Disclaimer:I own nothing but my plot

Chapter 2: Nothing

Nearly ten years had pasted (nine and three quarters, to be precise) since Aaron had been proclaimed the Boy-Who-Lived, and many things had changed in the Potter Manor. Where there used to be picture of a mother, father and two baby boys were now pictures of a boy with jet-black untidy hair, hazel eyes, round glasses and wizard robes being held by his mother, Lily, father, James, or his godfather, Sirius Black. This boy was on the most expensive broomsticks, covered with presents or even newspaper cuttings of him shaking hands with the Minister of Magic. This boy was no ordinary wizard you would just pass on the street. This wizard was Aaron Potter.

In this house there was no other proof that another boy lived here. There was no sign of the boy with straight, jet-black hair that fell into his emerald eyes, which unlike his brother, needed no glasses. There were no pictures of him with his family, no pictures of him with presents or shaking hands with the Minister of Magic, and certainly no pictures of him on the most expensive broomsticks. It was as if Harry James Potter didn't even exist.

But Harry was there, asleep, but not for long as his mother and father refused to cook, and so Harry was forced to.

"Get up! UP!" screeched his mother, banging on his door of the smallest bedroom in the house. "Aaron will want bacon, and you better not burn it!" Harry could hear the implied 'or else.' In her tone, so he quickly got up, put on a black t-shirt with a golden griffin on it, gray, faded jeans and wizard robes. He made his way to the kitchen and pulled out the bacon from the fridge (Lily wanted some Muggle things to make her feel 'at home'). Harry took out the frying pan, put it on the stove and put butter in it. He turned on the stove so the butter melted and spread, then put bacon on the pan. But as he turned, Harry's arm hit painfully on the hot frying pan.

Harry put his left fist in his mouth as to not scream in pain from his blistering right arm. Right below the elbow was an angry scorch mark, red and raw as the lightning scar on his forehead. He rubbed his lightning scar angrily, wishing he could understand how nobody knew Aaron was like a music box – pretty to look at, but completely useless.

Everyone thought Aaron got rid of Voldemort, because of a scar on his forehead that if you squinted and turned your head slightly to the left looked like a LV. Everyone assumed that it stood for 'Lord Voldemort', but Harry knew it was probably just from a piece of ceiling hitting him on the head.

Of course, nobody believed him. After all, who would believe Aaron's brother over the Chosen One himself?

Harry immediately stopped his brooding so he could flip the bacon. Thankfully, none was burnt.

Four minutes later, the bacon was done. Harry grabbed three pieces, while angrily wishing that his dad allowed the house elf to cook. But no, James Potter was too nice, and told Micky that he needed to learn to work. As if! If anyone needs to learn to get things done themselves, it was the Boy-Who-Is-To-Good-To-Do-Work, not Harry.

Harry sat at the table, sweating. He made bacon, eggs (scrambled and sunny side up), pancakes, waffles, toast and so much more. By this time, the rest of his 'family' had sat down and begun to eat,

"Pass the bacon." Aaron demanded as his usual way of saying, 'Good morning' to Harry.

Harry sighed. "Here you go." He responded, passing the huge golden platter and wincing slightly when Aaron piled almost all of it on. James ate the rest of the bacon, and Lily only had a slice of toast (she wanted to lose weight). Harry had a waffle with maple syrup and melted butter on it.

Once everyone was done, Harry began clearing the table and washing the dishes. He put the leftover food away to have for a different day.

"Hey dad, can, um, can we maybe play Quidditch?" Harry asked hesitantly.

James rolled his eyes. "No, I've got a lot of work to do." He said in a bored tone.

Harry nodded. "Oh…okay."

Aaron rushed in. "Dad, I'm bored. Let's play Quidditch." Then he added, puffing out his chest, "I'm definitely going to be on the house team, that's for sure, and seeing as I should train, get your broom!"

James jumped up with a grin. "Sure, I have nothing else to do; Kingsley offered to do the paperwork. I wanted to play, anyway!"

Harry's eyes filled with tears he willed to not fall.

"Great, dad! I have my broom here!" Aaron beamed. "Oh, let me take off my solid gold wristwatch."

Aaron had always taunted Harry about that; for their third birthday, Aaron had received a solid gold wristwatch and many other things and Harry had received a journal from Moony, ever changing color ink and sugar quills from Padfoot and nothing else. That night was the last night he received any gifts. That night, Harry had cried himself to sleep.

Harry rushed out of the room after finishing washing and putting away the dishes. He just wanted to be alone.

He rushed to his room and jumped on the bed. He paused for a second, unsure. Then he lifted a loose floorboard under his bed. It had books, gifts and other things that Harry didn't want anyone else to know about. He got out his journal, ink and a quill. He had charmed the book with wandless magic to never run out of pages. Harry had found the charm in the Potter library, while Aaron was getting his picture taken; even if Aaron hadn't been, it wouldn't have mattered, as the library was one of the few places Aaron avoided.

Harry dipped the quill in the ink, and paused for a moment. Then he opened the journal (It automatically opened to a new page; another charm Harry had found) and began to write:

Dear Journal,

Why am I never good enough? Did I ever deserve this? No- no one deserves to be alone forever, invisible. My parents walk right by me, can see right through me as though I am invisible, but they cannot see through my bones and flesh to my heart. They cannot see how much they hurt me. I am invisible, like the cloak dad gave Aaron instead of me. I am dying inside, my heartbeat is wild, I am a savior.

And yet I'm nothing.

Harry.

That night, after re-hiding his things, Harry cried himself to sleep, like every other night.