Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe. Nor will I ever. All the characters belong to J.K Rowling.
A/N: Thanks to my BETA: lia2390. Please R&R guys! I'd update faster!
A/N (June 16): I updated this chapter. I overused the word 'boy' a lot, but hopefully I did the right amount of tweaking to make it better!
A lone figure lay with his back on the floor, his eyes closed. Ghostly pale skin, hair covering the eyes, far too thin to be healthy, these describe this boy, this man. He was in pain, much, much pain. He didn't want to live, to feel this, to feel anything. He doesn't deserve this. Too many deaths, too many from the good side. They were gaining power, these people - no these things - for someone who could do so much harm, murder so many, torture innocent, they couldn't be human, could they?
But then, then he would remember, they have sons, and daughters, and they are mothers, and they are fathers. They are people. Different, yes, in the mind, but still, all the same, people.
You too, have killed boy. Remember? You killed Quirrell, you brought him to dust. The basilisk, remember the Chamber? What about the diary? You killed it.
Too much blood was shed, too many deaths to have watched. Someone help me. I can't handle this by myself.
Not a letter yet. There's no Dumbledore to tell them not to anymore, boy. Why would they stop sending them? Wouldn't they realize you need them? No. None have come, boy. They have forgotten you. They have deserted you. Revenge, boy. You were always there for them, but now, now they have left you. Get your revenge, boy.
No, no, I can't... My friends..
Why no letters then, boy. Surely they would think about you, surely they would want to know if you were OK... If they were your friends. You would, wouldn't you. If you were in their places. Wouldn't you.
Of course... But... But they're...Busy.
Forget them. They don't respect you. He, the ginger one, is jealous.
No, no, he isn't.. not anymore, he's gotten over it.
Has he really? The truth. You know the truth, boy, don't lie. Of course he is. You know how he acts. Think, boy. Remember.
Stop it! No, no, you're wrong!
--
Blood. Trickling down his back, smearing across his face. Hand clutches a side, where the red is stained most. It feels, almost, peaceful. He will rest now. Blackness bestows him.
He awakens. Pain finds him, and he screams. The sound of torture and neglect.
He remembers his uncle, shouting. "Freak!", "Keep away from my family!", "How dare treat me this way? I have kept you, you..FREAK, under my roof!"
Revenge. Kill him. He doesn't respect you.
No one respects me.
I do. I know your powers. You are strong.
Yes. I am strong. I am not a child.
Good, boy. Good.
--
Revenge. As the days pass, he stays in his room. If possible, after Vernon leaves for work, and Dudley goes to school, his aunt would toss food through the cat flap. Rarely, though. She was too scared.
Pathetic.
Vernon checked up on his aunt quiet often. After finding her drop a piece of bread through the slot, he got mad, using the stunned onlookers as a means of relieving himself of it. Petunia was ordered to stay in her bedroom for the entire day.
Kill him.
She didn't bring him food anymore.
He got used to it though. His body evolved. He no longer felt the hunger in his stomach. Or he ignored it.
He hated his uncle. One day... One day he would get him back for everything he's done.
Get your revenge, boy.
I will.
--
The voice. Such a voice, that if he had heard it some time ago, he would have feared, but now, he only felt comfort. He knew him. They were of one now. Together they could conquer. Two minds are better than one right?
Yes.
--
Scars. Many, many scars. He ached all over, but knew he had to endure these in order to get stronger.
We must not be weak.
I am not weak.
In ways you are. But I will help you.
Teach me.
Soon.