When Harry Potter was born, there was no trumpeting, no fanfare, no signal of the greatness carried within his genes. Such signs would only begin to manifest around his ninth birthday, when the blood of his great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Godric Gryffindor, began to boil in his veins.
-oOo-
It had been some years since Vernon had needed to go inside the backyard shed. Yard work had been Harry's job since he'd turned eight.
Thoughts of his nephew caused Vernon to frown; Harry had been acting downright queer these last few months, even for...his kind. The boy had started calling him "Lord Dursley", or just "M'Lord", for starters. Not that Vernon minded; about time someone showed him the respect he deserved.
The boy had started talking funny, too. Sort of like those old period dramas Petunia was so fond of. Honestly, the slang kid's used these days.
He put thoughts of his nephew away as he approached the shed. Freaks would freak, he supposed, pulling open the door. Nothing for it but to give him lots and lots of old-fashioned hard—
Vernon's thoughts screeched to halt at the sight that greeted him. Not only were his tools expertly polished and sorted, but a contraption sat against the far wall, it's copper body and twisting pipework gleaming in the low light. In front of the mass of metal, lifting a small glass away from his lips, was Harry Potter, a vaguely pleased look on his face.
"The deuce is this?!" Vernon asked.
Harry turned and his face lit up. "Just in time, M'Lord! The first batch is ready for your approval."
Vernon watched, his brain trying to decode what exactly was going on here, as Harry pulled a small barrel from underneath his workbench.
"Aged only four months," Harry explained, slamming a tap into the barrel's side, "but I've high hopes for the flavor."
The boy fished a tumbler from the workbench, poured a mouthful of amber liquid, and proffered the glass to his uncle.
"I hope M'Lord finds it satisfactory."
Vernon took the glass on reflex, and was surprised to smell alcohol wafting from it.
"What's all this, then?" he asked, gesturing at the copper set-up.
"An amateur distiller, M'Lord. We discovered the local merchants lack of mead, and took immediate action."
Vernon sniffed his glass, noting the fine bouquet. "Mead?"
"A drink for the gods. A castle's Lord," Harry bowed to Vernon, "deserves no less."
Vernon took a sip, tempted by the delicious aroma titillating his nose. His eyes widened as the drink flowed over his taste buds, and he quaffed the remainder in a single gulp.
"This is good!" he exclaimed.
Harry drew a tankard from nowhere, filled it to the brim, and presented it to Vernon with a flourish.
"Then drink hearty, M'Lord! For who knows what tomorrow may bring!"
-oOo-
Petunia watched in confusion as her husband strolled into the kitchen with Harry rolling a small barrel behind him.
"Vernon?" she asked. "What's going—"
Vernon wrapped an arm around her and planted a searing kiss onto her lips.
"Pet," he said, shockingly clearly, given the amount of mead he'd drunk, "You're beautiful."
Petunia blushed. "Your drunk," she observed.
"Just a little, and about time."
"B-But the neighbors, Dear! What will they think? Oh, the gossip..."
Vernon kissed her again. "Let 'em talk."
In the next few weeks, it quickly became apparent that Vernon Dursley was the merriest drunk in the northern hemisphere. All the neighbors gossiped; half thought Vernon was flirting with the Devil, the other half thought he was twice the bloke he'd ever been. His doctor was astounded by his drop in blood pressure.
Harry Potter was glad to see his Lord and provider so happy.
-oOo-
"Give it back!" shouted Sally May.
Dudley, terror of the local playground, laughed and held the doll higher. "S'what you get," he taunted, "Bringing stupid dolls to school!"
"Tis an inglorious cur," growled a voice, "That treats a lady so."
Dudley paled and broke into a cold sweat. He turned and stared into the green chips of ice that were Harry Potter's eyes.
"H-Hey, cuz," stuttered Dudley, "I thought you were—"
Harry scowled, and Dudley somehow became even paler.
"I-I mean," the corpulent toddler dropped to his knees and held the doll out to his cousin, "Iwasjustkiddingwithherplease don'thitme!"
Harry snatched the doll away and glared at his prostrate relative. "Away with you," he growled.
And away Dudley went.
Harry turned to the little girl, Sally May, and held out the doll. "I apologize, Lady May, for the churlish actions of mine kin. T'will not happen again."
Sally took the doll and held it close. Her eyes shone with thanks and awe. After Harry bowed and left, she skipped off to find her friends, eager to tell of them of her knight in shining armor.
-oOo-
"You think you're so great, huh?"
Harry turned. Five kids were spread out behind him. He recognized the one on point, Piers Polkiss.
"I dunno what Dudley's so scared of," continued Piers, "Always leaving you alone. Well, I'm not scared of anybody!"
Harry planted his feet and crossed his arms. He knew Pierrs was a known bully, one Dudley's old crowd, and refused to show weakness to such ones.
"What business have you with me, Piers Polkiss?"
Piers marched up, pressing his face into Harry's. "The way you talk is stupid."
With that final, withering insult, Piers shoved Harry with as much strength as his nine-year-old arms could muster. Harry fell backwards onto the pavement, lightly skinning his elbows. He didn't wince in the slightest.
As Piers and his cohorts laughed, Harry rose to his feet. He didn't have time to waste here. Lady Petunia would require his assistance in preparing dinner.
"Your blow," said Harry, "is weak as an elderly scholar's."
Piers cocked his head. "Huh?"
Harry sighed. "You hit like a girl," he explained, cringing at the necessary slip into the commoner's tongue.
With a bellow of infantile fury, Piers charged. Unfortunately, he charged directly into the knuckles of his opponent's right straight, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Harry glared at the remaining children, spreading his arms wide in challenge.
"Come at me, dogs!" he screamed, blood pounding in his ears.
Needless to say, they did not.
-oOo-
Surrey Zoo, one and half years later...
Harry contemplated the burmese python, coiled so comfortably on a heated rock.
"Ah," he said, "How can they hope to placate such a noble beast with false comfort? Tis against nature, caging so mighty a hunter."
To Harry's surprise, the python raised it's head and fixed him with a unusually steady gaze. Then, to his greater surprise, it began to speak.
"They do not placate me, Sssnake Speaker," it hissed.
Harry should have jumped. He should have screamed. At the very least, he should have flinched. For some reason, one he couldn't quite place, but did not question, he merely drew closer.
"And yet," he pointed out, "You remain a docile captive."
The snake hissed angrily. "The humans are ever cautious. Ever cautious. I..." It slumped on it's rock, defeated, "I will die in this place."
Harry felt a red tide welling up within himself. Righteous anger surged in his heart at the injustice before him. What right had any man to cage such a creature? To break such a spirit? He spied a broom leaning against, strode to it, and weighed the heavy shaft in his grip.
No right at all.
He looked up and around, spotting a security camera. Five steps and a mighty swing left the surveillance device in shambles. Harry ignored the shouts of concerned patrons as he strode to the python's cage.
"What are you doing?" asked the snake.
"Justice," answered Harry.
He swung the broom, and reinforced glass shattered like ice.
The shouts of concerned patrons turned to screams as the python slithered out.
"And now?" it hissed.
Harry smiled wildly. "Now we run."