Chapter 3: Potter’s Problem

Harry James Potter wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at the watch strapped around his wrist. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, three days since summer break had begun. He frowned and returned to the task set before him; weeding the Dursley’s overgrown front lawn.

With every sprout of weed he picked, he felt the sweat trickle down the back of his neck even more obviously than before. His too-large t-shirt was stuck to this back, plastered there with his perspiration. His shoulders and neck were hopelessly burnt in a nasty sunburn from being outside for the majority of the past three days.

Harry blindly reached for the pruners somewhere near his right knee. Not realizing they were lying open, he closed his fingers around them and picked them up. The Gryffindor yelped in pain and dropped them, staring in horror as a deep, long gash opened on the palm of his left hand.

Crimson blood welled up against the skin, and Harry immediately acted on instinct. He ripped off the hem of his t-shirt with one hand and wrapped the strip of cloth around his hand. He used his teeth and nimble fingers to clumsily tie the make-shift bandage onto his hand.

“Damn…” Harry muttered as he glanced over to the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Luckily, Aunt Petunia, who was sipping a cool glass of lemonade, hadn’t noticed his folly. With a sigh, Harry wiped his good hand on his jeans and stood up, taking the pruners with him. “Aunt Petunia?” He called hesitantly as he walked over to her.

“What, boy?” She snapped, turning to glare down her long face at him.

“I just finished this section; may I please have some water now?” Harry asked in the politest way he thought possible.

“Finished?” She sneered at him. “You missed a spot, brat.” She pointed, smiling nastily.

He sighed and licked his dry, cracked lips. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.” He said exasperatedly as he walked back towards the lawn.

Harry hadn’t had a drink all morning, and he had been outside ever since he’d been woken up at 6. He was thirsty, frankly, and he was hungry. The first night he had arrived at his relative’s house, he’d been given water, bread, and stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs. His school things had been taken and locked away in some secret place.

The same routine had gone on for the next two days: be woken up early, cook the Dursley’s breakfast, drink one glass of water and eat one slice of bread, than begin his chores. He would be back inside by 6 o’ clock, eat another piece of bread, cook dinner, and then return to his employer.

By the time Harry had cooked dinner and was sent back to his cupboard that night, his injured hand was keeping up a constant, burning throb of pain. As the Boy-Who-Lived sat in his cupboard, he curled in on himself, pulled his shirt closer around himself, and attempted to drift off to sleep.

-ooOoo-

“Cedric! No!”

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A flash of green light, and Cedric’s limp body dropped to the cold ground with a sickening thud. Harry dashed over to his friend, collapsing to the ground at his side. “CEDRIC!” He screamed as he realized the boy’s eyes were glazed over with the cool mist of death. “NO!”

As the snake-like man approached him, he attempted to pick up his wand, only to find that his fingers hurt too much to hold the sliver of wood. “Good evening, Mr. Potter.” The voice that came out of Voldemort’s mouth was Snape’s instead.

“NO!” Harry screamed as Voldemort smiled nastily and raised his wand. “NO!”

“Avada Kedavra.” The Dark Lord drawled in Snape’s silky baritone voice.

-ooOoo-

Harry awoke to someone bellowing, “BOY!” and light streaming into his cupboard as the door was yanked open.

He blinked owlishly up at Vernon as the man grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the confined space. “U-Uncle Vernon!” He cried as his aching hand flared up with pain as it collided with the doorframe.

“What did I tell you about waking up my family?!” Vernon roared, his cheeks tinging a light violet in his anger.

“I’m sorry, Uncle!” Harry cried, holding his arms up to shield his face as Vernon tossed him against the foot of the stairs.

“Stupid boy! You’re a burden on my family, you worthless little freak!” Vernon snarled, cuffing Harry on the back of his head.

Harry scrambled after his glasses as they were knocked off the bridge of his nose. Vernon took the opportunity to grab him by the collar of his shirt and haul him through the kitchen and over to the back door. “Until you can learn to keep quiet, you’ll be staying out here!”

The whale of a man opened the door and promptly shoved Harry out into the darkness. Harry cried out in pain as he stumbled and fell, trapping his bad hand beneath him and hitting the ground with a nauseating crack. The Gryffindor yelped as he looked down to see his pinky twisted the wrong way, lying practically horizontal to the rest of his fingers.

Vernon smiled smugly, as if entertained by Harry’s pain. “I’ll let you in when it’s time for you to fix breakfast.” The door slammed loudly, and Harry found himself sprawled out on the Dursley’s patio, left hand ripped open and left hand pinky badly broken.

The fourteen year old felt tears of pain well up behind his eyes, and without another thought, he scrambled to his feet, turned, and began to run. Feet pounding on the asphalt, Harry ran blindly, not caring where he was going.

When he finally stopped, he was gasping for air, standing under a street light in the middle of the road. The Gryffindor slowly regained his breath, and when he did, he blinked and looked up. He blinked again, jade eyes widening slightly.

He had no clue where he was. Harry was hopelessly lost. Oh, Merlin, was he in trouble now…