AN:
Hello, everybody. This is my first crazy story that I will be posting on this new account. It is a bit experimental and I didn't research any further than Wikipedia. There are some unrealistic bits in here but I overlook those for other authors so I hope you will do the sam fore me. Please review, favourite, and all that jazz. Constructive criticism is appreciated, nice reviews are cherished, and flames keep the fire going. I hope that you enjoy this.
Preface
I could feel it, once. I felt the pain, I felt the hurt. I felt the longing and desire for something more... then I turned two. They were determined to beat any sense of hope out of me, they were determined to maim me as much as possible. I learned quickly to not cry out as I was not a stupid child. I had a sense of self-preservation, thank-you-very-much.
Little by little, the feeling slipped away. I never felt when he hit me, I was never affected by her harsh words. I was three when I felt pain for the last time; she had hit me in the head with a hot iron skillet and, upon reaching a state of semi-lucidity, he had beaten me for not doing my day's chores. It was that day that I shut it out, the pain. Physical, emotional, whatever. I just didn't care. I can't feel pain even if I want to, now. Trust me, I've tried.
Nobody even noticed that anything was wrong until early in second grade. I rarely spoke or showed emotion; none of those juvenile idiots were worth it to me. Anyway, I was on my way to music class, going from the first floor to the ground floor of the primary school. Lost in my own thoughts, the morbidly obese whale I was forced to call my cousin and his gang of brainwashed followers shoved past me. I was at the top of the stairs. Teetering for a split second, my balance lost the battle with gravity and I found myself careening down the stairs. It was quite fun, really, like a bumpy slide. Head over heals over head over heals. I landed with a pleasant-sounding snapping sound like a branch breaking off a tree in winter.
"Oh, I'm late for class." I shrugged. Picking myself up, I walked on to class. I saw that my foot was backwards somehow and I knew what it meant but it didn't matter. It was interesting, fascinating.
"Where on earth have you been?" the music teacher demanded as I entered the room.
"Oh, I fell down the stairs. It was fun; you should try it." I answered. The teacher's eyes shot in my direction.
"Oh my god, Miss Potter, your foot..." she trailed off.
"It's okay," I had shrugged, "I can't feel a thing. Isn't it just fascinating? The snapping sound that the bone makes?" The teacher looked rather green around the gills. This was fun.
That was the day that they bothered to realise something was wrong with me. They took me to a hospital, set my bone, ran some tests. They said I had Anti-Social Personality Disorder, I didn't care. They said I would never feel pain, I didn't care either. The hospital fascinated me, there was always so much going on.
A few months later, they sent me off to an orphanage. I hated it there; the children were just as stupid as the ones in Little Whinging; and to think that I was certain that their stupidity resulted from some chemical toxin. I guess that all kids were stupid. I breezed through my classes, bored as all hell. I hated the dumb kids and patronising adults.
At the end of second grade, they set up an aptitude test for me. They wanted to see just what I could comprehend. It was boring and elementary; I had been able to understand these concepts since shortly after my arrival at the hell called Privet Drive. I finished tests that they said were junior and senior high level, they were nearly as easy. They called me a prodigy, especially in the sciences. By my eighth birthday, they sent me off to the United States so I could attend a program for the "exceptionally gifted" like me.
I majored in forensic anthropology and genetics. They fascinated me. I also minored in criminal justice, mythology, and ancient languages. I got my PHD's at twelve but I was working even before that. While I was doing all that, I also studied what they called magic. I could remember it from when I was young, when I had parents. It was a fascinating field of study. They called it magic but, according to recent tests and discoveries, it was most likely a form of molecular manipulation and construction. I had a theory that a specific gene or chromosome was responsible for the ability to manipulate the energy around oneself.
I had taken supplementary classes at the Franklin Academy of Magical Sciences in Washington, DC. I was turning fourteen and would be taking classes equivalent to that of seventh year and beyond at a school like Hogwarts. I specialised in potions, arithmancy, and runes and was working towards my mastery in all three. It was the summer of my fourteenth birthday when my past finally caught up with me.