On a hot summer afternoon, sat upon a swing in the middle of a deserted playground, Harry decides there are two Harry Potters.

There is The Boy Who Lived, whom everyone knows. A legend, Harry thinks detachedly. A story that will be passed on through generations.

Then there is the boy who survives, whom no one knows. An average boy, nothing worth sparing a second glance at.

Harry compares the latter to a cockroach. Stamped down, but still kicking.

They say a cockroach can live up to a week without its head. He wonders how long he could live without his head. Feels he's already lost it.

Feels his days are certainly numbered.

A green flash. Blank eyes sunken in a once-handsome face. Reminiscent of another green flash. A woman's voice. Screaming. Calling his name, Harry! The Cruciatus Curse. Relentless. Unforgiving. Harry! The scream was getting closer, louder, and deeper. Harry!

"HARRY!"

Harry Potter woke with a start, scar throbbing. His heart was pounding. He gasped for air as he took in his environment. Without his glasses, all he could see were dark blobs surrounding him. It reminded him of being surrounded by death eaters in the graveyard. Watching, laughing, as Voldemort cursed him.

This doesn't help. He berated himself, and forced his mind to concentrate.

The darkness told him it was still night time. The pounding on his door and the soreness in his throat told him he'd been screaming in his sleep. The clicking of locks being undone told him he was going to pay for it.

The door swung open and hallway light filtered in. He saw a large mass moving towards him. Felt large beefy hands grab at his collar and hoist him inches off the mattress. The grip was tight and carried the full weight of a threat.

A snarl in his ear, "one more noise from his room, boy, and you're going to wish you had never been born." Harry was dropped with a dull thud, and the mass shuffled back to the door. There was a loud slam, followed by more clicking of locks.

Harry sank back down into the hard mattress. Let out the breath he'd been holding. His mind was still reeling from the dream, and it took moments to process Vernon's words.

He did not want to go to sleep, though he knew he would need the rest for tomorrow. He stared at the ceiling, and imagined he was somewhere else.

The next time Harry woke, the sun was rising above the houses of Privet Drive. The sky was painted pink and orange.

There was a rapping on the door, and for a moment he panicked. But it was only Aunt Petunia. She regarded him, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of pity on her face. Almost.

"Breakfast." She barked at him, and disappeared from the doorway, leaving Harry to get dressed.

He rubbed his eyes blearily and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He pulled on his old hand-me-downs from Dudley and set his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

When he came down to the kitchen, he found Aunt Petunia sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine. Uncle Vernon was already at work. Harry was pleased to find that Dudley was still asleep, meaning he could cook in peace.

He started the tea pot on the stove, then set to work frying bacon and scrambling eggs.

By the time he was putting the bread in the toaster, Dudley was awake.

He heard heavy footfalls down the stairs, and soon his cousin came storming into the kitchen.

"And how did you sleep, Duddy?" Aunt Petunia asked him pleasantly.

"Poorly." Dudley casted a glare in Harry's direction. "Thanks to you. What were you even on about? Screaming in your sleep."

Harry ignored him. He set the prepared food out on the table and hoped it would distract Dudley into forgetting his question. It worked. Dudley dug in, effectively ignoring Harry's presence.

Petunia waited until he's filled his plate before she began to pile food onto hers.

Harry lingered, hopeful. Petunia eyed him, and then let out a sigh. "Dudley, give him a piece of toast."

Dudley, surprisingly, does as he's told. Almost. Instead of handing the toast out to Harry, he drops it onto the floor. "For keeping me up. Freak."

Harry bites his tongue and picks it up, then retreats to his room.

The rest of Harry's day consisted of more chores: scrub the bathrooms, wash the dishes, sanitize the kitchen, and tend to the garden. He had to finish before Uncle Vernon came home. That was the only rule on chore days. That and stay out of the way and keep quiet. But he always tried to do that anyway.

Harry sat hunched over a garden, carefully uprooting the weeds growing amongst the flowers. The back of his neck was bright red from the mid-afternoon sun. His hands were scraped up from the thorns of the thistles and nettles.

The earthy smell brings him back to the graveyard. He quickly pushed those thoughts aside. Tried hard not to think of Cedric's blank face. Of Voldemort rising form the cauldron. Of being bound, helpless, in the arms of the angel statue.

He still has bruises from where the stone had ground into his arms. He wears Dudley's old long-sleeve shirts to hide them, per Aunt Petunia's insistence, should the neighbors see and question.

Harry sat back in the dirt, heart racing. The graveyard had happened just over a week ago. Today was his first day back with the Dursleys. They were their usual unpleasant selves picking him up from King's Cross the previous day. Not that he had expected them to be any different.

Already, he missed Ron and Hermione.

Harry finished early that day. His reward was that he didn't have to be locked in his room the rest of the afternoon. He had free range – the rules being: 1. Don't talk to the neighbors, and 2. No "freaky" stuff. He wasn't sure what all the second rule meant, exactly, but he followed it as best he could.

The summer was a particularly hot one. The neighborhood streets were deserted; no one wanted to be outside in the blazing heat. Harry decided to go to the park.

He sat on a swing and kicked off the ground, lazily pushing and pulling himself backward and forward.

It was quiet there, with the absence of children. Peaceful, with the absence of the Dursleys. Harry could sit alone with his thoughts.

That night, Harry dreamt of the bodies of his friends strewn across the floor. Blank, lifeless faces where he'd known smiles. He felt horror. He felt guilt.

He woke up screaming into the night. The scream was cut off by large hands around his throat. Terror. He tried to fight off his attacker, but could not find the strength in his arms.

His second instinct kicked in – he went limp.

Almost immediately the hands loosened, and then let go. Harry scrambled backwards, nearly falling off the other side of the bed in his desperation to get away.

"I warned you, boy. One more noise." The familiar but unfriendly voice of Uncle Vernon ground out. "What will the neighbors say if they hear you?! You must've woken up all of Little Whinging!"

"I'm sorry, sir." Harry gasped, hands massaging his bruised neck.

"Just keep it down." Vernon growled. He turned and stomped out of the room, leaving Harry cowering in the darkness.

The weeks dragged on. With each passing day, the list of chores grew longer, and his meager meals grew fewer and farther in between. He was quickly running out of energy. Lately he had been finishing his chores just before Uncle Vernon came home.

He had not heard a word from any of his friends or Sirius. He didn't mind at first; he figured they were just busy.

Harry did not see Dudley so often. He was always out with his gang, smoking and vandalizing and tormenting grade-schoolers. But there was hell when he was around.

Dudley always had his hands on Harry, whether he was punching him or holding him in a choke hold. Harry hated it. Hated hands on him. And Dudley knew it. Exploited it. Sometimes he would simply run his large hand across Harry's boney shoulders just to watch him squirm.

One day Harry did not finish his chores on time. For that, he found himself locked in his (Dudley's old) bedroom with the promise of no meals for a week.

From beneath the floorboards, he brandished a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Perhaps his friends were waiting for him to write first. He wrote out a letter to Ron, Hermione, and Sirius. Surely one of them would answer.

He wrote about how the Dursleys were "their usual selves" and how he couldn't wait to see them – and when could he see them. He didn't say much else than that.

Tomorrow he would be extra good. He would get up and cook breakfast before Aunt Petunia came knocking. He would get the chores done on time.

Then, maybe he would be able to let Hedwig out.

But Harry didn't get the chores done on time. He was sitting on the roof, resting before he started on the gutters, when Uncle Vernon's car pulled into the driveway.

"Shit." Harry muttered under his breath.

Uncle Vernon stepped out of the car and looked up at him.

"Have you finished the gutters, boy?" He barked at him.

"No, sir." Harry knew better than to lie.

"Kitchen. Now."

Uncle Vernon walked into the house, and slammed the door behind him. Harry took his time climbing back down the ladder. When he walked inside, Uncle Vernon was waiting for him.

He barely had time to open his mouth to argue his defense when Uncle Vernon struck him hard across the face.

The side of Harry's face was left tingling, and a red patch began to blossom across his cheek.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dudley smirk from where he sat watching from the table. Aunt Petunia gazed on with pursed lips.

"Do you think you can just sit around lazing about all day?!" Vernon near-shouted. "We put clothes on your back, food in your belly, and this is how you treat us in return?"

"I'm sorry, sir." Harry said. There were plenty of things he would rather say, but he knew better.

Vernon shook his head. "Sorry doesn't cut it. It better not happen again."

Harry ducked his head. He went straight for his room, Uncle Vernon in tow. Impatient, Vernon shoved Harry up the last few steps. Harry stumbled into his room. Vernon slammed the door on his back and locked the numerous locks.

"Two weeks." Were Vernon's final words.

Harry faced the closed door and rubbed the side of his face. He stood there staring until a soft hoot turned his attention to the corner of the room.

"I'm sorry, Hedwig." He said. "I tried. As soon as I can let you out, I will. I promise."

The next few days passed slowly. Harry spent most of the time pacing back and forth across the small room like a caged animal. About every other day, he was given a meal (passed to him through the cat flap in the door) of a cup of water, a stale slice of bread, and a quarter of a grapefruit. He was allowed to use the restroom twice a day, though he didn't have much (if anything) in his system to expel.

As much as he appreciated Hedwig's company, he thought it was unfair she had to suffer for his failures. Numerous times he pleaded through the door to let her out, but to no avail.

Two weeks ended early when chores built up and Aunt Petunia needed someone to do them.

For once, he was happy to clean the gutters – it meant fresh air. And after doing nothing but sit around for the past few days, he was rested enough to finish the list of chores early.

He went inside and found Aunt Petunia, who was in the living room watching TV. Some gossip station.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence. She looked up at him through narrowed eyes.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering… if I could just please let Hedwig out. She's been in her cage for days." He near-begged.

She pursed her lips and pondered for a moment. "Fine. Wait for nightfall so the neighbors don't see."

"Thank you," Harry said earnestly. But she was no longer paying attention to him.

With Hedwig gone, Harry was completely alone.