A/N This is my first fic, and you are among my first viewers, so relax, take a seat, enjoy the story. Don't forget to review.
Harry woke up with a start. He jerked up, but was careful not to bang his head upon the low ceiling of his "room". Why did he wake up? Aunt Petunia! He hurried and tried to get untangled from his blankets in a rush. Then he noticed that no light came from the crack under his door. Was it his dream that woke him up? He couldn't remember a dream. While Harry was pondering this, one by one, the street lamps wet out. A figure walked, with as much dignity one could have when wearing a purple and gold pinstripe suit, a baby blue wizard's hat and his long white beard in a plait.
"22, 20, 18…" the old man murmured to himself, knowing he would remember the number once he saw it. He was pretty sure it was even. This was going to be the last scheduled check-up. Harry's 9th birthday. Next year, Hagrid would take him to Hogwarts. The boy would enjoy the perks of being famous, while avoiding the downsides as he was brought up in humility. Ah, this was it, number 4. As he disillusioned himself and conjured a ladder to the boy's bedroom, Dumbledore chuckled to himself. If this boy was anything like his mother, he would be a genius, if he was anything like his father, he would be charismatic – but if he were a combination of the two, this boy go on to do amazing things.
As he was listening to the sounds of Dudley's video games upstairs, Harry felt something. Not the spiders he was accustomed to, nor the scratchiness of his blanket, it wasn't the draft of the front door opening, Harry it was inside of him. Something that resonated with his very core. Something he hadn't felt for a long time. He ached in remembrance of his punishment. He shuddered. He wasn't going through that. Not again. Not ever. He need to stop it. He reached out, with his mind, to where he thought the resonance came from and tried to figure out a way to end it.
Albus looked into the room. Maybe humility wasn't the right word. Judging by the amount of toys scattered about the floor and the tenyvision on with the boy in front of it. At least he thought that was what Arthur said. The boy was more ob- well fed – than Albus had thought. With his rounded cheeks, his rounded belly, well, let's just say the boy was well-rounded. Albus almost chuckled at his own joke. On closer inspection, the boy looked a lot like his uncle, minus the faterpiller upon his lips. Albus enjoyed making up words. His invisible eyes widened. This was not the boy. This was his cousin. What was the cousin doing in his room? He glanced upon the bed.
The bed had a lump in it. Was Harry asleep? If so, why was his cousin making so much noise in his room? He examined the lump. In the flickering light of the game, he could see that it had sharp edges, much unlike that of a human. Those were toy boxes in the bed. The bad wasn't even made. He flicked back through his memories. Was it always this way? Was he so blind that he only saw what he wanted to see?
Albus involuntarily shuddered as he was hit by a shock of cold. He looked at his hands. His disillusionment had faded. How? He glanced back into the room, and was met with a pair of wide staring orbs. Dudley screamed.
Harry heard Dudley's yell and knew immediately that he'd be in trouble. He searched for anything he could have missed. There. He sensed it this one was fainter than the other one. He reached out felt out the shape of it and shut it down.
Albus fell. His conjured ladder had disappeared. No, it had been vanished. How was there another magic user in the area? No one should know where he was. If they knew that he was here, they also knew that Harry was. A thumping let him know that the mammoth known as Vernon Dursley had awoken. CRACK!
Orbs of light flew out of his pocket and back into the street lights. Had the fall broken his delumiantor? Was that even possible? He didn't stay to find out. It was time to leave.
He stood up and with a soft 'pop' he was gone.
Vernon Dursley was fuming. His son was terrified out of his wits. A strange man had appeared at his window, out of thin air. He could have passed it off as a dream, or a side effect of playing too many video games late at night. Then he saw with his own eyes. Balls of light floating through the air, to the street lamps, as if by magic. He looked outside, down at the lawn there were three indentations on his perfect lawn. Two were spaced right underneath the window, as if there was a ladder there, and on large one. The size of a person. Yet there was no ladder or person.
He knew who was responsible. The same plague that has disrupted their life for the past eight years. If Vernon was thinking clearly, could do math, or cared, he would realize that it was eight years, to the day.
"BOY!" the shout came, reverberating throughout the house. Harry was shaking. He knew he was in for the beating of a lifetime. He knew this was going to hurt. Hurt a lot. He tried to mentally prepare himself for this, but couldn't.
Uncle Vernon practically ripped the cabinet door off its hinges and yanked Harry out. Harry wished he was dead.
Back at his office, Albus examined the broken deluminator. His mind was on other things, one thing, actually. Harry Potter. He was the boy's guardian for the wizarding world. Some guardian he was. Not being able to differentiate between a pile of boxes and his charge. He knew he had to get on the case, as soon as possible, but he had to wait until the ministry reopen in the morning. He may be Chief Warlock of the Wizengamont, but in this case, he had no power, until a visitation permit was passed for him. Annoying bureaucratic red tape. He would have to send it first to the Public Figures department, then through the Child Protection Department and finally he would have to present his case in a small hearing. At best it could take two months. At its worst the boy could already be in Hogwarts by the tie it gets through.
It had a massive crack down the side and the top half was ben it such a way that there was a hole for the light to escape from. He then turned around on his swivel chair, he really did love some of those muggle inventions, and twisted one of his doohickeys. The doohickey (what a fun word) in question was orb shaped and had a distant top and bottom half. Like many of his little objects scattered around the office, it was silver. He twisted the top half so the rune saying create was now in front.
His desk morphed, for that of an eccentric headmaster's, elegantly designed, wooden, covered with many pieces of paperwork, to that of a methodological inventor, clean, circular, a white stone, with a engraving of a circle with nine lines criss-crossing it forming a nine-pointed star. He put on his goggles, and threw his beard over his shoulder, because safety first. He carefully placed the remains of the deluminator within the nine point safety seal. He then activated the shield circle, which began glowing with a faint blue tint, to prevent flying debris from hitting him. It had saved his life probably more than once. Particularly when working with dragon blood. Volatile stuff that.
He pressed upon the third ruin from his left. A safety precaution, removing all magic from the object. He was surprised when it immediately turned green. None of the nine lines flowed with any magic. How was there no magic in the object? That should not be possible. He deactivated the shield circle, and was about to examine his runes when he noticed something.
One of his doohickeys was spitting out a stream of steam. This was normal. What wasn't was the fact that it was red. Harry Potter was in danger. Screw bureaucrats, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was on a warpath.
A glistening green beetle flitted around number 4 Privet Drive. She wondered why Dumbledore was there. Earlier that week, she posted a claim that the man was – well let's say he batted for the other team, and he did not refute it. Some said that he confirmed it. She was hoping to find some dirt on who he was in bed with. She was not surprised to find herself in a muggle neighbourhood, he was a muggle-lover, and this just made it literal. But Dumbledore peeking on at children at night? Ooooh, was that a good story.
Rita, though decided to stick around a little longer. See what there was to see. The father of the child (she could really see the resemblance) then stormed downstairs, yanked open a cupboard, and a small black–haired boy was pulled out. She flew in through the open window and down the stairs. There, being beaten by a muggle was none other than Harry Potter.
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