Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the rights to her books, that she painstakingly wrote- cheers to Harry Potter and the wonderful world around it.

Thanks to Coffeecat for having the patience to re-read this chapter.


Chapter Eleven

Scenes From A Childhood

It was now mid July and if Harry had thought he had been feeling out of sorts in school, he had been wrong. It was much worse in Little Whinging. Here at the Dursleys. He hated it here. As soon as he had stepped off the train and onto the platform at Kings Cross, he could feel the gloominess set in like a cold wind seeping into his bones. His uncle had grown even fatter and looked at him as if he were a dangerous vagrant and his aunt, who had grown even thinner, had been peering at him shiftily since she had laid eyes on him. Dudley, also a little larger, had glowered at him and stayed as far away from him as possible. The journey back from the station had been very quiet and smothered with silent tension.

Harry knew that Dumbledore had forwarded the Dursleys an owl disclosing some significant details of Harry's condition. Harry wasn't sure if it was supposed to make things any better. The Dursleys had been treating him like a leper ever since he'd arrived, as if he had a terminal disease that they could possibly catch somehow if they so much as came within ten inches of him.

His trunk was allowed to stay with him in his room, which quite surprisingly his uncle had got Dudley to lift up the stairs. Dudley had complied with much vocal bitterness. Hedwig's cage was placed upon his desk by his aunt, but even all these little things did not make Harry feel any better. They hated him. He could feel it with every stare and movement around him. They resented his presence as much as he resented being here.

Right now, he was lying on his bed in the middle of the day. He could sleep but he didn't feel like it. He wasn't allowed to go outside alone so venturing towards the park or anywhere else was off the list. He didn't want to go into the garden. Aunt Petunia was watering the plants and there was no point subjecting her to his company any more than necessary. Dudley was watching TV in the living room and he seemed to take up all of downstairs with his bulk and messy trail of shoes and sweet wrappers and crisp packets, so Harry chose to remain in his room. Like he had predominantly done since he had arrived back at Privet Drive.

Hedwig had been particularly clingy since he had come out of hospital and at present was sitting on his pillow, pecking at his hair fondly. He reached out and stroked her as he stared ahead at the peeling wallpaper on the wall opposite him. The room had been painted blue once and then wall papered with some garish flowery pattern. Now it was papered in plain cream, which had dulled over the years. There was a damp spot on the ceiling near the door. The roof must have been leaking and Harry was sure that the tiles had been replaced but it would be expecting too much of the Dursleys to go over the yellow patch in his room with a lick of white paint. Though, after all, they didn't think of it as his bedroom. He was the burdensome lodger they had to put up with till he was of an age where they could legally, by magic law, put him on the street. He was a lodger; Harry knew that Dumbledore must have given them some incentive to keep him for all those years. Mere threats probably would not have worked. The Dursleys were a greedy bunch, and Harry was sure on some level, it had been made worth their while to put a roof over his head.

An hour later, he went downstairs to get a glass of juice. It appeared that Dudley had gone out and his aunt was on the phone sitting in the kitchen. Harry took his drink into the living room and sat down. He couldn't be bothered to watch TV, so he sat there and sipped his drink. He was staring blankly at the wall and his eyes became unfocused as he went into a trance. A minute later he snapped out of it and his eyes wandered over to the fireplace on the mantelpiece. There were numerous pictures of Dudley's metamorphosis into the fat pig he still was. He spotted one picture that was taken at the Christmas concert in junior school. Of Dudley.

He remembered that December well. It was strange how random memories firmly entrenched themselves in one's mind. At the age of seven, Harry been quite good at the recorder. His music teacher had asked him to perform a solo at the concert and he had happily agreed. Foolishly he thought that, if he played well, his aunt and uncle might notice and say something nice to him. Show some approval. They might even smile at him and maybe buy him some sweets if he was really good. And just maybe, maybe, they might even get him a small present? No, that would be too greedy he decided on reflection; he would settle for a smile and a hug - just like they hugged Dudley. So with that thought in mind he carried on practising.

Of course they wouldn't let him practise at home.

'SHUT UP WITH ALL THAT RACKET,' his uncle had yelled so Harry had taken to practising in a spare classroom during lunchtime at school. But he hadn't minded, he thought it might be a nice surprise for them.

His music teacher had even asked if he had considered joining the choir and he had asked his aunt tentatively one night if he could.

Unfortunately his uncle heard and he snarled, 'choir? You want to join the choir? What are you? Huh? I've never heard such rubbish,' he had blustered. 'Did you know that if you join the choir you have to buy a white dress shirt? Do you think your parents left you any money to buy a dress shirt, Boy?' Uncle Vernon loomed over him, his huge girth bearing down onto Harry's tiny and slight frame.

And as he waited for Harry to answer, Harry stared up at him owlishly. After a moment he said quietly, 'umm no, Uncle Vernon.'

'No, they didn't,' his uncle said cuttingly. 'So don't go around thinking stupid ideas of joining this and that. The choir!! I ask you,' his uncle snorted and stomped back to the sofa and his paper.

So Harry had not joined the choir.

But he still had his solo to look forward to and he was thankful that Dudley also had to attend the Christmas concert otherwise he was quite sure he wouldn't have been able to do his solo. He knew that his aunt and uncle only had come because of Dudley. But this way, they would still get to watch Harry. They would have to.

He was nervous at the time, but his music teacher had smiled at him encouragingly and he had played faultlessly. After he finished, he searched for his aunt and uncle in the audience as everyone applauded. But they weren't looking at him. They were talking to one another and, with a sinking heart, he realised that they might not have even noticed his solo piece.

As the concert finished, his aunt had immediately enfolded Dudley in her arms and cooed over his brilliant performance. He hadn't even done anything, Harry had thought, feeling angry and hurt. His cousin had stood right at the back so he wouldn't even have to sing – yet he got more praise than Harry. It wasn't fair. He had tried so hard. And they hadn't even noticed.

His head hung a little low as he spied other parents with their arms proudly around their children. He wanted that. Have someone be proud of him and hold him. Have someone like him. He was going to have that one day, he decided. Have someone care for him. He was a nice boy. He never hit anyone or threw tantrums and always finished his food on his plate. Some day, someone would come for him and take him away from this life and give him a new one where he was liked and loved. Some day.

The music teacher had spotted Harry leaving and approached the Dursleys.

'Hello, Mr and Mrs Dursley. I'm the music teacher, Mrs Barnes.' His aunt and uncle looked at her quizzically and she continued. 'You must be very proud of Harry. He played so well,' her smile grew wider as his aunt's and uncle's faces soured further. 'I told him he should join the choir, he has a lovely little voice.' Her smile wilted on her face slightly and she looked a little surprised at the Dursley's expressions.

His uncle looked like that was the most disgusting thing he had ever heard and Aunt Petunia pursed her lips tightly as if that was the most outrageous thing she had ever heard. Harry could see Dudley give him a jealous glare, his piggy eyes narrowing.

His music teacher then looked a little flustered at the lack of conversation and had bid them good night.

Dudley had snickered at him all the way back home in the car, mimicking Harry playing the recorder. He kept shoving Harry's shoulder and laughing and Harry had given up trying to get him to stop hitting and sat plastered to the car door and stared out of the window. His small face glum as he looked out on the passing street lights. He remembered that drive back well.

Dudley hadn't forgotten to tease Harry the next day either.

'So, choir boy, sing for us,' he and his friends had laughed loudly at Harry. Harry had tried to ignore them but they chased after him.

'Hey, FREAK,' they shouted as they ran at him. 'what you gonna sing for us today?'

'Let's beat him up till he sings for us to let go!!' they had jeered and they chased him all over the playground.

He had run breathlessly, his little legs sprinting for all they were worth and climbing on top of the bins, looking for a way out but he had been cornered. That was the day he had shot up in the air and onto the roof. He had thanked his lucky stars for the miraculous gust of wind that had lifted him.

The next morning he had found his recorder broken into pieces as he stepped out from his cupboard. He had looked at it, devastated, and Dudley had smirked at his expression.

'It used to be mine anyway, freak,' he said bouncing about on his feet jovially. 'I can do what I want with it.'

Harry had then looked at him and said, 'yeah well that's all you do – break stuff. You don't know how to use anything properly that's why.'

Those comments had earned him no dinner that night, but Harry had felt righteous about his anger, even at such a young age. As he relived his memory, he could still feel the same spark of anger.

He sighed deeply as he finished off his juice and went out of the room. He guessed that he could have a bath. Sit in the tub for a while. He took a clean pair of pyjamas from his room and grabbed a towel from the airing cupboard. There was no point in getting dressed really. He went into the bathroom and took off his clothes, his fingers slipping over the scar on his abdomen.

It was a strange scar and he imagined that it might look a little like a bullet wound. A very large bullet wound. Round and raised, slightly pinker than the rest of his colouring. His fingers from his other hand travelled to his back, where the same scar had duplicated. The sword had gone right through him and out the other side. Voldemort had twisted it around in a circle making sure Harry had felt the full depth of the steel hitting and mangling every nerve on its way. Two scars; front and back. He pressed his fingers on both scars at the same time and pushed inwards. You could almost feel the tangled, twisted tissue of muscle that had fought to heal itself running from one point to the other. It felt a little strange and sometimes, when he bent down, he thought he could feel the tunnel of the closed up wound press into him.

Three scars from Voldemort. Three scars reminding him how close he had come to death. Lupin had told him that as much as they had tried to remove the scars, the Healers had no success. Maybe in time, the scars would disappear but Harry doubted it. His scar on his forehead hadn't in sixteen years, so why should these be any different?

He ran the bath and slipped in lethargically. He felt so tired and he hadn't even done anything though he had slept all right last night. Madam Pomfrey had handed him an 'emergency kit' with sleep and pain potions before he had left school, but had told him that he was only to use them if he was feeling absolutely dire. He supposed they were worried that he would become addicted to sleep potion.

Ever since he had woken up in hospital, up till the last week of school - he had been given a dreamless sleep potion every night. But over summer, they thought it best to not continue in case his body became too reliant or something. In case he became too reliant and didn't try and sleep by himself. But he was tired most of the time and sleep drifted over him usually without him noticing.

His dreams, since the termination of the potion, had been a mixture of flashbacks and nightmares. Some nights were worse than others: some nights he didn't dream at all. Even after all these weeks, the memory of thatnight was still so sharp. At times when he awoke, covered in sweat, he thought he could feel the ghostly agony of the sword being driven into him. The memory of the pain seeping into his mind and impinging into his subconscious. It had hurt and still hurt.

At those times, when he couldn't seem to calm himself down, he used his Occlumency technique - by blanking everything out from his mind and then going to his favourite place in his head. He immersed his mind with images of white and felt his muscles relax. For a few brief moments he felt like he did when he had ''woken up''- completely at peace. And then it would quickly disappear and he would remember everything all over again.

While he was at hospital, there had been a Healer who had come in everyday trying to get him to talk about the attack. He hadn't. What was there to say? He thought he had died. And he hadn't. After two weeks, they realised it was a fruitless attempt to get Harry to cooperate and Lupin had told him that he was there if Harry wanted to talk. Talk about nearly dying, what was the point of that? Harry couldn't tell them anything they didn't already know. Apparently they knew exactly what curse Voldemort had put on him, how he had invoked it, and they had even come up with a cure. They hadn't needed Harry to say anything at all. So Harry hadn't.

Harry closed his eyes and let the warm air over the water hit his face. A minute later there was a knock on the bathroom door.

'Umm, are you in there?' It was his aunt.

He cleared his throat and sat up a little in the bath. 'Yes, yes I'm in here.'

'Eh okay, well don't be too long,' she said and he heard her footsteps go back downstairs.

Don't be too long? Because she fancied a bath in the middle of the day? Or she wondered if he was playing with the taps? Or that he was drowning himself? Or she was worried about his skin becoming wrinkly and him catching a cold? Oh, of course, she was worried he was using up all the hot water. In the middle of July?

He leant back against the tub again and slipped in further. Half an hour later, he eventually dredged up enough energy to wash his hair and run a sponge over his body. He felt faint and dizzy as he heaved himself out of the bath and rested on the side, getting his breath back. He didn't think the water had been that hot. He stood up and looked at his face in the large mirror on the wall. He looked pale, not hot at all. But he did notice that he had filled out and grown taller. Though he wasn't eating his meals always at the proper times, the portions had been quite large and so he had gained some weight.

Perhaps his aunt had been led to believe that he might die of starvation so now she made sure he always had a healthy helping at all meal times. Which he mostly ate alone. His aunt sometimes gave him dinner earlier than when the rest of the family ate. Maybe she was worried that Harry might contaminate the food somehow, he wasn't sure, but he didn't mind. It was all right eating alone.

But now looking at himself, he decided he still looked horrible. He leant in closer to the mirror, inspecting himself critically. His eyes were now a watery, anaemic, greyish-green colour. His eyes were the only feature he actually had of his mother. He had been blessed with her eyes and now he didn't even have that anymore. He began to dry off his hair and recalled the hospital staff assuring him that his magic would return and his eyes would go back to normal.

He was going to be seventeen soon. He should have been revising for his Apparation test and finally be permitted to practice magic outside of school. He should have been but he wasn't because he couldn't – he had no magic.

He trudged out to his room and found a cold glass of water sitting on his bedside table. He hadn't asked for it but gratefully drank it down. Maybe the trick was not to ask his aunt for anything and then in return she would actually give him…things or something. As he dressed, he remembered a time when he had been five and he had dared to ask for something. Ask for something that had been Dudley's.

Aunt Petunia had been bringing down a large box from the upper floor that seemed to be over loaded with items. The phone had started to ring and she quickly rushed down the stairs and put the box down, hurrying off to answer it.

Harry was hitching up his too-big trousers that kept slipping down his non-existent bottom and peered down into the box. His eyes boggled. There were toys in there. Lots of toys. He fell down onto his knees and reached out with his tiny hands, skimming them over the contents in the box. There was Dudley's reader learning computer and there were some board games and cuddly toys. He smiled widely, his lips turning up gleefully as he saw something red peeking from under some reading books.

Aunt Petunia came back and caught him looking and he quickly dropped his hands to his sides, holding his breath in so he was still as could be. He hoped she hadn't noticed him touching Dudley's things.

'What are you looking at?' She snapped, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

His gaze shot to the box and then up at his aunt. His hands automatically went to the waistband of his trousers and he attempted to pull his trousers up again as he tilted his head. 'Are they Dudley's toys? Are they going somewhere?'

She pursed her thin mouth together and swallowed before replying, 'why?'

He shrugged his thin shoulders slightly, 'I just wondered.' He stared at the little red toy that was still hiding under a pile.

Aunt Petunia began to sift through the coat rack for her jacket.

'Are you taking them somewhere?' He asked again, pushing up his glasses that kept slipping down his tinylittle nose.

She let out a small puff of exasperation and pointed in the direction of the kitchen, 'go and eat your lunch quickly.'

'I've eaten thank you,' he said, his index finger now against the corner of his mouth, tapping nervously.

Her eyes twitched as she pulled on her jacket and picked up the car keys. She bent down to lift the box and he quickly scrambled onto his feet, his right hand lifting in the air to get her attention. .

'Aunt Petunia?' he said, his hand now wavering mid-air. 'Are you giving away the toys?'

'Yes, Dudley doesn't want them anymore. Why?' she asked in an irritable tone. The box was high up over his head and he craned his neck to see his aunt's face. 'what do you want?'

He had felt a small burst of excitement in his stomach, as he said, 'umm well, uhhh I thought I saw the red train in the box and I thought… I thought umm that… that I could maybe play with it…' He looked at her expectantly with hopeful, eager wide eyes.

She peered down at him not saying anything. She was frowning but she hadn't said no. He watched her with bated breath, looking at her. At her curly hair that was pinned up and her small diamond studs that winked as the light hit them.

'Please?' He then remembered to say politely. He was always supposed to say please if he wanted something.

'Fine,' and he heard her rifle though the box overhead. She took out the small red train and balancing the box in one hand, she crashed it down into his palm with the other.

He winced slightly but smiled happily, disregarding the pain, and thanked her wholeheartedly as he looked at the little red train lovingly. It really was magnificent. The wheels moved and the tiny doors opened and everything. He took the train joyfully into the lounge and started to play with it on the windowsill.

'No,' Aunt Petunia called out. 'Come back here. I am going out so you'll have to go in the cupboard.'

'Ok,' he said and he went into the tiny, cramped space and tugged on the string for some light. Aunt Petunia shut the cupboard door and he heard the bolt slide across. He didn't mind though. Now he got to play with the train. He kneeled on his mattress that took up most of the area and sped the train along the small shelf where Uncle Vernon sometimes kept his nails and things. The dangling bulb in the cupboard kept knocking the side of his head as he played, so he sat back down facing the other way and ran the train along the indentation of the stairs against the wall and over his head.

He did that for a whole hour.

Later on that evening Harry had held the little train in his small fist all evening, feeling so happy at being given the small gift, when Dudley finally noticed something in Harry's hand.

'What's that he's got?' he yelled, food spraying out of his wet drooling lips.

'What, son?' Uncle Vernon asked looking up from his steak.

Harry felt his heart sink and gripped the train tighter, quickly shoving his hand under the table out of sight.

'It's in his hand, Daddy. SHOW ME, SHOW ME,' Dudley screamed, his fork banging on the tablecloth. Harry stared down at his plate, his heart now starting to beat faster.

'Boy,' his uncle snarled, his moustache shaking and his heavy brows furrowing. 'Show me what you've got in your hand.'

Harry hesitated and his uncle glowered at him. He slowly put his hand out onto the table and opened his fingers.

'That's mine!' Dudley immediately screamed, his face scrunching up and going bright red. 'That's my train!' He began to cry crocodile tears and howled. 'Daddy, he took my train! WAAAAAA.'

Uncle Vernon looked furious and loomed over the table, snatching away the red train from Harry's hand. 'How dare you?' he growled, his eyebrows creasing deeply and his lips curling hatefully. He looked so angry.

'But Dudley didn't want it,' Harry spoke up in a small voice as Uncle Vernon gave the train back to Dudley

'I do want it!!' Dudley screamed, gripping the toy tightly.

His uncle looked at Harry murderously. 'Go to your cupboard you horrible ingrate. Go on, go.' He pointed to the corridor, his arm outstretched rigidly.

'But…' Harry looked at his unfinished dinner and Uncle Vernon threw his napkin on the table and moved towards Harry, shaking the whole table as he did. He picked up the plate from in front of Harry. 'This is a lesson, Boy. No dinner or breakfast for you. This is what happens to nasty little thieves!'

'But…'Harry said again, peering at his aunt to perhaps help him out. But his aunt carried on eating, not meeting his gaze, not offering a word in Harry's defence.

Uncle Vernon looked furious and slammed the plate down onto the table, the food jumping off the ceramic and onto the patterned table linen. He grabbed Harry's elbow, jostling the chairs as he did and dragged him into the passage. He flung open the cupboard door and threw Harry into it roughly.

Harry felt tears of pain spark his eyes and he rubbed his arm as he sat miserably on his makeshift bed.

The next morning as he came out of his cupboard, he had almost stepped onto the broken pieces of the little red train. He had stared at it mournfully and had dropped to his knees in the passage, picking up the fragments. The little train was broken. All broken. His lips trembled and he looked at the pieces sadly. He had wondered if he could somehow fix it but the fat sod had stepped on it good and proper and the bits were crushed beyond repair. The little red train hadn't done anything to Dudley, why was he so mean and horrible? Harry had only been able to play with the train for a little while and now it was gone.

From that point onwards he had known he really shouldn't ask his aunt for anything. It always came with a price.

Harry shook himself out of his thoughts and flopped onto his bed. He didn't even look towards his cupboard nowadays. He couldn't imagine how he had spent nearly ten years in that small dark hole. Like an unwanted animal locked up in a cage. How had he survived it? But he had. And it made him feel bitter and angry and ashamed. He really disliked the Dursleys. He did. It was almost amusing how much they hated him and were now suffering in his presence.

He smiled then and turned over onto his side.


Two hours later, Harry was still in the same position on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. He needed to use the toilet but could not be bothered to move. He had managed a certain level of stillness that required him not to move at all - and he found that if he just stared at one spot on the wall, then he could will the hours to go by seamlessly. So he hadn't used the toilet, even though his bladder had been complaining for an hour.

His ears pricked as he heard heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs. He lifted himself up and swung his legs over the bed and got up and opened his door. As he came out onto the landing, he could see Dudley coming up from behind the banisters.

'One of these days you'll go right through the steps,' Harry smiled tauntingly as Dudley huffed his way to the top of the stairs. His jowls shook with the effort and his face was beetroot red. Harry could see Dudley turning into his father in a few years, a blond version of him. His uncle's bulk had grown considerably over the years and Dudley was following into his footsteps and starting his obesity at an even younger age. Apparently all that muscle from last year had turned back into fat. Dudley now glared at him and looked like he was about to move past Harry, when Harry swiftly backed up and went around him into the bathroom. He snickered as he locked the door and heard Dudley's muffled shout.

'Hey! I was about to use the toilet!'

'Too bad,' Harry yelled back, 'you'll have to use the downstairs one, though probably you'd have wet yourself in the five minutes it will take you to climb back down.'

'Just you wait you freak!' Dudley shouted angrily and Harry heard him clomping downstairs again.

Harry grinned and used the toilet leisurely and then took his time to wash his hands. He dried them and then went back into his room and lay back down again.

A few hours later there was a hesitant knock on his door. He didn't say anything and the knock came again followed by the door creaking open slightly.

'Umm,' his aunt cleared her throat. 'You didn't come down for dinner so I thought that you might like something to eat.' It almost looked as if she was about to enter his room further for a second but then she stepped back, nervously perhaps; he couldn't be sure.

Harry looked at her in surprise but didn't answer. He briefly wondered why she hadn't used the cat flap but decided that he didn't really care.

She stood still for a moment, watching him with veiled eyes before lowering the tray to the floor and then shutting the door quietly behind her.

He didn't move from his bed till the sun went down and the room was finally swamped in darkness. It was amazing how many things became visible to the eye in the dark when your eyes grew accustomed to the blackness. He lifted himself up on his elbows and spied the steely flash of the tray on the floor. He was hungry he realised. He hadn't had lunch had he?

He crept over his bed and laid on his stomach, dangling his arms out and reaching for the tray. He pulled it over and up onto the bed. Drawing himself on his knees he switched on the small bedside lamp, his pupils immediately reacting to the sudden light.

He looked at the tray. There was a large bowl of cold pasta salad, a small bottle of dressing, a bread roll and a bottle of orange juice. He crossed his legs and unscrewed the cap off the dressing and tipped some out, mixing it in with his fork. He suddenly felt ravenous and gulped the food down quickly, munching the bread as he went along. After finishing, he laid the tray back on the floor and picked up his bottle of juice and popped off the top. He plumped up his pillows and rested against them, drinking slowly, savouring the tangy taste on his tongue.

It was odd, laying here in a semi-dark room. Alone - and just laying about. Not doing anything at all. It was decidedly odd.

He squinted at the alarm clock on the desk. It was late but not late enough to go to sleep just because of the lateness of the hour. Sleep wouldn't come to him because he wanted it. Even if he asked for it, coaxed it, enticed it. It wouldn't come. So he finished off his drink, threw the empty bottle onto the floor, flicked off the small lamp and was once again consumed by darkness.

He started to cough and once it passed, he ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth out of habit. He still hadn't been able to shake off the feeling of when the warm blood used to fill his mouth when his throat seized. He still always checked automatically for an after taste of blood. He had become so used to the taste of his blood. As if he were his own personal drinking fountain of blood. Unlike saliva, blood had an actual taste and for weeks he had that taste in his mouth during every hour he was awake not able to taste anything else.

There had been times when he had been terrified, with irrational fear, that he might be literally puking his guts out. There was all this blood coming up from inside him, and it had been dark and thick. It wasn't the thought of dying that had alarmed him; it was the thought of dying slowly and watching the life drain away from him that had at times caused a spark of fear at night before he took his potions. But most of the times he hadn't cared. He had accepted his fate, and had resigned himself to the actuality that he was going to throw up his internal organs in intervals of bloody mess.

He settled further into his pillows and took a few deep breaths and switched off the light. He liked the initial feeling of darkness. Everything was pitch black and you could be waving your hands in front of your face and you couldn't see them at all. See nothing. He couldn't hear anything either.

So he lay in darkness. And quite liked it.

And eventually fell asleep. In black velvet.


The next morning Harry woke early. He used the toilet, had a shower and even dressed in a set of clothes. His trousers were too wide at the waist and too high at the ankle. They looked like jack-ups. They looked bad. Like he cared. He had bothered to dress himself; that was news in itself. He threw on a white t-shirt that drowned his chest and then ran his fingers through his sopping hair.

Hedwig clucked in her cage and flew out of the door, landing on his shoulder heavily. He petted her and sat down on the bed. After a minute, she jumped off and landed on his trunk that still lay unopened at the side of his bed. As she tapped across it, he looked at his desk and stared at the various unopened letters. He had received mail but hadn't opened any of the letters. He couldn't quite bring himself to, seeing that everyone who had sent them seemed so far away now.

He looked away as Hedwig nibbled on his fingers and then got up and went over to the desk. He immediately recognised Ron's scrawl, Hermione's neat and tiny writing, Hagrid, Lupin and…Draco's. He picked up Draco's letter and held it carefully in his fingers. He felt his heart tumble achingly and quickly put the envelope down. He almost couldn't bear to read what had been written in these letters. He didn't want to hope for anything. They weren't here. They were so distant and he was here. It would hurt to read the words they had written. It was better to disconnect one self - it was better for him.

It was stiflingly hot in his room and he opened his window. The cool breeze wafted in for a moment before going still again. It was going to be another scorching day. He wondered for a moment if he should go downstairs and switch on the fan, he could stand right in front of it and let it blow cold whooshes of air at him. He could put it on the highest level it would go and just stand there to overcome the heat.

He decided he would do just that. He picked up his tray from last night and went downstairs. He caught sight of the clock. It was seven thirty in the morning. His aunt was already in the kitchen, sitting by the table and sipping a cup of tea. Her actions stilled as Harry walked into the kitchen.

'Would you like some breakfast?' she said and he again felt a jolt of surprise at her words.

He placed the tray by the sink and nodded, 'yeah I'll have some toast maybe, thanks.'

She nodded, looking at him over her tea cup. He opened up the bread holder and took out a loaf of bread. He took out a knife from the knife drawer and started to slice himself two pieces of bread.

The scrape of the knife against crust was the only sound in the otherwise silent kitchen.

He popped his bread into the toaster and went to the fridge. He could feel his aunt's eyes following his movements. He took out the bottle of milk and held it up.

She blinked at him and then looked at him, 'yes, of course, help yourself.'

He nodded and closed the fridge. He poured himself a glass of milk and was drinking it by the counter, waiting for his toast to pop up, when Uncle Vernon came into the kitchen. He was dressed for work. Grey trousers done up under his large protruding belly, a white shirt in the largest possible size perhaps and a blue tie. What day was it? Harry wondered. He had no idea. Time didn't really mean anything to him, everyday was the same.

Harry could see his uncle clench his jaw tightly and his moustache quivered at the sight of Harry standing so casually in the kitchen, drinking a glass of milk so freely and unconcernedly. Harry relished the last drops of milk and met his uncle's eyes nonchalantly before he rinsed out the glass in the sink and last night's dishes.

'I will be at a meeting for lunch, Petunia, in case you call.' His uncle said sitting down at the table. 'I will be back about two o' clock.'

'All right, dear,' his aunt replied. She got up and picked up an already made tea and toast from the counter and presented it to his uncle.

Harry then turned his back to them as his toast sprung up and started to butter it.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was very strained and you could have twanged the strings if air had been a violin, Harry thought, licking a smidgen of butter off his finger.

Uncle Vernon was now eating breakfast. Chewing his toast, sipping his tea. The wet noise of food being eaten made Harry curl his lip. He took a big bite of his own toast, still standing up, still with his back to his aunt and uncle. He crunched and chewed, his eating noises competing with his uncles.

Crunch.

Sip.

Chew.

Swallow.

Crunch.

Chew

Swallow.

And the silence continued to hug around the food noises.

His uncle cleared his throat a few moments later. His sipping and chewing now having ceased.

'Dudders asleep?'

'Yes.'

'Mmmm, well make sure he packs everything so we are all organised for tomorrow.'

'I will.'

Harry could again hear his uncle snuffle and snort as he finished his toast. It was a most discomforting sound.

'What time did he get in last night?' his uncle obviously still talking to his aunt.

'Um I'm not too sure…'

'Mmmm,' his uncle murmured. Harry ate the last piece of his bread and rinsed out his knife. He turned around and looked towards the table before leaving the kitchen. He heard his uncle mutter something angrily as he left. Yes, it was definitely amusing being a nuisance to the Dursleys.

Later on that evening, Harry was back in his room, his door slightly ajar. His uncle had come back from work and Harry could hear thumps and clicks coming from the master bedroom. He was saying something loudly and Harry flicked open his door wider and settled back on his bed.

'…. not comfortable leaving him here alone with you,' he was saying. Harry couldn't really hear what his aunt said in reply. There was thudding as footsteps came nearer to his room and the bathroom door opened.

'… he is an ungrateful sod, that's what he is,' his uncle said. 'He's been acting even more strangely than before,' Harry could hear him say loudly, even though he was in the toilet opening the cabinets. More footsteps back towards his uncle's bedroom. 'You don't know what he is capable of. All those bloody people sending letters. Who do they think they are? We have given him food and a roof over his head, what more do they want? Why can't they just take him? Why do we have to suffer him every summer? Look at him! He looks like a drug addict. I wouldn't be surprised if he was one of those…those ''junkies'',' he hissed. 'If he wants to die, why doesn't he do it whilst he is still at school? Why is he insisting in wasting away here? Why are they insisting he waste away here?'

Harry smiled wryly as his uncle bellowed. 'They don't want to pay for his funeral that's why. That's why they are off loading him when he is like this. Well I'm not going to pay for anything and that's final. Do you hear that, Boy?' his uncle yelled out more loudly, and Harry assumed his uncle wanted an answer.

'Yes, Uncle Vernon,' he called out, bizarrely feeling a bubble of laughter crack in his chest.

'I don't know, Petunia,' his uncle's muffled voice could still be heard fairly clearly from the depths of his bedroom. 'What if he decided to commit suicide here? What if he decides to die here? What if that ''thing'' comes after him and kills him here?'

'…Vernon, the boy is safe here, I told you and they are keeping guard to make sure we are not harmed…' his aunt sounded close. She was coming out onto the landing heading to the airing cupboard.

'Well still, look at him,' his uncle insisted. 'He might just die anyway. What if he is sick again? What do we do with him then? They better come and get him if anything goes wrong. I don't see why we have to put up with this nonsense.'

Harry got up and chose not to hear anymore of his uncle's tirade. He knew what his uncle was worried about. What if ''The Boy'' committed suicide or just died here and they would have to suffer the embarrassment of having a dead body being taken out of the house. What would the neighbours think? Oh the shame, the humiliation.

Harry wondered what would happen if he did kill himself? Just to piss them off. Not the fact that he was dead, because obviously they would be celebrating that – but just the way he could kill himself. He could do it really messily and leave blood all over the place and it would be really amusing to see their faces when they found him. To know that they would have to clean his mess up. Blood was really hard to get out of carpet and sheets. It would send Aunt Petunia into frenzy. It would be almost worth it – to kill himself just to piss them off. And them having to deal with all the awkwardness of a teen suicide in their home.

Gosh WHAT would the neighbours definitely say then? Harry smirked to himself. It would almost be worth it.


Aunt Petunia asked him to come downstairs for dinner and so he did. He was sure his uncle was seething in having his company at the table but Harry ate as if he couldn't feel the vile looks his uncle and cousin were throwing his way.

He had surmised that his uncle and Dudley were going away on a father and son camping trip to the Midlands. He had sensed a lot of tension between Dudley and his parents, especially Uncle Vernon, since he had been back. All was not well with dear Dudders and mummy and daddy. He had caught snippets of conversation where he overheard Aunt Petunia worrying that Dudley may be involved with a bad crowd who were influencing him wrongly.

Harry had sniggered; his aunt would always be in denial when it came to her precious son. Always making excuses for him, covering up for him. It seemed that Uncle Vernon had purposely found a local youth's club where they arranged father and son outings such as fishing and camping and had signed up himself and Dudley.

Harry tried to imagine them both stuffed into a tent and felt satisfied in knowing that they both would probably have a horrible time. They would, he knew it. His uncle was going to try and talk to Dudley as if he was ten years old and Dudley would be disinterested and bored. Both of them were also mini elephants and the fact that they were going on a walking holiday was rather comical. Dudley's practitioner had probably encouraged exercise and fresh air and Uncle Vernon probably wanted to reconnect with his son before he grew up and moved out, only to visit when he wanted money and clothes laundered.

Harry carried on chewing and eating indifferently. He wondered why Aunt Petunia wasn't going away somewhere too. Was it because she didn't want to get away? Or she was forced in some way to take care of Harry over the summer? Harry couldn't believe for a second that she was staying with him out of the goodness of her heart. He guessed he wasn't nine years old anymore and able to be shipped off to Mrs Figg.

He remembered a time when he had been eight years old and Mrs Figg hadn't been able to mind him after school. His aunt and Dudley were going out and they didn't want to leave Harry alone in the house in case he wrecked it somehow – so his aunt had told him in the morning to wait for his uncle to pick him up at five o' clock outside school.

Harry had stayed in school till it had closed and then in the playground for as long as he could; kicking the leaves around on his own. But then the caretaker had come at five thirty and asked him to leave the grounds so that they could lock up the front gates. Harry had then sat on the pavement outside school waiting for his uncle. He read his reading book five times and then sat bored and alone, as the sky grew darker and colder.

It started to rain and six o' clock came and went. His brown corduroy trousers were sodden and his large jumper clung to him wetly. His hair was plastered down onto his head and the raindrops spattered against his glasses and dripped off his nose. He had started to shiver and was completely soaked – he remembered that clearly. He realised that his uncle had probably forgotten about him or his aunt hadn't told him – maybe something had happened.

At six thirty he decided that he should walk home.

It took nearly an hour to walk home. The rain had been chucking it down and he had been drenched and miserable as he squelched down the road and approached the house. His trainer had a small hole on the toe and even his socks were saturated with rain water. He dropped his school bag with a cold and limp hand onto the doorstep and rang the doorbell. His aunt opened the door.

'Oh,' she had said, looking down her long nose, her lips peeling back against her slightly protruding teeth distastefully. She looked at him critically as he stared up at her, sopping and bedraggled. 'Get in, hurry up,' she snapped as she motioned him in. 'Your uncle's meeting is running late. I had better phone him and tell him not to go over to the school.'

Harry stood dripping on the welcome mat as she scurried off to the phone and phoned his uncle. His wet clothes felt so heavy and he sniffed and wiped his glasses, making them even more blurry and unfocused. She then shooed him off to the bathroom to dry off and Harry could hear Dudley snickering at the sight of him. His cheeks were smarting with embarrassment and he felt humiliated as Dudley laughed, 'ha ha,' outside. He quickly dried his body and wriggled into his dry clothes quickly.

He swallowed now and shifted in his chair. He could feel his aversion for these people rise inside of him as he sat in silence listening to their cutlery clink together. He wondered now, how come no one noticed that he had been such a skinny wretch? Why no one cared enough to step in? But no one had at that time. But probably no one had cared. He knew that. He had always known that.

And that is why no one had cared that he had been stuffed in a cupboard like an old coat. He touched his forkful of lamb to some mustard before putting it into his mouth and thought it would not have killed the Dursleys to have shown him some understanding and compassion. He would not have expected gifts from them, because he knew that he was not their son and they would never treat him like one. But they could have treated him civilly. No, it would not have killed them to treat a small child like a human being. He had been little and pathetic and now it was funny how they were afraid of him to an extent. Like he was a walking time bomb bringing chaos and destruction to their otherwise peaceful household.

Harry chewed his lamb, over and over in his mouth. The moist juice from the sauce had long gone and he was left with tasteless rubbery meat in his mouth. He swallowed it down with some water.

'Oh, Dudders, you have a scratch on your cheek,' his aunt spoke up, looking concerned as she examined Dudley's face. 'Where did you get that from?'

Dudley was in the midst of shoving another forkful into his mouth, 'dunno,' he shrugged and chewed his food wetly.

His aunt nodded and continued to heap up her fork with sparrow like portions.

Harry watched the scene with a detached eye. Scratch. It was hardly a red mark. A spot that Dudley had picked; a cut from shaving. But Aunt Petunia always got so flustered at the sight of her poor Dudley hurt.

Harry felt his stomach twist bitterly as he recalled a memory of when he was five or six.

His aunt had taken him and Dudley to the park. It was had been a large park with monkey bars, swings and a large steel slide. She had been perched on a nearby bench as he and Dudley scrambled towards the play area. Dudley, of course, tugged at an occupied swing and pushed off a little girl with pigtails, who had been swinging quite happily up until that point. She looked shocked and scared as the large boy sneered at her and sat his big bottom into the seat. She made a face and walked off and Harry stayed away from the swings and meandered towards the bars.

Twenty minutes or so had passed and Harry walked over towards the large steel slide. His feet crunched on the gravel and bits of loose stone, as he approached it and then made his way to the ladder. He hitched up his oversized trousers and eyed the ladder carefully. It was very high, but he determinedly grasped the red painted bars and started to climb. In a few moments, he had made his way up and stood at the top of the slide, feeling the slight breeze touch his dark hair. He smiled happily and sat down, positioning his legs forward and holding onto the sides lightly. He pushed himself off and gleefully started to slide down. As he reached the bottom he felt a whoosh behind him and a rough shove. He went tumbling off the end of the slide and onto the gravel.

Dudley had somehow scrambled behind him and managed to slide down, also now falling off the end and landing on his bottom. He let out a loud screech and his aunt came racing to pick him up. Meanwhile Harry, who had fallen flat on his face, sat himself up. His knee, elbows and palms burned and he felt his eyes water. He had grazed his palms - red marks accompanied with bits of grey stone and dirt. He felt his right knee sting and looked at it fearfully through the freshly made hole in his trousers. It was bleeding and looked all gloopy and had bits of gravel pressed into it. His elbows hurt, the thin large T-shirt he wore offering him no protection as he fell. He bit his lip as he felt tears start to choke his throat. He held his hands out, scared to touch them against anything. He bent his knees gingerly, his eyes searching for his aunt. There she was. She was clutching Dudley - who appeared quite unharmed - fiercely in her arms.

Harry felt the tears rise in his throat and fall down his cheeks and he started to cry quietly. He sniffed and wiped his tears with the back of his hand under his lenses. His small lips dropped as he felt more tears leak out his eyes and he tried to wipe his nose, as he sat on the gravel waiting to be held too.

'Diddykins, I told you to be careful,' his aunt in the meantime was lamenting and Dudley howled louder. She got up, lifting Dudley into her arms - with some difficulty mind, for he was a large and a heavy child. Harry remained on the ground as his aunt looked over at him.

'Get up, we're going home,' her eyes swept over him and stilled at his face for a moment. He looked at her and for a moment he thought she was going to come over and comfort him too, like she had Dudley. But her eyes cut away quickly and he knew instantly that she wasn't. He got up, carefully trying to rise without the use of his hands and tenderly trailed after her with his hurt leg.

It wasn't till they had reached the house and she had sat Dudley on the sofa with a glass of coke in front of the TV, did she tend to Harry. She made no comments at his reddened eyes and quietly cleaned his palms and knee with a damp washcloth.

'Do you want a plaster?' she asked in a toneless voice.

Harry was afraid to ask for a plaster. They were Dudley's favourite. They were blue with dinosaurs. He shook his head quickly and his aunt pressed her lips together tightly. She picked up his ruined trousers and looked at them crossly.

'Another pair of trousers you've ruined,' she shook her head looking displeased. 'Go and get into your pyjamas.'

And Harry had walked to his cupboard and slithered into his clothes, wincing as the material rubbed against the raw wound on his knee and elbows. He had known from that day onwards never to expect comfort from his aunt.

He looked at her now, and she met his eyes falteringly. His eyes frightened her, heck they frightened all of them. None of them looked at him directly to his face. He supposed he did look quite awful and after all he didn't have to look at himself so wasn't that affected by his terrible appearance. She passed him a bowl of roast potatoes and he took it from her slightly astonished again. He looked at his plate and found it devoid of potatoes. He had eaten them and she was offering him a second helping.

Dudley scowled at him and he muttered a quiet thanks, before his uncle noticed. She nodded and looked down again and Harry felt awkward and strange. He couldn't figure her out and wondered who had threatened her to the point that she was acting so considerate towards him. Dudley grabbed the bowl after him with a glare and finished off the rest of the potatoes as Harry completed his meal.

It was nearly eleven o' clock at night when Harry was coming out of the bathroom and his uncle came up stairs.

'Dudders!' he shouted out. 'Get to bed. We have an early start in the morning and I don't want to have to wait for you.' He stopped mid-step for an answer.

'Whatever,' came Dudley's voice and Uncle Vernon shouted again.

'Dudders!'

And Dudley yelled out a frustrated, 'oh God, yeah ALL RIGHT,' in reply.

Uncle Vernon breathed in heavily looking infuriated and then continued to climb up the stairs

Harry tried to weave around his uncle towards his room as his uncle came to the landing, when he blocked Harry's path.

'Listen to me, Boy,' he scowled in a sneering voice.

Harry listened, meeting his uncle's eyes squarely.

'I don't want any funny business while I'm gone. Your aunt is a good woman putting up with you and I don't want you acting like a layabout whilst I'm not here.'

He waited for Harry to respond and in return Harry sighed. His uncle gathered a large breath somewhere in his belly and lifted his small neck higher.

'I'm warning you. If I come back and find that you've been acting up, you'll be wishing that you really had died you hear me?'

Harry tilted his head and gazed at his beefy uncle, 'yes, Uncle Vernon. Anything else?'

His uncle pointed a meaty finger towards his face in a threatening way and Harry leant back and then went onwards to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him and listened to his uncle go to his bedroom.

Not bothering to change into his night attire, Harry took off his clothes and slipped into bed. It took him a while to fall asleep and it was nearing two in the morning by the time deep slumber overtook him.

He was in a midst of a strange dream when he suddenly found himself back in the alley. There was instant panic inside his mind as he ran back towards the door…he was reaching for it and it was getting closer…

But then he felt it go in, like he always did.

'Hello, Harry,' and then his mouth was clamped shut as he fought to scream against the spidery fingers.

He screamed himself hoarse and no one heard him. He could feel the hand pressing against his lips; he could feel the unbelievable pain in his stomach. It was so real like it always was when he dreamt this nightmare.

'This will hurt. It will hurt so much you will beg me for death,' Voldemort hissed in cruel amusement. 'Though the bearded fool did say that there are things much worse than death. I guess you'll find out won't you, Harry? Once you are dead you will be able to reflect upon whether it is true or not.'

And death would have been better than this. He couldn't bear to relive the torture he had endured that night. Yet it was happening all over again and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't wake up just like he hadn't been able to get away that night. He was helpless all over again. He was pinned back against that brick wall and could feel his blood ooze out of him - feel the fresh raw pain rip through him. He wanted to die all over again - only death could save him now - he knew that.

'Qui agnoscit mortem, cognoscit artem,' the words whispered in his ear and he instantly knew what they meant.

''He who has knowledge of death knows the art of dominating it.''

He now understood all the words Voldemort had uttered that night but it didn't matter that he did. He was still drowning in agony - feeling the blackness veil his vision - feeling the sword embed itself in him. He couldn't breathe, he was dying and he was suffocating. He was choking on his own blood and it was pouring out of his mouth….he was going to die…

He tried to scream…

There was a loud screech! And he gasped for breath as his eyes flew open. His heart was beating rapidly in terror and he was drenched in sweat. What the hell was that noise? Was that him screaming?

Where was he? He tried to think… tried to calm down. He was in his bedroom. He was in Privet Drive. The noise was coming from Hedwig's cage. She was flapping loudly and shrieking. He threw his covers back and scrambled out of his bed. His scar on his stomach was throbbing and he could hardly breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a few deep breaths. It was only a dream.

Only a nightmare.

His eyes snapped open again and he looked at Hedwig in her cage. She was hooting at him and he tried to stop wheezing.

His bedroom door flew open and his uncle stood in the doorway, a large and formidable figure in cream pyjama's and wild bed hair.

'What the HELL is that noise? You better shut that bird up!' he shouted. Harry tried to breathe slower so he could speak. He couldn't so he simply nodded.

'What the hell is the matter with you? We're trying to sleep here.'. He'He glared at Harry and Harry dropped his head, watching his uncle's shadow elongate across the floor as he moved slightly into the room.

'What's the matter, Boy? Are you having an asthma attack?'

'No,' Harry said, his hand pressing against his heartbeat. 'I'll be fine.' He swallowed and felt his muscles relax a little. 'I'll be fine, it's okay. Sorry.'

His uncle shook his head and he looked revolted. 'Get back to bed and keep quiet,' he spat out as he slammed the bedroom door behind him.

Harry was trembling as he stood by his bed in the dark room. He suddenly felt his stomach lurch and felt himself heave. He quickly went to the door and opened it and hurried to the bathroom. He just made it to the sink as he threw up in one large mouthful. There was no blood. Just vague scraps of vomit mixed with his saliva. He threw up a little more and then lowered his head on his arms against the sink's edge. He was shaking and he was cold. And it had been a dream.

He didn't think he ought to waste a potion. He normally didn't dream more than once a night and sometimes he hardly slept till the sun broke through his curtains. The morning didn't seem to welcome nightmares like the dark did. He splashed some water on his face and rinsed his mouth out. A minute later he silently padded back to his room and shut his door gently. He took in a deep breath and sat on his bed. He really didn't want to try and sleep right now.

He sat still for a few moments contemplating and then got up and went to his bedside drawer. He took out a large candle and some matches. Lighting it, he went over to his desk and dripped some wax onto a piece of paper and stuck the candle onto it. This was the same candle he had lit for Sirius when he had arrived back at Privet Drive.

He had realised in the first week of holidays that he had forgotten Sirius's death anniversary. Consumed with guilt he had lit the candle and dropped to his knees, thinking out words of forgiveness to the great unknown. He hoped Sirius would have forgiven him for his thoughtlessness. He had let the candle burn on its own accord that night and then the flame had gone out and he had put it back in his drawer.

Now he stood watching the flickering flame shudder from the slight wind of the open window. He looked at Hedwig and she seemed to have settled down and gone back to sleep. He went ahead and closed the window. The room was warmer and it wasn't so dark and he didn't feel so alone. The glow of the flame lit up its surrounding and Harry let out a long breath and then lay back down in his bed. He would let the candle burn throughout the night. It would keep him company till he fell asleep.

He lay quietly, trying to breathe steadily. He listened to the sounds of the pipes running through the rooms, a door shutting somewhere in the distance, a cat meowing in the street, a dog barking, a distant drone of a car driving past. He suddenly thought of the mirror that Sirius had given him, which was now repaired but hidden deep down in his trunk. He had been so close to seeing Sirius again… he had so nearly died. His uncle must have been so disappointed that he hadn't died. And he had got so close to getting rid of Harry. If it was any consolation to his family, Harry had thought himself that he had in fact died, only to realise that he hadn't. He wondered if Sirius knew when he had died; did you just know at the point of death that this was it? You were going to die?

It was weird. Everyone was going to die eventually and most people had no idea how they were going to die. But Harry knew it. He just knew it. Intrinsically. Inherently. He was going to die at Voldemort's hands. It was going to happen. He wasn't going to live long at all, not the way things were going. He knew he was supposed to be the one to kill Voldemort but he knew now, that Voldemort was going to kill him. Harry couldn't escape forever and his luck was going to run out.

He wondered if Voldemort would take a hold of his body again and use him…get him to kill himself? Because that could be done. Quite easily. He wondered how long he had left…

Was there much point in living, when you knew your days were numbered? And it was only a matter of time before you were murdered? Harry couldn't afford to live really; he didn't see the point of starting a life when it was going to be over quite soon. He would just bide his time, he figured and without magic he was completely helpless really. Voldemort was just waiting for an opportunity and it would come. He was getting stronger and though his aunt kept the papers away from him and always switched off the news around him, Harry knew that people were dying day by day at Voldemort's bidding.

He watched the flickering flame as it swayed in a large shadow against the wall. The tear-drop end tippingping shakily left and right. A faint hiss of the wax as it slipped onto the desk. The glow diminished momentarily and Harry touched his scar on his stomach, feeling the ridges on his skin.

Yes, it was only a matter of time.

TBC…


Karina bleching: Well it was a long chapter at least… I had issues with this chapter and didn't feel at all confident if anyone would like it. I did—but a lot of the time it doesn't matter if the writer loves a chapter-it's the audience reaction that counts. I don't think my beta was all too thrilled with this one either so if you didn't like it then you're in good company! Hehee

I'm not trying to make Harry a 'victim'- I just really believe a child from his background would have had experiences like this. I don't think the Dursleys beat him—but mental abuse and neglect is very hard on a small child and I think the character of Harry would be very bitter about his treatment in the long run when he looks back at his childhood.

I hope I have somewhat explained Harry's behaviour towards certain things…and obviously there is a lot more to come. Lol

Chapter twelve is ALL Draco in France so will have a different feel entirely.

NOTE: I have shamelessly taken the title from Schumann's-Scenes from a childhood. It always manages to make me smile and depress the hell out of me at the same time- so it kinda seemed fitting here.

Thanks to: White-Winged-Sihde, Epiphanys-Curse , Arianna , yafit -For Reviewing The Chariot

Thanks to: Magic-Elf- For reviewing With A Kiss

Thanks to: Soft Willow, Rowenna, Marshes to Banks, Fire Oranie, Nyx, LMG, Robin the bird, coetzee b, frogslayr, destinywriters, May, Draco's Punk Rock Chick, Esrinthly, Bad-Azz-Slytherin Chaos, riantlykalopsic, go9bbledy, Eyecandi18, ura, boysaresmelly, Clo Veridian, AbundantFear, Belle, SeparatriX, joEy1607, Chi, Peilless, Ginnybhhr, RSSLSCTZ , Jacqueline91, coolio, Tobi , TonksLovesTheClash/booklust(LJ), tsubasagahoushi, Alora, Dragenphly, AsheslovesHarry, Epiphanys-Curse , AriannaLisa , yafit, Cordelia-lolly- For reviewing The Hermit