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It seemed that late in the evening was when most bad things happened.
Harry sat in his little cupboard, legs to his chest and arms wrapped around his knees, listening to a muffled exchange.
"Petunia, pet, don't be silly—" Uncle Vernon's raspy voice came from the other side of the door, further down the hallway from the kitchen. Harry could hear his aunts high pitched scoff. "I'm not the one being silly here, Vernon!" She shouted back, a hoarse crackling in her tone. "I'm being bloody well reasonable!" She continued to wheezingly shout.
They were rare, evenings like these. Despite the Dursleys tempers and general lack of any level of kindness, they loved each other. A lot. One didn’t have to be a genius to see or notice it. Uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia fought as often as one saw snow during summer.
It was uncommon, abnormal even, but it did happen.
It just seemed like each time it did, the squabbles and fights always somehow got seemingly worse .
"The only reasonable one here is ME— don't be stupid!" Uncle Vernon shouted, and Harry could hear the loud echoe of fists meeting table, accompanied by the clattering of silverware, most likely thrown astray as consequence of the table-slamming. "That little freak could cost us far too much! Ignore those damned calls!—"
"The school doesn't just call for the boy, Vernon!—" aunt Petunia shrieked. "They call for our Diddykins! They call for us !" Aunt Petunia continued to cry, her voice getting higher and higher in pitch. She's not cross, Harry realises, rather, she's panicked.
Harry hasn't ever heard her be so before.
It was silent for a moment. Harry heard uncle Vernon sigh harshly. "I don't know why you're in such a fuss." Uncle Vernon said in a low, creaking and dismissive tone. Harry can almost imagine the way he flicks his hand, as if the pudgy man could simply wave his problems away (he probably could with all that money he’s hoarding, Harry thought rather bitterly). "Nothing of importance has happened Petunia—"
"Nothing?" Aunt Petunia cut him off, and Harry mutely winced at her tone. Her voice was soft— and she sounded incredibly winded. He could imagine her gaping her mouth, taking in loose breaths as she tried to catch her own words, probably looking like a dying fish. "Vernon— our popkins' getting others hurt! We haven't much good in terms of reputation amongst the school staff either!" Aunt Petunia managed to sputter. "Vernon, don't be obtuse, please. We need to talk to Dudders— we need to do something!" Aunt Petunia shrieked on her last word.
Harry can hear the large footsteps taken by his uncle, muffled only by the many thin walls and doors between Harry and his relatives. "And what can we do Petunia?" Uncle Vernon mumbled in an aggravated tone, his words coming out strained. He's most likely begun spitting now. "March up to the tyke and tell 'em to quit it?! He's being a man, Petunia! He's growing and he’s growing strong! And he isn't afraid to show it!" Uncle Vernon shouted, his loud and harsh tone shaking the walls. Despite that, Harry could recognize the small tinge of pride in his words.
Harry curled into himself ever so tighter. His fingers intertwining together as he lazily fiddled with his thumbs, gaze stuck to the dirty floor of his cramped cupboard.
"This isn't—" "Shut up!" Uncle Vernon’s shout cut aunt Petunias word off, and Harry flinched back hard, away from the wall at the harsh tone, wrinkling his nose and shutting his eyes out of pure instinct. "As the man of this home, it goes as I say- and I say our Diddykins will not be softened up by those goddamned weak and foolish professors of his school!" Uncle Vernon screamed, his voice hoarse. Harry can imagine him panting, holding his big stomach, face purple, red in the cheeks, his small eyes bloodshot with rage (Harry can’t help but feel some bitter joy at the thought of aunt Petunia being subject to that look, rather than Harry for once). "Dudley won't become the sort of pathetic weakling like the boy!" Uncle Vernon screamed, sounding less like a manly, threatening shout and more like the sad wheeze of a dying mutt.
It was silent for a long, tense moment.
Harry wondered what Dudley thought, up in his warm sheets upstairs, head resting on comfortable pillows, surrounded by toys, books and games aplenty.
Harry wondered if Dudley's happy. A small, bitter part of him hoped not.
(It was with very minimum shame, that Harry realized there was no other larger part of himself, that hoped any good on Dudley's conscience.)
Harry's ears catch a quiet shuddering breath, heavily contrasted by the kitchen door being harshly flung open, and then just as, if not more, loudly being thrown shut. The pure strength of the slam made the entire house shake, some wooden-dust falling from above him and into his messy cot. He heard the easily recognisable pitter patter of aunt Petunias feet rush across the hall right by his little door. He heard her stop and sit down on the stairs above his small cupboard. Harry could also hear the weak sobs she began letting out.
Harry didn't move, frozen in place, head leaned against the wall. He couldn't do much either way, unable to leave to comfort his aunt even if he'd wanted to, for he was locked in from the outside.
Harry didn't make a noise, not a sigh or scoff, as he repositioned himself in his cot. He moved his legs from his chest and instead placed them beneath his thin blanket and covered himself chest to toe with it. He curled up so that the blanket would cover most of his freezing skin.
There was no point in distantly gazing at the walls, for even if he tried — Harry wouldn't see squat. Not without any light nor his glasses. Plus the sobbing didn’t make for very good daydreaming noise.
Harry stayed still for a moment more, before closing his eyes, curling into himself, and after a good few minutes, fell asleep to the silent wails of his aunt Petunia.