Hey, thanks for reading! I welcome any and all reviews, and I appreciate you taking the time to read this. I'm going to see where this story goes, but if you have any suggestions, I'm more than willing to read some brainstorming. I love longer stories, I want to keep this going!

Warnings: This is a story with light slash, and a bit of Dumbles hating. Also some abuse, so if you're uncomfortable with it then... sucks to your asthmar :P

This is obviously AU, and the timeline is a bit off with the events in POA, but I think getting the action started right away is less boring. So, with my deepest apologies to timeline freaks, Imma do this my way.

Disclaimers: I own neither the characters in Rowling's Harry Potter, nor the characters in BBC's Sherlock.

This has a bunch of emotional crap in it – sorry but it's got to be done to get Harry's mindset out there. There will be a bit more action in the next chapter, I promise!

CH 2

Aunt Marge's Visit was just as horrible as Harry had anticipated. She had steamrollered her way into the house, and flung her bags at him and herself at Dudley. Privately, Harry thought he had gotten the better of the two, even if Dudley came away with twenty pounds while he most likely had a bruised rib. Marge had brought Ripper, her prize bulldog with her, and he glared balefully at Harry as he dragged the luggage up the stairs.

He lagged in descending to join the misshapen blobs he called his relatives, but finally he was called in to serve the food. Aunt Marge had always delighted in tearing him down, especially by comparing him to Dudley. Why she thought this may demoralize him, Harry never knew. He personally thought it was an absolute Godsend that he was so very dissimilar to his whale of a cousin. Still, the years of aggravation got a bit depressing after a while, what with the whacks from her cane, the occaisional slap for impertinence, the digs at his parents, and her sicking her stupid dogs on him. Oddly enough, Ripper had approached Harry, his growls making his blubbery flesh vibrate before he snuffled through his scrunched up nose. If a dog's eyes could pop, Rippers most certainly tried to do so – he actually whimpered, and stayed away from Harry from then on.

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially because horses reminded him of Aunt Petunia and he tried to stay as far as possible from her – Harry just picked at the tiny portion of the meal he had been dished out. He wanted to leave the table as soon as possible, but he knew that getting up to early would only draw Marge's attention to him. So he sat and stoically ate his meagre fare, while the three born Dursley's shovelled piles of food into their quivering maws, and Aunt Petunia emulated some sort of fidgety bird, pecking and shredding at her food.

After bellowing for most of the meal about dogs, escaped convicts, and the impressive and remarkable attributes of her beloved 'neffy-poo', Marge rounded on Harry. Squinting at him with maliciously beady eyes, she asked, "So, Vernon, where did you say the boy was going? He's still got that mean, runty look about him."

"St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal boys," Vernon grunted. "Specifically for hopeless cases like this one," he pointed a meaty finger at Harry, not looking at him directly.

"Hmph!" snorted Aunt Marge, ruffling her moustache with the strength of her exhalation. "About time, Vernon! You've put up with the whelp for far too long – he's lucky you didn't just stick him in an orphanage. That's what I would have done." She swelled impressively, giving Harry a scathing glare.

Harry sat and stewed in silent indignation. He was right there. Sure, the Dursley's generally ignored him, but they didn't do it in such a taunting manner! He reflected on the complete lack of sense that last thought made, and decided he'd have much rather gone to an orphanage. At least there you were given regular meals, and fairly equal treatment ... and a chance at a real family. One that wouldn't see a child as a burden.

Not allowing these thoughts to show on his face, Harry just grimaced a smile and began clearing the dishes at Aunt Petunia's nod. He was scraping the carnage that was their meal into the trash – God forbid Petunia ever serve something as plebeian as leftovers – when Aunt Marge began to turn her complaints to drunks. Brandishing her tumbler of brandy, she shouted, "a disgrace to our society! No good, homeless wastrels, using alcohol to cover their ina – adequa – inade – problems!"

Harry rolled his eyes, and focused on washing the dishes. If he got them done soon, he could leave before Marge noticed him again. She usually could rant about drunks and the like for a solid ten minutes. What was that word Hermione used? It sounded like rhino. No, hippo! A hypocrite! Yes, that's what Aunt Marge was. Harry was sure the 60% of fluid that made up her body was entirely alcohol. As he dried off the last of the dishes, he heard Aunt Marge really getting into it, and decided to listen to gauge when would be the most opportune time to disappear.

"That boy's parents are another thing!" Aunt Marge was shouting. Harry looked swiftly at his relatives, who glanced with shifty eyes towards him. "Those excuses for humans are the reason you're stuck with the boy in the first place, Petunia." Aunt Marge continued, "I don't mean to judge, but your sister, well, she gets pregnant after school and what do you think will happen? Your family is lucky the man married her, at least salvaged your poor name! Too bad they were drunks and ingrate though – landed the boy right on your doorstep after they killed themselves." Nodding impressively, Marge took a deep gulp of her recently re-filled brandy.

Harry was white with rage. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, but now, knowing that his parents had been magical, had fought Voldemort, had been good, he couldn't stand it. He could see his uncle nodding piously, and his aunt looking nervous but remaining silent. This was her sister Marge was talking about! Didn't she care at all? Remembering what Aunt Petunia had said in the shack that night on his birthday, Harry realized she truly didn't. Aunt Petunia, his only family, hated his mother and hated him. All because they had magic.

Fury filled Harry, and the dish he had in his hand developed a sudden, hairline crack. Looking down in a panic, he realized that his magic was reacting to his anger, and seeping out of him. With a fearful glance to his uncle, who thankfully hadn't noticed, he took a calming breath. He had already received a warning from the Ministry last year, thanks to Dobby, and had no desire to be on the wrong side of the law. Quickly putting the dish away, he slunk out of the kitchen on silent feet, collapsing on the bed when he got to his room.

Harry took off his glasses and pressed his hands against his eyes. He had not cried since he was very young; he could not cry now. He had no right to cry – he wasn't even hurt! Words should not have this effect on him. Hadn't he survived the hateful whispers all through this year? As if a second year could be the Heir of Slytherin! Ginny didn't really count as a first year because she was being possessed by a 16-year-old Tom Riddle. Harry had also endured the cold shoulders and disappointed glares towards the end of his first year when he had lost all those points for Gryffindor. Even his Quidditch team had turned on him then, not even deigning to give address him by name. But he was used to being ignored, so he could take it. He had even endured Snape's endless taunts – Malfoy's didn't count because they were stupid. He had not gotten this worked up when he was told his father was arrogant, or that he, Harry, was stupid and reckless. Snape's opinion didn't matter to him, and neither did Aunt Marge's!

Then why this ache in his chest? He knew now that his parents were not irresponsible drunks. But his whole life he had been told that they were young, they didn't want him, and that it was their own stupidity that got them killed. Harry knew that wasn't true. Lily and James Potter had fought Voldemort! They were his heroes! They had saved his life. And therein lay the root of the problem. While Harry knew that his parents loved him, the knowledge that they had died protecting him gave him no feelings of warmth. His self-esteem, already decimated by years with the Dursleys, had almost been crushed on gaining that knowledge. He was nothing special; why did two people so in love, such a perfect couple according to everyone, give everything up for him? It didn't make sense; he was nobody, nothing, a freak.

Harry shook his head. That wasn't true – he was a wizard! He could do magic, and he had friends. He was Harry Potter, he was – he was somebody. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He 'defeated' Lord Voldemort, the Darkest Wizard since Grindlewald. He was a celebrity, he was rich, he was famous. And he hated it.

Harry wasn't sure which title he hated more – Freak, or the Boy-Who-Lived. Each was a label that had huge expectations attached to it. It gave him no room to be Harry. And he knew, that if his parents were still alive, if they loved him like everyone said they had, he could have been Harry. He could have had nicknames and scoldings and stories and hugs. Instead he got to go between rabid adulation and disgusted indifference.

Sighing, Harry rolled over. He hadn't gotten this upset in a long time. Perhaps it was because Hedwig was gone, perhaps it was because he hadn't seen Marge since before Hogwarts. In any case, he would have to do his best to ignore Aunt Marge. He may not be able to control his emotions – and that would lead to losing control of his magic.

Thanks for reading! If you have the time, please review, I'd love the input. Moving along the plot next chapter, I'll get it up ASAP :)