When Harry James Potter had turned six years old, he had died (for the first time that is) at the hand of his uncle Vernon, who was a rather large and ugly man. For as long as he could remember he had lived at number 4 Privet Drive, with Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and his cousin Dudley. From the outside it was a perfectly normal family, two loving parents and their doted on son, but this was only because the youngest of the family, one Harry Potter was largely unknown to the rest of the world, or at least the rest of Surrey. Now it wasn't as if he had been a bad child, an evil one, or even a particularly needy child, but rather he was a little different.
You see, Harry Potter was someone special, someone who could do extraordinary things. Someone who could do magic. Unfortunately for Harry not everyone was pleased with his talents and with what he could do and two of these such people were Petunia and Vernon Dursley.
Harry had always lived in the Cupboard Under the Stairs, a small quiet room (most of the time) that both Vernon and Dudley were too big to get into and Petunia just outright refused. For this reason the Cupboard Under the Stairs had become somewhat of a safe haven, despite it's cramped conditions and dusty interior. Being far too small for any type of bed, he slept on a mattress that was old and lumpy, with a ratty old duvet that (even though Harry was a short and skinny thing) was too small to cover his feet if he laid out straight.
The morning of his death had been like any other. He had woken at 5 minutes past 5 as Aunt Petunia banged on the door, making dust and spiders fall into his face and been shoved to the bathroom to clean and get ready for the day. One brief, cold shower later and a trip to the loo he pulled on the old, loose clothes that his cousin had once wore and made his way down to start on breakfast, not realising that today was his birthday. Being summer, the sun was already high in the sky and it was beginning to grow warm, even so his cousin and uncle still demanded a full English breakfast with bacon and eggs and sausage and toast.
Harry, as already mentioned, was a short thing, malnutrition and living in a cupboard stunting his growth already, and as such he could barely see over the stove to fry the eggs and meat and his Aunt would never give him a stool to stand on or even do it for him. At number 4 Privet Drive Harry Potter existed only as a slave, cleaner, cook, gardener and plaything for the other three residents of the house, as he was clearly not good enough for anything else.
Unlike you and I, Harry had grown up with this though and so thought nothing of it, even when it hurt as Vernon beat him with his hands and his belt. Something must have gone wrong that morning, or perhaps fate had been against him from the start because Vernon came down in a terrible mood, which was typical for Monday morning anyway, but today seemed to be worse. Already his fat face was screwed up in a look of anger and hatred, a dark seething red coming across his cheeks and one could just imagine steam whistling out of his ears. Truthfully it was a rather funny sight, his weight wobbling about all over the place and his large hands curled into fists but Harry knew better than to say anything, better than to even look at his Uncle.
Still everything was okay, bar the insults and sneering at the raven haired boy until his cousin Dudley came racing down the stairs. Dudley was similar to Vernon in many ways, already taking after his father with chubby cheeks and a wobbling stomach and of course his nasty ways, especially to his cousin. The opposite to Harry he was rude and demanding, ordering his parents around with his nose upturned and if needed with his fists, so it was quite odd that they always gave into him.
"Come on freak, we want our breakfast today not next week. Do I have to beat the lesson into you again?" That was Vernon's voice, gruff and rough as he glared at Harry who was quickly plating up the cooked food. Five fat sausages almost the size of his Uncle's fingers, ten strips of bacon still sizzling from the pan, normal toast, French toast, beans and egg, it was lucky the plates were large because the food just kept piling on and if Vernon had been even more of a dog than man then he already was he would have been panting and drooling for it. Unfortunately Vernon was a man, and an impatient one at that, who grumbled when things were not done as soon as he ordered it.
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir." Harry's hands wobbled, the plate heavy with the amount of food on it and he took careful steps across the kitchen to the table, which was of course when Dudley entered the room. As usual it was a hurried entrance, the boy not once looking where he was going and inevitably he ran straight into Harry, sending the child and the overloaded plate of food flying, one lone sausage hitting Vernon Dursley in the face and sliding down onto his perfectly ironed white shirt. Dudley and Petunia hurried out of the kitchen and Harry swallowed nervously, taking a small step back.
"Potter! You little freak of a child, you disgusting rat, you!" His Uncle was furious, face turning from red to purple to a stark white and his watery blue eyes bulged out of his head as he took labouring steps towards Harry. When he was close enough he shot his hand out and it wrapped around Harry's throat, cutting off the air supply to the boy. In hindsight, he wished he had passed out then. Vernon had been unusually creative that day, Harry thought, taking the sharp knife from the counter and slashing wildly with one hand, his other beating the poor boy within an inch of his life. His glasses had smashed into emerald eyes, leaving his vision blurry and bloody and his arm hung limply at his side. Vernon had pressed his face into the cooker, burning the skin off of his cheeks and making him wail brokenly – he wasn't quite sure when it all ended but he was grateful when it did.
Death had been soft - almost too soft - and peaceful, so painfully quiet, that his head almost began to hurt. Still, it wasn't a bad place to be, as the bruises on his arms, his legs, all over his (too small) body, no longer hurt, and though it was white, he could see easily. Death, was, he decided, not at all, as scary, as people made it seem, after all Uncle Vernon was far scarier than being dead. Dead people couldn't be hurt or broken or starved, they simply were dead and Harry found that almost comforting. If he was dead he would never again face Uncle Vernon's beatings, or Dudley's, which were less terrifying but still painful. Maybe he would have a proper bed (If dead people slept) rather than a lumpy mattress. And his parents were dead too - perhaps now he would have a family who loved in.
Back on track, he had not found death, scary, in the slightest, not after having dealt with the Dursley's for five whole years. He knew he had lived with his parents, until he was one, so, simple maths dictated that he had been with his Aunt and Uncle, and disgustingly obese cousin, for only five. Death, was so pleasant, he found, that when he woke up, under piles of black bags, that stunk enough to made him gag, laying across the seats, of what might have once been a car, he was very upset. Enough, that, after pushing the bags off him, with the little strength he had, he tried to will himself to death again. Now, you and I both know this is impossible, however, so is coming back to life, for no reason, after being dead for at least a day, so, it wasn't too much to ask. Why he had come back to life after dying was a mystery to one young Harry Potter who had no idea he had already done it once before.
It didn't work, however, and he found himself, once again waking, this time with a little more strength, from the darkness that was his exhausted sleep, and peering around the dump, with squinted eyes, for, he no longer had his glasses. All in all, it lived up to its name, being a dump, through and through, but the car, still had a roof, that let in little water, and the seat he lay across, was nothing more than a bit smelly, but far more spacious than the cupboard under the stairs, at number 4 Privet Drive. And so, he settled down, and like Harry James Potter always had, got on with it, because after all there was nothing else for him to do. He had no idea where he really was or how to get back to the Dursley's even if he had wanted to. All there was, was the car and the leather seats and him.
He didn't see the Dursley's again after that, and instead, found himself in the rather large dump, that would, for a little while longer, become his home.