It Really Wasn't my Fault

Title: It Really Wasn't my Fault
Author: apostrophe_ess
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR, I merely gain from playing these games in her playground.
Pairing/Character: Harry Potter (aged about 9 or 10) with mentions of Dudley, Vernon and Petunia Dursley
Word Count: 1,041
Rating: G
Summary: Having found Harry on the canteen roof something has to be done about it.
Beta: manynames
Author's Notes: The first part of this was sitting, forgotten, on my hard-drive. I found it earlier today and decided it should be finished.



It Really Wasn't my Fault

“I didn’t climb. Really, I didn’t.”

“Well, would you like to tell me just how you did get up there. then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“I’ll leave you to think about it until your Aunt comes to collect you, shall I?”

Harry watched as the Headmaster stood from the big wooden chair and walked around his desk to open the door leading to the corridor. He’d been in this room enough times to know that he was supposed to follow and stand outside against the wall until either he changed his mind and remembered something or Aunt Petunia came and fetched him.

Harry Potter had found himself on the canteen roof at morning playtime, and after the Headmaster had phoned his Aunt and told her that he’d jumped Harry doubted she’d hurry to fetch him. Harry guessed he’d be bored silly of looking at the pale grey wall that he’d have to face outside of the Headmaster’s office, his nose almost to the paint, by the time she did come, probably when she fetched Dudley at half past three. Then he’d go through an evening – no, it was Friday, so a whole weekend – of sarcastic comments aimed at him, in one way or another, that he supposed Uncle Vernon thought were going to persuade him towards honesty.

The bit of grey wall that Harry was watching wasn’t the same bit he’d watched last time, he realised as his eyes scanned the paintwork in front of him, well memorised over the years. The little mark that looked like a moon was down by the end of his nose now; it used to be in front of his left eye. It was a shame, Harry thought, that growing the inch that meant the little mark no longer filled his sight hadn’t meant his clothes fitted any better. That was the trouble with wearing hand me downs from his cousin, they were always too big, like Dudley was deliberately staying at least three sizes bigger than him.

Dudley. Dudley Dursley was the biggest bully that it was possible to be. He also had the knack of a butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth expression that made not only his parents but most of the teachers fawn over him. The way he looked at Harry, and rolled his eyes, and muttered under his breath that his idiot cousin ruined his life, and the way the teachers’ eyes melted with concern for Dudley irritated Harry more than he could say. Though irritated wasn’t actually the word he wanted, annoyed. No, even annoyed didn’t do the job. Angry. Yes, that was it, the way Dudley behaved made Harry feel angry and when he was angry stupid things happened that ended up with Harry in trouble somehow or another.

Harry had been angry at playtime this morning. Dudley had spent the first part of the morning making sure that their teacher, Miss Crossley, got frustrated with Harry. It was like Dudley could do it without trying. He just had to do that eye rolling thing, or say he couldn’t learn his spellings because of Harry being awkward or taking them away from him, or … or … or …

Harry could feel the anger start to boil in him again.

Or put on that mock hurt voice, or make out he was so hard done by, or … or …

The anger was working its way out of Harry now, through from the pits of his stomach to his fists to his feet. If he’d not learned to keep outward signs of anger hidden lest Uncle Vernon remove his belt, he’d have let it boil over in tears. But Harry didn’t cry. Harry didn’t let anyone see when he was cross. Harry held it in.

Forcing his toes to curl in his too-big threadbare shoes that let water in, and his nails to dig deep into his palms, he kept his anger deep inside, boiling around like a storm on a dark day, thunder rumbling on and on while cracks of lightning flashed constantly behind his eyes.

* * *

“Honestly, Vernon,” Harry heard Aunt Petunia sigh for the hundredth time since he was sent to bed in the cupboard under the stairs, “Honestly, I didn’t know what to do. Dudders is such a good boy. I’m sure the influence must be rubbing off.”

“Rubbish, Petunia,” Vernon said. Harry could imagine his red face, the way his hands were twiddling at the walrus moustache and how he was huffing and puffing, even though he couldn’t see it.

“You think it’s rubbish? When Dudley’s exercise book with all his good work in burst into … into … into …” Aunt Petunia’s voice faded as a small sob caught in it.

“Just a little mistake Petunia, nothing to worry about, I’m sure. I’ve never thought much of that Miss Crossley, weedy little thing. She doesn’t look capable of teaching Dudders. I’ve been thinking we should look for somewhere better for him. Somewhere more suited to a young gentlemen. The other one can stay there, of course.”

“Maybe we should. I couldn’t bear it if he had it too. It’s bad enough that –“Aunt Petunia stopped speaking, her sobs muffled as Uncle Vernon muttered unintelligible words that Harry could only imagine were ‘there there’, or ‘calm yourself Petunia’, or ‘It’ll be fine, of course it will,” over and over to her.

Harry never did explain to the Headmaster how he got on the canteen roof, just like Dudley never explained to Miss Crossley how his book burst into flames while Harry was out of the classroom.

Somewhere a long way away in a draughty gamekeeper’s cottage, a very large man was woken from his afternoon nap, his recent dream reminding him that it was probably time that the fire was hot enough to boil water for a fresh pot of tea and a rock cake. With a grunt and a smile he stood from his chair. That motorbike of Sirius Black’s had a lot to answer for, the memory of that night was almost a recurring nightmare these days. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore was right, perhaps he should stop having cheese before bed. Either that or perhaps he ought to be having a word with that Professor Trelawney one day soon.