AN: This sort of story is entirely new to me, and I'm still not completely pleased with it. If anyone's interested in beta-ing this story, just shoot me a PM. Inspiration came from Book Thief, which is absolutely brilliant. This is a short chapter, but I don't even really count it as an actual chapter. Anyway, onto the story!
Harry Potter has always been someone who catches me off guard- a major achievement. I like to believe that I've seen it all. But from the moment he was born, it was like he was unintentionally chasing after me. If I had a heart, he would've broken it years ago- then again, I had a heart, it would have surely turn to steel eons ago.
Maybe it has.
I first caught a glimpse of Harry Potter when he was one year old, but I never have counted that. I came in a bit late, Fate had already taken him to another place on a flying motorcycle. I did take Lily and James Potter with me, though, and I did add Harry Potter to the rapidly-growing list of children I have orphaned. He hadn't really struck me as remarkable yet, that wouldn't happen for years and years.
When I opened the cupboard door, I was certain he would leave that very night, in my arms. I should have been correct, but I wasn't. Harry wasn't going down that easily.
I am no stranger to child abuse cases- they are common, I deal with hundreds of them a day. A child getting the life positively thrashed out of him is a common part of my day, as awful as that may sound to you mortals. Their cries for death, for me, almost make me pity them when I cannot end their suffering, and almost brings a smile to my otherwise tired face when I can take them with me.
Both are, obviously, just almosts.
So, as you probably can't understand, it was just another Tuesday when I arrived at Privet Drive. The sight was probably no less than horrific by human standards. The boy was much to small even for a five year old boy- he looked as if a three year old girl could take him down. His legs looked as if they'd snap at any second, unable to support even Harry Potter's beyond minimal weight. His arms were just as bad. In the few places where it showed, his ghostly pale skin starkly contrasted with the sticky crimson of blood. It flowed from no one direct source. Bruises flowered around both of his eerie eyes, his left far worse than his right. A jagged, crudely-drawn cut on his forehead seeped blood slowly and agonizingly down his young face. He was a fighter. You couldn't deny it.
His eyes were by far the worse, though. They were tired and the skin around them was stretched, but his green orbs showed so much more than a child who'd had it a bit rough. There was fear, desperation, anger and betrayal. But so much vengance. So much unrelenting vengence, but too much common sense to go for the kill. He was biding his time.
Vernon Dursley, what have you done? What monster have you created?
I stared at Harry Potter's form for several minutes, before turning around and walking out the door. It wasn't his time to die. He had things to accomplish. Even I cannot interfere with Fate's course.
And thus begins my journey with Harry Potter- at least, the truly important parts, the little incident when he was one was Fate's problem, not mine. So as I continued on to the next poor or lucky soul, I left the scantily clothed, malnourished, crimson-skin boy behind.