Author's Note: I do not own and will never own Harry Potter.

Dark AU. Overall warning for child abuse, torture, murder, and (obviously) character death.

This chapter focuses on child abuse. (Also, this was intended to be a oneshot, but my muse apparently thought otherwise.)

A hand print-shaped bruise bloomed across Harry's shoulder. He staggered back, hyper-focusing on the gleam in Uncle Vernon's eyes.

"Get-out-freak," the words jumbled together as the man's fingers clenched around the ratty collar of Harry's shirt, propelling him bodily out the back door next to his trunk, miraculously unharmed. Even Uncle Vernon didn't want to mess with magic directly. Not when it was so easy to take out his frustrations on his nephew-

The door slammed behind him, and Harry picked himself up wearily. Hedwig was at the Weasleys', a precaution he'd been wise to take. Her absence had been punished by his uncle, although he was sure he'd seen relief in his aunt's eyes, for just a moment. Perhaps she almost cared, not that it mattered.

This time, at least he knew what he was being kicked out for. Dudley was still subdued after the dementor incident last summer, but not enough to stop himself from tripping Harry when he walked past him. And unfortunately, he'd lashed out without thinking, his fist sinking into the meat of Dudley's stomach before he even realised what he was doing. It hadn't done anything more than slightly wind his cousin, but that didn't matter to Vernon. It never did.

Harry tasted blood and grimaced. It slicked his teeth from his cut lip. Vernon had forgotten himself and landed a decent punch right in the face. Normally he confined himself to places hidden by clothing. And now Harry had to wait until morning to find out if he would have to go sleep in the park again (with his trunk this time, so that was a bonus, especially considering its built-in shrinking charm), or if Aunt Petunia had managed to sweet-talk her husband into letting the "good-for-nothing freak" stay until Hogwarts started up again. He was betting on the former.

Slumping down against the bark of the only tree permitted to stay in the back yard, Harry sighed. He was so tired. Every year, he begged Dumbledore to let him stay at Hogwarts and every year, the man turned him down. Hagrid had literally retrieved him from a rock in the middle of the sea and his initial Hogwarts letter had been addressed to the cupboard under the stairs, but nothing came of that, either. During the disastrous Occlumency lessons, Snape had seen what the Dursleys did, and nothing happened. Although perhaps that wasn't a shock, since the man hated him.

They weren't normally that bad physically, he reflected as the moon rose. Uncle Vernon liked throwing him out. He didn't really get fed. He certainly didn't receive any semblance of love. Petunia and Vernon were both more than clear on that. He stayed there on sufferance, because of Dumbledore and the wards. His mother's love. What would Lily think of the treatment her only child received? Would she care?

Clouds gathered overhead, and rain began to fall. Harry shrunk his trunk, stuffing it into his pocket and huddling under the dripping leaves. The light upstairs in the Dursley house went out.

Home sweet home, Harry thought bitterly. As if. I'm done. I'm not staying here one more minute. If Dumbledore cared, he wouldn't leave me here.

A strange shiver ran through him, and showers of sparks fell with the rain, disappearing without sound into the grass.

The wards had fallen.