Whelp
Story:
Whelp
Storylink:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3659602/1/
Category:
Harry Potter
Genre:
Angst/Drama
Author:
jharad17
Authorlink:
http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1298924/
Last updated:
09/02/2007
Words:
75078
Rating:
T
Status:
Complete
Content:
Chapter 1 to 27 of 27 chapters
Source:
FanFiction.net
Summary:
AU. Harry is 7 years old and treated literally like a dog by the Dursleys. Will he be rescued by the wizarding world? Will he ever be fit to take on the mantle of The Boy Who Lived? childfic, preHogwarts, sevitus. warning:extreme child abuse, violence
*Chapter 1*: Chapter 1
Whelp
by jharad17
It was late at night, and the seven-year-old boy crouched in a corner of the yard, dressed only in underpants and an old, tatty tee shirt of his cousin Dudley's. And a dog collar. It had been warm this afternoon, when Uncle Vernon had put the length of chain around his neck and hooked it to a lead line attached to the shed. But now it was cold, and he wanted nothing more than to be just hungry, like before, and lying in his cupboard under the stairs. Instead, he was cold, and wet, and very tired. And maybe a little scared, too. He brought his knees up to his chest and clutched them tight, rested his head on them and tried not to think about what had brought him to this.
Trying not to think about something never worked, though. He'd figured that one out a long, long time ago.
Flashback
'Boy! Get in here, now!'
They always called him 'boy.' That is, when they called him anything at all. Mostly, he could tell when they were talking to him by the tone of voice they used. Each of them used the same tone when ordering him to do something, or not do something, and rarely spoke to him otherwise.
Sometimes, he could barely remember what his real name was. But then, when he had vivid dreams -- scary ones at times, which woke him in a cold sweat -- people in those used his name. A woman with red-gold hair and bright green eyes that shed tears, she reached for him and whispered his name in a gentle voice, as if her heart were breaking. A man, with small frame glasses and messy hair like the boy's own, shouted his name from just beyond a shiny green haze. And the worst, a slit-eyed man whose voice threatened him in icy tones, then laughed, high and long, when the woman screamed. All of
But he wasn't allowed to talk about his dreams, or remind his Aunt and Uncle what his name was. Really, he wasn't allowed to talk at all, except to say, 'Yes, sir,' 'Yes, ma'am,' and 'I'm sorry.' He wasn't allowed to look into Aunt Petunia's or Uncle Vernon's face, 'cause that was 'impertinent,' and wasn't allowed to sit in the same room as 'proper people.' He was supposed to do as he was told and otherwise be quiet and pretend not to exist.
Sometimes, he really wished he didn't.
In response to Uncle Vernon's call, the boy scooted out of his cupboard and into the kitchen. He kept his gaze on his trainers, the ones Dudley had just outgrown. They were red, with a white circle patch on each ankle, and were well scuffed in the toes, since Dudley dragged his feet on the pavement to brake while riding his new bike, the 3rd this year.
