Where to begin. That is always the most difficult part in writing a story, especially when that story is your own. There is so much to say - a life's worth in fact - but for the sake of time and for the sake of the reader I must be more selective, presenting the necessary and discarding the frivolous. And yet, who am I to say what is frivolous and what is not? Such should be left to the Historians and to you, dear reader, who have a much clearer perspective than myself.
But time must in this case bridle my tongue, and as such I will begin with the tick of its remorseless hand.
-I-
At the same moment, two things happened - for one, time stopped. Her vibrant life sapped from all but the weak grasp of memory. For another, time began. Time to wait, time to brood. Time spent in eternal agony, infinite rage.
I personally can remember only two distinct things about this moment - the first is the sound, of both my mother screaming, pleading, begging for mercy, and from Lord Voldemort, a high pitched laugh and exclamation of "Stand aside, girl!"
The second, which is both more and less vivid in my mind for reasons that I cannot fully explain or even understand, is the color Green. No, now that I think on it, color is not the correct adjective. It is also the associations, also the memories, also the accumulation of my life's story: all represented by Green and a plea and a scornful laugh. But for you, it is only a color and a few sounds.
From the death of my mother lies a long and dark chasm in my memory, as is usual for any child. Too young to remember, my life was merely a perfunctory result of genetics and instilled unconsciousness. I will tell you this however - the death of my parents led to a great number of changes for the baby whom many know as the "Boy Who Lived" - one of these changes was necessarily a change in residency. Albus Dumbledore elected to place me with the muggle relatives of Lilly Potter - Vernon and Petunia Dursley.
-II-
Now picture, if you will, the pandemonium and disarray of the popular shopping district, Diagon Alley. The streets are filled with bustle and ado, children and adults, life and magic. Nearly every item or service imaginable is available for purchase (if one has the money) and the sounds of haggling and excited jabber is constant.
Everything that Diagon Alley is, the Dursley household was not. Vernon Dursley was a businessman whose girth was matched only by his temper. He was instilled with an unusual fear of anything even bordering on "unnatural", partly due to his upbringing and partly due to the meddling of his wife. Petunia, similarly, was possessed of a strange and violent notion of fear when it came to anything that did not fit into her rather small perspective of the world, and displayed as much with fervor matched by none, not even Vernon. In physicality, Petunia was the much less dangerous of the two, being a pale, scrawny, and sour woman with very little strength whereas Vernon had a stomach the size of a fully grown rhinoceros and the skill to change facial colors dependent on even the slightest change in mood. In terms of viciousness however, Petunia took the cake, making certain that Vernon carried out her cold and barbaric punishments and all the while feeling better for it.
Now, it may seem that I paint an ugly picture of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. And I mean to. They were both my greatest childhood fear as well as the harshest blow to any point of happiness which could have occurred during those first ten years at their house.
But I do not hate them for this. Not anymore. In hindsight, I pity them. I pity the circumstances that led to the creation of creatures such as Vernon and Petunia. I pity the part which Fate played in the role of their shaping and molding. I pity that two sisters, friends to the core in the beginning, were so far removed by a simple difference in looks and inheritance.
I pity, but I do not excuse.
They called me "boy" when we were alone, and "Potter" only when in sight of the neighbors. For the first three or four years of my life, I hardly knew my own name.
I say it not to instill pity, but rather to inform. I live comfortably now, having inherited a decent fortune from my parents and a regular flow of income to boot. But I have not always been a "spoiled prince", as I have been called at times by those ignorant of my early home life. Once upon a time, I lived in a cupboard under the stairs.
It was there, in the cupboard, that I learned patience. Lying in the dark, with the door locked from the outside, I could do little other than entertain myself with fantasies. I imagined that I was a prince, charming, handsome, and loved by all. I imagined that the Dursleys were my slaves who did my bidding just as, in real life, I did theirs. I imagined that I could lie on my back and see the sky... sometimes, if stared into the darkness long enough, I could. The infinite universe would fly past me and I would be absorbed in the soft glow of passing stars.
The mind games of a young boy were more important than I realized, but I would not learn this for many years to come.
-III-
School was no easy thing for me. On top of being in constant fear of angering the Dursleys, I was an obvious misfit from the moment I stepped onto the linoleum floors. My huge, second-hand clothes labeled me as different, and the treatment I received from Dudley and his gang labeled me as outcast. Nobody wanted to befriend the target of Dudley's bullying, and I can understand why. Understand, but even now I still loathe the thought of them; how their curious but ignorant eyes looked at me. How they cried at a small bruise from tripping over a shoelace. How they whined about not having the latest collectors item or largest toy collection.
Hah. They should live a day in my life. Just one day. See how they like the cupboard. See how they like the fists of their cousin. See how they liked scrubbing the floors until their hands and knees were raw and red...
For a Potter in the Dursley household, chores do not equal allowance. Chores equal breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which you were to prepare and eat alone and out of sight.
The Dursleys taught me patience, and the Dursleys taught me the cruel side of truth. If you want something, you work for it. If you need something, you work harder. If you cry, you get mocked and beaten by those who have nothing better to do.
-IV-
As always, it fell to me to retrieve the mail. Dudley was busy eating breakfast, Petunia was busy reading the daily gossip, and Vernon was nursing a coffee looking for all the world like an angry walrus.
Bending down, I picked up the envelopes on the floor and began to walk back, absentmindedly shuffling through them. I was nearly to the kitchen when I paused, staring slightly dumbfounded at a letter inscribed with green text.
Harry J. Potter, born to Lilly and James Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
To be opened by intended recipient only
A letter. To me. With the address going so far as to include my room. Who was this from?
I slid my finger under the flap and opened it gingerly, being careful not to rip the envelope. From the kitchen I could hear the sizzle of bacon as Petunia made a second helping for Dudley and Vernon. I was in no danger of being interrupted.
Sliding out the crisp, yellowed paper, I began to read.
-V-
As the darkness of the Sorting Hat fell over my eyes, I allowed my mind to watch the stars as they flew by. It was calming.
Ah. Another Potter, I see. That is an interesting habit you have developed my friend.
The stars disappeared as the hat spoke.
You know nothing about the sorting system other than my song... Good, good. It is better that way. Now let me think... A good mind, oh yes. Very good indeed. You'll make something of yourself with that... but not in Ravenclaw I think. Perhaps, Slytherin? You would do well in Slytherin, Harry. It is perhaps the most difficult house, but then again you are familiar with challenges.
Put me wherever. I don't care.
Such impatience. Yes, the house of Slytherin would suit you well.