Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. Chapter 2 updated 3-24-11


From One Hellhole to Another

Harry Potter stared at the blank wall opposite him. Tears trickled down the boy's now-rosy cheeks as he bit hard on his trembling lips. Unable to hold in the pressure, the boy let out silent sobs, careful so neither his aunt nor uncle would hear him, were they to be just outside his room.

Wait, room? No, no. You're deeply mistaken if you consider his room a proper room. His room was a broom cupboard. No, seriously. It was a damn cupboard. That could hardly be classified as a room.

Harry had been told at an early age that naughty children like him didn't deserve a room. A room: what is a room? It represents individuality, privacy, and safety. As a child, Harry Potter was never given any such benefits. He experienced the true brutality of life. He experienced reality.

But let us not get off topic here. Where were we? Ah, yes. Harry was a naughty child, a very misbehaved one indeed. He would always listen to his guardians; he would always do all of the house chores; and he needn't be told twice to go to school, to do his work, or even go to bed without a bedtime story. Nope, Harry was a naughty child.

Too bad Dudley wasn't a naughty child. Dudley was the perfect role model for all children, right? Dudley would always bully children half his weight and size around the neighborhood and school; he would always ask for two and a half servings at dinnertime, half of which would always come out of Harry's meal; and he would always squander countless pounds of money on useless toys that he would go to waste in the attic in a matter of days after purchase anyways. He was definitely not an ill-disciplined child; he was absolutely, without a question, and without a doubt: a good kid. Dudders was a precious little prince. He never hurt anyone intentionally, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would claim. Dudley was always pressured into doing things against his free will, mostly due to the ever-troublesome freak: Harry Potter.

"Dudley," Harry growled as he punched the plaster wall. Harry sighed. He would get payback someday. Yes. Soon (very, very soon; hopefully), he would get payback. He just needed to finish making alliances with the snake gardens and honey bees . . . if that was possible. The spiders had already joined Harry's cause. They would scare Dudley away from his sanctuary under the stairs. Harry smiled grimly and shook his head. There was no point in false hope.

Harry slowly lifted himself up, careful not to wake up his neighbors: Harper, Kat, and Liew: the spiders. The little adolescent smiled at the thought of actually having friends. He never had friends, thanks to Dudley. Could he make friends someday? Was he really a freak? Nobody liked him. Nobody cared for him. And if Fate existed, fudge her. Not physically, of course, unless she was really cute or something. But if he ever got the chance, Harry would definitely make her immortal life her miserable. It would be revenge for making his life so miserable. What did he do to deserve this?

Revenge or not to not revenge. That was the very first life lesson that Harry taught himself. He had learned that revenge was crucial. If one didn't obtain vengeance in life, he or she would never be able to stand up for him- or her- self. Revenge was fundamental. And Harry would get it someday. He didn't know from whom he'd get it, but he promised himself that he would get it from someone. Someone. Someday. Somehow.

Harry winced in pain as he moved his battered and blood-smeared arm into a more comfortable position. He turned around to face the door and reached across to turn the doorknob. The supposed 'doorknob' was literally two inches away from his so-called 'bed.' In actuality, the bed was a cot; the doorknob was a padlock manually installed into the five by two feet wooden door.

"You should be grateful for the things we provide you with, boy. If we hadn't come along, you'd be rotting away in some bloody orphanage." Harry was 'ungrateful,' alright. He never properly thanked the Dursleys for their kindheartedness. Especially since they provided him with five-star treatment, right? Yeah okay . . . keep on dreaming bitch.

Harry cautiously poked his head out into the deserted hallway. Was Uncle Vernon still awake? Or had that fat arse of a man finally decided to get some shut eye? If Uncle Vernon really was awake, he would probably discover Harry outside his cupboard 'afterhours' and would give him the beating of a lifetime. And Harry really didn't want to deal with all of that as of the moment. He already had a broken arm to deal with. Harry gulped and stepped out into the hallway.

As soon as the boy's bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, he inhaled deeply. Silence reigned for a few seconds. The grandfather clock stationed across the hall ticked. And the clock tocked. More silence ensued. Finally, a whole minute passed without any disruption from his relatives. They were evidently asleep upstairs.

Harry sighed. It was safe to carry out his mission. His goal was to reach the destination without getting caught. It was quite simple, really, just like all his other nocturnal missions. Yet somehow, he almost always seemed to get caught.

"My name is Potter. . . Harry James Potter." Harry mimicked in a very James-Bond-like voice. "And I will succeed." And if not today, he would definitely succeed some other day.

He stealthily tiptoed down the hall and began to sidle along the wall, stopping whenever he heard something conspicuous; like the sound of a cricket from outside or the scurrying of rats from the far left closet. Upon reaching his destination, the boy let his guard down and entered his destination – a dark room. He sniffed the warm dry air around him and smiled. It was the kitchen. His stomach growled in response of catching sight of the delicious aromatic delicacies inside the kitchen.

Afraid that putting on the lights would alert his relatives, the scrawny boy tiptoed past the light switch. He made his way towards the refrigerator in complete darkness. He reached over for the handle and opened the fridge, allowing a chilly breeze to ruffle his raven-like hair. Hungrily, the boy reached for the milk carton, a cold piece of steak, a slice of cold, whole-wheat bread, and something he had been yearning for much the entire day – chocolate cake. Greedily, the boy piled large helpings of each solid food onto a plate, gulping down a glass of chilled milk along the way.

Harry knew that his aunt was a light sleeper. Therefore, he didn't dare use the microwave oven on the counter. Moreover, the boy had very bad experiences with heating things over the stove.

Harry eventually decided that it would be best to continue his only meal of the day in safe vicinity. He carefully trotted back to the cupboard with the ample plates of food in hand. Harry sat down on the hard, uncomfortable plastic bed and stared at the plates. The boy slowly helped himself to the scrumptious wonders called 'food,' taking slow bites from the meat. After finishing half of the steak, he took a bite of the chocolate cake.

That was where the problem started. This would be another self-taught life lesson to remember.

After the first bite from the cake, he had the sudden urgency to use the loo. Harry groaned as a sudden pressure formed in his stomach.

Darn bladder, Harry cursed. He got up from sitting position while clutching his lower abdomen. He shoved the inviting meal under his plastic cot and exited the cupboard.

The boy casually made his way up to the second story of the house and jumped the third step from the bottom landing. He carefully passed his guardians' room and rushed to the washroom. The boy sighed contently upon releasing all the built-up tension.

After thoroughly washing his hands, the child practically ran across the second-floor hallway. He scurried down the stairs as well. That was second mistake of the night. Harry accidentally stepped hard on the forbidden step.

Creeeaaak! The broken stair groaned. The third step from the bottom was forbidden for a reason – it would creak very loudly whenever stepped on.

Harry silently kicked himself twenty-eight times – mentally of course – for stepping on the loud creaking stair of bullocks. He stopped in midair and perked his ears to see whether the commotion had woken up his stupid guardians (don't tell them I said that).

The little boy waited. He waited some more. He counted up to fifteen and back down to zero. Silence. Had he succeeded? Had he finally gotten away with something?

Just as Harry was about to celebrate his getaway, the master bedroom door swung open. Loud footsteps quickly approached.

"Boy! What the hell are you doing up late at night? Oh when I figure out, I'm gonna beat the living crap outta you! You hear me? Living crap! That means no food the entire next week, why you little. . . ."

Harry didn't stay to hear the rest of the threat. Putting his slim legs to good use, he sprinted towards the cupboard. The boy entered his safe haven and immediately jumped onto his cot. The boy closed his eyes shut, hoping that Uncle Vernon would believe that he had been asleep the entire time. If only it had been that easy, there would still be nice guys wandering this planet. But alas, Fate is a bitch. Not my bitch, but Harry's.

The ceiling of the cupboard, which was conveniently located directly under the staircase, groaned as his obese uncle made his way down to the first floor in hopes of catching Harry up to something. The uncle stopped directly outside the cupboard and rattled the door.

"Open the damn door boy! I know that you're awake! Tell me about all this racket that you made! Can't you keep let us sleep for once, idiot boy? OPEN IT NOW!"

Harry whimpered at the thought of getting beaten in the middle of the night. This was surely going to set a new record for the number of beatings received in a day. Possibly a new Guinness World record. But at least he was safe for now . . . right?

Bang! Harry groaned. Or maybe not. He heard the rattling of keys and shut his eyes even tighter. Why couldn't he just into a puddle of nothingness? Harry wished for a miracle. Perhaps, a magical miracle. Hmm . . . magic?

Uncle Vernon yanked open the cupboard door and grabbed Harry by the top of his hair. The man harshly threw the boy onto the hardwood floor.

Harry landed on his bottom whimpering like a broken child. New tears began to flow down his cheeks, reviving his previous feelings of despair. Harry tried not to look into his uncle's beady eyes but was forced to when his uncle grabbed another fistful of hair, willing the boy to look up.

"I want answers, boy. Now!"

"I-I-I ne-nee-needed to-to use th-the loo . . . I swear I di-didn't do anything." This brought a very cynical smirk on his uncle's face. Harry internally cried out loud.

"Lying to your uncle now, are you, you cursed bastard?" Harry instinctively backed away, knowing to choose his next words very wisely.

"I don't kno-know what you're talking about, Un-uncle Vernon. I s-said I ha-had to u-use –"

"How dare you use that tone with me, boy?" The bulky, stern, and chubby man growled. Turning red and purple from anger, he pointed towards the kitchen door, making Harry Potter's fragile heart leap. "Tell me why the fridge is open with a bit of food missing, eh boy? Why don't you entertain me with your little sob story?"

"I didn't mean –" Harry was cut off by a searing pain that emanated throughout his back. He staggered from the heavy blow and tried to hold onto dense air around him for support. He simply could not. One cannot just defy gravity, and believe me: I've tried.

The boy felt a bit light-headed and attempted to run. He just could not. Excruciating pain blared at him from all sides. Movement seemed impossible.

Harry's eyes wandered to the floor. He gasped – or tried to gasp – upon finding a pool of blood directly underneath his feet. His situation was hopeless. He could not run away from reality.

"Get the fuck outta my house! You're a piece of no-good-shit! You're completely useless, remember that much boy!" Then, his uncle did something even more out-of-the-ordinary. Dear Uncle Vernon picked up the boy and flung him across the room. From the second floor, Aunt Petunia rushed down the stairs to intervene. The commotion was loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dragons? Where did that thought come in from? Dragons are hypothetical magical creatures. Magical creatures don't exist, right? So dragons can't possibly exist, much less sleeping dragons. Or maybe they can . . . the world may never know!

"Vernon, what are you doing to the boy?" The tall and thin woman seemed genuinely worried for Harry. She tried to push Vernon away but met resistance.

Vernon pushed away his wife. "If you try to save you precious nephew, you'll meet the same end that he's about to meet. Stay out of this!"

Vernon opened the front door that and literally threw the small seven-year-old out of the house. Harry groaned as he landed onto the asphalt sidewalk, his pain becoming too much to deal with.

Yay for life! Harry grimly mused. He began to take in slower and deeper breaths.

"Never step into this house again!" The man roared at the top of his lungs. Lights flickered on in surrounding houses as the uproar traveled around the neighborhood. A few housewives stepped out onto their porches to see what was going on, but were hushed by their husbands as they watched a very angry Vernon Dursley thrash his nephew.

"He's six . . . no seven years old, isn't he?" A few housewives whispered to their husbands.

"It doesn't matter. The boy is mentally-retarded anyways." Their husbands calmed down the women. One of them rushed off to call the ambulance and the police. But nobody could do much because everything happened all too quickly.

Vernon took out his belt and pelted Harry for no reason whatsoever. He must have been a pedophile or psychopath in disguise. "Vernon, stop!" Petunia Dursley shrieked as she tried to restrain her husband, but he just wouldn't budge. After what seemed a good thirty seconds or so, he finally spoke up.

"Try to steal food again, you little thief, and I won't be so merciful." With that, the arrogant and inhumane man grabbed his wailing wife and shut the door.

Harry looked up at the sky and smiled. He would dead real soon. Very soon, he would be with his dead parents and his wretched uncle would go to jail for the murder of an innocent little seven-year-old nephew.

There better be VIP room service in heaven, Harry groaned as he closed his eyes.

Alas, his luck was really, really rotten. I pity him, you should too.

The spectators rushed up to the barely conscious boy and tried to help him in any way possible.

One of the neighbors suggested bashing the Dursleys' door open and brutally beating the living crap out of Vernon; however, his plan was cutoff when someone mentioned that the boy needed serious medical attention. A very distraught-looking Mrs. Figg began to clean up the abused child wounds.

Harry opened his eyes and fluttered his eyebrows. The moonlight right above him was intense. Where was he? Was he dead? He craned his neck a bit and caught sight of his neighbors tending to his bleeding wounds.

He scowled. What good were these neighbors anyways? Where had they been for the last six years? Why hadn't they tried to help him before? Hadn't they noticed the signs of child abuse?

Life was a box of chocolates. Harry had already put his hands inside of the box once, not knowing that all the chocolates were expired. He would never do it again.

"Oh dear, are you alright?" A plump, chubby brunette put on a pitiful face and cleaned Harry's wounds with some alcohol pads.

Mrs. Figg was supposed to watch over dear Harry Potter, the savior of the Wizarding World. Her job had been quite simple. She was to keep him safe from all outside harm on strict orders of Albus Dumbledore, the leader of the Order of the Phoenix.

She had also been told to keep out of the Dursleys' way of life. She was ordered to leave the poor boy to deal with everything alone. Even after informing the old man of Harry's suspected vicious beatings and poor living conditions, she had been told to stay put. He had told her that Harry needed to "learn to endure pain." The elderly woman scoffed out loud. She finally realized how flawed Dumbledore's logic was.

Albus Dumbledore had changed . . . exactly nine years ago. He used to be such a gentleman. But one night, he had met up with that Riddle man. Ever since, Albus had been different. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the boy in critical condition.

"I never knew . . . I thought you were . . . mentally ill." Another neighbor declared her unconditional love for the boy. The conversations were shortly interrupted by the sirens of an ambulance and a police car. Harry closed his bloodshot eyes as he felt himself picked up from the sidewalk and placed onto a stretcher.

He lost consciousness shortly afterwards. However, he did hear his dear uncle complaining about something . . . something about . . . a boy? Was his uncle homosexual? He had never known that.

OoOoO

"But he is just a boy!"

"My apologies Arabella . . . but . . . Imperio."

Harry tried to open his eyes but realized they were bandaged. He focused on the voices around him. He swore he heard the word "wizard" in the conversation between two elderly people with fairly raspy voices. He frowned at the words, "muggle" and "apparate."

What the heck were these two babbling about? Too bad Harry didn't know Morse code. That's what they were talking in, right? Code language?

Unable to see his surroundings, he fell asleep again. Except this time, he had a very vivid-like dream.

OoOoO

"Wake up, son." Harry opened one of his eyes, then the other.

What happened to the bandage that was covering them? He tried to get up. To his surprise, he felt no pain whatsoever.

"Glad you're finally up. Lily and I were getting sort of worried you wouldn't be able to get up. Say, by the looks of it, one day, you'll probably make all the ladies . . . ." Lily whacked her jubilant husband. "Hey, it's true," James protested but smiled.

"Who-who are you?" Harry backed away from the man with black hair and blue eyes. The man with the broad chest seemed to be an older, more mature version of Harry Potter, with blue eyes of course. The man only chuckled merrily and hugged the little boy. After withdrawing from the boy, the anonymous man gestured him towards a woman with bright green eyes and auburn hair. Who were these people? "Am I-I dead?"

"No, sweetheart. You're very much alive," smiled the woman. "My name is Lily Potter, and this bloke over here is James."

"Wait . . . Potter? Are you my . . . ." Parents? But his parents . . . they were dead!

"Parents? Perhaps." James smiled, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Look, we don't have much time but we have to tell you a few things."

Harry hesitantly nodded, his heart beating hard against his puny chest. But why were they wearing robes? Were they hippies?

"What do you know about us, Harry?" Lily grabbed the boy slightly, and hugged him. Harry snapped out of his thoughts. He embraced his mother back and didn't want to let go. But, he knew that whatever this 'connection' was; it wouldn't last for long.

"Um . . . my uncle and aunt told me you . . . died in a car crash." James snorted angrily.

"Did he tell you I was a drunk as well?" James asked, skeptically. Harry nodded slowly.

"But I didn't believe him –" The boy started, but was interrupted.

"We were murdered, Harry." Harry nearly fell backwards. Whoa! Secret agents? "Yeah, it wasn't an accident of any sort. The madman's name was Voldemort. He was a bad wizard, horrible and inhumane."

Harry gaped. There it was again; the word 'wizard.' Were W.I.Z.A.R.D.S. some sort of secret agents? "Um . . . dad? What's a wizard?"

Lily gasped. "Didn't you're aunt and uncle ever tell you about your heritage . . . anything at all?" Harry shook his head. "Well, wizards and witches exist."

Wait, witches? As in magical witches and wizards?

Damn, that proves my whole theory back there wrong, doesn't it? So . . . dragons exist? Wow.

"But . . . but my uncle told me there's no such thing as magic."

Harry had gotten beaten up when for asking Dudley for the 'magic word' – which happened to be 'please' – before passing him a can of soda at dinnertime.

"Harry, listen to me," James turned his chin towards his face, "and forget whatever you're bloody uncle-"

"James! Language!" Lily chided.

"-told you. He was just jealous of us and wanted you to forget about magic. You see, there are certain people in this world that despise magic, and most of them are muggles – that is, they aren't witches or wizards. We wizards like to keep magic a secret from them, but don't think all muggles, non-Wizards, are bad. There are rotten people in both the Muggle World and Wizarding World."

"So . . . are you telling me I'm a wizard?" Harry slowly concluded. "But I'm just Harry, not some wizard . . . just Harry Potter." But magic sounds cool.

"No son, you're Harry Potter, the savior of the Wizarding World." James smiled.

"Wait, what?" Harry felt his head throbbing again. "I'm a savior . . . as in a famous superhero? How?"

"You see, Voldemort was a really evil wizard . . . and he tried to kill you too."

"Kill me?" Harry was starting to get annoyed at his own parents for no apparent reason. He was extremely perplexed. Telling a seven-year-old that he's a wizard isn't exactly a nice way to introduce yourself for the first time. On top of that, telling him that he was supposedly almost murdered by an evil wizard at age one doesn't exactly make him want to trust you any more than he did previously.

"No, it's just that when he tried to kill you, you somehow survived." Lily had tears flowing down her cheeks now. "I tried to protect you but couldn't. After our deaths, we waited for you, but you didn't come back for months. We decided you must have survived somehow, and moved on."

"So, right now, I'm dead?" Harry asked bluntly, a deadly serious face. No matter how smart of a seven-year-old you are, this information is too much to ingest.

"Nope. We have a special blood or familial connection that we can spark once a year and use to connect with you whenever you fall into a peaceful sleep. And it seems you haven't ever had a peaceful night until today." The images of James and Lily Potter began to flicker, causing Harry to stagger back a few feet.

"Listen to me, son. Our best friend, Sirius Black, was falsely framed for our murders. Peter Pettigrew was our Secret Keeper and led Voldemort to our house. I just need for you to know that Sirius Black is innocent and is in Wizard Prison for a crime he didn't commit.

"And remember this: don't let others manipulate you, ever. Especially that bloody-"

"James Potter! Language! He's just a little kid. Don't infest his mind with your methods of rationality."

"Err . . . right. So anyways . . . Albus Dumbledore! Don't trust him. It's his fault my only son suffered from physical abuse. Don't listen to any old bloke with a wispy beard unless your heart approves. Follow your heart. Shall we meet again . . . hopefully in a year . . . until next time my little hawk." With that the two silver images flickered again, disappearing completely.

"Wait! What's a Secret Keeper? Who's Sirius Black?" But they were gone as easily as they had come.

Hawk? Had his father called the boy his little hawk? Harry grinned and instantaneously passed out. Personally, I like phoenixes more than I like hawks. But that's just my obsession with magical creatures like sleeping dragons, which apparently exist.

OoOoO

"Is the boy doing well?" There it was again, the voice of some old bloke, probably with a wispy beard. Harry Potter tried to open his eyes and was surprised to see that his eyes were fully functional. "Ah, my boy. How are you?" So this was Albus Dumbledore?

Albus Dumbledore was a gaunt, old man with a five-feet-long, wispy beard and a fairly raspy voice. He looked to be around two hundred years old, if that was possible. Harry didn't know what to say to such an old man. Should he take his father's advice? "Um . . . are you Albus Dumbledore?" By the shocked look on the man's face, Harry confirmed his conclusion. He would not trust this man anytime soon. . . .

Besides, maybe this guy was a pedophile, just like his uncle.