A/N: Howdy all! This is my first little shot at writing FanFic, and while I am no JK Rowling, I do indeed hope that you might like the idea of a story like this. I mean... I'm gonna be writing it anyways, but if others enjoy it that is always a plus. Review what you like,hate, etc. and if you want to flame me, do so because it raises the review counter. ;)

Either way, I own nothing of Harry Potter nor the publications, or surprisingly the movies either. Enjoy. Or don't.

Two Fates: Preview

If one was to look at Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, they would likely find a well-kept home, refined and almost immaculate. However a closer eye, or rather, one that was well-adjusted to the going-ons of Privet Drive would likely find more than a little off about Number 4.

The flowers in the garden bed seemed to drift from their stems over the walkway to the house when the wind blew. The blades of grass taller and shorter than their neighbors, rising and falling like small green waves, bristling in the breeze. The front patio had not been swept, evidence of fallen leaves and dirt that peppered the front door.

And if one was to look in through the kitchen window, which sat with a perfect view towards the rest of Privet Drive, one that Petunia Dursley often used for spying on her well-kept neighbors for her weekend gossip group, they would find dirty dishes in the sink, and a variety of messes found on the surrounding counters, between scraps of trash, and open envelopes peppered around here and there.

Something was very abnormal at Number 4 indeed.

Taking in the downtrodden streets, Harry observed the passing cars as they honked this and that; beggars on the streets yelling here and there as passerbys ignored them, continuing on their walk lunch. It was almost surreal. How you could get so caught up in your own life that you couldn't see all that was going on around you. Others so obsessed with their own lives that they cared for no others than themselves.

Was it selfish?

Harry decided it didn't really matter in the end. Turning onto the walkway to the Tower Bridge over the Thames, Harry fumbled with his hands in the pockets of his too-large shorts. Pulling up the corner of his faded shirt, which had fallen down his shoulder as his journey continued.

The sun beat down upon Harry's back, sweat forming on his brow as he walked and walked, unused to endurance, instead of sprinting where his specialty lay. A lesson from Dudley from the countless rapid chases.

As people hurried past him and traffic flew by, a tour ship sailed beneath the bridge. Life moving on.

How could a young boy, only 10 years old, barely enough to be on his own, was nothing more than a passing glance? No concerned stranger, no questioning officer. Nobody has cared all of Harry's life; why would they start now?

A random woman, dragging her two children by hand, had nothing except a glance for a lonesome child, walking through London all on his own. Didn't she know something was wrong? Would she even care if she knew?

No, Harry decided. It was quite unlikely that anyone quite cared. Why would anyone care about a poor, bespectacled child? A problem child for sure. An abnormal freak. A nobody who meant nothing.

Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.

The security guard was looking at him strangely. As if he was out of place. A split second on indecision. Does he know how close he is? But the guard just shrugs and lets Harry by. No questioning a small child wanting to go to the top of the Tower Bridge.

The elevator up is crowded and full, but nobody talks to him. Just pushes him out of the way to make room for the stroller. To make room for those so obviously better than him.

The view would have been magnificent. Harry dreams of what it must be at night. With the city lights shining into the sky, the sun settings on the water as you overlook the city. Shining spotlights and magnificence. Instead, smog fills up the view and the vicious sun continues to beat down. Nothing compared to the petunia gardens at 2, but blistering none-the-less.

The details seem to blend and blur together, until nothing matters besides the railing in front of him, and the endless depths below.

Short steps from an even shorter, thinner boy take Harry to the railing. A glass floor beneath as you see the cars run past. Day after day. Nothing really matters does it?

Shaking dreams of green lights and maniacal laughter fill Harry's thoughts. Flying motorcycles and the hope of food in the morning. Mysterious and magical possibilities. Thoughts that he has long dismissed as being of another world. Pointless. Useless. What point is the joy of the story besides an escape from the world that seems meaningless?

Rolling up his sleeves you see the long slices running across the wrists of the small boy. An unholy marking upon the pale complexion. Scars overlapping and hidden from view. Some new. Most not.

Short, shaky breaths seem to collapse out of his lungs. The bloody knife in his pocket leaving long gashes upon his hand. Bloody handprints on the railing. One of the tourists looks his way, but nothing more than a glance.

You can do it Harry. It isn't hard. Really it shouldn't be. You took a bus here, you walked all the way up. You're stronger than this.

Painful lashes upon his soul, seeming to tear his heart and mind apart as he contemplates what to did the kids at school say? Words that should never come out of some child's mouth. Dudley egging them on and Piers yelling the words in his face. What were they?

"Kill yourself"

Harry jumped.