complain at all. It would growl and howl and moan sometimes like something dying, something telling him, freak, poufter, weirdo, nerd; no one loves you, no one in the world loves you—if someone loved you, wouldn't you be fed?
Harry's tummy could be quite cruel to him.
It was lovely, then, when that great big giant of a man came and found him; he told Harry he was a wizard, told him there was another life out there waiting for him, told him it was time to leave (leave this place and don't look back, don't ever look back, Harry Potter)—and it all started with a squashy chocolate cake, and sausages, too. (Harry hadn't gotten to try the cake, and the sausages had been hothot and a tiny bit black—but, oh, they'd been so juicy, and so good!—but the really important thing to remember was that they'd been offered to him, of all people, him, Harry Potter.)
Hogwarts was like a dream, Harry thought; there were people there who cared for him—him!—and so very much to do, to learn, to see, and the food! The food there was magical, and it was everywhere.
Harry had never seen such food before—or, at least, he'd never had any—and every mouthful seemed to say, I love you, I love you, everything's okay, because I love you, and Harry thought, thank you, thank you, I'm quite full now, thank you.