* Please refer to story summary for complete list of warnings. This chapter is particularly harmless, it mentions abuse, but is not graphic. All characters and recognizable settings, such as Number 4 Privet Drive, for example, belong to J.K. Rowling, not to me. There is no money being made off of this, and no copyright infringement is intended. All direct quotes are referenced.* Enjoy, and PLEASE REVIEW 

Pain. There was a throbbing, building pain coming from the back of his head. It was the first thing the Harry was aware of as he came slowly awake. The next was the feeling of grass beneath his body. Why was he lying on the grass? Had he fallen asleep in the yard again? He opened his eyes and was met with the blurry sight of a dark canopy of leaves hanging high above him. The sight confused him, until he turned and spotted his glasses laying about a foot from his right hand, and beyond that the ladder sat propped up at a rakish angle on the trunk of the tree.

Oh no. Harry scrambled up, ignoring the insistent twinge of his lower back and the sharp pain in his ankle. He snatched up his glasses and examined the ladder. Well, at least it hadn't broken when he fell. He had been working in the Jenisons' yard, "Earning his keep" as his uncle had termed it, and had just begun to trim the dead branches off of the old oak in the far corner when the branch that the ladder had been resting against gave a frightful crack and he lost his balance. He must have hit his head on a branch on the way down because the next thing he knew he was waking up with a headache that was currently tap dancing on his brain. But that had been mid-afternoon, and it was dark now. Very dark. Shit. He was late, very, very late, and in his uncle's house you were never late, not if you wanted to sleep inside at night. Harry took off, hiking the ladder up onto his shoulder and sprinting through the park and down the street; he prayed fervently that his uncle and aunt had not yet returned from the dinner party they had attended that evening.

But luck was not on his side; luck was never on his side. The lights in number 4 Privet Drive were on; the car was parked resolutely in the center of the driveway. Harry dashed up the drive, leaned the ladder on the side of the house, being careful not to mark the paint, and slipped into the backyard. Creeping along the patio he dropped to his knees before the backdoor. He tapped softly, using just the tips of his fingers, half hoping that no one would hear.

"Da, it's back!" Dudley's voice bellowed as the door was wrenched violently open. Harry shifted and glanced up from the ground to see his uncle's massive form lumbering down the hallway. His face was contorted in anger, a deep purple hue, and the veins bulged at his temples.

Vernon's bulk took up the whole doorway, successfully blocking Harry's view of the living room.

"You're three hours later" Vernon hissed, "we've told you time and time again, be in by 5 o'clock, make the supper, finish you chores, go to bed; is it really that hard to follow instructions?"

"N-no Sir, please, I had an accident, hit my head, I've only just come around" Harry whispered softly, focusing on what he could see of his uncle's knees.

"Come around! Don't lie to me boy, you were asleep, lazing off, you ungrateful…" Vernon's roar startled Harry, and he flinched back, before resuming his position.

"Vernon!" Petunia's sharp voice called from somewhere in the house, "the neighbors, Vernon, they'll hear!"

"That's it" Vernon's voice was low and dangerous "you've disobeyed for the last time, go somewhere else, you will never come back into this house! Dudley, get the boy's trunk, bring it down here"

"But Sir" Harry's plea was cut off by Vernon suddenly throwing open the screen door, catching Harry full in the face. He gasped and rolled into a protective crouch, hands flying to his broken nose.

"No, no 'buts'" Vernon heaved Harry's trunk and threw it at the boy, catching him on the chest. Hedwig's cage followed, and Harry just barely managed to catch it before it hit the ground, ignoring his protesting ribs.

Then the door was slammed firmly shut and Harry was left alone, his meager belongings scattered around him. Fearing the return of his uncle, he quickly gathered up his things, and with Hedwig's cage placed atop his trunk, he started off towards the desolate little park at the end of the street. Everything hurt; his head, ankle, ribs, and his nose. His nose! Harry's hand once again flew to his face, and he carefully ran his fingers over his face. Bruising and swelling for sure, and his nose was definitely crooked. He sat down on a bench and pulled his cloak from his trunk. Sure it would get dirty, but he could clean it later, right now he was cold. And tired, and aching, and hungry.

There was no helping it; he couldn't go back. Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it straight up at the clear night sky. Then he sat and wished for all that he was worth that he wasn't Harry-Bloody-Potter, that he had a real family, that he didn't have to deal with all the shit that came with being the goddamn Savior all the time. What was he going to do when the Knight Bus finally got here? How was he going to explain that he was Harry Potter, had just gotten kicked out of his uncle's house and needed a ride to Diagon Alley?i I wish I were someone else, just this once/i, he begged with his whole being.

He nearly jumped when he felt his nose crunch back into place, and a cool tingling feeling rushed across his face and down his body. But he didn't have time to figure out what had happened for right that moment the Knight Bus came roaring down from the sky and screeched to a halt in front of him. Stan Shunpike popped out and leant against the bus.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your conductor this eveningi" he said in a bored monotone. Harry got up and pulled his trunk around to the door of the vehicle.

"What's your name and where to?" grunted Stan as he attempted to heave Harry's mostly empty trunk up the few steps onto the bus.

"Umm, err, you don't recognise me?" he asked, there was no way that Stan didn't recognise him this time. He had been lucky enough the first time, four years ago in his third year, when he had used Neville's name to avoid recognition, but there was no way, after all that had happened in these last few years that Stan still didn't know his face.

Stan stared at him hard for a moment, face scrunching up in concentration. "Nope" he declared finally, "should I?"

"No, well, I mean, I'm Harry Potter, right? So I thought…" Harry's embarrassed rambling was cut short by Stan's explosive laughter.

"Ha! Harry Potter, sure mate and I'm the Queen of England! Hey, Ern, last time you knew, did the Harry Potter have blonde hair and brown eyes?" Ernie shook his head, chuckling. "Na, me neither, now, what's your real name" Stan asked, refocusing on Harry.

"D-Damon Hellsergiggle" Harry stuttered. Blond hair, brown eyes; what the hell was Stan talking about? "Well, with a name like that I'd want a new one too, maybe try one less well-known next time, eh kid?"

"Alright Ern, let's go" Stan called, ushering a bewildered Harry to an empty bed. "So where do you want to go?" he repeated as the bus gave a sickening lurch forward and shot into the sky.

"Diagon Alley, please" croaked Harry, just barely keeping down his panic when he caught sight of himself in a mirror stuck to one of the walls, obviously fastened with magic, as it neither swung nor fell as the bus jerked and shot in every which direct. He sat down heavily on his bed to keep from falling over. Blond hair, not quite like Malfoy's, thank God for small mercies, but dirty, dark blond, sat upon his head. Deep blue eyes peered out of his face, which had also changed. As Harry looked closely he could see the similarities; his chin was vaguely the same shape, his eyes where still the same as his mother's, although no longer green. His nose was crooked, just a little, where it had been broken early, but now the blood was gone. And so was his scar. Harry gasped quietly and ran his fingertip over the spot where his lightning bolt ibrand/i had always sat. Gone.

Harry's head whirled. He had wished to be someone else, and now he was. 'What the hell is going on?' he wondered. "Diagon Alley, your stop Damon" Stan called, dragging his trunk and Hedwig out the door. Harry followed quickly and paid his bill. Then he turned and for a moment stopped. He didn't know how long this itransformation/i was going to last, so he couldn't stay at the Leaky Cauldron for fear of being seen. He wandered down the Alley, garnering odd looks from those who were still out doing their shopping. Harry looked down at himself and realised the image he must present. He was still wearing his cousin's ridiculously large shirt and shorts, both so old that in places you could count the threads that made them. And although that blood was gone from his face, it was still drying on his shirt and Hogwarts cloak. Harry quickened his pace, careful not to bump into anyone as he rushed past. He ducked into the first Inn he could find: The Gilded Sword.

It was dark inside, but homey. There was a fireplace so large that Harry could have walked right in without even bending, not that he was really that talk, even now. The fire was crackling happily, casting a flickering yellow light on the sturdy wooden tables and the patrons sitting at them, eating, talking and laughing. The floors were wood, and the brick walls were covered in ornately woven tapestries. It was warm and welcoming. The smell of food reminded him that he hadn't eaten, well, in a long while, and he stomach growled assertively at the sight of the hearty stew that many of the people were enjoying.

Harry set his luggage against the wall near the door and approached the bar. "Hello Dearie" a short, white haired woman called as he approached, "looking for something to eat, or a room?" she asked. Her voice was kind and her smile even kinder. She reminded Harry of someone's grandmother. "Both" he told her when he had reached the bar. "Alright then, dinner down here, or in your room, and what type of room would ya'like?" her warm smile stretched across her face and she had laughter line at the edges of her eyes. "I'd like a single room please Ma'am, and I'm really very tired, so I'd appreciate eating there, if I may" Harry knew he sounded timid, but he really was tired, and too much had happened today. He wanted nothing more than to get a room, eat some supper, take a pain potion or two, and sleep. On top of it all he was starting to get dizzy, the room blurring at the edges.

"Wow, what lovely manners, that's what's missing in your generation ya'know Dearie, good manners. Of course you can eat in your room, let me just nip back and grab you some nice hot stew and fresh rolls and I'll take you on up" she turned and disappeared behind a solid looking wood door labelled 'Kitchen, Staff only'. Barely a moment later she had returned, baring a tray piled high with a large bowl of stew, three rolls, a bottle of butterbeer, and a delicious looking piece of apple pie. "I hope you don't mind Dearie, but I guessed that you might be too young for any real alcohol, so I brought you this" she said, expertly balancing the heavy tray on one hand and gesturing with the other to the bottle. "Of course not," Harry couldn't help but smile, even as it sent a sharp pain lancing through his head, "I've just turned seventeen, though I know I don't look it, but I wouldn't want anything stronger right now anyway." Harry fell silent as Mrs. Natly, as he had learned on the way upstairs, led him into his room.

The room was large, dominated by a large bed with lush green velvet hanging, seemingly hundreds of pillows, and a fluffy green comforter. The walls were painted a tasteful cream that complimented the teak furniture and green dressings on the bed. "The bathroom is through here" Mrs. Natly called, heading into an adjoined room. It was a good size and sensibly decorated in creams and soft browns. It had a tub, vanity, toilet and a shelf with an assortment of necessities, such as bath salts, various cleaning potions, and to Harry's relief, a few small vials of pain potion and some minor healing potions. "If you need any of these go ahead," Mrs. Natly informed him, "the cost will just be added to your bill at the end of your stay" she headed out into the main room with Harry following. "Well, I'll just leave you to eat and relax" she said gently, heading towards the door "Oh, right, I need to know your name Dearie, for the ledger downstairs." She waited; Harry swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He almost wished that he didn't have to lie to this woman. Then again, he figured, he wouldn't be lying, because right now, he wasn't Harry Potter. "Damon Hellsergiggle" he said with a sigh of pretend annoyance with the name. Mrs. Natly barely batted an eye, "Very good Dearie, now get some sleep, you look about ready to pass out" she added in a very maternal tone.

With that she was gone and the door shut behind her. Harry sighed, stretched then winced at the spikes of pain sprouting from his abused ribs. He wandered into his bathroom and grabbed two vials, one healing and one pain potion. He broke the seals and gulped them down, wincing at the bitter tastes. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Blond hair, brown eyes, no scar; he barely recognized himself. Heck, in this body, his hair would even lay flat. Harry smiled and wandered back into the main room. Still smiling he sat down at the table and began to eat the wonderful smelling stew. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.

i Taken from J.K. Rowling's Prisoner of Azkaban. No copyright infringement intended.