It's a unique thing isn't it? Some people fear pain, they will do anything to feel no such thing. Others rejoice in being in pain, they will punish themselves to feel the sweet release that comes to those that love pain. But there are those who feel euphoria in the simple action of creating pain for others, those they believe are beneath them or those who have wronged them in some way. It's a unique concept, such a simple word, and yet such a complex sensation.

It is complex because there is more than one type of pain, it is not limited to physical pain. Sure, physical pain is horrible, but is it truly the worst type of pain? Physical pain is a nuisance, a temporary companion on a road to recovery that will roar like a mighty lion, or slither around till a opportune time to strike like a cunning snake. But is it the worst?

A pain that is much more prominent is emotional pain. A pain that never truly leaves us, for it is not a part of our bodies, it is a part of our very soul. The pain of never learning the true meaning of love because you have been starved of it. The pain of learning what could have been if not for a single action that changed your life for the worst. The pain of being starved of family, of acceptance, then to be given your greatest wish, only to have it savagely torn away from you. The pain of losing someone close to you that you cannot imagine living without, but have to make it through because you know they want you to live on. That is the type of pain that leaves a scar far deeper than any physical scar, for it is a mark on your soul, your mind, your body and everything else. This is the type of pain that is never truly forgotten, for it is always there, either at the front of your mind tormenting you till you are nothing but a husk of what you once were, or lurking in the shadows of your mind, always reminding of the pain you felt, being the quiet hunter of the night, waiting for the best chance to do as much damage as possible.

Why, you ask, am I saying this? That is a simple answer.

I, Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Protector of The Philosophers Stone, Slayer of the Basilisk of Slytherin, The Bane of Dementors, The Champion Of The Triwizard Tournament, The One Foretold To Defeat The Dark Lord, Voldemort, am in pain.

It has only been a few days in 4 Privet Drive, less than a week I think. I can't be sure because at the moment I'm too week to do anything more than try to survive. It all started the moment the moment we got into the car after we left Kings Cross to go back home after another painful year at Hogwarts. At the time I was already in pain, emotional pain, from the death of my godfather, Sirius Black. The one man that has been more of a father to him than anyone else, the one man that he knew, with absolute conviction, loved him unconditionally. Sirius's face when he fell through the Veil of Death, after being thrown in by a spell from Bellatrix Lestrange, was one that would forever haunt him. The eerie peace that can only come from death, the resignation, knowing that there is nothing he can do to stop his death. But the worst of it all were his eyes. The eyes that looked straight at him, as he left on the next great adventure, pleading forgiveness for leaving me behind, even though I was the reason he was there. My own stupidity, my own failure, caused the death of a man I cared for more than anyone else. The guilt, the grief, but most of all, the overwhelming anger, at myself, at Bellatrix, at Dumbledore, at Voldemort has been eating away at me, part by part, slowly killing me by taking all of my will to live. All of it was with me as I headed to see my oh-so-beloved "family". And then I see something that freezes my blood cold, I see several people threatening my Uncle to behave.

Now, there are few people that my Uncle actually listens to. His boss, his wife, his son, maybe the occasional friend. Wizards? Hell no. Us "freaks" as he so affectionately calls us are below him in his eyes. Unnatural. Evil. So when I see Remus Lupin, Mad-eye Moody, Arthur Weasley and Nymphadora 'Don't-Call-Me-Nymphadora-' Tonks threatening my Uncle to treat me well, you can imagine how I knew things would be even worse than normal for me at my relatives. And no it was not thanks to my abysmal skills at Divination. And even though they just sentenced me to a mighty jolly time at Durskaban, I really did appreciate them trying to make my life more comfortable. Even Tonks, who I barely knew.

Did I get sidetracked? I did, didn't I? Well back to me trying to explain how I am so much in pain at the moment. Not sure how much longer I can do this, whatever it is I'm doing. I might be going slightly insane. Or more insane, after all what sane person knowingly jumps in a Secret Chamber with a Basilisk in it.

So anyway, there I was, sitting in the back of the car watching as my Uncles face flashed through a impressive assortment of angry colours that if I didn't know better, would accuse of using magic to accomplish. It was a very clear sign, basically screaming to the whole world how royally screwed I am. Dudley sitting right there next to me, or really as far away as he can, with a mixture of apprehension and glee on his ugly mug. Petunia, up at the front, looking worriedly at Vernon. What was that about?

I expected a beating. Nothing new to be honest, a few bruises, maybe a fracture or two. My magic usually heals those pretty fast, a survival reaction if you will. Of course, I would never tell anyone this. I'm not sure if it's pride, not wanting pity, or fear of rejection. Whatever it is, it's damn strong enough to keep me silent.

Thing is, it wasn't a beating I got. No, it was a agonizing thrashing that was worse than anything they ever did to me. My Uncle and Dudley look like they were having the time of their life, as I lay there, bloody and broken, barely conscious as they kicked, punch, and jumped on me till I felt no more, the numbness from the loss of blood like a deal from the devil, sweet until the sacrifice is uncovered.

I'm not exactly sure what the damage was. I know I had a broken arm, leg, possibly a few ribs. A concussion, definitely. My entire body was covered in bruises and cuts. In other words, I was beaten to a pulp and more. After a few minutes of this, I hadn't screamed. I hadn't begged. I hadn't even opened my mouth. This, I knew, was pissing them off. They were hoping I'd scream and beg, to make themselves feel powerful, feel great. No better than Death Eaters. But I didn't. I wouldn't. I couldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream. And so on it went, until finally the injuries were too much and I succumbed to the darkness of the void.

After that, I'm not sure what happened. Maybe they were bored, maybe they didn't want to beat me while unconscious, or maybe they kept beating me. All I know is that I woke up the next day, in my tiny room, still as clustered as always with Dudleys broken and forgotten toys in one corner, and rickety mattress in another, and a wooden desk by the window that looks as if it has seen better days. It was around midday from the position of the sun. The injuries, the most serious ones already healed. Some cuts, bruises definitely still there. Maybe there were more, but I didn't have enough strength to move so I just lay there, and lay there, until night finally came and I succumbed to sleep. The nightmares were still there, Basilisk – Dementors – Cedric – Sirius – Voldemort. Always there, breaking him.

So that's where I am now. Still lying in the same bed. Magically exhausted from healing my injuries, though the are bruises still there. Here, weak and defenceless, starved and exhausted.

It's in places like this where I usually find inspiration, when it looks like there's nothing else to do, no way to win. That's how I've survived, my instincts driving me to survival through miraculous achievements that sound like their from a fairy tale.

But not this time. This time, I have nothing left. No motivation, no instinct, no miraculous recovery. Growing up my life was hell, presently my life is hell, and in the possible future, my life will be hell.

What do I have to live for? No love, no family, no nothing. Only a few fickle friends and some close people that can live easier lives without me. Fickle friends like Ronald Weasley, who's own jealousy blinds him to the point of obnoxiousness. Who's so thick headed that he can't see he likes Hermione, and Hermione likes him. Fickle friends like Hermione Granger, who's obsessive need for book knowledge and unwavering belief in authority surpasses any friendship or relationship she may have. Who's so set in her belief that she's always right that when you have definitive proof she will still believe she's right. Fickle friends like Ginevra Weasley who's life was led by a frightening crush on the Boy-Who-Lived, not Harry Potter, but the Boy-Who-Lived. Who is so hotheaded that even an implied insult will have her hexing you to kingdom come. Who still, after all these years of clear signs that I am so not interested, holds a belief that one day we will marry and live happily ever after.

So to put it simply, on this day, Harry James Potter, son of Lily Potter nee Evans and James Potter, lost the will to live.

But that's when he broke free...