A cold breeze blows into the blue nursery, fluttering the light, pale drapes of the large window.
He shudders in his white crib– gilded cage— cold and miserable, mind muddled and thoughts scattered. The clothes he’s wearing, for once since they’ve taken him, thin and threadbare and not warm enough to battle the cold of winter chill.
They had also taken the warm, fluffy blanket that dominated his. . . bed, so now there was nothing he could do but curl up and hope that he won’t get sick anytime soon.
(Wishful thinking. Foolish hope.)
The tears have long since stopped dripping from his puffy eyes, now only forming tracks on his damp, flushed cheeks. He has cried himself dry, and the most he can do is a dry heave that makes his lungs ache.
(It’s been three months since he’s seen any of them– since he’s tried to run away – and he’d literally kill for any sort of human contact by now. Even them .)
There’s a painful, shriek-inducing itch in his diaper, the result of continuous peeing without getting changes in regular, healthy time intervals. No feces waste, because he’s been on a strict liquid diet ever since they’ve got him. Magic makes the liquid literally disappear into his stomach, and so there’s no need for anybody to come and feed him.
Another, stronger breeze blows in, and Harry Potter whimpers and futilely tugs against the padded cuffs that keep his hands restrained to the corners of his bed.
(Have some mercy, please .)
The next morning, after Harry had fallen asleep even with the biting chill, somebody comes in to watch him.
It’s. . . Dada, if he remembers correctly. The man’s cold eyes stare at him from his place on the rocking chair, waiting, waiting, waiting for Harry to crack.
Perhaps months ago, Harry would’ve stood his ground, spat on the disgusting man and his equally disgusting husband and wife, and fought back.
He’s not the same Harry from before, however, and so he finally breaks, tears gathering in the corners of his bloodshot eyes and shame curling in the pit of his stomach.
“D–” and yet, even with how tired he feels he still has trouble saying the title.
The man leans forward, an eyebrow arched and his hands steepled in his lap.
“Da– Dada,” Harry finally sobs out, the dam breaking as he feels himself and most of his rational mind slip away into the dark, hidden crevices of his mind. Instead, a timid, scared Little Baby emerges.
The smile that graces the man’s pale features is a proud one that makes butterflies flutter around in Little Harry’s tummy. “My good boy,” the man coos, moving to the crib in three slides and picking the distraught Little up.
He moves them to the changing table, laying Harry down and causing the Baby the whimper in fright of being left alone again so soon.
Dada shushes his softly, expertly vanishing the rags off his body to leave him only in his diaper, which he then takes off.
Harry attempts to jolt and move away from the hands that rub something against his red, irritated skin, but Dada deftly held him until he spread the cream or whatever the hell it was all over his bits and thighs and then diapered him again.
(Before he ran away, Harry would’ve never accepted this treatment as easily as he’s doing now. He wishes for that time, a time before this wretched punishment broke him in such a way.)
Dada Summons a dark brown fabric, the texture fuzzy and soft looking from what Harry can tell. The man easily maneuvers his weak body into what appears to be a bear onesie, attached mittens and feet included.
Harry whimpers at first, having his hands forcibly closed into fists in the mittens making his feel uncomfortable. On the other hand, he’s no longer cold as he was before, now wrapped in soft, warm fabric.
The warning, cold look from Dada cuts his whimper off right away. The cool expression does not melt away as the older man gently taps plastic nipple of a pink and white dummy– the one that made him babble like a stupid baby– against his chapped lips.
Harry does not wish to go through that sort of punishment again, thus he opens his mouth right away and takes the dummy in, sucking on it immediately to placate Dada.
Said man grins at him proudly, cheering and picking him up. “Such a smart, good boy,” he praises, bouncing him carefully to avoid putting unnecessary pressure on his flaming bottom.
Praise means a bigger, better chance of avoiding punishment, as does being docile and compliant. It’s that knowledge that makes Harry cuddle into the man’s arms, babbling quietly to the pleased-looking man from behind his pacifier.
“Today is only about you and I, Little One,” Dada says as he goes out of the terrible nursery. “Mumma and Daddy shall join us after dinner.”
Behind his pacifier, Harry breathes a small sigh of reluctant relief, happy to know that ‘Mumma’ won’t be here until after dinner.
Mumma is ten times scarier and more obsessed with him than the other two, and he has no doubt that she’ll immediately change him into dresses and feminine clothes, which he does not want.
Harry shudders again, curling up in the strong arms.
“Dada,” he says in a pitiful tone as they step into a master bedroom that clearly belonged to the three monsters that took him.
Dada looks at him with a smile, but Harry can see the dangerous glint in his eyes, so he spits his paci out to suck and gnaw like a teething baby on one of his mittened hands.
Dada cooes at him, and then raises his wand, snapping a multitude of wards into place.
Never again, will he or his spouses let the Little Baby run from them again.