Harry stared out the window at the red sky. The was slowly descending below the horizon, spilling a blood red anguish across the pale blue sky. Clouds, who had previously drifted free of any attachments or obligations, had come to a standstill. Even the blithe breeze that had aided in the heat of the day had fallen. On the opposite horizon the moon was rising and bringing with it night. Speckled lights were scattered in the sky, shining faintly against the dying rays of the sun. Everything was calm, as it always was before the storm. Nothing moved outside, all the children locked away for the night and the adults too unwilling to socialize if their eyes crossed paths with their neighbors. It was as if the world was dead.

The bark of a dog shattered the silence and the surreal scene dissipated. A car drove down the road, a light appeared in a living room, a rubbish bin was knocked over, a yell was accompanied by the cry of a child, the sun died and the moon rose.

Harry tore his eyes from the window and tip toed to the sink, trying not to make too much noise as he turned the faucet. Cool, sweet liquid gushed and he drank deeply, until he could no longer feel the pangs of hunger in his stomach. When he was full he turned his attention to his chest which was encrusted in dried blood. Taking a wad of toilet paper he wet it and carefully dabbed at the lacerations, careful not to reawaken sleeping blood. The water stung but not much. After carefully cleaning the wounds he pulled an oversized shirt and cleaned up the bathroom, fearful of leaving a mess.

He slipped from the bathroom and into hallway. He could hear his aunt in puttering around in the kitchen, the t.v. was blaring from the living room where his cousin most likely was. He listened closely for any signs of his Uncle before determining he was still at work. He was careful not to make any noise as he hurried to his cupboard, his cousin hated being disturbed when he was watching his stories. Once safe in his cupboard Harry took inventory, making sure everything was where he left it. Sometimes, when he was doing chores Dudley would come into his room and mess everything up or break his stuff then blame it on Harry. Harry hated when this would happen because Uncle would always get mad and call him an "ungrateful freak" even though he tried so hard to keep the wonderful things he got from his aunt and Uncle nice. When he was really good they would give him a toy of Dudley's, it was usually broken but he didn't mind, he loved it all the same. He wished he could be a good boy more often, he was usually bad but his aunt and Uncle always corrected him when he did something wrong so when he grew up he could be a good boy, just like Dudley.

With a secret smile he sat on the bed, his legs dangling off the side. He stared down at his socked feet, wondering if he would be able to reach the floor when he was older. The sight made him giggle and swing his legs, toes stretching to reach the ground. One day, he promised himself, one day he would be able to sit with his feet on the floor! but wait… wouldn't that just be standing...or would it be sitting?

Harry pondered this conundrum, brows furrowing in thought. So lost was he in contemplation that he didn't hear the front door open or smell the alcohol that followed. Heavy footsteps thudded to the kitchen. There was a clattering of kitchenware followed by a verbal rejection delivered by Aunt Petunia. The footsteps continued on their way to the stairs, only to pause at the foot. There was a giggling in the cupboard. A loud, obnoxious giggling that grated on the nerves, taking the previous feeling of rejection and morphed them into rage.

Harry jumped as his cupboard door slammed over. He quickly stifled a shriek as he was faced with a very red faced, very intoxicated, and very pissed Uncle. He knew from experience that fear always made Uncle madder because good boys weren't supposed to be scared, they were supposed to be fearless, like Dudley. His cousin wasn't afraid of anything and one day he wouldn't be scared either. For now he sat up straight like aunt Petunia had taught him and tried to hide the shaking in his voice as he greeted Uncle.

"Good evening Uncle. How was your day?"

"Just fine until now," Uncle snarled.

Harry flinched at the words, lowering his eyes. "I'm sorry Uncle, was I a bad boy again?"

"Absolutely horrible. You can't do anything right, you ingrateful freak. Your aunt was just telling me that you cooked the steak for too long and Dudley said you were making so much noise he couldn't hear the telly."

"I'm sorry Uncle. I'll do better tomorrow. I promise!" Harry turned his earnest eyes to his Uncle, hands clasped.

Uncle scoffed, "You always say that. You know what this means, right?"

Harry nodded fearfully and stood obediently, eyes on the ground as he hurried past his Uncle. Aunt Petunia said nothing as he entered the room and headed for the closet, barely glancing from her magazine as Harry chose a belt from the drawer, the one with the big metal buckle Uncle liked so much. Uncle nodded in approval as Harry handed him the belt. Fear filled him as he turned around, waiting for the first blow, shoulders shaking as he shed his shirt. Tomorrow he would be better, he would not be scared, he would be like Dudley, he would be a good boy and his aunt and Uncle would love him; but for now he stuffed his fist in his mouth as the first blow landed and blood trickled down his back.

What seemed like hours later Vernon lifted the barely conscious boy and threw him into the garden. The boy was bleeding everywhere and could just leave stains. There was enough already. Tomorrow he would hose down the boy and leave him in the cupboard for a couple of days, that usually worked. Of course, he had gone a bit farther with his punishments than usual, though he blamed that on the alcohol and his wife's rejection; she never let him fuck her when he was drunk. The boy would be fine though, he wasn't sure that he had broken any bones and if he had he would wrap them up and leave the boy alone for a couple of weeks. Nobody would miss him from school. With that line of thought finished he lumbered back into the house to raid the fridge and see if Petunia had changed her mind.

Harry winced as the door banged shut and whimpered at the pain that followed. He tried to lift his head to assess the damage done. Pain washed over him, so strong that he threw up his meager dinner. Unable to move to the side the vomit dribbled down his front and rested where his head met the ground. With a groan his eyes turned skywards.

The sky he had previously admired was gone, replaced by a silky darkness speckled with stars. A soft crescent light curved in the sky, veiled by the occasional cloud. As the wandering cloud revealed the hidden moon tears leaked from Harry's eyes.

Most people never grasp their mortality until their later years, when they are on the cusp of death and sometimes not even then. Adults know of death and acknowledge they are going to die but never truly accept it. Teenagers are gods in their perspective, immortal and drunk on the knowledge that they are in the height of their lives. Children never know of death. They are innocent and see only the light and life in the world for that's all they know. As the years grow so do the sorrows but children know no sorrow besides the occasional inconvenience. This innocence and vitality is why people try so hard to protect these tiny souls, why some have gone to inconceivable lengths to have this innocence for themselves. Nobody wants to face death and the spirit of a carefree child doesn't even grasp death. Or at least, not many children. There are those children, hurt, broken, or bound, that have discovered death and have faced it for themselves. There are children who have died, their fragile flame of innocence fading, and those who have watched it in glee. Harry understood none of this, nor could he, but as he stared up at the starry night he knew he was one of those children.

The moonlight blanketed him, his skin tingled with the sensation. The grass beneath him tickled his back and washed him with dew. The heady aroma of dirt masked the smell of blood and death. As the peaceful night closed in around him fear blossomed in his chest. Worse than any fear that Uncle had inspired or any fear that Dudley had imparted it ravaged through him like a hurricane. If he could have found his voice he would have screamed, begged, pleaded, anything to make this terror stop. Sweat drenched his body and his chest screamed with agony as he began to hyperventilate.

I don't want to die, he realized, and what child would. Unable to move, unable to cry out, unable to help himself he grasped at something, anything, flinging a part of himself he wasn't aware that existed in a desperate plea for help.

A single feather bloomed into existence, as pure as the moon and sparkling with starlight. The feather drifted slowly, caressed slightly by the wind before landing on the earth. Magic residing deep in the earth and in the life of every being surged forth, unable to deny the gift of absolute innocence the child had given. Gently the grass began to twine around the boy and the moonbeams wrapped him in a cocoon of warmth. Magic twined with the boy's own magic core and healed the wounded body. A faint blue light gleamed around the boy then sunk beneath the skin, repairing any damage done. The fading light of healing left the boy exhausted, panting as he rolled away from the sick on the ground, relieved when pain did not rebuke his movements.

The previously cool dewed grass turned soft and inviting as his eyes drifted shut, fatigue dragging him down into the welcoming arms of sleep. The stars twinkled above him, their feeble light kissing his skin. The wind ruffled his hair, whispering promises of protection. The magic of the earth calmed as it found home within the boy, warming him from the chill of the night.

In a few hours the night would fall away to day. Harry would be awoken to the sharp sting of the water on his skin as Vernon hosed him down, faced twisted into a scowl as he realized the boy had healed himself with the same freakiness he had sworn to stomp out of the boy. Aunt Petunia would refrain from any comment and would set the boy to work. Dudley would take pleasure in tormenting Harry. Harry would slowly realize the soft tendrils of magic that wound themselves threw his being and find comfort in them, especially as Uncle beat him again for his inability to be good. But for now the boy slept, watched over by the loving eyes of Gaia, his innocence maintained for just a while more.

*********Chapter End

So, this is a small plot bunny I have and decided to finally write it out. I haven't written in a while (probably evident by the crappy writing) and if anyone wants to be a beta feel free to request. I'm not picky. Tell me how you like it, I'll be posting the second chapter up after this. If people actually like it I'll continue. Chill?

Ciao