Whelp

*Chapter 2*: Chapter 2

Whelp

by jharad17

Chapter Two

Startled by the sudden light, Harry stumbled back from the garbage pail and spun around to see Uncle Vernon in the doorway to the hall. His face was purple, and his bushy mustache quivered over a furiously working mouth. His brown-checked robe was slightly askew over green pajamas, and one of his slippers was half off his foot. But Uncle Vernon didn't seem to notice this, and rushed into the room.

"Disgusting, filthy animal!" he shrieked and grabbed Harry by the neck, shaking him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "I knew you'd pull some trick like this. I told you, boy, no food. I'll teach you to disobey me, or commit your perversions! No good FREAK!" Uncle Vernon shoved him to the back door. "Outside with you! If you behave like a dog, you'll be treated as one. Should've know you weren't fit for living indoors with decent folk. Get out of my house!"

The boy flinched away from his uncle, but Vernon in a rage was fast. And strong. A fist clouted Harry's eye, staggering him, but he clutched at the countertop and didn't fall. Uncle Vernon dragged him away from the counter, and punched him again, this time on the nose. Harry's nose stung and his eyes watered, and the only thing that kept him standing was the grip on his neck. Blood poured over his upper lip and tasted coppery on his tongue. Uncle Vernon's fingers gouged the bread and meat out of his hands. He hit the boy again.

"Please, sir," Harry cried. "I'm sorry!"

"'Sorry' won't cut it! Now, OUT. Get out!" Vernon shook him again and shoved him through the door and onto the patio where he stumbled to his knees. His glasses went skittering off into the night, and Harry scrambled to find them. The door slammed shut behind him, and the sound of the lock turning cut him deep.

Once he had his glasses back on, Harry felt a bit better, even though one of the lenses was cracked. He crouched near the back door, hoping -- though he knew it was pointless -- that his uncle would let him back inside. Arms wrapped around his middle, Harry rocked back and forth under the moonlight to keep warm and wished more than anything for this nightmare to be over.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

In the morning, Aunt Petunia turned the hose on the small boy to wake him, then shooed him off the patio and onto the grass. "Vernon'll sort you out, boy. Wait till he gets home."

Those words always frightened him, though he tried not to show it. Aunt Petunia curled her lip and went back inside. The early morning sky was overcast, and the air was a bit chilly. Soaking wet, Harry shivered and stayed on the grass. Feet tucked under him, he watched the door with all his attention. Cold water dripped from his hair to trickle down his cheeks, washing some of the blood off his lips and chin. He wiped his face absently on a sleeve of his nightshirt and shuddered. Uncle Vernon would sort him out. . . .

After a moment, he edged the shirt sleeve into his mouth and sucked on the frayed material. The water soothed some of the ache in his throat. Tears burned in his eyes nonetheless. He blinked furiously against them; he would not cry! Hadn't in years, really, and he wouldn't give his uncle the satisfaction. Still, he worried. What would Uncle Vernon do to sort him out?

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the boy waited, and watched the door. His right eye was swollen shut, and his head pounded, but it didn't bother him too much until Dudley strutted into the backyard, flanked by two of his mates. The three hulking boys threw stones at Harry, and clods of dirt, then shoved him back and forth between them, chanting insults about his clothes and bruised face. When a particularly hard shove knocked Harry down at last, Dudley started kicking him with his new hiking boots. "Doggie, dodgy Potter, itsy bitsy doggie, eating from the garbage," he chanted. "My Daddy's getting doggie food for you, you know." The other boys sniggered and kicked him, too.

"He isn't!" Harry yelled, and protected his head with his hands. He curled into a ball to keep them from kicking his stomach, and after a little while, they got tired of their game. He lay still until they left the yard. Several of his fingers felt broken, and blood dripped into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. His left arm hurt really bad, and so did his back. Struggling for a few minutes, he finally climbed to his feet. One of Dudley's friends had stamped on his ankle, and it was swelling already. His glasses were broken beyond repair this time, crushed under Dudley's heel. He cupped them in his good hand to keep them safe, though he could not have said why.

The sky cleared in the early afternoon, and the sun beat down on Harry's back and neck, aggravating his sunburn. As the day wore on, he grew lightheaded and nauseous. Though sweat ran down his back and face, he was shivering as if he had a fever. Last time he'd had a fever, he'd been locked in his cupboard for a week. Today, though . . .

Late afternoon, the back door finally opened, ejecting Uncle Vernon onto the patio. Harry squinted at him, and saw that his meaty hands held a length of chain and a long, black rope. "Over here, now!"

It was always very bad when Uncle Vernon didn't even call him "boy." Warily, Harry stood, swayed a bit on his feet, and limped closer.

"On your knees."

Harry darted a look at his uncle's face, then quickly away. The glint in Uncle Vernon's eyes was frightening. But Harry's legs were trembling, so it was no hardship to sink to his knees. In seconds, his uncle had slipped the chain around his throat and cinched it tight like a collar. In the next moment, he clipped the end to the black rope. A leash! Harry realized with a jolt. His hands went immediately to the chain collar and tugged at it. No matter what his uncle said, he wasn't a dog!

"Leave it!" Uncle Vernon bellowed and slapped his bruised hands away. Then he held up the last item for inspection, and Harry squinted to see a large screw topped with a loop. Taking the other end of the leash, Uncle Vernon led Harry to a far corner of the yard. With a heavy mallet, he hammered the screw into the side of the shed, far above Harry's head, and hooked the other end of the leash to it. He sneered at the boy as he headed back to the house. "If you're a good dog, you'll get some dinner tonight. Otherwise . . ."

Harry stared after him, silent with shock. Crouched in the shade offered by the shed, he tried to figure out what he could do to fix this. Was it even possible? Was he really just their dog now?

Just before nightfall, Aunt Petunia turned the hose on him again. Her horsie face was screwed up as if she smelled something bad, and she didn't say a word. She did pat Dudley's head, where he stood, grinning, on the steps, as she passed back into the kitchen. Harry wiped water from his eyes.

Uncle Vernon returned then with two bowls. He placed them just beyond reach of Harry's line, and toed them forward, as if he were afraid of breathing the same air as Harry. One plastic bowl held water, and the other . . . no! This just wasn't on! Harry glared up at his uncle and pulled at the lead to the shed. He was not going to eat that!

"That's your dinner, whelp," Uncle Vernon told him. "That or nothing." He smiled nastily. "Straight out of a tin, too, so it's better than garbage." Turning on his heel, he went back to the house, leaving Harry with a bowl of dog food, as promised.

Dudley continued to laugh at him and stare from the patio. He'd already eaten, he pointed out cruelly, and listed off what his mum had cooked special, just for him: gammon steaks and potatoes and green sugar snap peas, and they'd had ice cream for dessert, with fudge sauce. Harry glared at him with his one good eye, but stayed silent. He knew better than to respond to Dudley's taunts when his aunt could be listening.

The sun went down before Dudley went back in the house. Light from the television flickered from the windows, and it was turned up loud enough that Harry could hear canned laughter. Still barefoot and in his dirty, bloody shirt, Harry waited as long as he could stand it before he went to the bowls. Using his good arm, he slowly lifted the water bowl and tipped it back, balanced to avoid jarring the broken fingers. The water was cold and clean, and he slurped it down. Hopefully, it would fill his stomach enough to ease his hunger. He would not eat that food.

When the water was gone, Harry wrung out his shirt over the bowl, to save more. He had no idea when they would fill the bowl again. He couldn't help looking at the other bowl, filled with a disgusting brown paste and unidentifiable chunks. The smell alone made him want to puke. He wouldn't eat it. He wouldn't. They couldn't make him. He'd run away first. It wasn't like he couldn't unclip the leash, with a bit of climbing. Or jumping, maybe. There was just the question of where he would go.

TBC