Harry knew, from the very first second he started to school and saw his peers' parents hug and kiss them and take them to the classroom, that his family was different. At first he believed it was just him and thought if he behaved more, Aunt Petunia would take him to the bakery after school so he could get a pastry. He asked her once and she took Dudley, but left Harry at home. He didn't dare try to steal some of the various cakes he saw his cousin eating. It wouldn't have ended well.
None of his classmates ever had bruises or nothing to brag about after Christmas. All of their parents loved them. What about him? He didn't have parents, and even if he had, he was sure they would have treated him the same as everyone else.
But he knew he deserved better! He understood that he had never done anything more than his peers to warrant such treatment. He wasn't as thankful towards his aunt and uncle as he fearfully told them he was. He was different. He would stay different.
Harry knew this from a young age. He wasn't very stupid, despite what everyone seemed to think.
This is what the little boy in question could be found pondering late one night outside his uncle's door. His seventh birthday had come and gone last week with no mention. He had woken, ready to thank his uncle and aunt for a holey dishrag or a bent purple paper-clip. He shouldn't have been surprised when there was no mention of it whatsoever. He should have been smarter. He should have seen it coming, and spared himself the heartache.
Harry recognized that these thoughts only served to agitate him further, but he couldn't stop thinking them. It was as if, with every self-pitying idea that he managed to snatch from the hidden corners of his brain, more came flooding out like a dam of destructible weaponry. He was drowning, but the sensation was so familiar to him that he found it normal, even comforting at times.
This was his life, but it didn't have to stay that way. His mind drifted to the early afternoon when his teacher had read them a book about independence. Why not make his own future for himself, like the American Patriots had? Rebelling was just that easy.
The malnourishment he had been met with for years by his aunt served him right at the next moment. Slipping through the door, he managed to only make the suffering floorboards creak three times, but this was drowned out by Uncle Vernon's loud snoring. Harry arrived at the side of the bed, his green little eyes staring intently into his aunt's horse-like face.
Maybe, if he cut off her arms, she wouldn't make as much food for Dudley. Maybe she wouldn't slap him whenever he tried to reach for an extra pancake. Yes! That was a good idea. Dudley would even thank him for losing weight.
With a distinguishable pride, Harry reached down to his aunt's arms and dug the knife into her wrists with all his might. Oh. This knife wasn't sharp enough, and he wasn't strong enough. He'd never be able to cut her.
His mind drifted to the gun his uncle had bought for himself last Christmas. He had meant to go hunting with it, but decided that moving around in the force was too much like intense physical activity to be enjoyable. Aunt Petunia wouldn't really be able to prepare food if she had holes in her hands, right? It would have to do.
Harry retrieved the rifle from the closet and made his way back to the bed. He'd have to do his work fast.
Before Harry could go any further, his uncle's hand shot across the bed and wrapped itself around his nephew's neck. Gasping, the boy's eyes traveled frantically to Uncle Vernon's face, hoping that his uncle was just in a weird dream. He wasn't.
Lifting the boy above his head, Vernon's purple face almost met with his. Harry couldn't breathe. Oh, he had to breathe!
"Petunia! Look at the boy. Look, he was just trying to kill you!"
Aunt Petunia shot up from her spot on the bed, her sleepy, crusty eyes becoming alive in a second. Her wide mouth formed an "O" in surprise and she whimpered.
Harry glanced from his aunt's frightful eyes to his uncle's adrenaline-filled ones. There was no question now that Uncle Vernon would strangle him with his wife's approval. Harry had to do something!
Harry frantically pulled the trigger on the gun that was rapidly slipping from his sweaty hands and felt himself falling to the ground as Uncle Vernon went limp, crashing onto the floor with a horrible crash.
He had just shot him! He had just shot a man and he must have been dead! This was not a part of his little mind's plan!
Aunt Petunia's scream could have generated enough energy to power hundreds of villages in Africa, but instead it was wasted on informing the neighbors of the unpleasant events occurring in Dursley household.
Harry, panicking as he heard the pounding of concerned neighbors on the front door, spun around and pulled the trigger on his aunt, hoping to for the bullet to shoot her in the leg as a warning but instead watching it find her head in a way only a seven-year-old's aim could do.
There was instant silence inside the household and absolute racket outside of it. Someone had called the police, which had succeeded in breaking the door down and heading up the stairs towards where the noise must have come from.
Harry threw the gun out the window and into the trimmed bushes below. How had this night turned out like this? All he had wanted was more respect and more pancakes at breakfast.
He felt like he couldn't breathe. He felt the horrible sensation of burning bile traveling up his throat. He felt the fear of the police locking him in jail for ever and ever, or as long as any seven-year-old's mind could comprehend.
The shaken boy felt a lot of things that night, but he didn't feel guilt. He wasn't the slightest bit sorry that now his cousin Dudley would have to be put in a boy's home or be adopted – maybe. There was nothing of that.
The police ran into the room and were met with a shocking sight: two ugly, dead adults and a small child sobbing on the floor in between them.
Harry could feel himself be picked up and felt a gloved hand on his back. They didn't think he had done anything.
As he was carried past Dudley's room and towards the stairs, the young boy saw that his cousin was still sleeping soundly in his bed. He hadn't woken up from all the din. The little bastard!