Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Co. belong to J.K. Rowling and her wonderful mind, and I have borrowed them to play out evil little fantasies in my own worlds. Obviously I'm not making any money from this. Damn it.
The lamps along the side of the road barely illuminated the perfectly neat, frighteningly similar houses of Privet Drive, Little Whinging. It was quite late, and almost nothing disturbed the silence, aside from an occasional sound from one of creatures of the night. The moon was waning, having been full a few nights previous, and stars twinkled in the near cloudless sky above. It was, all in all, a beautiful July evening. And, as it turned out, it was also the fourth birthday of one of its lesser known residents.
The boy was sitting on his lumpy mattress, legs and arms crossed, and deep in thought. The serious expression on his face would have been quite comical had anyone been around to see it, looking completely out of place on the face of the young child. Circumstances being what they were, however, no one saw the contemplative expression on the boy's face as he thought on his life.
Harry Potter had never really questioned the environment that he lived in until very recently. After all, he had never really known any different. For him it had been acceptable to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, to be assigned a great many household chores and to accept punishment when given. For as long as he could remember he was called 'Freak' or 'Boy' by his family, and although he never quite understood the meaning behind the words, the emotions behind them could not be misinterpreted. For a while he had wondered what he had done to cause his relatives to dislike him as much as they did, but he had promised himself to find out so that he could correct it.
That had changed months ago.
It had all started when Aunt Petunia had decided that her beloved Duddykins had to start Nursery School. Even at three years old, she would have only the best for her little boy, and getting an early start would set him on the road to success. Duddykins had not been impressed. In fact, he had put up an almighty racket, and finally yelled that if the freak didn't have to go to Nursery School, he certainly wasn't going to attend either. It had been a difficult decision to make, but in the end his aunt and uncle had decided that it would be in everyone's best interest if both boys started nursery school.
And so Harry was introduced to the wonderful world of learning. Granted, he was still very young, but he was also insatiably curious and his teacher quickly picked up on her young charge's thirst for information. It was she, the delightful Mrs. Bamford, that had supplied him with his first children's book. It had been difficult at first, learning how to sound out the words that accompanied the pictures, but with a determination rarely found in children, Harry quickly learned to read.
Soon the picture books Mrs. B supplied just weren't enough anymore, and she was quite happy to supply him more reading material, giving him something a little more difficult every time he asked. She had even started giving him small puzzles to solve in between the standard games, and frequently tried to provide him with challenges to his growing intellect.
It wasn't until a few months later that Harry had finally managed to get his hands on a dictionary. He was overjoyed to learn a 'cornucopia' of new words, but he was not impressed when he discovered the meanings of the words freak, layabout, lazy, worthless and brat. It was these words among other things that the young child now contemplated.
Certainly he was none of these things? In fact, he would rather describe himself as driven, curious, polite, and intelligent. Mrs. B had seen it, he was sure of that. If anything, it was Dudley who could be described as lazy. He was still reading picture books, and even then with difficulty! Stupid, overweight, obnoxious brat.
It was becoming clear to the boy that his living arrangements were not suitable, and his family's behaviour was not acceptable at all. And it was through no fault of his own. No, he wasn't the problem, they were. But what was a four year old to do? It was a conundrum. And Harry loved those.
Going to the authorities was not an option. His aunt and uncle were respected in the community, as ridiculous as that sounded, and no one would believe that their ungrateful and dangerously deranged nephew was being treated poorly. It would therefore be up to him to change things. He wasn't sure how to do it yet, but tomorrow he and his cousin would be starting Reception school. Perhaps he could convince his new teacher to supply him with books as well? If he learned a lot and showed promise he might be able to get his hands on something useful, whatever that might be.
Plan A, the rough draft, began to take shape in the young boys mind.
Plan A, revision 5, was officially scrapped. No, not scrapped. Destroyed. Blown out of the water. Worthless. It had seemed to work for a while, but proving to be smarter than his cousin had NOT gone over well with his relatives. He was insulted, called a cheater, accused of various crimes and then tossed into his cupboard to think on his crimes and stop his freakishness. Hmph. Foolish adults and their misguided notions of adequacy.
Harry had managed to get into his teacher's good books quite quickly, and she'd been more than happy to help him at first. She'd told him that a smart boy like him would have no problem once he started Primary school, which shared a campus with the Reception School as well as Secondary school. The campus also had a wonderful library, and when she had taken him to look at it the first time he'd nearly shed tears of joy.
He had worked hard, did his best on his assigned work, and excelled at just about anything that the teacher could put before him. So, when his relatives were called to the school, he'd hoped that it would be the first real step to improve his living conditions. Surely they would see that he was not a burden as they'd always complained, but that he could be a valuable addition to their family.
Aunt Petunia had been shocked to find out that 'her young genius' was not Dudley but her useless nephew, and Uncle Vernon had looked like a ripe tomato. The change that resulted had not been favourable, and Harry didn't think the suggestion that Harry be moved forward a year or two while Dudley should be held back to improve a bit more helped the situation at all.
Right.
Time for Plan B.
If they wouldn't let him be smart in the open, or acknowledge his achievements, then he'd just have to find a more subtle way to make them understand he wasn't going to stand for this treatment forever.
Plan B had only been moderately successful. Things had become much easier when Genius Harry disappeared only to be replaced by the oddly quiet and barely passing Harry, relatively speaking. There were still chores and insults, lack of proper nutrition and subpar sleeping arrangements, but at least he was no longer accused of making precious baby whale Dudley looking like the moron that he was. The unfortunate side effect was that he could no longer rely on having an ally in whoever was teaching him at the time, but with access to the library, both at school and the local library, the now 8 year old Harry was getting on well enough on his own.
At least, until his most recent discovery. It had started with his most recent haircut from his aunt. Apparently something had gone wrong at her club lunch, and she had been particularly vicious with the scissors. It had resulted in a most unfortunate and uneven hairdo. Harry might not have been the vainest of individuals, but there was no way he was going anywhere looking like this. He had some self-respect, damn it! He had been in a foul mood when he'd gone to bed, thinking of possible ways to fix this disaster, only to wake up with his hair exactly as it had been before.
Even Harry knew there was nothing normal about this, and his aunt's reaction to it had been enough to cement this belief. He'd returned to school a week later, note in his hand excusing his absence as he had unfortunately fallen ill and had to be kept at home. What the note didn't say was that his aunt had screamed bloody murder, his uncle had given an exceptionally loud rant about his unholy freakishness, and that after a good beating he'd been locked up without food or medical treatment until the weekend.
The time in 'solitary confinement' had given him much time to think though. He had cradled his arm, no doubt broken by Uncle Vernon's enthusiastic shaking and jerking, and wondered if he could duplicate the effects of the previous night. He had sat there wishing and willing until he was blue in the face, but nothing seemed to change.
Harry growled in annoyance and thumped the mattress in frustration. And proceeded to stare at his hand for the next ten minutes. His completely normal hand attached to his completely unbroken arm. A scary smile started to form on his face.
It was time for Plan C. This time his relatives didn't stand a chance.
And there you have it. Chapter 1. Dear Googagmooga, I can't believe I actually sat down and started to write this! Thoughts, comments, hate, love, don't quite your day-job? Review and let me know!