Disclaimer- I do not own Harry Potter and this fanfiction is written purely ofr entertainment purposes.
Summary. Harry Potter was the quiet child from Number Four Privet Drive. Naturally, his dissapearance causes a little stir.
The young man lay naked and vulnerable, his arms bound and outstretched and chained to a hook in the ground. His feet were similarly bound by the ankles. Battered and bathed in sweat, his exertions to free himself merely made the situation worse by the humid conditions of the room.
Young harry potter was a studious student. Having lost his parents when he was very young (the day of his birth, actually), his aunt had been forced to take over guardianship. All through the years, harry potter had experienced first-hand her displeasure at having been coerced into such a situation. Growing up alongside his whale of a cousin, Dudley, Harry Potter came to appreciate the alien sentiment of family and all the odd knick and bob advice that children learnt from them. First and foremost, never talk to strangers. Petunia had never divulged this piece of information to him. Harry was in suspicion that had he been kidnapped by some wayward pervert, she wouldn't have batted an eyelash. It was disheartening to say the least, the level of love (non-existent), that existed between the Dursely household and him. But harry potter was far beyond such emotion as self-pity. Nevertheless, he had acquainted himself with the rules at a young age and to his family's displeasure, showed much more prowess and aptitude than "Dudders".
So when Old man Dumbledore from down the street waved cheeringly at him one late afternoon and invited him for tea and kippers, Harry was only a bit apprehensive at accepting. He was currently in hiding from his cousin and his friends who were out exercising the summer blubber in a round game of 'Harry Hunting'. Old man Dumbledore had twinkling blue eyes and a penchant for whipping out lemon drops at odd intervals and from very odd places. Harry had learnt when young never to accept these kinds of treats from anyone.
How very dumb he was.
The attic was crowded and cluttered with odd bits and ends, rusty relics of the past had piled in the corners and covered the surfaces of spindly legged tables. The floor on which he lay was clear; a small rectangular window had been covered with what appeared to be rice paper. The only light in the room was from the multitude of flickering candles arranged in an odd pattern on the floor of a ... Harry squinted, thankful that he still had his glasses. A pentagram. Bottle green eyes widened. A pentagram. He was in an honest to god pagan symbol. In some dark recess of Harry's mind, the one that wasn't shirking in fear, he guffawed. Who'd have thought? Old man Dumbledore was into the Supernatural. Speaking of which… The elderly man swept into the chamber with a flourish. He wore an arcane robe of violent lime green and yellow patterned with bumblebees. It brushed the ground and long sleeves trailed from his arms. Silver sigils twisted in the hemline. Harry distantly wondered which costume shop the old geezer had ransacked.
'Ah young harry, the boy who lived. Let's begin shall we?' the coot's eyes twinkled. Harry rolled his eyes. He hated his name, the boy who lived. Partly because it was stupid and mostly because it reminded him of his parent's demise. When harry was born, the entire hospital had been prey to some freak electric accident of which he had been the sole survivor. Not without injuries though, a piece of shard from his crib had chipped and gored his forehead, leaving behind an unsightly wound which later scarred into a lightning bolt. Of course, this further heightened his sense of abnormal, in petunia's case.