BOOK I: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

CHAPTER I: Strings

"You're still a key below every time, Dursley", said a tired old man, recklessly dropping his glasses on the table aside him, massaging his eyes in stress.

"The problem is that no one's keeping up with me, professor!" answered a blond and angry kid from across the room.

He stood in front of a small piano, scratching his abnormally large belly. His seat creaked slightly now and then, as to emphasize the effort of sustaining the boy in his position. His small, blue eyes traveled from one classmate to another spread around the Music Room at St. Michael's Primary School. Although irritated by his arrogance, they all knew it was pointless to discuss with Dudley. Unless, of course, that your disregard for your own health surpassed any good judgment you might have. Quietly they all stood, as Thomas Harkin, the music teacher, regained his composure.

"Son... when two dozens of clocks are telling you it's afternoon, and yours is telling you it's not even eleven in the morning... it's either time to pack your bags and find another time zone, or recognize you're wrong", he sentenced, pausing to stride along the room. "You've played the piano for the last year in our little... 'orchestra'... and out of perseverance (and blind faith) I allowed it; but I daresay you ought to try changing instruments from now on."

Again, silence. Suppressed smiles all around the room, but not a single laughter or mockery took place. Dudley forced his most menacing look (which caused him, in turn, to look as though he was about to explode), but even he wasn't sufficiently stupid to fight back his old professor. Not even considering that was his last day in that school. Slowly enough, his attention diverted from the image of Harkin's exploding head and returned to the master's ongoing (and final) speech:

"I'm pretty sure most of you will go on with your musical studies, wherever the winds lead you. I strongly recommend that you do. Metaphorically speaking, music saved my life countless times. Passing it on is my way of saying I've been trying to return the favor ever since."

"And finally… I'd just like to tell you that it's been a pleasure to teach this class. It is a teacher's right to dream… no, not dream… to hope, that his pupils succeed. Maybe someday one of you will come back, buy me a cup of that horrid coffee we offer here, and tell me my work is done", he added, laughing along with most of the class.

Almost as if rehearsed, when Mr. Thomas closed his briefcase the school bell rang loud, and a flurry of feet dashed out of the door. Between screams of joy from all the nearby classrooms, it was impossible to notice the quiet boy lazily standing up from the back of the Music Room, putting aside an old violin. It was a sad and silent goodbye: somehow, as he inched his glasses back to the base of his nose, he felt as the music in his life had fell victim of a premature death.

"Very consistent, son, as always", said his teacher by the door. The black-haired boy eyed him back, forcing a smile out of his lips. Fastening the one catch left in his backpack, he followed Harkins out of the room and into the school corridors.

"I'm going to miss your classes, sir." Truthfully, Mr. Harkin had been the only teacher he ever got along with to the point of making small-talk.

"I'll always be missing good students as well", said the elder, scratching his beard absent-mindedly. "You know, it never ceased to amaze me how differently you and that cousin of yours treat music."

To this, the youngster smiled ironically. "Aunt Petunia always pushed Dudley into these music classes", he said in a hoarse voice, pushing open the wooden doors to St. Michael's front garden. Everyone else seemed to have vanished already. "But she was told that indicating students would grant her a discount. And to be honest, professor", he added, facing the iron gates for one last time before going home, "I'm quite sure that signing me in was more about keeping me away from her."

Thomas Harkin stared back at his student's passive green eyes, a blank expression in his face. Pity did not suit him, but it was hard to think of the child in front of him without drawing such a feeling. The over-sized, hand-me-down clothes granted him a skinny frame, even skinnier than he already was. They looked as though they had belonged to Dudley's just the past year... and knowing the Dursleys, they probably did.

"Her loss, our gain, and you'll do well to never forget this", he said finally, patting his student on the shoulder as he was about to cross the street. "And good luck at your new school", he shouted, starting his car and disappearing slowly in the distance.

"Yeah", the boy pondered quietly, slowly facing the sidewalk and making his way home. "I'm sure it will be great."

His uncle Vernon's house, his house, wasn't exactly near, but this daily exercise wasn't optional either. His relatives didn't bother to pick him up as they did with Dudley. They didn't bother to lend him any money for a bus, and a bicycle (such as the one Dudley possessed and never used) was a complete absurd to even consider.

Still. It was a small period of the day in which he had absolute freedom. No chores to do, no need to fight with his cousin and get punished afterwards... just the sound of his feet and the random cars crossing the suburbs. Immersed in the silence he held so dear, the boy couldn't really notice his hand over the backpack's catch, its fingers moving slowly as if the violin was still there, 'singing' in his arms.

Unaware of how long he drifted through those same old steps, he finally halted by a neatly cut lawn. Privet Drive's 4th.

He stared briefly at the rest of the sidewalk. And wondered, as many times before, what would happen if he just continued to walk. Where would his feet take him when he finally decided to stop? And would the Dursleys even bother to search for him, if he did so?

The horizon was covered in clouds, and a slight wind brushed his face. There was a scent of possibilities. The temporary thrill of something new straight ahead...

"Someday", he told himself aloud, facing the clouds. "Someday I will."

With one sad sigh, he unlocked the front door, picked up the mail his cousin had ignored completely on his way in a few minutes ago, and left it by the kitchen table.

Across the kitchen, beneath the main stairs, another door took him to his 'bedroom': a smaller flight of stairs leading to a dim-lit space, too big for a closet, too small for a basement. Uncle Vernon constantly boasted about making a cellar out of it as soon as they had no need to use it anymore. A bed, an old school locker, and the tiniest of wooden tables: his possessions.

Retrieving a school report from his backpack, the boy opened the table's top drawer and placed it with all his previous exams and grades from St. Michael's; all flawless. It would truly take years before he'd understand the reason why he kept those things. Some part of him always wished to forget all those years of isolation; after all, being friends with him meant war against his cousin, and logic used to get the better out of all his classmates.

Then again... having those marks and grades was a proof of endurance, of his very existence. It was something worth keeping. Besides... next year would be different. Dudley would follow his dad's footsteps and head to a prestigious secondary school. He would have to attend a smaller, public one, but little did he care. It was a clean sheet, a brand new beginning.

"Boy! Get over here, I need help to get dinner ready!" bellowed his aunt. Waking from his thoughts, Harry James Potter closed the drawer and made his way back to another 'eventful' evening with the Dursleys.

PERSONAL NOTES: most characters and locations in this fiction are from the Harry Potter universe, and therefore are of J. K. Rowling's property. I love her work, but decided to use her bases to deviate the original plot into, well... fan fiction. I had started something really alike once, but college, work and life got stuck in the middle. I grew older, and so did the story in my head. So, like Harry here... I made myself a clean sheet. Do read and review. After all, I'm here to learn.

Hope to hear from you soon.