New Awakening

Prologue

Harry Potter half heard as Ron Weasley told him the hardships of having six siblings. He was still wondering how he went to bed last night all battered and bruised from his Uncle's latest rage fit and woke up without a single sign of it. He knew the wounds were still there, he could feel them. Every single broken bone, every single cut on his slightly tanned skin (from doing yard-work). He could feel the pain that came with them but he - nor anyone, it seemed - could see them.

'It must be some sort of magic' he thought.

Yes, magic. Harry found out of its' existence on his birthday. Not that his birthday was special, in fact, the Dursleys were extra nasty towards him on July 31st. Anyway, a giant of a man by the name of Hagrid broke and entered the hut they were hiding from the tons of letters Harry was receiving from Hogwarts (the magical school he was heading to now) and told Harry all of his story, at least his version of Harry's story. The true story of Harry James Potter was way darker than that. Harry could never forget that moment, or the beating he received after arriving from his school shopping. 

Harry lived with his aunt, uncle and cousin because his parents were dead. It may sound simple, but Harry's parents were brutally murdered by a Dark Wizard that went by the name of Voldemort. Both of them died to protect him, or 'because of him' as he thought and doing that a protection was placed on Harry. But that protection didn't work for what Harry's aunt and uncle did to him. He was a bad, bad boy - or so he thought - who deserved every beating he's got. Harry's uncle taught him from early age that he was worth nothing; not love, not food, nothing good at all. And that he should be grateful that the Dursleys didn't dispatch him to an orphanage. He was a burden to them and it was all he would ever be.  He deserved every cut, punch, slap, whiplash, cane and belt laceration, burn and every kind of harm done to him. That's what he believed in anyway. He wasn't allowed to talk unless directly asked something, he was supposed to act as if he was not there and no one, absolutely no one, could know about the Dursley's ways of punishing him.

Exhaustion took hold of him and he fell in a light sleep, only to wake up when they were arriving at Hogwarts with an empty compartment. His eyes filled with tears, from the wounds on his back that glued to his shirt as he changed to his school clothes or from the fact that he was alone as he always has been. ‘I don’t deserve friends’ he thought. ‘I’m a freak’.

Until he was eight years old, before the neighbours started to whisper that Vernon and Petunia were denying his nephew education and they were forced to send him to a school, he thought his name was ‘Freak’.  That’s all he was ever called, and it always came with an accusation. The teachers in school turned a blind eye to the boy who would miss many of his classes (due to broken bones and stuff) and was way behind his other peers, Vernon and Petunia said he was “a retarded, lazy and problematic boy” and everyone believed him. Including Harry.

Harry was 11 years old now, but for strangers he may look like he was 8. He was sickly thin and had a lighting bolt scar on his forehead that – he learned – was from when Voldemort tried to kill him and failed. He had messy black hair which was oily since the last shower he was allowed to take was three days ago and wore clothes 4 times too big for him, a long-sleeved shirt and an old jeans held in his thin waist by an old belt, that was mended three times. He had yellowed teeth from lack of brushing and dirt under his nails from doing yard-work. He didn’t deserve to be cleaned up or medical care like other children. He was worthless.

 

 

 

Harry was in the Great Hall, sitting beside his fellow year mates at the Gryffindor Table. Everyone was talking, laughing and eating but hasn’t said a word. He was not allowed to, nor he was allowed to eat anything that wasn’t spoiled and that wasn’t directly given to him. So he looked down and tried to act like he was invisible.

Then Ron poked Harry jokingly on the ribs to get his attention and Harry fell down the bench. Every one at the table laughed and Harry’s eyes filled with tears (of pain and of shame). He did the only thing he could think of: he ran.

He ran until he couldn’t breathe anymore, he could feel the “magical make up” (as he named the glamours) disappearing and panicked even more. Tears clouded his vision and he entered the first room he found and ran to the darkest corner.

There his limbs failed him and he fell, his tears falling freely now that he was alone and he could feel the blood moistening his already bloodied shirt. The glamour and stasis charm were gone now. Harry could feel his arms, torso and legs become thinner. The wounds were bleeding now from the fall and run. He could feel his burns burning. As if every cell of his body was on fire.

He rocked back and forth and put his thumb on his mouth (something he did when he was scared or nervous, consequence of years of abuse).

He was stupid. He was unworthy. He was a freak. He would never know love. Or friendship. He was a burden to everyone. No one would ever care for him.

Fate and magic were about to prove him wrong.

There was a blinding white light just as Harry passed out that surrounded him and suddenly, he was gone. The dark room empty again of a broken black haired boy.

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