One
Five year old Harry has big, naïve green eyes. They're beautiful, bulbous things, unfocused and vacant because Harry can't really see. His Aunt doesn't like to look at him, doesn't like his eyes, but Uncle Vernon's threatened to gouge them out with a pencil a few too many times when those almost unseeing eyes look in the wrong direction. Harry doesn't know why and he's too scared of them all to ask.
When Harry's lonely – which is quite often; his Uncle likes to put him in the cupboard (out of sight, out of mind) – his eyes tear up slightly and he looks around the small space in his 'room', seemingly larger because of his small size, and the darkness presses into him from all sides. He doesn't like it in the cupboard but school isn't much better. Dudley and his friends like to pick on Harry, punch him and it's not unusual to see one of his pretty eyes surrounded by an ugly, dark circle of bruises. Those eyes don't change when the pain comes; it's all he really knows in this life. Pain is real and Harry will take what he can get because he's a bad, bad freak. What does a freak like him deserve, if not pain?
Sometimes, after Uncle Vernon and Dudley have finished beating him and he's left, lying broken and bruised in the desolate darkness, he wonders of what life might've been like if his parents were still alive. Would they love him? Would they even like him? He doesn't think so. A freak like him didn't deserve their positive emotions. He deserves the welts across his back, bleeding and maybe infected and painful. Each time he thinks this, his innocence shatters a little more and his eyes, like shiny mirrors, fracture ever so slightly as the soul inside him breaks that little bit more.