**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT nor will I ever own Harry Potter.**

The infirmary was dark; the only source of light was that of the moon. Its silver rays were pouring through the row of windows across the room, illuminating three sleeping faces. It was late, maybe three or four in the morning if Harry had to guess, and nobody else was present. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, everyone was asleep…yet despite the late hour Harry couldn't relax his mind enough to drift back off into sweet oblivion.

Harry's gaze was locked on his limbs that were illuminated just enough for him to see the scars that marred his pale skin. A large gash was on his right palm from some injury he had received in his first year, trying to save the damned Sorcerer's Stone. Several burns littered different places on both hands from "learning" how to cook for the Dursley's. On the back of his right hand, carved so many times that it scarred permanently, were the words "I must not tell lies" from Umbridge. At the crook of his right elbow was a large circular, purplish scar about the size of a grapefruit; that had been from being bitten by the Basilisk. On his left forearm was a long pale line that ran parallel to the main vein that ran through his arm and connected to his hand; he had gotten that from Wormtail in his fourth year.

That ended the many scars he had received while in Hogwarts, the scars that the world saw. A long jagged gash on his thigh was bright and pink from where Dudley had pushed him through a window. What he had come to realize was that the scars he had used accidental magic to help heal were the ones that scarred the worst. As proven by the horizontal stripes on Harry's right side from the belt Vernon had favored when Harry was younger. On his left pectoral was a circular burn no bigger round than a muggle cigarette, because it was from a muggle cigarette. Vernon had drank a bit too much one weekend when Petunia and Dudley had been away. He had drank for so long that he still hadn't gone to bed when he decided he was hungry at five fifteen in the morning. His way to wake the freak up was putting out his cigarette on Harry's chest.

There were more, little cuts that scarred that Harry couldn't even begin to remember. The Dursley's had beaten him so long most of it was a blur…and they were the only family he had left. Yet again he would be forced back to that tiny room for weeks on end. Harry could already feel the panic that came whenever they stuffed him in there, how the walls felt like they were closing in and make his chest constrict.

Harry's eyes slipped closed and he lay back down. He would talk to Dumbledore tomorrow; try to make the old man see how dire it was that he not return to Privet Drive. However, just the thought of Dumbledore sent his thoughts swirling.

Dumbledore had killed his last chance of ever leaving the Dursley's for good. He had known about the prophecy, Harry knew this. Back in his first year he had asked to know but Dumbledore had kept that knowledge from him. If he had known…If Dumbledore had told him about the prophecy this wouldn't have happened. He would never have gone and Sirius would never have been killed.

It was Dumbledore's fault.

It seemed like every bad thing that happened to Harry was Dumbledore's fault. Dumbledore had left Harry with magic hating muggles. He had let Sirius rot in Azkaban with no trial and he was the head of the Wizengamot! Dumbledore forced him to return to the Dursley's for more beatings and starvation every year while he could have been safe at the Weasleys, here at Hogwarts, or at Grimmauld.

Harry wanted to be angry; he wanted his blood to boil. But all he felt was numbing shock and overwhelming exhaustion. Soon enough his eyes had slipped closed and he drifted off to a place where Dumbledore couldn't touch him.

The following day was full of potions and check-ups, watching the others get treated, and longing desperately to run as far away as possible. As it was when he was finally released the relief was quickly killed by Madame Pomfrey's orders to go to Dumbledore's office. That was when the first tendril of anger reared its head. So Harry walked, with his jaw clenched and his fists balled up, to the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office.

Now here he was, standing alone in the large office full of odd devices that puffed and dinged waiting for Dumbledore to enter. The portraits chattered but Harry didn't listen, they sounded a million miles away as he sat, glaring at the Headmaster's empty chair. Green flames in the fireplace roared to life and out stepped the man, smiling pleasantly. Anger morphed into white hot rage and hatred, licking through him the like FiendFyre upon first glance.

"Ah Harry," Dumbledore sat down behind his large oak desk and folded his hands. Dumbledore's calm, nonchalant demeanor was like throwing gasoline onto Harry's burning rage and Harry couldn't sit any longer so he stood. Dumbledore raised his eye brows. "You'll be happy to know that none of your fellow students will suffer lasting damage from last night's events."

It didn't make Harry happy. He didn't want to talk about anyone else, didn't want to be as selfless as he always was. Harry wanted to be selfish, to talk about him and how utterly pissed he was. But Dumbledore continued, "Nymphadora Tonks will need to spend a little time in St. Mungo's but is expected to make a full recovery."

Harry's jaw was clenched so hard he was afraid his teeth might shatter. Itching appeared just under his skin and seemed to grow in intensity with every breath he took. So he didn't reply, instead he stared at the carpet, trying to will away this maddening itching that had continued to grow with vigor.

A weary sigh from Dumbledore fed his flames of rage, "I know how you are feeling Harry."

"No," Harry ground out through clenched teeth, unable to unclench them because the second he did he knew he would go off, "you don't."

"There is no shame in what you are feeling Harry," said Dumbledore. "On the contrary…the fact that you can feel like that is your greatest strength." As if it had been in a cocoon, Harry's rage broke through and transformed into a lethal, homicidal fury that he couldn't control. His hands started to shake and somewhere, deep in his gut the weirdest pulling sensation occurred. The itching intensified a hundred fold and Harry turned to face Dumbledore.

"My greatest strength?" Even in his murderous, scarlet tinted haze Harry could hear the sheer magic in his voice, distorting it. "You haven't got a clue…you have no idea…"

Dumbledore's eyes widened for a split second before he leaned forward, "What don't I know?"

And that was the last straw, Harry's last bit of self-control was thrown out of the window and he grabbed the nearest thing to him, a lunascope. He threw it so hard it shattered into thousands of pieces against the back of the fireplace. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THEM. I AM NOT FEELING WHATEVER IT IS YOU THINK I AM!"

Harry grabbed handfuls of little silver gadgets and threw them against the wall, shattering them and scaring the portraits. Their fear seemed to bleed into Harry, making him stronger, "I HATE YOU! YOU KILLED MY LAST CHANCE AT LEAVING THE DURSLEY'S, MY LAST CHANCE AT ANY SORT OF FREEDOM! YOU KEPT HIM LOCKED AWAY KNOWING THAT HE DIDN'T HAVE A TRIAL AND YOU NEVER TRIED TO GIVE HIM ONE ONCE YOU KNEW HE WAS INNOCENT!" Harry was panting yet he kicked over tall piles of books.

"Harry there was noth-"

Lies…more fucking lies…Harry had had enough of Dumbledore's lies. "YOU'RE THE HEAD OF THE WIZENGAMOT! YOU KEPT HIM LOCKED AWAY BECAUSE YOU WANTED TO KEEP ME AT THE DURSLEY'S! YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DO TO ME EVERY SUMMER; YOU KNOW THEY BEAT AND STARVE ME! YOU WANTED TO KEEP ME MALLAEBLE SO THAT I DON'T RUN OFF AND JOIN VOLDEMORT. YOU NEED ME TO DEFEAT HIM."

Harry grabbed the large tin full of candy and through it at Dumbledore's head. It missed and broke through the window behind him.

"Harry listen to yourself, I would never- I care about you-"

"YOU ONLY CARE ABOUT THE BOY-WHO-LIVED AND PREPARING HIM FOR THE FINAL SHOWDOWN. FIRST YEAR YOU TESTED ME WITH THE SORCERER'S STONE. SECOND YEAR IT WAS THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS, FOURTH YEAR YOU FORCED ME INTO THE TOURNAMENT. IF YOU'RE NOT SETTING ME UP FOR YOUR SICK TESTS YOUR SENDING ME BACK TO ABUSIVE MUGGLES." With every word Harry shouted the pulling sensation grew until on the word "muggle" Harry felt his magic explode. It shot out of him and exploded like a bomb, destroying anything it touched. Dumbledore's desk was cracked in half, the bookshelves were knocked over, portraits were flung across the room, and papers were shredded and scattered about the room like confetti.

Harry was panting hard, his fists still clenched, and glaring at Dumbledore who was staring at him in surprise.

"I've had enough," Harry said in a calm, cold voice that he had never heard himself use before. He couldn't look at Dumbledore so he stared somewhere over the man's shoulder. "I'm done. You've taken everything from me; my childhood, my last family, my future…I'm taking it back. While you're sitting around the fire in my dead godfather's house I'll be being beaten for breathing. That's how you treat your "savior"? Go find yourselves a new one."

Harry turned, not looking back, and walked out of the door. The junk that littered his path moved itself as he stormed out, not bothering to even slam the door. When Harry was out in the hallways his fury dulled down into white hot anger lurking just below the surface. Shock had taken place as the predominant emotion.

He couldn't believe how he had just gone off like that. Harry had known he was angry but he hadn't even thought about some of the things he said consciously. And then he had told Dumbledore, in no uncertain terms, to find a new savior. Had he really quit? Could he quit?

What would he do without the order? Voldemort's words seemed to reverberate through his skull, sending trickles of fear licking through him.

You will lose everything.

But hadn't he already lost everything? What more was there to lose? Harry Potter had nothing, absolutely nothing, left to lose.

Except his life.

Even if he had nothing left, Harry knew he could not let himself be killed. The idea of just offering himself up as he had in the past for his many heroics sent a bolt of fear down him. There was still so much he wanted to do.

If only he could be somebody else…to not have to worry about going to Diagon and being killed or hunted down by Voldemort. He had no doubt Dumbledore would also search for him when he realized Harry was serious about not caring anymore.

But was Harry serious? Could he really not care about what happened to the rest of magical Britain? A very dark, disturbing thought crept in; they had not cared about him. They had ridiculed him all year. They had turned on him when he had tried to warn them about Voldemort. They had slandered and belittled him all year…tried to persecute him when he had saved his cousin from Dementors.

Wasn't this just what they deserved?

It might have been wrong but Harry didn't care. Let the thousands of witches and wizards who had actually finished school take care of themselves instead of depending on a sixteen year old boy. It wasn't as if they were children, they should be able to take care of themselves.

As the Hogwarts Express neared the train station Harry couldn't help but feel isolated even in the cramped compartment full of his friends and year mates. With each tug of the train the dread and bitterness seemed to grow and spread until Harry was completely intoxicated. His lips were twisted into a scowl and with each laugh or boisterous call from the other teens Harry's scowl twisted into an uncharacteristic and bitter sneer. He couldn't help but watch them through envious and resentful eyes as they lounged around and laughed so freely, so carelessly. Harry hated their excited grins and talks of vacations with their families. Talk of places to visit, annoying habits of siblings, overbearing mothers, and strict grandmothers left Harry silently seething in the corner in the warm sun's rays.

Harry would give anything to shut them up and kick his fellow Gryffindors out. He would give anything to not feel this raging jealousy or the clenching fear in his gut. These kids had no idea what it was like to return every summer to hatred and violence. They had no idea what it was like to be locked in a bedroom and forgotten about for days on end and be thankful for the reprieve of abuse. They had no idea what it was like to be kicked and lashed and hunted by muggles for being a freak.

None of them had just lost their only remaining hope for escape.

With the loss of Sirius Black came much more than the loss of a godfather, because in all honesty they hadn't known each other very well. No, it was what Sirius Black stood for that was so devastating for Harry to lose. To Harry, Sirius had been a beacon of hope. Hope that one day Harry would not have to go back to the muggles, hope that he had someone who cared about him and not the Boy-Who-Lived. The illusion, for it had been an illusion, had been shattered and now Harry was forced to confront reality as the illusion laid in shards at his feet.

In the light of the sun Harry could see the scar on his palm that he had received from one of his many encounters with Voldemort and the man's voice drifted through his mind again as it had countless times in the last few days, 'You will lose everything.' At the time Harry had not believed those words. After all Voldemort was the bad guy and the bad guy always lost. Now Harry felt the hopelessness he should have felt when that promise had been uttered, after all no one had ever turned down the Dark Lord and remained unscathed. His naivety had cost him everything.

"Oh no," Hermione's voice pulled Harry out of his thoughts and he looked over at her.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked her as he looked up from his Herbology book.

"I confiscated this off a Ravenclaw," she pulled out a shrunken book from her pocket, "and forgot to dump it in the slot."

Harry uncurled his legs and sat up, "I'll do it Hermione, I need to stretch my legs anyway." She gave him an unsure look and hesitated.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah I got it." She handed Harry the palm sized book and he stuck it in his pocket as he got up. It was the perfect excuse to get away from the excited whispers of happy summers. He hadn't made it halfway up the train when he heart dropped and all thoughts of the book in his pocket vanished though, the Hogwarts Express had arrived at King's Cross.

The fear so naturally ingrained into Harry made his limbs shaky and he practically shoved people out of his way to get back to his trunk. If he made the muggles wait it would only make his return worse and without the fear of Sirius Black to hold them back…Harry shuddered and shoved a first year out of the way.

Harry had just crossed the barrier into the muggle world when he felt his anger explode. There, pushing his purple faced uncle up against a brick wall, was Mad-Eye Moody. Even from where he stood Harry could hear the deep growls and blunt threats being snarled from his old Defense professor. No…How dare they?! NO!' Harry wanted desperately to curse his ex-professor, to yell at him and make him realize this would only make it worse. If you truly want to help don't make me go back.

After another minute Moody pushed away and made his way towards Harry and he was too pissed off to unclench his jaw when the older wizard promised that the muggles wouldn't touch him this summer. With that he was gone and Harry was left with very, very angry muggles.

The car ride back to Private Drive had been tense and silent, Dudley's vicious smirks had been nothing less than threatening and Harry wished he were anywhere but there. He would have given anything to be at headquarters or at the Burrow, or even dueling with Voldemort. But as Vernon grabbed Harry's neck and dragged him up the stairs he was powerless to stop the fat muggle without magic.

"You think you and your freaks can threaten me?" Vernon's voice was outraged and growling.

"No-"

"Shut up boy. I'll show you just how scared I am of your freakish threats." With that Harry was thrown into his bedroom and he landed on the floor with loud thud. He hadn't even had time to comprehend that he was on the floor before Harry felt the sharp sting in his abdomen where Vernon had kicked him.

"Who's to stop me now huh boy? Not your murderer godfather," another kick was delivered and Harry saw stars, "not your freakish friends," Harry wheezed as another kick hit his ribs and he heard a cracking sound. "And most of all not your freakish teachers." With one last kick Harry was rolled on his back and he heard the door slam shut. After all eight locks were in place Vernon stomped down the stairs, leaving Harry struggling to breathe on the floor.

The dust on the floor had been riled up and Harry tried not to breathe it in but failed miserably and his lungs burned with the need to cough. His chest flared in pain and his head spun but all Harry could do was curl up and bite back a sob that was trying to break free.

It wasn't until the sky had turned black that Harry finally moved, he dragged himself up and peeled off his clothing before climbing into the rickety bed.

The next morning Harry found his abdomen peppered in purplish bruises and his door still locked. Hedwig was no doubt taking her time in flying back, not that he blamed her he would have done the same. So Harry looked around his room, sighing as he realized he had only his clothes from yesterday, the rest were in his trunk that was no doubt locked in the cupboard beneath the stairs

Once he was dressed Harry did what he did every summer, he pushed his magic out and willed it to clean away the layers of dust that had accumulated over the year. At least now he wouldn't be inhaling dirt and coughing, his chest hurt enough already without that adding on to it. With a heavy sigh Harry put yesterday's clothes back on and looked around. He was too old now to get any enjoyment out of the broken toys that he had piled up in the corner of the room. The eight books on the small shelf on the wall above the desk had been read so many times he could quote them by heart. Harry stuck his hands in his pockets in frustration and was surprised to feel something hard. He pulled it out and let out a curse as he realized he too had forgotten to dispose of the confiscated book.

With a wave of his hand the book reverted to its normal size and Harry almost dropped it as the book grew heavier. On the cover in gold lettering was Transfiguration Level 4 and he nearly snorted when he opened the cover and found Grasping Magic pgs 1-220, Dirty or Not pgs 221-550, and Rituals for Novices pgs 551-620. All three books had been written by a man named Alerick Durante and none sounded very dangerous.

Harry wondered what he had been expecting, maybe something along the lines of How to Kill, Maim, and Torture or Dark Arts Unveiled, maybe even a Why You Should Support Dark Lord Now! With a snort he tossed the book on the bed and wondered if he should crack it open and find out why it was worthy of confiscation.