The whole house was dark. It didn't look like anyone had been there in days and that was true. The whole family had moved out at the beginning of the summer. They had been such a strange family. Two fat pigs of men, more flesh than anything, and a twig of a woman who would do anything to make them happy. Well, good for her but my, didn't the neighbors, what few they had, find strange. There was always shouting in that family. Bad blood, they all said. Possessed, said another. Haunted souls come to torture us. This idea had most likely originated from the little waif, spirit-like, terribly thin boy that could sometimes be seen. But he was only seen a couple of times, so no one knew if he actually was there or not. But they were glad, now that that evil, terribly odd family was gone, they could live in peace.

The house itself was gutted. Windows broken and shutters hanging lifelessly on to beaten hinges. The door itself was broken in and barely hung right. The gardens grew wildly and where once somewhat pretty, if not boring, flowers had lived, only death and weeds grew. The lawn shot up wildly and the neighbors didn't care. It wasn't their house, so why should they care? If only they had.

Inside was worse. The floors were torn up from the hasty move. Glass was everywhere from the windows and possibly broken plates. Stains and mold littered the floor. If only someone had looked closer and smelled a bit, they would have noticed the sharp metallic scent and the deep, deep almost blackness of the stains. The only thing left in the whole house that was working was a small clock that slowly started to chime out 12 sounds for midnight.

A head jerked and what would have been a laugh escaped but it came out more as a raspy cough. The figure turned from where he was leaning and counted out the chimes. 12. It was now midnight. It was finally July 31st. The figure quietly started humming a raspy version of happy birthday as his eyes slid shut to avoid seeing the once snowy white feathers that were now red as they shone in the feeble moonlight.

He didn't sleep much anymore. At first that was all he could do but eventually that became boring. Then he tried counting the dust specs. When that became boring, he counted the nails in the floor boards. Now he couldn't even do that. Not that it was his fault he couldn't. No, everything was fuzzy, blurry shapes in his left eye anymore and blackness dominated his right eye. That had gone away so long ago. It must have been years, he decided. That was how long he had been here. Not just 2 months but years and years. Maybe not like this but he had been here for that long.

He tried to move for his precious source but had to give up. It was no use. It was his own fault, of course, that it was outside of his reach. Just as it was his fault that the bowl was upside down over the largest of all the cracks. He had been foolish to think he deserved those things and they had been taken away from him. Just like everything else had. His body couldn't even move anymore. He deserved that too, for hurting the most precious boy. It was all his fault.

He had to take stock of what he could. He could still move some of his fingers and most of his toes. Couldn't move his left arm or left leg, or else he would pass out again. He could barely move his right arm and his right leg lay there unused. Just breathing hurt. Actually, just about everything hurt. He knew he was lucky though. Sir could have tightened them before he left and then he wouldn't have been able to feel his arms at all. It was time for another try. Stretching his arm out to the side, he stretched as far as he could, trying to reach the darkened shape that always lay just beyond his reach. Gasping for breath, he leaned back again, disappointed and listening to the rattling.

The sound of metal links clinking together as they moved. Chains that were connected to the wall and then back to his arms and legs and neck. It was okay. These were there so everyone out there could be safe from him.

That's not true.

He shook his head. Great, voice was back. He had liked voice for a bit because it brought an end to the monotony of his existence. But then voice kept saying things. It would stay stuff that made his head hurt. He didn't like that stuff, he wanted to forget that stuff. So he pushed voice away again and again but it just kept coming back again and again. He huffed and stuffed voice away once again and went back to checking himself.

Each warm spot was still there, just as he remembered them. They were on his back to but he didn't care about those. He shifted a bit and bit back a gasp. Yeah, that was still there as well. He still felt the stickiness as if it hadn't dried ages ago.

Worth nothing else but as a bloody whore…

He groaned and pushed that voice back too. He hated that voice worse. It didn't just make him remember, it made him feel again and again the things he didn't want to feel ever again.

He turned to thinking about the layout of the room. Anything to take his mind away from the turns it was taking. Nothing should have changed since he last thought about this. To his left was the window, the glass broken on the ground and most of the bars still in place. In front of him were the ashes, where Sir had burnt all the things he didn't deserve. The one thing that wasn't burnt was the broken stick. Half of it was laying there on the ground and the other half was stabbed into his shoulder. On his right, no! He couldn't think about….her. But it was too late. The memories came.

Her beautiful white wings beating against her attacker, her claws and beak lashing out. The sound of her hitting the ground and her wings breaking. And finally….the snap of her neck breaking. The blood stained her beautiful white feathers now.

And as he tried to cry tears from tear ducts that had long since dried up, he turned sixteen. He was bloody Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Was-Now-Dying.

Author's Note

If you think that I need to up the rating, please tell me and I will. This is my first attempt at a story such as this one.