A/N: Welcome! This is probably gonna be a long a/n, probably the longest I'll have. Just want to clear a few things. First, this is without a beta, as I'm a flake and likely to make betas mad with my inconsistency. Second, it is going to shift here and there, and the point of view will jump a bit. I'm sorry for that, as I'm trying to give more of a narrator view, and again, being dreams, I could understand everyone's motivations for things, even if I couldn't really hear their thoughts. I will try to break it up to avoid messing with anyone too much, as it's a personal peeve of my own.
Third, this is going to be 1) an AU & 2) probably bash a few characters unintentionally. I am not anti-anyone, but I don't want to put people on pedestals either. I just hope that reflects in this writing. So from time to time, it may seem Anti-Dumbledore (first one I thought of… for reasons), but it's not. I firmly believe he was human like the rest of us, and I'd like those in my story (well, some) to see it as well. Oh and 3) this will probably take some of your favorites OOC, and I'm sorry. Blame the dreams!

Also, (TRIGGER WARNING) this will be rated M for safety reasons. Not all chapters will warrant the M rating, but some chapters will have things that are not appropriate for all audiences. I'll try to remember to put them up on the proper chapters, but I'm forgetful.

Finally, Disclaimers: If you know it, I don't own it. The story is based on a series of dreams I had after reading several other great authors here. Similarities are purely coincidence.

CHAPTER 1 WARNING: Harry's actual childhood sucked, and even then, I feel that the neglect and emotional and verbal abuse at the hands of the Dursleys was overlooked a bit, in order to protect the children reading it—because Harry Potter was first a children's/young adult's story. However, I feel that 20 years later, we're all old enough (hopefully) to realize the tragedy behind the story for what it is. *~*EosRetrograde

PART I

Chapter One: The Boy Under the Stairs

The Boy-Who-Lived didn't know he was special. In fact, he rather thought the opposite, and had the young child given himself a title, it would have been Boy-In-Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs, which was a mouthful for even the most precocious preschool child. And so he just called himself Boy, which was what his Aunt and Uncle called him. It was one of the many things they yelled at him, along with telling him to be quiet, stop causing trouble, and to stop asking questions.

And so Boy woke up at 6 a.m., though he had no idea of the time, nor a way to gauge it by sunlight. Nor did he have an idea of the day, which was disappointing in itself, as it was in fact, his fourth birthday. Instead, he stared blurrily at the ceiling, squinting his eyes to see the spider crawling across the surface. He heard a step creak above his head, and he curled into a ball despite himself, because he knew his quiet moment was gone, and he'd have to help around the house. Boy (who we will refer to as Harry, because we know better) hated helping around the house, because if anything went wrong in the house, whether he was in the room or not, was his fault, and he'd be locked in his cupboard for it. So he wished that he was wrong, that his Aunt Petunia wasn't coming down the stairs to make him get up and help in the kitchen.

But magic and wishes weren't real, as his Uncle Vernon so frequently yelled at him, and the shrill tones of his Aunt's voice soon passed through the door of the cupboard. "Up. UP! We're leaving by nine to take Duddiekins out today, and you need to help me get everything ready. GET UP!" she screeched at the door, before moving away, presumably to the kitchen to begin breakfast. Harry's little face screwed up and he cried quietly into his blanket. They were going out, and that mean Mrs. Figg's house, which always smelled of cabbages and had too pictures of cats. The cats she did have, while not vicious, would stare at him oddly. It made him feel like one of those criminals Uncle Vernon was always going on about, in a cage.

But he knew that remaining in his cot would only make things worse, so the child removed the thin, threadbare shirt from his body (a castoff of Petunia's ages ago that she would otherwise have thrown in the garbage) and pulled on old clothes of Dudley's. They hung from his body like curtains, draping around his small frame loosely. He wondered if he were going to Mrs. Figg's, if she would tie it back at least, so he didn't trip as much as usual. After all, his Aunt Petunia often told him he was a messy, clumsy child. "At least Dudley can't pull on my hair and box my ears again," he mumbled aloud, stepping from the cupboard before his aunt could come and yell at him a second time.

As if summoned, his cousin showed up and pushed him into the cupboard. Harry went tumbling, his arms and legs akimbo until they collided with his cot. The blond chubby child laughed, running away. Meanwhile his aunt came back down the hall, affectionately ruffling Dudley's hair, before standing before the dazed form that was Harry. Her lips were pursed, her arms crossed as she glared down at the dark haired child's tiny form. "Didn't I tell you to get up? Now get up off the floor and into the kitchen, you ingrate, or you'll go without dinner tonight."

Harry knew the threat to be a real one, so he scurried upright, closing the door as quietly as he could- his aunt would make him go without breakfast if she thought he'd slammed the door- and into the kitchen. He had to use the stepstool and get the settings for the table, which wasn't so bad to him, as he was used to it. The part that made him feel terrible was when he had to watch the bacon. It often popped at his skin, for his aunt left it up too high with no way of blocking the grease, and if it burned, it would be the only thing Harry would eat all day. So he stood on his stepstool before the stove trembling and trying to make sure he turned it in time.

He was lucky for his birthday, as the bacon stayed unburnt during his watch, and Harry was soon off to Mrs. Figg's house. His aunt held his hand as they walked the two blocks to the old batty woman's house- Vernon arguing with her about allowing 'the boy' into his car. So they walked to Mrs. Figg's and Petunia sharply rapped on the door twice.

An older lady, most her hair white, save for a stubborn brown streak, came out in what Harry and Petunia assumed was her bathrobe. A random cat wound out around her legs and out the door, and the old woman smiled fondly at the cat, before peering owlishly from behind wide aviator style specticles at the waif and his caretaker. "Out for a day on the town?" she said, knowing she wouldn't get much of an answer. "Well come along then." She brought out the album book of her old cats, and sat him down on the chair. He looked up at Aunt Petunia, who nodded, seemingly satisfied that the boy would not be having 'fun', bid farewell to the old spinster, and left.

The old woman looked at Harry for a few moments, then looked out the window. Harry didn't know it at the time, but Mrs. Figg was in fact, waiting for the Dursley's car to go past her home before she offered the boy something more for his birthday than albums of cats and quiet. The young Harry looked at her in confusion at first, but soon his eyes lit up, happy as he'd ever been in his life. Mrs. Figg read him a story about an old witch who tricked the wicked townspeople who were trying to hurt her by changing herself into a rabbit, and Harry thought the witch must be a bit like Mrs. Figg, quiet and perhaps had too many cats. Then for lunch- as the Dursley's planned an all day outing- he got two sandwhiches, and even a small piece of cake, which he could never remember having before. It was chocolate and his face was soon smeared with the traces of it. When Harry realized this, because Mrs. Figg pointed it out, he looked horrified at her, retreating back into himself. Mrs. Figg merely gave the young child a sad knowing smile, patted his head, and- Harry thought this was the oddest thing- called him wee James.

As soon as the old woman had said it, her hands clapped over her mouth and her eyes filled with what seemed to be tears. Harry wasn't sure what he'd done that was bad enough to make her cry, but he began to cry as well. He was in trouble, he just knew it, and he'd be locked in the cupboard for a month. Horrified, the elder woman shook her head and mumbled an apology to the small child, before she moved into the living room, continually mumbling under her breath. Harry sat still, other than his hands wiping uselessly at the tears sliding down his waif-like cheeks. A crackling fire was heard, and Mrs. Figg kept mumbling. Harry thought for a moment he heard a voice speak back, but then a cat darted out underneath the table, meowing plaintively at him. A sniffle was all the child gave in reply.