Pity is something Harry loathed.

He much preferred the genuine glares and suspicious eyes directed towards him.

The Dursleys had certainly taught him the difference between expected, polite expressions and true, angry expressions.

Harry stared straight into the eyes of a concerned female teacher. He knew it wasn't a true concern of course. If this teacher were truly concerned, she'd actually reach out. If she were truly worried, she wouldn't just send pitiful glances over at him.

Harry snubbed the elementary teacher and picked up his tattered old backpack. He hugged it against his chest and used it as a pillow between the table and his torso.

School had ended over an hour ago. Dudley had some expensive, barbaric wrestling club after school, and Petunia certainly wasn't going to go out of her way and pick Harry up 'early.' So Harry sat in the late bird classroom with crying children and whining students.

When asked why Harry didn't take a club too, he would flash a fake shy smile and respond that he just wasn't interested. In reality, his aunt and uncle just didn't want to waste money on him.

To fill the time, Harry would doodle random lines and circles and boxes on little slips of paper that Ms. Tartaglia would lay on the table. He liked the shapes. He wasn't a good artist at any rate, in his opinion. He just enjoyed practicing how straight he can smear waxed crayon across the paper. He enjoyed the connecting of circle lines and polygons. It was soothing.

He felt a teacher tapping the table he sat at. Looking up, they gestured towards the door.

Now that Dudley was done with his club, Petunia was there to pick them up.

Harry got up from his chair and properly put on his backpack. As he left the classroom, he sent a small grin at the teacher that seemed to 'worry' over him. After all, he didn't want her to actually go out and tell somebody that he needed help.

The last time the school called home with concern for his wellbeing, he had been locked in the cupboard all day and then let outside at cold night to at least get his gardening chores done.

His aunt huffed when she saw him appear. She turned away and led Dudley and Him to the car.

On the car ride home, Dudley continuously pinched Harry's thigh. Dudley hurt Harry as he babbled about his day to his mom.

Harry kept quiet. (He did wince, however, much to Dudley's enjoyment)

When they finally got home, Petunia went to help and do Dudley's homework. Harry was sent to prepare dinner in the kitchen.

Harry mindlessly chopped up the small cloves of garlic and mini onions. He wondered idly if his aunt and uncle ever considered the possibility of him poisoning their meals. He wasn't going to, of course, rat poison smelled and Harry didn't exactly have access to undetectable and strong poisons. He's tasted dandelion and it's very distinctive in taste. They'd spit it out before they could ingest enough-

Lowly hissing, Harry yanked back his bleeding hand and inspected the cut on his right hand. He stuck it in his mouth and quickly turned to the sink to clean the blood off the knife.

He turned and saw a small spattering of blood on the cutting board. He quickly took a wet rag and rubbed it off before continuing the dish. His finger was scabbed over by the time he had everything in the pot.

Harry stood carefully on a stool as he stirred the soup he was preparing. Large chunks of beef moved against his wooden spoon. Harry was alight with this process of cooking. He liked seeing the shapes of the ingredients mash together or swim past one another.

When the soup was done, Harry turned the stove off and hopped down from the stool to get a large bowl for the dish. He carefully tipped the heavy pot forward and transferred its contained stew into the bowl. Harry picked up the bowl with two hands and steadily brought it over to the dining table. Luckily, Dudley had 'finished' his homework and was now busy screaming at a videogame on the telly. Petunia silently assisted in setting the table and arranging the chairs.

With the table set, Harry stood and waited for further instruction. Petunia scrutinized the hot soup before nodding and gesturing Harry over.

She picked up one of the small, cheap porcelain saucers and ladled in a small amount of soup before passing it to Harry. She mumbled something about "needing to feed him because those darn teachers gave her weird looks when she picked them up."

Careful not to touch his aunt lest he suffers full starvation, Harry took the saucer and drank it up.

After he took it to the kitchen and cleaned up, Harry was sent to his dank cupboard.

Harry didn't hate the cupboard as much as he hated his aunt and uncle. The cupboard was his and it was familiar and it didn't change the way Vernon did over the years. He even had a small little shelf that he could place his special things (He was careful to not put anything too special to him there, he didn't want his uncle taking it and using it against him.) Harry kept his favorite doodles of lines and dots there.

Harry quietly reached over and picked up one of the slips of paper on his shelf.

He stared at the graphite circle that took up the entire paper. It wasn't a perfect circle, it just was one of his best. However, tonight it looked more empty than normal. Harry felt as if he needed to put something into the circle. But what?

Harry placed the slip on his thin blanket. Squinting, Harry took off his glasses to clean them on the cloth. After he wiped off the grime, his reflection stared back at him. He brought it closer to his face and moved some of his hair out of the way.

Sometimes, he almost forgets how he looks.

With his hair messily swept aside, he noticed his scar etched on his forehead.

It was three simple lines. A zigzag. Kinda like a lightning bolt really.

Harry put his glances back on and picked up the slip of paper. Thinking back to his scar, Harry silently traced the shape onto the paper with his finger. Smiling, Harry lay the paper down and felt around his cupboard for a crayon or some graphite. Frowning, Harry realized he didn't have any with him. He foolishly put all of them in his school bag.

He relaxed back into his sitting position. He looked at the slip of paper sitting before him and then down at his hands. The scab from earlier didn't seem to heal as fast as it had covered itself. Harry raised his uninjured hand to pick at it.

The cupboard seemed to be getting darker as he heard his relatives say their goodnights to each other. He heard clicks that follow with one less source of light. Soon, the only light he had was a single slice of moonlight from the door window. It'd be gone by midnight. Harry felt wetness coming from his hand.

Squinting back down at his hands, he realized he had opened the wound up. Blood swelled around the cut and stuck to his fingers. Harry idly pushed his finger deep into the cut. It didn't seem to hurt, and now Harry just had blood all over his left hand's fingers. Harry looked down at the slip of paper illuminated under the moonlight.

Shrugging, Harry lifted his left hand to the paper and slowly drew his lightning bolt scar in the middle of the page. The middle of his best circle.

When he lifted his hand away, the shape immediately glowed and shone brightly back at him.

Panicking, Harry took his blanket and covered the glowing paper. It seemed to shine through the threads, but at least it didn't hit his walls.

Harry lightly gasped out and then worriedly remembered the presence of his relatives. Harry kept his hands over the blanket and turned towards the tiny air slits in his door in case his relatives happened to be there. Noone seemed to be there.

He looked back down in wonder at the still-glowing object underneath his sheet.

Had he done...something freakish?

Harry made a split decision and raised the blanket slightly so he could duck his head underneath.

He looked into the glowing paper and focused to see that what was really glowing was the lightning bolt he drew. It burned his eyes a little, but it was fantastic.

Harry heard footsteps above him and fearfully looked at his art. Was it art?

Quickly, he took the paper in both his hands and ripped it apart. Luckily, as soon as a fissure formed across the bolt, the light disappeared.

The sound he heard disappeared after a while and Harry heard silence followed by a flush and more steps. Soon it was quiet again.

Harry stared down at the shredded paper before him.

Was this...magic?