Chapter One: Harry Hunting and Other Pleasantries

"Boy! Get up! Don't you have any shame, to have darkened our household so much, and yet you remain so ungrateful?" shrieked Petunia Dursley as she banged loudly on the cupboard door.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia," Harry Potter called back softly.

He had, in fact, already been awake since four AM, after the hunger pangs had become too much to rest with. For the past five hours he had been reading a book, squinting with his broken glasses as he edged as close as possible towards the crack underneath the cupboard door that provided little light.

It was a Chemistry book, an old one that had, like himself and other miscellaneous items, been shoved into the cupboard underneath the stairs, at Number Four Privet Drive; unwanted and forgotten. The book had been one that was for someone way older than him, but through sheer determination and willpower, he'd managed to understand it cover to cover. Of course, he would read whatever he could get his hands on; it was a way to escape, to go to a world of knowledge and words; places where he wasn't in his cupboard; wasn't a slave, where he wasn't starved or beaten or a freak or chased by Dudley's gang.

Plus, knowledge equalled power, by Harry's' logic.

It was his own way of beating of them, proving that he wasn't dumb. He could never reveal it, of course, everyone would call him a cheater and his Uncle and Aunt would inform the school. But the fact that it was a secret made it all the more better, because he knew of his true capabilities and the prospect made him giddy.

That didn't mean that it didn't hurt when they thought he was lying, of course it bloody hurt! No matter how many times it happened, it would

always hurt. But that was okay, he was used to the feeling, by now. Yet, a large part of him knew that he deserved it. He was such a freak, like his aunt always told him.

The raven-haired boy found, however, that his little "secrets" (such as the fact that if he didn't have to get lower than Dudley in all his assignments, he would pass with flying colours) helped.

There were, of course, his larger secrets, such as how he often practised his "freakishness" at nights where he didn't have any books to read, or tucked into an obscure corner of the playground where Dudley couldn't get him. Harry shuddered for a second, thinking of how mad his aunt would be if only she knew!

Trying to edge his thoughts away from punishment as his Aunt unlocked the cupboard door and grabbed him roughly (not that he'd have trouble covering any bruises; the Dursleys had already informed both the principal and PE teacher that he would become too violent in any physical group activity, so it was best to make him sit out) by the arm to throw him out, he thought about how to fix the problem of the lack of light in the cupboard.

The light-bulb itself had broken years ago, and it wouldn't go amiss if he could somehow warm himself too. Harry remembered the joy he had felt after reading Roald Dahl's Matilda; it was his favourite book and had inspired him to pursue what he could do further, in secret of course; always in secret.

It had taken him the better part of one summer, to master moving things with his mind, and he could only practice during nights, which made him especially exhausted during the day, especially considering that using his ..."abilities",for lack of a better term, always wore him out.

Oh, he'd gotten in so much trouble for his apparent laziness that Uncle Vernon broke two of his fingers (which wasn't too bad, since healing was the first aspect of his ability he'd learned the hard way, and his second was a way to somehow make the injuries look like they were still there, which he'd also learnt the hard way when his Aunt screeched about his "Freakishness" and locked him in his cupboard for three weeks!), but it was totally worth it! He felt so invincible, and not like a freak at all, since Matilda wasn't considered as such.

Oh, how he wished he had a Miss Honey of his own to whisk him away! Unfortunately, he'd given up hope that would happen a long time ago, but he found that he would sometimes give in to fantasies; but they were nothing more than that- unattainable, childish dreams. Shaking his head slightly, he got up to make his "family" breakfast, as he ate the stale crumbs.

iii

Harry loved the school library. There were so many books he couldn't possibly count them all, which he had tried to do once, though he couldn't remember for the life of him what number he got up to, and not for lack of trying. There were all types of books: books about plants, books about science and maths and all sorts. Not to mention all the storybooks, which mentioned heroes with superpowers who were loved and adored by everyone and saved people and were never called freaks!

The library itself was old and dusty and all the shelves were rickety and the books were falling apart. It was absolutely charming, and everything had the feeling of being used and loved. There were no computers at all, nor anything else electronic save for the lighting and heating, which meant that most kids (such as Dudley Dursley) didn't give it a second glance because books were too boring for them.

Harry loved the school library, yet the librarian hated him, for some reason. Oh, who was he kidding, it wasn't for some reason! Harry knew, knew that the Dursleys had told the principal all about his "violent, criminal tendencies," who had of course then had to inform all of the staff members! The Dursleys fed the school lie after lie (a part of Harry was saying that they weren't lies, and that they were right and he was a freak and he deserved it) about Harry's apparent "behavioural problems."

Of course, the teachers would readily believe anything they were told by other adults, and so even when the facts were staring them right in the face, with Harry being the most timid person in the whole class, when Harry got the highest marks in class (how was he even supposed to cheat if he were being watched all throughout his examinations?), they still believed the Dursleys over him.

Yet, Harry still tried to savour his time in the library and all the books he could read there, ignoring the fact that Miss Floe hovered over him like a vulture. He briefly remembered the one time he had tried to ask if he could check a book out, and how Miss Floe glared at him and given him a lecture on how no she would not, how dare he, she did not condone vandalism of her books, and she even threatened to call the Dursley's if he attempted to ask again. It was similar to the lectures she gave him every time he'd entered the library, even though he would never dis-face a single page of a book, and never had, she still suspected him all the same.

Today was no different- from the moment he came in she glared at him, even as he reached out to pick up a book on the lunar cycle and continued reading, engrossed, until the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch. "Make sure you put that book straight back where you found it! I'll have none of your funny business, child!" The old woman sounded so much like Aunt Petunia that Harry wondered what on earth they had told her, but then decided he would rather not know.

Harry exited the library, only to find himself shoved into a wall the moment he did so.

A chorus of "Harry Hunting! Harry Hunting!" exploded around him as his cousin, Dudley, punched him repeatedly in the stomach.

"Oof!" he let out breathlessly, as he felt his ribs explode into a plethora of pain.

Harry found himself being kicked anywhere pudgy legs could reach, as he begged, pleaded, for forgiveness. Of course his platitudes were ignored by the children around him, who were laughing gleefully, and by his attacker, who continued his clumsy ministrations.

The teachers, for their part, either ignored what was going on, or decided he deserved it.

Harry worked desperately to keep his power in check, knowing he would only be punished further if he was found out. However, as soon as Dudley, who decided he was hungry after all his hard work, left, Harry allowed his pain to be washed away as he let his body heal itself, reveling in the feeling of pure power.