All stories told are black and blue underneath

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All credits belong to J.K Rowling

Previously...

If there was one thing Dumbledore was sure off, it was that he was going to get his way. No matter what. And Harry would be the key. He didn't know he was about to meet a very different Harry from what he expected.

Chapter 4

Harry Potter walked the dirty streets of London and weaved his way through the large crowd of people bustling around. Rain poured down from the sky and hit the ground with a rhythmic thump. His cheeks were flushed red and stood out against his pale white skin. His lips were tainted blue in the corners and his hair was wet with rain. He shivered in the cold and pulled his ratty and overgrown jacket closer to his body.

On his back, he wore a large heavy bag that was filled to the brim with items. Everything that belonged to him was stuffed hastily into that bag and left there only being taken out when needed. He had never unpacked them. He never saw a need to.

Harry clutched several notes of money in his right hand while he gripped his small phone in the other. He stopped in front of a large building and hastily stuffed the money he earned into his pockets and gripped his phone tighter. Harry pushed the door of the building open and walked in.

He passed doors and gates, each who had different signs pointing out what they were for. He ignored them and didn't stop walking until he reached a door with the letters 'FAMILY AFFAIRS: CHILDREN'. Harry looked at it before sighing and pushing the door open.

He trudged in and flopped down onto a silver armchair. He hated being here. Everything just seemed so... fake. The chairs, the pristine white walls. Everything.

It felt like a hospital waiting room. It was suffocating. Like they were trying to ease you in as you desperately prayed everything would be okay and then some prick came rushing in and telling you bad news before leaving you to mourn. They weren't far off the vibe when they made this room.

It was where foster kids waited for their social worker. Not many foster kids ever saw this room in its full glory. No... it was mostly kids who were trouble. Or in Harry's case kids who were labelled 'trouble' because their previous foster parents needed a reason for sending the kids back.

Harry had never actually done anything wrong. People just liked to blame him for strange things. Like turning his teachers hair blue or exploding the chalk in his hand. Or maybe even climbing up the drain pipe and ending up on the roof when bullies started chasing him. Sometimes even for shrinking a hideous jumper one of his foster parents tried to put him into. Luckily they didn't notice and thought it was because of the washer.

Harry fiddled with his phone as he sat slumped into the chair. Great. He had gotten kicked out of another home. It wasn't his fault. It never was. He just had the worst luck. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He reached down. Beneath all the hopelessness, all the pain, all the cold and careless exteriors he put up. There was a spark. A spark that got brighter every time he went to a new home. The same spark that dimmed whenever all his homes turned out to be the same. He let out a shaky breath and banished the thoughts from his head. There wasn't any point of thinking of it now. He just had to move on. Like he always did. He would act careless and cold as he tried not to mind. He would crack witty jokes and send a few funny insults here and there. Even the worst of kids and people kept him around for his jokes.

If that didn't work then there was always plan B. Run. Run the hell away from everything in the world and just be whatever he wanted to be. That was until he got caught. Then...well it depended on whether they decided to check his foster home or not.