Disclaimer: I still do not own Harry Potter.
Wow. I am astounded. I can't believe what an amazing response the first chapter of this story had. Thank you all so, so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. You have no idea how much I appreciate them.
This story will have many different subplots and angles, and I love the ideas some of you have given me. Many will definitely be incorporated into this story.
This chapter is from Harry's point of view and describes some of his early life. In future chapters, more detail will be given, and in the one after this, you will get to meet some of Harry's Muggle friends, and get to know more about his interests.
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter of background information. I assure you that in future updates, there will be a lot more plot and action.
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Yawning widely, Harry Potter got out of bed in his small bedroom at the Dursleys. He wondered briefly if Dudley was up yet; it was a Saturday morning, after all, and his cousin often liked to sleep in later than him on weekends. For some reason, Harry had always been an early riser.
His room might be small, but he was extremely happy with it. It was full of a mishmash of things; in his opinion, it was perfect. His walls were decorated with pictures of his favorite football team, and his shelves had some interesting books on them. Most of them were on a subject he found fascinating. For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted to be a doctor. He figured that this profession would be a good fit for him, but his aunt and uncle always told him it was perfectly okay if he changed his mind. But for now, he was determined to stick to his goal.
What had happened yesterday had only solidified his resolve to stay with his current plans. Right now, he was an average ten-year-old boy who would be turning eleven in a few weeks. Every year, he found his birthday exciting, but there was something profoundly different about this one. Harry didn't approach it with the same level of happiness and anticipation he usually did. And the events of yesterday had made it all too real.
Growing up, his Aunt Petunia had made it known to him exactly what he was, what world he belonged to, and what awaited him if he returned there. He had been told many stories of the wondrous wizarding world, he thought sarcastically. His parents had lost their lives to evil, but he had miraculously survived. The lightning-bolt scar that marred his forehead was a constant reminder of the miracle that had taken place, and from that day forward, he was known as The Boy Who Lived.
Even from an early age, Harry had thought there was a huge wrongness to the moniker. The people that made up the wizarding world thought that somehow, some way, he had brought about the downfall of a wizard so powerful that he had succeeded in killing hundreds of witches, wizards, and Muggles alike. They didn't come to the more obvious conclusion in thinking that one of his parents had performed the deed before they perished at Lord Voldemort's hands. With revulsion pulsing through every syllable, Aunt Petunia explained that the witches and wizards didn't even have the gumption to call him by his name; to them, he was You-Know-Who. Harry had thought this was illogical right from the beginning.
His aunt had told him in no uncertain terms that it had been her sister, and Harry's mother, Lily, who had destroyed the Dark Lord. She had sacrificed her life for him, and in doing so, had given him a very strong magical protection. She had then explained that Harry had been placed on the Dursleys' doorstep with only a letter to explain his appearance. Lily and James were dead, and the Dursleys had only found out through a measly letter. If his relatives took him in, they would be saving Harry's life, because the magical protection Lily gave him would be strongest among family members.
To Harry, the method of communication was appalling. He knew that if a family member was killed in the normal world, the police would come to the house and let the other family members know. God, Albus Dumbledore didn't even have the decency to tell Petunia about her own sister's death in person, and he never, not even in his letter, said anything about a funeral! She never got to bid Lily a final goodbye, or even see the place where she had lived. She was only a Muggle, after all. She wasn't one of the "special" people.
And the other thing that appalled Harry to no end was the fact that Petunia and Vernon were not even asked whether they wanted to keep Harry. Petunia had reassured him that she had never regretted her decision to do so, but Harry agreed that this was beyond stupid. After all, what did the wizards know of the Dursleys' situation? They had no idea whether there was room in the house for another child, or what their financial situation was like. The Dursleys received no money for his upkeep; it was just assumed that they would accept him with open arms.
And to their credit, they had. Aunt Petunia had stressed to him that none of this was his fault, and she would not take out her loathing of all things magical on an innocent child, because he had nothing to do with anything. Harry would blush furiously whenever Aunt Petunia would say things like this, and her response was to ruffle his hair and tell him she loved him.
Whenever she spoke of Lily, she would always get a faraway, distant look in her eyes, and there was always an ocean of guilt and regret in her tone. Harry had so many questions he longed to ask, but for his aunt's sake, he steered clear of most of them. He yearned to know more about his father, James, but whenever the subject was broached, Petunia would go rigid with suppressed anger. She told Harry that James Potter was a good man who had adored both him and his mother, but the words always seemed like they were forced out. It was plain to see that the woman still wrestled with unresolved demons when it came to James. Harry oftentimes wondered if the reason for her hatred of James was because he sucked Lily further into the magical world, although he would never dare ask such a thing.
If that was the reason for Petunia barely mentioning James, though, Harry couldn't entirely blame her, and this caused him an immense amount of guilt. Some nights, he would awaken with a jolt from a nightmare of screaming, green light, and a sharp pain on his forehead, and he knew this wasn't something normal boys dreamed about. He would then become furiously angry. He knew his aunt, uncle, and cousin loved him, but he wished his parents weren't just stories and pictures. He wished they were a reality, and he wondered why they had abandoned him. But then, the guilt would surface; his mother had sacrificed her life for him because she loved him so much.
But, on the whole, Harry was happy. He got up to normal things like going to school, making friends, and trying to keep his grades up. Sometimes the Dursleys would take holidays, and Harry would enjoy them thoroughly, although he sometimes got the feeling there were eyes on his back. He had an inkling as to who they belonged to, from the stories his aunt told,but he refused to let this ruin the time he spent with his family.
He and his cousin, Dudley, got along very well. They were more like siblings than cousins, and had made some of the same friends. They fought at times, but what siblings didn't? Their fights were never for long, and in hindsight, they were always over something really stupid. Within hours, or sometimes even minutes, they would be the best of friends again.
As Harry went downstairs, both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon greeted him. "Did you sleep well?" asked Petunia, looking at him critically. Harry could tell that in her case, the answer was no; she looked exhausted, and there were lines of visible stress around her mouth.
"Yeah, I slept okay," Harry lied, but he knew his aunt wouldn't be fooled. He had had trouble last night too, and he reckoned it was for the same reason. The reason was lying on the breakfast table.
Aunt Petunia said nothing in response; she just looked at him, not fooled for an instant. However, she was nice enough not to point it out.
"Is Dudley not up yet?" asked Uncle Vernon, biting into a mouthful of sausages.
"Nah," said Harry, tucking into his own breakfast. The Dursleys always made sure he and Dudley had a good amount to eat, although they never let them eat more than their appetites called for,.
Vernon chuckled. "Atta boy," he said with a smirk. "He's his father's son, you know."
Silence then surrounded the table as the meal continued. Nobody wanted to discuss the letter, or elephant as it were, in the room, and this suited Harry just fine.
After breakfast, Harry took his dish to the sink, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. He complained about it at times like any normal boy would, but he was usually okay with doing his share of household chores. He was grateful, however, that his relatives gave Dudley an equal amount of them. When the two did chores together, it was always more pleasant, and they were done a lot quicker.
After he was finished, Harry sat back down at the table. This was Uncle Vernon's cue to leave and go into the living room to watch telivision.
Growing up, Harry knew his uncle loved him, but he also knew that magic should stay out of any discussions between them. Aunt Petunia left all wizarding topics alone unless she and Harry were by themselves. Vernon was always disconcerted by magic, because it threw everything in his world off-kilter. Harry had come to accept this unspoken rule, and obeyed it to the letter.
Dudley wasn't averse to talking about it, but he often followed Uncle Vernon's lead and disappeared whenever the subject was brought up. He had learned enough to know, however, that Harry wanted no part of it. Both Harry and Dudley made sure to make no mention of it around any of their friends, either. For all intents and purposes, magic did not exist in their friendship circle.
But as Harry sat down at the table beside his aunt, his heart filled with dread. He was about to write a very defining letter which would send shockwaves through the heart of the wizarding world. He would explain, in no uncertain terms, that Harry Potter, the so-called Boy Who Lived, wanted no part of a wizarding education. He wanted to grow up to be a doctor, and above all, didn't want to leave his family behind forever. They loved him, and in turn, he loved them equally. He knew his parents loved him too, but he didn't want to end up like them, either - dead before he really got the chance to live.
But he knew, as he picked up a pen and began to write his reply, that the wizarding world wouldn't accept that he would soon become The Boy Who Said No. They would try and convince him to be sucked into their philosophies and their world, but he vowed he wouldn't budge. The only problem was: how far were they willing to go to convince him?
He also wondered if there was any way to stop the magic that he was already performing. Only weeks ago, he'd become enraged at something one of his classmates had said to Dudley, and, without conscious control, Harry had made him literally stop talking. The boy, Rick, had stared at him in horror, and his mouth moved soundlessly as he tried and failed to speak.
The spell had been broken in about a minute, but from that moment on, Rick was terrified of Harry. He told his other friends about it, but thankfully, not many believed him - they laughed, thinking Rick just had a wild imagination. But Harry knew this wasn't the case, and he hated it with an endless passion.
These kinds of incidents had occurred more and more frequently as the years passed, and it was getting harder and harder to explain them away. Harry refused point-blank to be a part of the wizarding world, but he worried that if these incidents, which Aunt Petunia called accidental magic, didn't stop, there would be more problems than the Dursleys could afford.
It was a blind man's hope, but all he could wish for was that he would say no, the wizards could get rid of his magic, and they'd leave him alone to lead a normal life, one that was free of expectations, Dark Lords, war, and death. But as his pen flew across the paper under his aunt's watchful eye, he could sense, with a sinking heart, that this was too much to ask for. The wizarding world would never be done with the famous Harry Potter, even if he was The Boy Who Said No.