2 Privet Drive

"Damn boy, it's impossible to get you off our hands, huh!? Just how much longer are you going to ruin our lives with your disgusting freakishness?"

Vernon Dursley was fuming. Once again, the cursed freak was refused to be admitted to St. Brutus center for incurably criminal boys. It was a boarding school for little mental delinquents where he could send Harry for a whole year.

Whenever Vernon saw the boy, there was something… dark whispering into his ears. Something about Harry always kept him on the edge, made him angry. He never had the impulse to raise a hand on anybody else's child. Vernon wasn't a violent man. But when it came to the little freak, his fists itched with longing.

"I'm sorry, sir," eight-year-old Harry Potter answered from the back seat. He'd learned not to speak out, because that usually just made uncle Vernon's punches more vicious.

Going away to St. Brutus was in both of their best interests, but the principal there was a smart old man. He saw through Harry's attempts to come off like a delinquent and refused enrollment for the third time in a row this year.

Even if he had to spend time with kids who tortured cats and burned ants with a magnifying glass, Harry wanted to leave the Dursleys. He had tried so hard, but his acting fell short before the principal's expertise.

"Why do you want to send your nephew here?" the old man had asked after the interview. "He doesn't belong with the children we teach!"

Vernon had nodded with a sour smile and left without saying a word. Harry had been in the car at that point, and he'd heard the exchange from start to finish.

That's how he knew a beating was waiting for him back at the house. Vernon Dursley didn't like to be reminded that Harry was his nephew, his actual relative, even if not by blood.

Half an hour later, the car stopped in the driveway of number four, Privet Drive. Harry sneaked out of the car while Vernon was unfastening his seatbelt and hid in the bushes nearby.

"Forget about me, forget about me!" he whispered, watching his uncle lock the car and go inside the house.

Harry exhaled. Perhaps the day could yet have a happy ending?

"Boy!" the walrus-like man called from the porch, "Where are you?! Be polite, say hello to your aunt before running off to play!"

Or not. The day was a disaster.

Harry got out of the bushes and walked to the house dejectedly. Vernon waved at an old neighbor lady, Arabella Figg, who was always snooping around. If not for her, Harry would likely be beaten outside.

The door closed behind his back with a click. Then, a whoosh in the air, and Vernon's heavy fist connected with the young boy's side. The force of that punch threw Harry against the wall and drew out a sob.

"Goddamn boy! Always getting on my nerves!" With a kick, Vernon Dursley sent his nephew's body flying down the hall. Harry coughed blood, trying to lift himself up, but another one of Vernon's punches shot him back down.

"Useless little shit! The best you could do to pay us back for the food we give you and the clothes we put on your back is die!" Another kick, and Harry heard a distinct crack in his ribcage. That sent him into a coughing fit, and he left spittle and blood on the floor.

"Clean that up!" a dirty rag fell on his face as aunt Petunia came out from the kitchen. "They refused him again, dear?"

Vernon grunted, taking off his coat.

"Freak! Clean the blood and then get the hell out of my sight! No food for you for the rest of the week!"

Harry moaned, doing his best to get up. It was Friday, and staying in his cupboard for three full days without a bite wouldn't be easy.

Unfortunately, his relatives knew he could take it.

Vernon first broke Harry's arm when he was four. Until then, he had managed to hold back and restrict himself to slaps and smacks. But when Harry accidentally spilled hot oil from the pan on Vernon's white shirt, the heavyset man couldn't hold back. Harry still remembered the first hit that had left him with a broken bone – he'd felt like uncle punched the life out of him.

The Dursleys took him to the doctor in an attempt to keep up appearances. To his and their disbelief, the injury healed within a week. Similar thing happened to his hair when Petunia shaved him bald during a lice outbreak at his and Dudley's school – it grew overnight, reaching about the same length as before.

Then, Vernon's cruel experiments followed. The man knew just how long it took Harry to heal each injury, and he knew where to stop.

Hearing their footsteps further away, Harry turned on his back and allowed himself a moment to come back to his senses. It wasn't the worst beating he'd taken by far.

He wiped his own blood off the floor with the rag and staggered into the kitchen to wash it. Afterwards, he retired into the saving darkness of his cupboard.

Settling on the cot, Harry winced, reminded of the broken rib. A minute of controlled breathing – and the pain went away like it always did. The boy couldn't take a punch, but he'd learned to deal with the aftershocks.

"I don't think I can read now," he muttered. Holding up a book would be too difficult, he'd need a couple of days to do that again.

Harry lay down for a while, and a smile spread across his lips, "At least I have you, buddy. Come out to play!"

He pointed a finger at the air. A small green spark separated from the tip and flew around, obeying his well-trained will.

The Spark was proof he wasn't the same as his relatives. He was something else. If they knew about it, they'd probably kill him, so Harry kept it a secret from everybody.

For the last two years, the Spark illuminated his dark cupboard and gave him hope that things would change.