Disclaimer: I do not own the regular Harry Potter cast, the name of Potter, nor Martina McBride's Concrete Angel. However, I do own Rosalyn May and her life.

A/N: It is quite possible that this one-shot will become a regular story in a short while, but for now it shall remain a one-shot. Reviews are appreciated!


Concrete Angel

Sunlight filtered through a small gap under the door leading into the cupboard under the stairs. Brisk footsteps tapped rhythmically above as a thin, boney woman with a horsey face strode down the stairs and towards the cupboard. A silver keychain containing a single key dangled from one of her hands and a second later, the key was stuck in a padlock that latched the cupboard door shut. A click rang through the silent hallway and then the door swung open with a slight creak. Shadowed green eyes peered out into the bright sunlight of the rising sun and stared up at the woman with an unseen resigned look. The woman's bony hand struck out and she wrapped her long, thin fingers around the little child's wrist, yanking her out of the cupboard with force. The child, a little girl, didn't even cry out in pain as the pull stretched her arm in a strange way, though her lip wobbled a little.

The girl looked to be no older than seven years old at the most, though it was a little known fact that she was ten, nearly eleven. Tangled black hair fell just below her shoulders in beautiful curls. Emerald green eyes, looking too old for a little girl of her age, were nearly hidden by thick bangs and framed by long eyelashes. On the right side of her forehead was a thin, lightning bolt scar that stretched from the top of her forehead to her brow. Her skin, almost too pale, was marred by purple and black bruises in the shape of handprints and her back is ragged with long scars that crisscross at odd places.

She walked with a slight limp and the wrist that was not being held in a death grip looked to be hanging at an unhealthy angle. After making breakfast and packing everyone else's lunch, the little girl carefully shrugged on a light blue sweater over her yellow flower dress and walked the mile and a half to school.

She walks to school with the lunch she packed

Nobody knows what she's holding back

Wearing the same dress she wore yesterday

She hides the bruises with the linen and lace, oh

The same little girl, now eleven and in a new school, pushed her sleeves up her arms. She had been at this school for a week and was already hated by nearly every single person. Everyone hated her because she wasn't where she was supposed to be. Not everyone, though. The Headmaster, a tiny little Professor, a fellow Slytherin boy, and two pranksters weren't exactly overly friendly, but nice enough. A barely noticeable sigh escaped the girl's lips as she bent over the plant she was working on in one of her favorite classes. The squat teacher, a friendly woman (or so she had heard, because the woman didn't seem friendly to her) walked bouncily down the aisle next to her. The girl heard the teacher pause right next to her, but didn't raise her head or even show any indication that she could feel the teacher's eyes boring into her arms. And the reminder of her silence. She didn't pull her sleeves down yet, accepting whatever may happen next. Moments later, the teacher walked away without a word, acting like she hadn't seen anything. A sad smile appeared on the girl's face for only a second as she smoothed the soil. They were all the same. They never asked nor helped. They didn't want to know. They left. Always.

The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask

It's hard to see the pain behind the mask

Bearing the burden of a secret storm

Sometimes she wishes she was never born

Screaming wind surrounded the tiny girl as she stood before the large lake, watching with a fascinated expression as the rain created giant ripples. The wind tried to push and shove her to the muddy ground, but the girl stood firmly and tilted her head up towards the sky. Her eyes closed and she imagined herself flying away from this place. Somewhere she might be loved, like heaven. She smiled as she thought of the hugs she would receive, the stories her mother and father would tell her, and maybe…just maybe, everything would be alright then. These daydreams had plagued her ever since she was a little toddler and now, here in a new place with new people that hated her, they were as vivid as ever. The little girl's gaze flickered open again, but she still stared up at the cloudy sky, blinking rapidly to shield her eyes from the pounding rain. A whispered, "I love you," traveled up towards the heavens and for a moment she was certain she felt strong arms wrap around her from both sides.

Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone

In a world she can't rise above

But her dream give her wings and she flies to a place

Where she's loved, Concrete Angel

Screams echoed throughout the house and neighborhood as a large man brought his beefy fists down on the same little girl, time and time again. The residents that lived in the houses next door surely heard them, but all that occurred was a downward flick of a switch and a rustle of curtains as they are closed, unwilling to get involved. The little girl drifts between being conscious and unconscious as the man continues to beat down on the her with bellowed words and heavy body parts. Finally, the broken girl fell into a peaceful blackness and, in the darkness, she felt like she was drifting down a long and winding river. It was morning before a neighbor from another street passed the house and noticed the small bloody trail left on the sidewalk. Minutes later, people rushed in and out of the house, some disappearing and reappearing with loud pops that went unnoticed in the hustle and bustle and searing sirens. The trail was followed as best as could be until her small broken body was found.

Somebody cries in the middle of the night

The neighbors hear but they turn out the light

A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate

When morning comes it'll be to late

Up above the group gathering in a tall oak tree stands the same small little girl. A sad smile was on her face as she watched the people, watched them finally realize what they had missed. Next to her stood the tall figure of a man wearing a glowing white outfit. It was nearly impossible to see what he looked like, as the light was nearly blinding. After the people below started to leave, the broken imitation of the little girl's body with them, the man turned to his young companion with an outstretched hand. The girl took it without a second look below her and the two disappeared with a flash of bright unnoticed light.

Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone

In a world she can't rise above

But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place

Where she's loved, Concrete Angel

Sobs were heard all around from woman in long black dresses as they held handkerchiefs to their noses, mourning the loss of the girl they had all ignored. Tears trickled down a wrinkled old man's cheek as he stared at the one thing he had tried to prevent for eleven years. A tiny little man stood by two red-haired teenage boys as they stared miserably at the base of an old tree, tears sliding occasionally down their own faces. In the far back was a platinum blond family, a young boy and two parents all with detached expressions on their faces. In the shadows of the little girl's favorite willow tree, which stood next to the lake, laid a stone angel statue. Engraved upon the small plaque that that angel was resting her hands on, was the name of the broken little girl. The same little girl that many of them had bullied, shunned, and forgotten because she had not been placed where they had wanted her. Written upon the plaque were the words:

Rosalyn May Potter

July 31, 1988

September 1, 2000

"A brave little girl with a broken heart."

A statue stands in a shaded place

An angel girl with an upturned face

A name is written on a polished rock

A broken heart that the world forgot

Three years passed and the mood through the once cheerful school was heavy with guilt and misery. Every woman and man older than thirteen remember every word they had ever told the tiny, young eleven year old child who had only even wanted a friend. Not a month would pass before flowers were placed around the grave, always lilies and roses, and never a week went by without that grave having a visitor. None had ever forgotten the little girl who had been so sweet and innocent, but had been so hurt by the people who had only ever seen the badge on her chest and the scar on her forehead. The badge, a sign of betrayal and anger the now sent guilt stabbing into every person's heart. No one would ever forget Rosalyn Potter; The-Girl-Who-Lived-To-Be-Sorted-Into-Slytherin. The girl who was abused and killed by her uncle, Vernon Dursley.

Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone

In a world she can't rise above

But her dreams, give her wings and she flies to a place

Where she's loved, Concrete Angel

Or so they thought.