The Rise of a Snape

Dudley of the Dursleys

"Get in here, boy, make yourself useful!"

Harry was washing the many dinner dishes piling themselves up as Vernon and Dudley continued to eat. He stared blankly at the bland white wall across from the sink. Too blank.

Grab a dirty dish. Sponge in soapy water. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

Put on drying rack.

The Dursleys were watching a rowdy television show in the living room, the muffled voices pounding in the back of Harry's head.

Grab another dirty dish. Sponge in soapy water. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

Put on drying rack.

Its all your fault, Harry, all your fault, a raspy little voice whispered in his ear, you put everyone in danger, and now Sirius is dead dead dead dead, and you can't do anything about it.....

Harry had not quite gone numb to this little voice, and he didn't have enough strength nor energy left to deflect. It was a stab in the heart everytime, knowing that he must defeat Voldemort, it was his destiny, knowing that Sirius was gone, never to return, and it was utterly and completely his fault. He had blood on his hands...

Shut up, he told the voice. The voice probably wouldn't listen. It never really did.

Dudley had been avoiding him, probably because of the dementor incident, but Petunia and Vernon were being just as nasty and cruel as they had been every other summer of his life...his forlorn attitude only succeeded in increasing their snarky and cruel personalities.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry accidentally dropped the plate he was holding- he watched helpless as it fell gracelessly to the spotless tile, shattering upon contact with a loud crash, and winced, knowing what was to come. Hopefully he could get it cleaned up before they noticed- he bent down before-

"What the HELL was that?" bellowed his Uncle's steadily nearing voice.

"I- er-" Harry stumbled over his words.

"YOU FREAKY LITTLE BASTARD, I'LL-" Vernon started to shout, face purple, and fist raised in rage as he saw all of the broken glass on Petunia's precious floors.

"Dad, NO!" yelled Dudley. Where had he come from, anyway?

Harry broke out of his stupor- who is this and what has he done with the notorious bully, Dudley Dursley?

Vernon seemed to be at a loss for words, but with one look at his son, he stomped back to the couch, muttering about freaks under his breath all the way.

There was a silence in which Dudley blushed, and looked down, and Harry looked very interested at the point on the wall next to Dudley. Harry moved first.

"I'll just clean that up then," Harry started to say awkwardly, "I mean-"

"No," Dudley grunted quickly, looking rather embarrassed and avoiding his eyes, "I'll take care of it."

Harry, wondering how that was going to work out, nodded slowly in thanks and started up the stairs, yawning. It was 11:30pm, and he had been working non-stop all day (thanks to Harry's dear Uncle Vernon).

Opening the door with a depressing creak, his eyes met the depressing small little room- peeling gray wallpaper, his too big cast-off clothes strewn onto the floor, a ripped up Daily Prophet scattered like some morbid confetti, and bent looking prison bars on the small window-

He stared gloomily at his reflection in the washed out mirror- pale, peaky, too-thin, bags under his eyes, a new layer of tape on his glasses, a stain from who know what on his shirt, ripped up jeans worn through at the knees, defeated expression. He looked away quickly.

He knew he hadn't really eaten well since he had come home from a disastrous end of the year at Hogwarts, but couldn't bring himself to care about it too much. You deserve it.

Harry sighed dejectedly and flopped onto his lumpy mattress, trying not to look at the steadily growing pile of worried letters from his friends and Remus and just about everyone else in the bloody wizarding world. A wash of guilt came over him as he remembers, as he did every night, the events in the Department of Mysteries. "Nice one, James!"

Its your destiny, Harry, the voice said breathily, and then continued accusingly, Its your fault, you moron, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!

"Shut up," Harry told it before flicking off the dim lights and drifting off into a restless sleep, unaware of the trials of the next day.

Hopefully Voldemort would not slip into his dreams tonight.