Disclaimer: I do not have the magic neccesarry to take J.K. Rowling's form, so I fear that this countinues to be a fan made work.
Authour's note: Thank you so much for trying out this fiction! This is my first fiction so if you find any spelling or formatting mistakes please tell me. Thanks for trying this fiction even though it is in progress!
Please favourite and review
Sometime in the future
The boy is perfect. He was beginning to materialize, specks of dust coming together in the dim light of the empty. My breath caught as I watched the specks connect till a boy lay there, long black hair, silky yet not oily, hung in waves around his face, framing his smooth skin like the sun. His eyelashes were thick and outrageously long for a male, and I was desperate to see the flaming emeralds which I wanted so desperately to put out, mute the flame, turn it to ash. His lips are full, a thin top lip with a delightful curve at the centre that led to a full bottom lip, giving him the expression of pouting. His jawline was sharp and narrow, not squared off as in a more mature masculine way. His neck was long and thin, smooth pale skin covering his flesh with an occasional streak of a grey red that I dream of making that blazing red I see in his memories. My jaw hurts momentary as I stretch my lips upward to surprise him properly and place my thumb and index finger together. It's silly to keep the silence when I have such a lovely body lying before me.
I snap my fingers.
A brilliant streak of green surround a mass of black.
"Good morning love."
Screams pierce the air.
The green thins and the black takes over.
"BOY!"
Eyes snap open, his breath catching suddenly with an onslaught of unnamed emotion. The door, if it could be called that with its petite size, was slammed open by a very large, very unstable blob. It took a moment, but as your eyes became accustomed, or I should say so overwhelmed that they were forced to move on, to the large amounts of flesh that shuddered with every breath and movement of the being, your eyes were able to wander to the top of the round ball of flesh, which narrowed slightly like the tip of an egg and revealed small slits in the flesh, one for the lips, two for the nostrils, and two for the eyes. Each were surrounded by a bit of colour to mark their existence, and all seemed to be melting inward to the flesh, as if the entire face was slowly caving inward. The nose, which didn't at all seem like a nose, was really just two slits, pulsing with the heavy breath that signified the being's anger. The eyes seemed closed in with the bags of flesh that caved over the slit every moment. Finally, if you were able to get past this rather repulsive description of this reality, you would find a slab of dull red hair, its colour matching the skin tone of the flesh, combed and gelled to a blunt point at the front as if this being cared for its appearance.
"WHY ARE YOU NOT UP! PETTY WANTS TO EAT!"
The roar of the voice shook the house, most assuredly waking the neighbors, thought they would never know it was a human who uttered these words at the sheer volume and mispronunciation.
The boy leapt up, his tiny frame, as petite portrays naturality, and his size was definitely not natural, regardless of his age, trembling in surprise and fear at facing the rumbling of the beast. He had long dark hair, a colour that resembled the night sky as it tinted blue in certain lights. He was unbearably pale, even when not compared to the flesh yelling in front of him, and any observer regardless of their psychological state would immediately realize there was something wrong for a child to be tinted such a colour and not be facing an addiction. His face was thin, his neck a stick that led to a slightly thicker twig, then splitting into sections that were as thick as the stick that was a neck again. His face, a sickly narrow shape, was grey tinted as if it never faced the sunlight.
The child's eyes, were, simply put, remarkable. The emerald colour was so variant, it almost stole the observer's eyes from noticing his sickliness. The pupils were large and expanded, showing the child's fear, and the eyelids were stretched open to take in the blob's body. The eyes seemed massive in the child's small face, and would still seem large if the child was matured properly. The eyes were framed by delicate eyelashes, that fluttered slightly with every blink by their sheer length. From there, you would find a small rounded nose, with a long bridge that caused the face shape to seem further stretched out and thin. Small, flushed, lips had a defined cupid's bow and a large curve for the bottom. The child, was fairly put, beautiful, regardless of his frailty and sickliness.
The child, when finally digesting the butchering of the english language that came from the being in front of him, burst out the triangular door of the cupboard, that slanted as the stairs rose. He was in such a rush, that he did not notice the slab of flesh that stuck out from the doorway on the left hand side of the hall, which resulted in the boy falling forward on his face.
A hushed giggle, well hushed for the blob's brood, was heard from the other side of the flesh.
"BOY!"
The child immediately jumped back up and ran onward at the rumble.
The end of the hall opened up to a kitchen painted a sickly baby blue with white trim and granite counters. The walls had pink floral details surrounding the trim that looking without closer inspection like a child's, or I should say one of the blobs that were kept in this house, vomit. The boy burst through the door and immediately ran toward the stove. There was already a pan resting on top, so he turned the stove on and took a package of bacon from the fridge, frying the entire thing, regardless of the small number of inhabitants in the house. He followed the bacon with eggs, toast, fruit, and coffee and orange juice, with milk, tea, and chocolate milk on hand in case one of the feeders became picky. He then set the table and hurried back to his cupboard, sitting inside and shutting the door so it left a crack but still appeared to be fully shut so he would not get in trouble. The shaking of the staircase above the boy was heard and felt and the boy compacted himself into the corner at the rumble as if fearing the stairs would collapse onto him.
When the noise from the kitchen was silent, and the television on, the boy snuck out of the cupboard and tiptoed his way toward the kitchen where he began to clean the disastrous mess left by the animals that lived there. He noticed that Dudley, the blob named Vernon's brood, had left some crusts, so, after looking each direction and being sure that no one was coming, he stuffed his mouth full of the dry bread and swallowed without fully chewing out of fear of one the beings finding him. After cleaning, he looked towards the ridiculously long list of chores that were pinned to the side of the cabinet and the boy knew he would not be eating dinner that night because of the impossibility of a human being able to finish so many chores in only one day. The child was suddenly very relieved he managed to sneak those bread crusts a few minutes ago.
And thus, the boy began his long, tedious, but normal to his standards, day.
s...s
Later that day, when the sun was past setting and the sky was drifting from a grey to a dark black, the boy, who was painting the already spotless white picket fence that surrounded the house, heard a shout from the horse faced lady who for some absurd reason married the blob of flesh previously mentioned, calling for the boy to come in. The child let out a sigh, knowing his fate as he turned and walked toward the door surrounded by warm light.
Upon entering, Petunia, her narrow, ugly, horse like face scowling in distaste, said, "Get to the cupboard. Vernon will deal with you later." The boy flinched and hurried to his cupboard. When he was curled in his corner, and the door shut, he began to think on the day and what will await him when the man gets home. He hoped he wasn't drinking, he was always worse when he drunk. Maybe he just stayed late. His sad hopes and reassurances died down and sounded even more pitiful when the sound of the front door slamming open shook the house.
"Vernon, dear, how abou-"
"BOY!"
The child compacted himself further into the corner at the rumble of the voice, he slowly rocked himself and squeezed his eyes shut as if closing off the the outside world.
"Get out here boy!"
His rocking became more urgent, his body trembling.
And then, the door slammed open.
"Obey me boy!"
The child let out a gasp, his eyes opening, knowing he won't be able to hide from his fate but trying none the less.
"Please Uncle Vernon! I promise i'l-"
The blob let out a roar, interrupting the child's whimpering, and grasped his chubby hands into the cupboard to grab at the child. For a moment, it seemed that the child was safe, the hands won't reach him. But then they managed to fist his shirt and he was dragged out of the cupboard, his forehead slamming into the top of the doorway in the rush.
Vernon held the boy in front of his face, so he was hanging by the fist that held him by the collar, his thin legs dangling in the air.
"DID YOU FINISH!?" his voice boomed
"Please Uncle Vernon, I did 78 please Uncle Ver-"
"78! I gave you 83! YOU DON'T DESERVE THIS ROOF OVER YOUR HEAD! LITTLE BITCH!" The yells continued as he dropped the child to the floor so he landed in a heap, his leg twisted oddly. The blob began to kick him, his yells continuing.
"YOU, YOUR MOTHER, YOUR FATHER, GOOD FOR NOTHING. FREAKS!" Tears gurgled down the child's face, collecting in the pool of blood on the floor, as he passed out with that final word.
March 1991, Harry's eleventh year of existence out of the womb. To clear up any misunderstandings.
The boy awoke with a jerk, his head throbbing unpleasantly with the numb ache drifting through his body. There were no yells, no running footsteps that shook the house, just the slight rumble from Vernon's snores upstairs. The child relaxed momentarily, obviously relieved that he awoke earlier than they have. His body tensed again, however, when he remembered the horrific dream that caused such a thing to happen.
He shook his head, the knots that make up his shoulder length hair shaking around him with the motion, and carefully attempted to kneel, fighting against his trembling body. Just as he managed to get in a kneeling position and slide the first bit forward, he was hit with a dizzy spell, his vision shaking and blurring more than it is naturally, and fell to the side, his head making painful contact with the floor in the process.
His breath caught, his eyes squeezed shut in a desperate prayer that he didn't wake up the creatures up the stairs. He counted to 100, picturing each number at the front of his mind, and then slowly shifted upwards when hearing the silence.
The door, which is locked nightly and, well most every other time as well, just as long as the boy is inside, was, well, locked. The boy was obviously aware of this, he has lived here for ten years after all, and he carefully slid his finger between two boards in the floor and shifted one up slightly. When it opened up enough for his hand to squeeze through, he slithered his hand in, pulling out a thin chopstick. He then slid the stick through the crack within the door, thankful that the lock was so old fashioned, and slid it upward after twisting his hand complicatedly. After a couple attempts, the sound of the metal hitting the wood of the door was heard and the boy let out a sigh of relief.
The boy then pushed the door open in an extremely measured way, and continued to do so until the door was open enough for the child to slide through. The boy, upon being within the hallway, took meticulous, and obviously painful, as you could see from his limp, steps toward the kitchen, where he began his daily routine of making an extravagant breakfast during which he prayed there would be a crust left at the end to restrain his starvation to a point that he knew would not be death.
An hour later, the boy was in his cupboard, ready to slide out when the clutter of metal against glass and obnoxious chewing died down and the telly turned on. When he was sure this was the state, he did so and tip toed his way down the hallway. Just as he was about to make a dash past the resized, done so for their copious amount of fat, door to the living room, he was interrupted by none other than his, loath as I am to call him, uncle.
"Boy! Get me the paper!"
The child trembled momentarily at his voice, but relaxed slightly when he realized the command was possible. He then turned back toward the door to pick up the scattered letters on the floor. He was doing so, just as usual, when he found a yellowed letter of an obviously rich material parchment. It was sealed with an old fashioned red wax symbol, and upon closer observation the child could see that it was split into four sections, each with a creature. The first, a badger, the second, a lion, the third, a raven, and the fourth, a snake. It was done in such meticulous detail that the boy could not help but stand for a moment in admiration. This did not last long, however, as he remembered his uncle was waiting. Regardless, he could not refrain from flipping the letter to search for why someone as repulsive as his uncle would receive such an elegant letter.
This is where his life took a turn from, regardless of how horrific, the normal to the chaotic.
Scratched out in red ink on the fine parchment, in fancy letters that the boy knew as cursive, were these words.
Mr H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Now this was very confusing for the boy, as he was not aware of an H. Potter living in this house, but as he processed the second bit, the very particular address, his confusion heightened.
I live under the stairs!
This obviously may sound silly for you, the reader, as of course this boy lives under the stairs, so therefore he must be H. Potter! But you see, this boy, H. Potter, did not realize that it was at all abnormal to live in such a cramped space and be beaten by your Uncle for not finishing you obnoxiously long list of chores, and thus, he figured it was an address mistake.
Well, obviously I'm not H. Potter, even though I do live under the stairs and at number 4 Privet Drive (which he learned from the other letters' addresses), indeed, my name is boy.
So, the boy did not think anything was out of the normal.
Obviously he was quite wrong.
"BOY! WHAT IS THIS LETTER!"
The voice from the blob of flesh scattered about the couch cushion was much louder than usual, and so, the boy began to shake.
"Uncle Vernon-on please I-"
"DID YOU OPEN THIS LETTER?!"
This was indeed a silly question as it was still sealed with the beautiful red wax crest, but the boy's uncle did not seem the perceptive sort.
"No-o Uncle Vernon, plea-"
"GET! GET TO THE CUPBOARD!"
And so the boy made a mad dash to the cupboard, falling only once which resulted in yet another blue bruise on his face.
Once curled up in his favourite corner, his arms clutching his legs in the darkness, he began to question what was wrong.
It's too early for me to get in trouble for not doing my chores, I don't believe that I messed up breakfast, I didn't sleep in later than usual…
And his list went on.
With no results.
And thus, he continued his life, but never forgetting that beautiful yellowing parchment, and that intricate seal, and of course, the question never really left:
Who was H. Potter?
Even though the answer remained as obvious as it was at first.
Two months later, June, 1991. Harry remains 10, for those who are not as knowledgeable in the Harry Potter fandom.
Mid morning from Harry's point of view, early for the Dursleys.
"BOY! GET THE MAIL!"
The child was, however, already on his way, with unaccountable enthusiasm. He would never admit it, but since that day two months ago, according to the marks on the wall and the occasional time the child manages to catch a glimpse of the calendar in the loo without being rushed out, the boy has actively been awaiting and hoping for another letter.
And, it seemed, today was that day he was waiting for.
Indeed, on the floor in the heap of bills, was that fine parchment that felt soft under your fingers sealed with that lovely wax crest and, once again, the same address.
Mr H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The child was quite excited, though he constrained himself from expressing his emotion. He carefully slid the letter midway into the stack with the others, and brought them to his uncle respectfully, or, well like a dog or a slave who was forced to do so.
It appears that Vernon does not possess the same ability of control however.
Rage filled his eyes, his nostrils flared and his fat trembled with his anger.
"BOY! WHERE DID YOU GET THIS LETTER!?"
"The doo-r U-ncle Verno-n."
What an amazing occurrence that the child was not interrupted.
"LIAR! JUST LIKE YOUR PARENTS. A LITTLE. LYING. FREAK!"
And, it was back to the cupboard for the boy.
Mid July, 1991
This is where the chaos began. Right before the boy's birthday, as he learned from the mocking gifts like the crumpled tissue from last year he used to sop up his blood.
He was not sure if he was thrilled or devastated as the letters came in and the beatings increased.
Letters.
Everywhere.
They started coming daily through the door slot.
Then they multiplied, and so Vernon nailed the door slot shut.
So the letters came through the window.
So Vernon did the same again.
And then the chimney, and they kept getting delivered in odder and odder ways.
And Vernon, well, he was unable to stop it.
And he was angry.
So, when the letters were found inside the eggshells instead of the usual white and yolk, Vernon dragged his brood and wife and the boy away.
So there they were, in a two floor shack that crumbled every so often, so they all decided to stay on the bottom floor, regardless of the water seeping in from the tide.
And the letters.
Well, they stopped.
And then it was the boy's birthday.
July 30, 11:57, 1991
The boy was doing his usual ritual of staying up, he had traced a birthday cake in the dirt of the floor, and he was keeping the time according to Dudley's watch.
And then the clock struck 12.
"Happy Birthday Boy!"
He whispered, his words rough from lack of use. He smiled slightly, his jaw hurting from the effort, and blew gently at the crudely drawn candles in the dirt.
And then he turned over and got ready to sleep.
But, just as he was closing his eyes, sleep taking over along with the nightmares,
The door crashed open.
Well, it fell over.
The boy woke with a start, along with the Dursleys, and they all turned to stare at the approaching shadowy figure, who was very large and muscular.
" 'ello 'arry!"
His voice however, was not nearly as intimidating as his figure. He sounded happy, and jolly, as if he didn't just find him inside a crumbling shack in the middle of a thunderstorm. He had a large brown beard, that could have rivaled Harry's hair for knots, and he had a large smile that brightened his entire face.
And he was staring straight at Dudley.
"Uhhhh…"
Dudley was quite articulate.
"Boy!"
Instead of the usual scream, it was a very harsh whisper. The boy looked up, his eyes looking downward as he learned to when listening to Vernon.
"Sir-"
" 'arry my boy!You are uhh… A bit larger than expected but still! Just as I hoped and you look…. Uhh…"
The boy was interrupted by the large man's ramblings, as he talked to "Harry", or as he knew him, Dudley.
"Boy!"
Vernon was now glaring at the boy and so he answered.
"Yes U-ncle Vern-on?"
"I'm 'AGRID, Keeper of..."
Hagrid continued his ramblings as Vernon spoke.
"You. Are. Harry."
Vernon was glaring at him as if he should have known this, and suddenly the dots connected.
I am Harry!
Harry Potter!
It was quite a revelation, regardless of what you think. The boy now had a name, he was almost like Dudley! But he was still a freak. But a freak with a name!
Vernon was still glaring at him.
Harry looked up confusingly
Vernon pointed his head to Hagrid.
Oh, I suppose I should speak up.
"Sir-r, uhh, I'm actually Har-ry."
It felt so odd to say the name, like it wasn't his own. His voice was very quiet, and he stuttered slightly. He was rather embarrassed.
Oh damn, he's probably going to take Dudley instead, He's going to realize I'm a freak...
"A' 'arry my boy! I'm 'agrid…"
And he rambled on with the same introduction as previously.
"You are a bit thinner than I expected, and smaller, but all of you people types are small and thin… I mean except you two."
Petunia let out a gasp, and Vernon turned red in rage.
"But anyway! I came to take you to Diagon Alley! Silly me didn't realize your folks probably didn't know 'ow to get t'ere…"
And so he continued, Harry trying to find the right moment to speak up.
"Uh, sir, Diagon Alley? What's that?"
"Diagon Alley is the bestest best place for Wizard shopping!"
Harry let out a shudder at this word (wizard, not bestest), as if knowing that Vernon was going to beat him.
So he spoke up to explain to Hagrid that he shouldn't say that word because he would get in trouble.
"But, sir, wizards don't exist."
The words were said very meekly, as if trying to make it so Vernon wouldn't hear him utter the word.
"WIZARDS DON'T EXIST?!"
Harry cowered. He knew he shouldn't have said that word, he knew he would get in trouble, and now it was going to be Hagrid instead of Vernon.
Harry was afraid.
"But 'arry! You are a wizard! You're a wizard 'arry!"
Now, Harry was reasonable. Even though he never attended school, he managed to sneak books from Dudley's broken toy room when they were gone, and he never noticed they were missing, so now he knew how to read, he knew how to count, he knew the basics, and, well he knew wizards weren't real.
Vernon told him so.
His parents believed it so they died.
And he was beat if he believed it.
So he didn't.
But he didn't dare contradict the large angry man in front of him
"Of course sir."
"O' good, I was worried t'ere."
Harry was relieved he pleased him. And so he kept quiet, and continued to listen to his ramblings. Until-
"I broug't you a birt'day cake 'arry!"
Harry knew what a birthday cake was. The Dursleys brought one every year, well, one for every year Dudley lived. They always looked very good, but Harry didn't dare say anything about it as he knew he would get in trouble. But he did taste one once. Two years ago, when he was cleaning up, there was a bit of paste on the table cloth. When Harry was sure no one was watching, he picked it up and tried it. It was very good, very sweet.
Hagrid opened a white box with a large dent in the centre, as if someone placed something on the box that caused it to collapse inwards. He opened it up, and inside was a huge cake, about the size of Vernon's hand, covered in that pink paste. On it, in green paste, was written
HAPPEE BIRTHDAE HARRY
It was far nicer than any of Dudley's cakes. And it was his.
Harry was very excited.
Now there were no forks, or spoons, or any of that sort of thing, but Harry was quite used to this so he carefully took a handful of the cake.
The cake itself was rather hard, and dry, but it was very tasty.
For Harry.
In reality it tasted like bread left out for too long that was beginning to change colour.
But Harry ate that when he was lucky, so he didn't know.
"Alrig't 'arry, Let's go to Diagon Alley!"
Harry looked up questioningly, his eyes showing his confusion in their emerald green depths.
"O'! I forgot!"
Hagrid's hand disappeared in the pocket of his brown coat, and, after a few moments of digging around and obviously shifting some very odd metal and wooden things that made Harry wonder how large his pockets were, he pulled out a letter identical to the countless ones received at Number 4 Privet Drive.
" 'ere you are 'arry."
Harry glanced up at Hagrid, his excitement evident in his emerald eyes. He refrained from looking at the Dursleys and seeing the disgust that would certainly be evident on their faces.
Instead, he admired the beautiful parchment once again, this time taking his time. He flipped the envelope, and on the back said
Mr H. Potter
The Floor Next to The Couch
Unknown
Oceanview
Madison
He frowned, then flipped the envelope back over. He knew he had to open it, but he was sad to break the beautiful red wax crest. But he did, nonetheless.
Inside the envelope was the same lovely parchment, folded three times. He carefully unfolded it and smiled meekly at the delicate red cursive. And, he began to read.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
"Hogwarts School of…?"
He glanced up at Hagrid, obviously confused.
"But of course 'arry! You do need an educa'ion!"
"So, Wizards are real?"
Harry was rather proud he managed to say the bad word without stuttering.
"Absolutely!"
Harry smiled slightly, though he still didn't fully believe it. He knew what a wizard was, it was in one of Dudley's books, and he knew the things done were impossible. But he kept quiet as he would not want to anger Hagrid.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)
by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic
by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory
by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration
by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi
by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions
by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection
by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS
ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK
Yours sincerely,
Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus
Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions
Harry felt that it was too good to be true, the idea of having a proper chance at life, of receiving an education and going to school every day just like Dudley was overwhelming. And books! He would own books! And a wand… He wasn't sure what he would do with that however. He knew he couldn't do magic, he didn't even believe it existed! He dreaded the day that Hagrid would find out and send him back to the Dursleys.
"So 'arry… Diagon Alley?"
"Okay sir."
Harry nodded slightly, the thunder storm had finally stopped so it was now just muddy. He was slightly afraid though, he knew bad things happened when a stranger took you away, Uncle Vernon would always tell him he should be, so of course he knew it would be bad. He hoped it was alright.
He looked up, Hagrid had pushed the door down yet again. He was standing patiently.
"Well come on boy!"
"Yes sir!"
"And say goodbye to your 'amily, would't want t'em worrying."
Harry froze up for a moment, he knew they were going to be angry that he was leaving for such a freakish reason. He did so nonetheless, but only to prevent Hagrid's anger.
"G-oodbye."
He turned but kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to witness the anger and disgust in their eyes. He knew that he was a freak, but it still hurt to see such strong evidence.
He heard a snort and then turned to follow Hagrid out the door.