It was a beautiful day as Harry slept. The sun was high and lolling about as the birds sang their morning song. Showers were heard throughout the Gryffindor tower as the students drifted in and out of their dreamland. The sun shone, illuminating Harry's face, his scar slightly fading. Anyone who would have looked at him now would not have seen the adolescent boy who lived, they would have seen a man who had faced many trials and life changing events in his life. His life had not been gentle to him as his ever fading scars criss-crossed across his bare back. He had a story for every scar or bruise that haunted his body. His face was chiseled by the gaunt features. He looked as if he had gone days without food or water, which no human could survive. The red and gold blankets spread around him only made him look paler and sick. The only thing one could not see upon looking at this boy, was the hate and torture he had to endure.
He jolted out of bed, his past dreams coming back, invading his mind. His green eyes searching for the danger that he had sensed so near. He mumbled something under his breath and covered his ears with his hands. He soon went to yelling which turned to full blown screaming, slicing through the quiet atmosphere like a knife in butter. The birds near the window flew off in fast retreat and the sun seemed to disappear slightly, as if afraid the screams of the boy would create a cataclysm. Other students eyed the room curiously, not daring to venture inside and console the boy's fears. Of course, this is how it had always been. Everyone had been afraid, or too sinister, to help the boy through his life. They all passed him off as the boy who lived. Yes, it was true. But at one point, somewhere in his distant memory, he could remember love and glory through the pain and hatred that now surged through his veins.
He had had...love, though he could not remember for who or when. His memory was clouded by visions of death. His friends, yes, that is what he had called them...friends. A red head and a brunette, their features escaped him. They had loved him and were there for him. No! They had betrayed him, as every other person he knew had too. Voldemort had been right. No one loved him, they hated him. They...the people who he felt closest to at some point, they left him in the dark, only bringing him out when they were bored. Some times they mocked him, or worse...tortured him. This is why he could not feel, could not sleep and could not get rid of the feeling that he was always in danger, everywhere he turned. Some called him crazy, sent him to the hospital, but he knew, they were the ones who didn't know what torture was like. They sat around in their homes, playing like children, as he suffered. He had spent many a night in the wilderness, with no food or water, dying, trying to save their world.
His eyes were empty when he finally settled down. No light seemed to reach him. He plunged into darkness as unconciousness took over his mind and body. He entered an eternal sleep. But in the first drawer of the bedside table, if one opened it, a small pensieve would be visible. A black liquid swishing around inside, memories, hatred. Touching the dark liquid, one is drawn into his first memory when everything began, in the summer of his 16th year in life.