Hi everyone! For those who are newcomers to my story, welcome, and thank you for taking a moment (a long moment) to read it. For those returning, thank you for sticking with me. I have not forgotten this or my other stories, and (however long it may take) I will continue to update them. :-)

I have just spent the last three months rewriting this story, addressing continuity errors and spelling and grammar mistakes. In the end, I had hoped to cut the length of it down a bit, because I always feel as though I explain more than I should, but in the end I ended up added around four more pages worth of material. But, hopefully, it is better than it was.

If you have any questions for me, please leave a comment or review, and I will answer as soon as I can.

Thank you, and please enjoy!

1

"I will create domestic fury and civil strife. Blood and destruction will be so common when I am done that mothers will smile to see their children cut down. And [his] ghost will walk the Earth and with the voice of a king cry 'Havoc!' and let loose the dogs of war."

-Shakespeare

The oppressive silence of the dark, cloud-filled day covered the entirety of Privet Drive. The rumbling storm clouds threatened to release their contents onto the heads of any who dared to stay beneath their cover. Of course, by this time, all the children had been called in, all the curtains pulled closed, and, as always, all doors securely locked. There was a juvenile delinquent roaming the streets, after all. He was mental. The Dursleys were such saints to take in such a problem child.

Said "juvenile" sat on a swing in the park at the end of Privet Drive. He knew he seemed oblivious to everything happening around him, even the constant crashing of thunder, but he could practically feel the eyes on him. The Order always had at least one person watching him at all times after the incident at the Ministry of Magic, even though, according to Dumbledore, the blood wards were impossible to break. If you were to ask Harry, he'd say that theory was a load of crap. Harry had long ago read up on the blood wards Dumbledore had briefly mentioned to him in his second year.

Most blood wards largely depended on at least a small amount of kinship between the individual, or individuals, needing protection and the individual providing protection. Otherwise, they would break quite easily.

Anyone with eyes could tell there was no love to be lost between Harry and the Dursleys, and Petunia barely acknowledged Lily Potter as her sister, let alone Harry as the woman's son. No relation of theirs.

Harry gathered that there had never been blood wards protecting him or 4 Privet Drive.

Frankly, Harry was surprised he wasn't dead yet, although he guessed Dumbledore had gotten Snape to feed Voldemort enough information for the Dark Lord to think he couldn't get past the wards, so the man hadn't tried. He knew Dumbledore had set up an unplottable charm around the Dursleys' house, so maybe – a very large maybe – Voldemort couldn't find him.

Harry sighed as he got up. It was no use thinking about something he couldn't do a thing about.

He rubbed at his right side, which did nothing for the ache. His ribs had to be bruised. And his other wrist – along with three fingers of the same hand – was sprained. He felt disgusting, and like he was covered in scrapes and bruises. He didn't even want to know what he looked like, but he'd stalled long enough while sitting on the swing. He made the effort to walk smoothly, despite his injuries, to the restrooms that weren't far from his swing.

The ever-watching eyes followed him.

Once safely locked away behind the restroom doors, Harry methodically stripped from his shirt and pants. The cuts and bruises were colorful; all in various stages of healing. There were two pink crisscrossed cuts covering his chest from shoulder to hip. A new set of jagged cuts formed the word 'freak' above his right hip. He avoided looking at those.

He turned and craned his neck around to see his back in the mirror. He could only see the edges of a deep gash that lethargically oozed blood through cracked scabs. He couldn't see the scars that came before that one, but he could imagine them all. Long, ropy, hideous scars that overlapped again, and again, and again.

Gingerly leaning over, he reached under the bag of the garbage can that sat next to the sink and pulled from it a familiar potions med-kit. He'd seen many before, as Madame Pomfrey tended to pull one out the moment he walked in. This one, however, was one he'd stocked himself before he'd left Hogwarts.

As he did every time he touched one of his own potions, Harry smirked to himself. He'd had a good laugh in imagining Snape's face if the man had known about the potions Harry had been making successfully since his third year. Bruise-healing paste, Murtlap essence, Boil-cure potion, Pepperup potion, even Veritaserum (just in case).

He hadn't thought he would need the Skele-grow this year, but with the threat of Sirius' wrath gone… Well. Needless to say the Dursleys' had it out for him.

His Aunt and Uncle's stupid pig of a son had decided to play Harry Hunt today and Harry had managed to slip away. He probably wouldn't be able to get back in the house tonight, which meant he'd get another beating tomorrow for not making dinner. Sometimes he wished he was heartless enough to poison them, and he was rather amazed they let him prepare their food with the way they treated him.

He downed the Skele-gro, which helped the sprain just a bit, before moving on to some of the other potions and pastes. Bruise-healing paste wouldn't do too much for his rainbow of injuries, but that was all for the better. If he had nothing to show for his uncle's attentions the night before, the man would give him a beating that covered all these injuries and more.

Harry was sure if his uncle was compensating, but Vernon couldn't stand it when his punishments didn't show any lasting effect. Harry left all the small cuts and scrapes barely healed, cleaning and closing them, letting them scar.

Last of all, Harry downed the Blood-replenishing potion. If he knew the Dursleys – and indeed he did – he would need the extra blood in his system.

xXx

Over a month into the summer vacation, he lay on the moth-eaten, threadbare mattress in his spider-ridden cupboard. He was fifteen, and his birthday was in minutes, but there was still plenty of room in the tiny compartment. He stretched everything slowly from his toes to his fingers, testing to make sure nothing was broken again. They all worked. But the pain was still there.

He'd been thrown into his cupboard unceremoniously; with absolutely no care for his injuries. He stiffly reached underneath himself to pull his tattered blanket around him.

Once settled, he reached out an arm and Harry drew a practiced finger in the darkness and dust that covered the wall in a thin sheet. The circle. The little dashes; sixteen, this time. He started at the sound of a mechanical beeping, then, as he recognized the sound, he moved to press the little button on the side of his digital watch that would turn the beeping off. His voice was raspy as he whispered.

"Happy Birthday, Harry." He blew out his imaginary candles.

I wish…