Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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This story is AU and begins during the summer holidays after fourth year. Harry is reacting to the lack of communication with his friends and such, as well as the Daily Prophet.

Harry was aware that he was emotionally unstable, that he was metaphorically lost and confused, but he was also aware that he was being attacked and cut off from any means of protecting himself.

He wasn't even fifteen yet, but he was vaguely aware that if he couldn't fight back, he had to get as far aware from the aggressor as he could.

But he didn't know how.

Regardless of what the world regarded him as, Harry James Potter was heavily dependant on the people who made up his support structure, no matter how rickety said structure was, and was actively kept ignorant by every human he relied upon.

It was late when Harry came to a tremulous decision, but he could hear the keystone of his support structure downstairs.

He entered the brightly lit kitchen quietly and sat in the chair beside his aunt.

Petunia Dursley was partway through the bottle of malt whiskey, glass held in hand and pale eyes staring out the window, lost in her thoughts and face contorted in regrets of her past.

This state was the only state in which the woman permitted herself to become introspective, to let herself be who she could have been.

It was the only state in which she could allow herself to love Harry.

It was the only state in which she could admit that Harry was more her reflection than Hers.

While she had allowed her envy of Lily's exotic looks and magical powers to bloom into hate, throughout her younger years, Petunia Evans had possessed her own elegant poise and sharply focused mind that would have taken her far beyond anything Lily could have dreamt up in her magical world of bloodline prejudices and ridiculous separation from reality...

...Until she had fallen pregnant at fifteen during a drunken one-night-stand with a man twice her age and whom she had never seen again.

Her parents had pulled her out of school in shame, smashing her dreams, whilst perfect Lily had stood on the sidelines and berated her while hiding an amused smile at how her sister had stuffed up.

Lily was Nice, but never Kind. A Nice person was pleasant to your face without meaning it, but a Kind person could be nasty but you knew they could be counted on to watch your back.

Hogwarts had morphed Bratty Princess Lily into Malicious, Arrogant, Manipulative Bitch-Queen Lily.

Petunia had had every intention of keeping her daughter, had named the child Camellia Freesia Evans on the birth certificate.

But she had woken the next day to find that her child had been put up for adoption by her parents without her permission, Lily having forged her signature.

As soon as she was able, Petunia had found a job, had moved out and cut all ties to her now hated family.

A bitter girl, she had worked in a florist owned by an old spinster who was kind to her, giving her board and who listened to her woes.

Matalina Lorelai had died in her sleep when Petunia had been eighteen, leaving everything she owned to Petunia, who legally changed her last name to Lorelai in remembrance of the sweet old woman.

With no one to care for any more, Petunia had set out about her revenge. It was not the Death Eaters who had tortured and killed Brian and Rosemary Evens before setting the place alight, though it was fortunate that a trio of the wizards had arrived to do the deed in time to be caught by the aurors.

The Evans' had left everything to Lily, but Petunia hadn't expected anything after what they did to her.

By the time she was twenty-one, Petunia had been adjusted to her life as no one, and had been engaged to Vernon.

It was only after Dudley had been born and her bitch-sister had sent an owl of all things (how primative) to brag about her new son that things began to deteriorate.

Petunia, already stumbling under the stress of a spoilt child and her newly abusive husband, had almost literally heard her world come crashing down in a cascade of glass when she found her nephew on her doorstep.

Harry regarded Petunia Lorelai-Dursley as the strongest, the stubbornest, the most tragic victim of the world that he had ever, or would ever, know.

Even with premature greying and gaunt, aloof face, Harry found Petunia to be beautiful. Brittle, jagged and cold, but beautiful.

And he loved her for what she could have been.

She was Kind.

Harry knew she would protect him if he truly needed it.

And he needed it.

Both Harry and Petunia escaped their shattered lives two days later.

And a letter arrived at the elbow of every witch and wizard above the age of twelve all over Britain, reading simply, 'Fuck you all very much. You can clean up your own messes from now on. H. P.'

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