Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, likeness, or any of the assorted characters that will appear in the story which belong to J.K.

A/N: Hmm, I think I'm in love with this plot line. I owe the inspiration for a revision to Padawan. Thanks a lot hun!

(Introduction)

Chapter 1: Revised

(Scene One)

Harry Potter was never abused.

At least, not in the forms social workers could recognize. If a psychologist from, oh say, the military analyzed him, they might recognize some symptoms amiss. But why would the military bother with the welfare of a little boy? Especially a little boy who, from the outside, seemed to have it all.

He was junior lightweight boxing champion from Oxford to Plymouth, he was in perfect health and peek physical fitness, he always wore good clothes, good shoes, his relatives didn't show any outward harshness toward him. In fact, they seemed to concerned for his health that he was never allowed any fatty foods, or sweets, or anything that a dietitian could say was one-hundred percent healthy for a young growing boy, despite the fact that he was only ten (almost eleven) years old.

Of his home life, no one could find anything that broke the law. He had the smallest room in the house with bare, white washed walls, scrubbed wooden floor boards, a plan but sturdy desk and chair, a serviceable bed with white sheets and Grey comforter. Sitting against the far wall was a small chest containing all his worldly possessions.

Two Grey t-shirts, a white wife-beater, a black button-up dress shirt, a pair of khaki pants, a pair of sweat-pants, and a pair of jeans (his pajamas happened to be on his body this very moment). A small notebook and pencil lay at the bottom, underneath a pair of black sneakers.

It wasn't the height of luxury, nor was it in any was compared to the obvious display of spoiled indulgence in his Cousins room, but there was no sign of anything being in disrepair, ill use, or needed replacing.

In fact the area that seemed to have the most traffic (besides his Cousins pig-sty of a bedroom) was the, spacious you could call it, cellar. There was a raised cushion mat in the middle of the floor, and training equipment scattered all around it. Everything from the punching bag to the weight bench looked like it was used daily. Of course, with a athlete like Potter, it more than likely was.

Therefore, as far as they could report, Harry Potter was never abused. Perhaps brainwashed, but he sure as hell wasn't loved. Well, by his relatives anyway. The public loved him, even if most didn't know his real name, and that was because of his first fight.

You see it had been his first 'real' fight, other then little sparring matches at the gym and dojo. Harry had come there straight after school, still wearing his faded letterman's jacket which proclaimed in bold red letters on black that he attended St. Brutes. His Uncle, busy making and taking bets, had just thrown the jacket over the post in Harry's corner.

The match started and Harry Potter beat his opponent blue, black, and red, regardless of their highly padded gloves. The opposing boy, eight years old opposed to Potters seven, had collapsed on the mat while Harry watched with very emotionless green eyes.

The Referee looked to the winners Uncle for his name, but couldn't get the attention of the greedy man over the roar of the crowd, so the ref, spying the jacket, had turned to the crowd and bellowed:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, OUR WINNER BY AN OUTSTANDING K.O., OUR FIRST TIME COMPETITOR, THE BRUTE OF SURREY!"the Ref raised Harry's gloved arm into the air as the cheering crowds sealed his fate.

From then on, no one knew who Harry Potter was. His Uncle, his Aunt, and his Cousin called him Brute(or boy depending on the occasion). His teachers called him Brute. His classmates called him Brute. The butcher, the baker, and even the little old lady a few houses down with all the cats called him Brute. Everyone took special care never to anger him, except his family who viewed him as a tool for more income. His teachers never called on him in class. He only spoke when asked a question, he never participated in anything except physical events.

Soon this behavior made people speculated that perhaps he was dumb and athletic, spurring the feelings of those in younger years from tolerance and fearful, to hostile and fearful. No no one ever physically assaulted him, for obvious reasons, preferring to insult him from afar and occasionally throw something at him while he was walking by or working in the gardens.

His Aunt and Uncle couldn't have been happier of course. The boy hadn't ever had a magical outburst, perhaps he was normal! Then he could still be there little cash crop all year round. They really couldn't have groomed him better, they praised themselves. He never spoke back, he did all the cooking, the cleaning, the gardening. He could repair furniture, thanks to the fact that the teachers at St. Brutes thought he'd do better in shop than in art, he rarely had to be punished, and he never complained.

Not when they made him watch Dudley greedily devour birthday cake in his face, not when they made him stay in his room during holidays, not when they commented off handedly that his parents were jobless freaks that died in a car crash, leaving him with the scar he always covered with a black sweat band.

The boy never questioned why he was never allowed sweets or treats, he never questioned why they pampered Dudley and conditioned him, he never, really, asked questions at all. Yes, Petunia and Vernon Dursley would sigh, life truly was perfect.

But despite what others may think, Harry Potter wasn't stupid.

He wasn't complacent, retarded, or a mindless boxing barbarian. Beneath layers of carefully compiled mask made to block out pain, indignation, humiliation, and anger, was a secret.

Harry noticed much and said little about it. The little notebook in his chest was his only true possession, and in it where; things he noticed, things he knew, things he theorized, and things he dreamed of.

For example; the first thing in his notebook was the reoccurring dream of the scream, the green light, and the cruel laughter. It was the first real memory. He thought logically about it over the year and concluded it could only be a memory, there was no stimulation you could possibly give an infant for it to make up such things.

Also there could only be one thing that could make a memory stick in a baby's mind like that, trauma. Therefore, he concluded, it is highly doubtious that my parents died in a car crash. Who could possibly have been laughing? And forgive his assumption, but there was no green traffic light in the world that bright or that color.

Other things he'd noticed were in there. Such as why Petunia flinched every time a bird flew by the window then looked straight at Harry for a moment, before returning to her business. Why did Mrs. Figgs' cats have a single rotating pattern in their sleeping spots so that Harry could see one no matter where he was on Private Dr.? Were they watching him? And for gods sakes, why, when he gardened, could he hear garden snakes and lizards speak in something that resembled English, but was so profoundly not that he most of the time thought he'd been imagining things?

Harry never got angry at anything someone did or said. He just looked at them afterward and analyzed them. Some children picked on him because he was fit and they weren't(Dudley). Some because he looked nicer in the face then they, his hair was such a dark shade, or because of his straight, even teeth that were a rarity with children his age. Boxing his entire life had knocked out almost all of his teeth prematurely, until he got too good to be hit in the jaw of course.

But the thing that caused him the most grief were his eyes. One couldn't wear glasses with his sport, so Uncle Vernon was forced to get him contacts (although he made Harry re-reimburse him by putting 'Brute' through the back-alley competitions that went on near London). His Aunt hated his eyes, so she slapped him whenever he met her stare. Loads of girls around where jealous of them, making him a target of tongue lashing and vicious glares, and older women praised because of them, t-ing off everyone from his Cousin to his Uncle.

There were loads of other things, and yes he did question why he was treated so differently from the rest of the children. Just, never out loud. As I said before, Harry wasn't stupid. Questioning things would just make is life more difficult.

His Aunt and Uncle were happy when as Harry played the part of a walking talking doll, so why not give them what they want? It didn't hurt him to do it. The punishments they gave involved nights spent in the cupboard under the stairs with the spider, which really wasn't bad, but it did hurt his back and neck for days afterward, making it hard to exercisers. So really, the pros out-weighed the cons, and Harry Potter remained Brute.

That is, as we all know, until around the end of June, when the first letter arrived.

(End of Chapter One)

To be continued...