A/N: This fiction is a song-fic from the song "Concrete Angel" by Martina McBride… though I did change the lyrics… well, most of them. Enjoy your read!
Disclaimer: I do not own the "Harry Potter" characters or world nor do I own the theme behind the song "Concrete Angel"
Concrete Angel
He stands alone in a dark, crowded place,
Nobody knows the neglection and abuse he's been a victim of.
Wearin' worn and torn clothes that are hand-me-downs,
He hides the bruises and cuts with oversized clothing.
Oh…
A scrawny teenager of fifteen years stood desolately at the top of the staircase, listening on as his family laughed as they shared stories together on the remember when's. As the boy listened on, he thought back to his younger days and tried to recall what he'd done so wrong to receive the loathing he continued to receive from his Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin. He knew his magic played a great deal in it, but at times the boy blamed himself. If he wouldn't had accepted his invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, then maybe the only family he had left alive would have accepted him…? He would never know now, and dwelling on the past wasn't worth all this heartache.
Whenever Harry arrived in Hogsmeade, he'd always head to Leaky Cauldron to rent a room for the night. He would always receive glares of worship and admiration. People treated him like he was their God. He must have always worn a believable mask since no one ever seem to catch the glimpses of distrust, pain, longing, envy, and anger that he held deep in the depths of his soul… his eyes. Not even the Weasleys ever saw the truth he hid from beneath the mask. Dressed in ripped, faded jeans with shirts too long and hulking, ripped almost to shreds, Harry never kept his head bowed. He held his head high with pure dignity that he knew his parents had given him since day one.
No matter how many aches and pains, bruises and cuts; Harry would always conceal them through his bulky clothing and the ever-glorious concealment charm that he had read about the first night at Hogwarts during his first year there. He thanked God everyday for that charm; for if it weren't for that charm, Harry's darkest secret would have be revealed five long years ago…
A mother wonders but she doesn't ask,
It's hard to tell what is abuse or a façade.
Buryin' the burden of a secret and violent storm,
Sometimes he wonders why he was ever born.
The mother of seven, Molly Weasley stared deeply into the dark, bright, emerald green eyes of the raven-haired boy. She knew of the mistreatment that Harry endured – which consisted of strenuous labour and an excessive unloving atmosphere of the Dursley home – but Molly couldn't go and accuse the Dursleys of child abuse if the situation was false. What Molly wouldn't do to protect Harry was slim to none, but she couldn't start pointing serious accusations out at other people she barely knew. She simply didn't have the evidence. Harry never had any bruises and his eyes always seemed vibrant enough, not that of an abused child's. If she ever found out her adoptive child was being purposely hurt by those damned, blasted Muggles, Molly would see to it that the Dursleys received proper punishment for ever placing an abusive hand on Harry's back.
Carrying the weight of the Wizarding World on his shoulders was one thing, but carrying the burden of his secret storm about his home life overwhelmed him. Harry did everything in his power to keep his home life to himself, but as his self-esteem began to decrease, his will for living lessened as well. Harry soon found himself wondering why he was ever born and why he had survived the killing curse when he was just a baby. He soon found himself contemplating life and death.
Through the slaps and the burns,
He stands still as a statue,
In a world he has become accustomed to.
But his faith gives him hope,
And he flies to his parents' loving embrace where he's loved.
Concrete Angel…
The people closest to Harry had just learned of his relatives' mistreatment toward him, but no one knew of the extent that the mistreatment breached. The day after the departure from school, Hermione lay on her bed and cried for her friend. Harry and her had been best friends for five years, and not once had she ever heard him complain or comment in self-pity. Hermione pledged silently to herself – telling herself that – had Harry let on about the treatment he received from the Dursley home, that he could have been saved from the abuse all those years ago. Hermione prayed fro Harry's life as she cried, afraid that his relatives would go one step too far and there would no longer be a Harry Potter that she could laugh and joke around with, no Harry Potter she could turn to for advice and vice versa, and no Harry Potter to pull her through the dumps and boring, long days.
Harry laid back on the army-like-cot of a bed his relatives provided for him and clutched tightly onto the thin, worn-torn sheet he was given as a comforter. When he was younger, he had read in child psychology books that the way he was treated at home was abuse… but Harry simply couldn't bring himself into believing that he was truly a victim of the seriously, and increasingly terrifying crime of child abuse and neglection. Harry had become accustomed to his current lifestyle. He also, over the years, believed what his Uncle told him – He was unworthy of anyone's love, and that because of his abnormality; he was a no, good-for-nothing freak. The only thing that kept Harry going were his parents and Sirius, always showing up in his very few and rare, pleasant, and tolerable dreams; and the thought of being reunited with them, soon… someday close to now. Once his upcoming death occurred, his parents and Sirius would be there to welcome him into the glorious Heavens with open-arms, where he would always be loved and enveloped in the loving, warm, and tender embraces of those closest to him.
Somebody screams at the loss of his innocence.
His Uncle beats him repeatedly 'till he falls silent.
A fragile soul trapped in brutal hands of fate,
When morning comes he'll already be freed.
The raven-haired teen had just fallen asleep after wishing himself a Happy 16th Birthday on July 31, 1996, when midnight struck on his alarm clock. Harry had reached his sixteenth year of life, thankful to still be alive considering the hellhole he had been forced into calling home. Harry had fallen into a deep and restless sleep. He dreamt… well, visioned Voldemort murdering a seventeen-month-old baby girl right in from of her parents before killing them as well. As he'd done those three vicious killings, Voldemort laughed delightedly in a menacing way. The next thing Harry knew, he was waking up to excruciating pain. His Uncle had stabbed him in the centre of his chest and in the gut. Then his clothes were removed as were his Uncle's. His Uncle not only raped him of his innocence but of life as well. Screams of pain and utter despair tore from his raw throat as golden lights flashed before his eyes, and he collapsed to the ground in weakness and fatigue. Harry's faithful owl, Hedwig, brought a parchment over to Harry. With the absence of a quill, Harry dabbed his index finger in the puddle of blood surrounding his body and wrote a short, quick, and simple letter – message – to everyone in the Wizarding World. "Everyone, I'm sorry. I tried… he's just too strong. To the ones closest to me, I love you. I felt at home with you. Thank you. I'm so tired, cold, and I hurt. I've been bad and my Uncle punished me. I love you, Ginny. Never forget that. Hermione and Ron, you're my best friends. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, you're the parents I never had. The rest of you Weasleys, you're the brothers I never had. Professor Dumbledore, thank you for protecting me… should've told you about what was happening at "home", though. I love you all. I'm sorry I was bad and failed you all… Goodbye.
HP; The-Boy-Who-Didn't-Live"
Petunia pounded on her nephew's bedroom door, hollering, "Get your lazy ass up now, Harry! Who do you think you are acting as if you're one of us, and a part of this family? You don't get any privileges in this house, boy!" She finished cruelly, her eyes full of disgust. When she received no answer from her nephew, Petunia undid the locks and swung the door open violently. When she saw the crimson fluid beginning to harden and crust and stick like paste to the wooden floor and the blood-written letter, caused a pang of sympathy to shudder through her paralysed body. Shaking hesitantly, she walked over to the still figure lying nude and uncovered in the middle of the tiny bed, in a posiition that indicated that he had been tossed onto the bed and landed unceremoniously without protection to brace himself for impact. She gasped at all the blood surrounding the body of her nephew who was curled in a foetal position, as if desperately trying to keep himself warm. She reached her trembling hand to the sixteen-year-old boy's neck and checked for a pulse. When she failed to received a beat against her own two fingers and the absence of the beauty and vital rising and falling of the teen's chest… Petunia screamed in horror at the slight of her deceased and mutilated nephew. She was too late. Harry's body was already lifeless and cold – His death had to have happened a mere four hours ago due to the temperature his body contained. Petunia hastily gathered up the note and hid it inside the pocket of her jeans and wiped desperately at the tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. She may not have liked the boy, but somewhere deep inside of her, Petunia had always loved the boy. And being a mother herself, she'd never would have wished this kind of death on any child or wished death upon an innocent teenager. Harry was the only link that had kept her connected to her late, beloved, younger sister… Lily. Knowing her husband Vernon was the murderer of her only nephew caused Petunia to fire call this Molly Weasley woman mentioned in the teenager's letter, to inform her to tell Albus Dumbledore of Harry's premature death. Meanwhile, before Vernon Dursley returned home from running an errand – Petunia escaped, taking her son Dudley and herself somewhere far away from Surrey, where Vernon would never be able to find them. Petunia had already failed her nephew, and she'd be damned if she failed her only son… only child too.
Through the slaps and the burns,
He stands still as a statue,
In a world he has become accustomed to.
But his faith gives him hope,
And he flies to his parents' loving embrace where he's loved.
Concrete Angel…
Molly wiped frantically at the tears that stained her cheeks. Never in all her years had she seen Albus Dumbledore shed a tear. But once she had finished telling the brilliant, elderly wizard of the untimely and sudden death of their young saviour, Dumbledore cried, not caring who witnessed his emotional breakdown. Harry's death was a national tragedy. But that wasn't the reason for Dumbledore's breakdown – He knew in his heart that he had failed Harry. He shouldn't have placed Harry in his relatives' care in the first place; Maybe foster care wouldn't have been so terrible for the child who was supposed to grow up someday and become their saviour… his family's saviour… and a hero to his children.
Ron felt his throat constrict; anger coursed through his veins as he overheard his mother telling Dumbledore that Harry had been killed by his Uncle's malicious hands. It took both his older brothers, Fred and George, to keep Ron in place before he could make any sudden and rash decisions. It took twenty minutes for the twins to calm their younger brother down. They also – during that time – had fire called Hermione Granger to tell her to floo to the Burrow so Ron could report to her of what had just happened to their very, best friend of five years. When she arrived at the Burrow and saw the despair in the Weasleys' eyes, Hermione knew dreadful news lay before her. After Hermione was updated on Harry's death she broke into tears. A crying Ginny and Hermione embraced one another and cried, releasing their pains. The atmosphere in the Weasley home was desolate.
A gravestone lays in a shaded place.
An angel boy with a newly befreed soul.
A name is written on a marble stone,
A tortured boy of a saviour that the world soon forgot.
An overcast, rainy day was present as the gloomy atmosphere of mourners gathered together at a small cemetery in Godric's Hollow where Harry James Potter was being lain to rest, next to his parents' graves. Albus Dumbledore had forbade viewers and the press to come and allowed only those closest to Harry to attend his premature burial. The people present were the Weasleys, Petunia and Dudley Dursley, Poppy, Remus Lupin, Minerva McGonagall, surprisingly Severus Snape, Rubeus Hagrid, Harry's long-time Muggle-friend Travis Ackles, and Albus Dumbledore himself.
Albus stood in as the Preacher and gave his eulogy to the boy who had suffered a brutal fate at the mercy of Vernon Dursley. "Harry never once complained about the life he hid so vigilantly behind his façade. He came to Hogwarts each year full of life, ready to face the challenges thrown his way. A man who couldn't look past his own beliefs cut Harry's life tragically short. Because of this act of prejudice, our young saviour suffered horribly, before this Muggle took one step too far and killed an innocent boy out of pure bigotry. Harry Potter was courageous, loyal, caring, and loving… He had traits you rarely see in young men his age, today. The one bright side to this catastrophic day is that Harry is now with the people he loves and love him back, his parents and Godfather: James, Lily, and Sirius." Lowering the sixteen-year-old boy's casket into the ground, Albus stood back as the others stepped forward; each person had a handful of dirt in their hands. As Dumbledore preached the last words, the mourners of the funeral threw the dirt graciously onto the coffin, which was now six feet underground. "Harry, may you enjoy the greatest next adventure of your life. You left a tiny piece of your soul in each and every one of us here. You will not be forgotten, dear child. Your struggle through life – but your courageous and determined soul – will guide us to the power that we will need to use in our battle to defeat Lord Voldemort in vengeance of the tragic death of your parents that started the very Hell you lived in for the past fifteen years of your life. God bless and rest in peace, dear boy. May you live a glorious and eternal life with your parents and Sirius, Harry James Potter."
Through the slaps and the burns,
He stands still as a statue,
In a world he has become accustomed to.
Five Years Later
Ron and Hermione stood holding their two adoptive children's hands. A little boy of five years with coal black hair stood next to his father and a little girl of five years with strawberry red hair stood next to Hermione. The children kept receiving gentle squeezes to their hands as their mother and father stood staring at a gravestone. Tears filled Hermione's eyes as Ron's eyes burned from the fight of holding back the overwhelming tears.
"Hiya, mate. I'm sorry we never visited you until now. Dumbledore and Lupin killed Voldemort (bloody, I'm saying His name now – you should be proud of me) three weeks after your death. They died along the task, but we're freed from the greatest evil now. Harry, I want you to know that we are taking great care of your and Ginny's son and daughter. 'Mione and I've got one on the way! A baby boy… who we are going to call Jackson Merrill Weasley; I am so happy! Little Harry and Ginny are here with us. They know you're their real father, but they do call me and 'Mione "Mommy and Daddy"… Ginny said it was all right for them to do so. Harry, Ginny, come here! Come say hello to your father. Say things you said to your mother. They're both together in Heaven watching over you now."
"Ron, let me talk to Harry to let the children see it's all right to. Hey, Harry – I'm so very sorry we never got the time to come out here and visit. Ginny found out mere days after your funeral that she was four months along with twins that belonged to you. Everything went mad from there… Then two months after Harry and Ginny were born Ginny died of post-labour complications. You and she should see the wonderful pre-schoolers your children have come to be. I swear they're clones of you two. We've got another Harry and Ginny senior on our hands," joked Hermione desolately. Hermione stepped away as the two five-year-olds walked up and over to the gravestone hand-in-hand.
"Daddy Harry, you not a nice person. You never there for us," stated an innocent five-year-old boy.
"Mommy Ginny 'least there for us a little. Harry right – Daddy Harry, you never there for us. We hate you!" exclaimed the five-year-old girl with innocent bitterness.
"And we'll never love you! You no better than your own parents," declared a bitter Harry Jr.
"Never visit you 'gain. We never'll think of you as our Daddy ever again!" shouted a disgruntled Ginny Jr.
The twins ran back to the port key that lay ten feet away and waited for their parents to join them, leaving behind their two adoptive, taken aback parents. Hermione and Ron both had tear-stained cheeks after hearing the cruel, despicable words said about their late best friend from two, innocent five-year-old mouths.
Feeling obligated to defend his friend, Ron told Harry, "Give them time, mate. They're just too young to understand. You'll always be their Daddy… not me. I know they love you, Harry."
"We'll tell them the truth on how you died when we feel they are old enough to know and understand. Don't listen to their words, Harry – They just don't understand why you were never in their lives. And Ron's right, they do you love you."
"We'll stop by soon, Harry. Keep Ginny safe with you in Heaven."
"We miss you both terribly. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley forgive you both for the fact of having sex at fifteen and being parents at sixteen. They were just in shock – But they absolutely love and adore your little boy and little girl. We love you, Harry. Goodbye."
With that, the newly formed Weasley family left Godric's Hollow, never aware of Harry's crying spirit leaning against a cherry tree planted right behind his grave. His children despised him, and he knew the God's honest truth because he could see it in Harry and Ginny's souls… eyes – They did not love him, nor would they ever. Harry cried knowing he would never be appreciated or loved by his very own, biological children… He was left alone, once again, in the world without being appreciated or loved for who he was.
But his faith gives him hope,
And he flies to his parents' loving embrace where he's loved.
Harry collapsed into his parents' embrace and cried his pains away as Ginny, Remus, Dumbledore, and Sirius comforted him. No matter what, Harry knew he would always have his parents to turn to, knowing they would never stop loving him no mater what happened between them.
Concrete Angel…
Harry James PotterJuly 31, 1980 – July 31, 1996
Beloved son, saviour, boyfriend, friend, and father
May your soul rest in peace
And may you fly with the Angels, Harry James Potter
A/N: Well, what did you think? Let me know in your REVIEW! I love reviews; they are so inspiring. I am going to make an epilogue to this! Please leave me feedback to work from! Thanks, Stacey