Chapter 1- Running Away

By DarknessMatters

1st warning- This story has been partially written before, a few years ago, under a different profile. However, I didn't like the way it was going, so I deleted the story, and I'm starting fresh with the same general summary. Which is...

FULL SUMMARY- Harry's had a past that was more unpleasant than canon (a lot more unpleasant, which we will discover as the story moves on) and as a result, he's more suspicious, more smart, and a bit more vulnerable than the everyday Harry we all know and are familiar with. So when Hagrid visits him in the hut to invite him into an exciting new world, Harry says no. So he's forced (with the best intentions, of course!). He tries running away, he makes friends with the those no one expects, and he becomes more than anybody ever expected, including himself.

2nd warning- There are no pairing for a long time. He's eleven people, get a handle on your hormones.

3rd warning- The Harry in this story has a rather violent past, which results in who he is, and how he acts. Descriptions of his past will come in flashbacks because, as everyone with that sort of past knows, it just doesn't go away.

4th warning- I'm not exactly sure what genre this is, so i'm just going with horror, and general. Let me know if I should fix it.

5th warning- MAY be super power Harry, although a bit more realistic. But that's iffy, and it really depends on how the story goes.

(a/n)- Another one, I know... I love reviews, as all authors do. It spurs me on, and keeps my imagination going.

Also, if anyone has a few ideas they would love to see in the story, my email can be found on my profile page. Shoot me an email, and I'll see if I like it or not.

The darkness was silently, but quickly, creeping in, breaking all obstacles in front of it, and all attempts to stop it, and made itself at home in every nook and cranny it could reach. It was the sort of darkness where you could hold your hand out in front of your face and wave it like a madman, but see nothing but that inky blackness. It was thicker than the darkness of a night without a moon, thicker than the darkness of his cupboard, and it existed only in his mind.

He stood in front of the sink, scrubbing at his arms viciously with fingernails and soap until they were bleeding, and watched as his own blood flowed down his arms in tiny streams. The garbage disposal was on, and inside the pristine white sink that wasn't so pristine anymore, sat a large hunk of meat surrounded by puddles of water streaked with red. He found himself incapable of thinking properly with the inky blackness in his mind, so he simply watched as his arms reached out mechanically and shoved the hunk of meat down the disposal. There was a nasty crunching sound, and after a minute or two, it was gone.

"No dinner for you, Uncle Vernon," he heard himself say. A giggle forced it's way out of his throat.

He had finally snapped. He was completely insane. He knew it as a fact, and it made him want to cry. He had once heard someone say that if you were capable of admitting you were insane, you probably weren't. At the time, he sincerely doubted it. Now, he knew with all of his heart that it was utter bullshit.

He was finally insane, and it was all his uncles fault.

His arms were mostly covered in his blood now, and he leaned forward and gently wiped it away under the lukewarm water coming from the tap, already regretting what he had done to himself. Underneath all the red he could see fresh gouges in his skin, and mottled bruising up and down his arm. On his left, there was a bruise darker than the rest in the shape of a handprint, and his stomach shriveled at the sight of it. He had gotten it from jerking awake and slamming his hand loudly into the door of his cupboard. It had been his luck that his uncle had been the only one home, and downstairs in the kitchen at the time instead of watching the telly.

It was Sunday. His aunt was out grocery shopping, and his cousin was at a friends house. He had forgotten.

The blackness was settling in, until he could barely feel it. But just because he could barely feel it, didn't mean he didn't know it was there. It was there. He knew it.

He looked back down into the sink and wondered what his uncle would do when he discovered what he had done with his dinner, and as soon as he thought that, he choked and took a step backwards, not willing to believe that the thought came out of his own mind. He really was insane.

When he had taken a step backwards, he tripped on the hem of his jeans, which were twice the size of him, and had already developed holes in the knees. He grabbed at his waist and tugged them up an inch, and froze when he realized that his clothing was covered in blood as well. His head throbbed. He hadn't known that he was this messy. He turned around and faced the kitchen. There was a rather large mess in front of him, and he looked away, forcing himself to ignore it. His aunt would be devastated, but he couldn't bring himself to care. If she was so concerned with having a clean kitchen, then she could clean it.

He left the kitchen and walked down the hallway to his cupboard so he could grab another shirt to put on. Maybe another pair of pants as well, he thought to himself. When he was changing, right out there in the hallway, because it was hard to change in the cupboard, he looked painfully at the bruising covering his stomach and legs. His left wrist was killing him, and he wondered if maybe it was broken. He knew that now more than ever was the time to leave. He should have left long before this.

Before he left the cupboard, he spotted a bit of white sticking out from underneath his cot and glared at it. It was the letter he still hadn't read. After his aunt and uncle destroyed the hundreds finding their way into the house, he had found one hiding under the couch, and hid it here. On a whim, he picked up the letter and shoved it into his pocket.

On the way out the door, he stopped by the mirror to check if his appearance was acceptable enough to go outside, as was habit. As usual, it wasn't. His thick black hair had grown longer than ever, falling almost to his shoulders, but at least it covered the scar on forehead. He was looking forward to growing a beard, the cover the long scar on his face as well.

It started at his mouth and curved up, turning half his face into a nasty excuse for a smile, and he thought without humor that if he had a scar like that on the other half of his face, he could paint it and pretend he was Joker from Batman, and he wouldn't have to grow a beard at all.

After that particular incident, his uncle had been very careful to not mark his face to avoid suspicion, and the boy supposed he was rather grateful.

But besides that, his face was clear, and nobody would ask unwelcome questions (because people rarely asked about his scar for fear of appearing rude). He walked out the door, leaving it wide open, hoping like hell the bugs that flew in would irritate his aunt.

It seemed as if the boy had been walking for hours. It was a dark night, and he coudn't see anything but the individual little worlds of chaos created underneath the eerie yellow glow of the street lamps. Worlds filled with rain so heavy it was nearly impossible to see through. Only the panicked shrieking of the wind as it was whipped violently through the air by some unseen force let me know that the little worlds I saw were, in fact, part of something bigger.

His feet seemed to be moving on their own accord, and the wet gnashing sound of his ducktaped sneakers against the loose gravel on the side of the road was making him want to throw up. He thought about his effort to wash the blood off his skin and get it out of his clothing and laughed. It was all in vain, apparently.

He kept on walking, without a clue as to where he was going. He was in a neighborhood he didn't know, and while he didn't regret leaving yet, he regretted the fact that he wasn't prepared. He had no money, no spare set of clothes, no food, and no destination.

He vaguely wondered why he wasn't cold. His feet weren't sore, and he didn't even feel wet. He was calm, and under control. He didn't like that. He wanted to feel like screaming wildly in panic for reasons unknown, just to distract himself. He wanted to feel like letting his thoughts spin out of control, creating a whirlwind of color in his head, but he didn't. He couldn't. He just kept on walking, knowing there was a blackness in his mind, and knowing that he should be feeling more than he is.

A strange glowing light appeared before him, but he couldn't tell what it was through the rain. He paused mid step in the gutter and thought about heading towards it. If the light was still on, it was probably a store that was still open, and he could maybe steal something to eat. Then again, since it was dark and storming, there was bound to be nobody else there and he's get caught for sure. Besides, he really didn't like the idea of stealing. It reminded him of something his cousin would do. But maybe it would be warm, and he's have a change to dry off a bit before they kicked him out.

He took a few hesitant steps forward, until the light came more into view, and realized it was a gas station. A gas station? He realized that he had walked a lot further than he had thought, and was now out of the maze of comfy neighborhoods with their sleeping occupants. He was on the outskirts of some bigger town or city. He cursed himself for his lack of knowledge, but it really wasn't his fault that his relatives had only taken him out of the house maybe three times in his entire life. Of course, school doesn't count, but that was right down the street. He again wondered why he had left so abruptly without being prepared, and what his uncle would do to him if he went crawling back.

He bit his lip until he tasted the familiar irony taste of blood. It was instinct to always think about punishments from Uncle Vernon, even when the man could never reach him. Maybe it was a good thing, the boy thought. It would keep him from doing anything extremely foolish. His mind went back to school, where there had been a phrase going around. What would Jesus do? People had even worn bracelets with WWJD stitched or carved into it. Maybe he should make a bracelet with WWUVD on it. What would Uncle Vernon do? He giggled at the thought, and then promptly choked on a combination of his blood and rain blowing back into his throat.

His mind went back to the gas station as he got a little closer. It was a neon 'Miller Light' sign he had been seeing. There was nobody at the pumps, and through the glass windows, the boy could see a single man sitting behind the counter thumbing idly through a magazine. He reached the door,but he hesitated. What if he was immediately kicked out? What if by now, he looked bad enough to call the police? He looked down at himself.

Shirt and pants five times to big, covered in holes, and faded until they were colorless. His sneakers were a yellowish color covered in gray smudges, and duck taped so the soles would stop flapping. And his shaggy hair, matted down by rain didn't help any. Neither did that damn scar on his face. That would probably be the first thing noticed by the man. He'd be seen as some sort of street urchin, which, he laughed, he probably was now.

He forced himself to turn away from the door, and wandered a little bit away, going around the building to the back. When a large metal object came into view, he nearly shouted in joy, although he knew feeling excited about seeing a dumpster probably wasn't a good thing. But a dumpster meant thrown away food, and maybe a place to sleep. After all, it couldn't be any worse than his cupboard. Maybe a bit smelly, but never worse.

He grabbed a crate that was next to the dumpster and dragged it over to the front of it, as silently as he could, even though the storm probably masked most of the sound. He stepped up, and threw open the lid, blinking away the water from his eyes so he could see properly.

Oh good lord! He slapped his hands over his mouth and nose to save himself from the wave of warm sour stink emanating from the dumpster. His stomach churned, and he turned away to take in a deep breath of fresh, albeit wet, air. He couldn't very well eat anything in that pit, could he?

He took another deep breath and forced himself to turn around to look inside. He spotted what looked to be about twenty gallons of milk, all spilled out of their designated gallons and onto the garbage beneath. The man in the store probably had an old picky women come up to him and complain about seeing expired milk, and when the man went to check (because if the woman hadn't have been there, he wouldn't have cared very much), he found all these. No doubt that there was some sort of food underneath the clumps of what used to be milk. Food ruined even more than they were before. All unedible.

The boy slammed the lid back shut, not entirely sure if he was crying or not, and unable to tell because of the rain slamming into his face. Now he had nothing to eat, and he sure as hell had no place to sleep. He went to the side of the dumpster and curled up in the corner, pulling his legs up to his chest. He didn't know what to do. He was starting to feel the cold seep into his bones, and he started to shiver. But maybe he deserved this. He did deserve this. He could accept that, because in his heart, he knew it was true. Maybe not true for most of his life, but definitely after today, it was true. He felt the now familiar black creep up to where he could strongly feel it, and he threw his head back into the brick, a sob bursting out of him.

He slid down the wall until he was laying with his back on the ground, and slid himself halfway under the dumster, so his legs were sticking out. A part of him knew it was ridiculous, and someone could easily spot him, but he just wanted to sleep. Tomorrow he could think about what he was going to do. Tomorrow would be better.

His mind kept going back to the kitchen he had escaped from, and he kept trying to shove it away. Thoughts of the kitchen were part of the blackness. His Aunt going out grocery shopping was part of the blackness. His cousin being at a friends house was part of the blackness. He shoved it to the very back of his mind, and closed his eyes.

Harry found himself waking up to a strange sound.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

He body tensed without him wanting it to, and he tried to hold himself completely still. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he had always been the sort of boy to keep them open, if only to see exactly how he was about to die. Taking his covers and throwing them over his head in an effort to block out reality had never occurred to him.

Reminding himself that this was true, he forced his eyelids open, and was startled to see that he was back in his cupboard underneath the stairs. He could feel the roughness of the cot beneath him, he could breath the stale air, and he could definitely hear a scraping sound coming from outside the tiny door.

He reached a hand forward to open it automatically, but then forced himself to stop, knowing that it wasn't a very smart move of his to make. What if it was his Aunt? His Cousin? Or even worse, his Uncle. They could be just walking past to get a drink of water from the kitchen. If he were to open the door, and they were to see it, it would give them every reason to punish him. More reason than they usually needed.

He was completely silent for a few minutes, just to make sure, and the scraping sound didn't stop. In fact, it didn't even sound like it was coming from directly outside his cupboard. It sounded more like it was coming from his living room. It was continuous, repetitive, like someone a branch scraping against a bedroom window at night, although Harry hand never personally experienced that particular horror, having no window in his cupboard.

Before he could lose his nerve, he did a quick count to three in his head and threw open the cupboard door, grabbing at the knob before it could slam into anything and really wake his relatives up. There was nothing outside the door except the darkened wall of the the hallway, and he awkwardly climbed out, an unsettled feeling in his stomach.

He wasn't really scared of the dark, as he practically lived in it, so he couldn't pinpoint the source of his clenching stomach, almost like fear. Something was off. Something was really off, and while he wanted to go back to his cupboard and hide, he didn't. It was then he realized that his cupboard door should have been locked like it usually was when he was in there.

Now he felt a little bit of fear, could identify it, at least, and he was annoyed to notice that his legs were turning into the consistency of jelly, and he was starting to feel a bit faint. His left hand reached up and touched the wall of the hallway as he continued to walk on, like a quiet support. He reached the living room.

I was almost exactly as he remembered it being. Same couch with the floral sheet settled over, because god forbid if someone were to drop a crumb, same telly, bigger than the Dursleys really needed, same flowery curtains. But on the floor, covering the carpet like an abstract rug, Harry could make out squares of paper, and he knew them to be the letters addressed to him that had flown down through the fireplace like nobody's business. He remembered the look in his Uncle's eyes as he was grabbed roughly by an arm and guided to his cupboard. It was a look that promised more to come.

He forced himself to get out of the living room without picking up any of the letters. He didn't care. He really just didn't. Not anymore. He made his way into the kitchen, and somewhere deep inside him knew that this was his destination all along.

Now that feeling in his stomach had turned into horror. Pure terror. The kitchen was an evil place. On the tiled floor was an enormous puddle of blood, and Harry put a hand to his stomach in memory of the day his Aunt had thrown a knife at him, telling him to get breakfast started, but she had underestimated the strength of the throw. That day, there had been almost this much blood on the ground. His Aunt had actually taken him to the doctor then, claiming that him and his cousin had been playing 'ninja's' and had somehow gotten into the cutlery. Oh, how he an gotten a lecture out of that.

He looked up off the floor, and saw something strange on the table. There was a rather large fish tank, just sitting there, like it had always been sitting on the table like that, and nobody had noticed. He walked towards it, stepping around the blood and forcing it from his mind. He saw that there were fish swimming around in the tank. Goldfish. He put a face up to the glass and watched them. He saw a fish swimming around awkwardly, fatter than the rest. It was pregnant. Another had a black stripe down it's side. Another had a black splotch over one of it's eyes. Harry liked the fat one best. It looked funny when it tried to swim.

His eyes were focused on the fish, when he saw movement beyond the glass of the tank, and his eyes instead focused through the fish. Any curiosity he was feeling ran away like he desperately wanted to, and feelings of terror increased tenfold. Instead of his own face reflecting back at him, it was the face of a monster.

Harry remained perfectly still, just staring, his heart beating so hard he could feel his head pulsing. The face was black and gray, and looked as if someone had just taken hunks of flesh and shoved them together to form a face, and then taking a knife and slashing a hole for the mouth and eyes. He could see teeth through the lipless mouth, and they were sharp, jagged, white. Was this was the darkness had turned him into?

The hideous face stared back at him. Then, as Harry stared into it's eyes, they shifted, turning to look at one of the fish. Harry opened his mouth to let out a shriek, leaping backwards off the table as he did so, but the noise got caught in his throat, and the monster on the other side of the glass moved around it at an eerie speed and grabbed at his arm before he could fall completely off the table. It felt cold, and grimy, and it yanked him back up and shoved him towards the fish tank.

It put it's face to his ear, and Harry couldn't hold back a shudder. He felt himself break out into a cold sweat. "Look," the think whispered, it's voice like gravel.

Harry didn't want to look, but then the blackness was in his mind, the blackness he had though he successfully shoved aside, was back, and it was taking over. "No!" he found the courage to yell, but it didn't do any good, because now all he could feel was the blackness, and the grimy hand on his arm. And he looked.

He looked at the fish in the tank, and it was like he was looking through someone else's eyes. It was the black that was looking, and Harry was shoved aside instead, and he sat at the back of his mind, screaming at the inability to control his movements. His hand reached out slowly and carefully, and Harry watched it with horror that only grew the farther it went. His hand went into the water of the tank, and he could feel the coolness of it against his skin.

"Please, sto..." He stopped, and another voice came out of his mouth instead. "This is power." He whispered it. No, it wasn't another voice. It was his own, but he knew it was the monster speaking from him, and the minute it did so, Harry felt his terror swept away, and he was left staring at his hand in the water.

He was calm now, and watching. Waiting. He held his hand perfectly still, until the fish swimming around it grew used enough to it to swim a little bit closer. As soon as one dared to swim up near his palm, his palm closed tightly around it. His arm brought it up out of the water, and he stared at the fish, at it's gasping mouth, as it jerked in his hand. It was the fat fish. He watched as he held it above the water, unable to breath.

"This is power," he whispered again, in the voice that didn't come from him.

He felt nothing. No horror, no fear, and no sadness, as his hand slowly closed tightly around the fish. He watched as the tiny round mouth went open and stayed open, as the eyes popped out of it's head, and as it's entrails popped out of it's stomach and dripped down his hand.

The black in his mind started to retreat, and he began to take over his own body once again. He was left trembling. He could feel the cold of the remains of the fish on his hand, and bile rose in his throat.

"This is power," Harry said once more. This time, it was his own voice.

He heard the scraping sound again, and he was once again laying down. No, he thought. Not again. I can't do that again.

He was cold, and hungry, and his hands were numb. He felt something touch his foot, and he jerked up in an attempt to get away from the monster that wouldn't leave him alone, but he was met with a blinding pain as his head hit something hard and unforgiving. The dumpster.

He lay still for a moment, blinking away the stars that appeared before his eyes, as he gained his bearings. He was still underneath the dumpster. That's right. The dumpster behind the gas station. There was no monster. It only existed in his dreams. But he ignored that last thought as he felt another touch on his foot. He kicked, and there was a responding grunt. The boy couldn't help it. He screamed.

He rolled from underneath the dumpster as quickly as he could, and he could see a hunched figure where his feet had been. He got on his feet, and the figure tried to follow, stumbling and lurching, only convincing the boy more that it was the monster all along. He took off running.

He ran and ran and ran, and he didn't know where he was going to go. It was a painful reminder of the way he felt yesterday, before he ended up underneath the dumpster. He knew that the figure by his feet had probably been a homeless man, but the boy refused to acknowledge the fact. He needed to get away. Away from houses, from neighborhoods. Away from people.

It was drizzling now, still unpleasant, but a great deal better than it had been the night before. As a matter of fact, it was still slightly dark, being so early in the morning. He looked around, and realized he was in a shabby sort of neighborhood now. No, not really a neighborhood. It felt like an unfriendly, shabby sort of place. Shops were on either side of the street, and everything was worn down and grey looking. It was a dreary place.

As he wandered, he wondered about the dream he had. It was scary, but was it only a nightmare? Or something more. He sincerely hoped not. But the black he had felt in the dream was familiar. And besides, only in his imagination and dreams did he allow himself to call himself Harry. In reality, he was 'boy' or 'freak'. Calling himself something else, even in his own head, was dangerous.

In front of the boy, there was a small shop with a sign bearing the picture of a boat on it. A marina, maybe? He hadn't realized he had gone that far in the short time he had escaped his relatives home. He snuck a little closer, and as he reached the back of the building, he had a tingling feeling. He suddenly knew that he needed to get on a boat and get as far away from this place as possible. But how?

In the back of the marina, there was row after row of kayaks, canoes, and even jet ski's. He wandered towards a group of smaller looking canoes. He had never really been in one before, but it couldn't possibly be that hard. All you had to do was row. He sincerely hoped the boats would be easy to get at, preferably not locked up, and he felt another tingly feeling and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

He reached a dark green canoe that looked as if it was meant for one, and frowned when he saw that there was indeed a chain wrapped around it, with a lock, but the lock itself wasn't closed properly, therefore ineffective. He would have pondered at his luck, but he knew he didn't have very much time. The sun would be coming up soon.

With painful, awkward steps, he lugged the small canoe into the water, careful to not jar his wrist. His entire body ached, and he just wanted to lay down to sleep. But he couldn't afford that luxury yet. He needed to get away first. When he got into the canoe, and looked down at his feet to pick up the paddle, he gasped. His shoes were gone!

He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Obviously, this proved that the figure was indeed a homeless man just trying to find more comfort for himself, and it shoved away all lingering doubts that the boy had. It was like a weight had lifted off his chest. However, it still left him without shoes.

He ignored it. He had no proper clothing, no food, no friends, no family. What was no shoes as well? Just another thing to add to the list. He grabbed the paddle and started to row, hoping like hell he'd find a good place to sleep.

So what did you think? Please tell me, because I'm willing to fix what you think is wrong with it if it doesn't mess with the entire plot of my story.

Let me know what you think about my writing style, tell me any idea's you may have that you want me to use, etc.