Chapter Text
Harry Potter was very certain he was correct in saying that he was the most hated boy on earth.
How could he not be? With his cousin Dudley shoving him around, forcing him to do everything he was too lazy to do himself. His Aunt Petunia, long-necked and bony, hissing and seething at him every time he dared to exist in her general vicinity. And his ruddy, red-faced Uncle Vernon, who was currently pounding the life out of him with his ruddy, red fist.
Harry lifted his hands to shield himself, but it was no use. His Uncle's fist collided with his stomach again and again as his Aunt stood there with her arms crossed, staring down her nose at Harry with a look of utter disgust.
Harry gasped for breath in-between each punch, choking on apologies and explanations–but how could he explain it? He opened his mouth to say I'm sorry yet again–but all that came out was a gasp as his Uncle's fist had collided with his rib with a sickening crunch.
Harry's mind went blank as his body zeroed in on the pain that was spreading throughout his body from his rightmost ribcage. His Aunt was shouting at his Uncle, but he couldn't hear any of it. All he could hear was his blood rushing and his gasping breaths as he pressed a hand to his side. He cried out in pain.
Suddenly, he was being dragged along the floor by the collar of his shirt. Harry choked and grabbed at his neck, trying to loosen his shirt from around his throat, but whoever had him in their grip was unrelenting. Just as Harry thought he might black out, he was airborne, then unceremoniously not as he thudded onto something firm, the back of his head hitting the wall. Stars danced in front of his eyes and several spiders fell from the ceiling. He was in his cupboard.
“And don't expect any meals until we feel as if you've learned your lesson!” yelled Aunt Petunia shrilly before slamming the cupboard door shut. Several more spiders showered Harry.
Harry groped around for a bit and found the small chain that turned on the single dim lightbulb in his cupboard. He tugged on it weakly as he bit his lip, trying to keep from crying out. The excruciating burning in his ribs was joined by a dull throbbing in the back of his head.
Harry righted himself on his mattress, flicking some spiders from his arms before taking a deep breath and lifting his shirt to assess the damage. He almost passed out at the sight.
Mangled, thought Harry. That's what he was. If he were to look up the word in a dictionary, he would just be faced with a mirror. Deep purple bruises stretched their way across the entire right side of Harry's torso, mingling with the rainbows of older bruises that were scattered across his body. Right over his ribcage was the darkest bruise Harry had ever seen, and if he wasn't just sick and imagining it, there seemed to be something protruding up from under his skin. He pulled his shirt back down gingerly as he took deep breaths and tried to calm his emotions and the pain. Every breath sent a stab of pain through his upper body.
He didn't even know how it had happened. One second, he was conversing with a Boa Constrictor (Harry didn't even want to begin to wonder how that in itself was possible) and the next it was slithering on the concrete floor of the reptile house. Harry distinctly remembered falling on his butt and hearing a distant voice. . . Thankssssss amigo. . .
And really, it was Dudley's own fault that he'd fallen into the Boa Constrictor enclosure. How the glass suddenly reappeared, Harry could not explain, but he did know that it had been very funny to see Dudley, who so closely resembled some of those zoo animals, trapped like one. . . He knew what it was like to be locked away and gawked at, for once. . .
But of course, Uncle Vernon hadn't found the whole thing amusing, and after shouting at every staff member in a ten metre radius he had driven a shaken Dudley and Aunt Petunia home, Harry sat in-between Dudley and Piers and dreading what was to happen once they made it back to Privet Drive.
But it wasn't my fault, thought Harry angrily. I didn't know it was going to happen. . . and even if I did, how could I have made it happen?
Harry sniffed and didn't bother trying to hide the tears that were stinging his eyes. It was only him in his cupboard–him, and the endless spiders to keep him company. . . there was no point in acting like a real man, as Uncle Vernon would say. . . there was no shame in his cupboard. He had suffered through the worst of his worsts inside of it, and it was the only thing that was truly his. None of the Dursleys bothered his cupboard unless they were throwing him inside or snatching him out of it.
Regarding his injuries, compared to others, Harry healed faster than normal. He supposed it was because he was scrawny and skinny for his age–perhaps it gave his body a boost? He only hoped that whatever magic boost his body had would swoop in and save him again this time. He really was in a lot of pain.
At least there were two places Uncle Vernon couldn't reach him. . . Harry shifted around a bit in an attempt to get comfortable, wary of his injuries. . . his cupboard, and his own head.
His ribcage felt tingly. . . a sure sign of the magic setting in. Despite the circumstances, Harry couldn't help but laugh dryly to himself (and immediately regret it as it caused his ribs to throb)–magic wasn't real. And even if it was, the Dursleys thoroughly discouraged any sort of imagination or fantasizing, so they would most certainly disapprove of the practicing of magic. And truly, if magic were real, it would have taken him away by now. . . Harry thought of a book he saw at school once called Peter and Wendy.
Wish Peter Pan were here now, thought Harry miserably as the ache in his ribs dulled, the throbbing in his head calmed, and his eyes fluttered shut against his will.
Harry dreamt of Neverland.
~~~~~
“Do not play with your food, Draco.”
Draco looked up sharply at his Father, meeting his unapproving gaze. He nodded glumly and brought a forkful of steak and potato to his lips.
“Yes, Father,” he said quietly, chewing his food dutifully. It tasted like dry leather on his tongue, and swallowing felt like someone had cast a Grating Charm on his throat.
Lucius surveyed his son, noting his subdued manner with a sigh. Draco had been troubled all day, and Lucius had an idea as to why, since Narcissa had so graciously informed him of her opinion of the treatment of their son just a few hours earlier.
“Treating him like he's a Lord, Lucius he's hardly eleven!”
“We must prepare him for the future,” said Lucius coldly. “I will not coddle my son and have him grow up to be soft and sensitive. That leaves room for fraternizing with the wrong sort, Narcissa!”
Narcissa glared at him, her eyes cold and sharp. “He's just a boy,” she said quietly, yet firm. “Surely, this can wait until–until he's sixteen, or of age–old enough to actually do something–”
Lucius grimaced as he glanced at his wife, who was staring intently down at her untouched plate, hands folded in her lap. A red mark in the shape of a hand shone vividly across the left side of her pale face.
He hadn't meant to lash out at her again, not really. He liked to think it rarely happened. Only animalistic muggles hit their wives, and at least he had not used his cane. But in future, he would have to control himself. . . no, it simply wouldn't do if the public saw esteemed Lucius Malfoy's wife walking about with a bruise–no, blemish marking her face. At least it didn't detract from her beauty, however misdirected she was in the raising of their son.
The mark had not gone unnoticed by Draco, who felt nauseous as he chewed his food. Father hit Mother again, thought Draco. He glanced up at his Mother, who was still staring through her plate, her food untouched and her hands folded tensely in her lap. Her face was blank, but Draco knew her mind was the exact opposite.
A small, guilty part of Draco was grateful. Grateful, for what felt like the hundredth time, that it hadn't been him. He knew he was the subject of his parent's arguments, having overheard many of them over the years, and he often wondered when it would be his face that ended up bruised, instead of Mother's. He felt so guilty. He felt so grateful.
“We are picking up your school things tomorrow, Draco,” said Lucius, placing his silverware down onto his plate and snapping his fingers for a house-elf. One appeared–Dobby, Draco remembered, he had taken to learning their names–and began to clear the table.
“You will be ready to leave for Diagon Alley at ten sharp. We will need to get there early to avoid the usual back-to-school rush.”
Draco didn't miss his Father's choice of words.
“What about Mother?” asked Draco quietly. He glanced at his Mother. She had yet to move an inch.
“She will remain here,” said Lucius, and the finality in his tone conveyed to Draco all he needed to know. Their conversation was over. Lucius stood from the ornate table and swept from the Dining Hall, leaving Draco and Narcissa alone, spare for Dobby, who was still clearing off the table.
“Mother?” pushed Draco tentatively. Mother startled at his voice, and she turned to survey her son.
“You must do everything your Father says,” said Narcissa quietly. “Do you understand, Draco? If you disobey him, I will not be pleased.”
Draco blanched. What had happened to the defiant woman who'd stood up to Father's pressures? What had happened to his protector?
Perhaps she had broken, Draco concluded as he watched Narcissa leave the Hall, the bruise on her cheek as red as ever. Perhaps he would have to learn to stand up for himself.
Draco stood from the table and offered a small smile to Dobby the house-elf, who had watched the interaction between Draco and his mother curiously. Dobby flinched slightly at Draco's smile, but still managed to give a small bow to his master.
In that case, thought Draco as he made his way back to his room, I'll start small.