Chapter Seven

The Correspondence of Self

When Harry Potter arrived on the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive, Vernon and Petunia Dursley were not happy. They did not strike Harry or lash out, but rather, they flinched away when they opened the door after he had knocked. They—Harry's tormentors for ten years—were frightened of him. They were frightened, not of the little boy's bulk (or lack thereof) that stood before them, but of the unknown quality he personified. They knew enough to realise that to be frightened would be wise, but did not know enough to realise that such fears were, at the moment, unfounded.

Harry Potter could threaten them with magic, yes—but he could not perform it. He had to bluff, and hope that the Dursleys took the bait. They did, and without any verbal warning from Harry.

"Hello, Uncle Vernon," he inclined his head forward slightly toward the beefy man, "Aunt Petunia," he said, repeating his cranial inclination.

"Get in! Get in before the neighbors see!" Aunt Petunia demanded in a shrill whisper. She may be terrified of this wizard-in-training, but she was also terrified of being viewed as abnormal by her ever-judgmental neighbors. And they were right to judge her, for she judged them in return. After all, roundabout is fair play.

Harry entered the home of Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley. Harry refused to add his name to that list now, he felt defiant now that he knew he was different from them—so very different from them.

Harry strode past the Dursleys, lugging a large trunk that Hagrid had picked out for him, to the foot of the stairs. "I'll be in my room," Harry informed them, not that he expected it to matter to them. If they wanted to bother him for something, they would. Harry began to haul his mostly-full trunk up the flight of steps that would eventually lead to his humble abode.

His trunk, whilst not full, was quite heavy for him to take up a flight of steps. He tried several different ways of carrying the trunk, but he was simply not strong enough. He settled for taking it off of the small cart Hagrid had gotten for it and dragging it, at a forty-five degree angle, up the carpeted stairway.

After a decent amount of lugging, he had dragged it up to his room. He opened the door slowly, and stepped inside. Turning around to drag his trunk, while walking in the reverse, he pulled it into his room with some difficulty. He ended up leaving it next to a rickety old desk that was in the room.

Harry placed his owl's (whom he had yet to name) empty cage on the windowsill. He had let her out to stretch her wings on the train ride home. He didn't think that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would like the idea of a white, snowy owl flying around the neighborhood, so he thought it would be good for her to stretch her wings while it was still feasible.

Harry popped open his trunk and pulled out his copy of Magical Theory. He decided that, since he would have nothing else to do for the next month, he might as well read up on magic. He wanted to have an edge on the other students; he didn't want to be the only student at Hogwarts who had no idea about magic. And… some secret part of him wanted to be ready for Voldemort. Hagrid had told him that he didn't think he had died but was just biding his time… if that were true; Harry was going to be ready. He was going to avenge his parents and all of those people that Hagrid spoke of.

Harry found that understanding magic from the book wasn't all that difficult. He read for a couple of hours before deciding to quit for the night. It was late, Harry didn't know how late, as he did not have a clock in his room or a watch on his wrist, but he figured it to be not far from midnight.

And so Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, lay his head down on his pillow and fell into a peaceful slumber, dreaming of his times-to-be at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Things progressed like this for the next two weeks. Harry would not be disturbed by the Dursleys and would spend a great deal of time poring over his schoolbooks and wishing that he could try some of it in his bedroom. He thought he'd gotten it all right, but he couldn't actually be sure without practical application.

Hedwig, as he had named his owl (a name he had filched from his copy of A History of Magic), had found her way to number four the day after Harry had. He had awoken to find her perched on top of her cage, staring at him with large, blinking, amber eyes.

On the sixteenth of August, Harry could be found reading out of his copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them when a loud knock was heard on his door. This was odd, as the Dursleys had not bothered him yet this summer. Indeed, they ignored his presence entirely, at mealtimes they would act as if any chair with Harry in it were empty.

Harry stalked over to the door, seized the handle, and turned. "Yes?" he asked, the door open only enough for his face to be visible.

"We've let you lie around long enough! You are going to start doing your chores again! I won't have any freeloaders in my house, boy!" Harry's purple-faced Uncle Vernon spat at him.

Harry, for his part, did not flinch. He simply looked Vernon Dursley dead in the eye, "No. I won't be doing any slave-labour for you, Uncle Vernon," Harry said with only one emotion in his voice: determination.

"SLAVE LABOUR!" his Uncle exploded, "WE TOOK YOU IN BOY! YOU WILL DO AS I SAY! I AM THE HEAD OF THIS HOUSEHOLD! WE TOOK YOU IN OUT OF THE KINDNESS OF OUR HEARTS," here Harry had to suppress a snort, despite his face being sprayed with the spit of the irate man before him, "YOU WILL RESPECT ME! YOU WILL DO AS I SAY!"

Harry continued to look at him with a level gaze. "No. I won't. I'm sure Dudley is free, though." Harry was more than a little surprised at his own daring. He knew better than to make jabs at Dudley, so he was not entirely surprised by Uncle Vernon's next course of action.

Vernon Dursley reared back his sizable fist, and pummeled Harry's nose with it.

"DON'T GET SMART WITH ME, BOY! YOU WILL DO AS I SAY IN MY HOME!" Uncle Vernon bellowed. "WE RAISED YOU, CLOTHED YOU, FED YOU—ALL OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF OUR HEARTS AND YOU REPAY US BY MAKING COMMENTS ABOUT YOUR COUSIN? YOU COULD DO TO TAKE A LEAF OUT OF DUDLEY'S BOOK BOY! YOU'D LEARN SOME MANNERS, START TREATING YOUR BETTERS WITH RESPECT!"

Harry, who was sprawled out on the floor, lifted his head slightly. He knew that he had gone too far, he should have seen this coming. "I'LL BEAT THAT—THAT—UNNATURALNESS OUT OF YOU IF I HAVE TO!" Uncle Vernon's foot impacted Harry's ribs, and Harry felt several of them crack under the strain of Uncle Vernon's foot.

"ABNORMAL—FREAK—YOU'RE GOING TO HELL!" another stomp. Harry both felt and heard several more of his ribs crack. "OUGHT—TO'VE—DONE—THIS—A LONG—TIME AGO!" Vernon Dursley bellowed in insane rage. His words were accompanied by the side of Harry's head being stomped on (Harry had, at this point, curled into the fetal position on his side) by Vernon's leather, formal shoes that Harry was normally expected to polish with regularity.

Harry heard Uncle Vernon continue to rant for but a moment before he felt a sharp pain in his head once more and blackness overtook him.

Oh God, let me live through this… Harry Potter thought to himself when he regained consciousness some days later. He knew this beating had been bad. He knew that his Uncle had gone farther than ever before. His inability to catch his breath and terrible headache, mixed with the blackness of his vision, was a testament to that.

I've finally found somewhere I belong, please don't let this be the end when I'm so close, Harry thought in despair and desperation. Things had really been looking up for Harry. He had a friend, a place where people liked him, and a world full of things—keys to the locks of his past.

I should have had my wand with me! I've never done any magic before… at least not on purpose… but I've read enough! I could have done something! But the fact was that Harry Potter had not had his wand with him when he had been attacked. It was under a loose floorboard that he had discovered not long into his stay in the smallest bedroom. He had hidden it there in case Uncle Vernon had ever tried to take all of Harry's "freakish" things from him. He had hidden in case he ever needed it.

And then, oh the great irony—when it was most needed, it was nowhere to be found. Harry was no match for Uncle Vernon in a physical fight. Harry knew that. Uncle Vernon's girth could easily outstrip Harry's advantage of speed.

I'll never have my wand away from me ag… his own thoughts died out as the darkness overtook him once more.

It took Harry more than a week to fully recover from his ordeal, physically at least. Harry really was glad that he healed so quickly, he thought that it must be because of his magic. He'd seen, once, a television show where a man died from injuries much less severe than his own. Harry knew that he was lucky to be alive.

His healing was slow going. He had awoken several times over the course of his recovery, and each time the pain was lessened. After a couple of wakings, Harry could see fully and the headache that had plagued him had died down. His ribs were, still, very sore. But they would be alright, Harry had decided.

Harry had thought about sending Hagrid an owl, telling him what had happened, but decided against it. Uncle Vernon would be in even more of a towering temper than he had been before. Besides, Harry was still alive wasn't he? Wasn't that enough? He could deal with his Uncle without assistance; he could manage.

Harry lay in his bed (which he had had to clean thoroughly, several times, to get the smell of human waste and empty-stomached vomit out of it) and thought about the days ahead. He was only two days away from the first of September; he was nearly free of the Dursleys.

Harry couldn't wait. He could leave! For a whole year too! Well… almost a whole year, anyway—but the important thing was that he was leaving them! He was going to a school to be taught magic!

Harry got up off of his bed and crossed the small room to his old, wooden desk. He pulled out the rickety chair that graced its front, and sat down. He lifted up his book The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) and began to read. The spells were all pretty mild in comparison with what Harry knew he would be learning one day (Hagrid had mentioned that he would one day be able to turn the Dursleys into the pigs they were, if he studied hard enough), but they were fascinating all the same.

Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket (he always had it with him now, just as he had resolved in a fit of consciousness earlier that week) and began to practise the wand movement that was required to make something levitate. This was something Harry was anxious to get to Hogwarts for. He thought he might be able to perform the spell. The wand movements were not terribly difficult and he could concentrate on the object (in this case an old shoe of Dudley's) floating.

And so Harry practised. He knew better than to try and actually perform the spell. Hagrid had warned him about it being illegal to practise magic outside of school when you're underage. But Harry decided that it couldn't hurt to just say the words in his head and practise the wand movements.

And so Harry did. Wingardium Leviosa! he intoned in his head, whilst swishing and flicking his wand at the old, brown shoe. Harry was more than a little shocked when the shoe began to float. He immediately broke the spell by moving his wand in a downward motion, forcing the shoe back to the ground.

Then he began to panic. What if they sent him to prison? Or expelled him? Or worse—what if the wizarding world had the death penalty! Hagrid had told him that if he performed magic away from Hogwarts, he would receive an owl from the Ministry of Magic within a dozen or so minutes.

So Harry made for his bed and sat down. He waited for ten minutes. He waited for fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. An hour. No letter. Harry was confused. Hagrid had told him that he would get a letter for using magic. Why hadn't he?

Harry had concluded that, for some reason, the Ministry of Magic had not detected his magic use. He didn't know why, but was thankful—the last thing he wanted right now was trouble with the magical law; he wasn't even in school yet!

Harry decided not to tempt fate, and left his magic alone for the time being. There would be plenty of time for the practical application of magic when he got to Hogwarts. For now, he would just read his textbooks, and pray that he wasn't behind everyone else on the first.

Two days later, Harry waited downstairs for Uncle Vernon to come down. He had been up since five because he was so excited; he was leaving the Dursleys and going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! He smiled at the thought of finally being free of the Dursleys. Pacing back and forth, Harry wondered what his life would be like away from the Dursleys. The brief glimpse of the magical world Hagrid had shown him was beyond amazing and he could not wait to see more. He stopped pacing and sat on his trunk. It was now 6:30. He sighed in exasperation; time was going far too slowly.

There was a small pop and an envelope was lying on his trunk. Harry looked at the letter that had so suddenly appeared. It read simply 'Harry', Harry reached out one tentative hand and took the envelope. The handwriting looked familiar, but he could not place it. He moved to open the letter and stopped. There was a strange weight to the air and the envelope itself felt somehow heavier than it looked. Whatever was in the envelope Harry was sure it would change his life as sure as his Hogwarts letter had.

He opened it. He was very surprised to see there were only three lines and that this was including the opening and closing:

Get to know Ginny Weasley.

Fate owed me one,

Harry J. Potter

Harry blinked. He knew this had to be strange, even for wizards, but now he knew why he recognized the handwriting, it was his. I wonder who Ginny is…and why does Fate owe me one?

A/N: Yes, it's a short chapter this week. What can I say? It happens. You might recognize some of this chapter from Intromit's Harry Potter and Fate's Debt. What you recognize, I don't claim even remotely as my own. See you next Sunday.