Vernon Dursley took one booming step, then another. His sunburnt face
was getting redder with every movement, every wild gesture of his pudgy
hands. He loomed over the figure in front of him, a fifteen year old boy
with black hair and glasses. The boy seemed shaken, and there was blood
trickling down his cut lip. The man's mustache quivered with rage as he
spoke, pure fury marring his already less than handsome face, "Get in your
damn cupboard where you belong, you little runt! You and your no good
family have run us into the dirt for long enough! I'd like to see you get
out of here now! What good is your precious magic when you're not allowed
to use it? You stupid git!" He punched the cowering teen in the face once,
hard, knocking the thin, wasted youth into the wall in the back of the
closet under the stairs. The cupboard door was slammed hard, a bar thrown
across it to keep it shut.
Slowly, shaking with pain, Harry Potter sat up. His head was spinning, one of his ribs was cracked. He had a bloody lip, a concussion, and what would probably be a black eye within minutes. A year ago, Harry had been able to take such a beating, but not now. He had been worked to the bone by the Dursleys, not given any food, hardly any water. Yet, strangely enough, Harry Potter did not care.
His friends would not have recognized him anymore. His clothes were ten sizes too big and tattered to the point where they might have simply been rags. Had he not been wearing the clothes, every rib would have shown in disturbing detail. His black hair still refused to stay where it was put, making him look even more bedraggled then he was. There were large bags under his eyes, eyes that should have been a vibrant green but were rapidly losing their luster, nearly grey already. Already, a purplish black lump was rising, swelling Harry's left eye shut. His cheeks were hollow and sunken on a face devoid of any blood. Only his lips showed any color, an ashen shade standing out starkly against the welling blood from the cut on his bottom lip. His black hair, his unruly, untidy hair, was now as greasy and gnarled as Snape's. Indeed, he looked like a cross between Snape on a bad day and Sirius when Harry first met him.
Harry did not care at all. He stared at the little chipped and cracked foggy mirror he had in his cupboard, which the Dursleys had moved him back into while he had been in Hogwarts. The blood was starting to dribble down his chin, but Harry felt no need to wipe it away. He could only see out of one eye, and it was filling with tears. He looked away from the mirror. He did not want to see what he had become.
It didn't matter, though. He deserved it. Everyone hated him. The Dursleys wanted him dead, Snape probably fantasized about drinking his blood, Draco Malfoy would eagerly help Snape brew it, and Voldemort had made trying to kill Harry into a sport. He deserved that too. So many had died because of him. Cedric Diggory immediately came to mind, but he was only the most recent on the list. Before Cedric, there had been many others. Most important were Lily and James Potter. Both died trying to protect their son. But Harry didn't deserve their protection. His parents were dead, Cedric was dead, how many others were nearly killed because of him?
Every one of his friends had been placed in mortal danger at least once because of him. How many times had Ron and Hermione suffered, all for befriending the infamous Harry Potter?
The Dursleys new grandfather clock began to chime. It rang out once, twice, thrice, again and again. Finally, it sang out its twelfth note and lay silent again. He slowly sighed, a ragged sigh that betrayed the damage done to his ribcage. He breathed in deeply through his tears, and began to sing. "Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday dear Harry, Happy birthday to me!" He almost began to laugh as he sang, it was so pathetic. He had received no owls, no muggle letters or packages, no present from the Dursleys. Not that another pair of Vernon's old socks would be that special, but at least it would be SOMETHING. Hedwig had been released by Harry, with a note asking the Weasleys to take care of her for the summer. Fortunately for them both, his beautiful snowy owl had not returned, so hopefully Ron was keeping Hedwig safe for him.
Why hadn't any of his teachers taught him how to magic up food? Oh well, he didn't deserve food. He had hurt everyone around him. As long as there was a Voldemort in the world, everyone around Harry would get hurt. But if there WAS NO Harry, he mused to himself, Voldemort wouldn't hurt anyone Harry cared about. He could save them all, so easily. It was a good plan, Harry thought dully. He had hurt everyone enough. HE had hurt enough. It was time to end it, here and now.
He slowly moved the floorboard, picked up his wand. He didn't deserve to live, he didn't deserve to make others suffer. He should have died. Not Cedric, not his parents, but he, Harry Potter, should have. He held the tip to his forehead, a grim smile on his face. Maybe he and Voldemort were not so different after all. They had the same wand, and the same spell was about to be cast out of Harry's that Voldemort himself had used so many times.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispered, the last breath rattling in his frail and broken chest.
All around the world, in the seediest taverns and darkest alleyways, people met in secret, their hesitant voices whispered, "To Harry Potter - the boy who died!"
Slowly, shaking with pain, Harry Potter sat up. His head was spinning, one of his ribs was cracked. He had a bloody lip, a concussion, and what would probably be a black eye within minutes. A year ago, Harry had been able to take such a beating, but not now. He had been worked to the bone by the Dursleys, not given any food, hardly any water. Yet, strangely enough, Harry Potter did not care.
His friends would not have recognized him anymore. His clothes were ten sizes too big and tattered to the point where they might have simply been rags. Had he not been wearing the clothes, every rib would have shown in disturbing detail. His black hair still refused to stay where it was put, making him look even more bedraggled then he was. There were large bags under his eyes, eyes that should have been a vibrant green but were rapidly losing their luster, nearly grey already. Already, a purplish black lump was rising, swelling Harry's left eye shut. His cheeks were hollow and sunken on a face devoid of any blood. Only his lips showed any color, an ashen shade standing out starkly against the welling blood from the cut on his bottom lip. His black hair, his unruly, untidy hair, was now as greasy and gnarled as Snape's. Indeed, he looked like a cross between Snape on a bad day and Sirius when Harry first met him.
Harry did not care at all. He stared at the little chipped and cracked foggy mirror he had in his cupboard, which the Dursleys had moved him back into while he had been in Hogwarts. The blood was starting to dribble down his chin, but Harry felt no need to wipe it away. He could only see out of one eye, and it was filling with tears. He looked away from the mirror. He did not want to see what he had become.
It didn't matter, though. He deserved it. Everyone hated him. The Dursleys wanted him dead, Snape probably fantasized about drinking his blood, Draco Malfoy would eagerly help Snape brew it, and Voldemort had made trying to kill Harry into a sport. He deserved that too. So many had died because of him. Cedric Diggory immediately came to mind, but he was only the most recent on the list. Before Cedric, there had been many others. Most important were Lily and James Potter. Both died trying to protect their son. But Harry didn't deserve their protection. His parents were dead, Cedric was dead, how many others were nearly killed because of him?
Every one of his friends had been placed in mortal danger at least once because of him. How many times had Ron and Hermione suffered, all for befriending the infamous Harry Potter?
The Dursleys new grandfather clock began to chime. It rang out once, twice, thrice, again and again. Finally, it sang out its twelfth note and lay silent again. He slowly sighed, a ragged sigh that betrayed the damage done to his ribcage. He breathed in deeply through his tears, and began to sing. "Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday dear Harry, Happy birthday to me!" He almost began to laugh as he sang, it was so pathetic. He had received no owls, no muggle letters or packages, no present from the Dursleys. Not that another pair of Vernon's old socks would be that special, but at least it would be SOMETHING. Hedwig had been released by Harry, with a note asking the Weasleys to take care of her for the summer. Fortunately for them both, his beautiful snowy owl had not returned, so hopefully Ron was keeping Hedwig safe for him.
Why hadn't any of his teachers taught him how to magic up food? Oh well, he didn't deserve food. He had hurt everyone around him. As long as there was a Voldemort in the world, everyone around Harry would get hurt. But if there WAS NO Harry, he mused to himself, Voldemort wouldn't hurt anyone Harry cared about. He could save them all, so easily. It was a good plan, Harry thought dully. He had hurt everyone enough. HE had hurt enough. It was time to end it, here and now.
He slowly moved the floorboard, picked up his wand. He didn't deserve to live, he didn't deserve to make others suffer. He should have died. Not Cedric, not his parents, but he, Harry Potter, should have. He held the tip to his forehead, a grim smile on his face. Maybe he and Voldemort were not so different after all. They had the same wand, and the same spell was about to be cast out of Harry's that Voldemort himself had used so many times.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispered, the last breath rattling in his frail and broken chest.
All around the world, in the seediest taverns and darkest alleyways, people met in secret, their hesitant voices whispered, "To Harry Potter - the boy who died!"