Unable to communicate with Hagrid, or to think of somewhere to go when he woke on the door step the next morning, Harry fumbled with the letter, thinking he could probably survive a year or two with the Dursleys... but only if he could check what Dumbledore had written. This was the letter that could have explained his heritage when he was a child.

He managed to turn over, finally, his awkward stubby hands difficult to control. It took forever. He wouldn't have even managed to crawl to Mrs Figg's, he realised.

The letter was typical Dumbledore, "unfortunate circumstances have led to your sister and her husband's regrettable deaths, at the hands of a notorious criminal wizard, Voldemort." "I know you will keep you kin safe in these difficult times, until he can return to the wizarding world."

Bloody hell.

It dribbled on. "Harry shall surely be a very talented inquisitive child, and I trust your judgement in letting him know the truth of our world, and the great sacrifice his parents made, not only for him, but for the entire wizarding world."

Gads.

Then odd details. Stuff like how he liked apple puree.

Then the door opened, and Petunia's scream split the air. She grabbed the basket and pulled it in the door roughly, slamming the door just behind.

No doubt trying to avoid letting the neighbourhood see him.

The argument Petunia and Vernon had went over his head, but he knew it was something about having him stay. Dudley hit him. He shuffled out of the way. Hitting back would probably just make things worse.

The next few weeks continued in the same vein. Harry watched the news when Petunia and Vernon did, and slept in a second hand cot in the same room as Dudley and his carved wooden one. Petunia fauned over Dudley, and fed Harry grudgingly. He noted bitterly that Dudley got lots of applesauce, and he never got a drop.

He practised wandless magic constantly, tiring himself out. He could do wingardium leviosa, and was working on making himself more liked by Petunia, by casting cheering charms on Dudley so it looked like Dudley liked it when Harry was around. He almost always fell asleep after casting a spell, however, it tired him out so completely. He had worked up to casting one a day without passing out.

He practised making sounds at night, glad that the Dursley's didn't have a baby monitor. But then, Dudley had insanely strong lungs by the sounds of things, so it wasn't like they needed it. He practised moving, crawling, and walking too.

He was careful not to let Petunia or Vernon see or hear him. He knew that if he did things better than Dudley, they'd be angry.

The years passed slowly. But he made mental lists of things he wanted to achieve. He wanted to enjoy his childhood, and be prepared for Hogwarts, and the wizarding world. He would learn latin, and work really hard on his geography. He always regretted not having a good idea of where he was apparating.

He would work on maths, and english literature- Hermione had always had ideas that she claimed she picked straight out of books.

As soon as he was able he'd go to Diagon Alley and get books, a wand, and money. He wanted to eat well and not be the malnourished tiny child he'd been, and he could tell the way things were going that history was going to repeat itself unless he did something about it.

It was Dudley's third birthday when Vernon took Harry and locked him in the cupboard under the stairs, with an old duvet and pillow.

"He'll be fine there for the day while we take Dudders to the park and go for a meal out. He's been to the loo and we've not let him eat anything.."

The front door shut and locked behind them.

Harry was surprised at how elated he was to be left here. He looked around the cupboard, noticing the spiderwebs, and wandlessly cast alhomora on the door.

He methodically got dressed, and went out the back door. He was going to go to Mrs Figg's, and try to use her fireplace. She had always left the back door open for her cats before, she only got a cat flap just before he went to Hogwarts last time around.

Hopefully he'd be able to sneak past her.

He crossed the road carefully, wearing a hat. Harry knew he walked better than most three year olds, and he ran a little, hoping no one saw him as he scrabbled to undo the latch to Mrs Figg's back garden.

The cats were everywhere, as always, and he noticed, suspiciously, that many had characteristics like Crookshanks.

Mrs Figg wasn't in the living room, and he knew her floo powder was in the little cat container on the sideboard, he grabbed a handful fast as the cats started yowling, tossed and through the fumes spoke as clearly as he could.

"The Leaky Cauldron."