You Care? (DISCONTINUED)

Chapter one.

Harry's POV.

Tears stream down my face, blood mixing with them as I sit on the bed, curling up after a harsh beating I received from my uncle. With trembling hands, I take hold of the ripped blanket, the only thing I find comfort in and wrap it around myself. Why is it always me who drags the danger with?

Why do they do this to me, beat me till I bleed like lamb being slaughtered, till my eyes are swollen shut and bruises cover every square centimetre of my pale skin? Why me?

I told Dumbledore, I told him many times, I begged him on my knees. I destroyed his office in a fit of rage and begged again. All he did was brush me off, the glint in his eyes haunting me with the words he told me. He dared to reassure me that it can't be so bad and that my relatives love me. Compared to them Voldemort is a baby unicorn in a pink tutu, even he loves me more than my relatives and it is painfully obvious that the man with the features of a snake hates my guts.

My relatives hate me. More than hate, they despise the ground I walk on, the air I breathe, everything I touch or represent. They hated my parents and see no problem in hating me since I was left on their doorstep. They happen to hate everything and everyone out of the ordinary, me included.

They would love to get rid of me in any way possible. They would be ecstatic of Voldemort would manage to kill me, they would praise him to the heavens. And if he didn't succeed, they'll probably do it themselves as they are more than a half-way there.

The only reason I am forced here are the blood wards. Those damn things are no help for me, for no one. They fell days after Dumbledore placed them there. There was no love in the household for me that would keep them up successfully.

I'll die in this house if not in the hands of the Dark Lord. He has yet to find me and therefore endanger me.

Sometimes it even seems that I can trust Voldemort more than the light side of the war and Dumbledore, at least based on the times we have met - him in the back of the head of my first Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and the memory of his young self - he always spoke the truth to me. Well, if you keep out the part where he told me he would be able to bring back my parents, but other than that, he always speaks the truth. He doesn't sugarcoat the reality as if it would shatter me like a crystal vase.

It seems that I am no more than a weapon for the light side, to them, I am not a person, I am a thing to use to win this goddamn war. I never wanted to be the boy-who-lived, not once did I wish for the fame. I did not ask for this, but now this title I would happily give to someone else is all I have left. My parents are dead so that the wizarding world could call me the saviour I am not.

I stare at the clock, waiting patiently for it to strike midnight. I have always waited for my birthday. It is a tradition to me already for I am the only one to celebrate the day I was born.

As it happens, pain engulfs my whole body and mind. Splitting agony fills my head and backside. I have never felt anything so horrible and I have gone through hell. No beating, no whip, not any crucio could best this level of pain. It is way worse than a knife carving words into skin, worse than bones breaking under the heavy weight of my uncle or cousin.

Am I finally going to die? Will Lady Magic grant me the freedom and peace of death? The wish I have begged for nearly my whole life.

With few agonizing moments that feel like centuries, it's over and I am left to gasp for the stolen breath I thought I'll never regain. I never want to feel something like that again for I could not take it. I could take any beating but this, this I want never to return.

The black stars dance in my sight, almost tauntingly. Feeling weaker than ever before, my eyes close. I welcome you, death, my dear friend.

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