Chapter 1

My life as a rubrix cube

The lingering light of the sun on the horizon brought a peace and quiet to the residents of Little Wighning Surrey. Though only a few noticed its setting everyone was aware of the fact that darkness was creeping in.

One boy in particular knew the darkness well. Very well indeed. His room was lit with only the light that the window to the outside world provided. In one corner of the room was a small cot, not even a bed, with a small piece of cloth on it to serve as a blanket.

His clothes were all too big for him. The few that he had. He wore a long sleeved turtleneck which was at least three sizes too big for his small frame. His pants was the same size but in addition to being too big around the waist he had to roll it up so as not to trip himself.

That was the only clothes he had at the moment. His other clothes was in the trunk that resided beside his bed, a shirt and trousers, both dirty from being worn for days without being washed.

As he stared out the window he fancied himself thinking that he saw a concerned pair of eyes looking at him from the darkness behind a pair of rubbish bins down the road. The eyes stared at him for only a moment and he couldn't even be sure if he was really seeing anything but it felt good to imagine that someone, somewhere, cared about him.

Oh, no, he didn't live alone in that house. No. He lived with his 'family'. His aunt, uncle and cousin. They prided themselves with being a normal everyday loving family. Projecting their love and care for their son for all to see.

But no one ever saw this young man. Everyone knew about their nephew living with them during the school holidays, yes, everyone knew. They knew that the boy was a juvenile delinquent, living off of his family, giving them grief during the short time of year he had to live with them. Yes, the Dursleys had told everyone about him. Everyone knew all the Dursleys told them about the boy.

What they didn't know was that it was all lies.

Lies about who and what he was. Lies about who the delinquent in the family was. Lies about how he treated everyone like dirt. All just lies.

No, this boy was everything but a delinquent. He was not normal, no, but there was a very good reason for that. He was a wizard. A very powerful wizard who wanted nothing more than a loving family. And to just be normal. He didn't even mind if he was a normal wizard which meant he was definitely not normal by any means but at least he would be normal by wizarding standards.

But that was not to be.

He was Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the thorn in the ministry of magic's side. The savior of the wizarding world. He was a hero, a spoiled brat, a delusional boy and any other names one could think of. Everyone had their own opinions about this boy.

He just wanted to be normal.

He just wanted a loving home.

But that was not to happen. He was to live with his aunt and uncle. His parents dead. Dead at the hands of the bane of Harry's existence. Lord Voldemort had killed his parents. Had tried to kill Harry. But failed. Now, almost 16 years later, this was the result of one fateful night. The night that changed everything.

The night which gave the world the chance to live in peace. The night which changed the lives of many people. The night that Harry Potter's life was taken out of his hands.

The night that his nightmare began.

Sitting by the window in his room Harry thought about the past week. The week that everything changed. He had thought that his life was one big rubrix cube, wanting to be solved. The colors of the box representing his moods, his way of living, his life.

If the colors of one side was put in the right places, the right sequence, his life would become more manageable. Something good would happen and he would feel some peace.

Not now.

Not at the moment.

At the moment his rubrix cube was one big colorful mix. Blue mixed with red and orange and green and yellow. Only white was left out of the mixture.

Harry fancied himself with this picture. Every color mixed in the box but white was not within the colors that represented his life at the moment. No, peace was not part of his life at the moment.

Slowly moving back to his small cot, Harry gingerly sat down at the head and lifted his legs onto the thin mattress covering the base of the cot.

He winced as some of his bones protested loudly against his movements. His arm was broken. His right arm. He didn't know if he would be able to write the letters to the order as he had promised to do. But he would worry about that at a later stage.

Now, he had to worry about making as little noise as possible while positioning himself on his 'bed'. Luckily his legs were still unbroken, not unbruised (is there such a word?), but unbroken. He also sported a black eye and a split lip.

No, white was definitely not in his sequence of colors.

He thought that red would be a dominant color at the moment. Maybe three red blocks with blue, green, orange and yellow in between.

The other sides of the box represented his friends. The red blocks represented his enemies. Only there were too few red blocks to represent everyone. The white represented his family. All dead, but all of them, he knew, loved him. His parents, godfather and he thought, maybe even his grandparents. The other colors represented various other people. His friends, his peers and his fans.

He just hope that one day his side of the rubrix cube would be all white.

He fancied he saw that picture.

But not now.

Not at the moment.

At the moment he saw a lot of red.

His enemies had a strong hold on his life at the moment. But those enemies where not the enemies normal people had. No, these enemies where both pure evil enemies and scared enemies. Both Voldemort and his 'family'. No, they weren't his family. Family wouldn't do this to you.

Family wouldn't abuse one another. No, they weren't his family.

Harry had been home for but a few weeks and was already wishing to be anywhere but here. His uncle had locked him up in the cupboard under the stairs for the first three days. Up until Harry had pounded on the door and reminded his uncle that he had to write a letter to the order. Oh, how he regretted that decision. That was the start of the pain. The start of his continuing nightmare.

He was dragged up the stairs to his 'room'. He wrote the letter to the order, stating that everything was fine and that he didn't need anything. Uncle Vernon demanded that he read the letter before it was sent to make sure that he didn't write and 'rubbish' about how he was treated. Didn't want the other wizards to find out how his nephew was treated, now did he?

As Hedwig soared out the window Harry was the 'fortunate' individual to come quite well acquainted with Vernon Dursley's fist. His stomach met the first blow. Followed closely by his ribs and lastly his face.

This went on night after night. He became Vernon's punching bag, his steam reliever. This had gone on for about two weeks now and Harry was sure that if he was to leave the house at the moment he would not be recognized.

After the first night, his uncle had decided that maybe it would be best to leave his face out of his 'relieving' process.

Dudley had not been so nice.

Now Harry sported a black eye, split lip and courtesy to his uncle, a broken arm.

He hoped he could write the letter in two days for he did not fancy any of the order members seeing him like this.

No-one could find out how he was treated.

He deserved it after all.

He should be dead, not Sirius.

No, not Sirius.

Why? Why did he have to die? Why did fate have to take his only family left away? His white blocks was disappearing fast, being replaced with red ones.

He considered the Weasley's his family but didn't want to think about them in that way anymore, for if they were to move into his white block spaces they would also be taken away. No, he couldn't do that.

He was alone.

He was meant to be alone

He was meant to die alone.

"Either must die at the hand of the other…"

Did that mean that only Voldemort could kill him? Did that mean that if someone else fancied themselves with killing him he would not die but suffer their wrath?

He hoped not.

If that should happen he would seek Voldemort out and ask him to finish the prophecy himself.

But now, now he had to concentrate on living, for it did not do to dwell on things that could not be controlled.

Harry wrapped his arms about him and concentrated on his new injuries. He had discovered in the beginning of the summer that he had some sort of healing instinct. If he concentrated hard enough he could mend most of his broken bones and cuts, if there were, on his body.

He felt the cut in his lip close and licked the excess blood off. He didn't want it to dry on his face and wasn't allowed out for another three hours to use the bathroom.

He concentrated again and felt the bones in his arms righting itself in position but he knew that it would have to mend together on its own for now. He had no more energy left.

Uncle Vernon was quite furious and surprised the first time he saw that Harry had healed himself. But now, Harry knew that Vernon was thankful for that gift of Harry for otherwise those other 'freaks' would know that something was wrong.

If Harry was to show up at the train station sporting a black eye, split lip or any other noticeable injuries, Vernon, knew that he would feel their wrath.

He also knew that his nephew would not speak of this to anyone. He was too proud to do that. Too mindful of how weak he would look to go to them for help. He thanked his nephew for that quality. Now he could let off the stress of the day on the whelp and in the morning none would be the wiser. Though he did notice that the bruises tended to stay.

Harry concentrated one last time on the gash that ran down his shoulder blade before succumbing to sleep.


1 day earlier.

"NO Albus! I absolutely refuse! That boy is a menace. He sticks his nose in where it doesn't belong. He disrupted my privacy and saw one of my most private memories. I bet his laughing his head off about it as we speak. And, he got his mutt of a godfather killed. He has absolutely no consideration for others!" Severus Snape was not a happy man. Not at all.

"Now, Severus. I know that it was wrong of young Harry to look into your pensieve but you know as well as I do that boy's of that age are quite inquisitive and that it was not only his fault but yours as well for leaving your pensieve out in the open. No, I'm not blaming it on you, but please see reason. Harry had only done what you would have done at that age."

"But …"

"Back to the topic at hand. Remus had expressed his concern about Harry's mental and physical state. He said that the letters were both short and consistent. This we see as odd behavior for Harry as he is one to ask questions and demand answers. I know that we usually (or almost always) do not give him those answers but it is strange that he has not asked one question yet this summer."

"I want you Severus to go check on Harry. Just keep an eye on him. See if he's okay. He's morning Sirius's death and therefore would most probably not appreciate Remus going to him. He feels responsible for Sirius's death and seeing Remus might just push him over the edge.

Please Severus. If just to put my conscience at ease."

Severus Snape had never before seen the headmaster so dejected and worn. He could whack that Potter brat over the head right now for doing this to his headmaster.

"Very well Albus. But don't expect me to cuddle him or sympathize with his 'loss'. He's an impertinent whelp and I'm only doing this to see those damnable twinkles back in your eyes."

And with that Snape strode out of the headmasters office leaving one very bemused twinkling headmaster behind.

"I did not agree to this. No, no, I couldn't. Someone jinxed me. There is no other explanation. Why oh why did I agree to this?"

As Severus walked down the road and turned up Privet Drive he began searching for number four. It was past sun set and the street lights illuminated his path. The dead silence of the night was a worrisome factor. It was just not normal. It was as if the whole street decided to go to sleep at the same time. Here and there were a light flickering in a house but other than that is was quite. No movement.

Until now.

A slight figure in one of the windows caught his attention.

It was too dark to see who it was or even if it was a male or female but those eyes. Those eyes were the eyes of someone who was dead on their feet. There was no life in them. Severus found himself drawn to those eyes.

He felt that he wanted to know what had caused those eyes to become so lifeless. He looked to see if he could find the number and was surprised to see that he was at number 4. He looked at the window again but those eyes had turned away.

Who lived there? Certainly not Potter. Potter was a spoiled obnoxious brat who had way too much life in him for a normal person. Too insolent for a normal person.

He made his trek up the walkway and decided to just open it with an alohamora rather than knocking so late at night.

He could hear a TV blaring somewhere to his left. The stairs were to his right and he followed his feet as they moved him in that direction.

The first room he encountered could only be a spoiled child's. There were toys everywhere. Broken, new and used toys.

Maybe this was Potter's room?

No, as he moved into the room he could see the occupant of the bed. A big fat whale of a boy lay snoring on his back.

Not Potter's room.

The next room seemed not to be lived in. It was a spacious well furnished room that was kept neat and tidy.

Again not Potter's room. Potter definitely not the neat type.

The next room was the master suit. A small frame lay in the bed and he could see that it was a woman. Rather than disturbing her sleep and facing her husband's wrath if she should scream he decided to leave her be.

Then there was a door.

A door with padlocks

Lots of padlocks.

He got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Whipping out his wand he spelled the locks open and entered the room.


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