FIC, A Bath For Baby, Harry gen, PG-13
Title: A Bath For Baby
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General/Angst
Summary: Hush little baby, don’t say a word…don’t say that word, just don’t, she’s not your mummy, she’s not and she never will be. Warning: disturbing content.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
“Mummy,” gurgles Harry, causing Petunia to go very still with the sopping washcloth.
“I’m not your mummy!” balks Petunia, horrified.
“Mummy!” repeats Harry, pudgy palms clapping together in delight; smiling his bright baby smile, all gums.
“No, no, I’m not your mummy, you disgusting child!” bites Petunia, and Harry blinks his eyes-his great green eyes that are Lily, Lily all over except he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know he’s a freak just like his father and mother were freaks, he doesn’t know-
“Mummmmmy, mummmmmy,” he coos, rolling the word out around his clumsy toddler tongue.
“I’m not your mummy!” hisses Petunia, pressing a little too harshly on the fragile membrane of his developing skull as she runs her wet, baby-soap fingers through his black tangle of hair.
“I’m not your mummy,” she insists again as he begins to wail.
And she’s not.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General/Angst
Summary: Hush little baby, don’t say a word…don’t say that word, just don’t, she’s not your mummy, she’s not and she never will be. Warning: disturbing content.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
“Mummy,” gurgles Harry, causing Petunia to go very still with the sopping washcloth.
“I’m not your mummy!” balks Petunia, horrified.
“Mummy!” repeats Harry, pudgy palms clapping together in delight; smiling his bright baby smile, all gums.
“No, no, I’m not your mummy, you disgusting child!” bites Petunia, and Harry blinks his eyes-his great green eyes that are Lily, Lily all over except he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know he’s a freak just like his father and mother were freaks, he doesn’t know-
“Mummmmmy, mummmmmy,” he coos, rolling the word out around his clumsy toddler tongue.
“I’m not your mummy!” hisses Petunia, pressing a little too harshly on the fragile membrane of his developing skull as she runs her wet, baby-soap fingers through his black tangle of hair.
“I’m not your mummy,” she insists again as he begins to wail.
And she’s not.