There was a reason Petunia hated/feared magic a reason she thought all magic folk freaks. A reason Lilly's parents had been so happy to know she was a witch. It was a reason, an excuse for her unnaturalness. Harry's unnaturalness. Dementor&Wraith!Harry SG-HP

This story does not have a beta, hell I don't have a beta at all(really obvious as this my first story) so any volunteer beta's will not only be welcomed with open arms but also much love and appreciation

and I must apologize for the long wait, and no I do not have an excuse other than updating my favorite and 'watch list'

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CH. 3

As the upstairs lights flicked on, Harry was horrified to realize the squashy alive something he'd stepped on was his uncle's face. His uncle had decided to spend the night in front of the door in a sleeping bag, presumably to stop him from doing exactly what he had attempted to achieve, sneaking out to get a letter. He shouted at Harry for over thirty minutes before ordering him to make some tea. Harry shuffled off miserably to the kitchen and by the time he'd got back, the mail had arrived right into his uncle's lap.

Harry bit his lip, half glaring at Vernon as the man ripped up all three letters before grinning maliciously at him. Harry stormed back into the kitchen to continue making breakfast as his aunt and cousin came downstairs. The only good thing about all of this, Harry deduced, was that he hadn't been hit once for his impudence. He had to be careful though, he didn't know how long this letter novelty would last or when their fear would wear off. If he got used to speaking his mind without consequences he could wind up seriously hurt latter on. He'd have to make an effort to curb his tongue, regardless of his temper.

With a sigh Harry clenched his eyes shut and reminded himself that very little was fair in the world. It wasn't fair that the Dursleys treated him so horribly, while favoring Dudley, or that he hurt other people in turn, even if he had to do it in order to survive. There were many cruelties in the world and he had to deal with it. Although, that didn't mean he wouldn't try to get a hold of one of those letters first chance he got.

That day Uncle Verno neglected to go to work, instead staying home and nailing up the mail slot.

"See, " he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails as Harry watched incredulously from the stair well –Dudley was up stairs playing video games– "If they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work Vernon." Petunia spoke timidly.

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," spoke Uncle Vernon trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than thirteen letters arrived for Harry. One he immediately tucked under his mattress when he came back inside. It'd been delivered by a large black and brown owl after he'd teleported straight into the backyard, planning to attempt to meet the mailman before he arrived again. The other letters however, as they couldn't go through the mail slot, had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. It was both baffling and amusing. Harry couldn't wait to read the letter later that night, but he made sure not to show his glee and kept his head down all day, not even once talking back to Dudley let alone is aunt nd uncle.

Uncle Vernon however, did not share Harry's good mood. He had stayed home again and after burning all twelve letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked and jumped at the smallest noises.

Upon reading the letter that night, Harry wanted to cry, or perhaps scream. He couldn't bring himself to doubt magic with all the freakish things he could do, but there was no way any of this could be possible for him, not with the Dursleys as his guardians. They'd never allow it and this magic business was no where near the escape he had always dreamed of but rather a cruel delusion. He wound up tearing apart the letter in his frustration and mixing it amongst the ashes in the fireplace downstairs.

Saturday, things began to get out of hand. And for once it wasn't just the Dursleys –particularly Uncle Vernon who seemed to be slowly loosing his mind– who suffered, Harry did as well. Twenty-four letters found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor. Harry tried vainly not to let his misery show.

Why try so hard?

This magic life the letters proposed could never exist for him. The Dursleys would never allow it and indeed were doing their very best to keep it from happening. With each letter that arrived Harry felt a little more broken in side. Oh he wanted it, but didn't dare, and it killed him to see more and more each day. He wanted to strangle this Dumbledore and McGonagall persons, why wouldn't they stop? It was obvious that the Dursleys were not interested so to speak. Why not just leave him alone?

The Dursleys were slightly freaked out to note that the house had gone 'mysteriously' cold despite it being summer while Harry moped about in his room; his only source of comfort the old pocket watch he'd filched from Dudley some months ago.

Though icicles were soon hanging from the ceiling and the furniture in his room, Vernon dared not make a comment to the freak. He had more pressing matters to deal with, such as those 'blasted' letters. As long as the boy didn't actively give them any trouble he could ignore it. Even if it meant wearing coats in the house and keeping the fire going constantly..

Sunday morning found Vernon tired, but oddly cheerful considering the current situation. "no post on Sundays." he spoke happily as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, "No damn letters today–" something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. In the next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked even as Harry paled drastically, why couldn't they just stop?

"Out! OUT!" Uncle Vernon commanded before he seized Harry around the waist and threw him bodily down the hall. Harry winced at the sickening crack that ensued even as Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut once Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces. Harry tenderly pulled his arm in towards his chest.

Normally this wouldn't have been a factor at all, but given that he hadn't fed in quite a while what with the letter forced quarantine, his body had become a lot more delicate in response to his apparent starvation, especially with his gift constantly on (turning his room into a kind of ice box) and it hadn't gotten bad enough for him to dare feed from the Dursleys yet, especially with things standing as they were.

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Harry didn't even bother to point out his newly broken arm. The bone wasn't protruding the skin so he knew he could weather through it, even if packing would be that much more difficult. He'd had worse after all.

Ten minutes latter and they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. Harry had gingerly wrapped his arm and shoulder with an old scarf to tie it to his chest in a kind of sling. His arm ached more with each jostle of the car but he kept his peace; vainly trying for sleep, knowing that in Morpheus's arms he wouldn't be nearly as miserable. Once again the silver pocket watch he'd filched some months ago was his only source of comfort, however meager it was.

They drove on and on in almost complete silence, even Aunt Petunia did not so much as dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while .

"Shake 'em off . . . shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day and by nightfall Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd missed five television programs that he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up at least one alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. While they were getting rooms Harry had to lie and tell one old woman he'd just sprained his arm. And then that he had a bit of a cold. Apparently he was flushed in the face and running a fever. It was a bit of a shock for him though, he didn't think he'd ever been sick in his life. But at least it explained the dream like quality everything had taken on.

Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp musty sheets; despite all this and Dudley's snoring he'd never slept so good in his life. The next day Harry found that the searing pain in his arm had settled for a dull throb and only flared up when he moved it around to much. Despite the pain he was relieved. He'd never had to deal with serious injury before while so underfed or without immediate access to a person's emotions. He'd never had to deal with something like this before. Injured and weak.

It was the first time that a broken arm had ever been a serious injury for the boy.

For breakfast they ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast much to Dudley's chagrin. Aunt Petunia had a resigned air about her while Uncle Vernon finally seemed to be relaxing. At least until the owner of the Hotel came and knocked on the door.

" 'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? I only got about a hundred of these at the front desk." Harry felt the faintest dredges of horror rise up within him as the lady held up the letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter

Room17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth