AN: normal disclaimer so yeah. Not being racist, Islamic green is a type of green according to Wikipedia.
TITLE: The Right of a Fellow Wulfric
PARINGS: undecided, will leave it up to you
Justice?—You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law. Or in his case, you have luck. Islamic green eyes never strayed from the burly hands in front of him and-Damn it! He ducked once again, curling his body onto himself, and dropping into a roll between the thick legs of his uncle. If there was justice, his family would have upped and died already. And if the law was as full proof as the government made it out to be, his family would have been locked away a long time ago. Personally, he liked justice better than the law. More spiteful that way.
"Boy! Get your freakishness over here!" like he gave a shit about what Uncle Vernon wanted, he was more concerned about getting to his cupboard then out of the damn prison he was 'lucky' enough to call home. He felt something wrap around his foot, the thick warm flesh clamped around his ankle and pulled, making him fall onto his stomach. His body smacked the floor with a crack, no doubt one of his ribs was at least fractured. He looked behind himself and sure enough his baby whale of a cousin Dudley had his thick meaty hand wrapped completely around his ankle.
"Obese whale of a son of a bitch! Your what? Seven and already weighing 100 pounds?" he wouldn't live through the night if he didn't get out of here and if he was going down, he was going down telling the truth. Even if he only roughly understood the words he just said. It meant fat son of an evil person right? Oh well.
"Why you lying piece of shit! Get back here!" now his aunt was in on it, trying to hit him with a frying pan while Dudley just sat and cried, telling his dad to "Get him! He's mean! Get the wor-worthwess freak!" even as Harry was running for his life he couldn't believe the stupidity of his own blood.
Throwing himself into the already open cupboard, he grabbed his two books and picture, and feinted right at his uncle who stood a few feet away from his cupboard. Watching the fat man dive at air, he rushed towards the door, his aunt hot on his heels.
Swinging and thrusting the pan around like a dancing partner, the menacing thing got closer to the back of his head. Fear and adrenaline and something else, boosted his running, propelling himself out the door, he landed on his arse at the edge of the driveway. Not questioning why, he turned around to see a purple-faced Vernon pushing past and equally mad Petunia to get him. Not hesitating, he turned around and ran down the sidewalk, getting as far away from the white number four-privet drive.
Fatigue slowed down his racing feet, bringing it to a jog. The pumping of his heart was a physical pressure in his head, furiously beating. He didn't have to check his pulse, he knew it was perfectly in tune with the throbbing. He looked back once more to see if he was in the clear. When the farthest house he could make out was 18-privet drive, number four nowhere in sight, the tension in his shoulders dropped.
Heaving a sigh of relief, he stopped and hunched over, hands covering his kneecaps, he gasped in air. His legs wiggled and trembled, tingly all over until he wasn't standing anymore, but sitting on the hard cool pavement. He didn't even register the pain from his backside, the reality of what he just did sunk in, and he was laughing, high and low, hurt crazy laughs to joy filled sobs, tears fell down his face, and his laughs stopped being joy filled sobs but sorrow filled sobs, for everything had just truly sunk in, the reality of what his family was, what they thought of him.
He didn't remember how long he sat there cold and alone, wallowing in self-pity, moaning in despair, wanting a true family or at least a friend. Maybe that's why when he was no longer cold but in strong thin arms, he allowed himself to be comforted, why he let this one stranger to see how lonely he truly was.
He felt the person who held him to their chest hum, the soft tune overpowered by his sobs. But the rhythmic beat of the man's heart calmed him and soon he was only hic-upping every few moments. Pressing the back of his hands into his eyes and trying to rub the tears out, he got off the man's lap and stood before the crouching man.
"Sorry. Probably didn't want to see a boy cry." His voice was hoarse from crying and slow from lack of sleep.
"No problem my dear boy, crying is said to help one move on. Not to mention your only maybe seven years old? I know quite a few eleven year olds that still cry."
He looked up into twinkling blue eyes. He felt calmer and almost safe, but a few words had just rubbed him the wrong way.
"Don't call me boy. Just don't. I hate that name. and eleven year olds don't cry, or if they do they don't for the same reason I am."
The twinkling eyes hardened for a moment, he got lost in those eyes, it felt like the man could read his mind, like he knew and was trying to control his reaction to what he now knew.
"I can assure you that eleven year olds probably cry for a lesser reason then you." He just gave a look. "Very well, then, what is your name?" giving a calculating look, as much as a seven year old could give, he answered the question.
"My name's Harry."
The blue eyes pierced his once again.
"Just Harry? What about your last name?" the man inquired softly.
"Look, it's none of your business but I don't know okay? I was never told. They said it was the name of the man who stole her "Ungrateful bitch of a sister. They died in a car crash, they were both drunk alcoholics. You best remember that boy." He said in a perfect high pitch nasal voice, a dead ringer for Aunt Petunia's horse like whine.
The man flat out frowned now, his auburn brows knitting together, wrinkles forming in the oddest places.
"Harry, that is a complete lie. I knew your parents they were very close to me, would you like to come with me, live with me so you'll never have to see those people again?"
He knew not to trust strangers, he honestly did, heck, he was naturally suspicious of people who looked at him when he was kicked out of that place. He was about to say a firm no and run away from the man, but he looked into the honest eyes, and he swore the twinkle got brighter and the notion of living with the man seemed so perfect, so nice, that he couldn't say no. he didn't want to say no when he knew he had to.
For seven years he had been alone. That itself made him a bit cynical and insecure. He was not going in to this without something to guarantee his safety. He learned from the Dursley's about not trusting people.
"Fine. If you tell me my last name and swear not to mistreat me in anyway I see as mistreatment. Deal?" he remembered his own books and the books the people in suits read at the library and talking about a contract. "Wait." He pulled out one of his books and flipped to the back where there usually was blank sheets of paper. Ripping one out, he felt around for the small pencil he always kept in his pocket. Fishing it out, he handed it to the man.
"I want a contract. My exact words and your signature. If it's fake I'll eventually find out. It may not be legal, but the authorities probably will accept it. So write and sign and let me look over it." He was bluffing, he himself didn't put stock into the authorities but that piece of paper would make him feel safer and that was all that mattered to him.
The man placed the paper on the cement and started to write. Soon he had the paper back and after looking it over, everything was right except for the name. who had so many names anyway?
"This cannot be your name." he glared at the man.
"Oh, but it is. Look, I can prove it." And suddenly Harry was looking at a driver's license, proclaiming the man to be Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore. The same entails on the contract matching up to the license.
"I guess your not lying, so take me away. After you tell me my last name." He heaved a sigh and got himself ready for disappointment.
" Your last name is Potter. Did you know you look like you're about to be hanged at the gallows?"
"How am I suppose to know?" he was tired and just wanted to go to bed. So what if he was cranky, he had a long day.
Albus just sighed and pulled out a thin dented metal washer.
"How is that supposed to get us anywhere?" Harry asked, in an disbelieving, pessimistic tone.
"Why it's magic! Here, Harry put to fingers on; yes that's it, a little pressure please lad. Good. Now, brace yourself! CHOCOLATE FROGS."
In the late summer of that year, right in front of number 18 privet drive, a man and a boy disappeared to who knows where. If you ask the Dursley's what happened to their nephew, you will get a sickly sweet smile and your question thrown back at your face. "What nephew?"
It was on that July night that Harry Potter closed his eyes and disappeared. When he opened them again, the sight was of a Scottish castle that looked over a cliff and a pitch black lake.
His life was never the same.
REVIEW. COMON PEOPLE. Pretty please.