Harry lay in his cupboard, an unfamiliar feeling of anger within him. Unsure of where the feelings had come from, or why they had decided to mar his peaceful morning, he concentrated on them, trying to find where they were coming from. He shifted uncomfortably, his body cold and grimy from sleeping on the unyeilding wooden floor.
For some reason enirely unknown to him, the feeling of anger rose. As it did, Harry noticed the beginnings of another headache, which had been occuring more and more frequently. Shaking his head in an attempt to dispell it, he rose into a cross legged position, and breathed deeply, distancing his mind from the pain.
"Get up you worthless freak!" his aunt's shrill harpy's voice cut through his meditation, jarring him violently. With an almost imperceptable groan, Harry realized that his headache had worsened.
"What was that boy?" his aunt asked in a dangerous whisper.
"Nothing," he replied, his mind quite elsewhere. Petunia's hand was fast, and although she was much weaker than her husband, Harry curmpled to the side. 'His' anger grew, but was viciously tamped down as he rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. his aunt muttered loudly about ungrateful freaks as she ascended the stairs to wake Dudley.
Breakfast at the Dursley's was always the same. They were unnaturaly anal as to it's preparation, and god forbid it was ever done incorrectly. The toast was first, medium-dark, eight slices. Two for Petunia, three each for the Dursley men. This was followed by a half dozen eggs, one for Petunia, two each for the remaining Dursleys. The tamato was cut into eight slices, never wedges. Always prepared in a separate pan, medium heat, in a tablespoon of olive oil, lightly peppered, no salt. Once done, Harry was to use the same pan, at high heat, for the hashbrowns, and if these were burned, Harry would receive no food for the day. Lastly, a pound of bacon, cripsy, in the pan used previously for the eggs. If the bacon wasn't crispy, the grease was poured onto the floor of his cupboard.
Thankfully, Harry hadn't mismade breakfast in weeks, and was expecting his usual fare. This was not the case. His aunt explained that he would be allowed to go on the fieldtrip his class was taking, as it would be shameful to the family if the Dursleys appeared to be unable to pay enough to send both boys. As they would be in London, Harry was given the scratchy side of a sponge and used dishwater to clean himself with, and denied his morning food.
It was an ambiguously gray, cloudy Tuesday two weeks before school let out. The buses stood gleaming in the parking lot, and the children were all there loudmouthed, obnoxious selves. With the noteable exceptions of Harry and Dudley's gang, whowas already plotting how to rid themsleves of the freak. Forever
Harry Potter was once again running from his driveling, draffsack of a cousin Dudley Dursley. Normally, Harry would've Dudley and his entourage in the dust, but the school had taken a fieldtrip to London and harry had no idea where to run.
"Get back here freak!" Dudley yelled, "Take your beating like a man!"
Harry was torn. On one hand, he detested fighting, preferring to attempt to settle things in a peaceful manner. On the other he felt a strong urge to turn, fight, and relish in the bloodshed and pain of his enemies. It called out to him, and he found himself thinking, why shouldn't I? Turnabout is far play after all. No! Stop this irrational thinking he thought harshly, violence is almost never the answer. And never, never against the Dursleys.
Dudley's footsteps were getting closer and he knew he had to ditch them, and quickly. He ducked down an alley, praying to every god and goddess he knew that it wouldn't be a dead end. Luckily, it wasn't. Unluckily, Dudley and Co. were still following him. To his right Harry saw a seedy looking bar. He would've sighed in relief, but it was across an intersection that was always busy.
His adrenaline level, which were already high, shot even higher as his panic increased, kicking his fight or flight instinct into hyper drive. He could fight, stand up for himself, and pay Dudley back for years of unwarranted abuse, showing him what pain was. Something within him screamed yes, something malevolent and bloodthirsty. Again he resisted, but this time it was harder. His headache was getting worse, and his vision was blurrier than usual.
He was so focused on his dilemma that he didn't notice Dudley'd caught up to him until a heavy hand clamped down on his right shoulder. He reacted before he could think, his hands flying up, his right clamping down over Dudley's, and his left grabbing the back of his head. He slammed his right heel into Dudley's crotch, simultaneously going up on the ball of his left foot and using that momentum to pitch forward, slamming Dudley into the pavement before rolling forward over the abused body of his cousin,.
Harry ran like the hounds of hell were after him. Which metaphorically, they were. He slid over car hoods and squeaked in between car bumpers to panicked to realize that none of the cars appeared to be moving. His vision gained a reddish tint to it.
Dudley's fat, stupid friends ran after him before they realized that they couldn't see him. They heard the screeching of brakes before their minds were overloaded with pain signals, and they lapsed ino unconciousness.
Harry ran into the bar and quickly found himself a hostage of the Vamps, one of the two largest gangs in London. He was facing a line of constables, who had their guns out, aimed at the gang members behind him. A large, tanned hand was clamped around his left shoulder, digging painfully into the muscle. A knife was at his throat, and Harry instinctively froze, hardly daring to breathe. His headache worsened, and black dots exploded across the red tint of his vision.
"Drop your weapons! If you don't-" the knife tipped upwards, slicing Harry's neck. That "something" within him that he'd been trying to hold back burst forth, a crushing tsunami that destroyed Harry's feeble attempts at resistance. Just before he became unconcious, his headache stopped entirely.
"Goddamnit!" Harry roared, shocking the adults into flinching. Time slowed, and while they were all distracted, Harry smashed the ball of his right foot into his assailant's left, reaching up and grabbing the man's right wrist. He ducked, yanking his shoulder out of the man's grip, and whirled around, fluidly adjusting his grip so that his left hand held the man's forearm, while he palm heeled the knife into the man's heart. He heaved backwards, using the man as a meat shield, and stared at the blood flowing over his hands, so warm and sticky, a glistening ruby red, it'd probably taste delicious, like pudding. He stuck his tongue out to taste it- and time returned to normal.