Inside a small cupboard under the stairs, an even smaller child curled into a ball and wept. This child was Harry Potter, the prophesied defeater of the Dark Lord, though Harry himself didn't know this fact.
In the state the child was, he didn't look like he was quite capable of defeating anyone really. His frame was far skinnier than any six year-old's had the right to be, mostly skin and bones except for his painfully bloated stomach. Large amounts of blood currently trickled down his back, soaking into the rag-like clothes that swamped him like queen-sized blankets.
Harry's form shuddered and shivered in a combination of pain, sadness, and cold. The child's already much too pale skin was becoming paler by the moment due to the unattended wound on his back. While wounds were a common sight for him, the currently drunk patriarch of the household decided to take things a little too far that night, and Harry was paying the price.
Things seeming colder and dimmer, Harry felt panic creep into his brain. Harry had never been taught much in his short life, the family who took his 'ungrateful' self in never bothered to make sure he knew more than how to do the dishes, cook a perfect dinner, and pluck out the weeds.
As Harry turned his thoughts to the large garden, his mind was filled with such a longing that swept away all panic from the fact that he could no longer feel his arms or legs. Even if it was only for work, being surrounded by nature and basking in the sun's warmth was the one freedom he'd ever had. Harry had a brief hope that he would be allowed to look after the garden again when he was next let out of his room.
Inside a small cupboard under the stairs, an even smaller child's heart fluttered for the last time.
