Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, which is why this is on Fanfiction and not being published as a book (not that it would make the cut, at any rate).
Mr and Mrs Dursley looked forward enormously to the time when they could pick their little nephew off and flick him away, preferably into the next county or even further than that. It is bad enough when adults treat ordinary children as though they were scabs and bunions, but it becomes somehow a lot worse when the child in question is extraordinary, and by that I mean sensitive and brilliant.
Harry was both of these things, but above all he was brilliant. His mind was so nimble and he was so quick to learn that his ability should have been obvious even to the most half-witted of guardians. But Mr and Mrs Dursley were both so gormless and so wrapped up in their own silly little lives that they failed to notice anything unusual about their nephew (at least in the intelligence department - anything else, though...).
Harry's cousin Dudley was a perfectly abnormal boy, and he was something to make your eyes pop. By the age of one and a half, he had already weighed over 75 pounds, and the girth of his belly was as wide as one of Mrs Dursley's larger vases. Still, Harry was more special.
By the age of two and a half Harry's speech was perfect and he knew as many words as most grown-ups. The guardians, instead of applauding him, called him a noisy chatterbox and told him sharply that freaks should not be seen and not heard.
By the time he was three, Harry had taught himself to read by studying newspapers and magazines that lay around the house. At the age of four, he could read fast and well and he naturally began hankering after books. The only book in the whole of this enlightened household was something called Easy Cooking belonging to his aunt, and when he had read this from cover to cover and had learnt all the recipes by heart, he decided he wanted something more interesting.
Harry already knew that Mr and Mrs Dursley would refuse to buy him a book, so he set out all by himself to walk to the public library in the village. When he arrived, he introduced himself to the librarian, Mrs Honey. He asked if he might sit awhile and read a book. Mrs Honey, slightly taken aback at the arrival of such a tiny boy unaccompanied by a parent, nevertheless told him he was very welcome.
"Where are the children's books please?" Harry asked.
"They're over there on those lower shelves," Mrs Honey told him. "Would you like me to help you find a nice one with lots of pictures in it?"
"No, thank you," Harry said. "I'm sure I can manage."
From then on, every afternoon, as soon as his aunt had left to chat with her neighbors, Harry would toddle down to the library. The walk took only ten minutes and this allowed him two glorious hours sitting quietly by himself in a cozy corner devouring one book after another. When he had read every single children's book in the place, he started wandering round in search of something else.
Mrs Honey, who had been watching him with fascination for the past few weeks, now got up from her desk and went over to him. "Can I help you, Harry?" he asked.
"I'm wondering what to read next," Harry said. "I've finished all the children's books."
"You mean you've looked at the pictures?"
"Yes, but I've read the books as well."
Mrs Honey looked down at Harry from her great height and Harry looked right back up at her.
"I thought some were very poor," Harry said, "but others were lovely. I liked The Secret Garden best of all. It was full of mystery. The mystery of the room behind the closed door and the mystery of the garden behind the big wall."
Mrs Honey was stunned. ''Exactly how old are you, Harry?" she asked.
"Four years and three months," Harry said.
Mrs Honey was more stunned than ever, but she had the sense not to show it. "What sort of a book would you like to read next?" he asked.
Harry said, "I would like a really good one that grownups read. A famous one. I don't know any names."
Mrs Honey looked along the helves, taking her time. She didn't quite know what to bring out. How, she asked himself, does one choose a famous grown-up book for a four-year-old boy? Her first thought was to pick a young teenager's romance of the kind that is written for fifteen-year-old schoolboys, but for some reason she found herself instinctively walking past that particular shelf.
"Try this," she said at last. "It's very famous and very good. If it's too long for you, just let me know and I'll find something shorter and a bit easier."
"Great Expectations," Harry read, "by Charles Dickens. I'd love to try it."
I must be mad, Mrs Honey told herself, but to Harry she said, "Of course you may try it."
Over the next few afternoons Mrs Honey could hardly take her eyes from the small boy sitting for hour after hour in the big armchair at the far end of the room with the book on his lap. It was necessary to rest it on the lap because it was too heavy for him to hold up, which meant he had to sit leaning forward in order to read. And a strange sight it was, this tiny dark-haired person sitting there with his feet nowhere near touching the floor, totally absorbed in the wonderful adventures of Pip and old Miss Havisham and her cobwebbed house and by the spell of magic that Dickens the great storyteller had woven with his words. The only movement from the reader was the lifting of the hand every now and then to turn over a page, and Mrs Honey always felt sad when the time came for her to cross the floor and say; "It's ten to five, Harry."
During the first week of Harry's visits Mrs Honey had said to him, "Does your mother walk you down here every day and then take you home?"
"I don't have a mother," Harry said.
"O-oh," Mrs Honey stuttered. "O-oops. Er, does your guardian walk you down here every day and then take you home?"
"My aunt likes to go visiting her neighbors to drink tea and eat biscuits," Harry had said. "she doesn't know I come here."
"But that's surely not right," Mrs Honey said. "I think you'd better ask her."
"I'd rather not," Harry said. "she doesn't encourage reading books. Nor does my uncle."
"But what do they expect you to do every afternoon in an empty house?"
"Just mooch around and watch the telly."
"I see."
"She doesn't really care what I do," Harry said a little sadly.
Mrs Honey was concerned about the child's safety on the walk through the fairly busy village High Street and the crossing of the road, but she decided not to interfere.
Within a week, Harry had finished Great Expectations which in that edition contained four hundred and eleven pages. "I loved it," he said to Mrs Honey. "Has Mr Dickens written any othims?"
"A great number," said the astounded Mrs Honey. "Shall I choose you another?"
Over the next six months, under Mrs Honey's watchful and compassionate eye, Harry read the following books:
Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
Gone to Earth by Mary Webb
Kim by Rudyard Kipling
The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Good Companions by J. B. Priestley
Brighton Rock by Graham Greene
Animal Farm by George Orwell
But to top off the list, little Harry read a special book... it was called Matilda by Roald Dahl.
I know I'm smart...
I know I can do math...
I know I can do weird things...
Shakily, Harry lifts his finger, pointing it at the glass he has placed on the ground in his cupboard. He narrows his eyes.
Rise!
Rise!
Rise!
Rise!
He continues chanting this word, though only in him mind. He's about to give up-
IT WOBBLED! The glass WOBBLED!
He was going to try again. Matilda didn't get it on him first try, either.
Rise rise rise rise riseriseriseriseRISE!
The glass lifted! A whole inch!
RISERISERISERISERISERISE!
The glass wobbled, but it began climbing. An inch, two inches, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN, ELEVEN, A FOOT!
Harry gasps, though the lapse in concentration is enough for the glass to begin falling.
Nonononononononononononononononono-
At the last possible moment, the glass stops falling. It just hovers there, not moving up, but not falling down.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
AGAIN!
RISEEEEEEEEE RISEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE RISEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The glass easily clears a foot, two, three-OOPS! The glass just slammed into the top of his cupboard under the stairs. Er, at least his aunt and uncle were still asleep.
Hey...that sounds like a good idea. Tentatively, he focuses his eyes on the lock on the door to his cupboard. He can hear the lock jiggling around. A click sounds. The door is now unlocked, and Harry is free to go again.
Harry wants to try his powers on something bigger than just a glass of water. Perhaps the doorknob?
TURN TURN TURNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!
The doorknob slowly twists.
Push PUSH PUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
The door slowly opens. Harry grins, stepping out. It's time for a midnight snack.
June 23, 1991 in the Dursley Residence:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Dudley roared. "ONLY 37 PRESENTS?"
Harry snorted silently while he cooked the bacon and flipped some of the eggs.
"We'll get you two more later," Petunia promised.
"THAT'S ONE LESS THAN LAST YEAR!" Dudley continued. "AND I WANT MY FOOD NOW!"
"If you say so," Harry said, piling some raw eggs and sausages onto a plate. "Here you go," he said, bowing his head 'respectfully'. In actuality, he just didn't want to laugh at Dudley's misfortune.
"We want food too, freak!" Vernon shouted.
"Come right up," Harry said, piling a lot more raw eggs, sausages, and bacon onto another plate. "I'll be cooking more, in case you need it," he said. He needed an excuse, so he can finish cooking some for himself.
Petunia smirked. "Food for me too, freak."
We'll see who's smirking after this, Harry thought. He purposely dumped the raw eggs and sausages onto an unwashed plate. I don't like this, but if they want to rush me... why not?
"Ah," Petunia said when Harry refuses to look at her eyes. She turned away, muttering to herself,"If only dear Lily knew her place-"
"Don't talk about the freak's parents!" Vernon shouted.
"Right, right," Petunia said, dropping her eyes, refusing to look at Vernon or Harry.
"Make some toast for yourself," Vernon said, looking at Harry. "You can eat some of the burnt eggs and sausages."
Harry nods, attempting to look glum. The food wasn't burnt at all, but he was sure that his aunt and uncle wouldn't notice. He dumped enough of the food onto the plate for him to eat, chewing slowly. So his mother was called Lily...
Dudley ran out to the gifts, tearing each one open. "Look! A new whiteboard and a new marker!"
He had the perfect idea, and he had Matilda to thank.
June 30, 1991 in the Dursley Residence:
Harry made sure that he was in the cupboard while the rest of his dysfunctional family was watching the telly so that they couldn't blame him for whatever was going to happen next. He closed his eyes as he lied down on his cot, making sure that he could envision the living room properly.
Unbeknownst to the Dursleys, a whiteboard and a marker began rustling in the pile of gifts Dudley had thrown away. It rose up and slowly floated in front of the television.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Petunia screamed.
"WHAT? HOW!?" Vernon shouted.
The marker uncapped itself, the cap falling to the ground with a thud. The television in the background quickly turned off.
The marker began writing immediately. A D... An E... An A... An R...
DEAR PETUNIA
The marker then indented. Petunia looked ready to faint, and her hand was on her chest.
THIS IS LILY POTTER
Petunia screamed again.
I AM WRITING TO LET YOU KNOW
THAT I HAVE BEEN WATCHING
YOUR TREATMENT OF MY SON
IS UNACCEPTABLE. IF YOU CONTINUE
I WILL COME BACK
I WILL FIND YOU
Just then, Harry realized that there was no more room to write. Oh well...
The board swooped closer to Petunia, nearly missing her head as it flew past, prompting another scream from Petunia, whose eyes rolled up into her head. She fell backwards and fainted. The board returned to the pile of gifts, and an eraser worked quickly to erase everything that had just been written.
"I know it was the freak," Vernon growled. "There is no such thing as ghosts."
"Harry wasn't with us, though," Dudley muttered, trying to think for once.
Vernon paused. "I suppose you might have a point. We'll wait for Petunia to wake up."
"O-oh my gosh," Petunia gasped, waking up. "N-nooo!"
"What?" Vernon asked, looking at Petunia worriedly.
"Vernon, we have to treat Harry better," Petunia said immediately. "O-or L-lily... she'll come for us!"
"What?"
"Vernon, we have to-"
"I heard what you said, but I'm fairly certain that this is the doing of the freak."
"N-no, Vernon. In t-t-their world, t-the freaks have actual ghosts!"
"W-what?"
"V-vernon, this just won't do. We'll have to treat him better."
"O-okay."
The next day, Harry found that he was being moved to Dudley's second bedroom. The Dursleys left him alone now, too, letting him do whatever he wanted to do.
"The boy is going to the... the freaky school, Vernon," Petunia said. "No question about sending him to Stonewall High. Do you want to see him everyday? It's not a boarding school, after all."
Vernon quickly shook his head. "No, no, he's going with the freaks."
Harry came out of his cupboard. "What happened?"
"The letter should be arriving soon," Petunia said, ignoring Harry.
"Hey, that reminds me," Vernon said. "Someone should get the mail. Dudley!?"
"Make Harry get it."
"Harry?"
"Make Dudley get it."
"Dudley!"
"Make Harry get it."
"Harry!"
"Make Dudley get it."
"Harry, you're getting it."
"Fine..." Harry muttered, walking off to get the mail. Thumbing through it, he found- "My very own letter!" Harry exclaimed. "How wonderful! Let me show my uncle and aunt."
Uncle Vernon had paled, and Aunt Petunia had whimpered.
"It's for the best," Vernon said to Petunia. "We don't want him here with us for much longer. Maybe his f-freaky school will keep him away."
The two easily agreed to Harry going to Hogwarts.
Harry pushed his trolley round and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.
He started to walk towards it. People jostled him on their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into that ticket box and then he'd be in trouble – leaning forward on his trolley he broke into a heavy run – the barrier was coming nearer and nearer – he wouldn't be able to stop – the trolley was out of control – he was a foot away – he closed his eyes ready for the crash –
It didn't come … he kept on running … he opened his eyes.
A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, 11 o'clock. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the ticket box had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. He had done it.
Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every colour wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to each other in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.
The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed his trolley off down the platform in search of an empty seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, "Gran, I've lost my toad again."
"Oh, Neville," he heard the old woman sigh.
A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.
"Give us a look, Lee, go on."
The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.
Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first and then levitated the trunk up.
"What just happened here?" one of the red-haired twins he'd followed through the ticket box asked. "We were going to offer help, but it seems like you don't need it!"
"Uh... thanks?" said Harry.
"What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry's lightning scar.
"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you –?"
"He is," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.
"What?" said Harry.
"Harry Potter," chorused the twins.
"Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am."
The two boys gawked at him and Harry felt himself going red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating in through the train's open door.
"Fred? George? Are you there?"
"Coming, Mum."
With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.
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