Harry Potter was the youngest child of Number Four, Privet Drive. He had always been quiet for a seven-year-old, never responding to any of the neighbors' kids' calls to play. One would assume this was from shyness or a lack of social skills, never expecting the truth of the household. Harry's older cousin, ten-year-old Dudley Dursely, was a cruel and abusive child, relentlessly mocking his cousin at every opportunity. Promises of bullying any who Harry befriended kept the younger child away from making friends.
The sorry life of young Harry Potter would never be so simple as to suffer from only school-yard bullying. He had been left on Number Four, Privet Drive, at the young age of five years old. The Dursleys had not been happy at his arrival, but they had never been ones to look a gift horse in the mouth. The young male was taught to work. The intricacies of cooking, the menial work of cleaning, and the complexities of repairing objects were forced upon him. Gardening would have come with this package, but the Dursleys did not wish for the "Potter Boy" to be seen by the neighbors, laboring at such a young age.
Harry Potter took it in stride, having been starved of attention his whole five years of life. He took joy from being instructed, finding happiness in them worrying if he had been hurt, not realizing it had been them worrying about him being seen as injured by the neighbors. Harry liked his new family much more than his previous ones, who had paid very little attention to him. This, however, did not mean he held any form of love for his new family. He knew he was being used, being treated like a servant. While he knew of his sorry predicament, the joys of having attention placed upon him brought sparks of life to the unloved boy.
This new outlook on life quickly changed after a few months. His aunt would smack him for the smallest of mistakes, and the largest ones he had made brought him to be starved. Having outward attention placed upon him brought his uncle to a fit of rage, making him use a belt on Harry(and not whipping him, or using the metal part). For the worst of public scenes, he'd be trapped in his cupboard for days on end, only to be let out to use the restroom. The small happiness he gained from his new home was washed away, the tidbits he found joy from turned on its head. The communication he received turned to insults, mocking him for being abandoned. The attention he gained was always negative, and being compared to Dudley brought pangs of sorrow through his body. Neglect, he found, was much better than abuse.
This left him with two options. Endure, or flee. He had already tried to endure, so what was the worst he could get for fleeing? As he lay upon his bed contemplating life, he attempted to devise a plan. Multiple ideas ran through his head, and none of them looked good. He could attempt to run away in the night, but they would probably contact authorities to get him back, or they may search for him, and he would be hard-pressed to run away from a car. Another idea was to go to the one person in the community who understood him, well, at a societal level. He could ask them to drive him away, but there was the same problem as before. All of his ideas had the same outcome, him getting caught by the Dursleys.
But what if there were no Dursleys? If there were no Dursleys left to catch him, he could get away scot-free. The Dursleys had always given him too much power without noticing it. They let him clean. Sure, he could kill them with chemicals, make mustard gas even, but he would get caught by the cops. His best bet was a fire, and he had access to the whole house. His best bet was using petrol. He had heard it was highly flammable. It would also be easy for him to get, as they store a container of it inside for the lawnmower.
An idea blossomed. He could put gasoline in their mattresses. Every week or so, he would clean their rooms. This would ensure they died. He could drench the downstairs while they are sleeping, and run while the house was ablaze. There were many flaws, but it would do.
In the following week, he tried to act as normal as possible. It was hard, as he was feeling giddy, and every time he looked at the Dursleys, he'd imagine them as a pile of burning flesh. This didn't stop him from acting out his plan, and as he was cleaning out a storage closet, he managed to get the petrol and hide it in his cupboard.
The following morning was when he was to clean the bedrooms. He realized he had no way to get the petrol to the rooms, but he lucked out when his family went out for dinner. He went up to the rooms, can in hand. The first room he would do was Dudley's. He was doing this room first as he wanted to steal some of the older clothes in the room, as well as some other things that would be useful, like a blanket. He quickly did both of the rooms and shoved his new items in his cupboard. He then went to pour some petrol on each side of the stairs, and small paths to each room. It would be hard to see in the dark, and it soaked into the carpeted flooring, making it near invisible.
He waited in his cupboard and heard the tired family come in, speaking happily and carelessly. He kept waiting patiently, hearing them go up and settle down. As the clock struck twelve, he knew it was his time to act. Opening the cupboard door gently, he left the room. He spread more petrol on the bottom floor, making sure the house would completely burn. Everything was covered, the tables, the chairs, the telly, and even his own cupboard.
After doing this, he went to the fireplace and grabbed a matchstick. He spoke gently," This is it, isn't it? I'm going to be a killer." Steeling himself as well as a seven-year-old could, he walked outside. He swiped the match on the box, gazing into the meshing of reds and yellows, and he spoke," You guys always were religious, right? Well, as God once said, "Let there be light." ".
His hand fell limply, and the match tumbled down. "And so it was.". The house was immediately engulfed in flames. He was mesmerized by the beauty of it, a mirage of clashing oranges, reds, and yellows. They swirled together in a fountain of light, sparks shooting like droplets of water. The crackling of flames merged with the sounds of screaming, a symphony of noise, blessing his ears.
As Harry Potter had been a neglected and abused child, he had never learned what most children should. The love of a mother was something he never felt, or the look of pride your father shoots at you when you do something right. No, Harry Potter was no normal kid. No normal kid would be a killer, right? Distinguishing right from wrong was something he had never learned, lost among the many things that this wronged child was never given.
No tears fell from his eyes as he watched, and none would fall. He took his gaze off the burning building and ran. He ran as far as he could, running even as the sun broke the skyline. He would need to try and find a train station, as he needed to get to London. One of the major things he took from his now-deceased family was a map. He was around thirty miles or so from London, and hitchhiking would get him killed or reported. A train would be his best bet. Getting onto the train would be difficult, as no sane person would let a seven-year-old on without an older person.
He knew what could work, but was also dangerous. He could ask a homeless person to go with him and pay them money to go. The problem with this is that he could get robbed. The idea was risky, but he had no other choice. If he tried sneaking on and got caught, he could be reported to the police. That was a death sentence.
The train station nearby had a superstore near it, there was bound to be some homeless person there wanting money. As it was now, he was a minute from Tesco, the name of the superstore. As he was walking, he contemplated how dumb he probably looked. A seven-year-old with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, as well as a pillow tucked under his arm. He laughed quietly at the ridiculousness of his situation.
He stopped laughing as he was nearing the front, and he was proven right, there were some homeless people. I went up to one of the ones that didn't look high, and asked, "Excuse me, Mister? Could you come with me on the train to London? I need an adult with me, and I'll pay you.". The older man looked at me and responded," How much money?". I showed him a twenty-pound note, and said," I'll also pay for your ride back." The man shrugged, saying, "Fine."
We went to the station and caught a train. The train was packed and uncomfortable, but bearable. While we were on the train, the homeless man was scanning me creepily. He kept looking me up and down. The ride eventually came to its end after an hour or so, and we arrived in London and I paid the man. I was grabbed harshly by the man, and he smirked, "Nah ah, I can see you have more money left, I want it." He pulled out a pocket knife and brought it to my wrist. I flinched, as the cold edge rubbed my skin, and spoke hushedly, "Ok, ok sir, I'll give you the rest! But there isn't much left."
"I don't care! Just give me the rest of the damn money!" He spoke, shakingly me aggressively. The knife sliced my skin and I gasped in pain. I flung the bag at him and sprinted off when he released me. I breathed heavily, "Fuck, fuck! I knew something would go wrong."
There was a small, jagged cut on my wrist from where the man held the knife. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, and I ran to the nearest alley I could find. Rivets of blood dripped from the opening in my arm. I tore a small piece of cloth from one of the shirts I'd stolen, and wrapped it around my arm, and tied it. It was probably infected, but I didn't have hydrogen peroxide. There were also worse problems to focus on, like finding somewhere to live. I had been intending on going to Charing Cross Road, but I wanted to put my things down somewhere first.
I cursed quietly and started walking. It was only half a mile, and I could be there in minutes. I stumbled as I turned a corner, wincing as I fell on my wounded arm. The blue cloth had now become completely red. I hissed in pain and stood up, replacing the wrapping as I began walking again. The wound had started to look a sickly color that brought him nausea.
I eventually reached my destination, Charing Cross Road, and more specifically, the Leaky Cauldron. I entered the building, and approached the bartender, "Do you know any healing spells?"
He stared at me in surprise," Yes, lad, I helped heal people durin' the war. Does your mommy or daddy need help?" I pulled myself up onto a seat and showed him my wound. I then told him," My parents are ok, I got a cut when playing with some friends." He grabbed my arm, and waved his wand, saying," Episkey." My arm started mending and there was no evidence of a cut ever being there.
"Thank you, sir. My name is Harry, what's yours? Also, could you also help me into the alley?" I babbled, trying to look my age. The bartender smiled, saying, "Nice ta meet ya, Harry, everyone roun' here calls me Tom, and O'course I can help ya in the alley." Tom took him to the back and tapped out the code on the bricks, which I memorized.
"If ya ever need help gettin' in lad, just come get me, okay?" Tom said, giving a toothy smile to me. I gave a smile and nodded, not intending to take his offering. I walked to my destination, Flourish, and Blotts. What he wanted were books, and not just any books, but books on runes.