Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story except Sorai, and a few other small irrelevant characters. The really important ones belong to an excellent author by the name of JK Rowling. The plot is my idea, but it's of course based on hers...you know the drill!

Okay, so this is my first fanfic ever. My guess is that it sucks, but if you like stories about Sirius and Harry, stick with it. My writing usually improves once I get into a story. I really don't have a major plotline yet, but I'm sure one will pop into my head soon enough. Oh yah, I'm American, so I'm sorry if this story has too much Americaness to it, it's the best I could do!
"I won't cry, I won't cry! Come on, I can't let them see what they're doing to me!" Harry thought desperately. As he lay on the floor of his room, circled by the Dursley family who were all staring menacingly at him.

Some how the Dursley's had found out what happened to Harry during his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Did they care what had happened, that Harry had almost died several times, and had witnessed a fellow student die? Of course not! Rather, they found the piece of information rather amusing. Harry wasn't quite sure how the Dursley's had found out about the previous year, and wasn't about to ask. "Dumbledore," thought Harry the first time the Dursley's mentioned it. "Dumbledore probably told them in hopes that they'd be nicer to me this year. Man, was he wrong."

Instead of calling him boy, the Dursley's began to refer to Harry as 'The Murderer'. They had gathered that if Harry hadn't been involved, Cedric Diggory would still be alive.

When he first heard them calling him 'The Murderer', Harry had been shocked. When he found that it was going to continue, he was a little hurt, but generally didn't care too much. After all, it was the Dursley's. However, as the summer wore on, Harry began to feel worse and worse about being called 'The Murderer'. Since they day it happened, Harry had felt responsible for Cedric's death, but had never considered himself to be his actual murderer.

The real murderer was Voldemort, and Harry understood that. But constantly being called "The Murderer', slowly changed the way Harry thought. The more he heard it, the more he felt it to be true. Before he went to bed at night, he felt overwhelming guilt about it all.

Yet the nickname alone wasn't enough to bring Harry Potter to tears. When any of the Dursley men were feeling particularly angry, they decided to use 'The Murderer' as they're personal punching bag. Petunia was too weak to do anything to Harry, so she would watch with a satisfied smile on her face. They would find Harry in his room or doing his chores and begin hitting and kicking him, while repeating his new nickname over and over.

At the moment, Harry was looking around in exasperation after a particularly hard beating. "I think they broke a couple of ribs this time," Harry thought in agony. "Oh no, here comes Uncle Vernon's foot again."

"Take that you little murderer! You vile piece of dirt!" Vernon spat at Harry before kicking Harry sharply in the head. Harry no longer had to worry about holding back his tears, as the blow to the head had knocked him unconscious.

Harry woke up hours later. It was now quite dark, but Harry couldn't focus his eyes enough to read his watch. He was still lying on the ground, and tried to get up, but couldn't even reach a sitting position. As he tried to move, sharp pains shot through every part of his body. "Even my hair hurts," Harry though dryly to himself. "What am I supposed to do now?" He looked desperately around his deserted room for something to pull himself up with. He couldn't get his legs or back to move, but his arms still worked just fine. The closest thing he could get to was an old desk chair piled with clothes. Using his arms, Harry scooted his body towards the chair until he was close enough to grasp the seat of it. He gathered all his strength and pulled up on the chair. He realized a little to late what the effect of this would be, and found himself flat on the ground again, this time with the chair across his already injured chest, and clothes landed on top of his head.

"It really can't get much worse can it," Harry asked himself. He then remembered who we was, and thought "Oh yes, it definitely can."

Harry decided to give up on trying to stand up, and decided to call it a night. He pushed the chair off his chest and threw the clothes across the room.

The only way Harry could get to sleep was to try to ignore his pain, and his guilty thoughts. These were of course the only two things that Harry could think about, and always found it extremely hard to think of anything else. Harry could often find sleep, however, imagining how his summer could have been different. "I could be at Ron's right now! Or if Sirius weren't still on the run, I could be hanging out with him. I'd rather be suffering through Potions, with Malfoy as my partner than be here in this house!" And with these thoughts, Harry fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Harry woke the next morning, he found his condition hadn't improved at all. Again, he tried to get up off the floor, but found he could only crane his neck and move his arms. "This is bad," thought Harry, "really, really bad."

Harry didn't know what to do, so he didn't do anything. He just laid on the floor, starring at the sky out the window. It was a clear blue day, not a single cloud in the azure abyss.

Suddenly, Harry craned his neck up. "Was that what I thought it was?" Harry had spotted a small brown speck moving across the blue sky. It was progressively getting bigger, and Harry was eventually positive, that it was an owl. He was overjoyed by the mere thought of it, and couldn't wait until it actual arrived. Finally it did, and Harry at once recognized the handwriting on the letter the owl carried. The letter was from his Godfather, Sirius Black.

Harry eagerly opened the letter and read as fast as he could:

Dear Harry,

How are things at the Dursley's? They better be going alright or I'll be over there in seconds ready to rip the limb from limb. I'm staying at Moony's place for the time being, and won't hesitate to leave if you need me. Dumbledore's been giving us various jobs to do during the summer, but you're more important than anything he may want me to do. I want you to know that. Please reply quickly, or I'm going to assume the worst.


Harry's heart warmed for his godfather at that moment. He didn't want Sirius to worry or do something stupid. Unfortunately, Harry had no pens or quills nearby, so he couldn't write back a lie telling Sirius that all was fine. Harry didn't really know what to do.

After a few minutes of thinking, Harry decided that all he needed at the moment was some help. Sirius could give him help, so he needed to reply to Sirius. Doing the only thing he could think of, Harry scratched "HELP!" into the parchment with his fingernail, before tying it to the owl and letting it go back out the window.

"It's going to be at least two hours before Sirius gets his letter back, and then who knows how long before he does anything about it," Harry thought. "What am I going to do with myself until then?"

Harry decided to try, yet again to get himself up. He looked around and tried to find a way up. He looked at the chair he had tried the previous night.

"Maybe it'll be sturdier on its side like that," he thought. He pushed himself up on the edge of the seat, and was surprised to see that his back actually left the ground. However, he was even more surprised when his hand slipped off the chair, and his eye made contact with one of the chairs.

Harry gave up yet again. He decided it was best to just lay on the floor and not move. Rather, that's all he really could possibly do. Unfortunately, this meant leaving Harry to his conscience.

Harry immediately replayed the events of the following school year over and over in his head. He left out all the happy things that had happened, and focused on the bad. The time Ron had decided to hate him, the articles Rita Skeeter had done on him, and of course the night after the third task. He kept focusing on how he managed to bring pain to everyone else.

"If it weren't for me, Hermione would never have gotten all that hate mail, nobody would know that Hagrid was a half giant, Cedric Diggory would be alive and happy," Harry thought sadly. "Why doesn't everyone stop protecting me, and let me die already. It's rather obvious that I'm going to die young, so why don't we just get it over with! It would cause everyone a lot less pain and suffering!"

At these thoughts, Harry broke down in tears. He was sobbing despite the pain that it caused. Harry just let it all out while he was stuck there on the floor. All the pain he was in, all the guilt he felt, was all released as Harry lay howling on the floor in his bedroom.

He had no intentions of stopping either, until he heard a loud knock coming from the front door. At the sound, Harry jumped in relief. His reflexes tried to make him sit up, but his pain wouldn't allow it, forcing Harry to roll onto his side in agony. He didn't care though. Sirius was here. Here to help him.
More to come soon! I promise, although you might just not care. If you hate this story, please say so NICELY, and I'll try to fix it up a bit. Next chapter, Sirius will obviously arrive and we'll see what happens there!