Summary: Harry is intelligent and yet very young when he discovers a pile of memories and a cryptic code that set him on a journey to discover what really happened on Oct 31st. Where are his memories? Where did Nov 1st go? And why were the Prewetts killed?

AN: I've been reading FanFic for a while now and am writing this primarily to give back to the community but also because a rather massive plot bunny gripped my leg by its teeth and wouldn't let go until I had agree to put it on paper.

I'd like to think that this story has more plot than the generic Harry Potter goes back in time story or even the Harry has an evil twin brother story, but of course, what is plot without a means to express it? As this is my first story, I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you think about the writing style – Is the text too dense? Do the characters seem like cardboard cutouts from a comedy of manners? Am I being obscure? What question gives 42 as an answer? That said, lets get this started:

Recovering Memories

Chapter 1: An Unlucky Break

Disclaimer: The very fact that you are reading this here precludes the nonsensical idea that I could ever own the characters mentioned in this text.

Vernon and Petunia Dursley peered out cautiously around the doorframe and froze in place, staring at the little boy sitting on the sofa ahead of them chattering happily to himself, oblivious to the two slightly trembling pairs of eyes set upon his back as he read to himself from his aunt's cookbook. The three painted an odd tableau, the horse's head slightly above that of the walrus in the doorframe, the child cheerfully turning pages under their frozen gaze. Petunia broke the tension, whirling back into the hallway and pulling at Vernon's hunched over bulk. "Vernon!" she whispered, her voice cracking.

They had known that this moment would come – this first incident that would mark him and set him apart from them. At night, Petunia would pace the bedroom floor and rail against the boy, his family, her family, and 'that boy' that had taken her sister away from her and into that horrible, freaky world of his. And if Vernon hadn't known any better, he might have supposed that she was lying, or worse yet, jealous, but he had met his sister-in-law once. Suffice it to say, Vernon's countenance had paled so quickly that his ruddy hue blanched within seconds, its color washing out as if it were a shirt passing through months of laundry instantaneously as Lily pulled out her wand, turned a teacup into a rat, made it purple and let it run a few laps around the tabletop before turning it back. Oddly enough, Vernon's diction hadn't returned until a few hours later, at home, when he finally overcame his stutter and was able to pronounce two words: "Unnatural Freaks."

Of course, with all of their forewarning, they had been able to prepare mentally for the shock of having such a twisted human being residing in their home. However, the only reason why Vernon and Petunia were barely mentally stable enough to deal with the presence of the boy was because of a plan that they had elaborated in the event of such a contingency occurring upon Lily's death in the wizard's war. They were going to treat him well and 'educate' him personally, censoring anything related to not being normal, from fairytales to fiction and dragons to, heavens forbid, magic itself. They would keep him in the house and never let him out to the library or to the school and hide him from the world before his 11th birthday and hope that he never got a letter on heavy cream parchment with a large green H emblazoned on it and that if he did he would reject it.

It was a simple plan at best, but they might have been able to pull it off had it not been for the incident.

"Vernon! The boy is not even four yet! How is this even possible? And Duddikins is so much smarter!" cried Petunia that night, huddled on a corner of the bed clutching the blankets tightly in her hands, "It can't be m-m-…. I … we did everything we could b-but… this is too soon! We've only had him for a few months!"

Pacing up and down on the hardwood floor, Vernon shook his head, "We were idiots to think that something so unnatural could ever live a normal lifestyle. He has to go… or be subdued, somehow."

Petunia slowly broke off from her sobbing and cradled her head in her hands, covering her bony face with quilted patterns. Suddenly she jerked her head back up, hissing vehemently, "Dudley."

Vernon jumped, almost tripping as he recovered his footing, "What?"

"He'll corrupt my precious little Dudley-poo!"

He paled, staring blankly ahead as his tiny imagination hurriedly filled in the gaps with the terrible things that Dudley could end up doing when he was older if he was influenced by Harry… Acts of delinquency, beating up kids, in a gang, smoking cigarettes by age 14 and skipping classes regularly… NO! It was too awful to consider.

"We have to get him out of the room now." There were no ifs ands, or buts about it. This was a Dursley ultimatum, and if he had to move a boy the size of a mountain through an opening the size of a needle to fulfill it, he would do so. "We'll move him to… the cupboard, after breakfast tomorrow. If we have to beat this abnormality out of him, we'll do it, but I'm not letting him destroy everything we've worked for so far."

Harry was just another normal boy, albeit one with a tiny frame, messy black hair, and bright green eyes, and so when he jumped out of his bed that morning and blearily made his way down to breakfast in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes and moving a pace that would have him the world's record holder of the slowest one hundred meters in history, he was just expecting another normal day.

However, when he sat down, the crinkled spread of newspaper in front of him was slowly lowered, gradually revealing the ever-flustered face of Dursley senior eyeing him with suspicion and a hint of distrust painted across his countenance.

"G'morning, Uncle Vernon," mumbled Harry, holding a small hand to his mouth and reaching for a piece of bread with the other. He looked at the fuzzy outline of what he had picked up and pulled it closer for a better view. As the black and white print swam into focus, he heard a distinct gasp from somewhere above him and the newspaper was violently pulled from his hold. Looking up, he saw that his Uncle had, if at all possible, screwed his face up into an even deeper red, his beady eyes darting from Harry to Petunia and then back to the boy.

"Up!" hollered Vernon, grabbing at the child's hand and pulling the boy off of his feet. "You abnormal freak!"

"Un…" Not given any time to think, Harry was very unceremoniously thrust out of the kitchen and into the hallway, glared at by his aunt, shoved into the cupboard under the stairs that was to be his residence for the next few years, and left to silently whimper to himself as he listened to the muffled conversation Vernon and Petunia were holding outside.

"Good riddance. He stays there and we'll knock that freakiness out of him yet."

"Reading at this age…" Petunia hissed, "Why didn't we do this earlier?"

"In a few ye…."

'Reading? …. Reading?' Harry had been so sure that they'd be happy to see him read! Wasn't that the goal? They would try to teach Dudley the ABCs and he'd watch, learning all the while. He'd pick up the children's books that his cousin had thrown away and read in a corner, living happily in his own world.

Footsteps resounded in the closet as Petunia went upstairs to wake up Dudley and Harry tried to stand up in his new living space. A sudden short collision with the ceiling on the lower end of the room quickly informed him that he'd been deprived of that privilege. Rubbing his head, he fumbled for the light switch to see just how much space he had.

In some cases the phrase 'Ignorance is bliss' is completely justified. However, Harry must have had a tremendous amount of luck, as the cupboard wasn't half bad. Sure, the roof was slanted , there was barely enough space for him to stand up straight at its highest point, the corners were riddled by cobwebs, and the entire room smelled of mothballs and cleaning supplies, but there was a dusty stack of boxes covering one of the walls that attracted his attention.

Lifting one of the top boxes into his lap, Harry pried the lid open and peered at the photo lying on the pile of folders. A faded field of browning grass enveloped two laughing girls and the names Lily and Petunia were scrawled on the bottom in black pen along with the year. Carefully, he turned the paper over, and read on the back in the same handwriting,

Tuney, I found this among my old papers and I wanted you to have a copy for old time's sake. Hope you're doing well. Ever your loving sister, Lily.

After turning the photo over and staring at his mother for a good minute, he moved back to the rest of the box. Pulling out a thick green folder, he wiped off some dust and laid it on the floor in front of him, opening it to reveal a small packet of unopened letters tied together with a rubber band. Curious, he pulled out the top one and pried it open with his fingers.

Dear Tuney,

Thank you so much for coming to visit and letting us meet your husband. I do hope that I didn't scare him too much. I know that magic is very hard for muggles to accept, but I thought that it would be for the best if Vernon knew as well, especially after you had told him so much already.

Magic? Muggles? Harry stopped reading, and paused to consider. What did 'magic' mean? He had heard Dudley mention it sometime or other – usually in relation to his super hero action figures. Maybe he could ask Aunt Petunia? Then again, if his aunt had left these here, unopened, maybe she didn't want to have anything with his mother. She probably hadn't even remembered that these papers were here and probably would have taken them out if he hadn't 'moved in' on such a short notice. So then what was magic? Some sort of super power? Did he have it? Could he make the door purple, books appear, and little toy soldiers move just by waving his hand? He decided to save these experiments for later and turned back to his paper.

As I've told you before, I've been working in what you could call a research department for the Ministry, a division called the Department of Mysteries. We're really not supposed to talk about our job, but Tuney, I'm scared. Just this morning, Gideon and Fabian Prewett were found dead in the department and I don't even think it was Voldemort. I… I found them, Tuney. They were just lying there, both of them cold, on the black marbled floor and their eyes were red, almost to the point of bleeding. It wasn't natural, Tuney, believe me. No magic kills like that – it's almost like a Basilisk stare but that's not possible, right? Gideon had a crumpled paper in his hand and I took it from him without thinking – it had one phrase on it – 113-71b. I shouldn't have taken it, but I wasn't thinking and now… well now I need to know what it means.

At this point I would actually be relieved if it were Him, Tuney, but I think the murderer works with me and I don't know what I can do about it. I left early today, and I didn't even tell James, because I don't think this information would be safe with a wizard. I'm going to try to find out what I can about this phrase and see if I can dig up some records that might contain it. If something happens to you or me because of this, Tuney, quickly contact James. I know that you don't want to associate with us, but this could be crucial.

Your loving sister,

Lily

Harry's head was spinning. What was the Ministry? And the Department of Mysteries? Who was Voldemort? Who was and why would anyone be afraid of 'Him'? Prewett? Bloody eyes? A Basilisk? James was his father, but why would Lily not tell him anything? He set his questions aside and resolved to go through the rest of the pile. Pulling out the next letter he read:

Dear Tuney,

Thank you so much for coming to visit and letting us meet your husband. I do hope that I didn't scare him too much. I know that magic is very hard for muggles to accept, but I ….

Harry paused, shocked and put the letter down to the first. Sure enough, both continued in the same manner.

…thought that it would be for the best if Vernon knew as well, especially after you had told him so much already.

However, after this point, the letters diverged:

I need your help, Tuney. Yesterday two of my colleagues in the Ministry's Department of Magic, which I've told you about before, died in a raid in Diagon Alley, the wizarding district in London. And yet I think I remember Fabian telling me two days ago that he would be working on our joint project in altering and enhancing protection charms for the whole week. The weirdest part, however, is that I don't know what I did yesterday. I can see myself working but I don't know exactly what work I did and I can't actually visualize my documents. You know I have a near perfect memory, Tuney, but I think someone tampered with my memories of yesterday. I'm out on a limb, trying to find out whether I'm just imagining things or not, but if by any chance I wrote you a letter or called you yesterday please write back. Anything would help.

Love,

Lily

Harry had gone through each of the letters, slowly working through the words, reading about his birth, the deaths of the Bones and the McKinnon families, his first words, Albus Dumbledore and a secret organization called the Order of the Phoenix, the training broom and the first steps that he had ever taken, the Order, and finally, with a letter dated October 23rd, 1981, something which he did not expect.

Dear Tuney,

This will probably be my last letter for a while. As you know, Voldemort has been attacking several families that have muggle connections or are fighting back against him. Dumbledore told us that we may be his next targets because of a prophecy that links little Harry to Voldemort. Under Albus' advice, we are going to go into hiding under a spell that will make our house completely invisible and impossible to find. If you find yourself threatened in any way by wizards, contact Selena Lovegood, one of my friends from work. She will know how to contact me and can pass on any messages. If it's urgent, though, send a mail to Peter Pettigrew, who will hold the secret of our location. Their addresses and contact information are enclosed. If anything happens, Tuney, know that I wish that I could have spoken to you in person these past three years.

Your ever loving sister,

Lily

Harry silently set the last letter down on the pile that he had made. Of course his parents hadn't died in a car crash. Petunia wouldn't have told him about a magical killer – she had cut herself off completely from her sister and that culture almost completely – these untouched letters were the definitive proof of that.

But if his parents had died to this Voldemort, how had he survived? He tried to remember the day, but to no avail. It was as if his mind was blank before that time, which was odd, because he definitely could remember a huge man on a flying motorcycle. Maybe he had protected him? And he was sleeping while Voldemort was killed? It was implausible, but maybe this man was much more powerful than Voldemort. Maybe something else in the box would tell him what had happened?

Going through the folders in the box, Harry realized that they were all letters and notes, written regularly since 1971, when, as he read avidly, Lily had been chosen to go to a boarding school for magic called Hogwarts. He sat there reading for hours, drinking in each detail, reading about spells ranging from the simple Wingardium Leviosa to different ways to hex opponents in a duel. He laughed at Lily's descriptions of the Marauder's pranks, was puzzled by her rants against James Potter in particular, and learned all about the friendly rivalry between his mother and Severus Snape in Potions. When he was done, he curled up contentedly on the dusty floor clutching the old photograph of the sisters playing in the field and fell asleep, his stomach growling all the while.

He was woken up later that day by someone dragging a rather bulky object down the stairs. Quickly storing all of the letters in their box, he hid the only connection he had left to his mother just as Petunia opened the cupboard door and peered in. Once she had ascertained that he was still alive, disregarding the particularly nasty cut that decorated his forehead from when he was rammed into the cupboard and hit the doorframe, she started to push a small, dilapidated mattress into the little living space Harry had.

"There. You'll be living here from now on, boy," she spat, "that'll teach you, freak." She held out a small sandwich and a banana to him, "That's your food for today. Be grateful you have it."

"Aunt Petunia…" he munched on his sandwich and put on the most innocent face he could muster, "Do you think magic exists?"

A crash was heard at the end of the stairs, where Vernon had tripped upon his descent, Petunia flinched, and silence pervaded the house for several seconds.

Breaking the mood, Petunia's hand whipped across Harry's face with a crack, leaving a solid red block of stinging flesh in its wake. She slammed the door shut, hitting Harry, and locked it with a bolt on the outside.

"Grounded in the cupboard for a week, boy," yelled Vernon at the closed cupboard, "and never say that word in this house again!"

Maybe that hadn't been a good idea, Harry thought, holding his cheek. But he had been furious, annoyed that his aunt had ignored his mother's letters for so long, and he had needed to let his anger out. If teasing his aunt in the worst way possible was his way to de-stress, then he would go ahead and do it.

Turning back to the stacks of boxes in his new room, he bit another piece of his sandwich off and started to read.

Harry soon found that the collection of papers and books that the Dursleys had kept stored in the cupboard followed two trends – the documents were either embarrassing and meant to be forgotten, like Petunia's connection with magic and abnormal freaks and Vernon's grades in the university, where he had supposedly followed a business curriculum, but actually failed most of his classes. The majority of the documents, however, were of the intellectual sort. Harry found all of Vernon's notes for his business classes (copies from others bought for a nominal price), math books on algebra, trigonometry, and calculus, a few books from British literature such as 1984, Paradise Lost, and Oliver Twist, a series of small books on mechanics and engineering, a stack of newspapers from 1980-81, and a few pamphlets detailing different drills produced at Grunnings and the workings of some assembly machines.

Although the last few papers didn't seem very interesting to Harry, maybe he would be able to slowly work through the easiest books and newspaper articles and maybe even try to do some of that magic that his mother described in her letters.

With his work cut out for him, maybe being locked in the cupboard for a week didn't seem so bad, thought Harry – as long as they remembered to bring him food, he wouldn't be bored at all. It was ironic that he had found so much to read in a house where the most complicated readings that he could find were Petunia's cookbooks and some of her magazines, but he wasn't going to ponder the issue. After all, he had a whole week to work through the Financial Times, and who knew; maybe he would find a reference to Voldemort or uncover the meaning of those mysterious numbers. Maybe they referred to a volume and issue of a newspaper, he mused, returning to his readings with renewed fervor.