Harry Potter and the forced Hero

Harry Potter and the forced Hero

A six year old Harry screamed as he was thrown into the cupboard again. His back hit the back of the cupboard, where the majority of his bruises were located. Another one of his scabs broke again, and fresh blood poured down his back, again.

It was often this way for poor Harry. His life, ever since the age of one year old, had been one of cruelty, punishments and slavery. His family, the Dursleys, hated his guts. For some reason, they called him a freak, scum, and was worth, quite simply, absolutely nothing. He hated his life and he hated life itself. Often, he held a knife, a small kitchen one, to his throat, begging his body to just allow him to cut himself. But he never could.

He hated himself at times. He was so weak, so soft; worth nothing, just like he was told by the Dursleys. He was beat a lot, by the Dursleys. No, not just the Dursleys, by Dudley's friends as well. He'd asked why he deserved this once, but he received a punch in the face for his troubles.

No, nothing was worth this, this pain. The simplest thing to do would be to just die. But no, that fate wouldn't be for Harry, no matter how much he'd sometimes wished for it. No, he had a plan to escape, at least, one day. Suddenly, the door slammed wide open, and Harry was dragged out by a big-fisted hand by his shoulder. He winced, that'll leave a few marks.

'What the hell do you think your doing, boy?!' His big fat uncle screamed at him.

'N- nothing, un- uncle,' Harry stuttered.

He uncle turned red with rage, and hit him as hard as he could on the arm. 'Shut up you little shit! You've been lazy again, sleeping in that cupboard while your aunt does all your work for you!'

Harry attempted to deny it, but was stopped from speaking by another hit on his shoulder. Harry whimpered as his uncle leaned in, his big, fat, red face directly spitting into Harry's own face.

'You filthy little toerag, get out!' He whacked Harry again in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain. Harry looked at his uncle in terror as he realized what his uncle meant.

'But please, please Sir, don't make me go, I'm sorry!' Tears started to fall out of his eyes as he pleaded with his uncle to not throw him out. His uncle simply sneered at him, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and dragging him outside.

He walked over to his car, opening up the boot and throwing his nephew inside it, closing and locking it shut. A desperate crying came from the boot. His uncle simply ignored it, walking over to the driver's seat and getting in, starting the car and driving away from Privet Drive.

Four hours later, Vernon finally stopped just outside of London in a wasteland. Several unsavoury looking men sat around a burning barrel. Vernon snorted at the place, thinking it was just the kind of place that the boy and his parents were suited for, no doubt. A delicious irony, he thought.

Getting out of the car he opened up the boot and picked Harry out of it by his hair with as little care as he would with a sack of potatoes. Indeed Harry was like a sack of potatoes, deprived of oxygen, yet he had something a sack of potatoes didn't, he was halfway conscious and his muscles were cramping from being locked in the cramped boot for so long.

Grabbing the boy by his hair, he threw him out of the boot, before turning his back on him. Going back into the car, he drove off, not even looking back at the nephew that his family-in-laws had left in his and Petunia's care. Not again, for a long time, would he ever cast his mind back upon the boy who had for a brief period of time lived with them.

One of the men sneered at the car leaving the wasteland, and wandered over to where the car had stopped. Maybe there had been something left behind that the man could flog. Standing where the car had been, the man looked around before seeing a leg.

Frowning, he walked over, hoping that it wasn't another dead body. Christ knows they got enough of them around here without being framed for yet another one! The leg was followed by another leg, then a body, and then a head. The man stood over a dark-haired boy. He looked young, surely not older than eight years old, if even that.

He crouched over the prone body, rolling him onto his side. His eyes widened. A clearly abused boy was laying there, his glasses hanging on one ear, and his eyes glazed over. He swore, picking the boy up and running over to his shack. He cursed himself, he had too much of a soft heart, he knew that, and yet he couldn't help it.

First things first, he needed to get the lad awake. Taking hold of his flask full of whiskey, he poured a small amount down the boy's throat, causing the lad to cough up most of the drink, but still awakening him. He looked around in terror, before focusing on the man, and moaning in fright.

He couldn't blame the lad really; he knew that he wasn't a pretty picture. Scars all over his face from the result of fight clubs and bar fights, an unshaven beard and long lanky hair. It was a harsh life really, but it was the best that he could find.

'Lad, tell me your name.'

The boy stuttered, 'B- Boy...'

The man raised an eyebrow, yes, the lad must've been abused, it was clear. The fact he gave his name as "Boy" was enough for him. He crouched down. 'Lad, I may not know what your name is, but I can tell you now, it's not boy.'

The boy stuttered out another name, 'Fr- freak.'

The man winced. If there was one thing that he hated most of all, it was abusive parents. It was the reason why he was out here in the first place. He groaned, 'no, no it's nothing like that either. Do you have any names that aren't offensive?'

The boy shrugged. 'Don't know, sir.' He winced in anticipation of a hit, but it never came. The man still looked at him, plainly thinking hard.

'Well, the thing that stands out about you most to me is your eyes, so I'll call you…Emerald!' The man beamed at Emerald, who hesitantly smiled back.

'Sir, what's your name?'

The man groaned. 'Please, mate, don't call me Sir. It makes me sound like an old codger, and to me, that's the worst fate around.' He rubbed his face as Emerald giggled at him. The man then looked at Emerald again. 'My name's Dave, so just call me that from now on.' As the boy nodded, Dave sighed as he saw the bruises on the boy's arm.

'Lad, do you have any more bruises like that on your arm?' The boy instantly covered the bruise up and turned his face away from Dave's own face, shaking his head fervently. Dave placed his hand on the boy's back in a friendly manner, only to feel the boy winch and gasp in pain. He moved his hand back instantly, worry on his face.

'Take off your shirt.' He said to the boy, who again shook his head. The man allowed a touch of anger to enter his voice. 'Take it off!' The boy instantly withered under the tone of voice and complied. Dave, feeling guilty enough already was shocked. The entity of Emerald's back was like one big massive bruise. The man was sure that there were torn muscles, and there was a mix of bloody scabs everywhere, as though a belt had been taken to it. He swore, and called over another man.

The man came over to Dave and Emerald, 'what's this then?' the man asked, confused.

'You used to be a doctor, right?'

'It was actually a nurse, but why?'

'Take a look at this.'

The man came over and instantly swore. He turned to Dave, 'has the kid been abused or something?'

Dave nodded, 'As far as I can tell, he has. He claims that his name was Boy and Freak, and there are many bruises all over his body.'

The man nodded sadly, 'What kind of fucking world do we live in that someone would hurt a kid like this? He can't be more than seven years old!' He sighed. 'What you going to do with the boy then?'

Dave sighed as well, 'I know a few people like him. They can look after him; they owe me a few favours anyway.' He looked at the boy, knowing that what awaited him was a hard life, a life of fighting, of thievery, of prejudice and eventually, an early death. 'Does he need a doctor?'

The man shook his head, 'I wouldn't worry, the blood is mainly from broken scabs, which will easily heal themselves. As for those bruises, they're near the surface of the skin; it'll hurt for a small while, but nothing permanent.'

Dave nodded, and picked up the boy, and started on his journey towards the city of London. He sighed, knowing instinctively that this was going to be a long, long journey.