So this isn't a light fic. It deals with some hard themes, including abuse. Its a tragedy for a reason. The first few chapters will be heavy with Harry's life with the Dursleys and it isn't a pleasant life. I'm going to channel my inner Lemony Snicket and suggest that you search for another story if you aren't prepared to go down a very dark path. Will Harry find his way back to the light? That remains to be seen. Aside from that very dire warning, I hope you enjoy. I thoroughly enjoy anything with Tom Riddle because he is the perfect villain. 100% human and 100% relatable. Almost like a Thanos character. Anyways on with the story.

Chapter 1: Dear Diary

It is a simple fact that a young boy, for want of something to do, will cause immense mischief. And Harry Potter was absolutely bored out of his mind.

How long did it take to pick up a couple odds 'n ends anyways? Not that he wasn't grateful. If he had to look at another picture of Mr. Fluffy or Mrs. Mittens or any of the dozen other puffy fur-balls that Ms. Figg called pets, he might go off the deep end. But sitting on a bench in front of an old, rundown pub was about as entertaining as scrubbing the inside of the oven.

He tapped his fingers impatiently against the hot black metal, kicking his legs back and forth with restlessness. They hardly ever went this far into London proper and he was just itching to get up and have a look at the surrounding shops. There was so much happening all around him. Dozens of people going every which way, speaking languages he'd never heard and wearing clothes he'd never seen. The red double deckers were like fire trucks but even cooler because they towered impossibly high. He didn't see how the top bit stayed where it was supposed to be.

Wouldn't it be absolutely brilliant if he could ride up top?

He was watching one of those buses intently when he felt his trainer slam into something other than air. A very tall, blonde man with hollow features and an odd cloak scowled at him. Harry scowled back because the odd blonde was a stranger and Harry never got to scowl at anyone. But then the man suddenly stopped in the middle of the foot traffic and faced him full on.

Oh no. Harry was going to get walloped by a complete stranger. The Dursleys would give him worse when Ms. Figg told them about his misbehavior. And since it was the hols he didn't even have the cover of school to protect him.

Harry cringed, trying to make himself smaller, but knowing better than to take his eyes off his aggressor. That was how you made it worse. Instead of the thrashing of his life, several things happened at once.

Ms. Figg tottered out of the pub, her frail arms laden with shopping bags. The blonde man reached into his sleeve, narrowed eyes not leaving Harry's for a second. Another rather stocky fellow pushed roughly past the blonde to grab hold of Harry and exclaim, "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

Never had he been so glad for Ms. Figg to step up beside him and, in her firmest voice, tell both men where to stick it.

Harry's eyes drifted as the lecture extended past his attention span. Yelling was yelling after all. Just behind the blonde was a black leather book that he must have dropped when the over-enthusiastic man shoved by.

"Ex-"

"Not now, Harry. Get along, Malfoy I presume, and don't you think about following us. Either of you. You sell this to the Prophet and I'll have the both of you neck deep in lawsuits."

Ms. Figg stared the men down until they'd slunk off into the dinky pub. She waited several moments before turning and offering him a plastic bag and a wooden smile.

When he'd hesitantly accepted the rather lightweight bag, she nodded once and began to walk away. "Come along, Harry."

A good boy would pick up the book and return it to its proper owner. A good boy would obediently follow his guardian. A good boy would do anything other than what Harry did, but that might have been because he wasn't good. He'd received far too many beatings to think otherwise. Good boys didn't get spanked, his Aunt Petunia had told him once. And he got spanked every day.

He didn't care. Good, bad, otherwise. A treasure like that leather-bound book only came around once in a lifetime. If it had words in it, all the better. He could read something interesting maybe when he inevitably got stuck in the cupboard. Or maybe he could draw on the backs of the empty pages. It wouldn't matter because it would be one hundred percent his and his alone. What had Dudley said once when he'd taken Harry's glasses? Finders, keepers.

Sure, his aunt and uncle would be mad if they found it on him. But when weren't they mad? If it wasn't the book, then it would be something to do with Dudley or the way he was breathing. And at least that little book (that had never been touched by the grimy hands of Dudley) was worth a dozen goes with the wooden spoon and another dozen with Uncle Vernon's leather belt.

So, he waited a few moments after Ms. Figg had turned around before snatching the book from the sidewalk. With the efficiency of a thief (or someone who routinely filched bits of food and broken toys), the object winked out of existence, the cool cover resting firmly against his stomach and the band of his baggy trousers. His (read- Dudley's) overly large shirt ensured that no one would know it was there.

"Harry," Ms. Figg spun back to him with a stern expression that wasn't quite as fierce as the one she'd given the strange men. "Don't doddle. There are all sorts about these days. You can never be too careful."

"Yes, Ms. Figg," Harry replied and raced up beside her. Overall, today had been a pleasant day. He'd avoided a whooping and gotten a neat book out of the deal. Now, if only Ms. Figg would yell at the Dursleys like that.

Several days later, Harry was finally able to get Aunt Petunia so riled up that she shouted, "Just get out of here, you little freak!"

He had no doubt that, when he returned, Uncle Vernon would give him the thrashing of his life. Then, for good measure, he'd be sent to his cupboard for the rest of the week.

It didn't matter.

He finally had the opportunity to inspect his newfound treasure.

He hadn't dared pull it out when they'd gotten back to Ms. Figg's house. She might have taken it from him and told the Dursleys. Ms. Figg was well-meaning, but she always had a knack of getting Harry in the maximum amount of trouble possible.

As it were, he was fortunate not to be at the business end of a belt that night. Ms. Figg assured them he'd been a perfect angel, even helping her feed all fifteen of her cats. Uncle Vernon had blinked in disbelief, but let the matter drop. It was Dudley's birthday after all.

It being Dudley's birthday, Harry had the dubious honor of making him his favorite dinner. The only real pleasure came when Dudley threw up shortly after devouring his plate. Aunt Petunia blamed Harry immediately (even though neither her nor Uncle Vernon were sick), and made him wash his cousin's clothes and bedsheets as punishment.

After Harry loaded the washer (and while both parents were preoccupied with the copious amount of fluid spewing from their son's body), he snuck his book out only to discover that it was completely blank on the inside. Not a book, then. A diary, like the ones in the books they read at school. Maybe the diary would be a good friend to have.

A noise from the living room caused the diary to disappear under Harry's shirt. It was a good thing too because Uncle Vernon had come to drag him to his cupboard. The lock clicked decisively, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care. The telly didn't play that night and in the quiet darkness he fell asleep almost immediately.

The same pattern occurred the next day when Aunt Petunia sent him to Ms. Figg's while she carted Dudley to the doctor. He was tempted to start writing in the diary, but managed to curb his impatience. Inevitably, Mrs. Figg would tell the Dursleys. There was nothing for it but to bide his time and wait.

Harry was remarkably good at waiting.

On the fifth day, Harry managed- not on purpose, mind- to make his aunt so mad that she all but threw him out of the house. When he'd gotten halfway across the yard, Petunia shouted even louder from the safety of the screened door, "And don't you dare come back!" She hadn't meant it; she'd expect him home before dark so that Uncle Vernon could beat the daylights out of him. Nevertheless, he was free for the day and that meant he could finally delve into his diary.

Harry passed the playground he usually puttered around in, knowing that Dudley and his gang would be there sooner or later. He did not want to play Harry Hunting today.

The best spot to hide was a bit further up the street. He didn't use it often because Dudley wasn't nearly as stupid as he seemed. He'd catch on and then there'd be nowhere safe for Harry to take cover.

After a few furtive glances to make sure that no one from the Harry Hunting tribe had followed him, he dropped to the ground and wriggled underneath a rather large tree. The roots were spaced just enough to admit his scrawny, six-year-old form. A bigger boy like Dudley would never fit, although Piers or another of the gang might.

He'd discovered it during a rather vicious round of Harry Hunting involving Dudley and his new metal cricket bat. The hiding hole was hollowed just enough to allow him to sprawl out rather comfortably. In the heat of the day, the cool underbelly of the tree was pleasant.

"Thanks again," he patted one of the roots before shuffling to retrieve his new book and a pencil.

The pencil was half eaten, stubby, and molting blue, but it was enough for him to carve letters rather sloppily on the book's thin pages.

Dear Whatever-Your-Name-Is,

I understand that most people name their diaries, but I'm not creative. I'm Harry. I want you to be my friend.

He flushed because he knew he sounded ridiculous. I want to be your friend. As if a book could be a friend. He'd always heard of people having imaginary friends, but imaginary friends weren't real. Everyone knew that. It was bad enough that Harry was already a freak. Dudley would have a field day if he thought his cousin talked to imaginary people.

Harry groaned when the book abruptly absorbed the graphite markings. Could pencils write invisible letters? Was this another weird, freakish thing he somehow did without doing? Now he couldn't even write properly. His weirdness contaminated everything. It wasn't bloody fair.

He peered at the blank sheet suspiciously before letting out a startled yelp and banging his head on a particularly thick tree root.

Letters, there were letters, reforming on the page. And they weren't in his handwriting. Rubbing his head, he shakily took the book and opened it back up. The words were still there.

Hello Harry. My name is Tom Riddle. What do I gain from such an exchange?

Two things crossed his mind. The first was that a book was asking him, the boy with nothing, for something. That was what exchange meant, he was pretty sure. That thought was followed by another groan and the raking of hands through long, unruly hair. It was a book and it was talking and he was thinking about talking back. He must be mad, stark raving mad.

I don't have anything to give you. Everyone hates me.

The book seemed to think as the letters slowly sank in. Everyone has something. Time, energy, life, knowledge. We'll sort it out later. What year is it?

Harry was hesitant to respond. 1987. Who are you?

I already told you; my name's Tom Riddle. If it were possible for words to be annoyed, Harry was sure these words would snap him in two. Then, almost reluctantly, the words I was sixteen when I was trapped here appeared.

Trapped. Like Harry in his cupboard.

You must be lonely.

Harry felt bad for the poor boy trapped in the book. There wasn't any way he'd be able to leave, not even for a few hours. If it were Harry, he'd be dying to talk to someone, anyone. Harry might even prefer Uncle Vernon's belt to being confined to a book.

It isn't all that bad.

I hate being alone. Harry confessed, trying to make the other boy understand that he didn't have to lie. Not to Harry at least.

Well, Harry, I promise I'll never leave you alone.

Harry could have sworn he heard a soft chuckle follow that devastating promise.

If Harry had been smarter, he would have stuffed the book down a toilet after that first conversation. Instead, he tucked the diary and pencil in one of the hollows created by the network of roots overhead, hoping that would be enough to keep it safe from rain and various nefarious critters.

"Keep it safe for me," he patted the tree again as he climbed out. He wouldn't be able to hide the book once he got home- if that's what he could call the Dursley's house.

With lead feet, he trudged to number 4 Privet Drive in the half-light of the fading day. The silver SUV in the driveway almost made him turn and run.

It took all his strength to approach the door and pull it open. A sitcom blared on the telly that Dudley was absolutely glued to. Uncle Vernon sat right beside the boy, face ruddy with laughter (and, judging by the smell of moldy wheat, a few drinks).

Harry thought he might be able to slip past them and hide in his cupboard for the rest of the night, but, really, when had his luck ever held out?

Everything had been working a little too well for him the past few days, after all. Just as he made it to his cupboard, Aunt Petunia came into the living room and announced that supper was on.

"Your uncle will deal with you after supper, you awful boy," she sneered as an afterthought, calling unwanted attention to him.

Uncle Vernon's bloodshot eyes narrowed, "Actually, I think I'll deal with the freak right now."

Harry's heart almost dropped to the floor. Uncle Vernon must be really mad. He usually waited until Dudley was tucked up in bed before setting in on Harry's punishment.

Dudley jerked upright, completely ignoring the sitcom now. His beady blue eyes watched Harry greedily. A churning began in Harry's gut as he realized his cousin was eager to see what Uncle Vernon would do.

The walrus of a man slowly took off his belt- it was the one with the especially large buckle; he hardly ever used that one because those marks were much harder to hide- before folding it over and snapping it hard.

Harry flinched.

A second snap and Harry knew he was in for a hell of a night. He could already feel the hot tears somewhere way back in his skull. But they wouldn't fall. Harry wouldn't give the man the satisfaction. And so he took his punishment with the only thing he could control- his silence.

Early the next day Petunia forced him up and out of the cupboard. He hadn't imagined the snap when Uncle Vernon had thrown him in the cupboard then. Whatever made him a freak had done a good job at numbing the pain last night. As soon as he saw the unnatural bend of his arm in the early morning light, that respite flew out the window. Definitely broken, then. "Put these on," she shoved the one set of clothes that fit into his working arm and went back in the kitchen.

He managed to get the shirt on, although there were quite a few tears and curses involved. The pants were next to impossible and required Aunt Petunia's reluctant assistance. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

She almost seemed startled when Dudley trudged down the stairs, still in his pajamas. "Dudley, there's breakfast in the kitchen. Ms. Figg is going to come over and keep an eye on you while I take Harry to the doctor. He fell this morning."

Dudley's face wrenched up in a poor imitation of pain. "I wanna come with you!" he screamed. For once, Dudley lost the argument. Ms. Figg chose that moment to ring the bell, a basket full of hard cookies in one arm and her thick scrapbook of cats in the other.

Petunia ushered her in. "Thank you, Ms. Figg. We'll be back as soon as possible. Take good care of my Duddykins."

Ms. Figg got little more than a glimpse of Harry as Petunia hustled him out the door. "Feel better, Harry," she called.

Feel better indeed.

Then, Petunia bundled Harry into the car and they were off to the family doctor.

"You fell," she ground out as she turned out of their neighborhood. "You were out playing and you tripped and you fell. I won't lock you in the cupboard the rest of the summer."

That was as close as he'd come to a compromise with the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia would let him out of his cupboard when Uncle Vernon left the house. But he thought he could do better. Especially by the nervous tremor of Aunt Petunia's hands on the wheel.

"I fell," he agreed. "And I get more than a piece of bread and water for supper."

"You help me in the garden and you get a full supper twice a week. Bread the rest of the week."

He was pushing his luck, but he replied, "And a sandwich for lunch on those days?"

Petunia pursed her lips, but sighed. "If you make it yourself."

The family doctor was a man who was even larger than Uncle Vernon, if it were possible. Harry didn't like his mustache. It looked like a ferret had curled up across his upper lip and died. It smelled dead, too.

He taped up Harry's arm (it wasn't really that bad of a fracture, after all- another freakish thing Harry must have done) and scolded him for not being more careful on the stairs.

As if it were that simple.

Harry nodded until the doctor finally turned to his aunt.

Harry vaguely heard the instructions for his medication before the doctor covertly tugged Petunia to the side and made a comment about Harry's weight. "He is under range for a child of his age, Petunia. People are going to talk if he doesn't eat more."

His aunt's lips pressed into a thin line. Good thing she'd already made a deal, then, Harry supposed. Aunt Petunia hated people talking about her, but she hated Harry even more.

"He's just skinny. Eats all the time, but can't seem to put on any weight," she complained. "I swear he'll eat us out of house and home soon enough."

The hollow feeling in his stomach seemed to refute that.

When they left the office, she tugged on his arm demandingly. The pain was intense, but he didn't dare complain. "Did you say anything to the good doctor, boy?"

Harry shook his head. "N-no Aunt Petunia. He wouldn't believe me anyways."

"Good boy," she jerked his arm a little harder. "Make sure it stays that way."

Aunt Petunia must have felt a little sorry for him because she didn't make him help her cook lunch and she gave him a very large sandwich with a glass of milk. Very un-Petunia-like. He devoured the entire thing before she could change her mind.

As he washed his plate, he heard his aunt order Dudley to leave Harry alone if he knew what was good for him. If he didn't, she'd make sure Santa didn't bring him a single thing for Christmas- not even a lump of coal.

Overjoyed, Harry couldn't hide the smile from his face. That, of course, made his aunt deeply unhappy.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, boy. I don't want to see you for the rest of the day."

Harry immediately legged it out of the house before she could get it in her mind to lock him in his cupboard. She may have promised she wouldn't, but adults were notorious for going back on their deals. They had the power and they could abuse it if they got the mind to.

He'd have to make sure to get back early, though. Aunt Petunia wouldn't feed him after Uncle Vernon came home. Hopefully the doctor's comments would make her stick to the food end of the deal.

Ah, his hiding spot. He laughed as he wriggled between the roots, even if the motion made his arm hurt dully. Dudley couldn't come after him, so he'd be free to stay under the tree all day without fear of being discovered.

It was like Christmas in July.

He needed to get hurt more often.

He wriggled under the roots. A tight ball unfurled in his chest when he realized that his diary was still there. Thank goodness. "Thank you!" he crowed as he worked flipped the cover open.

Hey Tom! Sorry I left you all alone for so long. It was a busy day.

Busy day? Why is your handwriting so sloppy? Haven't you been raised to write properly? What are they teaching kids these days?

My writing hand is hurt.

Hurt? How intriguing.

I tripped and fell and broke it. When I break things, Aunt Petunia is much nicer. I got a whole sandwich for lunch!

He tried to erase that last part with the chewed bit of the eraser, but it wouldn't come off. It dissolved seconds later; he groaned at the inevitable questioning. He didn't like the questions because it meant he had to lie. And he didn't want to lie to his first ever friend.

What do you usually have for lunch?

Aunt Petunia has me make loads of stuff. Yesterday I made chips and tuna sandwiches.

But what do you eat? You do get fed don't you?

They feed me well enough. He thought that this was the closest he could come to not lying. He did get fed well enough or he wouldn't be alive.

Harry, we're friends. You can tell me the truth. I won't tell a soul.

How did he know? How could he possibly know? Harry bit his lip but replied, I'm bad and bad boys don't get fed.

What's the worst thing you've ever done?

Harry nearly closed the book.

Almost as if sensing his trepidation, Tom quickly wrote in a messy scrawl that was completely unlike his neat lettering. I caught a boy on fire once. It was an accident. He and his friends tackled me to the ground. They broke one of my ribs. I thought I was going to die so I set him on fire.

Curse green eyes widened in surprise at the confession. A tingling warmth fluttered in his stomach. It might have been relief. Without realizing it, Harry was already replying. I turned my teacher's hair blue once. And I broke the cabinet last night. I pop sometimes. They don't like it when I pop.

And why did you do those things?

My teacher made me apologize in front of the whole class for hurting my cousin. I was so mad because Dudley attacks me. And then her hair turned blue and everyone knew I'd done it somehow. Aunt Petunia locked me in the cupboard all weekend for that one and I deserved it because I did do something.

How did you break the cabinet?

Harry's face burned when he considered answering. Now Tom really would think he was a freak.

It was an accident. I was getting punished and it fell over. I wasn't anywhere near it, but Uncle Vernon blamed me. I'm always the one to blame. I'm a bad kid is all. They're trying to teach me to be good. I want to be good.

Are you really bad? That's what the adults always said about me. Bad Tom. Naughty Tom. The other kids started it, though. They were the bad ones; they deserved to be punished. Instead, I was the one who got hit with the broom. Isn't hitting bad too?

Harry didn't reply. A small, vindictive part of him agreed with Tom. Uncle Vernon hit him and hitting was bad. Inherently, Harry knew Uncle Vernon was a bad person, but there was no one bigger to punish him. Harry was quite convinced that only Dudley would ever get bigger than Uncle Vernon, and Dudley would never hurt his father.

What was your worst punishment?

Tom was pushing for information that Harry wasn't allowed to hand out. It was bad enough that the boy thought Harry was starved (but he really was, wasn't he?). Harry didn't want his friend to know the truth. His worst punishment sounded a lot worse than it was. It wasn't really all that bad. It had only happened once.

My broken arm. I'm not supposed to tell or the police will take me away and lock me in a jail cell and let me starve. What happened today would suit Tom's question. The lie burned his throat, even though he hadn't spoken, but he continued to write the sentence with his nub of a pencil. Yes, this lie would be much better.

Except, maybe it wasn't. The page soaked in the words, but didn't give anything back. Harry's stomach dropped and his heart rate increased. Was it really that bad? A broken arm was nothing compared to…

Harry, I don't like lies. I could feel your dishonesty from Japan. Harry could imagine that the boy's tone was like ice. He was angry. And it wasn't the yelling kind of angry. It was the whispering sort.

That really happened today. Harry was frantic to correct his friend. That's why my hand's hurt and I can't use it.

But that isn't the worst he's done to you, right?

His throat bobbed and he breathed deeply. No, but I don't wanna talk about it. I deserved what I got and it won't ever happen again.

Harry slammed the diary shut. He lay there for a few moments, breathing heavily, mind racing with unwanted memories. He better get back to the Dursley's house if he wanted anything else to eat. He moved to shove the book under a root, but faltered. Nothing had happened to it last time, but what if it got wet or a wild animal decided to use the pages as a nest? Even though Harry was mad at Tom, he didn't want him to get hurt.

Swallowing, Harry tucked the journal into his waistband. Uncle Vernon had just punished him, so, reasonably, he should be able to get it to the safety of his cupboard without issue. Uncle Vernon was a violent man, but even he had his limits. If Harry turned up with a second broken arm, the neighbors might talk.

Besides, he'd been using the tree a bit too much lately. It would be bloody terrible if Dudley found his hiding spot and the diary. He doubted Dudley could read, much less write, but he might give it to Aunt Petunia. Then Harry would be in for it. Stealing a freakish object? That might be bad enough to get him sent back with Aunt Marge, the beastly woman. He shook his head because he'd already vowed he'd forget about that punishment.

If he didn't want Dudley to figure out where it was, it would be best to hide it elsewhere. Yes, somewhere closer to him. Harry needed the journal close to him. It was the only way to keep Tom safe. He had to stay with Harry.

Harry patted the diary before scrambling out from under the tree. "I won't be back for a while," he told the tree, rubbing the bark gently. "But don't worry. I will be back."

With that, he set off in a steady jog, intent on making it home well before Uncle Vernon. He really wanted supper. Harry's mouth watered at the thought. Tonight, he would eat like a king.

As predicted, Uncle Vernon immediately locked Harry in his cupboard when he got home. Harry didn't mind. For once, his belly was full and he was content with his lot in life. Aunt Petunia had even let him take his pain medication, although that was probably just to keep him from whinging all night.

Harry rubbed his thumb over the smooth cover of Tom's book thoughtfully, but didn't open it yet. It was dark in his cupboard, the blue light of the television barely shining through the slats. About halfway through the Dursleys' dinner there'd been shouting and then Uncle Vernon had stormed upstairs, making everything in his tiny cupboard shake- including Harry. Shortly after, Aunt Petunia had ushered Dudley into the living room and put on a cartoon. Harry jumped as Aunt Petunia laughed a bit too shrilly.

Suddenly, a very small voice asked, "Mummy, was it bad what Daddy did to Harry? Will Daddy do that to me when I'm bad?"

It was odd, hearing his cousin question anything. But they were talking about him. No six-year-old boy in his right mind wouldn't strain to hear the response. "Your daddy would never hurt you! You're not a freak like your cousin. Why would you ever think such a thing?"

Right. He slumped into his lumpy bed. He was a freak and that was why he got what was coming for him.

"I- Sometimes I wonder why he's a freak and I'm not. And it scares me, Mummy, because maybe one day you'll both decide I'm a freak too."

Aunt Petunia cooed for her Duddy-kins to come to her. "His parents were strange, Dudley. Freaks. We aren't freaks, so you won't be either. There are things you just don't understand. We love you."

We don't love your freak of a cousin. The words went unsaid but he knew them to be true. His aunt and uncle didn't have the capacity to love a vagrant freak.

But his parents on the other hand… They loved him.

Even if they were drunks, even if they were freaks, even if they were such big drunks and such big freaks that they wrecked and killed themselves. They loved him.

His aunt and uncle told Harry that no one could love something like him, but they were lying. He knew. He had so very few memories of his parents, but he knew.

Holding onto the feeling of warmth and comfort that he associated with the memory of his parents, Harry carefully slid the diary underneath his mattress. Tom could wait for another time.

Instead, Harry laid on his back and stared at the inky ceiling. Most six year olds would be afraid of the shadows coalescing there. He found them familiar, like a security blanket. They helped him weave together the familiar picture of his mother and father. No one had ever shown him a picture of his parents, of course, but Harry didn't need a picture. He could make them just fine on his own.

His mum and dad would both have black hair like him. Unlike Aunt Petunia's limp, stringy yellow mop, his mum's hair would be thick and wildly curly. She'd have a handkerchief wrapped around her head to pull it into some semblance of order. If she were coming to save Harry, she'd wear something outrageously colorful just to spite the mundaneness of the Dursleys. He gave her a neon pink and green jumper with a long, flowery skirt and flower-shaped purple sunglasses.

Even behind the dark lenses, he could see her eyes. They were the brightest shade of green imaginable, like the grass when the sun hit it just right. They sparkled vibrantly, wide with intelligence. His mum would be smart and funny. She would bake cookies and take him to play footie at the field in the park. When they got home, she'd read him a wonderful story about a planet very far away.

His dad would have muddy brown eyes just because they'd be the best to reflect his mum's craziness. Not that they weren't any less wild. He'd be mischievous, so much cooler than his freak of a son. He'd sweep his mum off her feet and rough house with Harry. There'd be no more broken bones; just kisses on boo-boos and enough food to feed an army.

Harry's eyes slowly drifted close, imagination warming him when the thin blanket could not.

"I love you, Harry," his mum whispered as he fell asleep.

I know this is dark. I think it's important to announce that I do not condone abuse in any way, shape, or form. If you feel threatened, please get help. Nothing that happens with Harry and Dursleys is okay in any way, shape, or form. Harry was never in a safe environment in the books, and I am extrapolating that a little. Despite the dark tone, what do you think so far?