A/N: This will be my first multichaptered fic but won't be too long. As it is, it should be about 5 chapters in length, with a total of 20k words or thereabouts.

1. The proper idiocy of mankind.

You know, I thought for a time, as a child, that we little kids had it good. Metaphorically speaking of course. Y'see, the telly was always playing some such movie that my cow of an aunt liked to watch and in those movies the kids, more often than not, were spoiled rotten. "They are such a joy", or my personal favorite, "He/She is so cute!". You'd think that this is the way that people treat kids, right?

No. Hell, fucking, no.

No, you don't treat kids that way. First you lock'em up in a cupboard under the stairs for a decade, just to "show this good for nothing piece of shit" how much you love him. Then, when the little sucker is four years-old, give him a pan, open a cookbook and tell him to make breakfast. And lunch. Throw in dinner for good measure. When it obviously turns out something that a stray pig wouldn't dare eat, show him the belt because, of course, you, the sucker, can't get anything right.

You're a freak.

The people you approach in school flee from you. That's not because you stink or is ugly. It's because your fat cousin, spoiled like every other children in the telly, gives them all the "good one two" as uncle Vernon liked to say. Not my fault but being a love-denied kid led me to thinking that it was my fault somehow. I mean, it was because of me that Dudley kicked their arses, and just because I wanted some companionship. It isn't much to ask, right?

It is, apparently. Throughout school, well the normal muggle school, no one dared approach me for whatever reason. Add to that the fact that the Dursleys' were well liked in the society here. That always seemed strange to me. I mean, the principal was on and on about them, like the sun shone out of their arseholes (consider the amount of body fat you'd have to remove to actually see that. Disturbing thought, right?), but I always wondered why uncle Vernon was always carrying a rather stuffed envelope back to school whenever Dudley got into some sort of trouble. He seemed to like the telly though, spewing yet another idiocy: "An upstanding family, yes sir!", "Such a smart kid you have there Mr. Vernon!". Another cliché.

That was my school life in a nutshell.

When he's six, deny him lunch and dinner because the freak couldn't mow the lawn as specified for the Little Whinging Lawn Competition. Never mind telling the fat-brained walrus that the mower was a cheap ass one that didn't have any way whatsoever to regulate the trimming. So yes, it wasn't at a fucking one inch, three-quarters.

No inch, three-quarters? No fucking food, freak.

Y'see, at that time, I didn't care too much about all this. I existed, simply put. The usual, you know? Wake up, make breakfast, do the dishes, go to school, get back from school, make lunch, clean the house, wash the linens, hang the linens, take a shower, make dinner, go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

When I was eight though, I started to get... annoyed. Odd things happen when I get annoyed by the way. Plates fly, the door to my bedroom vanishes, my hair refuses to be cut. If it's strange, name it: I've probably done it. That was also the year in which the freakiest thing happened much thanks to my obese cousin.

The Harry Hunting game was tradition, way back from when I was six years old. Dudley would get his telly-stereotypic friends and they would all gang up on me. Ran after me, beat me sideways, from Sunday to next Saturday and then they'd leave. Needless to say, I didn't like the game.

So, we are back at when I was eight. In that particular Tuesday, Dudley was being brave. My guess is that he wanted to show his friends that he could beat me up in the middle of school and nothing would happen to him. So, true to form, off they went to get me. I did what was the fastest way to lose them, and a trait that saved my arse on more than one occasion in the future. I ran said arse off. I am thankful for all the physical training they did to me. Strange thing, to thank people for their own failings as human beings, huh? Well, life is strange like that. Specially where I'm concerned.

Anyways, after a particular tough escape, I found myself at a dead end. The only part of the building that I could see was the roof. Hearing their steps getting closer I was faced with a difficult decision: a) be beaten to a pulp or b) get desperate.

Desperation won fair and square. I didn't fancy having to mend my broken fingers yet again, thank you very much. Desperation plus roof visualization equals Harry on top of the building.

That was the highlight of my life at that point.

It didn't turn out good enough though. Getting there was unexplainable and this created another mess that the esteemed Dursleys' had to solve with the added prejudice that I was the one causing it. Ended with a good 10 minute belt-flogging and another broken finger.

That was a turning point for me. I may have created a ruckus, but it was Dudley being the ever present nuisance. I just wanted to escape. Well, I escaped the son just to meet with the father's prowess at making me feel so very loved.

After that episode I just wanted to avoid them as much as possible. That and going whenever I could to the neighborhood library. Not because I loved books, but it was the only respite I could get that came along with a plausible excuse: schoolwork. Plus, whatever I did that was to stay away from them for any length of time would appeal too much for them to pass up. So, off to the local library I went.

Mr. Collins, the librarian, was a nice guy, not even remotely as spooky as Madam Pince. That guy could compete with Hermione and would, possibly, come ahead. Never seen such a book nerd all my life, Hermione included. The difference between my bookworm friend, the constipated librarian and him? He, more than merely loving books, cherished them and wanted to share with everybody the experience that was reading a good book. As much as I love Hermione and respect Pince, they have a sick relationship with books. They are jealous of them. Hold them like a lifeline they do. It isn't healthy, and doesn't instill any passion for an outside observer. They don't want to share them, at all. Very egotistical if you ask me. Don't get me wrong, I lo- eh... like my best friend, but it's true.

So, Mr. Collins, the book freak (it was nice having another freak to relate to, despite him being in his fifties already) and I had a deal. Seeing my lost look when I entered there the first time, he took it upon himself, with all the seriousness of an unbreakable vow, to show me the wonderful world of books. In turn, once a week, he would ask me about them and discuss some of what I read. The first ones were incredibly nice to read, I remember to this day the first book not related to school that I ever read: an adaptation of Aesop's fables to children. Since I got the basics, He then showed me another writer that liked to use fables: La Fontaine. They were good too, but I admit that I had a harder time relating to them.

Thus it was my first friendship in all eight years of my life. And with an old person, go figure.

The following years were not very different. Some flogging here and there for whatever cause they made up, a broken arm I had to mend myself (say what you want, but the impromptu cast I made with leftovers from Dudley's tree house and a few strands of torn linens did the job).

By the time I was eleven I was seriously debating being a street peddler. Really, they lived a better life than I did. Basically, they had the same things I had (meager meals, often with some items so beyond the due date that it was a wonder I was still alive), no roof above your head (well I did have one, but come on, I had to live with the Satan's proxies! He.. It is a lawyer you know?) and the highest perk of all: they didn't have to endure flogging Friday! That had to be worth all the miserable life they lead, hadn't it?

After my birthday, however, things went straight to hell. Owls of the most different plumages and character (yes, owls do have character if you didn't know) started flying through the Dursleys' household and leaving a letter on my lap. When I was about to read the first one they sent, Uncle Vernon took it away forcibly from me and immediately locked me in my cell. Said "These ruddy owls are the reason you won't leave there, even to eat! Tell them to go away and I'll let you eat, if not: have luck looking for where the strays find their sustenance boy!"

Oh yeah... I was below a stray dog. Several shades below.

So, starving, I was allowed to leave that godforsaken cubicle from hell to tell the "ruddy owls" to leave, otherwise their recipient would be fainting due malnutrition. Never mind that I have never quite grasped the concept of a second language, a human one at that, my uncle wanted me to turn owlish proficient in a matter of minutes.

But hey, I'm a freak right? Supposed to do freakish things like asking my ornithologically inclined mail bearers to just "sod off" and not disturb the numbing naturalness of the Dursleys' household.

Let it be noted that I did try. Did my best to hoot, squack, anything that could remotely signify "go away, my uncle is in fact one of Satan's proxies, with an office in the ninth circle of Hell. He won't be promoted to the eighth circle if he's seen with such God aligned owls, will he?"

Needless to say, they didn't listen to me. In fact, the number of owls arriving at the front yard seemed to multiply tenfold.

After shrieking in indignation, two proxies of hell's less warmer climate and their spawn dragged me back to the house. They promptly sealed every entrance they could and told me to start packing. We would be traveling to the coast, "spend a few days in brother Callum's shack near Hastings", he said.

It was a surprise really. Uncle Vernon gets pissed off and we go traveling? With me in tow?

It had to be too good to be true.