Chapter 1
1986
The cupboard measured 3 metres at its highest point, the gap between the top of the cupboard and the bottom of the stairs above it largely filled with dust. Lengthwise, the space not covered by a well-worn child-size mattress was around 2 metres long. On the lowest shelf (which he had created with a half-width of Dudley's old skateboard and nails carefully driven into the wood whilst his aunt and uncle were out of the house) rested the items he considered most precious. A stack of his graded assignments he had scored well on. A collection of well-used crayons, the nubs of which had been worn away on the rough wood of his cupboard. A small figurine of a magician from a board game his cousin had thrown out. A rough rectangle of iron, with a border of lilies, scavenged from a car boot around Little Whinging. The sellers had let him take it in exchange for an hour weeding their garden. Harry had inscribed what he believed to be most important onto the metal with the bottom of a spoon, and he had placed it on his bottom shelf so that he could gaze upon it every night before he fell asleep. Into the little plaque, the word "Power" was etched.
On the island of Azkaban, prison to the Wizarding world, a large black dog awoke from its troubled sleep and paced restlessly around its cell. The Dementors took no notice of it, of course, and the only reaction to its whining was a muffled curse from the next cell's occupant, a woman that had once possessed aristocratic beauty, long since faded into emaciation.
A pink-haired girl in her second year at Hogwarts paused on the journey back to her common room, arms full of snacks from eager house elves. If anyone had been awake to see her, they would have noticed that for a half-second her eyes darkened to deepest green.
Unnoticed by the shop's owner, a certain holly wand emitted kaleidoscope sparks for the first time since its creation. Its yew twin, entombed inside a block of magically resistant diamond on the ninth floor underneath the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, began to hum.
Harry Potter did not stir.
The sun had been up for an hour or so when Harry began making breakfast for his family as best he could. He struggled to see over the top of the oven and to lift the heavy pans at that angle, but he knew that to refuse the work would only see him back in his cupboard. He would not get any food then either, and as it was a Saturday he could easily be locked in there for the entire day, depending on his Uncle's mood. And his relatives only accepted a full cooked meal- or Vernon and Dudley did, at any rate. On the first day of his new role as a chef (soon after his sixth birthday), when he had tried to placate them with rounds of toast, he had earned a kick on the shin under the table from spoilt Dudley and a bloody forehead from Vernon. Even Petunia demanded a full English from him, and made him stand at the kitchen counter and watch while she ate only the bread and scraped the rest into the kitchen bin. Harry had no desire to repeat the disorientation he felt when his uncle had smashed his forehead into the thick wood above the cupboard door, and the gradual, painful hunger that had wormed its way into his stomach after the second day without food. He accepted the abuse as it gave him more time to practice. Harry knew he was different, ever since he had discovered that if he concentrated enough, he could make things happen. Harry could do things that other people couldn't, and that made him better than them.
After they had eaten their breakfast, as usual, Harry was given a list of chores from Petunia with a snarled "Don't bother me until they're done, freak!" while Dudley headed outside to play on his bike with a local boy named Piers. They had met while in primary school, and had bonded over their attempts to torment Harry. Piers used to smear paint over the books Harry was reading while the rest of the class was at break, but Piers never bothered Harry beyond verbal abuse nowadays after that incident. The next day his paints exploded and he had to have his eyes washed out by the school nurse. Harry was at the other end of the room at that time, but Piers could have sworn he saw the boy with a look of fierce concentration upon his face a split second before the blast. After that, there was no doubt in Piers' mind that Dudley was right, and the scrawny boy was a Freak with a capital F.
Harry's chores had become a lot easier for him since he could exert a measure of control over his power. Weeds simply lifted themselves out of the ground if he concentrated hard enough (the first time he had done it, the earthy clods had muddied Vernon's car and cost him a day without a toilet break) and dishes shone as soon as he touched them. Harry saved so much time, even with the temperamental control of his ability back then, that he made the mistake of telling Petunia he was finished with a vain hope of praise from his only living blood relation. All he earned was a look of suspicion, a promise to tell Vernon of his freakishness if it continued, and another list. He had soon discovered though, that if he tapped into his power while telling his aunt "I'm finished now Petunia. Don't bother me for the rest of the day", she would follow his command. Harry believed that this only worked with persuasions his relatives were at least slightly inclined to follow though, as when he had tried telling her to get into the cupboard so he could lock her in all he received was a blank, unfocused look until he left the room.
Vernon usually spent the weekend days socialising with his workmates from Grunnings, and from this Harry had learned that his uncle at least had a tiny amount of cunning- several times from his cupboard he had heard Vernon boasting from the living room his success in toadying up to his superiors. Harry was just disgusted that the obvious ploy seemed to work, as twice in as many years Vernon had been promoted to mid-management.
This largely left Harry with Saturday and Sunday afternoons free, which he spent in his cupboard discovering the extent of his abilities. This afternoon, Harry spent reading a loaned library book titled "The Art of War". He was glad his compulsions often left his aunt in a forgetful state, as if she had looked into the cupboard to bother him she would have no doubt screamed at him for the book, which hovered a foot above the ground.
Harry, like many children raised in a difficult environment, turned to the pursuit of knowledge as a form of escapism. Harry knew this, but he also knew that if he spent his childhood in self-imposed exile he would not gain the confidence and social skills needed to thrive in the adult world, away from the Dursleys. So while Harry devoted at least three of the five days in the school week to increasing his intelligence, the remaining two or so would be spent interacting with his fellow pupils and schoolteachers. The children who once joined in Dudley's attempts at humiliation and estrangement scrambled to Harry, once a little compulsion was added to his voice. "Like the weak-willed fools they are", he thought. Harry knew that he needed to interact with other people for his future benefit, but he had no need to actually befriend them. They were all kept at arm's distance, never seeing past his carefully-constructed mask.
The teachers were even quicker to adore him- what educator would not be fond of a child clearly clever enough to study material years above most other six-year olds, yet sensible enough not to show off to the other children? It helped that only a very short list of teachers were capable of resisting what Harry had begun to refer to as his "Voice of Power". Harry intentionally left his cousin free from the Voice to spite him, as the majority of his former gang, brought together by Dudley to try and bully Harry, abandoned him to fawn over "the freak". Harry's early childhood was spent absorbing every possible advantage he could gain in life, and not once did the morality of using his abilities to manipulate others to gain those advantages cross his mind.
A/N- This is my first attempt at fanfiction after this plot bunny leaped into my brain late last night. Reviews are welcomed, but I'd settle for plain old views.