Pacis

It was funny, Harry mused bitterly as he lay in his cupboard, how the wizarding world idolised him, up until he did something 'dark' and then they would turn and no longer would he be 'The Boy-Who-Lived' or 'The Chosen One'. A title that was spoken in awe one week, then tossed away to be replaced with 'Disturbed Attention Seeker' or 'Filthy Death Eater' the next. As he lay there though, he couldn't truly care about their hypocrisy or fickle affections; they no longer mattered to him, not after...

Harry was already sure before he left Hogwarts that this could well be one of the worst summers of his life, but even at this point, he couldn't bring himself to care. Sirius' death hung over his head, like the darkest storm cloud; Ron and Hermione - his 'friends' - tried to get through, though Harry had ignored them for the most part, they didn't realise that he was dreading his return to the Dursleys' for yet another long, torturous summer cut off from the wizarding world.

Harry had hoped to start the holidays on a good foot. Well, as good a foot as he could, which, admittedly was pretty poor, but still... but as was so often the case, the Order had to interfere by advancing on Uncle Vernon at the station and threatening him with magic. Harry mentally smacked his forehead at their sheer stupidity; surely they realised that he couldn't protect himself with magic over the holiday?

The ride home was extremely tense, with Vernon glaring at Harry menacingly in the mirror. Harry had by now realised that this was highly likely to be the worst summer he had ever had or indeed ever would have. But the worst thing was he didn't even really care; his once vibrant emerald eyes had dimmed, no longer filled with life and laughter even after all he had been through before. His spirit had shattered with his Godfather's death – the first person that had ever truly cared and now all that was left were dead pits of despair that seemed to suck you in and trap you.

His suspicions were confirmed once the front door was shut and Vernon whirled around to face his emotionless nephew, "Well, Boy. Anything you want to tell us? About this year?" As Harry looked up, Vernon recoiled slightly at the depths of despair in the freak's eyes. "

"No, Sir" Harry replied tonelessly.

"Oh, really?" the gargantuan Muggle snorted. "So you weren't planning on telling us about your precious Godfather's death?" He taunted the boy with a victorious light in his piggy eyes, enfolded in a fat face that only showed inhuman glee. It seemed that his Uncle had realised he once again had free reign over Harry within the confines of Number Four, Privet Drive.

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It was at this point, as his breath bubbled up from blood-filled lungs, that Harry had accepted that in all probabilities he was not going to survive the summer.

The next few weeks were spent in a pain filled haze, the time measured not by hours or day and night, but by the next beating or new list of chores. Eventually it came to a point where Harry couldn't even move, despite Vernon's threats of more chores and beatings. When this still didn't work, they remarked that perhaps it was better if the Freak was just left to die as he should have been on that Halloween night so many years before.

And so Harry found himself bloodied, alone and abandoned by the wizarding world. He presumed the Headmaster had reassured anyone concerned that the complete lack of replies to their regular letters was due to the normal absentmindedness that accompanied the teenage years. At this thought Harry couldn't help but smirk – and in doing so, opening several cuts on his face – for of course the Headmaster would do anything to stop anybody from realising that He, 'The-Leader-Of-The-Light and Defeater-Of-The-Dark-Wizard-Grindelwald' had placed the Boy Saviour directly into the hands of abusive muggles, without even returning to check on his living conditions. No, that wouldn't reflect his brilliant reputation well at all, so it was covered up. Many thought he was truly a 'golden boy' but the truth was that he was very much tarnished; warped and broken after years of abuse and isolation. Any shine he may once of had beaten out of him by those he called his relatives.

As he lay there in the darkness, thinking over his life whilst slowly bleeding to death under the staircase of the normal suburban home, Harry Potter came to terms with what had occurred and why people behaved how they did.

Snape. He couldn't hold it against him; he had behaved how he had needed to in order to remain as a spy amongst the Dark Lord's ranks. True he may have partly enjoyed it due to the resemblance that Harry bore to his father, but even that Harry could understand. He himself had often contemplated taking revenge upon the children that had helped make his life a living hell inside and outside of Number Four.

Sirius. Harry blamed himself for his Godfather's death, but acknowledged that the man's reckless behaviour and fierce love for his Godson had also made a significant contribution to the reasons he died. He had always done his best for Harry and he was the only person that Harry had ever truly trusted.

Dumbledore. He was a manipulative, old man who believed in the well being of the many over the few; seeing life as a game of chess with him as King. Harry hated him with all that he had; for throwing Sirius into Azkaban; abandoning him with the Dursleys; repeatedly ignoring his pleas to not return and so many other things that were almost certainly down to him.

However, as he attempted to shift into a marginally more comfortable position in the small space, aggravating broken bones and wounds alike, he delighted in the irony that Dumbledore's attempts to break him and turn him into the perfect little pawn, would result in him having no pawn and all the plans and manipulations over the years collapsing into dust once the centre piece of all of them was dead.

And so it came that The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Chosen-One, Harry, died. Alone, beaten and abandoned and without hope of a better future. As his magic failed to sustain his life, far away in Dumbledore's office, Fawkes gave a mournful cry, departing in a burst of fire leaving an old man with twinkling blue eyes plotting, oblivious to the fact that his plans have become meaningless and that soon he will have lost his game of chess that he had played for such a long time.

At the same time, Voldemort revelled in his triumph as he felt the connection that had plagued him since his resurrection, snap thus informing him of his greatest enemy's death. Soon, he will control the wizarding world with nothing to stop him.

When the Order finally came, they found a broken boy lying on his back, a white feather clutched in one hand and written on the wall in red were the words;

I died, abandoned and broken,

It matters not what people will say,

I won't hear the words that were spoken,

Nor see the brand new day.

It was days before they realised it was blood.