Bound by Soul

The Boy Who Died

Mentions of attempted suicide, and Blood.

Tread carefully, if you wish to continue. 

Oh, and I will say this once;

I Do Not Own Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was an unusual boy.

He was nine years old, nearly half the size of his peers, and had a lighting shaped scar on his forehead. But in this moment, what made him different from the other children his age, was a jagged piece of metal that he held in his right hand, and more importantly, what he planned to do with it.

It was most likely early morning. Harry wasn't entirely sure, as he had no clock, and the small cupboard under the stairs that was his room had nothing to indicate whether it was day or night. All he knew was that none of the family was awake yet, as no one had unlocked his cupboard, yelling for him to wake and make breakfast, or perform some other menial task.

Sitting cross-legged on the cot he had grown up sleeping on, Harry admired the small metal piece in his hand. It had most likely broken off of something years ago, as he had found it in a far corner of his cupboard. Now, it would be put to use once more, though not whatever its intended use was.

Harry's dull, emerald eyes drifted from the item of his freedom, to his bare left arm. The single bulb above him offered its pathetic amount of light, as Harry brought his arm up to almost eye level, his glasses glittering. He paid attention in his classes. He knew it only take one, well placed cut. The question was where. Harry wasn't sure, but the only difference was how long it took. His 'family' certainly wouldn't care. Except, perhaps, when Aunt Petunia had to clean up the inevitable mess.

His heart oddly light, Harry smiled serenely to himself.

"...happy birthday, to me..."

}-{|>

Petunia Dursley hated magic, and anything to do with it.

Her entire childhood, she had been bitterly jealous of her sister, Lily. Being the eldest, Petunia had been forced to grow up early, while her parents had fawned over her sister. Despite that, the two girls had got on decently enough, until Lily started to do things. It was usually something small, but there was no reasonable way to explain what happened. Until one day, a boy told Lily what she was doing was magic.

It was completely stupid. There was no such thing.

But it turned out to be true. A letter came for Lily, from a school for witchcraft, and what little attention their parents paid to Petunia vanished.

Even all these years later, even after Lily's death, Petunia couldn't forgive her sister.

So when Lily's son, Harry, had been dumped on the Dursley's doorstep like some unwanted kitten, Petunia had been furious.

How dare that man dump her sister's child on her family.

What morals she still had wouldn't let her turn the child out, however. He was only one at the time.

So she and Vernon had kept the boy, raising him, in the loosest meaning of the word, alongside their own son, Dudley.

Today, was Harry's birthday. The family didn't celebrate it, or anything like that, they didn't even acknowledge it, but Petunia let Harry sleep an hour or two longer then on any other day. Now, she turned away from the coffee she had just started, walked past the kitchen table, where Dudley and Vernon sat eating breakfast, and opened the door into the small hallway that led to the front door. On the left side, was the stairs, and subsequently the cupboard that Harry slept in.

"Wake up! It's already-"

Petunia's voice faded, as her eyes landed on the growing puddle on the floor by the cupboard door, slowly spreading out towards the opposite wall, it seemed to be coming from the storage space.

With a small jolt, she rushed forwards, wrenching the door open. Inside, passed out on the cot, was Harry, in his right hand was a jagged bit of metal. His left arm dangled off the edge, blood dripping from his limp fingers to the floor, where a thick puddle had already spread out under the door.

With a breathy scream, Petunia rushed to Harry's still form. Rolling him onto his back, she checked his pulse, she almost missed it, but it was definitely still there. Thready and faint, but there.

Petunia pulled off her apron, and wrapped it around his arm like a bandage, screaming for Vernon.

"Get the car Vernon! He's bleeding everywhere!"

The large man came out of the kitchen, any argument he had on his lips died at the sight of his wife cradling their nephew in her thin arms. Her frilly apron that was wrapped tightly around Harry's arm, was already turning red, as the deep cut continued to bleed. Without another word, the two hurried to the car, quite forgetting their own son was still in the kitchen.

I'm just gonna leave this here, see if anyone is interested. I'm working on the rest of it. 

Updates will be decided depending on interest. So if you want more, spread it around.

Also, this is my first Harry Potter story, let me know if something sketchy, aside from the whole premise.

Hope you enjoy! 

Bakeku67