Harry Potter continued running, ignoring the tears streaming down his face and the burning in his calves. He had to get away.
No one was awake at that time, not many would be at 2 AM, so the streets were open, desolate, and lonely. The dead leaves rattled as a small wind pushed them around on the ground. He didn't like autumn. It meant that his cupboard got very cold, very quickly.
He looked behind him and didn't see the hulking figure of Uncle Vernon chasing him or, knowing the man's cardiac fitness, the family car zooming towards him, so he cautiously slowed down and caught his breath. His cousin Dudley's Harry Hunting kept the 7-year-old in shape, but he'd been running for the better part of 20 minutes.
Tears kept falling as he remembered how it all came to this.
He hadn't meant to.
Honestly.
One moment the mean substitute teacher's hair was its usual, dull grayish-white, the next it was bright blue. Though, the fact that it happened when he was giving Harry an angry lecture on his missing homework (which Dudley stole) meant all fingers pointed to Harry. Thankfully, the school principal could not find any evidence that would point to Harry directly, despite the insistence of Mr. Mulligan.
The principal had to repeatedly question the man's logic when he insisted a seven-year-old child had the chemical background necessary to turn hair blue; let alone make it happen instantly and without touching the hair in question. In the end, he chalked it up as an anomaly, perhaps with the shampoo he used, and dismissed the substitute. Afterwards, he made a note to run a background check on Mr. Mulligan's mental health.
Of course, by the school system, the principal had to tell Aunt Petunia of the incident. In front of the principal, she managed to stay calm, but Harry could tell after 6 years of experience that the subtle stiffening and pursing of lips meant he'd get something for it later. The second they were out of public range, his prediction came true.
As soon as they were home, behind the safety of her closed door, Petunia was livid. She smacked and slapped him while repeatedly calling him "freak". He cooked dinner while she glared at him as though it would cause him to erupt in flames. Afterwards, she held his hand over the still-burning heating element "for good measure". When she was done, he cradled his burned hand in pain and distinctly heard her mumble about "freaks", "beating it out of him", and "he's just like them". He wasn't sure what "it" was or who "they" were, but it was emphasized heavily in her mutterings.
Petunia told Vernon within a minute of him walking in. Harry knew it wasn't going to be pleasant, the way he said "I'm home" signaled that he had a short temper from the day at work. On that alone, it would mandate a few good beatings to vent his frustrations. Compounded with this news… if he reacted anything like Aunt Petunia…
He had acted worse.
Vernon beat him badly that afternoon after yelling and raging incoherently for almost a full hour. Harry numbly accepted the pain with each resounding thump against the walls and the floor. He knew that his Uncle would just punish "crying" on top of it all, but it was trying when he heard the small *crack* in his arm after being thrown against the floor.
He was eventually shoved into his cupboard, still bleeding, without his meager dinner. Harry did a small self-check-up. From what he could tell, he'd probably broken his arm, his nose was drizzling blood, his eye felt swollen and tender, and the rest of him was covered in various degrees of bruises.
The entire time, he heard them through the crack in his cupboard, emphasizing "them" and "it" in hushed tones. When Dudley came home from whatever friend's house he was at that afternoon, anything else was drowned out by either video games from the living room or his incessant whining for food.
He sat silently in his cupboard the entire time. He knew if he disrupted them, he'd get beaten even worse and at the moment, he didn't want to risk any more injury. He shoved his fist into his gut to prevent it from growling at the smell and sounds of the dinner he cooked.
He had started to staunch the flow of blood when they finished watching telly for the evening and he heard their heavy footsteps on the stairs above him. The house was pitch black as all of the downstairs lights were shut off from the switch at the top of the stairwell. He heard them shuffling around upstairs until he could make out the faint snores of Uncle Vernon and Dudley and occasional sleep-murmur from Petunia.
He settled down, but couldn't find a comfortable enough position to sleep in. His left forearm seared with pain every time it jostled the wrong way and the bruises elsewhere prevented him from lying down without wincing at the pressure pain.
In the end, he just sat upright and leaned against the cupboard door. He held his left arm with his right to keep the bone from being jostled. What will happen now? He wondered. He felt his arm was definitely broken; the arm was slightly swollen and a large, nasty bruise was on in the middle of it where the pain was greatest. Even moving his arm caused the pain to flare up. Uncle Vernon had never broken any bones before. Would he go to the hospital? Would anyone care? What would happen?
He sat there for a long while and silently waited. He knew he couldn't cry out at night and wake the Dursleys. That just led to even worse beatings.
He eventually heard the small chime of the tacky mantle clock in the sitting room strike twelve. He couldn't help himself. He was scared and in pain. A few tears managed to squeeze their way out of his eyes.
No, you're not a baby! He mentally scolded himself. He sniffled quietly and wiped his eyes.
Still, he sat in his small space and looked out the vent his Aunt and Uncle had forgotten to close. The moon was bright that night and came out from the clouds. The soft, white light illuminated the kitchen and the light from off the polished floors lit up the rest of the house.
Harry was amazed how much he could make out. The television set, the table, the coat rack…
He blinked.
They didn't have a coat rack.
Certainly not one that tall.