Warning: This chapter contains some mild language and mentions of child abuse and rape.

Ch. 1 If there be Thorns

Young. That was the correct term for the man whom sat before the Wizengamot court Saturday July 31. He fidgeted in his chair, nervous and scared to say the least. His green eyes showed worry and despair, and his black hair was unruly and staticy. His eyes darted from face to face of those attending his trial.

Harry Potter had never felt more despairing in his life. He looked to the blue eyes of the black dog, to the gold eyes of the man next to the dog. He looked to the red-headed Weasleys, to his wizened headmaster, looking for some form of comfort or friendliness. A year ago, he would not have been able to believe that such eyes would look at him with such cruelty and coldness. He looked to his oldest friend, Hagrid, whom had saved him from the Dursleys, even his eyes were distant and hard. One would think that Harry Potter had betrayed these people.

Indeed, each one felt very much betrayed. To say they were surprised when they learned that Severus Snape had seen the 15-year-old boy at a Deatheater meeting was an understatement. But to actually see the mark burned upon his shoulder was enough to make even the hard hearted faint. This was Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, enemy of Voldemort, but, according to deatheaters, spies and alike, he was also his best ally.

"What is your name?" snapped the sharp, cruel and slightly joyous voice of Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
"Harry Potter," he answered, his voice thick as an effect of Veritiserum, the truth potion.
"Do you know why you are here?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me."
"I've been accused of being sighted at a deatheater meeting, as well as killing my uncle."
"And are you guilty of these charges?"
"Yes." There was a gasp throughout the crowd. "And no."
"What do you mean?" asked Fudge, intrigued.
"I am guilty, and I am not guilty."
Fudge growled in annoyance. The boy was not making this easy. "Are you guilty of working for he-who-must-not-be-named?"
"No."
"Are you guilty of murdering you-"Dumbledore stood up.
"Do you mind if I question him?" he asked, Fudge was shocked.
"No more than I would if I did, good sir, if you can make him tell truth."
"Harry Potter, are you guilty of working or conspiring with or for the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort?" several people gasped at the mention of the name of the most feared dark lord of all times.
"Yes." Another general gasp and murmur.
"And are you guilty of murdering your uncle, Mr. Vernon Dursley, husband of Mrs. Petunia Dursley, who is your aunt and the sister of your mother."
"Yes."
"How could you!" cried Hermione, unable to hold back her tears or pain any longer.
"Miss Granger, please calm down. You will have plenty of chance to talk to him before he is escorted to Azkaban Prison."
Harry gasped, his eyes widening, "NO! I didn't! I swear! Please, I swear I didn't do it! I DIDN'T KILL HIM! I'M NOT A DEATHEATER! I SWEAR IT! By the grave of my parents, who were murdered by the very man you accuse me of helping; I swear I did not do it! I did not lay a finger against Vernon Dursley!"
"THAT'S A LIE!" shouted the youngest red-haired boy in the room, Ron Weasley, "You just confessed! I WAS THERE! I SAW YOU KILL HIM! SNAPE SAW YOU AT THAT MEETING! You FUCKING BASTARD!"
He allowed himself to pulled down by his parents, still shaking with rage. "You fucking bastard." He whispered. Harry was still staring at him when Cornelius Fudge declared the verdict, still looking at him when the dementors came and took him away, still staring at him even as the memories of everything flooded his head.

' Lying on the bed, nothing in the room, everything's quiet. Footsteps come up the stairs, the door opens, and Vernon enters the room with a belt. Five-year-old Harry huddles in the corner of his bed, shivering and looking up in fear at the overwhelming sight, the belt slaps across his face, but mother-nature is not kind enough to let him black out. '

' He's eleven now, just back from Hogwarts. His wand's out of reach and the man knows it. '

' "Kill the spare!" Cedric's blank eyes stare at him, secretly blaming him for this fate that Harry must bring to all he loves. '

' Dudley is in his room, a small smile on his face. He's been drinking with his friends, and probably never will remember what has happened. But Harry does, 'You'll always remember.' Dudley rips at the young teen's clothes, and Harry is too worn to fight. He feels a pain between his legs, and the agonizing weight of his overlarge cousin crashes into him, again and again and again and... '

' "YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" '

' "...Harry Potter, guilty of all charges, and sentenced to life in Azkaban prison." '

"How could you Harry?" The voice of Sirius Black brought Harry to the present, and he was startled to realize that he was in a small cell, about the size of a bathroom. It had a curtain in one corner, which Harry suspected there was some kind of sad attempt at a toilet behind it. On the door of the cell across from him, he read the words: 'Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate', and shuddered.

Harry looked up at his godfather, and behind him, where Remus stood, white and shaken, hurt. Harry said nothing, but looked beyond him into the cell he had read the words on. What did they mean? What language was it? 'Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate', it had to mean something dark and despairing. He whispered the words, trying how they sounded on his inexperienced tongue. Remus looked at him, and answered shakily, "Abandon every hope, you who enter."

Harry faced the yelling, the crying, rages and tears without as much as a blink at each person. Every time someone entered the cell, he would repeat the dreaded sentence, and show no other sign but ragged breathing that life resided in his small crumpled body.

Nothing would ever be the same.

WoW

AN: This story does have a plot, I swear. I know the chapters are a bit short, but that will change, soon as the rising action starts to...well, rise. R+R!