Chapter 1
In the silence and the darkness of the cupboard, young Harry Potter lies with his eyes closed. Not that he really has much of a choice, Uncle Vernon and his meaty fist was introduced to his eye today. Keeping both closed was purely convenient to his swollen eyelid. This was the first time in seven years that Vernon left a mark on him and it hurt more than anything Harry had ever felt in the world. Despite the neglect and scorn, the Dursleys never hit him. Sure they shook him around a little bit and Dudley and his friends socked him every once in a while, but Harry always had hope that they would love him one day. Now, with those hopes completely dashed, Harry drew in to his shell. For the first time he felt completely alone in the world.
When he woke up the next morning, Vernon didn't speak to him or look at him. When Harry placed the large man's morning cup of coffee on the table, Vernon only let out a grunt of acknowledgement and didn't look up from his morning paper. After breakfast was served, devoured, and promptly cleaned up, Harry began his morning chores. All of the clothes from the previous day were fished out of their respective wash bins (and Dudley's floor) and taken to the mud room. Harry started a load of his relatives' clothing, as he was not allowed to wash his own clothes with theirs to avoid spreading his "freakishness" onto the rest of the family, and went outside to mow the lawn. He had to make sure the grass was trimmed to perfection and the fence was repainted before his wardens returned from Saturday morning mass. The seven-year-old's muscles strained from the work, but they were used to being torn up and rebuilt over night. Harry pushed his untamable hair out of his green eyes and licked his lips with thirst, tasting the salty sweat that collected under his nose. If the neighbors had been watching the Dursley house hold, they would've seen a raven haired blur rushing around the lawn. A child of that size was moving unnaturally fast and one Arabella Figg was just waking up from her afternoon nap, paying no attention to her mission across the street.
The Dursleys returned and brought guests, as per usual, for Harry to wait on. Company arrived to cucumber sandwiches and biscuits and tea neatly set out on the coffee table that occupied the living space. Petunia made small pointless chatter with a short, stout man with a thin, blond mustache. Harry didn't like how the man looked, he reminded him of Vernon. Harry got very good at spotting men with a temper. Actually, Harry was very good at spotting anything really. His usual montra of "children are meant to be seen not heard, but I am not a child," spoke leaps and bounds to the quiet observant boy that was almost invisible to the guests. If not for his piercing green eyes, he would've gone completely invisible.
A man with brown bushy hair and his wife sat down on the couch and looked quite uncomfortable with the current conversation and were quiet just like Harry. He cocked his head to the side and squinted a bit at the couple, wondering what they were like. Perhaps they have children, maybe a daughter who plays cricket after school and draws pretty pictures they hang on the fridge at home. Most of Dudley's drawings were comprised of red crayons to picture Harry in some perilous situation. One of Vernon's favorites was titled: The Freak versus the Lawn Trimmer. Quite hilarious. Harry was jerked out of his brooding when he realized there was a pair of chocolate brown eyes staring back into his green ones. He stumbled back in surprise and knocked into the table, causing the tray with Petunia's fine china to smash into the floor. Vernon was up without pause, "Boy! Look what you've done now!"
His face began to take a light shade of purple as his brow furrowed into an angry line. Uh oh. Harry knew this wouldn't end well; not well at all. He bent down to pick up one of the shards of glass. The shard pierced his skin and a small droplet of his blood pooled on his finger. But Harry didn't hesitate and hoped none of the guests noticed; then again, when did anything go right for the scrawny orphan? The brown haired man quickly lifted off the couch and knelt to help Harry with the mess. He produced a handkerchief from his jacket and handed it to Harry. He looked at the cloth for a moment before cautiously taking it from him with a small smile in thanks.
"Oh don't fuss over him, doctor, he is quite clumsy!" Petunia pinched his cheek and gave him a smile that made Harry want to vomit. "He'll get this mess right cleaned up."
"Right," spoke the brown haired man, the doctor. "Well, the missus and I must be going. Our little bundle of joy must be tearing apart the house right now!" Mrs. Doctor suppressed a giggle and they made for the door.
"Excuse me, sir," Harry spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "You left your kerchief."
"Oh that's quite alright, son. If you don't mind me asking, what are you called?" 'Freak' was on the tip of his tongue, however he remembered that it would be unwise to say so much around present company.
"Harold, sir." The doctor only smiled at him. It reached his eyes and left little crinkles in the corners, Vernon never smiled like that at anyone. Right then, Harry decided he liked Mr. Doctor very much.
"Well, Harold, you look like you will grow up to be a strapping young lad." He bent closer to Harry to whisper in his ear. "Don't let your uncle treat you that way. Remember something a wise old man said: ipsa scientia potestas est."
Harry didn't even notice Mr. Doctor leave. He didn't notice his aunt yelling at him. Or his uncle's belt striking him. Or his frail body hitting the floor of the cupboard and the door slamming shut and locking behind him. And he especially didn't notice his hands trace the words carved into his floor: IPSA SCIENTIA POTESTAS EST.
oOo
Harry was stumped, completely and totally stupefied. Ipsa scientia potestas est, it obviously wasn't English but that didn't narrow it down much. He had no education in any language other than English so the small child, now 8 years old, was sitting in his small cupboard pounding his head in frustration. All of his issues in life had answers. When a plant was wilting in the garden, he watered it. When Vernon had a headache, Harry slipped some aspirins in his meal to keep him from taking his pain out on him. But there was absolutely no way he could find out what the words meant until it hit him.
Mr. Doctor mentioned that a 'wise old man' said the phrase before him. And unless it was a pathetic dad joke (which might be the straw to break the camel's back for Harry's mental health), some historical figure must have said it first and been recorded! Harry almost gasped in joy at his own cleverness until he remembered that the Dursleys were fast asleep from the sound of Vernon's snoring.
Suddenly, a soft crack filled the air and was followed by a shimmering whoosh. Harry opened his cupboard and stepped softly out to peek through the front window at the strange scene before him. Arabella Figg, the crazy cat lady from across the street, was talking with an old man in a strange bathrobe and his cat. The picture in front of him was so bizarre that he simply shook his head to clear it and lumbered back to his small cupboard to sleep. All the street lamps were so dark that he assumed it to be a trick of the light. No one heard the small snap that left the street empty. No one saw the man let the light back into the lamps. Privet Drive was as silent as the grave.
Harry was walking home the next day from the park when he strayed from his path. The library wasn't necessarily something that attracted him. In fact, he pushed it away after he lost food privileges for three days for beating Dudley's scores. But his heart pounded as he climbed the stone steps to the ancient building. He steeled himself and imagined Mr. Doctor behind him with his hand on his shoulder. He whispered that illustrious phrase to himself as he climbed each step. "Ipsa." One. "Scienta." Two. "Potestas." Three. "Este." He walked toward two large oak doors and opened with a creak. He was treated by the smell of yellowing paper and spilt coffee. It had been so long since Harry had experienced such a wonderful sent that he felt light headed.
"Are you looking for anything specific, dear?" A middle aged woman with horn rimmed glasses peered at him with frosty blue eyes. Harry's eyes quickly took in everything he could about her before he opened his mouth. She had a nicotine stain on her index finger an irregular mark on her third finger on her left hand.
Divorced, Harry noted. Or a widow. And definitely a smoker.
"Yes ma'am," Harry meekly. "I'm having trouble finding a translation to a phrase I read somewhere."
"Oh of course! You've come to the right place." She quickly shuffled towards the isles and isles of books that called towards Harry.
"What exactly is the phrase needed to be translated?"
Harry repeated the words that he mumbled while he slept and did chores, words that he traced on the table cloth while he watched his barnyard looking family dig in to his perfectly crafted meal. Words that made him feel safe and strong. As he spoke, the librarian's eyes lit up behind her frames.
"My goodness I know that one by heart!" She cleared her throat and whispered as if it was the most important secret in the world: "Knowledge itself is power."
Harry grinned at the discovery. A sudden urge to consume every book in that library came over him. He decided to spend the rest of the day there and returned home to find his uncle on the front porch with a half-drank bottle of whiskey clutched in his meaty fist. A cloud of dread fell over Harry as he accepted what was coming. Vernon braced himself against the railing and gave a loud grunt, as if holding himself up took all of his strength.
"C'mere, boy!" he slurred. "Where th' hell've you been?"
Harry shifted from side to side and spoke softly, "The library, sir."
Vernon's face turned a shade of dark purple and he grabbed Harry by the raven mess on his head and drug him into the house. Harry cried out in surprise and Vernon swung his fist to catch Harry in the ribs. He groaned from the pain.
"Will you shut up, boy?! Th' neighbors'll hear ya!"
Harry was left face down on the carpet where guests wiped their feet before entering. The taste of dirt and sand made him remember that he forgot his duties before going to the library. He cursed himself for such an idiotic move. Whatever Vernon decided to do, he most certainly deserved for getting caught making such a stupid mistake. There was the sound of a metal buckle being undone. Thwap thwap thwap! The leather was yanked out of Vernon's belt loops. Harry's eyes were already watering as he squeezed them tight and braced himself for what was coming.
There was a whoosh as the belt buckle came down on Harry. Since Vernon was drunk and it was a wild swing, the metal lashed the nape of his neck. Harry immediately arched his back and let out a silent scream of agony. He bit his tongue to keep from crying and the metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth. He breathed heavily as Vernon continued for what felt like hours. Vernon was covered in sweat and stopped, completely exhausted.
"You'll fin'sh yur chores an' we won' hear a peep," he mumbled. "Un'rstand?"
Harry's teeth were gritted and his eyes full of pain as he nodded in understanding. This was his fault. If only he had been patient and waiting until he finished, he could've gone to the library and not had to suffer Vernon's belt. He staggered to his cupboard and rested for a minute and slid a book he has swiped out of his trousers. A book on Latin. He smiled as he turned one page after another, devouring the text and forgetting about Vernon and that damned belt.
oOo
The summer holiday arrived soon enough and the Dursleys were rarely home at all. This sparked some joy in Harry's little heart at the prospect of returning to the library. Every day after Vernon went to work and Petunia took her afternoon nap that always ended at four o'clock sharp, Harry escaped his suburban prison. He dashed to the library as fast as his little feet could carry him. His Latin book could only take him so far in his studies since it was the size of a pocket thesaurus. He clambered up the steps to the red, stone building and inhaled the scent of ageing paper and stale nicotine. He followed the same path he took to find his latin pocketbook: all the way to the basement and to the back wall. The library was eerily quiet this day, not many people visited such a place on a dreary Tuesday during holiday; so Harry was left to the comfort of his fingers stroking the rough pages of old texts written in such a way that Harry's head hurt. He didn't know how much time had passed before he found himself bored. It couldn't have been too long, for he had only gotten half way through his current book. His head was swimming and his stomach ached as if he had just been squeezed through a garbage disposal. He heaved a great sigh and retreated back to the shelves for another book.
"The Aeneid," He muttered to himself as he stroked his index finger across the spines. "The Twelve Caesars, XII usus sanguinis Draco scriptor, Hello There Harry-wha?!"
Impossible. Harry did a take and then stared at the gold letters that weaved across the page in beautiful calligraphy. No, this is unnatural, but Harry only felt excitement. He reached out to touch the book but it delved deep into the shelf, as if the books made lush, tall grass for it to hide in. Harry was almost in a trance as he pushed his body into the bookshelf. He felt books brush past his face as he was spit out onto a hardwood floor. He slowly looked up and pushed his wireframes up on his nose. A frail old man in a dress- no a robe- huddled over a lectern was staring at him. He took a shaky breath in before speaking in barely a whisper:
"Hello, Harold. You are a very tough one to find."