"Boy!" A sharp, high voice shrieked, followed by a loud rapping on the metal grate. Inside the small cupboard, hidden away under the stairs of Number 4, Privet Drive, Harry Potter opened his eyes. Aunt Petunia rapped on the cupboard door again. "Get up, you worthless freak. I want everything to be perfect for Dudley's birthday today, and you are NOT going to laze about all morning!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry called out, voice a little rough. He closed his mouth, and tried to swallow with a grimace. His throat was raw and dry. He hadn't had any water since yesterday morning. A little less hoarse, he repeated himself.

"Don't you dare let the bacon burn, either. If anything is wrong on my Diddy-kens special day, then you won't eat for a week, do I make myself clear?"

Harry felt a throbbing in his skull, the lightning scar on his forehead pulsing sullenly. He clapped a hand over the lightning bolt, gasping softly at the pain. He quickly removed the hand as he heard the click of Petunia undoing the heavy bolt that kept the door shut. She hated when Harry touched the scar, even if he just brushed his bangs aside. She would always yell at him to "Hide that disgusting mark!"

"Well?" Petunia snapped. Her long face seemed to have been frozen just after sniffing something foul, and her eyes were small and beady with distrust. She was wearing a thick bathrobe of a hideous pink floral print, and her brown hair was still tied up in its rollers from the night before.

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia." Harry mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast as he shuffled by. He walked down the short hallway, past the living room with its tiny fireplace. Past the small closet where all of Aunt Petunia's cleaning supplies were neatly organized (by him) until they were needed (by him) to clean something (usually whatever his cousin had just broken). Harry pushed open the kitchen door quietly, and heard Petunia snort as she turned away.

"Stupid boy."

Safely hidden in the kitchen, Harry rolled his eyes. He had been suffering the Dursleys' attentions for as long as he could remember. Ever since he was a year old, as his Uncle Vernon was swift to remind him, they had 'cared' for him. All they asked in return was that he pulled his own weight.

To be fair though, Harry doubted all three Dursleys would be able to pull Vernon's weight without the family car. His Uncle was a rich man, and he never let anyone forget that. The head of Grunnings, a company that manufactured drills, Vernon was fond of bragging about Mr. Spain or Ms. Sussex, or whoever his most recent business partner was, as though his rich associates were somehow important to Harry. Then again, maybe Vernon just liked to tell himself that if he was seen with enough famous people, then he would be famous as well. He was a rich man though, something he showed off with his fancy cars, and golden watches. Rich enough that his wife never had to work, his son could go to any school he wanted, and more than rich enough to feed his appetite. He even had his own servant.

Harry choked off the bitter thoughts, and set about making Dudley's breakfast. He pulled a frying pan off of its hook above the stove, and started cracking eggs. He had been cooking the Dursley's breakfast for so many years now, he didn't have to think about it anymore. Instead, he let his mind wander, a small smile twisting his lips. He wouldn't be here much longer.

He knew something the Dursley's didn't, had known since his eleventh birthday several days ago. He knew that he wasn't a freak, as his aunt and uncle insisted. He knew that his parents weren't lay about drunks who had been stupid enough to die in a car crash. He knew that he was a wizard, just like his father and mother. He knew that magic was real, and most important of all, he knew that soon, he would be free of the Dursleys.

Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The parchment they had written on was thick and it had a pleasant earthy scent to it. Harry thought that the scent must be the smell of freedom, of a world outside of the Dursley's house. He didn't know where in London the school was, he didn't even know if it was in England at all. It didn't matter though, as long as he wasn't in this house.

He had found the letter, addressed to him, a few days before. The thick parchment was far heavier than the bills that had been shoved through the mail slot with it, and Harry had noticed the weight. It took only a moment to notice the glossy seal, showing a red lion, green serpent, blue raven, and a yellow badger, all surrounding a large, ornate H. It was very peculiar, and if there was one thing the Dursleys were not, it was peculiar. Harry had been shocked when, after flipping the strange letter over, he had found his name written in a tidy hand.

Mister H. Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs.

4, Privet Drive.

Little Winging

Surrey

When Dudley, the fat son of his aunt and uncle, had offered to beat Harry with his Smelting's stick to get him to hurry up, Harry had hurried up. On his way back to the kitchen though, he had shoved the letter under the door to his cupboard, sure that the Dursleys would take it away from him if they saw it. That decision had been the best he had ever made in his life.

Harry felt his face split into a grin, one that was perhaps a tad vindictive. Just yesterday, another letter had arrived. It had also been addressed to an H. Potter, though it had been written by a sloppier hand than the first, and it had omitted the line about his cupboard. Seeing another letter of heavy parchment though, Harry had taken a chance, and nicked it. This letter had been from one Mr. Arthur Weasley, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Muggle Liaison Office, Ministry of Magic.

Until yesterday, Harry hadn't even known there was such a thing as a Ministry of Magic, much less what a Muggle was, or how one could misuse their artifacts. Mr. Weasley had given a very thorough description of all three, which Harry thought had been incredibly kind of him. The Ministry of Magic was exactly what it sounded like, a government for witches and wizards, one that was hidden from the Muggles, who were non-magic folk like his Aunt and Uncle. Mr. Weasley seemed to think that Muggles were fascinating, and had added several post scripts asking about the function of everyday items like rubber ducks, and 'eceltricity.' The best part, for Harry, was the last line of the letter, though.

I will be arriving at your home at half past eleven in two days time, to help you buy your school things, and give you any information that you may need about your letter, or Hogwarts itself.

Yours sincerely,

Arthur Weasley, Muggle Liaison Office

The cacophonous thudding of his cousin's descent snapped Harry out of his happy memories. He schooled his expression once more into the neutral mask that seemed the only way to deter his relations. He knew it wouldn't help, not today, but the habit of avoiding notice was too hard to fight. He heard Dudley jump, slamming his bulk down on the step directly over his cupboard. Then the boy waddled down the last few steps, and ran into the kitchen as fast as his pudgy legs would carry him.

Harry heard Dudley stop as soon as he was in the door, and hurriedly slide the bacon onto the waiting plate. He swirled the grease in the pan, making sure all of the metal was slick, and quickly cracked half a dozen eggs to go with the bacon. As the eggs began to sizzle, he divided the bacon into three portions, with the majority going to his cousin's plate. While his Aunt and Dudley were busy, Harry slid a few of the burnt crisps onto a small plate, the meager remains would be his breakfast.

"Thirty-six?" Dudley asked, voice trembling slightly. Harry, already expecting an explosion, began to wolf down the bits of bacon he had kept for himself. "Last year I got thirty-seven presents."

"You forgot to count the present Daddy's friend from work sent you, Duddums. Here is it, behind the big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"But, but that's only…" Dudley trailed off, obviously thinking hard. Harry tried not to choke on the last of his bacon at the sight of Dudley pondering. He almost expected him to start poking his head and muttering "Think, think, think."

"Tyke wants his money's worth." Uncle Vernon chuckled, walking into the kitchen. His Uncle was built like a particularly corpulent walrus, complete with a ruddy face and an enormous mustache. While he ruffled his son's hair, Harry slid the fried eggs onto their plates, and quickly rinsed and cleaned the pan. Aunt Petunia would skin him alive if he let anything dirty sit in her kitchen for even an instant. "That's right Dudley, never let them cheat you."

"Now I only have thirty-seven." Dudley pouted. The expression jutted his lower lip out, and made his extra chins wobble. His voice began to rise as he started working himself into a proper rage. "B-but last year I had-had thirty-seven!"

"We're not done yet, Duddums!" Aunt Petunia jumped in quickly, obviously sensing the same tantrum Harry had. Harry, meanwhile, was scarfing down the last of his bacon as fast as he could force it past his gag reflex. It wasn't unusual for Dudley to overturn the table when he threw a tantrum, and he liked punching Harry in the chaos. "You forgot about your surprise present!"

"Huh?" Dudley asked, forgetting to squint his eyes through faked tears. Harry stopped eating for a moment, looking up with a strange mixture of dread and hope. Maybe the Dursleys would be taking Dudley out for the day. He had been talking about how much he wanted to go to the new zoo in West Sussex. Could the Dursleys be planning on taking Dudley? That could be good or bad for Harry. On the one hand, he wouldn't have to deal with the Dursleys, and could fully enjoy the prospect of what was going to greet them tomorrow just before lunch. On the other, it meant he would probably have to spend the day with Ms. Fig, the old woman who lived down the street with her seven cats.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Ah, there she is." Uncle Vernon said brightly, folding the morning newspaper and setting it on the table. "Why don't you go meet our guest, Dudley?"

Harry's heart sank, coming to rest somewhere in the vicinity of his toes, or maybe a few metres below. Only one women would make his Uncle smile that way. His sister, Aunt Marge. She wasn't really Harry's Aunt, since Aunt Petunia had been his mother's sister, but he had always been forced to call the horrible woman Aunt all his life. She was vile, almost as fat as her brother, and made her living by breeding foul tempered bulldogs on her country estate. The woman never failed to bring the ugliest, meanest of her litter with her either, a gnarled old brute named Ripper.

She showered praise, gifts, and kisses on her nephew. Her fat nephew, that is. Harry; Marge pretended didn't exist half the time. When he was worthy of her notice all she did was comment on how much left to improve he had.

"That boy needs to shape up, Vernon. Bad form, slouching over like that. A good caning ought to teach him to stand straight."

"Should teach the boy respect. If he were mine, I'd have beaten that idiocy out of him."

"Show some respect boy. You should be begging Vernon to allow you to stay here, feeding and taking care of you like he has all these years. If you had shown up on my doorstep, I would have sent you straight to the orphanage."

Harry gritted his teeth as he heard the door open, and a woman's rough voice yell "Surprise!"

"Now, you listen here, boy." Uncle Vernon said menacingly, leaning over the table towards Harry. "You will behave yourself, or so help me…"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." Harry gritted out through his rigid smile. He could hear a pair of heavy steps moving towards the kitchen, and braced himself.

"Vernon!" Marge called, sweeping down to give her brother a hug. Harry thought it looked like two whales trying to wrestle, and he had to choke down a laugh.

It was going to be a long day…

A long day it was. Marge had brought that damned dog with her, again, and Ripper hadn't taken his eyes off Harry all day. The bad tempered beast had never liked Harry; its beady eyes tracked his every movement.

Marge herself wasn't any more pleasant, though she at least wasn't about to bite Harry. He hoped. Instead, she had been lambasting him all day. It was her favorite pastime, it seemed, to compare Harry to Dudley, finding only faults in the former. Harry had bitten back several scathing retorts already, listening to Marge as she extolled Dudley's many (imaginary) virtues. She once more reminded Harry of how grateful he should be to his Aunt and Uncle for taking care of Petunia's wastrel sister's snotty brat.

He had thought his smile was about to start shattering teeth as she expounded upon how big and manly Dudley had become. Dudley had demonstrated his Smelting Stick, a piece of wood his school encouraged each boy to carry, to jab each other when the teacher wasn't looking. He had done so by beating Harry about the head with it, while the smaller boy tried to duck and avoid the caning. Marge had laughed, barking at him to stand still already, and take it like a man.

Today had been hell. Harry had managed, barely, to resist the urge to throttle Marge during dinner, and now all three manatees were sitting on the lawn, waiting for Petunia to bring out a pair of brandy's and a lemonade for Dudley. Harry was in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor while the three of them lounged about in the garden.

"So, how did my Neffy-Pooh enjoy his special day?" Marge asked, indulgently. She let out a heavy sigh, and settled herself more comfortably in the chair. One hand strayed down to scratch Ripper's ears, and the bulldog's stumpy tail wagged in pleasure. "Did you like my presents?"

Dudley grunted, already fiddling with the air rifle Marge had bought for him. Harry already knew that the gun worked, having felt several pellets smack into him a few minutes ago. He rolled his eyes and scrubbed a little harder. Marge had spilled some of the brandy before the Dursley's had moved to the garden, and the stained linoleum was stubbornly refusing to clean itself.

"Course he did." Vernon said, chuckling. "Can't remember when I've seen him that happy."

"Vernon?" Marge asked in a loud whisper, serious now. Beside her, Ripper turned away from Harry for a moment to give his owner a worried look. "I have some concerns about that boy."

Harry saw her flip a hand in his direction, and watched in morbid fascination as the blubber of her arm rippled with the motion. Vernon looked over, and grunted again, leaning back to sip the brandy Petunia handed him. "What about him?"

"What about him?" Marge huffed, tossing her own drink back, just like she had the last three. "The little freak shouldn't be in school, Vernon. You've seen how he behaves, he should locked up before he does something dangerous."

"What?" Dudley scoffed, and he sneered at Harry. "Like he could be dangerous."

"I'm serious." Marge lowered her voice to a harsh whisper as Vernon laughed. "Look at him. He's too quiet."

Harry, who had been glaring at the cow, quickly dropped his gaze, and began scrubbing more ferociously. The movement hid the shaking of his hand. He had been suffering the idiot woman's insults and degradations all day, constantly reminding himself of the letters, the wonderful letters, hiding under his bed in the cupboard.

"No boy has ever turned out good when his parents are scum. Same with dogs. Bad blood will out. If there is something wrong with the bitch, then there will always be a problem with the pup. Breeding's about more than just looks. It's about –hic- about temperament too. Look at Ripper here. Looks like something the cat threw up, but he's as sweet as an angel.

"That," she went on, nodding her head at Harry, who had begun to stand, stretching his back after finally cleaning up the mess. "That's what happens when you have bad blood, Vernon. Messy hair. Bad attitude. Like mother like son, isn't that right Dudley? You turned out sensible, like your mum. But that, that boy. You said his mother did what?"

"Nothing." Petunia snapped, like she always did when her sister was mentioned. "Lazy little layabout. Probably on drugs too, and I just know she was drinking as much as her filthy husband."

"Might be it. Boy looks like one of that trash. The ones who smoke and drink and all that ruckus. Say, I've an idea, Vernon."

"What?"

"Brutus." Marge said, and gave a very satisfied sigh.

"I don't understand." Uncle Vernon said, finishing off his brandy and setting the glass aside.

"St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys." Marge said with relish, and hiccupped again. Raising her voice, she turned to Harry and pointed to her brandy glass. "You. Boy. Take this away."

"Coming, Aunt Marge." Harry gritted out.

Marge didn't wait for him to reply, but continued speaking to her brother. "It's a secondary school near here, and they specialize in freaks and layabouts. They don't take that, namby-pamby approach either, Vernon. You misbehave, and they cane you. Best part is, it's a boarding school, you'll never have to see him again, if you sign for him to stay over the summers."

He should have known. He was angry, and whenever he was angry, bad things happened, usually to him. When Dudley's mates were taunting Harry, as soon as he got angry, Dudley would show up and start pounding on him. When he got angry, the dishes he was cleaning would shatter, even though he wasn't touching them, and Aunt Petunia would scream and then lock him in his cupboard. When he was angry, bad things just happened.

This time, his misfortune was named Ripper. He wasn't paying attention to his footing. He was working too hard to control his face, and didn't see the trouble before it was too late. His foot came down, hard, on something bony, and a furious howl made him look down. He had stepped on Ripper's paw, and the dog lunged forward, sinking his teeth down into Harry's leg with all the strength that his breed was known for. Harry yelled. Vernon yelled. Petunia and Marge yelled. They all whirled to watch as Ripper jerked, and Harry went to the ground with a hard thump. His head hit the patio hard, and stars burst into his vision. Then Ripper began to shake his head.

Harry didn't really remember what happened. He just remembered the dogs thrashing head as he tried to snap Harry's leg in half. He remembered reaching out, trying to pry the yellow teeth apart long enough to get his leg clear. He remembered the fear, and the pain, and the molten rage at the stupid animal's vicious attack.

He never remembered what happened when his hands touched Ripper. The cold rush of power that flowed through him, out through the tips of his fingers. He didn't see the flash of green light, hidden in the short fur of Ripper's neck. He didn't hear the rush of wings as the magic flooded out of his body. He just knew that suddenly, Ripper's jaws were slack on his legs, and he was wrenching his bloody shin out of the mongrel's mouth.

"RIPPER!" Marge screamed, dropping to her knees beside her treasured dog. Her pudgy hands shook as they gently touched the dog, and she choked out a sob. "Dead. Vernon, he's dead."

"YOU!" She screamed, whirling. Her fingers twisted into claws, and she raked at Harry, grabbing his arm before he could step away. "YOU KILLED RIPPER! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FILTHY BASTARD!"

Harry wasn't thinking, there wasn't time. Her other hand lashed out, and he gasped as her nails tore at his cheek. He shoved his not-Aunt away from him, pushing with all his strength against her bulk. This time, he did hear the bang as Marge was hurled away from him, dropping to the ground in a boneless sprawl.

"MARGE!" Vernon and Petunia yelled, and both rushed over the woman lying on the lawn. Dudley hadn't moved, but his hands were shaking on the rifle in his hands, and his piggy little eyes were wide with sudden fear. "She's alive. Petunia, call 999."

Petunia stumbled to her feet, and started towards the house. Before she had taken two steps though, there was a loud CRACK!, and a man wearing what appeared to be a long crimson robe was suddenly standing on the patio. This was too much for his Aunt, and Harry watched Petunia's mouth open in astonishment, before her eyes rolled up and she dropped into a dead faint.

The man's face was hidden by the deep shadow of his hooded cloak, but Harry caught a glimpse of something shiny, before the man raised the slender wooden stick high into their air, yelling "STUPIFY!"

Harry had an instant to wonder what on earth this man was, and what he was doing, before a torrent of red light burst from the tip of the man's wand, flooding the little lawn with crimson. As the light rolled out from the man, Harry saw a flash of his face, scarred and mangled to something only vaguely human, and a large, shiny glass eye. Then the red light slammed into his chest, and his world suddenly faded to black.