A/N:

This is my first ever fanfiction, so you know, I have no idea what I'm doing.

Any feedback/criticism/guidance is always welcome, and feel free to point every little thing that sucks about the story.

Happy reading.

The boy raised his head slowly, feeling a deep, guttural cry escape his lips.

It did nothing to scare his attacker, a plump boy of perhaps five, wielding a great stick, surrounded by a pack of children.

"Look at me," his attacker jeered. "I'm scared, oh, so scared of you, Harry!"

The young boy felt something hot rush through his body, a deep sort of hatred and malevolence that coursed through his veins. With a shaky hand, he got up from the ground.

The pack of children laughed and sneered, watching the frail little boy getting beat to pulp by his cousin.

And then suddenly, as Harry clutched his forehead in pain, a breath of cold air descended upon all the young children, whistling a dark, desperate tune. It brushed through them all, leaving a feeling of sadness and despair upon them. Some even cried.

All at once, it seemed, the group of children ran away.

Harry was left on the asphalt breathing ragged breaths, with a split lip and a myriad of splotchy bruises on his legs. His hair was matted, silky and dark, now glued to his forehead with sweat. They glimmered in the afternoon sun, barely concealing a thin red jagged line. Not a cut, or anything of that sort.

It was a scar. A lightning scar.

Sometimes, Harry liked to pretend it was an omen, foretelling the extraordinary life he would live.

When he got home, the sky was a deep shade of blue, dark and inky. Aunt Petunia hadn't even spared his disfigured features a mere second glance, sending him off to bed in his tiny little cupboard with a piece burnt toast and a glass of stale water.

Resentment burned in the mind of the young boy. The throbbing in the back of his head was temporarily muted, replaced with a profound sense of bitterness.

This wasn't fair. He had seen the foods and drinks his oaf of a cousin, Dudley received. Why couldn't he have the same?

Bright flames, hotter than a thousand stars burst onto his hands, crackling with rancor and contempt. They shined bright yellow, almost white, throwing his humble abode in sharp relief.

A patched blanket lay on the floor, surrounded by an assortment of odd trinkets he must have found. Spiders, dark and ever-moving, scurried away upon the sight of the sudden light.

In a flare of panic, the boy scrunched his hands together, flapping them multiple times before the flames went out. Darkness seeped into the cupboard once more, and Harry flopped onto his frayed blanket, feeling suddenly drained and tired.

Someone must have heard the ruckus he made, for not-too-soon after, a loud thumping could be heard, and there was a bang, as someone forced open the door.

A walrus-shaped man and a poorly coiffed moustache appeared, glaring his beady eyes at Harry Potter. Grumbling and cursing with some very choice words, Uncle Vernon appeared in his magnificent glory.

"What're you doing now, boy?"

"Nothing -"

"A likely story," he harrumphed. "Keep quiet, you waste of space. Some of us are trying to do something important!"

He slammed the door shut, and once more, the room was drowned in darkness.

His screaming and yelling used to scare Harry. When he was younger, his nightmares would feature Uncle Vernon screaming obscenities, and Aunt Petunia shrieking madly. He used to cower in the corners whenever he saw either of them approaching.

But then he realized - there was nothing they could do to him.

He was already shoved into a dark cupboard, and he was already fed meagre portions. Nothing could possibly be worse than that.

A sense of satisfaction spread through Harry's mind, a sweet, delicious feeling that he grasped onto with all his might.

Yes, he was practically immune to anything his relatives did.

Flames burst once more on his palms.

They were as scaldingly hot as before, but fueled with a sweet sense of vengeance.

Harry didn't try to stop them, as they caught fire on his old spread. They glittered this time, instead of flaring, shining all sorts of shades of orange. The cover didn't even seem like it was burning. It looked more like gems, sewn onto a piece of cloth, emitting their own bright glow.

It was a pretty sight, and Harry added more will to the flames.

The fire spread to his tiny trinkets, but one; spreading onto the walls, onto the door and onto the floor, until a thick layer of dark smoke coated everything in the room.

A beeping had spread through the house, and there could be shrieks heard as footsteps, quick and heavy, descended the stairs. Voices, high-pitched and filled with anxiety were howling through the room, and someone was talking animatedly, more stumbling, as she called for help.

But it was too late.

The fire burst through the door, and leapt into the living room, consuming all it touched and leaving nothing to be found.

There and then, as Harry walked through his cupboard coughing from the terrible smoke, he saw a gut-wrenching sight.

Bright flames covered everything in sight, dancing and moving with no end. Aunt Petunia screamed and thrashed, molested by the sudden light kisses. Uncle Vernon had stopped moving entirely, collapsed onto the glass coffee table, his skin burnt and cracked in some places, vivid orange in others.

The only person who seemed to have noticed Harry was Dudley, cowering on top of the fallen television.

He said no words, but from the look he gave, it was clear what he wanted.

The flames gave off a searing heat, but as Harry waded through them, they felt warm and comforting.

Did he truly want to save his cousin?

It was a difficult question to answer.

As he stood in the middle of the room, flames leaping off his skin, embers flowing to the ceiling, noxious smoke clouding his lungs, Harry felt something else, that he hadn't felt, ever.

A strange emotion, pitying, almost.

He slapped his hands together, ridding them of the fiery flames. Wordlessly, he raised them to Dudley.

His cousin hardly whimpered, sounding very unlike the bully he was.

"Well," Harry said, "are you coming or not?"

But all Dudley could do was wimper pitifully.

The flames consumed Harry's hands once more, and raced up the television. They licked the edges of Dudley's shoes, and with tears streaming down his pudgy face, he fell. A sudden crackling could be heard, and the smell of burning flesh could be briefly smelt over the smoke.

The ceiling broke over Harry, and all at once, the house imploded.

Debris was sent flying through the air, and he was catapulted out of the house, flailing onto the grass.

Flames continued to leap over him, burning away his clothes until he lay naked on the ground.

Far, far away, sirens could be heard.

Neighbours, filled with pompous curiosity peaked their heads through the windows. Nearby, an old woman ran down the street, a litter of cats trailing behind her. She seemed to yell something, almost near hysteria, before running back to her house, and taking a pinch of green-ish powder and sprinkling them into the flames of her fireplace.

She stuck her head inside, and then took it out. Following behind her, in elegant periwinkle robes, a wizened old man followed behind her, a long silky white beard trailing behind him as they broke into a run.

A/N:

Was this a bit too brutal?

I wrote all of this in the period of one day, right after reading Game of Thrones. Probably not my smartest decision.

Oh well.

Most chapters after this will probably be a bit longer, and the story will start moving - pinky promise.

See all of you guys in a bit!

Cheers.