PROLOGUE: OVERWHELMING PRESENCE OF DESPAIR
"So, you attempted to get your freak friends to help you." Uncle Vernon bellowed from the doorway, a twisted snarl set upon his face. His large frame prevented escape. "Well, it didn't work, did it?" Harry Potter lay cowering in fear at the man who blocked the doorway. "Answer me, boy!" he bellowed even louder, his face turning red from the effort. He stepped forward threateningly, swinging the belt in his hand. Harry was visibly shaking.
"N-No U-Uncle V-V-Vernon." the small boy stammered
"Do you know why, boy?" Uncle Vernon shouted his voice dripping with anger and hatred. He took another step forward, within distance. Harry pushed himself further into the corner, overwhelmed by fear.
"Because you're a murderer, boy. A worthless little murdering freak." He roared "A parasite upon normal sensible people such as your aunt and I." Harry whimpered, trying to shield himself from the beating that was to come. Thwack! The first blow came. "What are you?"
"A murderer" Harry stuttered, while trying to ignore the overwhelming pain from the blows. "A worthless freak and a murderer." he repeated parroted, trying to avoid stammering through fear of the giant monster that was whipping him.
"Murderer, that's right." A sneering voice filtered into the recesses of Harry's mind through the overwhelming barrier of pain, "A nasty disgusting little murderer."
'He's right you know,' his inner Hermione said to him as it did during every beating, 'How can you be responsible for someone's death and not murder them.'
'I didn't cast the curse that killed him.' his mind replied
'Wormtail didn't cast the curse that killed your parents.'
'He intended to kill them, I did not.'
'What's the difference? You've still got his blood on your hands. You're still the reason he died.' A surge of guilt utterly consumed the quivering boy. A horrible realisation dawned on him, one that he had been denying since the third task. He had killed Cedric Diggory, he was a murderer a worthless, nasty, disgusting murderer, who deserved only death, as Uncle Vernon had been telling him all along. He uncurled from the foetal position as the beating continued. He didn't want to touch the body of a murderer; it was a disgusting thing to do. Tears welled in his eyes as Harry Potter mourned Cedric Diggory and mourned himself.
"Why do you cry, boy?" Vernon shouted disinterestedly once he had stopped the beating.
"I mourn what I have become." Harry whispered with conviction, he was still stammering with fear, "I am nothing more than a murderous parasite."
"You have learnt the truth, then boy?" the muggle said, trying to hide his surprise.
"Yes sir."
"Good Boy." Uncle Vernon sneered in the same tone one would speak to a dog. He turned to leave the room.
"Thing, sir." Harry said, "Not Boy."
"Vernon gave a wicked smile, "Good Thing, then." he replied in the same tone. Harry looked satisfied, he was being treated, as he deserved.
Moonlight shone through the kitchen window. It should have been deserted at 2:25 am but tonight it was not. Occasionally, If you looked through the kitchen window of 4 Privet Drive at this time, you would see a large, extremely fat raiding the fridge for food, not that he needed the extra food though. Tonight, someone else was there, looking for something completely different. He was short and skinny, in desperate need of food. Yet it was clear that he wasn't looking for food, he was looking through the knife drawer, searching for the sharpest knife available, so he could attempt suicide.
The Knife gleamed coldly in the moonlight. The pale light glinted off the steel blade, hinting at the weapons deadliness. It was sharp; the vicious edge was clearly visible even in the moonlight. It was perfect for cutting just about anything, even flesh, human flesh.
The boy readied the knife blade, poised ready to cut his wrists.
There was a noise.
The knife moved towards its prey.
The light flickered on.
The knife stopped moving.
There was a strangled gasp.
There was a clatter as the knife dropped to the floor.
The kitchen door slammed as the boy fled.
There was an angry shout from an upstairs bedroom, but it was too late.
Harry Potter had fled.