Chapter 1: Magic
Dudley Dursley lay, at the foot of the school's bell tower, a small smile still gracing a squashed face. Gone was the usual grimace of hate, replaced by sheer euphoria. His limbs were almost artfully bent, the white of bone breaking through flesh. Streaks of blood had dried down flabby skin, and soaked into the earth around him.
A dog - elderly and limping heavily, sniffed at the limp body curiously. There was the overpowering scent of death and decay, and the reek of something sulphuric, that seemed to charge the air with its power. The hound whimpered, and turned, as best it could, before staggering away: guided by terror and instinct. The power used here was dark, and crazed and left the old dog feeling cold and drained.
It wasn't until the next morning, that Dudley was discovered again. The poor cleaner had been a blabbering mess, barely stuttering out 'boy' and 'fell'. And despite his friends' and teachers' testimonies, that the 'freak' must've pushed him, Harry Potter was - it had been confirmed - peacefully working in the library at the time of the incident.
"Dudley's dead?" he'd asked in a horrified voice, lip quivering as he collapsed in on himself, bawling and shaking, like he'd lost a limb. The Officer awkwardly patted him, and shook his head at the boy's distress, while offering vague placations of a 'better place'. The same man didn't notice, as green eyes gained a strange, manic gleam, and a small mouth twisted into a smile. "Crazy," Officer Wiggins would later say of the claims, about the sweet little boy who'd been so distraught by his cousin's death.
Similar remarks were made, when Harry Potter was accused of killing his classmate's hamster. How could that be true, when the boy clearly cared so much for animals? He went to the zoo every weekend, after all. That most of this time was spent hissing at snakes, and watching with amusement as lesser creatures bent to Harry's will, like puppets, was not.
The other children spoke only in whispers, of Freak. He was like the bogeyman, appearing when his name was uttered, and handing out punishments, for slights, with sadistic enjoyment. However, it was not what happened to the hamster, or even Dudley, that terrified them into silence, but the fate of Mr Haimes. It was he who'd coined the name Freak, who planted the first seed of thought in their minds, that magic was real and dark and twisted. Demon Child, he'd said of Harry, eyes dark and alight with hate.
He'd escaped the cult Harry came from, he'd said, had been blessed to be born without their curse. But those who had it were abominations, and abominations must be destroyed. Freak had been given an afternoon detention, and Mr Haimes tried to burn the magic out, with a scalding hot iron. Every window in the school had shattered, and rained glass on empty halls.
Freak was left with a raised scar, angry and red and infected, spiralling down his back. A half an inch wide and ugly to look at. Mr Haimes... had screamed, at some unknown, terrible pain, like his soul was being ripped in half, until he bit his tongue clean off, and rolled in the bloody pool it created. Gurgled squeals passing his lips, as he scratched and scratched at his eyes, and back and arms: at unknown assailants. By the time help arrived, his heart had given out, and the corpse stared silently, with scraps of bloodied eyeball, as though searching for someone else in the now empty room. The cause of death, the coroner ruled, was unknown.
All this Albus Dumbledore could've been told, over a tea of lemon drops, were it not for the terrible fire, that burned down Surrey Primary School, with Harry's teachers and classmates still inside. It was just so fortunate the small boy had been off sick. Barely able to leave his bed, there was no possibility of him starting the blaze, and it was instead blamed on his now-deceased teacher, who was conveniently a chain smoker.
Instead, Albus was delighted to meet Harry Potter, broken just enough to desperately feed on the small scraps of affection Albus gave him, and scarred enough by his experiences to have a hero complex. The perfect puppet, and unexpectedly gullible. Indeed, Albus was so pleased with his discoveries, that as he ambled down Privet Drive - having obliviated memories of his visit first, of course - he failed to notice angry green eyes, glaring at the man who'd tried to tamper with his mind.
Harry Potter would remember the name Albus Dumbledore, although he wouldn't see it again for many months, until a letter arrived in the post, from the very same man. Harry would've thrown it away without a second thought, had it not been for a small word, that made the coursing power in his veins rush to the surface, tingling with excitement. Magic.
Petunia Dursley stared, with blank eyes, at the world beyond her window. Inside she raged, bitter and helpless, unable to control her actions. Hands, calloused and red from her manual labour, continued their work. Her husband kneeled outside, chained and head bowed, and Petunia bemoaned the day they took the Freak in.
Something inside her, that had lasted years of this existence, had shattered after Dudley's death. And the cracks were barely held in place, by cement of molten hot rage. The things Petunia would do if she had her body, and could hold a knife or a gun; feel the smooth metal in her palm. Each day she was getting closer, and the restraints that held her free will felt looser, and a little more worn.
The Freak was gone for the afternoon. Petunia had that consolation at least. But he would be back soon, with the same smug grin, as he observed what his relatives had been reduced to. Animals. Petunia withdrew, gradually, from the outside world: knowing her body would continue to work while her mind wondered.
Tentatively, she felt for the presence. It was always there, lurking, in her awareness. It seemed to drain her, and feed off her, like a parasite. Petunia prodded at it, and it hissed warningly, but she paid the noise no mind. Instead, Petunia, for the first time in her life, did the unthinkable. She embraced magic. Not hers, but the parasite's, because the connection that fed it was a two-way passage.
Brandishing fire, Petunia watched with no emotion, as the flames leapt forward, and licked at the black matter; and then at her, as the flames devoured her prison. Later, Harry would frown in displeasure at his Aunt's still body. Time to find new housekeeping, he supposed.
Barely sparing a glance at his Uncle, still curled outside, Harry made his way upstairs, fingers twitching once again for the letter in his pocket. Magic. The thrum of power, coursing through him, that marked himself as special, finally had a name. Harry briefly grimaced at the thought of others sharing the same gift, but Tom whispered consolations to him. "We will be better," he assured Harry, whose mood brightened, if only a little.
Tom was right, he knew with a child's certainty, because Tom was always right. Right that the snakes would speak back, in harsh, croaking syllables; that Harry somehow understood. And that he could control the power - magic, Harry rephrased - that pulsed in every vein, a constant presence, that Harry conducted like an orchestra. If Harry had one friend, other than Tom, it was magic.
Where do I get an owl? Harry wondered, for the millionth time, except this time he got a reply "Diagon Alley." and felt new information fill his head. The thoughts Tom 'lent' him were only partial, like wisps that escaped Harry's grasp, but he could understand the faded image of Charing Cross road well enough.
Harry took the bus to London, and then the train. All the while, his thoughts were racing, as Harry concentrated on the possibilities that were presented to him. By the time he arrived it was midday, and the grotty pavement was dotted with puddles, from the rain that beat at his back. Warmth came through his and Tom's bond, at the sight of the worn sign. 'The Leaky Cauldron', was printed in thin, peeling letters, and Harry knew better than to voice his doubts to Tom.
The interior was dark, lit by only a dim, flickering lamp, that cast twisted shadows on the wall. A haze of smoke wafted from long, old fashioned pipes. However, it was the patrons that Harry found more interesting. A lithe form with red eyes, and his companion: a stuttering man, with a large turban, sat at one table. Across from them, three men in pointed hats, debated in heavy, German accents, between sips of a ruddy red liquid, that sent steam shooting out their ears.
A handful of others sat, hidden from view, by cloaks and veils, though few seemed to have ordered anything. The bartender - a balding old man, with a stopped back and missing teeth - looked up hopefully as Harry passed, before returning to polishing cracked glasses. Harry arrived just in time to see bricks morph, and twist out of shape, leaving behind a hole. A woman stepped through, and Harry ducked in behind her, mouth parting in wonder.
"You'll catch flies," came Tom's amused voice, but for once Harry wasn't listening, as he took in Diagon Alley for the very first time.