Harry was seven years old and he dreamt.

It wasn't a rarity as he often dreamt and woke up soaked in sweat, sometimes even feeling his cheeks wet with tears. In his dreams, his parents left him behind to have a new - a better - family without him. The dream changed, the scenarios changed, but one thing always remained the same: his mother, his not-quite-father and his sister were the family and he was the one left behind.

His mother smiled at him and she talked to him, but his not-quite-father never did. He didn't like it when Harry called him „Daddy“, but Harry didn't really understand why. His two-year old sister had recently started calling him Daddy and it made him smile, but when Harry had done it, he hadn't smiled.

„I'm not your father,“ he'd said. Harry hadn't understood, but he hadn't liked the way his tummy had hurt at the words.

It made Harry try harder. He knew that his not-quite-father liked potions and Harry had tried to clean up his lab when his parents hadn't been home once. He knew that he wasn't supposed to go into the lab and normally he wouldn't have, but he'd wanted to do something nice for his not-quite-father - so he'd gone into the lab and brushed the floor as well as he could.

He'd wanted him to come home and notice how clean the lab was, but more importantly he'd wanted his not-quite-father to notice him and smile at him.

His not-quite-father came home earlier than expected, while Harry was still brushing the floor. Harry hadn't noticed the little device on the counter in the right-hand side of the room which had started glowing red once he'd entered the lab. It was out of his sight, because he wasn't yet tall enough to see it.

He was surprised when his not-quite-father came in and grabbed him by the arm. He was dragged out of the lab and his not-quite-father shouted at him and smacked his bottom. He was surprised more than he was hurt physically, but he cried out eventually, once he realized that he hadn't managed to please his not-quite-father. It only took him a few seconds until he started to bawl, but his not-quite-father had noticed the delay and told him to quit the histrionics. His mother looked at him in a way that made him squirm and sent him to his room afterwards and he threw himself onto his bed and started to cry once he realized that she'd looked at him just the way his not-quite-father did.

***************

Harry was ten years old and he dreamt.

He was at Hogwarts and the Sorting Hat refused to sort him.

He wasn't a Gryffindor because he wasn't brave, friendly and kindhearted like his mother, he wasn't courageous and sacrificing like James Potter and he better not be foolish and brash like Sirius Black was.

He knew that he wasn't anything like his mother because his not-father told him.

He knew that he wasn't anything like James Potter because he couldn't find any courage within himself.

He didn't want to be like Sirius Black whom he rarely saw because he hadn't quite given up hope that his not-father might still realize that Harry was likable afterall. If there was anyone his not-father hated more than himself, it was Sirius Black. The few times that he saw him, Black always tried to get him to open up, but Harry knew there had to be something wrong with him. He hadn't quite realized what it was, but he knew that he wasn't supposed to like him. His mother barely tolerated him and his not-father hated him and they fought whenever he was supposed to come over. They tried to do it quietly; they tried to hush it up, but Harry noticed.

He knew that he wasn't a Ravenclaw because they were supposed to be the clever ones. No one had ever told Harry that he was clever. Those last few years, all his teachers had been telling them was that he was too quiet and too lazy. He needed to engage more with his classmates, he needed to interact more and he needed to try harder.

He knew that he wasn't a Hufflepuff because he wasn't sure what loyalty was. He didn't have any real friends to speak of. He wasn't close to his two sisters. Sometimes he felt like an outsider looking in.

He wasn't a Slytherin because his not-father had been one and surely, he wasn't anything like him. In his dreams, the Hat told him that he wasn't worthy. He wasn't cunning, he wasn't amibitious, he wasn't anything. Unworthy.

***********

Harry was thirteen years old and sometimes he dreamt.

He was in Slytherin, but he wasn't like Severus at all. He was better than Severus and he'd show him, eventually.

Sometimes he dreamt that Severus and him were close or ironically, even more rarely, that his whole family was close-knit but he knew that it was a pipe dream. Sometimes he dreamt that Severus praised him in class or that he was proud of his achievements in Quidditch, but he knew the difference between fantasy and reality.

Others expected him to be a prodigy in potions, but Severus didn't and Harry knew it. Severus knew that Harry wasn't anything special. It wasn't like they'd ever brewed together.

Harry hadn't really touched a cauldron before the first potions class. Not since that day when he'd tried to clean the lab. It had been deemed too dangerous for him to venture into the potions lab at their house. He didn't remember that day all that clearly. All he remembered was that he'd get a slight electric shock whenever he touched the door. It wasn't harmful, just slightly painful, just enough to discourage him from wanting to go inside. The door was warded against him.

Two years ago, when Harry was sorted, some unnamed desired had reared its head within Harry one final time and it had caused the inevitable. The Hat had told him that he wasn't brave or loyal, but that he was a survivor who had the cunning and the ambition – the potential - to rise above the odds. Harry hadn't heard much beyond 'not loyal enough for Hufflepuff' and 'not brave enough for Gryffindor'. He wasn't anything like his mother, James Potter or Sirius Black.

He wasn't a potions prodigy either.

**************

Harry was sixteen years old and he hardly ever dreamt. His sleep was virtually undisturbed and if anything, his dreams were waking dreams.

He dreamt of magic and he dreamt of power, but he didn't dream of his mother or his mother's husband any longer. He didn't dream of his sisters and he didn't dream of family because ultimately, they were inconsequential.

During the holidays he spent most of his time in his room. He liked to study and his mother and her husband encouraged it because it kept him out of their hair. Sure, his mother told him differently, but he knew better. They never really looked at what exactly he was studying - his three sisters kept them busy. He'd always been a quiet and reserved boy.

 He kept only loosely in contact with his godfather, Sirius Black. They were just very different people.

His best friend was Draco Malfoy and he'd been his friend since First Year. 

Draco's family was different. His parents loved him and Draco still thought that love was important. Harry knew better.

Draco had told him many things over the years. Harry'd kept them to himself, because there was no gain in sharing them, and it only made Draco trust him more.

Draco was a bit naive, really. Over the years, Harry had come to see him as useful. Draco was a good friend to have because the friendship would benefit him.

Draco'd probably feel a bit betrayed if he knew what Harry really thought of their friendship. But Harry had grown and Draco didn't yet realize that emotions were weakness.

Soon, Draco would have to grow up and he'd realize that love was weakness.

Harry already had.

His mother's husband had betrayed power for emotions; for a lie that they called love and they didn't think that Harry knew, but he did. They didn't think that he'd heard, but he had, like so many times before. He was quiet and often went unnoticed, but he heard a lot of things. They thought him irrelevant, but he wasn't. He'd show them that he wasn't.

He didn't understand how they couldn't see it. Love had never saved anyone. There was no love.

It was only a matter of time until his sleep would be dreamless without any potions to aid him.