disclaimer: abi doesn't own the cute little boy, or the not-so-cute little boy, or anyone for that matter, really. really.


prologue: It began with a…
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Harry was quiet. Harry was pale. Harry had curiosity, a trait not uncommonly found in a six year old little boy. But, unlike other six year old little boys, this one in particular also had restraint. It had been beaten into his fragile, impressionable mind by his angry relatives.

Yet…something prevented that innocent curiosity from leaving him completely; the same something that kept him from becoming broken shell of a child in his relatives' harsh care.

Harry was also a special little boy, in many more ways that others are unspectacular. For all that he had the mind and body of a skittish, lonely child, it was obvious to any who cared to look that there was an air about him. Some called it wisdom, others mortality. His Uncle Vernon called it freakish.

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"Get your arse out of bed boy, and make yourself useful. God knows your worthless parent's couldn't."

A loud banging noise sounded, it rattled about Harry's little cupboard, shaking the door and knocking dust from the sloping ceiling. Harry was used to it, though, and patiently rolled over, eyes still closed. His left hand searched about above him for the light bulb cord as the banging ceased and a great thundering of heavy steps faded towards the kitchen.

The little boy pouted petulantly at the spider using his trousers as a bed and knocked it away as he changed from the over-sized, old, and worn out t-shirt he wore for pyjamas into the same set of clothes he would wear for that day and the rest of the week.

Harry dressed quickly, pondering his uncle's words. Try as he might, they didn't make much sense. They didn't have to though – Harry's morning routine only changed on the weekends, or when his relatives went away. Today was obviously a weekday, because Uncle Vernon woke him up, rather than Aunt Petunia's shrill voice and incessant tapping.

He left his room – the cupboard – and padded down the hallway, into the kitchen, patting his hair flat absently. He wordlessly pulled the cheap plastic stool designated his towards the counter and stepped up on it, leaning over to his left to turn on the stove. His job, as he'd been taught with a heavy fist, was to cook the bacon, not burn it, and goddamnit boy, leave the fat on, it's there for a reason.

His Aunt marched in not long after, gave him a cursory glance, and started the rest of the breakfast preparations. At the same time, he could hear his uncle settle down at the table. They ignored him, as was usual when they didn't want anything from him.

Twenty minutes later and a plate stacked a quarter of a foot high with bacon, his cousin came storming down the stairs and it was Harry's time to leave so his relatives could have a Family Breakfast.

He put his step stool away, took the slice of buttered bread from the counter left for him and quietly disappeared into the living room. Here he sat on the floor, by the window, and watched the people driving by, on their way to work.

He would have cried, had that too not been beaten out of him. He was lonely, and sad. He didn't understand why his Aunt and Uncle and Cousin hated him so much. Why they hurt him, why they ignored him when they weren't hitting him. Why…

He ate his bread carefully, hidden between the couch and the sill where no one would see him lest they look in through the window from the garden beneath it. As long as he didn't spill, his Aunt would be oblivious of his trespass into the Dursley Family Room – he wasn't Family, he shouldn't have been there.

This window-watching routine had started one day, when he, finally, just had to know where the "school" and the "work" his Cousin, Aunt, and Uncle went to every weekday. In the process of sneaking into the Family Room, in preparation for watching his relatives depart, he realized he could also see Outside.

Outside was forbidden to him. The only time he was even allowed Outside was in the summer, to help attend to Aunt Petunia's flowers. And that was only under her stern eye that he kept his head down and mind to his work. So, this – this freedom, this illicit watching of Outside 'till his Aunt returned from walking Dudley to school was Harry's secret joy.

But this morning was different. This morning his eager green eyes saw something unusual. His Uncle would probably have called it freakish, too. Harry would eventually call it the best thing that ever happened to him.

We are jumping a little ahead, however.

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"Petunia, dear, I believe I shall drive Dudley to school this morning. And pick him up on my way home. How's that sound, Dudders?" Vernon said a bit too calmly over the breakfast table as he set away the morning paper and picked up his fork. Petunia frowned.

"Can I sit in the front?" Asked the youngest Dursley, eyes still glued to the small television on the counter playing some sort of generic children's program. Bits of flying bacon and bread also joined this question-that-was-more-of-a-demand.

"Whatever for, Vernon?" Petunia responded to Vernon's first statement.

Vernon, with a pointed look at his one and only, jerked his head towards the paper to his left. Petunia picked it up curiously, only to drop it in her breakfast a moment later with a gasp.

"I…think that would be best. In fact, we should probably keep..." She stopped and started.

"No, no Petunia, think about it. School would probably be safer…In fact, why don't I drop you off at your friend Julia's for the day?" Vernon suggested quietly, so Dudley wouldn't hear him over his television program. It wouldn't due to worry the boy, he thought.

"If you think that's best darling. But what about him?"

Vernon sneered. "Pray that he's gone by this evening."

Petunia laughed.

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