I'd like to thank everyone who clicked on this story and proceeded to follow/favourite. I was a bit disheartened from the lack of feedback from you, but that doesn't entirely matter. This won't falter my attitude for this story, I wrote this fanfiction for my own personal enjoyment—people reviewing and reading it are just a bonus to my day.

This is more of a filler chapter then anything, things will get far more interesting in the next two or three chapters. In addition to this, I should be updating later today (or early tomorrow). Once again I apologise for grammar or spelling mistakes, I don't have a beta. (However if one of you wish to help me edit this it would be greatly appreciated).

Disclaimer: I don't own nor claim to own Harry Potter.


With limited movements similar to the speed of a sloth, Harry Potter slowly opened his eyes, a small frown hastily nestling itself across his features. Sitting his body up the young wizard evaluated his current setting, eyes widening at the familiar room. It was the cupboard—not any old cupboard—his cupboard.

The one under the stairs, in Privet Drive, house number four.

What the hell did that bloody mirror do to him? How could he be here?

Drawing a deep, shaken breath in. The Boy Who Lived sat up off the poor excuse for a bed, his feet landing gingerly on the floor below him. Was it all a dream then? Was Hogwarts just a figment of his mind? His brows knitted together in thought, eyes trailing over a spider creating a well-manufactured web.

Was it all just an imaginary land that his mind had created to escape the awful, and dreaded Dursley's? Although he'd certainly heard stories (…even if they were told in his past [future?] life…) that sometimes children created imaginary worlds in order to escape reality. That surely couldn't be the case here, it was much too violent to be fake.

Right?

In his panic the small boy reached towards his forehead, fingers tracing along the lightning shaped scar. Jerking his head up, Harry started to hear footsteps hastily getting closer.

"Get up, freak," Harry heard a familiar, screeching voice sound. The owner of the voice—Petunia—was now furiously knocking at his cupboard door, before a clicking noise erupted the room, notifying him that the door had been unlocked. "You've had enough of a sleep in."

Sighing loudly he began to glare hatefully towards the cupboard door. It seemed that the Dursley's were as bad as he'd remembered then. With a less than rapid movement, Harry walked towards the door. Opening it in one swift motion. Immediately a smell ran up the small boy's nostrils, causing his nose to wrinkle with distaste. It was an unpleasant odor to say the least. Dragging his feet across the floor he noticed that the smell increased until the kitchen was in sight.

Harry's eyes instantly locked onto a large metal tub in the sink, one that he thought looked familiar. With an uneasy expression, he slowly moved towards it, until he could clearly see the buckets contents. Eyes widening he gazed at the oversized clothes swimming in the grey water, the same grey clothes he'd remembered his Aunt dyed for him before.

The same day that he'd received his first Hogwarts letter.

"That's your school uniform," Aunt Petunia informed him with a vile expression, the sneering voice drawing Harry from his thoughts. Frowning his eyes didn't falter away from the tub, he remembered this—it happened a couple of weeks after the incident at the zoo. How was this possible? It couldn't be that the mirror somehow transported him into his eleven-year-old body. Lifting his right hand towards his left forearm, he pinched himself. Instantly wincing at the jolt of pain wafting through his appendage. Suddenly a realisation caused him to jerk his head forward, eyes widening at the possibilities.

Maybe this was it, a second chance. This time he could get it right—no one had to die. Not Sirius, Dumbledore or Snape. Heck—not even Cedric!

"You best wipe that stupid expression from your face if you know what's best for you," his aunt snapped at him before she turned towards the other side of the kitchen. "You should be grateful that I'm taking the time to dye them. They'll look exactly like everyone else's when I'm finished with them."

Despite his current mental shock, Harry resisted the urge to snort sarcastically at his aunt's statement. He'd remembered exactly what they turned out to look like. In fact, the clothes could be mistaken for the skin of a dreary elephant. He was glad that he wouldn't have to wear them—well if Hogwarts actually existed, that is. Still in shock he moved towards the dining table, thinking carefully about his current situation.

He could change everything for the better—he had the clear advantage for what's to come—there didn't have to be a second war. Hogwarts wouldn't have to be rebuilt, the Burrow would still be intact and Voldemort could be stopped before he became a problem. However the underlining problem still remained, how was he supposed to explain this to someone? No one would believe him. Harry didn't believe himself. In his opinion, this seemed far too farfetched.

Once again he was drawn away from his musings as Dudley, followed closely by his Uncle Vernon, walked into the kitchen. He noted that their faces were crinkled in disgust at the foul smell, before complaining loudly about the inconvenience. Harry observed as they sat on the table before remembering past events, wondering if they'd perform the same actions of the same day in his head. Expectantly Vernon reached towards the newspaper, the reading material hiding his overly large head from view.

Dudley picked up his breakfast from the large helpings on the table, as he banged his Smeltings stick on the floor. With a hungered expression, Harry watched as his cousin poured vast amounts of food onto his own plate and dreaded that he'd have to wait for his helpings. The young wizard fully remembered the rules here—sometimes in his older body he still fell into the habits forced on him in early childhood—and was fully aware that he could only eat the leftovers.

With an anxious expression, he waited to hear the sound of the letter-box clicking, notifying them when the post had arrived. It was a full twenty minutes until this happened.

"Get the post, Dudley," Uncle Vernon demanded from his place behind the paper, hands gesturing towards the hall behind him.

"Make Harry get it!" His cousin wailed loudly, slamming his Smeltings stick onto the floor loudly. The sound wafted through the house, creating somewhat of an echo.

"Get the post, Harry," the older Dursley commended, his booming voice sending shivers down his spine. In an energetic movement, Harry slipped off his chair, walking towards the hall. The excitement was bubbling within him, desperately hoping that his letter was here. This would prove that it wasn't all just a morbid dream. As he expected three things lay on the doormat, a postcard (from Vernon's sister Marge, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight), a brown muggle envelope (most likely a bill)—and a letter. Harry's Hogwarts letter. Hastily he picked it up, eyes running over the parchment covering.

Mr H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey.

As he remembered the writing was written in a beautiful coloured green, the handwriting only complimenting it more. It was covered in a yellow-hued parchment, and the envelope was thick and heavy. Wasting no time the wizard jammed the letter through the cracks of his cupboard, where he could safely access it later.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted a loud booming voice from the kitchen, before he heard another inpatient grumbled laugh. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?"

If Harry wasn't too caught up in his excitement he would've replied that yes, he was looking for letter bombs and that there was one here. However, he was simply too overjoyed at this revelation. He had a second chance, and he wasn't going to waste it.


Harry didn't end up eating breakfast that day—it turned out that Dudley was extra hungry and demanded that he'd have the rest of the food. Of course his dreadful parents agreed with his statement, their little Dudders was a growing boy after all. Harry didn't really mind, he was sure he'd get something to eat later.

However instead for the rest of the day Harry found himself spending most of his time completing chores. They mainly consisted of gardening, sweeping and laundry work. It seemed simple enough in his head—he thought he'd be finished by lunch, then he'd be able to eat—however, that didn't seem to be the case.

After being away from his 'loving' family during his time before, Harry had forgotten how hard these chores were. They quickly wore all energy levels in his weak eleven-year-old body, especially since he had limited rations. He'd completely forgotten what it had felt like to be so drained—no wonder he ended up short when he was older. Most of his energy given from food was used to complete his chores, and not to grow.

Despite this revealed fact, when he went to wash Vernon and Petunia's clothing he dug through their pockets, looking for loose bits of change. Although he didn't find very much, it was better than nothing. Harry just hoped he could find some more, so he could go to Diagon Alley without the Dursley's being informed.

With an audible sigh, Harry decided to look through Dudley's pockets, hoping he had some change from his allowance.

To his surprise when he looked through the large pockets he found a wallet full of his cousin's savings. Smirking to himself he quickly removed the muggle currency into his own pockets, before disposing of the leather wallet on the laundry table.

It seemed his plans would work. Tomorrow morning he'd wake up before the Dursley's, catch a public bus (or taxi cab, although that could provide unwanted suspicion) and head to Diagon Alley to collect his school items.


IMPORTANT QUESTION:

What house do you want Harry to be in?