*This story's revision has been completed as of 2/18/18. Revised chapters have been updated with the date of revision.

Yes I know this is incredibly old but screw it I feel like writing it again.

Warnings: This fanfiction contains references and brief descriptions of abuse. It also contains descriptions of self-injury and self-injurious behavior. Some briefly violent scenes are present. Language and themes may be included that are unsuitable for children. DID (dissociative identity disorder) will feature in this fanfiction.

If any of these things will cause you discomfort or distress, please do not read any further. I do not support nor encourage any of the aforementioned behaviors and actions. Abuse is a serious issue that, sadly, is all-too-common in our world today. If you or anyone you know is suffering from abuse, please contact the appropriate authorities.

A pale, black-haired boy lay on his rickety bed, peering out his window at the inky summer sky, stars mocking as they twinkled merrily back at him. A slight breeze played across his face from the cracked window, left open just wide enough for Hedwig, his snowy owl, to squeeze through. The dark house was thick with silence, broken only by the muted snores of his cousin and the occasional moan of the foundations. He checked the time on his slightly dented (thanks to Dudley) alarm clock for what seemed to be the hundredth time in his tense anticipation. The luminous green hands reflected like eerie eyes in the darkness, signifying that it was now 11:49. He sighed silently, lest the Dursleys somehow hear him, face pinched as melancholy thoughts circled his mind like a blocked drain.

In just a few minutes he would be thirteen years old. He had never had anything that could qualify as a birthday celebration in his time at the Dursley's, especially once discovering he was a wizard, and had no reason to suspect a sudden change in heart. His friends, however… He wished he could talk to them, a keen homesickness –for his true home, Hogwarts, that is –overtaking him. He hadn't heard from anyone since Ron had tried to contact him via telephone five weeks and two days ago, with disastrous results. He still couldn't remember what had happened for about a week after that, his memory yielding a black hole of nothing. This wasn't unusual for the scrawny boy; he had gaps in his memory as far back as he could remember. What he did remember, though, was waking up in a lot more pain than he had before the phone call. His hand was especially swollen and still twinged off and on. It was too bad that Hermione didn't try to call, since she would've known how to use a telephone and had the sense not to mention she was a witch. He cut off that line of thought as his eyes began to sting; it was becoming too painful. He couldn't help but worry about his Hogwarts assignments though; he had yet to complete a single one, no thanks to his relatives. Dudley had caught him trying to pick the lock on the cupboard door at the beginning of summer, where his trunk, filled with all his school things, had been locked away from the moment he came back to his relatives' house. He had almost thought he might get away with it. Almost. His relatives had all been out front, admiring Uncle Vernon's new company car (in loud voices so the neighbors would hear) when Dudley decided to come in for a snack. Unfortunately for Harry, he hadn't heard his overweight cousin's thumping footsteps until it was too late. Dudley had called out in glee for his Uncle to come and see what he was doing, and that was the end of his attempts at homework. He suspected the only reason they hadn't burned his wizard things by now was out of fear that they might suddenly be beset by an angry horde of, "freaks," as his Aunt Petunia liked to call them.

Harry ran a hand through his untidy black hair in frustration, tugging slightly on the strands before resigning to their imitation of a rat's nest. He glanced over at the clock again, noticing with some surprise that it now read 11:59. A twinge of excitement ran through him as he realized that he would be thirteen in only one more minute. He counted down the seconds in his head. Twelve... eleven... ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two... one...

"Happy Birthday, Harry," he whispered to the darkness. He allowed himself a small, bittersweet smile, wishing that someone else might be there to wish him a happy birthday too, even Hedwig. When no giants came crashing through the door –not that he expected any to –he rolled over, cleared his thoughts, and drifted off to sleep.

Harry's slumber was rudely interrupted, however, by a sharp knocking on the windowpane about an hour later. He blearily opened his emerald eyes to find a strange shape hovering outside his window. For a split second he thought Ron had returned in his father's (now feral) flying Ford Angela to rescue him, but no, it was some sort of creature. Reaching for his glasses, he realized the shape was an assortment of owls as he heard a familiar hoot.

"Hedwig!" he whispered excitedly. He hadn't seen her for days, but hadn't worried, she had stayed out that long before and always came back when she was needed. Besides, if he could fly away from the Dursleys he would too.

He rushed to open the window wide enough for the two owls, holding what looked to be another owl (or a rumpled gray feather duster) in their grasp. They fluttered in through the window and deposited the gray owl, that he now saw carried a large package, on Harry's bed with a soft fwump before settling themselves down gracefully. Harry knew of only one owl that could fit the gray's description: Errol, the Weasley's owl! He grinned hugely as he hurriedly untied the cords from around Errol's legs before carrying him to Hedwig's cage. Errol cracked one eye and gave a feeble hoot of thanks before clumsily guzzling some water and settling down to sleep.

Harry looked back to the other owls. One was his very own Hedwig, carrying a package herself and looking extremely pleased. The other was a handsome tawny owl that he didn't recognize, but understood after seeing the Hogwart's crest adorning the letter upon its package. He first relieved Hedwig of her burden, receiving an affectionate nip before she flew across the room to join Errol. The Hogwart's owl stood importantly as he untethered it. Once free, it ruffled its feathers elegantly, stretched its wings, and soared out the window into the night, cresting the moonlit rooftops of Privet Drive.

Harry arranged his presents on his bed and sat down next to them, reaching for the brown package from the Weasleys. He ripped off the brown paper and discovered a present wrapped in gold as well as his first-ever birthday card. He opened the envelope reverently, finding a newspaper clipping and a letter within. The newspaper showed all nine Weasleys waving enthusiastically (plus Ron's pet rat Scabbers, sleeping) in front of a majestic pyramid. The caption read that Arthur Weasley had won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw and chose to take the family to Egypt to visit Bill Weasley, who worked there as a curse breaker for Gringotts. Harry looked down on the miniature family, grinning. He couldn't think of a better family to win the money, as the Weasleys were as poor as they were kind. He then unfolded Ron's letter, which held birthday wishes, tales of his trip to Egypt, and an invitation to shop for school supplies together a week before term started. Still smiling, Harry opened the gaudily-wrapped present to find what looked like a small glass spinning top inside, along with another note from Ron. The note described the object as a Pocket Sneakoscope, saying that it would light up and spin if someone untrustworthy was around. Harry placed the Sneakoscope on his bedside table, surprised that it didn't light up. If there was anyone untrustworthy, it was the Dursleys. Instead it sat perfectly still, balanced on its point, reflecting the faint light from his clock. Maybe it only worked on wizards? He stared at it happily for a few more moments before turning to the parcel Hedwig had brought.

Harry opened the package to find another giftwrapped present and letter from Hermione. Unfolding the paper to find her neat cursive, he read that she was on holiday with her parents in France, learning quite a lot about magic while there, and that she was having trouble getting him his present until Hedwig showed up. She also issued him another invitation to London the week before term. The P.S. contained a few short sentences, "Ron says Percy's head boy. I'll bet Percy's really pleased. Ron doesn't seem too happy about it." Laughing quietly, Harry set the letter down and picked up the heavy, rectangular present. Knowing Hermione, he expected it to be a boring spell book, but was pleasantly surprised to find a sleek black case emblazoned with the silver letters Broomstick Servicing Kit.

"Wow, Hermione!" he whispered, unzipping the case to check out its contents.

Within was a large glass jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on a broom for long journeys, and a leatherbound Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare.

Harry smiled dreamily, wishing he could be back at Hogwarts once again, hanging out with his best friends and playing Quidditch on the Gryffindor team. Quidditch was the most popular sport in the magical world, and for good reason: it was highly dangerous, always exciting, and played on broomsticks. Harry had taken naturally to a broom from the first time he rode one, earning himself the position of seeker on his house's team at the youngest age in a century. One of his most prized possessions was his racing broom, the Nimbus Two Thousand. He frowned, remembering that at the moment it was locked up in the cupboard under the stairs by his Quidditch-hating relatives (if they even knew what Quidditch was, which he doubted). He gently repacked the Broomstick Servicing Kit, setting it down on the bed and reaching for the package from the Hogwarts owl.

The last package was addressed in Hagrid's untidy scrawl, complete with another birthday card. The package contained The Monster Book of Monsters, which upon unwrapping escaped into the dark corners of his room, snapping on his hand as he attempted to capture it. A muttered curse and a hastily-found belt later he froze, listening for footsteps. Fortunately, it seemed the Dursleys were sleeping deeply and didn't hear a thing. Now belted and subdued the horrid book shuddered angrily, cover shuffling. Sighing in relief, Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid's card, hoping it explained the monstrous book.

The card was short, wishing Harry a happy birthday and suggesting that the book might come in handy next year. He found it ominous that Hagrid would think a biting book might be useful, starting to dread what kind of creatures he would be working with in Care of Magical Creatures that year. Pushing that thought aside and steadfastly ignoring the shuddering book, he set Hagrid's card up next to the others, grinning widely at the impressive display. However unusual Harry was, for once he felt just like anyone else: glad, for the first time he could remember, that it was his birthday. Now there was just the official Hogwarts letter left to open.

As Harry slit open the envelope, he noticed that it was thicker than usual. He pulled out the first piece of parchment, reading a brief message from McGonagall: term would start on September the first, the Hogwarts Express would leave at eleven o'clock, third years were permitted to visit Hogsmeade with the enclosed permission form signed by a parent or guardian, and a list of the books for the next year was enclosed. Harry pulled out the permission form, no longer grinning. It would be amazing to be able to visit Hogsmeade. He had heard it was an entirely wizarding village, but he had never set foot there. It would be a challenge to see if he could get his aunt or uncle to sign the form. Actually, it wouldn't be a challenge, more like impossible with their hatred of all things magical (including Harry).

He glanced at his alarm clock, seeing that it was now just after two in the morning. Deciding to put the matter of form-signing aside for when he woke up, Harry hid his newfound treasures beneath the loose floorboard under his bed, leaving the cards on the table. He then got back into bed, reaching up to cross off another day on the homemade calendar he had tacked to the wall, counting down the days until he could return to Hogwarts. Laying down, he took off his glasses, placing them next to his three birthday cards. He gazed at them happily, mind drifting into pleasant dreams of quidditch and friendly faces.

Harry woke up at six the next morning as usual, despite the few hours of sleep he had gotten. He stretched, joints popping, before using the loo, making sure not to touch the towels reserved for the 'normal' members of the family. He would've liked a shower to wash the stink off him, but he knew he would catch hell if he was caught. Instead he made his way downstairs to the kitchen where he proceeded to start breakfast: mountains of toast, eggs, bacon, sausages, and potatoes. As he pushed the first pieces of bread in the toaster he hurriedly shoved one in his mouth, nearly choking in the process. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until then, the single slice only fueling his stomach's ire. The Dursleys had never had any priorities towards Harry's wellbeing, which included feeding him. Food was a privilege to be earned by freaks like him.

Harry blinked, suddenly finding himself serving the finished food onto platters, the cooking utensils all in the sink, waiting to be washed and put away, the rest of the kitchen spotless. The aroma of coffee wafted from the pot on the kitchen table, adjacent to his beefy uncle, currently glowering at him over his newspaper.

"Hurry it up, boy!" he growled, "Don't want the food to get cold, do you?"

"No, Uncle Vernon," He replied monotonously.

His uncle huffed warningly, "Don't you use that tone with me, boy."

Harry settled for silence this time, bringing the platters over to the table and setting them down gently. He would've liked to hurl the food in his uncle's fat face, but for one, his uncle would kill him, and two, he needed him to sign his Hogsmeade form. So he walked back over to the sink, getting a clean dishrag, and began washing the counter. Again.

He heard his aunt's slight footsteps make their way down the stairs and into the kitchen, followed shortly by Dudley's much heavier steps. No doubt the smell of food woke him up, the glutton. He glanced over as the pajama-clad pig-in-a-wig joined his walrus father and horse mother at the table, watery eyes glinting greedily and hands already reaching for a few slices of toast, soon to be heavily buttered and smothered in jam.

"Turn on the TV, freak," his cousin haughtily demanded through a mouthful of food, all five chins wobbling in sync.

Harry's jaw clenched, but he did as asked without complaint. The brand-new TV, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, clicked on, a picture of a dirty, insane-looking man holding a prison placard coming into view. Harry turned back to his cleaning as he listened in.

A reporter's voice spoke, "The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up. Any sighting of this criminal should be reported immediately."

The feminine voice continued on, giving the number of the hotline as his uncle interrupted, snorting, "No need to tell us he's no good. Look at the state of him, the disgusting, good-for-nothing layabout! Look at his hair!"

At this, he glanced over at Harry, scowling. Harry's hair had been a long-running issue in the Dursley's household. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. However, compared to the filthy man on the television, whose gaunt face was surrounded by an elbow-length tangle of matted black hair, Harry felt almost like he was the prince of pomposity, Draco Malfoy, never a hair out of place.

The reporter reappeared, moving on to an announcement from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, when his uncle interrupted once again.

"Hold on!" he bellowed angrily, glaring at the reporter as if he could force her to bend to his will, "You haven't told us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street at this moment!"

Aunt Petunia swiveled her bony face towards the kitchen window, as if her husband's prediction might actually be true. She was one of the nosiest people on the planet, and Harry knew she would just love to be the one to call the hotline. She would be the talk of the neighborhood, a hero. Harry resisted the urge to snort. If his aunt was any such thing, he might be seeing pigs fly next. However, he thought, glancing over at Dudley, perhaps pigs flying wasn't so far-fetched after all. He bit his lip to keep from laughing at the image of his cousin floating away like a balloon.

"When will they learn," Uncle Vernon continued, pounding one large purple fist on the wooden table, dishes rattling, "that the only way to deal with these criminals is by hanging!"

"Very true," replied Aunt Petunia, still squinting into the next-door neighbor's vegetable garden, no doubt thinking it a supreme hiding place for escaped criminals.

Uncle Vernon drained his mug of coffee, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd best be off, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten."

Harry, who had been drying the frying pan, nearly dropped it in surprise.

"Aunt Marge?" he blurted out, panicked, "She- she's not coming here, is she?"