Hi everyone! This is my new story, featuring Dark!Harry. It will be SLASH, so anyone not okay with that may leave now. For everyone else, enjoy!

Also, I wanted to put in a little note about my other stories. I'm so, so sorry that I always jump from one to the other and never finish, but the plot bunnies attack and then leave and I'm left with a half finished story and little inspiration. I'll try to get back to them, I promise!

Title: An Issue of Timing

Summary: Harry is introduced into the Wizarding World with more power and less innocence than Dumbledore expected; it's all about timing, really. And Harry's always been good at math.

Warning: As said before, this will be slash. As in, boyxboy. It will also eventually contain a bit or gore, most likely. And descriptive…ahem…mature scenes. In each chapter a specific warning will be posted for those who wish to skip those, though, so don't worry.

Chapter 1

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Well, this is boring.

The light that filtered into the room through the curtains was paltry at best. Depressing, really, and Harry rolled over on the uncomfortable bed of his room to look out into the driveway of Number 4, Privet Drive. The light trilling of a bird outside his window made him look up, his green eyes narrowing in displeasure at the bird's happy melody. It sat on the branch nearest the window, a few inches from the edge of the ledge. It was small, but incredibly noisy, as small birds tend to be. Harry sometimes wondered if bird's sizes were inversely proportional to how annoying they were. It certainly seemed that way.

Why is it so happy? It has no right to be happy while I'm stuck in this place.

Harry ground his teeth, feeling his magic surge inside him in annoyed anger and boredom. It batted at the carefully constructed curtain around his magical core, begging, pleading to be let out. The bird continued to sing.

Shut up, little bird. Shut up.

The bird ignored him.

Shut up, shut up, shutupshutup SHUT UP!

There was a moment of sudden silence as a tiny tendril of magic escaped; then, the bird exploded.

It wasn't a very showy explosion, really. Those kinds of birds didn't have a lot of blood, and as usual, there was no sound. As it was, a tiny bit of gut stuck onto the glass in front of Harry's nose, and he tapped at it. It didn't move, except to slide down a bit.

Harry felt a small smirk tug at his lips.

Third one today. That's a new record.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The lights out on the street turned on as Harry stood up from his bed, feeling his stomach pulse with hunger. He stretched his arms, feeling the muscles ripple. He'd been running a lot, lately; he knew quite a bit of Surrey by now, most of the parks and the streets and even some of the people who lived in the surrounding area. The fact that he was 10 years old didn't stop him from exploring about as far as he was certain would not get him lost. He was sure he could find his way back to Privet Drive all the way from London, really, but he wasn't sure and he really wasn't too eager to test it out.

A few hours of running in the morning, every morning, kept him from exploding the house out of sheer boredom. It helped him get physically fit and also heightened his concentration. This was, of course, extremely important when it came to controlling his magic. Without any instructions or help, it was more of a trial-and-error thing and so he needed to be extra careful with everything he did with the magic. He didn't know if he was the only person alive with magical power; certainly he'd never met anyone else, but he did know that if any authorities caught wind of it, he'd be turned into a government experiment for sure.

He opened the door to his room, sniffing the air and feeling his mouth water as he detected the most wonderful smell of meat wafting from the kitchen. He loved meat of any kind, but generally preferred red meat and if he had not known that it was extremely unhealthy to eat only meat for his entire life, he would've; as it was, he often went for weeks eating nothing but meat, and as a result he had an unusual physical appearance. He wasn't bulky, because he didn't eat very much, but he had much less fat on him than was normal for a boy his age. He was wiry and slim; his running kept him limber and his diet allowed for enough energy to last for long periods of exercise. He attributed his resistance mostly to his magic, however, because he was sure that with the amount of running he partook in every day, he should have by now at the very least torn a ligament or gotten severe cramps. He didn't know how his power worked, but assumed that it had some background healing properties and didn't question it too much.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The day he'd turned 7, he'd caused Dudley's morning bacon to attempt to strangle the boy. His cousin had been, as always, bothering him. However, that particular day, Harry had been feeling specially depressed because it was, after all, his birthday. Unlike most boys his age –actually, almost anyone else—his birthday was not a happy day. He didn't look forward to it, because he had nothing to celebrate. In fact, his uncle took extra care to be undeservedly strict and mean with him, and his aunt ignored him even more than usual. It was Dudley though, who took the prize.

He'd follow Harry around, all day, chanting about how no one cared for him, and no one liked him, and how no one ever would give him anything for his birthday. He'd eventually grow bored and leave him alone when Harry didn't react to his taunting, but the words would stay with Harry for days to come, until he would finally block them away with his nightmares.

Harry hated his birthday.

This birthday, though, was different. At the breakfast table, as Harry had been serving Dudley his bacon, his cousin had violently pushed his hand away from the plate, causing him to knock his fingers onto the still-hot pan.

A sudden surge of power ran through him as he yelped in pain; suddenly, Dudley let out a shriek of terror as the bacon which Harry had just served him jumped from his plate and lunged at his throat, wrapping around it and squeezing as strongly as the bacon could. Granted, it didn't have too much of an effect; Harry noted distantly that it was the first time in which Dudley's 4th and 5th chins had served the boy for something. It was the thought that counted, really.

Petunia reacted first. Her eyes wide and her face pale, she snatched the piece of bacon from her son's throat and flung it as hard as she could to the other side of the room. The bacon hit the wall and fell to the floor with a wet sloppiness. It left a rather nasty trail of grease on the wall, and Harry's nose wrinkled unconsciously.

There was a deep silence in the room as most of the occupants stared at the attempted-murder meat with varying degrees of shock. Dudley appeared to want to scream, but though his mouth opened, no sound came out; Vernon's eyes were wide as saucers and his face was turning purple, while his hands shook as they gripped the forgotten morning paper; Petunia was shaking and pale, watching the bacon as if afraid that it would start moving any moment. She wasn't entirely sure of what she would do if it did, really. She'd already used up her bravery quota in saving her boy's life, and was quite certain that she was on the verge of fainting.

Harry himself was more focused on the lingering sense of power he could feel inside him, residual from the sharp spike which had lessened as soon as Petunia had taken the meat from Dudley's neck. Instinctively, he knew that he was the cause of the incident, but like a muscle one is still not able to control properly, he wasn't completely sure how he'd done it. The power was there; he could feel it pulsing inside him. The sharp jab from before had emanated the same feeling, but much more intensely. He tried to pull at the feeling, draw it out, but since he had no actual idea of how to do it, it merely pulsed softly but nothing more.

He was startled from his reverie as Vernon suddenly stood, his eyes turning to Petunia is a frenzy of fear and shock.

"What the bloody blazes was that?"

Petunia's eyes left the bacon unwittingly, drifting sideways until they came to Harry. Harry met her gaze, his mind suddenly racing as he felt his Uncle's growing rage. Vernon's already purple face turned a prune color, his multiple chins quivering with suppressed rage as he turned his tiny, furious eyes on his nephew.

"You."

Harry turned to Vernon, the fear rising from the knowledge of what could come out of such rage warring with the instinct to survive. He knew that running would not save him this time; despite the fact that it was illogical that they would immediately blame him when there was no factual link between himself and the bacon, he knew that Vernon was the type to hit first and ask questions later. He seemed certain that Harry was to blame for the incident, and nothing would convince him otherwise in time to save Harry's life if he managed to wrap his hand around his nephew's neck. In the face of such danger, his mind worked at an unusual pace to provide him with alternatives to such a fate.

He wasn't aware of the extent of the Dursley's knowledge of magic –and Harry was relatively sure that was what the power was, and even if it wasn't, that was what he would call it for now— but their reactions towards the bacon indicated that there was a certain fear which could be exploited. Harry could use magic; he could still feel the pulse of the power inside him, which was intensifying as Vernon's anger rose clearly in his face. He didn't know how to control it specifically, but figured it had to do with his emotions and so, pulling forward the sheer panic he could feel resting just beneath the surface of his current calm, he pressed at the magic.

All of this passed as a single, unclear thought in Harry's head which took less than 2 seconds; the magic reacted to his panic and fear just as Vernon moved forward to grab at Harry, causing the table to suddenly explode in between them as the magic rushed forward haphazardly. Harry was knocked back, as were his relatives, but as the power was aimed forward it was focused more harshly on Vernon. He was sent flying, hitting the wall and crumbling, unconscious, onto the floor. The wall above him had a large dent where his head and back had hit it, and was lightly splattered with blood.

Petunia and Dudley were also thrown back; Dudley's head hit the edge of the counter and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, knocked out. Petunia hit the counter sideways, falling to the floor stunned but conscious.

Harry, for his part, fall harshly on his backside but quickly stood up, the adrenaline coursing through his veins rendering him immune to the pain as he turned his eyes to his Uncle. The magic, which due to the feeling of danger was still stirring under his skin, quieted as he realized the man was out cold. He turned to look at his Aunt as she moved slightly, her eyes wide and scared as she looked at him as if she had never seen him before. And, he supposed she never truly had.

The blast had been relatively neat, as far as it could be. The table itself had been obliterated, as had most of the things which had been on it. However, it had turned entirely to dust, so there were no large pieces falling around which could be dangerous, and almost nothing else had been damaged; except, of course, for the wall which Vernon had hit.

The strangest thing was the lack of sound. There had been a blast of power from the table's destruction, but it had been muted and silent, which made the entire debacle even more disturbing. As the wood-dust settled around the room, coating the floor and all other surfaces with a light sheen of brown, Harry tried to come to terms with what had just happened.

It was, of course, a futile endeavor and he decided to save it for later; he turned to Petunia, feeling a film of calm on his mind which he was sure would disappear in a moment as soon as he really came to terms with what had just happened, but as it was he didn't really feel much of anything.

"Call the hospital," he said, his voice emotionless and sounding older than his seven years. "Tell them they tripped something, I really don't care."

She nodded, still looking shell-shocked as she stood and walked over to the phone. Harry walked over to the stairs, stepping over Dudley's unmoving body and pausing at the bottom for a moment as something clicked inside.

"Oh, and don't you dare mention anything about me. Of course, it's not like anyone would believe you anyways," he said coldly. He turned and continued to walk upstairs to the bathroom. There, he locked the door and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. He gazed unseeing at the wall, trying to understand what had just happened.

The sound of the ambulance came from far away, entering his mind and leaving it without a trance on his conscious. He heard a door close, and then steps proceeding up the stairs and into one of the rooms. He supposed it was Petunia, but he didn't really care and he couldn't bring himself to check. He stayed sitting there for a few hours, although the time felt like nothing to him. It passed slowly, but with his mind unable to properly grasp the actual concept –magic, magic, magic, magic—he was no closer to feeling anything. Not even sanity, at this point, seemed viable.

By the time he managed to stand up and get out of the bathroom, daylight had faded and it appeared to be evening. He hadn't hear any other sound in the house, and he wondered if Petunia was still in her room. He wouldn't have gone to look for her anyway, but he supposed the door would be locked if she was still inside. He quickly padded downstairs to the kitchen; a sense of foreboding shook him as he peered into the room. Half of him wanted the table to still be there; then, he could ignore the morning as a figment of an overactive imagination and get on with life.

But not, the table was gone; the sheen of brown was still covering the room, giving it the appearance of one of those grainy old-time movies that Petunia sometimes liked to watch. On the far was, the slice of bacon still lay, along with the oil smudge with by now had absorbed onto the plaster. Harry was rather sure it would never come out. He shifted his gaze onto the wall beside the entrance. The large dent was still there, as was the smear of red from Vernon's blood. By now it was a dull brown, and looked more like the oil from the bacon than anything else.

He speculated vaguely on how the doctors had managed to move Vernon's unusually large body; he'd heard somewhere that cats weighed much more when they were asleep, and wondered if the same would apply to Vernon, since he was out cold. Dudley would probably have taken at least three people. In fact, one ambulance probably wasn't enough for both of them. He hadn't heard another one arrive but then again, he'd barely heard the first one, anyways. It wasn't like he'd cared, honestly.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to still his heart.

There is no way to say this didn't happen.

Now, what to do?

He wasn't sure what would happen later. For now, he was safe. Vernon was in the hospital with Dudley, and Petunia was still too scared to even leave her room. But Harry knew that his current state would not last very long; even Petunia could, out of fear for her and her son's life, slit his throat in his sleep. He didn't think she would, really, but he wouldn't put it past her. Harry was not an idealist when it came to his relative's lack of affection for him, and although he wouldn't outwardly accuse his Aunt of planning to kill him, he wouldn't hold out on it either. He was sure that she was not one to commit murder, but fear could lead to temporary insanity. Or whatever it was that they were calling it these days.

If I ever want to sleep well again, I must finish the battle now. While she is still weak and confused and Dudley is not here to rouse 'a mother's love'. Vernon I will take care of later, but if I can win over Petunia this will be much easier.

He walked up the stairs again, this time turning to the main room. He knocked on the door. There was a small sound from inside, but nothing more.

"Open up, Aunt Petunia. We need to talk."

There was another strange sound from inside, as if someone were whimpering. Harry, who usually considered himself a rather patient person –he had to be, to put up with his relative's bullshit—felt his temper crack. So far this had not been one of his best days, and he knew that he was stretched thin as it was. His magic pulsed, but once again quickly receded.

"Petunia. Open the door or I will blow it up."

A sharp scurrying was heard from inside and then a click emanated from the lock. Harry turned the knob and the door pushed inward. Petunia stood there, her face gaunt and pale; he eyes were bloodshot, as if she had been crying for the past few hours. Frankly, Harry had never seen her in a worst state.

It was a perfect time to take advantage.

"We need to talk, Petunia. Do you mind coming downstairs with me?" His voice sounded strange, even to Harry's own ears. The sheen of calm had not gone away, and Petunia nodded slowly but unhesitating, clearly too scared to do otherwise. She closed the door behind her as she walked out of the room and followed docilely behind her nephew downstairs and into the living room. Harry could sense her behind him, the tenseness when they passed the kitchen and which remained as they sat on the comfortable, squishy couches.

"Now, Petunia. I want you to listen closely, and I want you to listen well." He looked into her eyes, wanting to make sure she was listening. She met his gaze and he could see the fear grow in her. He wondered what he looked like right now, tired and 7-years-old and strangely calm after all that had happened. Frankly, he was starting to feel slightly scared himself, but it was pushed back into the bundle of emotions which he knew he was not ready to feel yet, and ignored.

"First of all, no one will find out what happened today. If you do tell anyone, I will hurt you." He couldn't bring himself to actually proclaim death-threats, but he needed to make sure she would obey. She did not move, or react in any way. "Secondly, I will be moved from the cupboard to Dudley's second room. All the toys will be moved out into his main room, and the second one will become my room. Thirdly, I will not hurt any of you if you refrain from treating me like your slave any longer. Of course, telling any one about this will only get you laughed at, so don't even try it." He wasn't sure where exactly his words were coming from, but he couldn't deny that, since he was four, he'd been wanting to say something similar to the Dursleys. He'd never had the means before, of course; now, with Dudley and Vernon in the hospital seriously injured, and Petunia scared half to death of him, he felt a rare smile of genuine pleasure tug at his lips.

And he wondered, not for the first time, if he'd finally gone completely insane.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Harry walked into the kitchen, feeling the atmosphere become suddenly tense as Vernon turned his pudgy eyes to him. The man quickly averted his gaze to the floor, and Harry smirked. He walked over to Petunia, who was standing in front of the stove. She was currently cooking his meat, taking care to cook it until it was almost overdone, just as he liked it. He wasn't picky, really, but she knew that if he was in a good mood, then he wasn't liable to feel the need to bother her.

'Bothering' her involved slight psychological torture, including but not limited to finding rats in the toilet, worms in her pasta and seeing her dead mother speaking to her at night.

Granted, Harry had only performed that last one once, and it had been mostly an accident, but Petunia didn't have to know that and the image had left her in a comical stupor for weeks. She was, however, not as much fun to torture as the other two. She didn't really give him enough excuses for it, and her responses weren't as satisfying. She was by nature submissive and quiet, and so bothering her didn't really change much, except to leave her nerves fried. Besides, Harry didn't want them to become immune to his antics, and so only resorted to them when they did something that displeased him.

Vernon was a more intricate issue, and for that was more satisfying. Usually, the man avoided Harry as much as he could, going out of his way so that he would not see him at all for as long as possible. Some days, though, the man would for some strange reason get it into his head that Harry was 'overstepping' and that he should be taught a lesson. Those days never ended well for Vernon.

At first, when Harry had just gotten over the whole 'Woah, I can use magic!' thing, he had had no idea how to control it, of how to use it when he was not in mortal danger. And in fact, he had had only a few weeks until Vernon was deemed fit enough to return to the house. He had gained a bit of control over his magic thanks to hours each day spent to prodding it and experimenting, but not much. Of course, Vernon did not have to know just how volatile and temperamental his magic was. Sometimes Harry called on it with all his willpower, and it merely flickered uselessly. Other times, he barely thought about it and it would lash out, ready and willing to act.

The first time Vernon saw Harry after arriving from the hospital, standing at the top of the stairs and watching his Uncle passively, the man had gone stiff as a board, turned sideways and disappeared into the living room. He's come back out after a few moments, striding purposefully up the stairs, clearly bent on ripping apart the boy who had rendered him unconscious and his son equally so.

Harry's magic had, thankfully, reacted to the danger and once again lashed out.

This time, what exploded had been the step which Vernon had been about to step on, and it knocked him backwards and onto the stairs, stumbling down and coming to rest painfully at the bottom. The surge had not been particularly powerful, and still strangely silent, but the man's fear remained active for an entire month before he tried to hurt Harry again.

This time, he attempted it during the night. He'd crept into Harry's room sometime near midnight after a few hours of laying awake and unable to sleep; lately, he'd been plagued by nightmares and been entirely unable to concentrate on work, which left him frustrated and irritable. Petunia was equally unstable, and had begun to take to pills to be able to sleep. Vernon had been bent on strangling the boy in his sleep. His attempt at stealth was foiled, ironically, but his own body-mass. He wasn't a few inches in the room before he stepped wrong on one of the floorboards, causing a loud crackle that immediately roused Harry from his light sleep.

The boy, woken with a suddenness which triggered an instinctive panic inside him, let out a small scream and his magic rushed out to defend him from the predator.

The magic manifested in a silent blast which sent Vernon flying out of the room, the air wrung out of him as he crashed into the wall outside Harry's room and landed, dazed, on the floor. The door itself closed with a bang, locking from the inside with a light click.

Harry himself was not entirely aware of what had happened. The entire thing had taken less than a second; he wasn't even sure if it had been Vernon, but his large bruise on the back of his Uncle's head the next day testified to it. From that day on, Harry made sure to sleep every night with his door locked. It may not keep his uncle out if he was determined, but it would warn him in advance if anything. He had always been a light sleeper, and a person's footsteps at his door were usually enough to wake him up. Even keys jiggling in the lock would be enough to rouse him, and Harry was certain that his magic could keep him safe. It had not failed him until now, and he really did prefer to be optimistic.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Feeling suddenly rather hungry, Harry took out a plate from the cupboards surrounding the stove and placed it next to Petunia, who immediately loaded onto it the pieces of meat she'd been cooking. They weren't as cooked as he would have preferred, but he was feeling abruptly hungry and didn't care enough to wait. He took the plate and, hurried grabbing a fork from the table, took it outside.

He never really liked eating with his relatives, despite the fact that they were mortally scared of him and so would never try to hurt him in any way. The table was entirely too tense; no one spoke, except the few times when one of them had something house-related, or perhaps about what they would do in the upcoming weekend. Harry was never, of course, included in these trips. Not that he'd want to, and he usually deeply approved of any trips the Dursleys might take, which left him the entire house to himself. Even so, the atmosphere weighed down on him, and despite the fact that he deeply resented the Dursleys and would have felt uncomfortable even if they had been talking, he still preferred the quiet and peace of the outside.

He sat down easily on the lawn chair which he had long since claimed as his own. Vernon had tried to reclaim it, but Harry had glared at him viciously and Vernon hadn't attempted it again. It was slightly smaller than the others, and wider as well. Harry supposed that Vernon's size had molded the chair just so; it was more comfortable anyways, and so Harry proceeded to eat his dinner beef with a lonesome sigh and a gaze to the rising stars. No one was outside at this hour in Privet Drive, so Harry ate quietly and slowly, savoring the taste of the meat with relish.

Lately, he really was exceptionally bored. Usually, he would pass the time by learning about various subject and practicing with his power. At first, the novelty had kept him on his toes and alert, but even magic would become boring after three years of not really knowing how to do much apart from making things explode. It was amusing certainly, but he yearned for some other type of entertainment. Craved it.

His birthday was tomorrow, he suddenly realized, as he chewed on a piece of meat, feeling the blood fill his mouth before he swallowed. He'd forgotten; it really wasn't very surprising, as, even though Dudley's taunting had stopped and Vernon merely avoided him further, it was still not a very pleasant day. It reminded him of being born, of having parents. Not of his actual parents, per se, but of the idea of having an actual family.

Long ago, when he'd been younger, he'd dreamed and dreamed of a family, some long lost parents, who would come and take him away from Private Drive. He'd completely stopped having those fantasies at about the time of the Bacon Incident, as he'd taken to calling it, although by that time they were so rare as to be only platonic.

For a while during the time when everything had been incredibly tense, he'd wondered if perhaps it would be better to be sent to an orphanage. He knew the Dursleys were certainly considering it, and he didn't know if it would be best for all of them. After a while, though, he considered the considerably limited freedom and funds that he would be forced under in an orphanage. Young as he was, he'd already read a few books about orphans and how terrible their lives were at the orphanages. He knew that most of then lead terrible childhoods, even worst than his own; Harry had been beaten a few times, once even so hard that he couldn't do his chores for a few days, and he'd been moderately starved for quite a while at times. Even so, he'd never had to actually steal, and when he compared Dudley's taunting with the dangerous bullying which he'd read about in his books, he knew that life here at Privet Drive was, despite the overall dreadfulness, not as bad as it could be.

And so he talked about it with his relatives, and they'd agreed to keep him. Basically, the agreement was of a 'You don't displease me, I leave you alone, ok?' nature. He played on the Dursley's fear for their lives and their distaste for 'freakishness', as they called it. If they upset him slightly, he simply caused strange things to happen around them; Vernon's pancakes would explode, Petunia would find most of her make-up cabinet replaced by rats which disappeared as soon as she screamed, Dudley would find his computer wouldn't turn on except to the face of a horrible, dead ghost…it was all very inventive, and half the time Harry simply let out his magic and waited to see what would happen. Since Harry himself was often unsure of what would happen, so much less the Dursley's, and it kept them all under control.

He had only had to hurt Vernon a few times. Most of them were simply self-defense, but he had to admit that a few were out of pure spite. Sometimes, when his uncle was leaning out the door and holding onto the railing, Harry couldn't help but to push slightly, causing him to fall on his face and receive a broken nose maybe a split lip. Vernon, of course, knew it was him, but never dared to reprimand him about it. He knew that Harry held a grudge for the years in which he'd been forced to suffer under his power, and the fact that Vernon was still alive was more a testimony for his usefulness in bringing in easy money, than Harry's good nature.

Harry finished eating, and then returned the plate to the kitchen, leaving it at the sink. Never let it be said that he did not have good manners. He then hurried upstairs and to his room, locking the door behind him out of habit; he noted distantly from the shining, red numbers of the alarm clock next to his bed that it was about 10:00 pm. He sighed, sitting down on the mattress and then letting his body fall. He wasn't tired; his body yearned for sleep, but his mind raced and clung to any form of entertainment which it could find. Lately, he'd feel it creeping up on his mind; he'd gone to school for only the two years before he'd found out about his magic.

He had no friends; Dudley had made sure of that. Any academic benefits were entirely irrelevant, as well. He'd always been far advanced of his classmates in everything they were taught. When he'd been told on no uncertain terms by his math teacher that they wouldn't be taught calculus until they were 15…well, Harry had about given up and told Vernon that he'd really rather be home-schooled. By himself, of course, and by the books which Vernon would buy him. His learning pace was ridiculously fast, he was aware. He attributed it somewhat to the fact that he was largely interested in various, largely varied subjects; he loved literature and psychology, but also spent long hours learning about physics and math. He did not, however, like biology too much, or history. He wasn't sure exactly why; it wasn't that he was bad at the subject, and in fact he knew quite a bit of general history. It was, however, a bit too dry to learn from just a book. He was certain he'd have liked it more if he'd had a good teacher.

The main factor to his ability to absorb information though, he attributed to the amount of time he put into it, since he had nothing better to do. No one his age interested him; he considered himself more mature than even most teenagers, considering the kind of books which were relevant to their age. No one he met would care to discus about the problems of entropy, or whether or not narcissism was necessary to survival. It was frustrating to be locked inside his 10-year-old body, with a strangely adult mind.

Vernon had agreed to the home-schooling, of course, with very minor resistance from Dudley which was completely ignored. Frankly, he'd wanted Harry as away for as long as possible, but when the boy had insisted…well.

I'm so bored.

So, so, so bored.

He turned his head to the window, where the light from outside was casting a strange shadow onto his face.

I wonder if there are other people out there like me? There probably are, really. I mean, what are the probabilities of me being the only one? Certainly so little as to be ridiculous.

He sighed.

It's been three years since I…unlocked my powers. Will I ever meet any other magician? Are they all hidden? Will one eventually come and find me?

A slight shift in his magic inside him made him turn his head to the other side, glancing at the alarm clock. The time was now 11:59. He frowned lightly.

One minute to go and it's my birthday. Whoopie-dee-doo. 11 years old.

30 seconds.

Maybe tomorrow I should go to the store. I have a sudden craving for sweets. How strange.

25 seconds.

I should 'convince' Petunia to get me a cake. I've never had a cake.

20 seconds.

It's largely unhealthy, though. And there's no way I could eat it on my own. Maybe a cake made only of meat? A meat-cake?

15 seconds.

Seriously, this is ridiculous. Counting down to 12 as if something were going to happen. When did I get this sentimental?

10 seconds.

5 seconds.

1 second.

The clock beeped once, lightly, indicating that it was now the next day. Harry felt a strange sense of disappointment surge inside him as the night remained unmoved. He frowned viciously, closing his eyes tightly.

What was I expecting? For a dragon to suddenly appear? A portal to another dimension? A voice to tell me that I am the chosen one?

He swallowed down the bitter feeling of something which was suddenly at the forefront of his mind as nothing happened. It was now his birthday and he was 11. And, just as it had been for the past 3 years, nothing had happened. He pushed back the lump in his throat, turning his head away from the clock and opening his eyes towards the grey, uncaring ceiling. There was a strange, emotionless sheen to his gaze as a wave of cold swept through him; the feelings of sadness were swept away with an ease which was uncharacteristic of a child, but which Harry had had all his life to practice on. He had no idea what affection was, and had never felt it toward himself. Only fear. Only hatred. Only disappointment.

His heart, already scarred and dulled, hardened just a little bit more.

Seriously. I should be used to it by now.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A long way away, in a magical castle named Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore prepared the letters of acceptance into the school with care. He had been working for hours now, making sure everything was as it should be and that none of the selected children would be left out; the chance to enter the school was for everybody who had enough power, potentially, and this year someone very important was to attend.

Not for the first time, he picked up the letter addressed to one Harry Potter, looking at it with what appeared to be grandfatherly fondness. If one had looked closely, however, one would have noted the strangely cold glitter in the old man's eyes which reassembled avarice more than care. It was carefully shaded, of course, and was nearly invisible to detect. Dumbledore had, after all, had a long time to learn how to disguise his emotions.

After a few seconds, he placed the letter down once again, sighing as he contemplated the next step in his plans for ensnaring the Savior.

It shouldn't be too difficult, he reasoned. He has, after all, no idea about anything magical. And being under his magic-hating relative's care for all his life, he must be desperate for any kind of affection. The boy will run into the first open arms he sees which will be, of course, mine.

He was unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on who you asked—completely wrong.

TBC-

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