Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I also do not condone abuse or any questionable actions portrayed in this story. If you do not read about abuse, then don't read this. This story is written in a broken, memoir style. Constructive criticism is welcomed.

. . . . . . . .

Pain.

Right.

I am alive.

Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

I can't help but wax existential at this point, it seems the thing to do.

Pain.

Oh, so much pain.

It's dark here, in the cupboard, but I can't help my involuntary reflex to put on my glasses. There. Now I can see much better. It's dark.

It had all started so innocently. I remember. I was four and a half. Uncle Vernon backhanded me when I accidentally broke a plate. I stumbled a few steps back, stepping on the shards. He shook me by the shoulders, shouting, then shoved me into my cupboard.

Right now, waiting for my sixth year of school to start, I am temporarily back in the cupboard.

….

It's the first week of school, and I am caught up with the rest of the students, bumbling along the hallways and laughing as we try to find our classes. I am relieved. No more hiding from Uncle Vernon, or swiping food from the trash, or sleepless nights. In two weeks most of my injuries will have faded and healed, and I will finally be able to wear short sleeves and not worry about knocking my bruises into the corners of tables.

But for these first two weeks, I am constantly on guard, making sure no one sees. I don't change in front of anyone, I shower alone, I don't pull up my sleeves. Which makes Potions bloody difficult, but still. Probably why I don't do as well in that class, not being able to focus for the first crucial weeks.

I know Snape watches me too, in those weeks. He is always harsh as ever, but for some reason I think he understands.

….

I remember glimpses. Hands everywhere. Feelings I don't want to feel. A sense of impurity—but gone as soon as I try to grasp it. They slide from my mind as more thoughts are brought to the surface—Kill the spare!—Sirius drifting through the veil—hunger and pain and loneliness—a pair of meaty hands around my neck —fear—a bright flash of green light—

Then release. I drop to the floor, panting, exhausted. It is halfway through the first semester of school and I am back in Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. Through the fringe of my hair, I look up at him.

He is silent.

He stands back a little, wand weakly poised for another round, his face showing slight horror and panic overshadowed by responsibility. I am also slightly panicked, hoping his usual gruff demeanor will overtake what he just saw.

"Expelliarmus", I pant, pointing my wand. A clack of wood on stone sounds my victory.

I pull myself up. "Goodnight, Professor."

As I close the door behind me, I hear, "Goodnight, Mr. Potter."