Chapter 1

The sixth year.

Harry Potter loved music. He loved the way each key stroked would send a warmth through him, coursing through his veins and engulfing his body, taking each system down one at a time. The notes would rush over his skin, not quite touching him but burning him nonetheless. The sound of each melody, intertwining with its long lasting dance partner of harmony, made him rejoice. His toes would curl at the ends, digging into whatever surface they were currently settled upon. His hands would claw out, aching to touch, to feel, to taste the gentle breeze of music directly from the source itself. It gave him an ecstasy, one that he had never been able to recuperate with any other idea. It was intoxicating and numbing and he craved the sense of relief he would gain by brushing his hands over the delicate chords of string.

To be able to hear music was a gift that young Harry saw as priceless. To be able to live, live as a human being when such a thing should be impossible, was truly astounding. To hear and feel and see and smell and just sense the things that they did was phenomenal. Knowing that one day he would be gone from this earth, to be replaced by people that will one day too join the circle by dying and being replaced, was a marvel to see. To have the opportunity to be where he was was truly mind blowing for Harry Potter had the gift of living and he sought to never lose that gift. Why would he wish to lose it when there was so much to see, to do, to hear? Life itself was a glorious crash and fall of crescendos. Full of cymbals clinging together, clashing with a hiss of metal. Full of the graceful lull of sleep and the heavy humming that such an activity brought about in one's ears. You could hear the sound of the wind, whipping and licking your face as it sought to kiss anything and everything it could reach with its lips. You could hear the gentle flapping of a bird's wings, the deep swallow of food as a dog sought out comfort, the rushing of a stream, breaking against mounds of rock. The world they lived in was never truly silent and the sound of it all was music to his ears and Harry Potter loved it. He loved music.

He never wanted to stop listening.

It was with a heavy heart that Harry realized where he was. He could hear the gusts of wind, whipping about his body, teasing his clothes with their heavy hands. Hear the sound of branches moving, grazing others. Hear leaves rustling and falling. He could feel the warmth of the sun upon his neck, though he could not see it. Feel the grass that stretched almost all the way up his leg, brushing up against him with a twinge of roughness. He could smell the scent of pine, knowing that trees were near. Smell the vague sense of air and water and just earth, knowing that while no one else might classify such senses as so, he did and would forever do. Upon opening his eyes, Harry saw trees lining the field that he was standing on. Pine trees just as he thought. He lifted his hand, dragging it through the grass -it itching and biting at his skin the whole way. Upon inspecting his feet, he saw that he was barefoot and proceeded to curl his toes into the rich, red mud that rested beneath them. His pale skin was marred with the soil.

The wind was causing the trees to sway in an elegant dance, each looking as if they and their closest partner had been doing just this for years, decades even. Perhaps centuries. It rushed through his ears and out his mouth. His black hair whipped about him, slapping him in the face each time he tried to do so. It was not just the rustling of the leaves that Harry heard though. No it was not it indeed for Harry also heard something else.

A woman. Calling his name.

Maybe he should label it as calling though. His voice lifted just barely above the wind. It came out soft and gentle; hesitant and yet not. The mane seemed to roll off her tongue and play wicked;y with nature as it danced and frolicked about on its way to his ear. It was carried across the field he was in as if it were a feather being strung through hair. It was both a praise and a summon, as if the name -his name- was the most beautiful thing in the world, as if the owner to this voice wanted nothing more than to hear him. To see him. To touch him.

This voice filled him with a great warmth and in that moment Harry Potter knew what love was and he ignored the fact that that sense of fulfillment would vanish soon, as it did all the other times he had this dream, and that he would forget the feeling as soon as his eyes fluttered back open. To him, this dream never happened. It was not real and unfortunately for him that was exactly the case. The dream was not real.

But that didn't stop him from feeling the way he did at the moment.

His eyes searched frantically about him for the source of such a lovely, musical voice. They traced along the edge of the forest that stretched around him at the base of the treeline. They bore deeply into the sky, pondering the thought of an angel being sent to him (for really the voice was just that good). They raked through the tall grass, searching perhaps for someone that was being concealed from him. No matter where he looked though, Harry could not see anyone. He could not find them.

"Harry . . ." the voice repeated, louder this time. He perked up a bit, knowing the phrase would be repeated and that he would be able to focus on its direction. Indeed, his name was repeated and his eyes travelled over to the area that he pinpointed, his ears supporting the observation as his name reached him once more.

It was coming from the trees.

He made his way over there, the grass slapping at his lithe little body as he jumped above and through it, not quite accomplishing either action. Mud clung to the bottom of his feet as they digged into the earth and he was surprised to feel the warm wind brush up against his skin, wrapping and hugging him in a firm embrace. He could not see the women but he knew without a doubt that he needed to reach her, to find her, to talk to her. He needed her.

When he reached the forest, he came to a sharp halt. Once again his feet dug into the ground and once again he was dirtied but Harry didn't mind it. In fact, he barely registered it. His eyes roamed the land, trying to see someone but finding no one. He tilted his head in all sorts of direction, peering around the heavy trunks of trees and peeking through leaves and spying the ground for a sight of feet or cloth. However, he found nothing, and deciding that he could risk it, ventured into the forest.

There was no sound save the soft crush of sticks and leaves beneath his weight. Not a single owl hooted or a cricket chirp. There was no rustling of hooves or swishing of fish. It was just him and he loved it. Craved it. As he ventured deeper into the thicket, harry noticed the world around him darken and erupt into noise.

If one focused hard enough, and it really was hard, they could make out the sound of a mouse scurrying through the trees and the grass and the soft thump of another's heart, for he had already been hearing his own. The scent of pine wafted to his nose once more, much stronger now as he was standing right next to the source. It was intoxicating and overwhelming. When he focused more upon the smell though, Harry realized that pine wasn't the only scent there. His face turned up and a pleased smile tugged at his lips as he caught a hint of it once more, cupping his face with warm hands.

Vanilla.

Harry didn't know what it was about the smell of vanilla that made him smile. He didn't know anyone that favored it. His aunt preferred lavendar and his teacher for the year always smelt like crayons and coconuts. Perhaps it was just the fact that his aunt didn't use it that made Harry smile. He associated the smell with warmth and love. Safety.

Home.

The sound of wood snapping had Harry forgetting his thoughts, whipping his head around to the direction of the sound. What he saw nearly caught his breath.

He could barely see her. At first, Harry thought he was imagining her, but then the air was pierced by a quiet, muffled giggle. Behind a tree that was about ten, twenty feet to his right was a girl. Well actually it was a women, he noticed, correcting his thoughts. She was peaking out behind the tree's massive trunk, one of her hands digging into the bark and holding onto it as if it were something cuddly. Harry glanced down and noted with a pleased smile that she was barefoot, just like he was. That thought made him feel very warm inside, as if he had just had a mug of hot chocolate. She was wearing a pair of grey shorts that hugged her legs down to her knees. A baggy white v-neck hung comfortably on her shoulders. Freckles danced on her refreshingly pale skin, spotting her cheeks, making her appear sun kissed. She had the most beautiful hair; hair that went all the way down to her waist in dark red, fiery waves. He could see the color of her eyes, for they were too far away, but he felt them boring into his own face, inspecting his own physique. With a look down at himself, Harry blushed in embarrassment. There was nothing good for her to see. If Harry had to guess, he would say the women was someone in their late teens. She really was beautiful.

They stared at each other for what felt like hours, or at least it felt like that for Harry. He supposed that they very well could have stared at each other for hours since he knew he was dreaming and that he slept for roughly five hours. There was no reason to not do it. Harry wanted nothing more than to watch her. He never wanted to forget her face.

However, he wasn't allowed to do that for once more a giggle escaped her, breaking the silence, and the girl turned away, running deeper into the forest. Her hair whipped behind her, swimming in the wind as she gained speed. Harry's eyes widened in surprised as he jolted forward.

"Hey wait!" He yelled, his voice coming out raspy from lack of use. His feet dug into the ground as he wove his way around the trees, his eyes tracking her form as he tried to keep up with her. He didn't know why but Harry felt that something bad would happen if he lost her and he really didn't want to lose her. He liked her. She felt safe.

The girl ran fast. Her legs jumped gracefully over fallen branches and giant rocks that popped out of the grass. She barely touched the moss that covered patches of the area. She splashed through a river that split the forest in half and it was here that Harry paused for just on the opposite side of the river, the world was cast in darkness. There was no sun or even a moon and though he could still see the trees it was only just. The ground seemed to be covered in frost and Harry could see her breath as the girl panted with the amount of effort she was using to run from him. The world beyond the river, just out of his reach, looked like a scary one. He swore that the trees were laughing at him but he knew they weren't. The forest over there made not a single sound either.

The girl turned around for a second, her eyes locking with his, before she flashed him a smile and began to run away again. The forest got darker and darker as her figure ran into and before long, she disappeared entirely.

Harry spun around rapidly, look about him with a sense of panic ebbing at his thoughts. He couldn't see the girl anywhere and she had just been standing right in front of him, not even ten feet away, mere seconds ago. He made to step forward, to cross the river, when his name once more broke through the silence and reaching his ears like a desperate little hand.

"Harry!" This time though his name was said sweetly. There was nothing innocent or happy about it at all. It was dripping with terror and his blood curled as he recognized it as coming from the girl, despite the fact that he hadn't really heard her speak. His name pierced the forest over and over again, rising in volume as she screamed. Harry found himself running, running through the forest, running to find her, running to save her, running to the darkness, running . . .

And running . . .

And running . . .

Harry woke with a start as he sat up rather forcefully, a gasp escaping his lips in an inaudible whisper. Sweat trickled down his brow, sliding down onto his cheeks and neck. His chest lifted with heavy pants, his gulps of air coming out strained and hot. Harry fumbled around him before wrapping his hand around his glasses, moving to shove them onto his face. Once he had the ability to see again, Harry realized that he wasn't in the forest anymore and that no one was screaming his name, waiting for him. No, he realized with a slow look around, he was in his cupboard.

The cupboard under the stairs had been Harry's room for the past five years, since he had been placed in the care of his aunt and uncle. Inside the cover was a very thin mattress and a small, ripped blanket that was thinner than Harry was. He had no pillow. Shelves lined the "headboard" of his bed, each filled with a row of cleaning supplies. There was a light switch on the wall but no light bulb hung from the ceiling. Vernon hadn't wanted to buy a new one since the last one had broken. Harry would be the only one to need it anyway and as far as anyone else was concerned, that wasn't enough of a justification to buy one, which Harry had to admit that he agreed with. He was only one person after all. In the corners of practically the whole cupboard there were spiderwebs and cobwebs. Small spiders crawled along the baseboards and on the shelves. Harry didn't particularly mind them. They had been here for about as long as he had. It was their room too.

With a sigh, Harry turned his body around a bit and grabbed a watch that he had stored underneath his mattress. Last year, he had found the watch on the playground at his school. It had been buried beneath a little bit of mulch and while Harry knew that someone was probably looking for it he couldn't help but think that he needed it more. He quite liked having something that was his, even if it was just a "stolen" watch. Checking the time, he began to push back his blanket. It was 6:30 and he needed to start breakfast. Vernon had to be at work at 8 and Harry didn't want to be late. That wouldn't be fun.

Opening his cupboard door, cringing slightly as it squeaked, Harry thanked whatever god there might be out there that his Aunt had left it unlocked. Usually the Dursley's would lock his cupboard door before they went to bed, convinced that he would steal their food or something in the middle of the night, but last night they had been rather tired, having had exhausted themselves with a day out in town, and had gone to bed almost immediately upon arriving home. Harry was okay with this despite the fact that he didn't get any dinner, not that he would have anyway. It meant he didn't have to clean the kitchen or tidy up the sitting room. No, instead he got to have an extra two hours of sleep, which, if he were honest with himself, he desperately needed.

He walked quietly through the hall and into the kitchen, immediately grabbing a pan and setting it on the stove. As Harry busied himself with getting the Dursley's breakfast ready, he found himself subconsciously thinking about the last few years and how he had come to be at his aunt and uncle's home.

According to them, he had arrived on October 31st. Someone had left him on their doorstep with a letter describing what had happened to his parents and that they, the Dursley's, were now responsible. Harry had always found this odd but Aunt Petunia had told him many times that she had had nothing to do with her "freakish sister" and had had no idea what was going on in her life at the time. It didn't matter to her how she was told that her younger sister was never going to visit her again for she was just glad that the "freak" was gone. Harry's parents, he didn't know their names, had been drunks. Unemployed drunks to be exact. Apparently they had gotten themselves into a spot of trouble, having gotten involved with some sketchy people, and on the night they had died, they were trying to evade these people. It had been raining and their car had spun out of control before quite viciously hitting a tree,"or something foolish like that, the idiots" his aunt had said. Harry's parents had died upon the impact almost immediately, but Harry, who was safely tucked away in the back seat, had managed to leave relatively unscratched, the exception being a scar from some flying debris like glass and metal.

Harry had heard throughout the years that he was not wanted. They hadn't asked for him and he was not their child to worry about. He had been a disease, something meant to burden their lives just like he had their doorstep. It was because of this that they used Harry as a maid so to speak. He was an extra set of hands and they expected him to use those hands for their betterment. He was to make their meals, clean their house, iron their clothes, tend the yard, basically anything that they wanted him to do. It was a rare occasion that Harry found himself outside of Number Four Privet Drive's confines. Some call this his home but to Harry it was his prison.

Harry wasn't like his cousin Dudley. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon loved Dudley. They called him a good boy, a special boy. Their precious little baby. While Harry didn't understand this, for Dudley wasn't any of those things as far as he could tell, he couldn't help but think it was his fault. They scowled at him, deemed him a freak and a nuisance, and Harry knew that if he could ever fix what it was that was wrong about him, they would think the same things about him as they did their son.

Deep down though Harry knew that this was impossible. The Dursley's would never love him. Especially Vernon.

He pushed these thoughts away though as he heard the Dursley's start to move around and get up. There wasn't time to think about this. Vernon would want his coffee immediately and Harry hadn't even put a pot on. Sighing, he turned away and put his focus on breakfast.

"You are to have these finish by the time we return from town. I expect the house to be clean and in top shape. Vernon has an important meeting today and I want him to come home to the perfect house, as he should always. There will be consequences if this isn't done and done right. Do you understand me boy?"

Harry nodded, not even looking into his aunt's eyes as she passed him a folded piece of paper covered in blue ink. In front of him Petunia stood with a pinched face, her lips pursed in a line of disgust as she gazed down at him with an air of disinterest. Behind her, Dudley smirked and shook with laughter, no doubt finding it amusing that Harry had to clean while he went out to go shopping for new toys and such.

"Very well." Petunia sniffed and just like that she lead Dudley out of the house and into the car. Harry didn't bother to watch them leave. He was too busy looking at the list in his hands that he had unfolded upon hearing the door shut closed.

Kitchen. Mop and bleach the floors.

Sitting room. Put out the fresh flowers from the garden.

Weed the garden out.

All three bathrooms.

Wash the tubs.

Vacuum the whole house.

Clean your cupboard out.

Make the beds.

Dudley's room.

Dust.

Paint the mailbox.

Repaint the fence.

Power wash the house.

Clean the wind chimes and bird bath.

Sweep the driveway.

Wash the windows.

Mow the yard.

Freshen up the house.

Laundry.

Organize the basement.

Have dinner done and ready by 6:00. The dishes must be cleaned before we get back.

Not for the first time in his life, Harry despised the Dursley's. There was no way that he was going to have everything done on time! It would take at least an hour to do the basement, painting and windows, power washing, laundry, and the yard. Each! However, Harry knew that he had to at least try. It didn't matter how hard and quickly he got things done, he knew this. Petunia always found something wrong with his chores, pointing out flaws that Harry himself could never see. His aunt wanted perfection and unfortunately for Harry, he wasn't able to deliver. Knowing the consequences of failing though pushed him to start cleaning the kitchen. Perhaps, if he was lucky and got done with most of the list to standards, his aunt would allow him to have a little bit of bread for dinner.

He could only hope.

His neck was bent downward and his body shook with quick, sudden movements. His arm was jutting out beneath him, scrubbing furiously at the floor and the dirt that was invisible to him there. Within the last couple of hours, Harry had managed to clean practically all of the house, or at least the inside of it. Currently, he was on his hands and knees, a bucket of soapy water at his side, with a coarse little brush in his right hand.

For as long as he could remember Harry had been cleaning up the Dursley's messes. Be it in the way he mopped their floors or wiped down their countertops or swept up their lies with smiles. Everyone expected him to fix them, to make everything as good as new again. It did not matter how large the situation, how messy it became, he was to clean it all up, to tidy things back into boxes and make it all polish with an easy shine.

He hated it. He hated all of it.

He hated the way his aunt would coo at his cousin, would run her hand through his hair and smile lovingly when he only ever received sneers of disgust. He hated the way his uncle would come home with gifts and broad grins, only to growl and scream when the image was ruined by something insignificantly small for it was, no doubt, always Harry's fault. He hated how he had no friends, all chased off by boys at school, boys hand picked by Dudley Dursley himself. He hated how the girls with pink ribbons in their hair would giggle as he walked past, hiding their jeers and smirks behind their hands. He hated the muffled remarks of "freak" and the sideway glances the neighbors would throw at him while tucking their own children safely into their side as if to protect them, protect them from him. He hated the way the windows would shine with a clarity so clear and so focused and yet no one could ever seem to see through them. He hated how only the spiders crawling within the depths of his cupboard would provide him a sense of comfort, of contact.

He hated that no one ever seemed to smile at him. To laugh. To praise. To cherish.

To love.

God how he hated it all.

Perhaps more than it all though he hated how he could not honestly claim that things had not always been this way. He could not remember ever seeing his relatives look at him with anything remotely similar to the way they gazed at Dudley. He could not remember gifts or parties or hugs. He could not remember laughs with friends or outings to the park, where his only worry would be if the swings were empty or not. He could not remember a single time where he was apart of this family, of any family, and he didn't know if he should feel relieved or upset by this for at least this way he knew his place, for it had always remained the same. He didn't really know what he was missing out on for really he had never had it and could never understand it.

It was with a sigh that he dipped his brush back into the bucket of soapy water, allowing for a few drips of it to fall onto his aunt's floor. He would be wiping them all away any second anyway. It didn't matter to him.

Harry had been right when he said he wouldn't be able to finish the list. By the time Dudley and Aunt Petunia had come back home, he had finished everything save some of the outside of the house. When he heard the sounds of his aunts keys jingling as they tried to unlock the door, Harry had looked up with a panicked expression, his eyes wide and his mouth thin. Tossing the duster into a bucket in the hall, Harry jogged into the kitchen to check on the rolls he had put in the oven. Since Harry knew that he wouldn't have the time to finish all his chores, he had made his uncle's favorite meal: lasagna, green beans, mashed potatoes, and rolls. Harry had even put the man's favorite tea on and was considering baking a cake, chocolate of course. However, his aunt had arrived sooner than expected and he decided that a cake just wasn't going to happen. There was no way Petunia was going to let him bake it, not when she was here anyway. Oh she would have been pleased (dare he say it) if he had started to make it before but after she got there? No. Not at all.

Petunia and Dudley bustled inside the house, bags swaying and bouncing against their thighs and hips as they shoved them through the doorway. Dudley graciously (had) dumped his load onto the ground and Harry flinched as he heard the sound of glass shattering. That would, no doubt, end up being his fault. Petunia scowled at him as she placed her bags on the dining table.

"I see you failed to mow the yard and weed the garden." Her eyes narrowed as she inspected him, moving around his person as she looked at her kitchen. It was her most pretentious room. The shiniest and cleanest. "And look!" She screamed this, quietly stomping over to the counter farthest from her. "You left all these crumbs here you stupid little boy." She gestured at the counter.

Harry didn't see any crumbs but he chose to ignore that.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia." he mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast. He eyed her feet and noticed she was wearing red heels. A quick peek at her dress made him smirk inwardly. It didn't match.

"Oh you're going to be," she hissed viciously, snarling her teeth at him. In that moment Harry really did see the resemblance between his aunt and a horse. Petunia spun on her heel and left the kitchen, most likely expecting him to finish up and put away her bags while she went to watch television.

Running a hand through his tousled hair, Harry rolled his eyes. He picked up the bags that were left on the table and proceeded to put the objects inside away. It seemed Dudley got a new game . . . there were the noodles for Saturday's dinner . . . ah so Vernon was out of toothpaste . . . . It was dull work but work nonetheless.

He did not fail to notice that there was nothing, nothing at all, in the bags that were for him. It was with slight deduction that he proceeded to the hall and picked up Dudley's bags. Yep. He had broken one of Petunia's new vases (she had bought six). Looking at the price tag, Harry winced.

Fuck.

Vernon came home at exactly 8:47. His routine was always the same. He parked the car, grabbed his suitcase, put on his hat, and got out. He would proceed to the door, where he would take off his hat and hold it in his hand, and walk inside to greet his wife with a kiss on the cheek. He would ask her how her day was and compliment her on how she was working so hard. Dudley would come and Vernon would either ruffle the boy's hair or greet him with a "hey there champ". Vernon would then set his hat and coat down on the sofa and his suitcase on the floor before heading into the dining room for dinner, where his happy little family would enjoy a pleasant meal. One that none of them had to make. It was all just perfect.

Only Vernon didn't come home that day like that. He did not close the door and kiss his wife, opting instead to slam it, making the pictures on the wall rattle, and curse as he walked dejectedly by Aunt Petunia. He threw his belongings onto the sofa, or rather over it, before making his way over to the glass cabinet by the window and pulling out a bottle of brandy and chugging it down straight from the bottle itself. Vernon then proceeded to slump into the cushions of the sofa, still nursing his drink, with a sigh. Petunia eyed him warily. Dudley continued to watch the telly.

"I got put on probation." Vernon said after a minute, his words tumbling out in a grumble. Harry winced as his uncle's voice rose. "They say I'm not "working to the best of my ability"." Uncle Vernon scoffed.

"What?" Aunt Petunia shrieked. Harry wasn't sure if it was because probation meant a pay degrade or that her husband was being "ridiculed". Harry, himself, was cheering on the inside. Put the fat oaf in his place!

"I know. Danson says all I do is yell at my employees and sit at my desk. Can you believe it?" Yes.

"Why that's absurd," Petunia mumbled and while her voice sounded indignant, Harry heard it as what it really was: boredom. His aunt could care less.

"Also, there's been someone stealing money from the firm. Embezzlement. Someone gave them a tip earlier in the week saying it was me. I've been told to stay home, with no pay, until the investigation was over." Vernon took another deep gulp of brandy.

By this point, Harry stopped listening. He didn't particularly want to listen to his uncle complain, especially since the man was indeed guilty of the crime. Also, Harry was getting wary by how much his uncle was drinking. Vernon almost always came home in a foul mood, at least when he saw Harry that's what it looked like. To add alcohol into that mix would surely not bold well for him, so Harry decided to focus on the mashed potatoes that he was mixing. Maybe he should add another spoonful of butter . . . just in case . . . .

The clinking of silverware against the Dursley's new plates filled the silence of the house. Vernon and Petunia talked in soft tones to one another. Having had strayed from the topic of work, at least for now, Petunia ratted on and on about how the lady down the street was caught having an affair with her housekeeper. A woman.

"It's disgusting," she sniffed, cutting up her lasagna into a nice little cube. "To think that such . . . freaks exist is worrying. Why I heard from Dala that the husband had even joked about joining them! Can you believe that?!"

Vernon grunted and shook his head, shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Before long, Petunia moved on to other topics. From the new earrings she saw in a window earlier that day to how she didn't like the new detergent, it made her feel itchy. Dudley talked around a mouthful of food about a new show he had started and how amazing it was that you could clearly see a character's brains being blown out. Petunia had stopped eating her lasagna when Dudley had described the most recent scene of said guts. Even Uncle Vernon looked a little green.

Throughout all of this, Harry had stood, watching, waiting, at the counter. His hands gripped the sink and he stood morosely, a dish towel wrung up in his hands. He was waiting for the batch of rolls in the oven to finish. The Dursley's were on their second helping and Harry knew his uncle would be wanting one soon.

Dinner time at Number Four was a bitter thing for Harry. He couldn't recall a time where he was allowed to sit with the others, to enjoy a meal. He had started cooking meals when he turned four, dinner at age five. It had always been the same. More often than not, Harry wouldn't get dinner at all and when he did it was to be eaten in the dark confines of his cupboard, away from everyone else and only after the kitchen was clean. Again. He hated watching the Dursley's eat, hated having to throw away all the food they didn't eat. He could feel the hunger pangs in his stomach and he knew that they knew he hadn't eaten a single thing in nearly a week but Harry knew, even as his eyes watched the green beans being forgotten, that he wouldn't be eating tonight. He hadn't finished his chores after all.

A ding sounded from his left and Harry grabbed a pot holder and slipped it on, pulling the rolls from out of the oven. Walking over to the table to place them on the glass plate in the center, Harry failed to see Dudley's foot jut out in front of him. He stumbled and jerked forward as his body was forced to halt in no time. His hand caught the edge of the wooden table and the rolls flew forward. Right into his uncle's lap.

Vernon jumped up as eight hot rolls fell on his thighs, searing him as they burned the skin. He snapped out a yell of surprise and slight pain, standing up to get the heat off of him. The rolls fell to the floor with quiet little thumbs. Harry faintly heard the sound of Dudley snickering behind his hand for his eyes were round in horror, watching his uncle.

The man spat and cursed, his face turning a deep shade of red and purple. His mustache twitched angrily as did his eyebrows and Harry suppressed a wince. He was a goner.

Vernon seized forward, his hands curling into fists around the front of Harry's clothes. Harry was yanked off his feet, hanging limply in the air. Vernon was yelling at him, he could see his mouth moving, and yet all Harry heard was a loud ringing in his ear and the sound of him apologizing over and over. Time seemed to have come to a stand still; frozen. Spit was splattering onto his cheeks and nose and his glasses fogged up from the release of angry puffs coming from his uncle. His body was shaken and thrown to the floor. His shoulder hit both the hard tiles and the table and he bit down on his tongue to repress a groan. Harry didn't think about what his uncle was doing to him. He didn't think about the pain. He didn't even think about what was being said. He just closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.

He layed in his cupboard two hours later, curled in a ball on the top of his mattress. His blanket lay forgotten at his feet. Harry shivered as the heat coursed through him, boiling his blood. He groaned into the mattress; it wouldn't be wise to be heard, especially so recently following a punishment. Vernon would label it as defiance. As laughter. He was laying on his stomach and knees, his shirt balled up beneath his face, trying desperately to keep his back from pressing up against anything. He really didn't want blood on his mattress. His body was covered in bruises. He couldn't move at all without feeling a twinge of pain. A deep ache was coming from his chest and Harry had his arms wrapped around his torso, hoping to either repress it or protect it. He wasn't really sure at this point. His head was screaming, feeling as if it were being ripped directly from the seems, and Harry pressed his face even more into the mattress. He shivered and hissed and bit his skin. He growled fiercely as he felt tears begin to line his eyes, forcing them to disappear as he refused to let them escape. He was not going to cry. No.

The heat was suffocating him. The temperature in his cupboard was at the highest he could remember, at least for now, and it was doing nothing to help the fever he was sure was beginning to break through. Harry clawed at his skin, at his arms, hoping to shed it away, to get the uncomfortable crawling away from him. He really didn't like it.

His night continued like this, with Harry turning about his bed, hissing in pain, in and out of consciousness as he tried and failed to sleep. However, just as it was rounding two thirty, Harry was able to claim sleep, this time for good (or at least three hours anyway). He snorted into his hand, a hand that had wrapped itself in his hair, tugging at the scruffy strands there. In that moment, Harry didn't worry about making breakfast in a few short hours or how he was going to hide the few bruises and cut on his face from view. He just simply slept, dreaming of chasing a girl with red hair through a forest. Because of this, Harry didn't see the soft glow that rose from his body, running along his skin, healing his worst injuries. He didn't see the bruises fade into a pale ivory, not fixing themselves but rather hiding in plain sight. Harry saw none of this.

But he did see green eyes, eyes just as bright and wide as his own, and that meant so much more to him. So much more.