The Topaz Awakening
Disclaimer- I do not own these charecters.
When I was young I was never hugged. Never kissed. Never loved. When I was young I never played. Never ran. Never laughed. I hid.
But that. Is the only reason I survived.
My story starts in a dark cupboard. Imagine that small place under your sink, or a cupboard under stairs. The dark, all around you. Imagine the smell, damp, mould and sweat. A small cot bed, a small blanket, and a small boy, shaking. Me.
For the first eleven years of my life. I didn't know much more than this. I had never heard of school. I had never heard of a thing called love. But that didn't matter, really, did it? You can't miss what you never had, can you? Except I did. Curled up, alone in the dark. The worst thing wasn't the cobwebs, the loneliness, or even the shadows that danced on the walls like ghoulish hands. It was this sense that something important was missing. Or that is was there. But I was just too stupid to understand it, or too scared to find it.
When I was young, I used to wake up early, before the sun had risen. I would count to ten. 1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..10
And then heave myself out of bed with every ounce of my will power. Then I would make breakfast, standing on a chair, flipping bacon and eggs. Watching in horror as the fat would bubble and melt off the pink strips of flesh my uncle and cousin would stuff into their mouths. I would lay the table, forks, spoons, knives. And then scuttle back to my hole like a mouse. Not making a sound.
I listened as my family talked. My uncle who I knew largely by his deep grating voice seemed almost unaware of my existence. My cousin, Dudley, I doubt he even knew my name. My aunt though, she knew I existed all right. Her voice was high pitched. Tightly strained. Pinched.
My aunt became my task master, my prison guard and my God all rolled into one. My vengeful God. "An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth" she used to quote, with self righteous indignation, when I had done something wrong. Her system was simple, the punishment fit the crime, always. I burnt the bacon, my hands got burnt in return. I cried out in the night, I was gagged for a week. I tripped and fell, and then, I was beaten to the floor.
The thing is, this meant sense to me as a child. It seemed fair, that I was punished when I had failed her. But now I cannot understand, not even with the shred of compassion I have left how she could do that to a child. To me. I started to believe every word she said. I was a freak.
When I was a little older, seven maybe. Imagine my surprise when I was called into my uncle's office. He was sitting at his desk. He called me over. Made me stand behind him. And then he made the worst mistake he could ever have made. He taught me to read. I went to bed that night, a knot of excitement in my belly. I carved the letters he had taught me into the back of my wooden door. I spent the night committing them to memory. I recited them under my breath like a chant, for protection, for freedom.
He carried on teaching me, a little each day. And I began to see things I had missed before. Even the label on the morning's milk fascinated me. I read everything I could, the back of the washing up liquid. This carried on for a while. Although my uncle never showed any affection, he seemed to have a small soft spot for me. Although that soft spot was never large enough to help me out when I was bruised and beaten. We moved on to numbers. To maths.
And soon, without me even realising what was happening, I was running his business behind the scenes. After all it was the last I could do for him. The man who had taught me how to live, intentionally or not. The numbers and letters that I loved became a large portion of my time. At night I would fall asleep, into a land of dreams where digits and characters danced under my eyelids. I worked until I breathed them into the cold air, in my dark cupboard.
It was a good deal as I saw it, soon I was doing Dudley's homework as well. But that meant I could give my uncle a list of things I needed to complete it to A star standards. I devoured textbooks until I was way beyond my level. I pushed and pushed my uncle's business until profits were up 300%, just by some clever tax evasions and cleverly placed investments.
I would still work for my aunt. Still be punished by her. Still be whipped and burnt and kicked by her. But now when she did it. I couldn't even feel it. I smiled and counted down from a million in square numbers.
I must have been close to the age of ten when my uncle called me into his office, just like he did everyday. To work. But this time he didn't point to a pile of paper work, or hand me Dudley's exercise books. "Harry, my boy, you've made me and your aunt so proud , so happy to have you here." I beamed as any ten year old would. "But there's something else, only you can help me with" I nodded along face serious now, worried the taxman had caught me up.
Vernon knelt down before me, and ran his fat hand over my cheek. I shivered. He had never touched me before. Even as a ten year old I knew something was sinister, something was not right. I fought frantically to shut myself down, to sleep, anything to not feel his touch. His rancid meaty breath on my skin. But even numbers, even letters and anagrams could not block out his moans.
At night when I slept, I dreamt of his fat hands on me. I dreamt of how I had done nothing to resist. I dreamt of how I was weak. How he must be punishing me, because I was a freak. I worked harder. Grew taller, faster, stronger. Got smarter. Pushed and pushed. Hoping I could make him stop, if only I was good enough. Maybe he would stop punishing me. If I could shine the sink until my hands bled. If I could bring his business to dizzying heights. If I could boost Dudley's homework to degree level. Maybe he would stop.
But he would never stop.
And neither would she.
When I was eleven, I found a strange letter in my uncle's pile of incoming mail. It was written on thick yellowed parchment, the colour of marzipan. And had venomous green ink scripted upon it. This was not the strangest thing about it though.
It was addressed to me. Harry James Potter. I traced the letters with my finger nail, the gentle curve of the H. Expecting it to disappear at any moment.
I looked around, suddenly terrified. Took a deep breath and ripped it open. My eyes blurred with tears as I read the letter. Some sick practical joke, a school for witches, for wizards. It even wanted me to put a drop of my blood on the page if I were accepted. Sick.
I froze as I heard the office door creak open, it was my aunt staring in horror at the letter in my hands. "Vernon" she screamed, her voice like breaking glass. He came running, out of breath, red with exertion. His eyes too opened wide as he took in the marzipan parchment, the poison green ink.
Then they both laid into me. Freak. Disgusting. Filth. The letter drifted to the ground like a feather. Dimly I heard their voices arguing as they hit me, as they whipped me. I curled into a ball. But still heard them as they panicked. That was when I realised magic was real. They were scared because they knew the letter wasn't a joke. They were scared of me.
I made my choice, with nothing to loose. I crawled forward and rested my bloody palm on the page. It glowed blue, topaz and pure, for a second. Then there was silence.