"Please, please don't." Harry can't remember when he'd been reduced to begging. The first few weeks, he'd managed to keep a straight face, to even avoid crying out in pain. But that only made Vernon Dursley hit harder. And pleading for him to stop now only made him laugh, but Harry continued, hoping someone, anyone, would hear. But then, it was his own fault. Voldemort had regained his power a month before and after receiving updates from Hermione and her subscription to The Daily Prophet about new Death Eater uprisings, mysterious disappearances and deaths, combined with continued nightmares about Cedric Diggory's lifeless eyes, about his parents, ghosts, all dead for him; all these things and it was bound to happen. Uncle Vernon made some remarks about the uselessness of wizard life and Harry snapped, welling at him to shut his mouth. Vernon then shut Harry's mouth with a swift backhand and let it be. From that day on, he didn't need another excuse. Harry had simply walked down the stairs before he found himself bleeding from the blow, hitting the back of his head on the floor, hearing his glasses crack, hearing his ribs crack, hearing himself saying, "Please don't." But his uncle was off and running, muttering something about stampeding down the stairs, while kicking Harry's side a bit harder. It didn't matter that he hadn't been fed in a few days, Harry still found something to throw up, causing Vernon to shriek about the new rug and pick Harry up off the floor so he could get more punches in. Harry didn't mean to fall forward. He would have preferred falling back, knocking his head against the wall hard enough to let him pass out, sleep without dreams for once. But he did fall forward, spewing blood onto Vernon Dursley's new suit. "You fucking bastard!" Dursley shouted. "I have to be at work in an hour! You best pray I'm not late because of this, or you'll be dead when I get home," he snarled, slamming Harry's head into the wall, leaving a spot of blood there and giving The Boy Who Lived a cherished painless sleep.

Why couldn't he tell anyone? Hermione, Ron and Sirius were always writing, asking how he was, how the Muggles were treating him. "Like shit," Harry wanted to write, but his quill always came up with something else, something safer. And why didn't Harry fight back? Harry's faced worse before and, even without a wand, he'd once defended himself against the verbal attacks of his Aunt Marge by inflating her to zeppelin proportions. So why hadn't he lost control of his emotions when Uncle Vernon beat him? Why always this resigned acceptance? Because, as irrational as he knew it was, Harry thought he somehow deserved it. Maybe even liked it. The more damaged he was on the outside, the less he felt on the inside. Besides, he didn't want any help. He didn't want anyone to save him. His parents had saved him, and look where it got them. No, Harry could survive this just as he'd survived worse and no one need ever know. So, lying there on the floor, just before he passed out, Harry Potter wished himself a happy birthday and hoped his uncle would at least trip over him on his way out the door.

"Ron, what's the time?" asked Mrs. Weasley, putting the finishing touch on the cake.

"Nearly nine, so Harry's uncle should be out of the house by the time we get there." Ron Weasley answered, sneaking in a spoonful of icing when his mother turned her back.

"Did you – don't touch that icing! – pack the presents in the trunk?"

"Yes Mum, and owled Hermione's that we'd be there by ten, so we better go."

Mrs. Weasley had been planning Harry's surprise birthday party for two weeks. Poor boy needs something to take his mind of the tournament. So she had arranged a rather large get-together at Hermione Granger's house, mainly so Sirius Black could attend (people in Hermione's Muggle neighborhood had long since forgotten the news of Black's felon status, whereas the wizard world was more keen than ever to get hold of Voldemort's supposed right hand man). Once Ron, Ginny and the twins were corralled by Mr. Weasley into their borrowed Ministry car, the Weasley clan was off to borrow Harry from the Muggles and deliver him to people who actually cared for the boy.

"Shh! Are the Muggles gone?"

"I think so. The aunt and piggy-boy must have left for something."

"Well, let's be quiet anyway. I'd rather not have a confrontation with them if I can help it."

"Ah, come one Dad, you know you want to."

"Well -,"

"Arthur!"

"Of course not, Fred. Alohomora!"

"I'll go check his room…My God, Harry! Mum!"

"Great Ghosts, Harry! Wake up!"

"Oh no, what happened to him?"

"Maybe he fell down the stairs?"

"Arthur, help, do something…Harry."

"Ennervate!"

Harry awoke and saw he was surrounded by fire. No, his glasses had fallen off. The Weasleys. Of course, it's the hair. He made to sit up but couldn't lift his face more than an inch off the ground. Mr. Weaslet made to help him, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him up to his knees. The pressure on his abdomen was too much and soon Harry was coughing up a great quantity of blood, bile, and one molar. "Bloody hell," was all he could moan, before passing out again.

Where was he? From the voices he heard, he'd guess he was under water. That would explain the heaviness around him, his gasps for breath. He ought to open his eyes, the voices sound so frightened. He could probably help them. But all he wanted to do was to listen, remember what it was like to hear concern.

"We should take him to St. Mungo's."

"They'd have to come here, Molly. We shouldn't move him that far like this. Besides, I want Sirius to have the chance to see him before we go. They don't let dogs in the hospital."

"How long until he gets here?"

"Minutes I'd say. The party was due to start at ten, and some of the kids are already here."

"Dad, don't you think Sirius will, well, kill him?"

"Ron, we don't know that's what happened."

"Arthur, look at the boy's face! You don't get injuries like that from falling down some stairs."

"I doubt we're seeing all of his injuries actually."

"Well, his face looks bad enough for me."

"Shh, Ron, he's waking up! Harry?"

"Ugh. Where are we?" he mumbled, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand.

"My house. Surprise! Happy Birthday!" Hermione whispered, barely holding back her tears.

"You all threw me a birthday party?" Harry asked. This was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

"Harry, what happened?" Mr. Weasley asked, trying to say it sternly enough to get Harry's focus away from some silly party.

"I'm sorry, I've gone and ruined it," Harry said, looking at all the Weasleys and seeing the sadness in their faces. They must have put a lot of work into this party and Harry was sucking the fun out of it.

"Of course you didn't ruin it dear," said Molly Weasley. "Oh, Harry, what happened?"

"Who else is here?" Harry asked. Why did they keep asking him that question? He hadn't done anything, had he?

Mr. Weasley was about to say something when the doorbell rang. "Moll, let's see who it is," he sighed, leaving the children in Hermione's bedroom.

"Harry, you look like your face had a party with a few bludgers," George joked, trying to sound light about it but unable to when looking at the livid bruises on his Seeker's face.

"Mum and Dad fixed your tooth," was all Hermione could say before furious screaming was heard from the living room.

"Sirius must be here," winced Ron.

"Padfoot's here?!" Despite the bruises and scorching pain, harry maintained his smile when his godfather burst into the room, a lust for blood radiating from his eyes. Harry ignored it. "Sirius! Wow, you look great! No more caves?" Harry asked, taking in the fugitive's healthy stance.

"Harry, what happened to you?" Sirius asked, his voice torn between rage, concern, and overwhelming regret for not being there for his godson.

"Why does everyone keep asking that?"

"Harry!" exclaimed Ron, worried his friend's brain had taken a beating too. "Can you fell those bruises on your face? Because we can sure see them."

"Oh." Realization. "Oh, that," Harry answered, relieved that they hadn't been upset about the party after all.

"Oh that???" screamed Sirius, making Harry flinch, cover his face, get ready to beg. Instead he felt a gentle, shaking hand brush his. "Harry, I'd never hurt you. Just tell me who did this," he growled, even more angry upon seeing his brave boy cowering before him.

"You can't get into trouble over this, Sirius," Harry pleaded, knowing his godfather's temper.

"The hell I ca-"

"No, Harry's right," scolded Hermione. "He can't live there anymore, so you'll have to stay calm and work on clearing your name so you can save Harry from -."

"Why does everyone thing I need fucking saving?" Harry snapped, effectively silencing everyone in the room, even Ginny Weasley, who had been sobbing in the corner. No one had ever heard such language, such bitterness from Harry Potter. And Harry, seeing their reaction, felt like he'd disappointed everyone yet again. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not daring to look up into their eyes.

"Harry, we need to take you to the hospital," said Mrs. Weasley, knowing better than to scold Harry for apologizing.

"No!" Harry shouted, sitting up straight and eliciting a loud CRACK from one of his fractured ribs, now decidedly broken. But Harry didn't notice. "No hospital," he insisted, giving in to Mr. Weasley's order to lie down.

"But Harry," Hermione began.

"I don't want anyone else to see me like this," Harry begged. Sirius nodded, anything to make Harry stop pleading.

"We'll have to check you over," Mr. Weasley said, glancing awkwardly at Harry's visible wounds.

"Can some of you leave then?" Harry asked, not really wanting anyone to see the things beneath the shirt. They'll all hate me for this.

Hermione and Ron insisted on staying but Ginny, Hermione's parents and the twins moved to the door, Mr. Weasley pulling Fred aside and telling him to firecall Albus Dumbledore and to keep whatever guests that had arrived in the backyard by the swimming pool.

Once the bedroom was less crowded, Harry braced himself and peeled off his shirt, closing his eyes so he could only hear the reactions, the scattered gasps of repulsion. Bruises, belt lashes, burns and…

"What's that?" Hermione asked.

"That" was a shoddily stitched line running the length of Harry's wrist. That was a failed attempt to find his parents and peace. But Harry knew how to lie. "He was showing off a new knife." They accepted it, and if they didn't, they kept quiet for then.

"Why?" Sirius choked out.

"He didn't give a reason."

"No, why didn't you…"

"I don't know. I couldn't." This was the truth. Harry couldn't.

Just then, Dumbledore walked in, his blue eyes glittered with concern, his face taut with rage. He went up to Harry, his eyes sweeping over his torso, lingering perhaps on the cut on his wrist, Mr. Weasley whispering something into his ear.

"Harry," began Dumbledore, with a tone softer than anyone else had managed, "drink this, it'll take away the physical pain." He knew that pain was trivial compared to the rest Harry was suffering. "I'm afraid I have to leave the injuries unhealed for a moment, proof against your uncle. Now, I have a mediwizard and a Ministry official waiting outside." Sirius immediately transformed into Padfoot, jumping onto the foot of the bed to be closer to Harry. "They're going to ask you a few questions, take some pictures. Just be as honest as you can with them and they'll take care of everything." Once the five wizards and one disgruntled dog left the room, two men came in, looking remarkable like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Holmes immediately magicked Harry's pants off and levitated him above the bed, snapping photgraphs of every mark on his body (at least he left me my boxers). Once that highly painful and embarrassing procedure was over, Harry was replaced on the bed and Holmes began shooting out questions as Watson hovered over his injuries, whispering spells and tutting over every bruise.

"How long?" A few weeks.

"Any time before this summer?" Only a slap now and again.

"Any type of abuse other than this?" Well, he yelled…

"Did he ever…" No! Definitely not!

"Does he have a history of this with anyone else in the family?" No.

"Any arrests?" No.

"Did you ever hit back?" No.

"Did you ever use magic against him?" No.

"And you do want to press charges?" Harry had to think about this. How much did he hate his Uncle Vernon? If Harry had been a normal boy, would things have worked out differently? Wasn't this Harry's fault?

"No."

"Excuse me?" Holmes barked, and Watson was listening as well.

"Will you be able to get me out of there, even if I don't press charges?"

"Of course, but – "

"Then do it. As long as I don't have to see him again, I could care less if he is punished for this. He'd never mistreat his real family, if that's what you're worried about."

Holmes was about to argue, but Dumbledore knocked at the door, characteristically knowing what was going on within. "Are you finished here, gentlemen?" he asked. Once the mediwizard made a final sweep of Harry's frame, the left the room, and Harry was left with another scar that wouldn't heal and several bruises, considerably lighter than they had been. Harry was told to stay in bed, but he could hear laughter from outside. The party! Why not, I feel fine. Testing his theory, Harry jumped out of bed. No cracks. So he walked to the bedroom window, which overlooked the front drive. They must be out back. He could hear Sirius and Dumbledore talking in the living room, meaning the ministry people must have apparated out already. Not wanting to plead his case with an over-protective godfather, Harry silently opened the window, climbed out, jumping over a flowerbed, and ran back around the house. Peeking past the fence, and over a large pile of presents, Harry could see all the Weasleys, minus Percy, the boys from his dorm, Hagrid, Remus Lupin, and the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team, including ex-captain Oliver Wood, now keeper for the Montrose Magpies. Most of the people were playing a game of Catch the Kelpie in the pool, but Lupin, Hermione and the Weasleys were brooding near the picnic table, casting glances back at the house. Desperately wanting to join the fun and relieve their worries, Harry went through the gate, prepared to sneak up on his friends but being thwarted by a tidal wave splash from the swimming pool.

"Sorry," laughed Seamus Finnigan, who then realized that he was staring at a very soggy Harry Potter. "Harry! Happy Birthday! Where've you been…eww, what happened to your face?"

"Oh, it had a party with a few bludgers, but I'm fine now."

Next time: finale, Harry finds a new home, addresses some issues, and somebody gets even with Vernon Dursley!