Author's Notes: Yet another awfully ambitious project. The Prologue serves mostly as an introduction to what makes my Harry Potter different. Oh, the joys of fanfiction. Consider this blatantly AU.
The Logical Potter
Prologue
It was cold. The four year old boy shivered and burrowed deep into his thin twice-patched blanket. He was wearing all four pairs of his socks, each with a unique hole on a different toe, and both of his oversized sweaters.
In all his memories, winters were always uncomfortable, but tonight was particularly bad. The little boy's teeth chattered. When he raised his stiff fingers to his dry lips, they burnt against his hot breath. He squirmed, rolled in his cot, and tried not to scratch himself against the rough cupboard wall.
The little boy could not sleep the whole night. And perhaps it was just as well that he did not, because sleep on a cold night was dangerous even in pretty, suburban, quaint Privet Drive.
The bacon hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle. Oil and grease sparkled against the heat, and then splattered up onto the five year old boy's exposed arm.
The little boy hissed and dropped the pan.
"Boy!" came his aunt's shrill voice. He was shoved aside. The boy stumbled, barely caught himself.
"No breakfast for you!"
The boy dumbly nodded even as he cradled his arm to his chest, where welts had already begun to appear. His eyes were burning somewhat, but by the time he tip-toed for the iodine and bandages in the medicine cabinet, his eyes were dry.
From then on, even on the hottest of summer days when the kitchen was a veritable furnace, the boy remembered to keep his sleeves rolled down.
"So that's Dudley's cousin? He does look awfully weird doesn't he?"
The six year old boy squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shrink even further into the shadow of the school pillar. It was lunch time, which meant Dudley was probably still eating, which in turn meant Harry-hunting probably hadn't started yet.
The boy gripped his lumpy sandwich. He tried to inch toward the library. Dudley didn't go to library much, and even if he did, he usually behaved in front of the hawk-eyed librarians.
School wasn't too bad. He was in a different class from Dudley. While the rest of the kids avoided him, and the teachers always seemed to frown at him and his clothes, it wasn't bad.
"There he is!"
The boy ran.
"I don't know how you do it. Even if it's out of the goodness of your heart, I don't see how you can stand such a sullen child all the time!"
The seven year old tried to skitter away from Aunt Marge's sharp gaze. She only dragged him back.
"Stand straight, young man!"
The boy barely flinched as Aunt Marge's meaty hands cuffed his shoulder.
"Well, don't feel too bad if he doesn't turn out right, Petunia. You can only do so much, and with his blood—you see it all the time in dogs. Bloodlines always breed true. By the way, boy, go get me some tea. It's the least you can do."
Although Dudley usually left his cupboard alone, just in case, the eight year old boy kept his most prized possessions hidden in a loose plank underneath his cot. Today, he reverently peeled back the plank to add a new treasure.
Outside, a party was in full swing. The Dursleys had decided to host a Christmas party, ostensibly to generate neighborhood cheer, but really it was an excuse to show off their new marble bathrooms. The boy liked the new bathrooms. They were easier to clean, and fingermarks didn't show as easily against the new faucets.
Even as the song and smell of Christmas carols and gingerbread floated through the thin cupboard door, the boy could not stop marveling over the toy in his hands. It was a small video game console, with already-creaky buttons and stains where orange juice had been spilled.
Dudley wouldn't notice it, not with his new presents.
With shining eyes, the little boy gently turned on the toy.
Somewhere, Uncle Vernon gave a booming laugh. The boy flinched.
"Ma'am, he needs glasses."
"Oh surely he was only sleepy during the day of the eye exam—"
Aunt Petunia's shrill voice grew shriller as her fixed smile threatened to carve itself permanently into her face. Behind her, a nine year old boy watched the exchange with unblinking eyes. In the end, they left the store with the cheapest pair of glasses Aunt Petunia could get by without the doctor looking at her too disapprovingly.
"You better not break them, because god knows I'm not buying you new ones—"
The boy was silent. He was too busy staring at the world with wide eyes. It had been so long since the things had looked so clear. He could even read the traffic signs now.
"Boy, stop gawking and get moving!"
And so the boy moved.
He was hungry.
The ten year old boy curled into a ball and tried not to fidget too much on his cot. He let his eyes glaze over as he stared out into the darkness. He could just dimly make out the few scraps of paper he had taped to wall. The one closest to him was yellowing at the edges, but he could still read the hastily scrawled "Good job".
He hadn't meant to set the trash on fire. In fact, he wasn't even sure he did it. He didn't know how he did it, if indeed it was his fault. All he remembered was scrambling to make dinner in time, and then Aunt Petunia was howling at him to take out the trash, and he really didn't have time—
Well, it didn't matter. Fact was, he was here, without dinner, and all he could hope was that they remembered to unlock the door come morning.
A spider crawled over his arm. He shook it off gently, and then winced. Uncle Vernon's grip had been vice-like when he threw the boy into the cupboard. The boy's shoulder still hurt. It'll probably hurt for a while. Chores would be difficult. He'll also have to wear long-sleeves for a while, or else the teachers would talk. Boys weren't supposed to come to school with bruises.
The boy shook his head and continued to stare resignedly into the darkness.
When the eleven year old boy saw the letter, heavy in that expensive paper way, addressed so suitably and impossibly accurately to "the Cupboard Under the Stairs", he immediately slid the envelope under his shirt. He delivered the rest of the mail in the same quiet manner as always, and if he was a little bit more tense than usual, the Dursleys certainly didn't notice.
The boy disappeared into his closet. He kept the door open just a crack, so he could see the Dursleys coming in advance should they unexpectedly decide to check on him. And thence he turned toward the heavy envelope.
The boy cracked it open. Squinted at the loopy handwriting in deep green ink. His hands began to shake. Surely—no. It was a cruel joke, a most cruel joke. Almost too inventive for Dudley, but who else would know about the cupboard?
Harry James Potter violently tore the letter in two. This, more than anything—this he would get even for, even if he had to wait his entire life to do it.
Harry could not stop staring at the pig's tail. It was a very small tail, and even with the roaring fire, he had to squint to see it. But sure enough, there was a tail wiggling on Dudley's big bottom, which was hidden behind Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's cowering forms.
Besides the gigantic man—Hagrid was it?—only Harry stood tall and straight in the creaky shack.
He looked down at his feet, still cold and clammy, and then back up at his relatives again. He wiggled his toes, scratched them against the rough floor. Pain kept things real.
"Harry?" ventured the gigantic man.
"I could do that?"
The giant blinked and then looked at his umbrella somewhat sheepishly. "Oh well, y'know, some day, once ye have lessons and a real wand and all—"
"But one day? I can?" Harry pressed.
"Well, I don't see why not, but ye must know 'arry, wizards don't usually go around cursing Muggles, 'gainst the law and all that, Ministry wudn't fancy that—"
Harry's eyes shone. "Take me," he demanded, managed to say.
Hagrid looked a little taken aback by the little boy—and Harry really was very little, even at eleven—but he seemed to understand. With a few more jolly comments, and a wave of his pink umbrella, they were off.
When Harry Potter stepped into the wizarding world's doorstep of a Leaky Cauldron, he stepped quietly, surreptitiously, and watchfully, as he had done his entire life. Only his eyes, green, attentive, and bright, betrayed any difference. Because for once in his life, Harry Potter was not the "dumb-charity-good-for-nothing". No, for the first time, Harry had something; was something. What it was, Harry wasn't quite sure of. Self-respect, perhaps. Purpose, definitely. Hope, most of all.
Still, nothing could prepare him for the following.
"My god. Is that Harry Potter?"
Once upon a time, Harry would have killed for a kind word. And for many years, he almost did. For many years, he almost killed himself painting white picket fences on too-hot summer days, wiping Aunt Petunia's vanity mirror until even her smallest pores looked monstrous, all for a look, a touch that wasn't a cuff or a slap.
But that was a long time ago. Now...
"Yer quite the shy one, aren't ya, 'arry?" Hagrid boomed.
Harry only scrunched up his shoulders and pushed down his bangs further, until they drooped past his scar and all the way into his eyes.
The Leaky Cauldron had been terrible. The attention was bad. The hands were worse. Harry hated the hands that tugged at his sleeves, reached out to touch his hair, his face-
Someone paused a moment too long to look at him. Harry did not walk into Ollivander's. He ran, leaving a bemused Hagrid behind.
The door tinkled just as Harry inhaled a lungful of musty oldness. He shuffled his feet as he stared at the dimly lit shelves. If he hadn't been watching so intently he would have jumped when Mr. Ollivander appeared seemingly out of thin air.
"Ah, if it isn't Harry Potter? I was expecting you." The man leapt from his cascading ladder with a nimbleness that belied his wrinkles. "Your parents' wands-"
Harry tried to remember, tried to understand, he really did, but it didn't mean anything to him that his father's wand was mahogany, pliable, eleven inches. But he remembered it all the same, because as vague as the words, they were his parents and that meant something.
"Well, let's get right to it then. Extend your dominant arm, if you please—"
"You're Harry Potter?"
After the Leaky Cauldron fiasco, Harry took it in stride. Or at least, he tried to.
"Can I see the scar?"
Harry narrowed his eyes. The redheaded boy was leaning far too forward in his seat, hands perched on knees, eyes wide, mouth open. He looked like a goldfish. Harry was no zoo exhibit for goldfishes.
"No," Harry said curtly, hand already drifting up to mat his dark hair over his scar.
The boy looked disappointed. Harry instinctively cringed and then had to remind himself to keep his chin up. He wasn't that kind of Harry anymore, the kind that shielded at every word and glance.
Still, eleven years of habit wasn't going to disappear overnight.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?"
The hall was tall and endless in its floating candle and night sky panorama. Harry would stare at it more, if he weren't so conscious of the rest of the school looking on. By now, most of the other firsties had stopped gawking and were instead whispering, shoving each other, staring at the tall imposing woman holding a suspiciously old pointed hat.
Harry had a hard time controlling his wonder and bemusement as the Sorting Hat sang. A talking hat, of all things. But when the firsties began to called up to the stool, one by one, the foci of the entire hall, Harry felt an old familiar dread sink into his stomach. His fingers twitched. It felt worse than being cornered by Dudley's gang.
"Harry Potter."
It took everything in him to keep his face smooth as the students around him burst into whispers. Harry's lips felt like twitching and his cheeks felt tight. There were too many eyes watching him.
Professor Mcgonagall gave him a little smile. Still, it was almost a relief when the Sorting Hat sunk over his small head and sank him in darkness.
"A bright mind. A desperate mind," purred the Sorting Hat.
"Plenty of bravery and will; you had to have it, to withstand this long. Quite a bit of pride, although deeply hidden. As for loyalty, to people or principles, I wonder. What is it that you want, young Harry? Infinite knowledge?"
For sure, Harry wanted to know, everything and anything—
"No, yours is not a pursuit knowledge for knowledge's sake. You are grounded in earthlier things. But I don't sense the raw need for unity, for self-sacrifice—"
Self-sacrifice?
"No, Hufflepuff would not be the place for you, although remember, theirs is a house that is too often underestimated. As I was saying. Hm. Gryffindor perhaps? You have will and a streak of stubbornness—"
Harry tried to remember the insignia of a roaring lion against scarlet red.
"But is justice what really drives you?"
Justice? The world had never been kind to him.
"Don't be so quick to judge. You'll surprise yourself. But let's see. Slytherin—"
'Every witch and wizard who's gone bad went to Slytherin' hissed Hagrid's voice, overlaid with Ron Weasley's vehement tones.
"—Are you judging something off someone's words?"
Harry's mind skittered to a halt.
'Oh, is that Dudley's cousin? Weird, isn't he?'
"Slytherin would make you great."
Great? Harry bit on his lips, hard. He had always been Harry the charity case, Harry the useless, Harry the-
"Yes, indeed. Greatness, glory—power, if you so wish it."
Harry never wanted to be weak again.
"The self-preservation instinct of a serpent indeed." The Hat paused and then gave a low, wheezy chuckle that echoed through Harry's head. "And so the cycle begins again, I suppose."
The Hat finally opened his mouth. Although Harry would never know, never had the Hogwart Hall bated their breath so closely, so tightly, so eagerly. Even Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, eyes bright—
"Slytherin!"
