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Broken Utterly!

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Chapter 1

The Terrifying New World

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The Monster Speaks

A brutal storm was rattling the frail walls of a little hut perched on a rock out at sea.

BOOM! ... CRASH!

The shack door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening thud landed flat on the floor. A giant of a man was standing in the doorway, his face almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard.

Boy, shivering in thin rags on the floor, squealed in terror and tried to wriggle behind the moth-eaten sofa upon which his cousin Dudley Dursley had been sleeping. Boy's uncle blustered in from the adjoining room brandishing a shotgun but the huge visitor simply ignored him and pulled a squashed-up box from his pocket.

The monster spoke, but Boy struggled to understand his curious way of speaking: "Got summat fer yeh, Hurry. I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste alright."

From around the edge of the sofa, Boy screwed up his eyes – though he could discern only a huge fuzzy shape holding out a small fuzzy shape.

"Chocolate cake," explained the man, tilting the box forward as he opened it, "fer yeh birthday."

"Uh. Uh," grunted Boy, nervously looking to where he could hear his Uncle Vernon growling.

"The boy doesn't eat cake," snorted Vernon, "especially from strangers who intrude illegally. Who are you?"

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts," said the giant, nodding at the boy's Aunt Petunia behind her husband before he turned back to the boy shivering, half-concealed behind the sofa. "Got yer letter – Hurry." He held out a yellowish envelope, widening his tiny black, beetle-like eyes to encourage him to take it, but the boy was shaking his head.

"Well, open it then," urged the big man, clomping forward to thrust it into Boy's hands.

With trembling shoulders, Boy cowered over to his uncle and offered him the unopened packet.

Hagrid took a step forward. "What yeh doin', Hurry? It's yer Hogwarts letter!"

Petunia muttered something in her husband's ear which might have been, "rid of him ... for a year."

"Open it, boy!" ordered his uncle.

Cringing back, Boy's fingers shook uncontrollably as he tried to obey. A letter fell out of the envelope onto the mangy, infested rug on which Boy had lain.

"Idiot freak!" shouted Vernon, raising his fist.

"Now see 'ere, Dursley!" bellowed Hagrid, but Boy was grovelling on his knees trying to unfold the letter amidst the damp and dust. He squinted as hard as he could at the meaningless arrangement of blurred squiggles for a few seconds then looked up timidly to Vernon for his next command.

"Right, he's seen it! Satisfied? Now clear off, whoever you are!" cried Vernon.

"Oh, go boil yer head, yeh great prune!" bellowed Hagrid, turning to Boy with a more kindly expression. "It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow. Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that."

He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Boy, tumbling him over. "You can kip under that. Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a small owl and a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

The boy recoiled and scrabbled back around the settee; he was used to enduring cold, but never creeping, crawling, flapping creatures that he couldn't see properly with his dreadful eyesight. He shuddered and hugged his flimsy tatters as tightly as possible around himself as the sofa creaked and sagged under Hagrid's weight.

"Night, Hurry. Pleasant dreams."

But as Hagrid began snoring, there could be no dreams of any kind for Boy. He lay awake in fear of the morrow, rubbing his bare feet against one another to fend off the numbing cold. Lots to do? Go to town? Books? What did it all mean? Didn't the big man know he was abnormal and could no more read hazy squiggles than eat cake like a real person!

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Chaotically Confused

Boy's visit to Diagon Alley was a terrifying one. He clung to Hagrid's sleeve and peeped around fearfully, longing to return to the safe confines of his tiny cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys' home. Normally he was allowed to empty his bucket every week, but there'd been that bad time when he'd been sealed in for months with crusts and tins and darkness. The black crawling fear had broken him, though halfway he'd found a quasi-state of minimal hurt where he could hug himself and rock back and forth and grow to love his confinement in a sick, perverse kind of way, free of external terrors. But there was no escaping the confusing shapes, sounds, and smells that milled around him in the Alley. "Get yer cauldron 'ere!" – "Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce!" – "Look, new Nimbus Two Thousand – fastest ever!"

Hazily he discerned the disfigured forms of little goblin-like men that could talk, was given books he could not read, and made to wear strange clothing that flapped loosely around him. Alien aromas assailed his nostrils. Cracks, pops, and curious words followed by coloured flashes preceded further unearthly noises and movements; if this had been nighttime then all these effects would have definitely felt spooky, otherworldly. Was he surrounded by an extra-terrestrial invasion? He shuddered.

"Excited, eh, Hurry?" said the giant man. "But a word o' caution: that was Knockturn Alley we just passed – dodgy place to be avoided even on a bright morning such as this – think I just seen Macnair skulking down there, matter o' fact. Executes creatures now for the Ministry, but at one time he– ah! This 'ere's Ollivanders where you'll get a wand. You go in while I fetch yer owl. Go on now."

Boy stared after the big man. Get what? But he'd been given an order and was conditioned to obey. Tentatively he pushed open the shop door to which Hagrid had led him...

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A Shocking Experience

"Ah yes," said a mysterious figure from the gloom, "I wondered when I'd be seeing you... Harry Potter."

Boy staggered back into the door and the little bell tinkled above him again, startling the nervous boy anew. His eyesight was dreadful, but he could have sworn there were no other customers in the shop. Who's he speaking to? Years of knocks and bruises compelled him to wait his turn lest he be beaten, burnt, or broken.

The man moved closer – so close that there could be no doubt as to whom he was talking. Boy shrivelled before his gaze. Those luminous silvery eyes were a bit creepy in the shop's gloom. The shopkeeper pulled a long tape measure out of his pocket which to Boy looked like a squirming snake. "Which is your wand arm?"

Boy gulped; blurry, moving creatures were scary, and there was that 'w' word again.

"Which hand do you write with?" barked the strange old man.

Boy gnawed rapidly on his lower lip. He'd seen normal people write of course. Did this man not yet know he wasn't normal? What had Hagrid called the store? Olly Vanders?

The tape measure fell to the floor. The eyes did not blink. When he next spoke, the voice was soft, the tone sinister and sly. "Pick that up for me, would you?"

Relieved to be given an order he understood and believed he might carry out, Boy leapt to obey. Though frightened, he chased the writhing, wriggling tape around the shop floor twice before pinning it down and hurrying back to offer it up, praying it would not bite him or that he'd not taken too long and might get his ears boxed.

"So... right-handed then... Try this one Mr Potter." Ollivander held out a dark stick-like shape which Boy cautiously took.

The boy squinted intently. Very close up he could see a little better. The stick was a smooth black rod like a... like a magician's wand! He blinked. Was this a magic trick shop?

"Well, give it a wave," demanded Ollivander, snapping Boy out of his reverie and causing the lad's reflexive jerk to limply flip the wand across the shop where it clattered into a corner.

"Clearly not..." said Ollivander, who went to search for a more suitable wand.

Twenty minutes of trying later, a few sparks fizzled out of Boy's wand and he dropped it in fright. His cousin had routinely scorched him with a gaslighter from the age of three by ordering him to hold the wrong end while forced to trigger it with his other hand.

"That one might have to do..." muttered Ollivander as the doorbell tinkled and Hagrid was silhouetted there, holding up a caged creature with huge, terrifying eyes that stared directly at Boy while fluttering and flapping its ghostly-pale wings.

"uh – uh – uh – uh!" Boy ran behind the counter and cowered beside Mr Ollivander.

"Got yer owl, Harry!" cried Hagrid, waving the cage high and striding forward in case he hadn't noticed it yet. "Ain't she a beauty!"

But Boy emerged, fled around him, and out the open door. At running, he was well practised, and was quickly weaving through the throng.

"Yer owl, Harry!" cried Hagrid in bewilderment, thundering after him. "COME BACK HARRY! ... HARRY! ... HARRY POTTER!"

At Hagrid's cry, the hubbub ceased, the crowd parted, and heads turned to stare. Ollivander, having retrieved Harry's wand from the floor, was at the door in the hope of payment – but much more significant events were flashing swiftly before his eyes: Harry caught by the wrist of a toothless old crone, and a helpless target for – "Avada Ked–" – "NO!" bellowed Hagrid, moving to block the expected curse from up the street – "–avra" – a tremendous thud of dust as Hagrid's lifeless corpse hit the ground with the caged body of a snowy owl rolling off from his outstretched fingers – a hooded figure swerving away to flee down Knockturn Alley, his wand arm still extended defensively.

"Ironwood! Twenty inches, unyielding – Macnair!" hissed Ollivander, his large silvery eyes acutely sensitive to the well-known profile.

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Damaged

"Rubeus gave his life to protect the boy, Albus," said Ollivander, "but I am uncertain as to what he's saved." He gestured towards Harry who was crouched on the floor of the wand shop, rocking and moaning his confusion and distress.

"He's been cursed? What ails him?" said the Headmaster, raising his wand to cast a few detection spells which drifted colourfully down over the cowering figure on the ground.

Ollivander shook his head. "The boy was already emotionally damaged and struggling to comprehend our world. The sight of violent death tipped him into a deeper catatonic state. He is utterly broken now even if he wasn't already."

"You were always prone to exaggerate, Garrick," sighed Dumbledore. "The lad is merely upset – nothing that a cup of hot chocolate and a good night's sleep in a safe, familiar bed won't relieve. I'll take him back to his Aunt Petunia and–"

"–UH! UH! UH!" screamed Harry, holding up his arms protectively, but the Headmaster pressed himself onto the boy's outstretched hands and, with a loud CRACK! was gone.

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The Spoilt Child

When Harry Potter abruptly found himself being sick on the Dursley's living room carpet, his mind reeled in confusion, but long-honed instincts cut in instantly. He stifled his screams, suppressed his expression into a submissive downcast one, and was on his feet as steadily as he could manage a few seconds later, ready to receive orders.

"WHAT IN THUNDER ARE–"

"–Calm yourself, Mr Dursley," Dumbledore said benignly, as a swish of his wand cleansed the fluffy cream shag of Harry's meagre breakfast. "The lad became over-exhilarated at all the wondrous sights and sounds. It was too much for him, but this nausea will quickly fade. Let us put him to rest for a few hours and all will be well. Might I ask you to show me to his bedroom please, Petunia?"

Petunia Dursley's face paled. If Dumbledore noticed her quick nervous glance at the hall cupboard door as they passed, he did not show it. "Th–this way..."

At the top of the stair, Dudley Dursley's rage showed in the distortion of his fat jowls. "But that's MY–"

"–Hush, Popkin, I'm showing the Headmaster to Harry's room."

Her wink was wasted on the child. Vernon coaxed his furious son downstairs with a large slab of chocolate cake.

Harry clung only briefly to the doorframe; his memories of unspeakable torments within at the meaty hands of his cousin fought with his present fear of Aunt Petunia's glare. He was shaking with terror as he pulled on Dudley's oversized pyjamas, but the bed itself was even more harrowing, and he dare not even look at it; that was where he'd often been–

"–How you spoil the child, Petunia," smiled Dumbledore, his gaze sweeping across the heaps of toys strewn about the floor and shelves. "Into bed with you now, Harry, and your aunt will bring you up a nice hot cup of cocoa and sing you a lullaby to calm your excitement. Sweet dreams, my boy."

But as soon as Dumbledore had departed out of the front door, Petunia stormed back up the stairs, her face livid with anger. "I'LL GIVE YOU FUCKING COCOA, YOU BASTARD!"

She dragged him by the hair onto the floor with a thump – then paused, astounded. "You've... you've WET the bed! You've wet my Dudders' bed!"

Down came her hand across his face. Hard. "Lick it up! Lick up ALL that piss!" Her face was ugly with hatred. "VERNON!"

Harry wet his pyjamas again at the sound of heavy footsteps thundering up the stairs. There was silence broken only by his whimpering as he clambered back onto the wet sheets. Then...

"YOU LOATHSOME, REPULSIVE, SICKENING FREAK!" bellowed Harry's uncle, seizing the boy by one leg and dragging him off the bed once more with another thump.

Harry felt himself flung against a cabinet causing it to burst open and spew out Dudley's 'Young Mechanic' box onto his head. But a mere bleeding forehead did not satisfy Vernon's rage. He hurled the boy out through the door and stomped after him.

Staring through the balustrade at the drop down the stairwell, Harry knew what was coming. He whispered, "please no, Uncle!"

Vernon's eyes bulged with astonishment. "What! What did you say, boy! What have I told you about EVER raising your voice to your betters!"

An arm and a leg this time was all it took to heave the child into the air and over the safety rail. Harry screamed. Then again as he hit the stairs, his collarbone snapped, and he slid down the steps as helpless as a lamb on an abattoir's conveyor belt.

"Work him extra hard this afternoon, Petunia. No excuses. And no supper."

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King's Cross

Weeks later, dumped by the laughing Dursleys in the midst of a swirling hazy crowd of people, Harry stared around bewildered and frightened. Where was he? And what was he to do? He had a large travel chest beside him, but Dudley had broken the castors with a hammer, and Harry's shoulder was far too painful for him to drag the heavy trunk into a corner. How he longed for his cupboard where he might simply have hugged himself in the dark.

He tried to push the baggage with his good shoulder but this action still caused him pain, the chest hardly moved, and he had no direction to aim for. Harry began to whimper.

A shadow fell across him and he instinctively cringed.

"You can get yourself a trolley near the entrance son. I'll watch your luggage."

It was a man's voice, deep, but not so abrasive or threatening as that of his Uncle Vernon. Harry was confused. He'd scarcely ever been out of his home, had never even been registered for school. He'd been told that all strangers would be a threat.

"Did you hear what–"

"–You fetch it, Edward. We've plenty of time." A woman's voice this time. Harry could just about see the length of hair against her pale throat. And was she smiling? It sounded like it. When people smiled it meant they were plotting something nasty.

"Right," growled the man, assessing the scrawny frame of the runt and his fearful expression.

Harry stared at the floor. There was litter and pigeon poop. His trainers were badly worn and open at the seams. Perhaps the strange lady wouldn't notice and laugh at him. She was certainly whispering to someone. Any moment now they'd–

"–Go on, Hermione, he won't bite..."

Little footsteps approaching. "Uumm... hello. My dad's fetching you a trolley."

Harry felt his face burning. It was a monstrous girl with a huge head and the fangs and mane of a lion! Dudley had warned him if he ever met a girl she'd pull his pants down, point and laugh. And crowds of girls would come to look and poke fun at him. That's what they did. He grabbed hold tight of his waistband, his jaw quivering with fear.

"What's your name? I'm Hermione Granger. That looks like a um... school chest. Are you going to... what school are you going to?"

"Uh ... uh..." school chest? he thought to himself, that giant man had said something about a school but he'd made no sense at all. Am I going to school at last? A special school for freaks perhaps?

"Oh, can't you say it? We're not allowed to either except to... Let me guess. Does it begin with H? I'm pleased to meet you anyway." The lion-girl took a step closer, a white hand reaching out for his.

Harry staggered back out of range, still clutching his pants tightly and stumbling against the hard edge of his travel chest. He bit hard on his lip to stifle the severe ache in his shoulder.

Hermione inched back to her mother, whispering, "What's wrong with him, Mummy? Is he deaf and dumb? Or did I...?"

"Something's wrong. I've not seen such fear in even my youngest patients faced with a tooth extraction, Hermione." Mrs Granger rifled though her carry bag, took out some pills, and broke one in half. "Here, see if he'll accept this mild sedative to calm his nerves on the journey."

Harry had turned away to cling to his travel chest, bracing himself against the pain and humiliation, trying to block out Hermione's words racing through his head. What's wrong with him? Is he dumb? What's wrong with him? What's wrong with him? Dumb – dumb – dumb! There was no hiding place now. Everyone could tell he was a dumb freak, and they could prod and poke him or even–

"–Mummy says, would you like to try this pill? It'll make you feel better."

He couldn't turn to face her. He knew all about pills. Dudley made him swallow them sometimes. They make people sick; they make you want to die. The girl wanted him to die. Harry had nothing left and began crying. He didn't need a pill anymore to wish for death; he prayed for it. But the Enemy was everywhere, so where to run that was safe? Nowhere – Nowhere – Nowhere – Nowhere – Nowhere.

"What's happening, Anne?" It was the man's voice again, followed by whispering. They'd be plotting something to embarrass him further. He clung to his trouser top with one hand while–

–There was a tug on his sleeve and Harry screamed a long piercing scream. Everyone on the platform looked round.

"Steady on, son. You can't stay here. I'm putting your trunk on this trolley, and we're going to wheel it together to the train. Then we're getting on the train. Do you understand?"

It was a command, so Harry nodded his head, wiped both eyes with the back of a hand, and stood ready to obey. He felt his fingers placed on a handle and let himself be led. Ahead he could see the blurry shapes of the girl and her mother rushing directly towards a brick wall. He lost sight of them. It was almost as if they'd fallen down a hole he couldn't see. Harry blinked, confused, but he had no choice. He NEVER had a choice. The man would surely beat him if he disobeyed. He closed his eyes tight and let the man pull him along with the trolley...

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Nice

Different sounds: a concentration of young voices, hisses and sparks crackling. Different smells: grease, smoke and steam. People were held in line by a huge shape that Harry could not understand. It didn't seem like a building, more like a row of buses. The man had mentioned the word 'train'. He had only the vaguest notion of what a train was – like buses joined together but running on a rail – perhaps this was that! He'd never been on a bus before, let alone joined-up buses! What if they didn't allow freaks?

"Help him aboard while I stow his chest," the man was saying.

"Watch out for him, darling."

"But, Mummy..."

Harry was bundled into a crowded compartment with seats, and guided down into a corner with the girl pressed next to him. Others were laughing and giggling around him. They were ALL girls! So, he wasn't going to a special school for freaks at all; he'd been tricked by the Dursleys into going to a GIRLS' school! He shrunk down and stared at his knees, mortified, when someone closed the door. Trapped!

"What's that boy doing in here?"

Hermione's shoulder jostled and Harry wondered if she was gesturing something rude to them, to signal that he was just a freak. They'd all be staring at him now, sniggering and planning. Perhaps they were waiting until the bus-train started moving so he couldn't jump off! He'd be at their mercy for who knew how many minutes the journey would take; what if it took a whole hour? It was his own fault; Dudley had warned him, yet he'd let himself be snared the first time he'd left home on his own. The giant man had been with him before. It wouldn't seem so bad if he were here now. Surely girls wouldn't pull down the pants of someone accompanied by a monster? But the giant was dead, and Harry struggled not to cry.

"Are you upset because you won't see your mummy and daddy for a while?" The girl was leaning close, staring, staring, staring... She smelt funny. Like roses. And her breath was minty. This near, she seemed to have even more hair than a lion.

"Are you mute? Can't you speak?"

He shook his head.

"Aha!" the girl said briskly, and pulled a notebook from her pocket. "I'll say things and you must write down what you want to say with this pen. Go on, take it; it's alright."

He daren't refuse an order. He pointed the pen at the notebook like he'd seen his aunt produce a shopping list by squiggling it, so he moved the end about a bit. Someone laughed, so he stopped.

"Erm... you have to take the top off... see? Like that. And turn it the other way round to the pointed end. Then you open the notebook like this and look for a blank page to write on – no, that's my bucket list. Turn the–"

"–That's a list of all the buckets she's got in her bucket collection, Dumbhead," sneered one of the older girls opposite.

"Don't be horrid!" cried the frizzy-haired lion-girl. "It's not that at all – take no notice, erm... what is your name, anyway? Look, a bucket list is all the things I want to do before I die and–"

"–Perhaps we can help you there, Mudblood – with the last bit about dying we mean. Then you needn't bother about how to do your stupid list."

"Yeah, make it a short list," scoffed another.

"Ignore them, uumm... look, I already told you my name is Hermione Granger. You write your name just here..."

Howls of laughter. "ERM–EYE–ON–HEEEEEEEEE!"

"HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE!"

" What sort of pathetic loser name is that?"

The door slid open. "Has anyone seen my toad?" quavered the boy who stood there.

Shrieks of laughter. "Train's full of crazies! Mudblood with a list of buckets, a dumb illiterate who can't even hold a pen right, and now a trembling toad-shagger!"

"Come on, girls, let's go and find Marcus and have some civilised conversation."

Four of the girls pushed out the door with the toad-boy jostled helplessly ahead of them, and all five disappeared from sight amidst squeals of delight about groping his toad for him. But two others who had remained quiet so far, remained behind, frowning. Harry began shaking with fright, certain that poor boy would definitely spend the rest of the journey trouserless, and how it could so easily have been himself. It proved Dudley had been right about girls – and there were still three in the compartment with him.

"Are you related to the Dagworth-Grangers?"

Harry shook his head, squinting to try to see who had spoken, but it was Hermione who answered, "No, I don't think so."

"I bet you are. I mean, you're magical and there can't be that many magical Grangers. You should look up your family tree. The Dagworths were famous potioneers. Those Slytherin girls know nothing about Muggle-borns. You're really new blood or 'restored blood' in your line. I'm Josey Fisher by the way, and this is Laura Cotton; we're both Ravenclaws."

"Second-years?" said Hermione. "Pleased to meet you."

They nodded.

"I hope I'm smart enough; I wouldn't mind being in Ravenclaw too," said Hermione wistfully, as she turned back to Harry. "And this is..." She shrieked at the open page of her notebook which was now full of squiggles.

Harry dropped the pen then fell into a cringe on the floor to scrabble for it, and recklessly whispering, "Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

"You spoke!" cried Hermione.

Harry shielded his head with one arm as he groveled back to his seat. "Uh, uh..."

"You can't? Or don't? Or won't?"

"Uh, uh..."

"No need to be nervous now they've gone," chuckled Laura, "we're all friends here."

Harry blinked. How could they have made friends with Hermione so quickly? Was that how it was done? Just say who you are? He wished he had a name. What had Olly Vanders called him? Harry Potter? Perhaps he could pretend to be him. He bit his lip anxiously, bracing himself for one of the bravest things he'd ever done: to intentionally raise his voice. "Harry," he whispered almost inaudibly.

Hermione's eyes widened with delight. "Did you say, 'Harry'? Goodness, that's a lovely name. Now we shake hands like so..." She reached out and managed to grasp some of his fingers, then used her other hand to pull him into a proper handclasp which she then gently shook.

The most extraordinary sensation swept through Harry's body. Her hand was soft and cool and tiny – not scratching or gouging at all! His stomach flipped strangely, and when she let go he stared at his own hand, puzzled as to what the feeling meant, and wishing it were still there and not just a fading memory. A word began to form in his head. A word that had never applied to him or his miserable life before: Nice...

"It's etiquette," explained Hermione, searching his confused expression.

"We've worked it out, me and Josey," said Laura. "You don't need one hundred percent of intelligence to get into Ravenclaw. Listen, say you only have five percent each of loyalty, nobility, and ambition, but six percent knowledge and intelligence, then that could get you in. It's the highest proportion you see, and not the actual amount.

"And if it were that close," said Josey, "then the Hat takes into account the strength of your own wishes too."

"Hat?"

"Yes, you only wear a hat which sees everything about you. Why, if you wanted Ravenclaw strongly enough then you could get in even with a slightly lesser proportion of intelligence than the other qualities you have. For instance, there's a Weasley who we calculated must have seventy percent work ethic, sixty-five percent intelligence, but only sixty percent courage – yet the Weasleys are all desperate to get into Gryffindor so that's what happened."

A shiver swept through Harry's thin frame; he didn't have any qualities at all! Nor did he know which house to live in. He hoped... yes, he suddenly realised, he fervently hoped he was in Ravenclaw with Hermione. Would she shake hands with him every day? The thought produced tingles of longing he could not understand. But the feelings were nice all the same.

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

This story is the opposite of Walk Away Further: Neverstop. In Neverstop, Harry questions everything; in Broken Utterly, he resigns himself to everything. I have the next two chapters already well drafted and only waiting three more polishes to make them shine, so should be posted within a week or so.

Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)

- Hippothestrowl

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