Harry Potter fell to the ground, and his vision seemed to fill with sparks and floating orbs of light. For an instance, he forgot where he was, but was soon brought back to reality. "Get up, Potter", spat Dudley, his cousin. "We're not done with you". Harry had done his best to hold back tears, but with the sharp pain of the punch was no longer capable of holding back. In spite of that, he was pretty sure the wetness on his lip was his blood, not his tears. Behind Dudley stood Piers Polkiss, the rat-faced boy who followed Dudley wherever he went, usually holding people's arms behind their back as Dudley beat them up.

Polkiss, safe behind Dudley, felt quite safe mock him. "Why're you crying, Potter? Do you miss your mommy?" At this, Dudley and Polkiss both laughed, but Harry's lack of reaction apparently made them decide it was over for now. "So long, Potter!", yelled Dudley, kicking Harry in the chest - rather hard, even for him - before running of with Polkiss, both of them laughing.

Harry sat on the ground for a while, catching his breath, before he cleaned the blood off his lip. Wincing, he realized it had been split - again - but with his now-substantial knowledge of first aid, also figured it wouldn't need stitches. Harry always tried to appreciate the small blessings like that. Getting back on his feet and shaking the dust off of his clothes, Harry felt only one thing other than the pain. Hate. Pure, undiluted hate for the boys who treated him this way. What had he ever done to them except being born? Harry hadn't chosen this life. He hadn't chosen to be raised by the Dursley's, to loose his parents and be given over to them...

Harry spaced out as a glimpse of green light and searing pain ran through his mind. He had been told his parents had died in a car accident, but somehow it didn't feel like a car accident. Somehow. Pushing the memory of pain and blinding light from his mind, he assessed the damage to his skinny frame. Nothing too bad other than the split lip. A scraped knee and dusty clothes. The trouble now would be that his aunt Petunia would blame him for getting his clothes dirty. Any attempt to point out that Dudley has assaulted him would be met with either accusations of lying, or assurances that he had brought it on himself.

Cunt.

Harry couldn't deal with Petunia right now, so he went to the one place he knew he could be alone, and even clean his scrapes and cuts, under an old bridge nearby. Harry took great care in being sure he was not followed, since his spot under the bridge was one of the few places he still considered to be "his", a place Dudley and his gang had never found. Dudley had sometimes wondered where he went, of course, and it wasn't for lack of trying that him and his gang hadn't found it. Harry, when he needed to be, had simply learned to be sneaky.

Harry settled into his usual spot under the bridge, which he had once, briefly, shared with a wandering vagabond. Rain-water collected in the dented roof of an old car nearby, clean enough for Harry to rinse his wounds. He even drank from it occasionally, not wanting to go home or all the way to the library. Home. Using that word about the Dursley residence felt like mocking it, violating everything it stood for. Yet for Harry, the Dursley residence was home, whether he liked it or not.

Harry finished cleaning up, and hid in his hiding-hole, reading a book he had stashed there until it became too dark to read in natural lighting. The book was a collection of classic fairy tales, many of which he felt a very intimate connection with, as they were ripe with stories of lonely children and abusive step-parents. Only Harry knew that no knight would come to rescue him, and that nothing as exciting as a monster or a witch would ever cross his path.

Or so he thought, anyway.

When Harry opened the door to the Dursley residence, he noticed that they had eaten already, and, as usual, left all the dishes for him to do. Aunt Petunia noticed him almost at once, waddling towards him and looking him over with disgust. "There you are, boy. Now what trouble have you gotten into this time?", she asked, as she started painfully prodding his wounds. She looked to his dirty, worn clothing and seemed even more disgusted, like he was a rat that had just crawled out of the toilet. "You're absolutely filthy. Go change your clothes, and then start the laundry. When it's started you can do the dishes." Harry simply muttered his understanding below his breath, and got to work. There was no use in trying to argue or to mention that he was hungry. Then Uncle Vernon would get out his belt and Harry would "learn another lesson", as Vernom always put it. Harry shuddered at the thought, but only a little, having long-since acclimated himself to abuse and resigned himself to living in a world that existed only within himself - a world where he was free.

As harry did the laundry and then the dishes, he was in his mind stumbling through enchanted forests, fighting monsters and witches alike. Harry, the champion, suddenly jerked out of existence as Aunt Petunia snarled something at him. "... if you must, but make it quick". Harry had missed most of it, but she had placed a plate of scraps - some of it half-eaten and disgusting - on the table, and he assumed she wanted him to eat. Petunia continued. "Once you're done clean this dish and then go to your cupboard. We're expecting guests, so be quiet."

Harry ate his food, being quick both to avoid being beaten but also because there was very little to enjoy about Dudley and Vernon's half-eaten scraps and the chewy fat from the steaks they had enjoyed earlier. Inwardly, he was picturing how he would, one day, make Dudley, Petunia and Vernon suffer for what they had done to him, one day when he was strong. But he soon forgot all such thoughts as he cleaned the plate and scurried off to his cupboard, not wanting them to "remind" him again to quickly get out of the way when they wanted company.

In the cupboard under the stairs, Harry Potter laid reading in the dim light from his one lamp on the day before his 11th Birthday.