Summery:

His luck was rotten. Just pure, utterly rotten. On top of a constantly burning scar, nightmares and visions filled with locked doors, there's also the fact that his uncle seems to be planning out his murder and he has to sneak off to the hospital once a week. And that he has to keep all of it a secret from his friends, godfather and just about everyone else.

Yup. Just his rotten luck.

Sick!Harry, Abusive!Dursley's, Protective!Sirius&Remus, Canon Pairings

Chapter One:

A Shack

It was only four days into the summer holidays. And things had already gone to hell.

His back ached and his body was littered with bruise's. His limbs were sore as his muscle's groaned in protest of every movement he made. He wanted nothing more than to be back in Gryffindor Tower, lying in his soft four-poster bed, with Ron and Hermione never that far.

But Harry Potter's luck was rotten.

Rain fell from the dark sky, thunder booming in the distance, and trailed down the glass windows of the car. The window wipers went back and forth on the front window every two seconds, clearing it so his Uncle Vernon could see through it properly.

Harry didn't know where they were going, and his heart was steadily pounding against his bruised chest. His hands were clasped together in his lap. He'd long stopped trying to ask his Uncle where they were going, as he would give him a deadly stare and tell him to shut his mouth every time he said a word.

The teenager glanced at his watch again. It was 11:43. They'd been driving for two hours now. It was only him and Uncle Vernon as well. So they weren't going on a vacation and he was being forced to go. Aunt Petunia and Dudley would have been here as well.

They'd left the highway about half an hour ago, and where now driving on a bumpy, unused dirt road through a thick forest. Branch's snatched and clawed at the car and thunder continued to boom in the distance. Harry had had a horrible feeling in his gut from the very moment Uncle Vernon had dragged him by the hair into the car. It had only increased as time slowly ticked by, and the fact it was storming and they were in the middle of the woods did not help. Maybe it wasn't Voldemort who would be his downfall...

Ten minutes later, Uncle Vernon pulled up outside an abandoned shack. It's windows were boarded and the grass was overgrown, besides a small pebbly path leading up to the front door, which was covered in various claw marks. The wooden walls were covered in ivy and in one spot near the ground there was some sort of dark stain.

Uncle Vernon pulled his hood over his head and climbed out of the car, slamming his door shut. Harry didn't want to get out, his heart was hammering against his rib cage, sweat beaded his forehead and his hands felt clammy. When he didn't get out, Vernon growled in frustration and opened Harry's door, grabbing his arm and dragging him out into the rain.

Harry, who hadn't brought a jacket (let alone had time to grab one), was immediately drenched, his hair plastering to his forehead and raindrops splattering onto his glasses. Uncle Vernon proceeded to drag him towards the shack, not caring that he was shivering and in nothing but a baggy t-shirt, jeans and peeling trainers.

Uncle Vernon knocked on the door. There was a bit of shuffling from inside and the sounds of a key turning a lock, before the door opened an inch and a man wearing a ski mask peeked through the small gap between the door. "Who is it?" his voice was deep and he was clearly doing it on purpose, cold grey eyes looking Vernon and Harry up and down.

"The guy who wants his money." Uncle Vernon said. His grip on Harry's arm tightened.

The man in the ski mask looked behind him for a moment, before returning his eyes to Vernon. He gave a small nod and opened the door fully, allowing them entry.

Harry felt his heat jump into his throat, as the door closed behind him with a snap! He heard the key being forced into the keyhole and the small sound of the door locking.

A fire burned in the fireplace against the far wall. An rickety, empty bookshelf stood in the corner, a rat nibbling on a crumb on the top shelf. The floor was dirty and in the middle of the room was a wooden table with four leather straps stapled onto it.

Another man, also wearing a black ski mask, sat on a stool in front of the fire. He looked up from where he had been sharpening a wood cutters axe with a wet stone.

"Do you have my money?" Vernon asked. He was obviously trying to look tough, but Harry could see the slight fear in his eyes and the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead.

The second man nodded to the first man, who threw walked up to Uncle Vernon and handed him a stack of notes held together by a rubber band. Vernon snatched the money out of the mans hand and quickly counted it. Satisfied, he nodded, pocketing the money.

The first man held out a hand and, much to Harry's horror, Uncle Vernon handed him over to the crook. Harry struggled, trying to pull away, but Uncle Vernon's fat hand slapped him across the cheek.

"Just make sure you don't kill him." Vernon growled. "I'll be back for him in the morning."

Harry's breathing was quickening, his heart hammering, as he watched helplessly as Uncle Vernon walked out the door, which was being held open by the second man, who slammed it shut behind him.

The two crooks grinned at him. The second one was still holding the wood cutters axe. He was suddenly regretting leaving his wand in his room.

Harry punched, clawed, bit and kicked, as the two crooks wrestled him onto the wooden table, strapping down his arms and legs. His left arm, Harry dully noted, was stretched out across the table, his hand hanging off the edge, while his right arm was pinned to his side.

The crooks whispered to each other quietly, ignoring Harry's fruitless attempts at a struggle. He hadn't eaten since the Hogwarts end of term feast, and his body had already been aching because of his Uncle's beatings. So Harry knew, no matter how much he struggled, that he would not be getting off this table before some painful changes happened.

The crooks finished speaking and walked over to the table, looming over Harry's struggling form. The first man took out a black marker and drew a single line between Harry's t-shirt sleeve and his elbow. The second man raised his axe, it's sharp steel glinting in the fire light. Thunder roared and lightning flashed outside, the wind howled against the wooden shack, the fire flickered and created dancing shadows along the walls.

The second crook brought his axe down, right on the line that his friend had drawn on the wizards arm.

Harry's screams could not be heard outside the shack over the roaring wind.

When Harry came to, all he could register was blinding hot agony.

He made a sort of chocking sound, tears stinging behind his closed eyelids. He swallowed thickly, forcing his eyes open. Everything just hurt.

Taking deep breaths, Harry was able to look down at his chest, blinking dumbly, trying to find out why he was in so much pain.

His white shirt and baggy jeans were covered in dried, crimson blood. He was in his room, back at Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon must have come back for him.

All thought fled from his mind as his eyes landed on where the pain was mostly coming from. There, were there had been a long, skinny arm, was now a simply a stump, wrapped messily in bandages.

His mind froze in shock. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. His green eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. His breathing was coming out in quick, short pants, as if he was about to have a panic attack. He barely noticed that his scar was burning.

He fainted.

The Dursleys left Harry alone in his room after the event in the shack. Aunt Petunia brought up his meals, which were surprisingly not just bits of cheese and bread but an actual meal, and did all the chores herself. She would even change his bandages and make sure it didn't get infected, even giving him some medicine when it caused him to get ill. Uncle Vernon ignored him completely, not even coming up to shout or beat him.

Two weeks later Harry had enough strength to stand without shaking, even to walk around his room and down the stairs. It had, thankfully, been his left arm that he'd lost and not his writing- and wand- hand.

The Dursleys wouldn't let him out of the house, probably so he wouldn't draw any of the neighbors attention. What would they say, if they realized that he was missing an arm?

Harry sighed, rolling onto his side in his bed, ignoring the itchy pain that was his new stump. What would his friends say? What about Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley? And, dear god, what about Sirius and Remus? Sirius would go and murder the Dursleys and he'd be thrown right back into Azkaban!

Harry took a few deep, soothing breaths, trying to calm his panicking heart. Okay, it was obvious he couldn't hide that fact he was missing an arm. But how was he supposed to break it to them? If he did it by letter, they'd be here in a matter of moments and he was pretty sure the Dursley's would be killed before he could even blink. And what was it that they kept saying in their letters? That they had to hold back information encase it was intercepted? What if Death Eaters found out and used it against him?

That was another thing. It was obvious he was at the very top of Voldemort's 'People to Murder' list. How was he supposed to fight off Death Eaters- let alone Voldemort- with only one arm?

And then it hit him.

Harry scrambled to his feet, a little unsteady, and over to his desk. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, unscrewing some ink and dipping the sharp tip into the black liquid.

Sitting down in his chair, Harry began to roughly sketch the image in his head. He remembered, before he went to Hogwarts, the Dursleys had forced him to get a job when he was six. He'd been a mechanic's assistant for three years, before the mechanic moved to Germany. He'd picked up a few tricks and maybe, just maybe, he wasn't to rusty.

After two days of sketching and planning, Harry broke the stick off of the old broom in the closest (his Aunt had just bought a new one and had been planning on throwing it out), got a glove, stuffed it with a bit of newspaper and was able to attach the stick to his stump with a bed sheet, the glove acting as his hand. It was uncomfortable and stiff, and he had to wear his jacket and another glove on his real hand, which wasn't really that nice considering the hot weather, but it would have to do for now.

Harry walked through town, wearing his old baseball cap to hide his hair and scar (never knew when wizards were around), a list of all the things he needed and a couple of his sketch's stuffed in his pocket, making his way to the dump.

He spent the whole day there, rummaging through the trash in search for parts and knobs, slowly building his new creation. He'd gotten to the dump at half-eleven and didn't head back to Privet Drive when the sun began to set. He kept working, soon taking out a torch to light his way, not even thinking of leaving when his watch beeped midnight.

It was a painfully slow progress, what with him only having one arm and a torch between his teeth, but finally, as the sun began to rise on the horizon, his eyes itchy with tiredness, his back groaning and his limbs aching, it was finished.

He picked it up, making his way out of the dump and across the street to where the restrooms were. Closing and locking the stall door behind him, Harry gently laid the object down on the floor and pulled off his 'broom-arm' with a hard tug. Taking off his jacket and glove and hanging them on the hook on the door, Harry sat down on the toilet seat and picked up the object.

It was an arm, with only four fingers and leather straps to keep it in place. It wouldn't be like an actual arm that he could move around and pick things up with, but it was something.

Sighing, Harry slowly pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing his bare chest. You could count almost every rib and his torso, thighs and stomach were covered in healing bruise's. Harry, with much difficulty, was able to strap the fake arm in place, the leather straps going around his torso to help keep it up. He moved his stump a little, satisfied when the arm gave a little jerk. He made to put his t-shirt back on, when he felt an odd tingling in his stomach.

He frowned, looking down, but only seeing his pale skin. The tingling spread up to his chest and over to his stump and right into the fake arm.

The arm jerked and twitched and, right before Harry's shocked eyes, the arm gave one final jerk, before going from grey, hard metal to looking and feeling like soft, flesh and blood. Harry blinked, his mouth open in shock. He moved the arm, up and down, and you could just barely hear the sound of gears working. It was just like a real arm.

Realization dawned.

His magic. His magic had reached out and made it look, feel and be used like an actual arm. Harry smiled, letting out a small, relieved, tearful laugh. Maybe he didn't have to tell anyone.

Harry wiped his eyes, letting out a small hiccup. The shock of losing his arm was finally wearing off. He just couldn't believe it. Sure, the Dursley's hated and beat him, but never in a million years had he thought that they would even consider chopping off and selling one of his arms.

Once he had his shirt and jacket back on, the gloves stuffed in his pocket and the stick, bed sheet and newspaper in the trash, Harry looked left and right, wondering if he should grab a bite to eat before heading back to the Dursleys.

Making up his mind as his stomach gave a low rumble, Harry began walking to the cafe he'd spotted a couple blocks away, pulling out his bag of muggle money from his pocket.

Next chapter: Harry meets a doctor and finds some strange bruise's on his real arm.