A/N: Sorry, folks, I was in a weird mood. This is a sort of re-telling of his beginning, with some views I inserted that are completely mine xD and are more than odd. I think I'm high on something, since I've got no excuse for this. In the end, I was like eh, whatever, just end this. Maybe it'll be continued, most likely not since my lack of commitment is legendary. Then again, you never know...
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns this poor, unfortunate little boy. D'you think she harbors a secret kink for magic? -cough- Wow, disturbing thought. That's another day's work. Enjoy! Reviews are better than Butterbeer and Chocolate Frogs.
Once upon a time there was a boy, and he lived in a closet, with spiders, and dust bunnies, and cobwebs (because where there are spiders there are cobwebs) but he didn't mind too much, because he really didn't know any better. And it might not have been too bad, but the boy had a very nasty fat cousin, and an utterly horrible aunt and uncle, who for God-knows-what reason decided to keep him around (cheaper than a housekeeper, most likely).
They told him his parents were dead as soon as he was old enough to understand them. And for those who think that he cared very much, well, he didn't. He'd never really known them, and the faint twinge of regret passed as soon as it came. (And deep down, secretly, he was happy, because better that they were dead than if they were alive and didn't want him.)
One day, he found a letter with his name, which was strange and unusual, and very exciting (he was hoping that maybe he had a grandfather who finally found out his favourite grandson was alive, and...That's where his fantasy usually stopped, because he didn't quite know, what do grandparents do with their grandchildren? Anything was better than here, that was for sure.) but of course no one could leave him in peace and his letter was taken away.
Madness ensued, and the letters kept coming, and quite obviously someone wanted him to have one, and it was stupid and infuriating that he couldn't get his hands on one. So there he was, on the freezing floor in a shaky hut in the middle of a bloody stormy sea without his letter, fuming about the unfairness of it all, when a giant broke down the door. (He was a half-giant really, but the boy didn't know, which wasn't surprising, because he didn't know very many things.)
One of those things was that he was a wizard. At this point, many people would laugh and turn away, or try to figure out what they were smoking, because magic didn't exist, and everyone knew that magicians thrived only in fairy tales.
That may be so, a little voice said, but you're not a magician, you're a wizard.
And maybe because anything was better than his life, the boy chose to believe, and accepted the slightly squished cake with bright emerald-green icing (so much like his eyes) and with that, accepted a world where for every Chocolate Frog there was a Blood Lollipop, and for every Patronus there was a Killing Curse.
In the years ahead, he would constantly re-affirm the choice he made that night, and faintly remember how it all started with a homemade birthday cake.