3 I do not own Harry Potter or anyone from the Harry Potter books/films. If I did, I would not be writing FANfictions about Harry Potter or anyone from the Harry Potter books/films. That is all. 3

Chapter 1

Completely in the Dark…

Harry's stomach growled. His hunger, his constant companion, had awoken him from his sleep. It was just as well though. His uncle would whip him senseless if he, his wife, or his son woke before Harry.

Harry sighed deeply. He knew that he had to get up, but he didn't want to. He had been dreaming, and it had been such a nice dream… So different from his reality…

"Curses!"

Harry smirked. He opened the shutters of the hayloft window and looked down into the yard to find the source of the loud noise.

Ron, Harry's best friend, stood below Harry's window surrounded by piles of horse dung. Harry allowed himself a small laugh as he surveyed the scene. Ron heard his chuckle and looked up, mock-glaring at his best friend.

"Oh", Ron spluttered, trying to sound genuinely angry but failing miserably, "you think this is funny, do you?"

"Just a bit", Harry answered dryly. "How did you manage to knock that wheelbarrow of manure over, anyway?"

Even from twenty feet above him, Harry could see Ron's ears go pink. "Aw, I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to, honestly I didn't! It's just that your good-for-nothing cousin walked out of the house and scared me senseless- you know how I get when he's around, he's so big- and I wasn't watching where I was going so…" Ron continued, but Harry had already stopped listening.

Dudley was awake? Surely not! He never gets up before…

It was only then that Harry noticed the brightness of the sky and sun. It must have been at least eight in the morning! Harry could only remember sleeping this late once in his life.

It had been when he was ten years old, a little over seven years ago. It was Dudley's birthday and Harry had had to stay up extra late to finish cleaning up after Dudley and his rowdy, messy friends. He had finally collapsed on his makeshift bed in the hayloft at two in the morning, only awakening when Uncle Vernon had thrown a bucket of icy water on him. Harry could still remember Uncle Vernon's fury as he stood over him, his hand shaking with rage as he gripped his leather belt. He could feel his childlike terror as Uncle Vernon had raised his belt- it was only ever used for beating Harry and holding up Uncle Vernon's trousers around his meaty girth; the belt hadn't ever carried a sword or knife like it had been designed to, but it had still seen its fair share of blood and violence- to strike…

Harry shook his head and ran his hand through his already untidy hair. He tried to push the horrible memory back where it belonged. It belonged with all the other horrors of Harry's childhood. It belonged in the dark corner of Harry's heart, a place no one ever saw or knew about, not even Ron. Harry's gift was hiding, both literally and figuratively, and he intended to keep it that way.

Growing up, he had always known, although it had never been said outright, that his family didn't consider him a human being. To them, he had no thoughts or feelings and they never wanted to hear anything from him to prove them otherwise. Harry had always just assumed that no one else would take an interest in him either, and even though Ron had befriended him and treated him like his brother, Harry had always been afraid to tell Ron anything too personal, so Ron was understandably confused by Harry's silence and ashen face following Ron's animated story.

"Harry", Ron began, his tone changing immediately from vivacious and comical to somber and anxious, "what is it? If you're worried about the mess, I'll help you clean it up before I go."

Harry just shook his head, not trusting his voice. He closed the shutters and sat down on the worn blanket and mound of hay that served as his bed. He didn't even have to listen to know that Ron would leave after a minute or two if Harry didn't reappear. And he was right. About three minutes after Harry's unexplained departure, Harry heard Ron's footsteps echoing back to him as the lanky boy continued his walk home.

After he was sure that Ron had gone, Harry stood up and dusted the stray pieces of hay off his breeches and out of his hair. Aunt Petunia would slap him soundly if he got any of his "barn filth", as she so lovingly put it, in her house. He then pulled on his boots, sighing in contentment as he was able to move his toes inside the shoes. They were new- well, new to Harry anyway- and they fit a thousand times better than his last pair. Madam Weasley, Ron's mother, had given them to Harry after she had seen how Harry had had to tie up the loose sole of one of his worn out boots with a piece of cord. They had last belonged to Charlie, the second-eldest and shortest of the Weasley clan. Even though the Weasleys shared clothes like they shared oxygen, all of the other Weasley boys had sprouted up so quickly and so much that they couldn't wear Charlie's boots more than a handful of times apiece, so the boots were still in pretty good condition.

Harry quickly reached down to the floor for his patched-up cotton shirt and his threadbare vest. He winced as the movement pulled at his back, still raw and sore from his last flogging two days before. Harry kept going, trying to ignore the pain. He knew that if he did not, his day would turn out to be far worse than it already was becoming. He gingerly pulled his faded white shirt over his injured torso, taking care not to tear open any of his wounds.

As he shook out his vest to check for spiders, Harry's eyes instinctively landed on the intricate stitchery on the inside of the vest. The embroidery, now at least eighteen years old, was faded and slightly loose, but still visible. Harry, having memorized the design years before, didn't need to study the stitching.

A thin, expertly sewn line of what had once been emerald thread swirled and curved to form a "J" and "P" interlocked. Behind the initials was a large, lovely lily. Harry smiled as he ran his thumb over the design, just as he did every morning as he dressed for the day. He would imagine his mother lovingly stitching the inside of his father's vest while she sat by the fire… Or he pictured her stretched out on some faraway seashore next to his father, embroidering with a soft smile on her face as Harry's father played with her long hair…

His fantasies about his long-deceased parents changed depending on Harry's mood or the weather or some other factor. Harry didn't really care that his imaginings never really seemed to blend together to form one perfect story. They just helped him to start his day with a little happiness in his heart. Although he knew it was childish, Harry liked to pretend that the little fantasies he made up in his head were really fond times that he was remembering, even though his brain told him that it was impossible for him to remember anything about his parents. They had died only four months after Harry's first birthday, and Harry had never even seen what they looked like; although Aunt Petunia was Harry's mother's sister, she didn't have a single portrait, sketch, or painting of her younger sister.

His heart throbbed with the familiar ache that he felt when his imagination ran away with him. He knew so little about his parents, about himself… In fact, the only thing that Harry did know was his father's initials: "J.P.". He had only asked what the letters stood for once before, just after he found the vest in a small box of his father's things that was about to be sent to the market. Harry had been four years old at the time, still childlike and innocent.

Harry had stuffed the vest, the only thing he had been able to swipe without Dudley, who was playing with his new toy horse nearby, seeing, into his coat pocket and had continued on his way to take the eggs to the kitchen to Aunt Petunia. After she had snatched them out of his hands, snapping something about him praying that he hadn't broken any of them, Harry had looked up at her curiously.

"Madam?" Harry was never permitted to call his guardians Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

"What is it?" Aunt Petunia didn't look up from her work of cracking the eggs, but her voice did betray her irritation at being spoken to by her unwanted nephew. But Harry, always too inquisitive for his own good, plowed on boldly.

"What was my father's name?"

Even thirteen years later, Harry was glad he hadn't mentioned the vest, for Aunt Petunia surely would have taken it from him. Harry could still see the fear in her eyes at his innocent question.

"W-What did you say?" Her face was pale and her eyes were wide. Harry remembered noticing her hands trembling.

"I", Harry had stammered, unnerved at his aunt's distress over something that seemed so simple to him, "I asked what my father's name was…"

Aunt Petunia's fear suddenly went away, replaced by the cruel hatred that she always showed toward Harry. She slapped him smartly across his face and told him not to ask any questions about his parents ever again.

"They're dead", she'd spat insensitively at the crying child standing beside her. "They don't matter. They never did!"

Then she had slapped him across his other cheek as punishment for crying and ordered him to go back outside until he had collected at least another half-dozen eggs. Harry had spent the whole day outside in the chilly winter air, not daring to try to get back in the warm cottage before he had six more eggs.

Harry didn't know why he could remember that day so vividly, but he supposed it was because that was the day he learned not to ever ask questions about his parents.

So, thirteen years later, Harry still didn't know his father's or his mother's name. In fact, he didn't even know his own surname, his aunt and uncle wouldn't even tell him that. It was almost as though they were trying to make sure he wasn't found, but Harry had dismissed that idea years ago. Being "found" required being searched after, and Harry didn't know anyone outside his home village of Little Whinging and the Dursleys were the only family he had in the world. No, they were probably just trying to make sure that Harry had to slave for them forever. If no one knew who he was, then no one could challenge the Dursleys' claim to Harry.

The idea of working for his aunt and uncle for the rest of his life pained Harry a little, but not much. He had never known anything but his enslaved existence with the Dursleys. The degradation and abuse of his life had become a sad norm, and Harry didn't expect anything else.

His morning reverie over, Harry shrugged on his vest, tried his best to smooth down his hair- he couldn't tell if he had done a proper job because he didn't have a mirror- folded up his blanket and laid it below the loft window, and climbed down the ladder, playfully jumping the last two ruts just as he had done since childhood. He had barely landed on the hard dirt that made up the barn floor before a large hand clamped down on Harry's hair, yanking him backwards towards his attacker.

"SO THIS IS WHERE YOU'VE BEEN ALL MORNING!" Uncle Vernon bellowed, grabbing the back of Harry's shirt. Harry bit his tongue till he tasted blood to keep from crying out; Uncle Vernon had purposely hit Harry's maimed back when he took hold of Harry's shirt.

"YOU'VE BEEN SLEEPING, HAVEN'T YOU, BOY?" Uncle Vernon's breath smelled foul as he shouted in Harry's face.

Harry wanted to look down, anything to shy away from his uncle's purple, raging face, but Uncle Vernon's vice-like grip on Harry's thick mess of hair kept his head pulled back.

"Yes, sir", Harry mumbled. Over the years, Harry had figured out that if he simply agreed with whatever Uncle Vernon accused him, no matter how difficult it was at times, things moved along a lot faster and they hurt a lot less.

"USELESS SCUM!" Uncle Vernon shoved Harry down to the ground.

Harry had barely enough time to push himself onto his hands and knees before his uncle's large, booted foot collided with Harry's backside, sending him flying forward.

"Get inside", Uncle Vernon ordered. His volume lowered, but his tone of disgust did not, "and see what your aunt needs done. While you've been lazing about in here, she's had to do everything this morning!"

Harry jumped up as quickly as he could, knowing that Uncle Vernon's temper was about to spike again.

"Yes, sir!" Harry bowed quickly to his uncle before breaking out in a run to get away from him before his unexpected luck ran out; he had never been dismissed so easily after messing up.

When he was halfway to the cottage, Harry heard Uncle Vernon start bellowing once again.

"IF I COME INSIDE AND PETUNIA SAYS THAT YOU MISBEHAVED, I'LL CHANGE MY MIND AND WHIP THE HIDE OFF YOUR BACK, BOY!"

Harry ran even faster. He knew his uncle, and he knew that his threats were never idle.

Vernon Dursley watched the boy enter the cottage, and felt a sense of dread solidify in his gut.

The boy had always resembled his father, but their similarities were becoming uncanny. Everything he had done to keep the boy from learning the truth would be in vain if anyone that had ever known Petunia's dead brother-in-law saw the boy.

Vernon tried to tell himself that he was worrying over nothing. The boy didn't even know his own surname! He had no idea who his parents were, or even what they looked like. If a stranger asked the boy if he was who they thought he was, the boy would deny it, and the stranger would think that he had made a mistake and would apologize. If a passing traveler questioned the boy about his identity, the boy would sheepishly tell the traveler that he didn't know, and the traveler would smile sympathetically at the boy they assumed was the village idiot.

These reassuring thoughts made Vernon Dursley's face spread into a grin of satisfaction and his anxiety fade away. He and his wife had done well- the boy was completely in the dark and Vernon was going to keep it that way.

Please R/R. (: Thanks.

AN: Just so there's no confusion, this story is set in medieval times in an imaginary kingdom that I have yet to name and there is no magic. Sad, I know, but I royally stink at writing magic stories… It's going to be really awkward if you guys think I royally stink at writing non-magic stories, too… Oh, well, can't be helped. 3