A/N: We have yet another revision of chapter one...This one, I feel, is far better than all previous ones thankfully. Enjoy the story!

Purpose

Chapter One

July 2nd

The sun shone bright from the sky over Little Whining that summer, much like the one before it. The water was being rationed once again, and every image conscious man and woman in the neighborhood of Privet Drive was doing their best to get around the problem and keep their browning lawns and wilting gardens in tip-top shape. In the noon of the day, housewives every where threw open their curtains to let in the sun, but didn't dare open the windows lest all the cool air rush out, wasted.

In Number 4, Harry Potter was tacking a ratty, folded old sheet over his window to keep the harsh light out. Aunt Petunia's sheer curtains that looked quite delicate and proper from the front lawn of the house did nothing to keep the sun from reaching him. The light of the sun hurt his eyes, and really, it was too cheerful for him to deal with at the moment. He was in no mood for cheer.

It seemed to Harry, on that bright second day of summer vacation, that there was no way he could win. If he wasn't watching Sirius fall through the veil, lost forever, he was watching his friends being hurt. Over, and over, and over again he watched as he and his friends rushed to the department of mysteries, and were attacked. They fought back, and Harry was heartened to know that they had been matches for so many full grown Death Eaters, but it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough later when Voldemort gave up on his covert missions and started attacking outright and with full force. What if he attacked Diagon Alley? Would they be able to defend themselves and others? Would any of them survive?

The scenes played out before his minds eye like a movie. He watched as the Order arrived and joined the fray, as the sphere broke and the ghostly Dumbledore whispered the prophecy too low for anyone to hear above the sounds of battle, and as Sirius fell through the veil, pushed by a spell that wouldn't have killed him otherwise, and Harry cursed the one who had sent his godfather beyond the dais in an irreversible display of righteous anger and fledgling hate. Harry skipped those parts as often as he could unable to cope with the shame that coursed through him at every hastily made decision. What he watched most, was Dumbledore -- Dumbledore and Tom Riddle, and how they had dueled. Both men, at least half a century older than Harry each, moved with such speed and fluidity as to be called inhuman.

Harry couldn't do that. The magic they had used, he could and would learn. He would take the library the way Hermione did, and he would research curses and jinxes and hexes until he thought he had a decent amount of knowledge, but physical fitness and reflexes weren't taught in books and Harry didn't have them anymore. But he had once. Ages ago it seemed, Harry had flown down the streets and alleys of Little Whining as though there were wings on his heels. Then it hadn't seemed to be at all useful beyond getting him away from Dudley and his band of merry bullies, but now…those wings wouldn't just save him from a few bruises and broken glasses, they could save his life.

Dudley wouldn't chase for long, he knew, but Piers was on the track team at Smeltings or so it was said. The other boy was always boasting of some competition he had won, some race he ran. He would give chase. Hell, he might even consider it his own type of training. Harry thoroughly intended to make himself as good on the ground as he was in the air. If he managed it and Piers could keep up Polkiss was sure to smoke the other runners at his next meet.

Might even do Duddikins some good, Harry thought. It would get him exercising after all, and that could only be for the best. As the plan solidified itself in his mind Harry leaned his head against the cool glass of his window. First, though, he was going to get a good layout of the area again and build up his speed and stamina. Piers had a decent right hook and Dudley was an up-and-coming junior boxing champion, no matter the jokes Harry made. It wouldn't do to get caught.

I'll start running tonight, he decided. Then tomorrow morning and by next week I'll have Dud and Piers chasing me.

July 8th

Mark had been minding his own business as usual when Big D and his cronies happened upon him. Mark was small at eleven years old, a late bloomer according to his mother who insisted his dad had been much the same, and living in a 'broken home' with his parents divorced. This made him a prime target for ridicule in Little Whining's prime piece of suburbia where unhappy couples suffered in silence. He was a favorite of Dudley, Piers, and Gordon, who had been forced to abandon their afternoon of rock chucking with the hovering presence of the local police. They were eager to take advantage of the young boy's solitude. However, none of them realized that Harry Potter was sitting in the tree Mark happened to be reading under at the time.

Harry ran a hand through his hair as he tried to dispel nightmare visions from his mind. He had received almost no sleep the night before and only just finished his run when he'd hidden himself away in the oak tree that would someday grow to dominate the southern end of the park. He noted Mark Evans' arrival with little interest, finding the dead branch dangling above his head more entertaining. It seemed the wind and rain of the winter hadn't been enough to disentangle it from the other living branches, and Harry busied himself with doing so. Then Dudley appeared, and he saw his opportunity. He knew his way around Little Whining quite well now, meaning it was time to start the second phase of his plan. Become the mouse. Grinning, he jumped branch in hand, and landed between his cousin and the pig's new favorite punching bag.

"Potter! You freak, get the fuck out of my way!" Big D roared though his face didn't seem to hold as much power as it usually did. Mark began inching his way around the tree trunk at this point, Potter didn't look quite right and Big D didn't look quite so terrifying, but he was not about to let such a fortunate distraction pass him by merely to see Dudley Dursley tipping on his pedestal. Harry was grinning oddly and tossing a branch from hand to hand in a confident, nearly arrogantly pleased manner. Mark was plenty happy to let continue.

"I don't think so Dudley. You see, you invaded my space," he began amiably. "I was sitting all nice and normally up in this tree. Evans was alright, he wasn't doing anything, but you--you came waddling up, apparently prepared to give an eleven-year-old kid quite a beating. I remember them, you know. I can only imagine they're much worse these days. You are a lot bigger now." He smirked rather nastily now, and added: "Dropped the diet I guess. It's just as well, it hadn't done any good; you still take up one side of the table on your own."

Mark watched how Harry dealt with his cousin as he slowly inched away, and couldn't really understand why the older boy was taunting the much bigger one. Branch or not, Harry didn't appear to be very strong, not to mention the fact that he was out numbered. Mark certainly wasn't going to join in.

"Why you--!" Dudley fumed, making a fist at his side.

"Ah, ah, ah Dudley," the possibly insane boy said calmly as he tapped his cousins hand with the branch. "Wouldn't want me to retaliate would you?"

Dudley paled, and Mark edged farther away now more than a tiny bit wary of his 'savior'.

"Y-you can't do any of that," Dudley said, his voice raising in pitch. "You'll get expelled."

Potter laughed. "Dudley, I wouldn't be expelled for giving you a few good whacks with a branch I found in the tree." Mark had never been absolutely certain when it came to the Potter boy. He had never really seemed to be unstable -- a bit antisocial, maybe, but many teenagers were, weren't they? However, when he actually did whack his cousin in the shoulder with the branch, Mark could only think him mad and possibly suicidal to boot.

Gordon moved to grab the Potter boy and Mark bolted. So did Harry.

And so now they were running. Mark had not been able to shake any of them loose; he seemed to go just where Harry went no matter what he did. He had been tiring for some time when his companion jerked him to the side and nearly threw him down behind some trash cans at the end of the alley way and clamped at hand over his mouth.

Harry watched Piers and Gordon rush by, followed distantly by a loudly huffing Dudley. Once he was sure of their safety, he let go of the younger boy and slumped against the brick wall grimly pleased with the ache in his chest whenever he took a breath.

"Sorry about that," he said between gasps for air. Mark only nodded as he gaped for air and relief. A moment later he asked.

"Why did you do that?"

"What? Make them chase us?"

"You mean you wanted them to do that?" Mark asked incredulously (he'd have yelled it but couldn't summon the energy). Harry Potter was most definitely insane.

"Yeah… Sorry you got…dragged along… I forgot you were there."

"Why do you want…them to chase you?"

There must have been some sort of explanation, nobody was that insane. Nobody who knew Big D and his reputation anyway, and Harry certainly did. He was apart of it, really. Stories of what the local gang used to do to Harry Potter as children circulated the neighborhood as cautionary tales, and explanations to the small boy's strange behavior and criminal activity. There was talk of punches, broken glasses, bloody noses, swirlies, and ruined homework, eating dirt and other things, Indian burns, purple-nerples, and a vast array of equally unpleasant things. Nobody wanted to be a young Harry, and nobody wanted to know what Dudley and his friends were capable of with more refined tastes for cruelty and wider views of the genres of evil. They were almost adults now, and adults always knew how to make things more painful.

Harry shrugged, and Mark considered his suspicions and those of the rest of the neighborhood confirmed. Harry Potter was indeed insane.

"To see if I could out run him," he said as if it were incredibly obvious.

"You are insane. And a masochist."

The Potter boy laughed. "Maybe," he said, "Maybe."

Mark stood up, brushed off his pants and said, "I hope I don't see you again" as he walked off. When he looked back he saw Harry propped up against the alley wall, eyes closed, and grinning in an oddly self-satisfied manner. Mark walked faster.

Harry sighed as he slid to his side in the alley and laughed as he rolled to his back. The run had felt good, better than the other runs he'd made over the past three days on his own. His legs ached and would undoubtedly get worse with the coming of night, and his lungs burned, but Harry felt wonderful. Maybe Snape was right. He was a reckless Gryffindor indeed, provoking his cousin like he was, but he also thought that Snape might actually be less insulting if it were ever brought up on account of the reason. Harry Potter was no longer sitting on his ass and waiting for his impending doom at the hands of an excessively powerful, psychopathic megalomaniac. He was preparing himself for a fight. He took quite a bit of pleasure in that.

The runs continued, and Mark was thankful he was seldom a part of them; although there were a few in which he participated, he mostly got glimpses of the chases or run right by. In his free time, though, the young boy pondered the all important question: why? Why in the name of all that was Holy would Harry Potter, a skinny, underdeveloped boy at best, want the large, beefy, up and coming boxing champion chasing him almost every day. The small boy had gotten caught a number of times while Mark watched and once or twice he got away, but either way it was never pretty. He was always sporting at least one good shiner.

It was nearly a week later when the questions tugging at the back of his mind finally got the better of him and he could think of nothing else. He need answers! For the sake of his sanity he needed answers to the damnable questions. Unfortunately the only way to get those answers was to ask Harry. That he did not want to do.

Harry Potter is insane, to put it simply. But those QUESTIONS!

July 13th

It would be best he thought, after intense consideration, to confront any mentally unstable persons in an open space, where cover and running room are abundant. Mark did not want to chance Harry freaking out and mauling him when he had no means of escape. He found the black haired boy in the park, sitting near the bushes with a paper bag-covered book in his lap and a piece of paper and a pen lying next to him on the grass. Mark watched nervously and gulped. Who knew what book that was, after all (a Step-by-Step Guide to Killing Young Boys and Getting Away with It seemed likely).

Harry heard Mark walk up and stiffened, hand poised above the yellow legal pad next to him. Glancing at the younger boy out of the corner of his eye, he wrote a word, then flipped to a fresh page to hide what he had been taking notes on, and got ready to shut the book. It wouldn't do to have anyone question his school books, and a book on potions (or, more specifically, poisons) would raise a lot of questions.

"Can I help you?" he asked warily. Mark had made a point of avoiding him since they had first been chased that day just over a week ago now, and it was more than a bit odd that he was now staring at him so unashamedly, however terrified he may seem. The change was unsettling.

However, the younger boy never got the chance to answer Harry's question as they were interrupted by the screech of an owl and the letter that fell between them. Mark was of course entirely confused and only stared at the letter in amazement, but Harry lunged for the odd, yellowish envelope without so much as a second thought. He'd nearly torn into it before he noticed that it was not his name on the front.

Instead of Mr. H. Potter the green ink clearly stated Mr. M. Evans.

Harry blinked in shock a few times and turned to his companion, who had apparently made inching away from 'danger' – something Harry had never seen the point in (if you had a chance to get away unseen, best to take it quick) -- a habit.

"Your name's Evans, right?" he asked with a small smile on his face. He knew the answer of course, but the kid was so terrified and Harry was far too tired to really care that he was causing such a reaction that he was compelled to have his little joke for stress relief. The younger boy nodded slowly and took another step back. He jumped and shivered in fear when Harry took two large steps toward him and put a hand on his shoulder and laughed.

"Congratulations," he said with a chuckle as he handed over the letter. "I hope you'll come, you'll have a wonderful time, I promise."

The nearly-sixteen-year-old's grin couldn't have been any wider really; nor any creepier, and Mark's eyes widened slightly in fear as the envelope was shoved into his hands. What gastly thing was it that could make Harry Potter laugh and be cheerful? Potter walked away, taking his paper and book with him, but not before gazing into the trees and telling the owl perched there that it would be better if it just waited at the house, as the smaller boy didn't have any paper with him and that it was likely to be a while before a reply was written anyway. The owl hooted in answer and flew off down the street. Once the eleven year old was alone, he sighed, visibly relaxed, and looked at the letter. It was addressed:

Mr. M. Evans

The Third Bedroom

8 Wisteria Lane

Little Whining

Surry

With a growing curiosity (How in Hell had they known which bedroom was his? And who was 'they' anyway? And let's not forget the owl that clearly understood what Potter had been saying to it.) he turned over the strange envelope, spared the ornate wax seal a momentary glace before breaking it, and took out his letter.

It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever read. Him? A wizard? Wizards didn't exist, and even if they did he'd never been anything special. If he were a wizard he should be able to keep away from Big D and his gang with out any trouble at all. If he had the power he'd turn them all into toads!

It was a strange letter no doubt and Mark was very tempted to rip it up and throw it in the nearest trash bin, but something was bothering him about it (owls that understood English…). Harry Potter had known what it was at a glance apparently. Why else say what he said? And he had obviously thought the letter was for him at first what with the way he dived for it, almost as if he didn't want anyone to see it. Perhaps he was playing a joke on him? With a sigh Mark yet again, resigned himself to a conversation with the neighborhood mad man. It was just as well, he thought. After all he hadn't actually gotten around to asking his first question.

Slowly at first, but with quickly gaining confidence, Mark followed Harry to the boy's own back yard. It was sickeningly bland, he thought, and detested the thought of entering without being invited, but the nagging feeling in the back of his mind just wouldn't go away, not with such little reason, and absolutely no answers. All he really wanted was the answer to one 'yes or no' question and he could go home. The others could wait for a while.

At first he didn't see the boy although he was certain this was the house, and he was about to turn around and go look elsewhere when he spotted the two legs protruding from a hydrangea bush. Mark walked slowly in an attempt to make as little noise as possible, but stepped on a twig about two feet from the plant. Harry didn't move, but Mark figured his cover had been blown and walked into view. Harry was reading again, or had been before he been alerted that he wasn't alone (or so the younger boy thought. Really he was waiting for someone to either start throwing curses or apparate away, as the crack of the twig was off schedule.). Now he was glaring, straight ahead at nothing, over the top of the book. When he saw that the other boy was back again, he smirked and put down the book, but did nothing to hide what he had been writing about.

Mark gulped, took a shuttering breath, and held out his letter.

"You know what this is." It wasn't a question. Potter's smirk turned into a grin.

"I know," he said. "Are you going to go?"

Mark looked at him skeptically. "It doesn't exist," he said defiantly.

"Sure it does," said Harry, "I go there. I can tell you all about it, I could show you my uniform, I could show you my books, I could tell you about the teachers, everything." He stood up and grinned.

"I could tell you how Hogwarts will keep Dudley away."

That got Mark's undivided attention.

"Show me."

Harry smirked. Somehow the thought of explaining Hogwarts and all its eccentricities enthralled him, and he wasted little time in sneaking the younger boy into his room with the help of the invisibility cloak stuffed into the cargo pocket of his pants. Once inside the tiny room, Harry kicked aside a few of Dudley's old toys that littered the floor and knelt before his trunk at the foot of the bed, smiling almost manically as the door was shut quietly behind him, and Mark nervously removed the cloak.

"So," he began, attempting to make conversation and fight the uneasy feeling that had consumed him. "This is your room?"

He was going to end up chopped into little pieces and stuffed into the walls for coming up here, he just knew it. The room looked like it belonged to a mad man. It was tiny, with barely enough room for the rickety bed, desk, and wardrobe it contained. The window had an old sheet nailed over it to keep the light out, casting the room into ominous darkness, and making the desk lamp the only source of light. Harry jumped up and switched that on irritably after a few seconds and then returned to digging books out of his trunk. The light illuminated the broken toys scattered across the floor and the jumbled mass of papers that hid the desktop from view. Hidden on top of or half under those papers were feathers –quills instead of pens and pencils, and little jars of what Mark was sure was ink. There were papers tacked to the wardrobe and the walls filled with doodles or scribbles that the young boy didn't try to decipher, and a book shelf full of dusty books.

"Hardly. This is Duddy-kin's second bedroom, which I am given the pleasure of occupying over every summer," Harry chuckled, whether at the boy's nervousness or out of sarcasm he didn't know, just as he did not know why he was so deliriously happy to have him here.

Arms full, Harry turned around.

"School books," he said, as an explanation and awkwardly held up his arm, trying not to drop the aforementioned books. "But this is a wand."

Mark looked distinctly unsettled. Harry furrowed his eyebrows, trying to remember what it was Hagrid had said to him five years ago.

"Er……ever have anything really strange happen around you, for no reason?" he asked. As Mark appeared to remember something, Harry decided to share some of his early magical experiences.

"I shrank a sweater once so I wouldn't have to wear it," he began. "It was the ugliest thing in the world. Well, the ugliest sweater, anyway," he added thinking of the dementors and mermaids. Both had been quite a bit uglier than the sweater.

"I think I floated the Christmas presents out of the closet once," Mark offered.

"Well, there you go!"

"So…do you need the wand to do magic?" Mark asked floundering now, at the prospect of magic being real. "Or does this school place just teach you how to control it?"

Harry nearly said that you had to have a wand but paused. Did they really need the wand to do magic? Every magical child did accidental magic. Was it at all possible to control that? He had always used a wand though, and nobody had ever mentioned doing magic without one before. Perhaps it was impossible. That didn't seem right though. The word, impossible, just didn't go with magic. At one point, he would have said that being immortal was impossible, but Nicolas Flamel seemed to manage just fine. And then there was Harry himself. Surviving the killing curse was said to be impossible, but here he was trying to convince an eleven year old boy that magic was real.

"I think," he began slowly, "that you need the wand, but suddenly I'm not so sure…Never really thought about it."

"You think?" asked Mark. If Harry had been in school for a few years, shouldn't he know if it were possible?

"Well, I've always used a wand," Harry explained. "In fact, I've never even heard of anyone doing wandless magic, but if we do it accidentally I would think we could do it on purpose…Anyway! At Hogwarts you do magic with a wand, except for in Potions, Astronomy, and Herbology."

"You study Astronomy? What for?" That honestly didn't seem like a magic subject.

"Er…so you know what stars are where and how to identify what stage the moon is in and the alignment of the planets and stuff. It can be useful in potions and rituals, I guess."

"Potions?"

And so the conversation went, for another two hours. The two covered the basic subjects and well as electives, exams, teachers, quidditch, and house rivalries. They touched on Harry's friends and his own past and personal experiences, which Mark took with a grain of salt, still not convinced that Harry Potter wasn't entirely insane despite magic being real. When he left (escorted to the back gate underneath the invisibility cloak once again) he took with him all of Harry's first year text books to show to his mother.

Harry spent the rest of the night pondering the mystery of wandless magic. Eventually deciding that it was at least worth a try, but getting virtually no where even after three hours of solid concentration. He fell asleep, exhausted and nightmare free to his great pleasure. Even dodging his bulbous cousin everyday and reviewing his old textbooks couldn't tire or distract him enough to keep Sirius from falling through the veil again most nights, or save his friends from some horrific imagined fate.

July 14th

The next day Harry was amazed to find himself adding acrobatics to his game of chase. He hadn't known he could do things like that, but vowed to try it more often. Dudley and Peirs had, for the first time, enlisted their entire gang into their Harry Hunting, and had managed to herd him into a back alley that dead ended with a brick wall maybe eight feet tall. Luckily, Harry had gotten a good feel for the layout of Little Whining, and had known where he was being lead before even turning the corner. Even luckier, the alley was long, and he had time to gather his speed and put some distance between himself and the others before jumping for the wall. He ran up the wall.

Granted it was only two or three steps and then he was able to grab hold of the top and vault himself the rest of the way, but it was amazing! Once he was sure the others were done for the day he went back to try again.

He tried it from across the street the first time to make sure he had enough running room and made it without trouble. Then he moved to the alley's entrance. Simple. At half way he didn't quite make it. He managed to propel himself most of the way, but fell back down before he could grab the top of the wall, landing on his backside, then rolling back over his shoulder and onto his feet with the momentum, scraping his cheek, bruising his shoulder, back and tailbone, and loosing his glasses in the process.

"Stupid wall," he muttered to himself, rubbing his lowerback. He picked up his glasses off the ground and replaced them before he went halfway back down the alley to try again, working through the sore muscles and abused bones. This time he made it, but had to scramble to get over, where before it had been one fluid motion. Still, pleased with himself, Harry sat on top of the wall for a bit, planning ways to add more of these obstacles to his runs, and grimly pleased that Dudley had brought in the rest of his lackeys. Things were getting too simple anyway.

"I wonder how much it would cost me to get Duddy-kins to teach me to box." He wondered aloud. Probably a lot…in fact it probably wasn't worth the bruises he'd get for being the larger boy's sparring partner, but it was an idea if nothing else.

The rumble of his stomach told Harry it was time to get going. He had not eaten yet today. Groaning, he moved to get up, then paused as another idea struck him. It was possibly as suicidal as the last one, but still…he had just run up a wall three times hadn't he? Surely he could manage without cracking his head open. Grinning, Harry took a good look at the concrete below him. It was clear, all the trash bins were farther down the alley, and there was nothing else there for him to land on except the ground….and his head of course. Carefully, he stood and slipped his glasses into his pants pocket, not wanting to loose them again. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, before he jumped head first, flipping through the air.

He wasn't on his feet long enough to be amazed. His damnable momentum carried him farther and he fell face first, scraping his hands and his chin on the hard ground.

"……..Ow."

Harry lifted himself up and cringed at the sight of the stinging, shredded skin on his hands. Well, at least they weren't bleeding much.