A/N: 'Ello guvna. So, this is going to be my first (and hopefully successful) attempt at writing a piece of HP Fanfiction. Don't get me wrong, I've done it before, but never published it. This should be interesting.
In any case, if someone would like to beta for me, drop me a message. Oh, and I'm British, so my spellings may differ from what you're used to. With that cleared up, onto the story.
-x-
As the cold darkness slowly fled from Privet Drive, a young boy began to awaken. Sitting up in his makeshift bed and fumbling around for his glasses, he fought off the disorientation that comes with an hours sleep.
His night had been plagued by nightmares. The same nightmares that had been bothering him for the past year, in fact. Harry knew it was odd for a six-year old to have the same nightmares repeatedly – but he always put it off as nerves. After all, school was hard when you were the neighbourhood 'freak'.
He knew that the green light capturing his vision and the scream of the woman was something he recognised. The roar of the motorbike was the same, in that he seemed to experience an eerie sense of deja-vu every time he had this dream. Of course, Harry was a six year old and such vocabulary was beyond him. Nevertheless, he stood shakily, bending slightly as to not bang his head on the ceiling of his cupboard.
He knew he was small for his age, and yet for the last few months he had started hitting his head on the slanted ceiling of his dwelling. His head bore a few bumps for a while as a result, but he'd quickly learnt to bend down when getting dressed.
Shrugging on the oversized bottle grey jumper and half-shredded jeans, he stepped outside of his cupboard and made his way across the hall to the kitchen. He grabbed a stool from the counter, and placed it just below the refrigerator, where he climbed up and pulled hard on the door, opening it and revealing the contents. Bacon, sausages, a dozen eggs and some orange juice displayed prominently on the highest shelf, just to make it difficult.
He reached up precariously and managed to grab the items before falling backwards off of his stool, bringing it down with a large thwack. Harry groaned, awaiting the tell-tale sound of his Uncle-
"BOY!"
Harry quickly picked up the retrieved food before quickly firing up the grill and getting started on breakfast. The Dursleys' had trained him last summer to cook, and once finding out he possessed an innate skill for it, had him preparing most meals every day.
His Uncle thundered down the stars, face tinged with purple over his rude awakening. It was only 5a.m, after all, and Mr. Dursley was not one to wake early.
"Y-yes, sir?" Harry squeaked, eyes locked on the floor and shoulders slumped.
"Can you not do something as simple as cooking without destroying the kitchen, freak?" Vernon practically growled through his bushy moustache.
"I-I fell, s-sir. I-I…"
Vernon fixed the boy with his beady eyes, before waddling back upstairs muttering about "freakish children" and their "hocus pocus." Harry's uncle often said things like this when he thought Harry wasn't listening, and Harry had no idea what he meant.
Proceeding with breakfast preparations, Harry noticed Dudley attempt to tiptoe down the stairs nearly an hour later. Of course, Harry was used to his cousin's antics, and made sure to keep an ear out for that creaky step at all times. He watched the great lump 'sneak' into the kitchen with great lumbering strides, before grinning maliciously and alternating between staring at Harry and the unopened box of perfect eggs.
Harry paled, realising what his cousin was going to do and knowing he was powerless to stop him. Dudley grabbed the pack of eggs and pushed them off of the counter, and Harry could only stare as they landed, face down, on the perfect kitchen floor; scattering their contents across the kitchen.
"MUUUUUUUM! THE FREAK BROKE THE EGGS!" screamed Dudley, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Harry panicked, his eyes widening as Petunia Dursley attempted to daintily glide down the stairs, where in all actuality she moved like an elephant imitating a lioness. He looked at the floor, begging the eggs to clean themselves up and return to the counter. Petunia's footsteps came closer and closer, stepping on the precarious creaky step as he panicked.
Before his eyes, the eggs began to reform and repair themselves; the yolk and egg forming a perfect oval before being sealed with the scattered pieces of shell. One by one they glided into the box, which was now set perfectly on top of the counter.
Dudley and Harry both watched this scene with a level of awe and disbelief. This wasn't going to last for long, however, as Petunia chose this moment to walk in.
"What's wrong, Dudders?" the stick-thin woman inquired as she surveyed her perfect kitchen.
"M-mum, h-he did freaky things! F-flying eggs!" Dudley stepped back from Harry as if in fear, and hugged his mother's legs.
Petunia glared at Harry, her nostrils flaring and eyes telling of a punishment. This had only happened once before, when he was four; Dudley had pushed him over but instead of falling, he floated to the ground landing without so much as a scrape.
"Don't worry my little Duddykins, Daddy will sort out the boys freakishness," Petunia cooed, calming the panicking Dudley. "Vernon! The boy is being a freak again!"
If it was possible, Harry would have paled more at this point. He knew what happened when his Uncle caught wind of 'freakishness' and it usually resulted in more than one bruise and a day or two in the cupboard.
Vernon practically ran into the room, as much as his rotund figure would allow, and grabbed Harry by the scruff of his neck, pinning him against the wall and spitting in his face as he spoke.
"What, WHAT have we told you about such FREAKISHNESS IN OUR HOUSE, BOY? EITHER YOU CONTROL IT OR—"
"Everte Statum."
Vernon was ripped away from Harry as the light-blue light sent him flying into the kitchen and through the French patio doors, hitting the wall at the back of the garden and falling to the floor in a daze.
In the doorway of Number 12 Private Drive stood a man dressed in very strange attire. Clothed in a billowing grey cloak that ran all the way down to his odd boots that Harry assumed was made out of some animal. This was not the strangest thing about the man though; no, the strangest thing was that he was holding a wooden stick which had just launched his uncle through the back garden.
Harry regarded the man with a curious look, wondering just how he had managed to launch his uncle, and whether or not he could learn how to do it too. The man calmly stepped through the threshold of the home, pocketing his wooden stick before turning to Harry.
"Hello there, son. What's your name?"
Harry regarded the man cautiously. His teacher had told him all about 'stranger danger' and how you should never accept anything from a strange man; but then again, this man had just launched his uncle across the room, so he must be pretty cool.
"Harry Potter, sir."
The man's eyes widened very slightly. However, that was the only sign he really understood what Harry had said, because his features had not changed during the interaction.
"A pleasure, Mr. Potter. I go by Mr. Sanders."
Harry nodded, and the man held his hand out for him to shake. Harry placed his considerably smaller hand in the mans, and shook with a limp grip.
"Mr. Sanders, can I ask a question?"
Mr. Sanders nodded, not taking his eyes away from his lightning bolt scar.
"What was that you did to my Uncle?"
Once again, Mr. Sanders eyes widened slightly, as he sighed.
"I feared this might be the case. Harry Potter raised among bloody muggles, what were they thinking…" Mr. Sanders sighed. "Come, Mr. Potter, we have much to discuss. Take my arm."
Harry hesitated. His teacher had told him never to go with a stranger if he wasn't with another adult he knew. But anywhere was better than here, Harry thought. He grabbed the mans' arm, before feeling a strong tugging in his navel.
He stumbled and fell to the ground, looking around. He was in a relatively dark room, lit only by torchlight. In the centre of the room were two large red velvet seats with a desk separating them, a bookshelf standing behind the desk and various papers strewn across it.
Mr. Sanders walked to the seat behind a desk and plopped himself down, signalling Harry to take the seat across from him. Harry stood and slowly walked over to the seat, still dazed from the strange method of travel.
"Well, Mr. Potter, I believe the easiest place to begin would be by telling you that you are, in fact, a Wizard."
Harry looked puzzled, and began to speak, when he was cut off by a hand from Mr. Sanders.
"Please, Mr. Potter, allow me to finish. You are a human with the capacity to use magic. Magic is a constant force in the world, one that has been around since time immemorial. It is a force that only certain, special people can use. As a Wizard, you have the ability to use magic."
Mr. Sanders gestured for Harry to speak, and he took a moment before asking a question:
"But sir, if I'm a Wizard, how come nobody's told me before?"
Mr. Sanders sighed, his eyebrows creasing slightly in the first display of emotion of the entire day.
"That, Mr. Potter, is an interesting story. One that I, myself, would like the answers to. However, I can answer how we found you now. You see, every magical child below the age of eleven demonstrates some accidental magic before they are trained to control it. Usually, accidental magic does not trigger attention from the wizarding government. However, at 6:13 this morning, you managed to transfigure a dead object into a living one – permanently. This is a very powerful display of accidental magic, and so we were informed."
"You work for the wizarding government? Am I going to be arrested? I didn't mean to do it!"
Mr. Sanders laughed at this, before saying "No, Mr. Potter, you won't be arrested. And no, I don't work for the wizarding government. Who are called the Ministry, by the way."
Harry frowned at this, his brain taking a moment to catch up.
"But…you said—"
"I said that the wizarding government have sensors for this – I didn't say they were the only ones." Mr. Sanders grinned slightly, before continuing "I am a part of an organisation that goes by the name of The Griffon Association."
"But…if you're with the Griffon Assou…Asso….thingy, why am I here?"
"Simple, Mr. Potter. We're going to recruit you."