-1The door slammed shut. Harry fancied it was some sort of symbolism or dark omen about this summer. It's the last one, he thought, the last one until I'm out of here. He knew the door wouldn't be able to express the complexities behind his stay at his relative's house. Harry had no illusions about this place. It was not home, it was not nice; it was never at all hospitable for him. Harry knew that, other than the 6 half years he had experienced at Hogwarts, this place was his life. And it was a grim one indeed.

Vernon trundled over to him, a vicious smirk on his face. Harry knew what was coming; he had been dreading it since he said goodbye to his friends at the station. He told himself that the anticipation for the thing and the increasing tension in the car on the drive home was worse than the actual beating. But of course he was wrong.

His uncle drew back his fist and let it fly in a round, amateur swing at his nephews head. Pain exploded in Harry's cheek and mouth as he bit his tongue and fell to the ground on his knees. Vernon kicked him and began smashing the boy as hard as he could.

Harry had never been stupid. He knew how to avoid bullies and he had learned over the years how to fight them. He, who had faced the most powerful dark wizard since Slytherin himself and lived, could stand up to one fat muggle.

No, Harry took the beating for another reason entirely. He knew his own worth perfectly. He was not particularly special in any real way but the wizarding world saw him as their savior. He had vanquished the great tyrant at the pure and angelic age of one. He was their symbol to which they would rally when the snake decided to appear publicly. For this reason, harry was essential to winning the war and must not allow Voldemort to get him. Dumbledore was convinced he wouldn't be touched at his aunt's house and he had little doubt that if he stood up to Vernon, he would be kicked out immediately.

So Harry endured it. Who ever knew fame hurt so much? There was a deeper reason for his stay as well. If harry took the time to analyze it, he would probably begin to hate Dumbledore for his entire involvement in his life. Harry knew that Dumbledore had put him here and would much rather take a beating or two than the headmaster find out that his perfect plans for his perfect weapon would turn out ruined due to low self esteem issues. The old man would never forgive himself and would probably waste away due to the realization of his own mistake. Never for a moment did harry think he would feel remorse about Harry's actual experiences at the Dursleys. The headmaster did not think in such terms. He was strange, knowing a boy needed a childhood and planning for him to have one, refusing to tell him things about the war such as the prophesy, but never actually caring for the boy at all. Dumbledore manipulated people. It was his only passion. His failed weapon would be the only reason behind any remorse.

Vernon succeeded in breaking the skin on his last kick to Harry's back. Harry had long since curled up in a ball to protect himself as much as possible. As a child he had learned to wait the beatings out patiently, knowing Vernon would get tired and leave eventually. But harry knew that today was different. It was in his eyes, in the way he kicked him. Today's "lesson" was actually going to teach the freak something, no matter how long it took to beat it into him.

Though his logic was a little skewed, his aim was dead on and Harry knew he was getting in trouble. The annual first day of the summer beating had never gone on so long before. Harry was beginning to whimper, something he hadn't done since before he had accepted his beatings as his lot in life. Suddenly the kicks stopped, and for a brief fraction of a second harry believed it to be over. But the sweaty and meaty hand that suddenly clamped to his wrist told him otherwise.

Like a cat with a mouse, Vernon spun Harry out of his tight fetal position and slammed the boy into the wall, momentarily dazing him. Vernon took the time to quickly tie his wrists to the banister behind him. Harry thought with a half chuckle that it was truly ironic that he was about to be beaten horribly right in front of the one place he always ended up after a beating; the cupboard under the stairs.

Vernon was nothing if not predictable. Harry knew what was coming next. This had never happened before but harry knew, because it was his last annual first day of the summer beating, Vernon would want to make it extra special. So far nothing had been said. The only sound was Vernon's heavy breathing, Harry's wet lunged gasps, cries, and yelps, and the sickening thwump of fist hitting flesh.

Now Vernon grinned satanically. He couldn't help making a jibe at the freak boy, "It sounds like you're enjoying this, freak! Getting a rise out of this, you masochistic bastard?! Well let's see how you hold out now. You will love what's coming up next." Harry almost refrained from correcting Vernon's pronunciation but he figured he had very little to lose as he was tied to a wall and being beaten already. "It's maso-chist-ic." He patronized. The effect was ruined of course by the heavy gasps and coughs he was emitting.

Vernon's face turned a deep purple and rage swirled off of him in a cloud like steam. He began ranting about filthy no good freaks at which point harry tuned out, unable to hear anything above the roar of pain as vernon punctuated his tirade with his fists, holding stone paperweights from a nearby desk in each hand to deliver even more pain. Harry lost his concept of time and place as the beating progressed further.

Harry's eyes snapped open. Fuck. He wished he had stopped Vernon when he had the chance. Now he knew he must be in the cupboard, almost unable to move because of his injuries. Then he blinked. His eyes widened. He had finally registered his surroundings. He was standing upright, sagging against the ties on his wrist. He was still on the bloody banister. And as he looked up at his mangled arms, he realized the banister really was bloody. In fact, blood had dripped all the way down to the ground over the flower print wallpaper.

He looked at it with disgust etched in his face. Just another chore petunia would assign him. Scrubbing his good for nothing blood off the stairs. He could imagine her now, her angry horse-face glaring down at him and telling him in no uncertain terms exactly where she'd lock him up without food and for how long if he didn't clean it immediately.

There was a creak from the landing upstairs. Harry froze, his natural fear paralyzing him. He had felt that jolt constantly since his 4rth birthday when he had gotten his first beating. It was short but it had stayed with him as the first, and therefore worst of all of those he had endured. Whenever his uncle was near, harry's innards churned into a disgusting bog of fear and loathing. He was good at acting under pressure. Learning to have the presence of mind to position himself right so that the beating wasn't as bad or to best act so that vernon lost interest had taught him a great deal about reacting to situations. A duel with the dark lord? Sure. Piece of cake next to Vernon's fat fingers.

He had thought during his third year he could be free of Vernon. But Dumbledore had sent him back. He never trusted anyone ever again. Not even Ron or Hermione knew what harry had gone through. As the creaks receded harry relaxed slowly. Ok think about this logically. What should I do about this being tied to the wall thing. Obvious. Absolutely nothing. It wasn't like he could do anything anyway. No wand, no knife, no escape.

He slumped back, using the wall as much as possible. He hurt and ached all over. He could not put his weight on one foot, which Vernon had jumped on repeatedly, smashing it into an unrecognizable position and splintering his bones. His body would be black and blue and cut and scraped if anyone was to peer beneath the tattered and blood soaked shirt he wore. It was a Chudley cannons shirt, one Ron had given him a month before and harry knew he couldn't ever wear it again. He'd have to tell Ron he lost it.

Suddenly the backdoor opened and shut. Harry wasn't worried though. Vernon never used the back door. By the natural light coming in from the window above the front door, Harry determined it was about midday. Vernon was at work. Harry had been on the banister all night. Petunia walked into the hall and scrunched her nose up at the smell of blood.

"You filthy boy." She said scornfully, her nasal screech lowered in disgust. "Vernon and I have decided to leave you there. You and your good-for-nothing parents will no longer haunt this house. You will be stringed there as an example of your lowliness. Freak!" She hissed this last, gave him a light kick in the shin, and promptly continued her business.

Shit, Harry thought. Shitshitshit.

The situation was really coming home to him. He knew he was strong willed but could he survive this kind of persecution? He was like Jesus without the cross or the unfortunate nails. Plus, he supposed, he wasn't naked. That was a good thing. He managed a week smile; he certainly had the horde of followers. Oh god. Did he just honestly compare himself to Jesus? That was rich.

Harry's brave front was beginning to crumble. He held his mask together but he knew it was only a matter of time. Nearly 16 years of verbal and physical abuse was building up. He couldn't keep lying to himself and telling himself he would be ok. But he did anyway.

When Vernon got home he kicked Harry a little but mostly left him alone. He knew ignoring the boy would frustrate him further. Once Dudley got home, he guffawed at Harry's state. This was a truly vindictive house. Dudley grinned and dashed upstairs. Harry felt a little apprehensive.

Dudley came back down carrying a black case and slowly approached Harry as though he were a wild animal. He unzipped it to reveal his mothers makeup case. With growing alarm harry began to struggle but that hurt far too much. He turned his head as far from Dudley as possible but, despite the boy's pathetic fat, he did have some meat to his arms and he grabbed harry's head and turned it back. Harry, too weak to protest, could only watch in terror as his hideous cousin began drawing on his mottled face.

When he was done, Harry sagged down, feeling utterly defeated. His mask cracked a bit more. His soul cracked. He was utterly humiliated. Harry passed two days in silence. Petunia would bring out water and a piece of bread twice a day but he was otherwise ignored. Harry begged Petunia to bring him to the bathroom, which she denied but instead had Dudley bring him a bucket in which to relieve himself. Petunia did not want to smell urine along with blood in her precious house. It was disgusting enough with just that.

Hedwig returned from Ron's house the next day. He had sent her there at the train platform, knowing Vernon would have his way with him and she would likely attempt to defend him; something that definitely would not go over well. Harry didn't know she had come back. He hadn't even thought of her. Needless to say he was quite shocked when Vernon came into the hall after his dinner, holding hedwig.

In death, she looked skeletal, unmoving and starved. Harry knew she wasn't but she looked so fragile and he was wholly unprepared for the emotions that overwhelmed him at the sight. Her normally perfect feathers were skewed at different angles, which no self-respecting bird would allow. Her eves were wide open in dead fury and her claws were curled. She was stiff from rigor mortis and her wings were half spread; Vernon was holding her upside down and carelessly swinging her a little.

After a stunned pause, Harry let out a wretched sobbing moan in pure hatred, regret, and loneliness. His beloved pet was dead. she was gone. He had nothing. He sobbed against his bindings, sagging lower and weeping in defeat. He broke. His soul broke. His heart broke. He had been strung up on a wall half dead from pain and injuries, starved, jeered at and alone for 4 days and now his beloved hedwig was dead by the hands of his all-powerful captors. His knees trembled in fear. But mostly he was overcome with hatred. For Dumbledore. For Vernon. But mostly for himself.

His head lying on one arm and his legs almost given out beneath him, he cried, tear tracks running through his heavy makeup. Vernon was delighted at the response and yelled for Dudley. Dudley entered the room and raised a camera. The flash of a bulb revealed Harry in all his gory detail. The bright clown coloring on top of his blue and yellow skin, The cheap light casting the hall in gray shades and his dull green eyes, still more colorful than everything else yet unlit and more dead than the killing curse could ever make them. It was a very morbid picture. Deciding he didn't like it, Dudley shoved the photo in Harry's pants. It was of him after all.

The next day they unstrung him. Vernon would be having guests for dinner and they didn't think the half dead and tortured boy would look respectable. No matter how Vernon punched or prodded at his old wounds, he could not make Harry move of his on volition to clean the blood from the wall. Petunia finally ended up doing it, throwing Harry in the cupboard and promising a punishment for his reluctance. Harry didn't care.

Stuck in his cupboard once more, Harry felt the walls cave on him like never before. They came closer, confining him and cramping him like they never had before. He let out a quiet mournful cheep. He curled up despite his fiery wounds and thought. His soul hurt so much. He never really knew that something could tear so much at him. The very stuff that made him who he was, was torn and disfigured by the turmoil of completely wild and rampaging emotions. They had been building up. everything bad that ever happened in his life was building up, waiting for release, and that was a lot of stored up bad. He felt how close to madness he was and instead of drawing away and letting reason solidify him, he let himself go.

The ripped and hurt part was torn completely from him. He lost a bit of himself to this experience. He changed far more than he ever had before. His parents, Sirius, Cedric; none of these people had hurt him like he was hurting now. The was a dirty and disgusting betrayal. This smacked of real life and real pain.

Harry realized how absolutely disgusting the world really was. The others' deaths had been innocent. He had grieved and moved on. This...this was him dying. This was Harry feeling things no man should ever feel. This was the pain of war, though no battle lines were in sight. He couldn't explain it.

While his heart destroyed him or perhaps, was destroyed, his mind was in overdrive. He knew how to react. And suddenly the world stopped. His thoughts stopped, his aching feelings would never stop but his paradox of emotions and chaos calmed. His injuries ignored, and the laughter of the men from Grunnings sitting at Vernon's dinner table being nothing but background noise, Harry, then and there, made a conscious decision.

Taking everything into account and viewing it objectively, he approved it and relaxed. His body did not release its hold on hurting muscles and his feelings did not subside. Instead, he relaxed his mind in a way he had never done before. Much like moving your ears or one eyebrow, Harry let go of a 'muscle' in his mind he never knew he had been holding. He had known, subconsciously for as long as he could remember that he could do it. But he never allowed himself to. It was too dangerous. He would rather die than let the torrent of wildness behind his mind flood it.

But he had hadn't he? He had died this week. He had died when he was one and sent to his relatives. He had died the first time they hit him and every time since then. He had died when Hedwig died. Harry let the gates fall open and white light claimed his mind while blackness claimed the rest of him.

When Harry awoke, it was not pain or despair that made him scream. It was not madness, though that might be disputable. It wasn't in fear or loathing. Harry Potter screamed at the strangeness, the weird feeling in his mind. It was filled with a light and smoke-like liquid, it was burning with green flames, it was a white vacuum.

He stopped himself almost immediately. The return of conscious thought allowed for adaptation. He opened his eyes and Saw. His perspective on everything had changed. The cupboard was no longer a dark space with stairs for a ceiling. It was a structure of fibers of torn up organic material. It had 56 darks spots where knots were in the wood, thousands of cobwebs of crystal drifted in its corners, 4 large spiders and 3 smaller ones had taken up residence in various parts of the space. It had 14 planes which boxed him in. The smallest detail was apparent, not a single shadow hindered his view. His glasses were no longer necessary, which was just as well, considering his uncle had snapped them 2 nights before.

After a few moments, Harry, thoroughly bored with sensory overload, chose to ignore the newfound detail in his sight and explored his other changes. He was not any stronger, any less hungry, or less injured than he had been. His mind seemed invaded. But that wasn't quite right. His mind seemed like he had two halves, which before now had remained separate, and now were together as one. He sat up slowly, careful of his broken bones, and looked to each side and then behind him. He froze.

There, like he was seeing heat residue, he saw an impression of white. It glowed softly. He looked at his hands and waved them through the hair and was both amazed and not at all surprised to see a trail of light follow the hand. this, like his sight, he discovered he could ignore. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened to him.

Over the next hour he replayed what had happened and what the strangeness felt like in his mind. He decided that it was his magic. Of course he knew it was related to magic. But Harry decided that his "floodgate" was his resistance to magic. He simply stopped resisting. This of course posed many questions about the theory behind magic and its existence and its relation to wizards. But for now, Harry accepted that his mind had combined with his magic and that the residue of white was his own magical signature.

For five hours Harry pondered his life. It sucked a little but he was grateful. He knew he was in a pretty bad place. He felt it deep in his shredded heart. But Harry also knew that his magic was helping. It was cushioning him from himself, allowing him to think rationally.

First order of business; get out. Simple. He left. Just like that. He was gone. He had suspected, and now confirmed, that with his transformation, he had incorporated magic enough that he could be magical. He didn't apparate. He simply left. And appeared outside a large white muggle building.

Oh I must be hurt, he thought, to have brought myself to a hospital. I hate hospitals. He was still half laying down so it was with some considerable surprise that he saw a large and very heavy bus coming for him to his right. He attempted to scurry out of the way but was just too weak and uncaring. The bus screeched as it hit the breaks, trying not to hit the puppet in the road, the boy with strings around his wrists and a painted doll face.

Jane Coburn watched frightfully as a bus sped towards a boy who had fallen in the road. She had just been on ambulance duty and came outside to collect the next emergency victim. Without a single ambulance in sight, she glanced up the street to see the boy about to be run over. To her amazement, as the air pressure tires blew as hard as they could, the boy threw up a hand, and the bus just managed to stop exactly in front of his hand.

She ran towards him, heart thumping at the close call. She was by no means reassured when, as she came beside him, her words died on her lips and his head turned to look at her. Sad dead green eyes stared up at her and she gasped in horror at the mutilated clown she observed. People were running around her now, a stretcher was retrieved from the hospital. She tried as hard as she could but was unable to tear her eyes away from his. Only when he was wheeled away for immediate medical attention and surgery was she able to look up, shake herself, and cry for him.

Jane watched the boy sleeping so restlessly before her. The paint cleared off and the blood wiped away, he turned into a bruised and infected little boy. He seemed at first glance to be 15 but a closer inspection revealed the maturity in his features and the lack of baby fat in his face. He then appeared to be 30 or so with the pain and sorrow etched in his face. But without wrinkles and age lines, he really was only 17 or 18.

The poor boy had been put through so much. As she stared at him, his eyes snapped open. She jumped, adrenaline pumping through her veins at her fright. "Hello." She managed. "Could you tell us who you are? Who did this to you?" She used a sweet and gentle voice. The one she used with rabbits and hurt or abused children.

Despite her voice, she didn't think this boy needed to coddled. He seemed to be incredibly resilient. He was strong. She could see it in the way he held himself. He was broken, but not completely and not to the extent that it could not be fixed. Or at least repaired. She didn't think he would ever be a boy again.

The list of his injuries was ghastly. She didn't know how he was even alive. He had been like this for days. He was severely dehydrated and his stomach was completely empty, allowing for immediate surgery. He had doctors working on him all night, fixing his foot, closing off bleeding internal arteries, and painstakingly extracting splintered bones. The boy's ribs were all cracked or broken, one having punctured his lung. His right foot and leg were mangled but he would be able to use them again. His foot needed supplementary bones and his leg needed a cast to help heal in three places. His face had been a mess but mostly due to cuts and swelling. He had a high fever when he was admitted to the hospital but they managed to pack him with ice and lower it. He would have died if they hadn't gotten to him 20 or even 15 minutes later.

How he moved at all was beyond her. Parts of his vertebrae were chipped. She had never really seen anything like it. It was obvious to her that these injuries were the least of his worries. She didn't know how, but she knew he had experienced far worse than it seemed.

Harry just looked at the observant nurse. She didn't look down at his injuries in worry, she looked into his eyes with worry. He was surprised that someone so used to treating the physical maladies of people would be so perceptive as to step beyond that limit and worry after mental health. This woman, he realized, needed a smile. So he attempted one. It was strained, small, and hurt him a great deal but for all that, it was truly genuine.

His smile made her heart melt. She knew he wouldn't say anything. his smile said "I'm ok. Honest. Don't worry about me." It was also stubborn. He wouldn't tell. She sighed and smiled heartbrokenly back at him. She tucked him in and kissed his head, something she had never done to anyone before. He needed love. The poor boy didn't look like he'd ever had any. She left but vowed to check on him constantly.

Harry was surprised. She seemed to care for him unconditionally. She was a marvel. Fe slowly drifted in and out of sleep for the next week.

Harry was bored. he knew he could heal himself faster outside of the hospital. He just needed to get out. So far they weren't releasing him. Finally he got fed up.

He got out of bed, clad only in shorts he had been given of the plain white variety. The white seemed to emphasize his sickly pale skin. His cuts and fading bruises were extremely obvious. He tore off unnecessary bandages and the monitoring devices and walked (actually walked on his injured foot!) calmly and determinedly to the main desk down the hall.

Patients, nurses, and doctors alike all stopped and starred as he walked by. No one had ever seen someone as fucked up as Harry Potter. A slight humorless smile marred his features, which, despite the bruises was in fact quite beautiful. A smile on such a gaunt and strangely alluring figure was altogether creepy and uncomfortable. He walked in the sudden silence to the desk and, very politely asked "May I go now? Please?"

The receptionist was shocked. The mangled boy she had witnessed getting a lung transplant a week ago was here, staring intently into her eyes and asking to leave. Not only was this strange but these were the first reported words he had spoken in the hospital.

Jane, who had been walking in the corridor was no less shocked. She dropped a clipboard after this question and seemed to break the silence. Doctors were suddenly swarming the poor boy, trying to gauge how he was standing without dying of agony. Collectively they decided he was remarkable. Jane, about to pull the hordes away from her John Doe in case he got frightened, slowed and stopped herself. He was calmly allowing them to touch and move him about. He didn't really seem to care about the crowd. In fact, he seemed slightly bored.

Harry was sick of hospitals. He was sick of doctors and sick of white clothing and white walls. He was sick of so little color. In his hand he clutched the photograph Dudley had taken. It was really one of the only things he was glad didn't have much color. Color would be like it was celebrating his horrible state. Only the face paint seemed to celebrate anything in the picture and that was a kind of morbid celebration.

He knew Jane had seen the picture. He had tried to hide it but she was given charge of his possessions after he was stripped for the operating table. She had burned his clothing but had kept the picture. She mentioned it to him one day. He had simply held out his hand and she had placed it there. He tucked it away without looking at it. He knew what it looked like, despite never having seen it before.

Finally getting tired of being prodded painfully, Harry, previously unresponsive, suddenly sent energy to his limbs and, striking a menacing pose, he bugged out his eyes and said in a low but unemotional voice "Boo." The doctors all jumped back in surprise and fright. Harry just stood up straight, and rolled his eyes.

He walked calmly over to Jane and said clearly and in a very sophisticated manner, "Ms. Coburn, I apologize for not answering any of your previous questions. Firstly, my name is Harry and it is a pleasure to meet you. As to who did this to me, the answer is quite simple; my relatives of course. They can be quite nasty sometimes." He said this with an apologetic grin, looking a little more human but generally still creepy.

"I wish you all a pleasant day and thank you for the medical assistance. I will pay my bills shortly but for right now, I feel quite tired of hospitals. So I bid you all adieu." And with that, Harry Potter, savior of the world, chosen one, boy-who-lived walked nearly starkers out into the streets of muggle London leaving behind some very lowly dropped jaws.

SO! thats my first fic. more chapters to come if people like it. i would love some constructrive critique. im worried im taking it too fast...

anyway, thanks for reading