A/N: The second re-vamped chapter of this story. I hope you all enjoy this, and I am still overjoyed by how well this story was received when it first began. Thank you to all my reviewers, especially those who offered me support and constructive criticism.

He had spent his summer much the same as all his others. His trunk was taken and locked away, and once he was defenseless and his "freaky devices" could not help him – he was locked away too. He was allowed to keep his wand simply because his relatives feared what would happen if they tried to touch it.

They knew he would not be able to use it, and so did he. It was irrational, but he still feared his family. He knew what it was like to starve, to be beaten for the smallest of existing infractions, and even those that did not exist. He knew that a life full of boredom locked in a room was far better than a life spent having the principals of "normalcy" beat into him day after day.

His favorite moments were spent gazing out of the window, now unblocked by brick ("What would the neighbor's think Vernon!"), staring at the rising and falling sun. The rays spoke to him in a way nothing and no one else could. They spoke to him of hope, happiness, and a life worth living. Things he had only dreamed about since coming to the wizarding world. The sun also helped to count the days that had passed Harry in his hell and how many were still to come.

*Blinded by the Light* Blinded by the Light* Blinded by the Light* Blinded by the Light*

The darkness littering my thoughts, as it has more and more often since Sirius died for me, is suddenly lifted as Aunt Petunia screams my name in the shrillest voice known to man. In fact, I think her screech could be considered a form of echo location - her target, of course, was me. That voice means business and that voice means pain. If petunias are supposed to be such open and beautiful flowers, I am sure I will never understand the logic behind my aunt's name.

"HARRY! Get down here and make my poor Diddikins his breakfast!" she shrieked. I'm sure "Diddikins" was wasting his fat arse away sitting at the table playing with some video game I would never be allowed to see, let alone touch.

I just have the worst luck.

As lethargic as I was, sleepy is just not enough to describe such a feeling, I stumbled out of bed and stayed in "my room" long enough to put on some trousers and a jumper. It was oddly nippy out for August.

My aunt and uncle were smart enough to leave the door unlocked. It seems that the Order has managed to strike a bit of fear into their hearts. They would never be able to plow respect into their brains, but I suppose fear is better than nothing. My lack of intense beating this summer has proved that much at least.

Yawning widely I stepped into the whiter than winter kitchen. Aunt Petunia must have cleaned again. Surprise, surprise.

"Boy, my precious Diddykins wants some Bacon," Petunia baked roughly, "make yourself useful and make him some."

I set about it knowing any words about Dudley's own uselessness would only serve to make my situation worse. It was best to just go with the flow. After all, I'm tired of fighting and I can't bring myself to give up anything else I love. I may fight like hell when I'm at school and my life is on the line, but in this prison the only good fighting does is to insight fury and create even more issues.

"You are burning the Bacon! Idiot, you useless freak! After all the things we do for you and you can't even manage to make bacon?" Petunia shrieked.

In her anger, all I could see was the pale white of her face. The exact opposite of Uncle Vernon, her face mesmerized me. I had managed to save the bacon moments before her fit, dumping the strips onto a plate. The grease, however, was still popping in the skillet.

I realized too late what was happening, so preoccupied by watching Aunt's nostrils flare, imagining her to be a rather malnourished horse. Her hand gripped my arm and I knew. Mere milliseconds later, still in shock, my arm was plunged into the grease.

I screamed. The pain was fierce, though it was no Cruciatius curse, but the shock of what had happened caused me to let out a sound I would never deign to give my magical attackers.

The only thing scarier than the abuse I had just suffered was the manic look in my Aunt's eyes. They flitted frantically around the room, anxiously searching for some sign that she would be magically punished. There was none. There would never be one. The deranged look in her eyes magnified.

I had been running, hiding, and fighting all my life. I knew the look of someone who had lost sanity. I just never thought it would grace the eyes of my "normal" family. Petunia was no longer a mother, an aunt, a muggle; she was someone who had lived in fear for 16 years. She was someone who was out for revenge, and she was most definitely angry.

I saw the pan I had used to fry my cousins breakfast and then…the sun. The pink rays of early morning had faded to reveal blood red stains running across the sky. If those rays would be the last thing I would ever see, I could die happy.

Unfortunately, my death was not in my Aunt's plan. There was something far, far worse.