Chapter 1

"BOY!"

Harry Potter groaned, waking from his light slumber, recognising the hoarse bellowing of his title in the house. He soon realised his tardiness, and started hurriedly searching for something to wear, finding an oversized T shirt in the darkness, then he started looking for something to wear on his bottom half before the door to the cupboard under the stairs burst open with a bang that nearly took it off its hinges.

"I thought I had already shouted for you once." Harry's Uncle Vernon growled in a menacing tone, much too quietly for such a large man. "I thought you understood what was required of you? Or are you too stupid to understand, just like your father?"

Harry ignored the dig about his parent; they were far too common to get upset about. He instead apologised to his uncle, and found a pair of jeans far too short for him, but then again every one of his clothes were too big or small he reflected. He then followed his Uncle as he led him to the kitchen, where his Aunt Petunia and Cousin Dudley were sat around the table, waiting for him.

This was most unusual in the Dursley household, as they were perfectly accustomed to ignoring Harry completely, except to have him do something, berate him, or punish him. Harry shivered at that thought as he looked confusedly at the angry faces around the kitchen table, the two angry faces, as Dudley was more concerned with the boxing match playing on the large TV on the kitchen wall.

The tension in the room was palpable, until Uncle Vernon spoke. "For 11 years boy, you have been a drain on this household, a drain on resources, money and our time and attention." Vernon looked around for confirmation from his wife, who gave a nod. He went on, "Therefore, me and your aunt have decided that it is high time you found yourself some way of compensating us for all these things. We both agree, that 10 is more than high enough of an age to be going out and finding methods of money making."

Harry didn't dare glance at his 5 week older cousin, but instead politely protested, "Who would give me anything to do anything for them?" Uncle Vernon shrugged off the comment, "That's your problem isn't it? Time to show that 'quiet ingenuity' your idiot teachers' bang on about!" he jeered, before his face grew serious. "You will find something before your eleventh birthday, or there will be… problems in mine and your futures boy, do you understand?"

Harry knew better than to argue, and nodded. "Good." Said Uncle Vernon. Well get out of the house and get to it. I'm sick of the sight of you." Harry made to leave, but Vernon stopped him. "I don't have to tell you boy, but if this conversation gets anywhere apart from between us, you'll wish you'd been as lucky as your parents. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes Uncle Vernon", Harry replied with all the politeness he could muster while feeling so hopeless as he traipsed out of the front door. Harry kept walking, thinking about the conversation that had just taken place. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd think Uncle Vernon was joking. A 10 year old boy find a steady job? He might be young, but he was by no means naïve. He knew there was about as much chance of that happening as there was Dudley winning gold at the next Olympics.

Then his mind strayed, with a painful jolt, to the angry weals currently present on his backside from two days ago, when he had accidentally set the fire alarm off making toast. He felt Uncle Vernon's belt doubly hard that time, as his uncle put it, for "Disturbing the neighbours with your idiocy, and wasting good food you don't pay for." Harry realised that that little incident must've lit the fuse for today's conversation, and fell even further into despair.

Predictably, Harry's mind came full circle, to why he was in this situation in the first place with his Aunt and Uncle. Harry wondered what it would have been like to have grown up with parents; they would love him, wouldn't they? He thought as he let his legs carry him around Little Whinging. But Harry's parents were dead, dead in a house fire started by "that freakish idiot", as Vernon liked to describe Harry's father. Vernon had relished in enlightening the newly 8 year old Harry Potter how his father had drunkenly let a cigarette drop out of an ashtray while he was sleeping off his latest indiscretions, killing himself and Harry's mother in one swift swoop. The young Harry had burst into tears on hearing this, hoping for several years some unknown relation would pluck him from his hell, but to no avail. Harry would turn 11 in 6 days' time, and had more pressing matters on hand.

As he walked through Little Whinging, he saw neighbours glare suspiciously at him, there had always been something funny about "that Potter boy", they said. Rumours got round, some more true than others, of curiosities that always seemed to involve Harry. Little Whinging was not a place for curiosity, it was a place for bragging about your company car and making sure your lawn was greener than everyone else's. It was not a place for people's hair to spontaneously turn tartan, lawn sprinklers to explode and crop circles to appear on regularly mown lawns, as had happened in the past when Harry was around. The inhabitants of Little Whinging did not like Harry, and the feeling was mutual. How on earth was he going to make money in this place?

Harry was looking for an answer to that very question when his feet carried him to the small park off of Wisteria Walk, where he thought he might sit for a while to ponder his position. He slumped moodily into a swing, wincing when the lash marks on his backside burned from the hard surface. Ignoring the pain, he began to think. The only person in Little Whinging he was even remotely friendly with was Mrs Figg, who lived on this very same street, but he didn't much fancy having to look at hundreds of pictures of cats again, which is what had happened every other time the Dursleys had placed him in her care while they went off on holiday every year.

Lost in thought, Harry had failed to notice the group of boys walking onto the park. Too late, he noticed Dudley Dursley and his gang of merry idiots, big idiots who enjoyed hurting people. He watched as Dudley swaggered over to him. "Hey loser, haven't you got stuff to be doing?" Harry kept his eyes to the ground. "I'm working on it," he replied carefully. "Well working on it's gonna get a lot harder for you shrimp-boy!" he jibed, advancing menacingly with his gang on Harry. "I think it's time for a little bit of Harry Hunting, don't you boys? First one to bring him to me gets first shot!"

Harry ran. He'd tried standing his ground with Harry Hunting before and he ended with a broken nose, two busted lips and similar glasses. He wasn't fool enough to think blind bravery was a good idea. Luckily the prerequisite for joining Dudley's gang seemed to be that you were fat, out of shape and slow, which Harry thanked God for. He may have been a "shrimp-boy", but he could outrun any of these salad-shy slimeballs. After a minute of pursuit, Harry glanced back to check if there was any sign of Dudley's gang. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and headed back to Privet Drive. He'd talk to Mrs Figg later. That had been more than a close call, he thought to himself, as he let himself in through the back door, making to retreat to his cupboard for a couple of hours before lunch.

He walked into the small room and flopped onto his mattress, letting out a huge sigh. Why did it always have to be him? He thought depressedly. All his life strange things had happened to him, things one just couldn't explain, as much as he tried. After all, he thought, I'm 10 years old. How could any of those things be my fault? Like he could explain how the neighbour's cat ended up clinging to the telephone wire! How was he supposed to know how Uncle Vernon's hat had shrunk to the size of a toy dolls several years previously? It just always seemed to be him.

He had never had any luck all his life, what with his parents being what they were, dying in the house fire Vernon had so casually joked about over the kitchen table earlier, he had been told that after that, Harry had been forced onto them against their wishes, and this was then used against him whenever Vernon or Dudley felt like picking on him to argue that he should be grateful to them for "everything" they had done to help him over the years.

He continued in this vein to himself for some time, before realising with a start it had been an hour since he entered his cupboard, and he was still no further to making progress on the money front. They had given him until his birthday to figure something out, and if he didn't he knew all he had to look forward to on his birthday was a flaying at the hands of Uncle Vernon. It wouldn't be the first time, he reflected bitterly.

He decided to take the walk round to Mrs Figg's house now rather than later. The sooner she said no, the sooner he could try to find some other way to do his Uncle's bidding. He walked the short distance to Mrs Figg's house on the adjoining street, and knocked on the door 3 times. After a short while, the door opened, and Mrs Figg stood before him, looking as batty as ever in her dressing gown and carpet slippers.

"Harry? It's nice to see you again, is there something wrong?" she said, looking awkward for some reason. Harry wondered why, every other time he had spent time with her; she had an airy demeanour, and left an impression of not quite being all there. Harry snapped back into the conversation.

"No Mrs Figg, I just wanted to speak to you about something, but if you're busy I can come back later," he offered, thinking she may be eating a meal or otherwise. It was around 5pm so this was not an unreasonable thought. He took a step back as if to leave, while Mrs Figg seemed to think carefully for a second before replying.

"It's okay dear, come in. I'm just entertaining someone at the moment, I hope you don't mind meeting a very dear friend of mine." She said, stepping back to allow Harry entry, she then proceeded to lead him to the front room, where a man of incredible oddness was sat at the coffee table.

The man was exceedingly old, with extremely long white hair and beard, wearing an extravagant suit cut from what appeared to be plum velvet, with a purple button up shirt. He was a very tall man, Harry observed as he rose to shake Harry's hand, but the most strange thing were his eyes, they had widened when Harry walked into the room for a brief moment, but were now looking at Harry over the half-moon spectacles, with an endearing twinkle, that seemed to be looking not just at Harry, but through him, into his very mind and soul.

"Harry, this is my friend P- I mean Mr Dumbledore. Albus, this is Harry Potter, he lives on the other street with his Aunt and Uncle," she finished this introduction with a meaningful glance at Dumbledore, which was completely unnecessary, but Harry missed this, as he was looking intently at Dumbledore. The face seemed familiar to him but he couldn't place it.

As he shook Harry's hand, Dumbledore spoke, "It's good to meet you young man, I hope you are well this fine day?" he finished with a small smile.

For some reason Harry found himself warming to this strange man, he seemed to actually like him and Harry found himself rushing to reply to him. "Yes sir, I'm good, and you?" he answered, trying to be as polite as possible.

"Oh yes, this has been a most interesting day," he replied, letting his sentence hang in the air, looking at Harry with an almost knowing look.

"Well this is nice," Mrs Figg interjected. Seating herself on the side of the table between the two males, she spoke to Harry, "You mentioned you wanted to talk to me about something on the doorstep?"

Harry tore his eyes from Dumbledore and replied, "Yes, I was just wondering. Since I know you best in the town, I thought I'd come to you first. I'm trying to raise some money for school, I was just wondering if there's anything you need doing or helping with that I could do?" The lie rolled off Harry's lips easily, he had plenty of practice, since the time years ago when Social Services had turned up on the Dursley's doorstep, demanding to know why Harry was coming into school with bruises and a dirty uniform. Harry again shivered at the recollection, since then he had covered for the Dursley's abuse time and time again to avoid a beating like last time.

Dumbledore was still looking intently at Harry, observing the young boy. There was no way Harry could know what he was thinking, but the famously calm Albus Dumbledore was having trouble keeping his face calm at the moment in time, watching the conversation between Mrs Figg and Harry, but now he spoke up.

"Well that's fortunate isn't it? You were just telling me about how you've needed that lawn mowing for weeks were you not? Can you do that young man?" Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Excellent. Everyone gets what they want do they not?" he clapped his hands. "Well Arabella, it was nice seeing you again, but I must be off, and it was good to meet you Mr Potter, with motivation like yours, I'm sure you'll go far. I'll see you around."

"You will?" replied Harry, surprised. "Oh Yes," replied Dumbledore with a smile, "you'd be surprised how much I get around," and on that note, he swept out of the room, followed by Mrs Figg and Harry, who said to her, "I really should be getting back as well, turning to face her on the doorstep. "Thank you very much for letting me do this." She waved away his thanks, "It was nothing, I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry turned around, looking for a last glimpse of Dumbledore. He looked up and down the long road, and reflected on what Dumbledore had said. The old man had been right, he certainly did get around, Harry thought with a wry smile, and headed back to the Dursley's with a newfound spring in his step.