A/N- Written for Round Seven of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition in place of our Seeker. I had to write about Harry's scar.

"What's that thing on your face?"

"Wh-what?" Wide green eyes stared, terrified, at the older child.

"What is it? Is it a disease? Is it contagious? It's ugly."

"I-I..." the child, small for his age, stuttered, literally shaking with fear.

"You look stupid. That's probably why no one'll play with you."

"But-"

"Shut up! I don't want you to talk to me. I'll probably catch something."

"But-"

"I said shut up!" The child yelled, running back to his friends laughing; but not before pushing the younger boy so hard he fell down, scraping his hands in an effort to catch himself.

"Aunty Petunia?"

"What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?" The cold looking woman snapped at the child.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Well? You've interrupted me now. What is it?"

"I..."

"Spit it out! I haven't got all day!"

"Wh-what's this?" he pointed at the scar on his forehead.

"Are you stupid? You don't know what a scar is? I knew that freak's brat would be defective. And now I've got to keep it in my home..."

He quietly left her to her ranting, crawling into his cupboard and curling into a ball, imagining a world where he was someone special and no longer had to live with his Aunt and Uncle and cousin.

"Where'd you get that?"

"What?"

"That." The girl pointed at his forehead.

"It's a scar."

"I know that. I'm not an idiot. Are you?"

"No..."

"Then where'd you get it?"

"I..."

"How. Did. You. Get. It."

"I... I don't know..." he whispered, looking down at his too-big shoes.

"You don't know? Then you are an idiot."

"No-"

"You must be if you don't even know where you got your scar. It's probably the only interesting thing about you, and you don't even know where it came from." She turned and walked away, an expression of utter disdain adorning her young features.

"Aunt Petunia?"

"What? I really don't have time for your nonsense."

"How did I get my scar?"

"Does it matter?" She snapped, before another thought struck her. "Your parents were killed in a car crash. They weren't paying attention. You were in the back seat. That's how you got the scar."

"Oh. So-"

"Have you finished your chores?"

"Yes-"

"You still haven't washed up from breakfast."

"I did-"

"Are you talking back to me?"

"No, I-"

"That's not what it sounds like."

He remained quiet, staring down at the once white socks that covered his feet, the heel half way up his calf.

"That's better. Now, do the washing up. Properly. We have guests coming later today, and I don't want anyone seeing you this time."

She left him in the kitchen without another word, either not seeing or choosing to ignore the tears that filled his eyes.

"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as – as – abnormal – and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

"Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!"

"CAR CRASH!" Roared the giant, "How could a car crash kill Lily an' James Potter?"

A lot of information was given to him that night, so much that his head was left spinning for days – weeks – possibly years – afterwards, but one thing always stood out clearly in his mind:

"Never wondered how you got that mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh – took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even – but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age – the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts – an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

He lived. He was special just for surviving. He was special simply because heexisted.

"Thanks," he pushed sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"What's that?"

"Blimey, are you-?"

"He is, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Harry Potter," He wasn't used to this kind of attention; to any kind of attention, really.

"Oh, him. I mean, yes, I am," he replied, face slowly turning red.

"Fred? George? Are you there?" A voice called through the train's open door, much to his relief.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" The red haired boy blurted out, seemingly unable to keep the words to himself any longer.

He simply nodded.

"Oh – well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes. And have you really got – you know..."

He pulled back his fringe, this time intentionally showing his scar.

"So, that's where You-Know-Who-?"

But maybe being noticed wasn't all it was cut out to be. When you're risking your life to save people who so quickly turn against you; when you're trying to fix something that began years before you were born; when you can't even get a moment of peace. Maybe then a little obscurity wouldn't go a-miss.