CHAPTER1: THE ABUSED


Harry raised his arm to its full extent, just above his head. Then, bringing it down in a slashing movement, he traveled his hand along his wrist. The wound was emitting blood. He opened his clenched hand, and let an object fall onto his rock hard bed.

The sunshine coming through the window shone on something, making it glint, a blinding white light. Harry looked down at his bed, where the object lay. It had a black, plastic handle, and a long, thin blade, which ended in a sharp point, which was stained with a red, sticky substance. It was his blood oozing on the end.

It was a knife. Not just any knife though. He had been careful in his selection of knives at the start of the summer. He had chosen his Uncles sharpest, and pointiest knives he could find in the drawer. His Uncles Butcher Knife, that sat in the draw every day because it was never used for anything.

Harry looked at the opposite wall, immersed in his own troubled thoughts. He remembered last year when his Guardian, One of the only connections left from his parents, His Parents Best Friend, had died. He died at the hand of his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. He, Harry, had run down the steps that led to the Battle Scene that was going on before him. He, Harry, had yelled Sirius' name, over and over again, yelling at him to come back. Neville had asked Harry if he had known Sirius, asked if had LOVED him. Harry knew that Sirius' would've rather to die fighting and a free man, than be trapped in a criminal's body, being accused of his Best Friends death. Harry also knew that even though Sirius wanted to see his best friend again, he would've rather to have lived a happy and full life with Harry. With Harry.

Harry might have been able to take the death of Sirius a little bit better than he had, but the constant mocking of Malfoy and his cronies, who's dads had all been there on the night Sirius had died, had driven him to the edge, and adding to it, was everyone else's constant sympathy, especially from his two Best Friends and his Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore. Harry had felt himself pulling further and further away from everyone, until he ended up isolating himself, in the Library or up in the Astronomy Tower. He had started to get severely ill and skipped all his classes. He could tell almost everyone was worried about him. He had stopped coming down to any meals, and nobody ever saw him. His friends and the teachers had come up to the Tower to persuade him to come down to lessons, or to eat something. But Harry just sat on the window sill, looking out the window across the grounds and ignored them. Of course, he had practically stopped talking all together. His hatred was strong. Especially to his Headmaster, whom he'd had a fight with the night they had got back from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry. He hadn't said one word all summer, and just did as he was told. He knew his Uncle wasn't worried about him, according to the fact that he beat Harry senseless when he did something wrong. But his cousin and Aunt were different. They sympathized for him. Which, he hated. Every time he walked past them, either in a daze or just emotionless, they would cast a sympathy filled stare towards him. They were hoping to cheer him up, but only succeeding in making him worse than he was before.

Harry fell backwards and looked out the window and watched the sun set, illuminating the ever growing dark sky. Had he really been thinking that long? Harry closed his eyes, and let sleep come over him. Harry fell into a troubled dream, full of angry voices, the faces of all the Weasley's, Hermione, and the whole teaching staff. But what upset in his sleep, was the fact that Sirius seemed to stand out from the crowd, talking, holding his hand out to Harry. But Harry couldn't hear what he was saying, and every time he went nearer, he got further away, the voice blending into millions of angry voices, accusing him of Sirius' death.

--

Harry was pulled out of his deep slumber, by someone pulling him by the arm roughly, out of bed. Harry knew better than to moan, for the beating that he knew was about to come would be even worse if he did. Wondering what he had done now, Harry looked up at his Uncle, while standing up firmly. None his Uncles beatings hurt at the time when he was hitting him, but the pain came about two hours later, sometimes preventing from getting to sleep.

"You slept in, Boy," Uncle Vernon whispered with an anger in his voice that Harry recognized, "I have been waiting down there for my breakfast for 5 minutes."

Harry knew that this was bad, even though it was only 5 minutes. Even if he had gotten down 2 minutes late he would've got in trouble.

"Talk, Boy! I won't have any more of this nonsense of you not talking. What happened that made you stop talking? And why haven't you been writing to those freaky friends of yours? I don't want that Godfather of yours coming here."

That was it. He had hit a nerve. Harry's eyes suddenly became overly bright, causing his Uncle to stop and stare. Then a manic grin spread across Uncle Vernon's face.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

All Harry could do to answer, was nod. His Uncle let a high laugh that didn't sound right. Uncle Vernon raised his fist menacingly above his nephew, and said,

"There's no-one to protect you know, eh. Not one. You're all alone with nowhere to go." He bought down his fat fist, and with one swift movement, clobbered Harry in the face, sending him flying backwards into the wall, knocking him unconscious in the process.

Uncle Vernon smirked, than went out of the bedroom and down the hall to his room where his wife was sitting up in bed.

"What was that thud, Vernon?" Aunt Petunia asked curiously. Being the noisy person that she was, she had to know everything.

"Harry." Vernon grunted softly, "Flying into the wall."

"Was he late down to breakfast again?" Vernon nodded. "You know, I think you're to rough on the poor boy. I mean…" She quickly corrected herself, "He is ill, and we don't want his lot coming to the front door in the middle of the day, dressed as freaks. Do we now?" Vernon looked at her, than let out a slow nod, letting her know that he agreed, and was going to knock her into next week. Not that he would do that to his wife though. That punishment was for the boy.