I own nothing. Least of all this.

"The world has gone mad today,

And good's bad today,

And black's white today,

And day's night today…"

- Ella Fitzgerald

1) IN WHICH UNCLE VERNON IS RIGHT

Harry sat in his cupboard.

I say he sat. It was more of a 'collapse into himself in a pool of his own blood'. But I guess we can go with 'sat'.

He had gone to church that day. Uncle Vernon had made sure of it. Usually they left him at home, locked in the cupboard after receiving a proper beating, but today had been special. Today Uncle Vernon had said the minister would have a message that was just for him. Harry had never had anything that was just for him, unless you counted the beatings. Not even Dudley got those.

He had dressed himself up as best as he could, which in his case meant the only pair of Dudley's shorts he had without a hole in the back, and the only shirt without a burn from the poker under the arms. He had seen the looks people had given him walking into church. He flinched each time they came up to talk to Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. He could feel their hatred of him. Uncle Vernon said he deserved to be hated. Uncle Vernon had said that he was a freak. That he had no place in the world.

But Uncle Vernon had said the minister had something just for him. And if someone had something just for him, then there was a place for him, wasn't there?

Harry had sung along as best he could. He couldn't read the words, freaks like him didn't need to learn how to read, but he had copied what Dudley had been singing, and that had seemed to work. Harry had sat when everyone else did, and turned all of his attention to the minister. He had a very nice coat; even Uncle Vernon had said so, with a look that Harry did not understand. The minister turned in a very big book until he had found what he was looking for. Then he had adjusted his glasses, given a few 'uh-HUM's, and begun to read.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live…"

And then Harry had realized that this was what the minister had had for him.

The rest of the sermon had lain out, quite plainly, exactly why it was that witches and other freaks ought to be killed, and Harry had understood it all. He had even nodded in agreement to parts of it; it made perfect sense to him.

Uncle Vernon had looked happy to see him nodding, so he kept doing it. A happy Vernon meant a less-likely-to-give-a-beating Vernon. He had nodded all the way through the sermon, right up until the singing had begun again. He had forgotten to sing along like Dudley, he was so determined to keep nodding.

After the service was over, Uncle Vernon had driven them home, and they had had dinner. Well, I say they had had dinner. Harry had served them the dinner he had cooked, and he ate the few guts of the chicken the book had said to clean out. After the dinner, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry upstairs, and expounded a great deal upon what the minister had said. Harry had nodded through it all, until he mistakenly nodded right when Vernon had made one of his attempts at sarcasm, which led to one of the worst beatings Harry had ever received.

So there Harry sat in his cupboard.

He hadn't stopped thinking about what the minister had said, even through the beating. The only thing Harry didn't understand was why Vernon had beaten him instead of killing him. After all, he deserved to die. Uncle Vernon and the minister had said so. But then Harry remembered all the times before, with the tub, and the rope, and the poker, and Harry realized that that was what made him a freak.

They couldn't kill him.

That was why they had made sure to explain it to him, why they had made sure that he understood. They might not be able to kill him, but maybe, just maybe, he could kill himself. And they had given him a reason to do it.

Slowly, Harry's trembling hand moved from the blood it had been laying in and towards a box. A box Uncle Vernon kept specifically in the cupboard because he didn't "want no poison like that around my Dudley!" Harry should have realized the real reason it was in the cupboard earlier. He was ashamed it had taken so long to figure out. It was so Harry could kill himself in the only way his poor little broken body could manage on its own with no chance of survival.

Harry grasped the box, and slowly tilted the contents out, and down his throat. Hopefully, it would be quick. Then again, freaks like him deserved death. Maybe they deserved to hurt too.

That would explain the beating.