Chapter 2: It Is Our Choices
A large manor lay shrouded in a drizzly rain. Inside, a small, tow-headed boy dashed across the hall into the closet, then giggled. It was his favorite game; he would sneak around the house, trying to keep from being caught. He didn't think he was actually doing anything wrong, but the thrill of 'getting away' with something was too entrancing not to try. It was relatively safe, too; with only two old women in the house, he could be relatively certain of not being caught. Still, there was the chance that one of them might turn a corner at an inopportune moment. Could he hide in time?
He snuck down the hall, tiny feet padding on the thick carpet. Today, he was going to try something that, though it was not strictly forbidden, was generally frowned-upon.
He was sneaking into the west wing.
Carpet abruptly gave way to marble, and tapestried walls to great windows stretching from ceiling almost to the floor. He halted, suddenly feeling very small.
He tiptoed, now, out of a hushed sense of not-belonging, rather than little-boy stealth. Each step echoed off the ceiling, miles away. He halted in from of what was apparently the centerpiece of the room: two paintings, hanging side-by-side. There was a beautiful woman and a stern-looking man. They looked strangely familiar, as if he should know who they were. He drew closer, head cocked to one side. If only they would move-
"What d'you think you're doing, boy?" came a gruff voice from the shadows.
He jumped, and tried to scurry out, but instead ran smack-dab into a leg. He stumbled back, then looked up and screamed before passing out.
…
Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody looked down at his nephew and sighed.
He scooped the small boy up. He couldn't send Neville back to Augusta like this; he would have to wait for the boy to awaken on his own.
He hobbled quietly back to his quarters with his small burden.
…..
Neville woke up in a dark, shabby room. A fire was crackling in the corner, with two large chairs in front of it. The scary man was nowhere to be seen. He eased out of the enormous bed and began to tiptoe toward the door.
"Where d'you think you're going, boy?"
He froze. He eyed the door for a moment, wondering if he could make it before the scary man got to him.
"You can't make it, boy."
Now he eyed the chair that the voice was clearly issuing from, wondering if the scary man could read minds, and if so, how he was supposed to get away. A small thought crept into his mind: how did the scary man get here in the first place?...
"Come, sit with me." the voice from the armchair rasped.
Neville mustered up all his little-boy courage, swelled his chest, and stalked bravely up to the man. He climbed resolutely into the empty armchair, scooted back as far as he could, and crossed his arms. Only then did he work up the nerve to look at the man sitting across from him.
He was hideous. Every visible surface of his body was covered in scars; there was a chunk of his nose missing, and one whole leg gone; worst of all, though was his eye. One eye was a normal chocolate brown, like Neville's own; the other was blue, electric blue, spinning madly in its socket like something out of a nightmare.
Neville shuddered and fixed his gaze on the man's normal eye.
"Yes, sir?" he quavered. His voice did not sound half as brave as he meant it to; it was far too high and squeaky.
The man was silent for a moment. "Do you know who was in those portraits, boy?"
Neville schooled himself. "No, sir." he said very precisely, with not an ounce of quaver.
The man snorted. "Those are your parents." he uttered with finality, as if that should explain everything.
They lapsed into silence. Neville waited for what seemed like forever. Finally, he asked, "Did you know them?"
The man turned an eye on him, and Neville hastily added, "Sir."
After a long pause, the man said, "Your father was my nephew."
Neville sat and tried to puzzle this out for a long while. The man waited until he gave up, then said, voice colored by amusement, "That makes you my great-nephew."
Neville nodded gravely, as if he had expected this was the case.
This time, it was the man waiting for a response. Neville was determined to outwait him, though.
The man laughed. "You can call me Uncle Moody, boy. It's probably about time we got you back to your half of the house."
"Yes, sir." Neville said as he slid down out of the chair.
It was the first of many rainy afternoons spent in the west wing.
….
The nine-year-old boy wiped his brow as he finished cleaning his aunt's kitchen.
Harry Potter could not remember a time before he lived with his aunt and uncle and cousins. He did remember the first time his aunt had told him to make breakfast, and he did remember the first time he realized that he actually did have a mother and father—his aunt and uncle had been talking about 'that no-good, layabout James Potter', and by a complicated process of reasoning, he had decided that James Potter must have been his father.
About a year ago, his relatives had stopped taking Harry with them when they went out. For some reason, Harry's every public appearance was swamped with strangely-apparelled wellwishers. Petunia was tired of her precious Dudley and Edith being overshadowed by their unnatural and shrimpy cousin, so she simply left him at home.
Harry didn't mind. As soon as they left every day, he rushed to finish his chores. Then, carefully, he eased into the sitting room and took one of the books off the showcase. He was very careful to always put them back in the correct order, even though the Dursleys hardly ever looked at the shelf, much less read the books. The pictures and words painted a portrait of a world outside Number Four, Privet Drive, and Harry was glad to be able to escape to that world for an hour every day.
And thus, a childhood that was otherwise barren was given a saving grace, and some things that might have otherwise been true were averted, and Harry Potter became a different person than he might have otherwise been.
