Chapter Four: And Away From The Dursley's We Go

"Why's he taking so lo-o-o-ong," bemoaned James Potter towards an equally impatient Lily Potter, though she daren't show it, as she took often it in her stride to present herself as an example to her immature husband.

She sat at the wheel of their Mercades, (which she had gotten after insisting to James that even though neither of them had any desire to consort with Muggles, though they did not outright disdain them, that a method to get around in their world would prove valuable in the upcoming war, no matter how far, to which James only grudgingly agreed to), barely resisting the urge to tap her nails against the leather upholstery. Her husband seemed to hold no such reservations as he bounced up and down in his seat.

Lily sighed. "Well...I suppose it must be rather hard to say goodbye to the people who he's counted as family all his life, and at such short notice too!"

She briefly speculated this- the Dursley's didn't seem to show Harry much regard, from the short amount of time she'd witnessed their dynamics. Then, she instantly dispelled such thoughts, guilty of thinking so little of her sister.

Obviously Lily wouldn't be able to gauge the boy's lifestyle in under twenty minutes of observation, and evidence pointed out that they'd been protective of Harry by not sending him back to a world that didn't want him, and they must've lied to him for the same reasons, mused Lily.

Yes, of course, it was granted that they wouldn't treat Harry like a son, for which she was partially grateful considering how the Dursleys own offspring had turned out. Her thoughts were interrupted by James, who sullenly retorted:

"But, but! They're just muggles-!" He whined childishly and Lily turned towards him fully, feeling sparks of her famed temper rise within her. James, seeming to realize he'd said something wrong, cowered.

"James Charlus Potter! Don't you dare finish that sentence!" She exclaimed, grinding her teeth in frustration. Honestly. Whilst she knew that her husband would never, could never, be a Death Eater, torturing and killing muggles and muggle-born all la-di-dah, it was quite frustrating when he used such ill-thought out statements.

It was borne from years of ingrained pureblood bigotry propaganda passed down from generation to generation, and try as she may over the years to drown it out, it would always lay dormant, second nature, within him.

Although privately, and she would never admit this to anyone other than herself, she agreed with him slightly, to the point of thinking herself better than muggles, despite having once lived within said community and being the Muggle Studies Professor at Hogwarts. Still!

Anyone could hear him, and it certainly wouldn't do for any busybody overhearing that the Head Auror and the father of The-Boy-Who-Lived had a Death Eater-esque mindset! She could only shudder, thinking of the damage it would do to Liam's reputation.

Of course, it was of the uttermost importance that no one had even the slightest of reservations with her son so that he would be able to lead them to victory when the time was ripe.

So, with that in mind, she continued to chide her husband, who looked appropriately ashamed of his actions, ignoring the voice in her head that told her that she was acting like a complete and utter hypocrite, telling herself that it was, after all, for The Greater Good.

For a moment longer, neither of them seemed to remember who they were here for as they were suitably lost in their own roles, before James commented,

"So. He wasn't what I thought he'd be. Though, I can't honestly say I thought of him much over the years," he was serious now, as he so often was when assuming his role as Head Auror.

Rare silence for a moment, hesitation, and then a reply of: "Yeah, I see what you mean. I guess I kind of thought he'd be more like Liam, you know, seeing as they're twins 'n all. Then again, I guess you can't expect anyone, regardless of relation, to be quite like Liam," they both shared wide smiles as they reminisced their son, who, in their eyes, was perfect and could do no wrong, seeing as he was destined for Great Things.

After all, they all remembered the horror, devastation and loss of the last Wizarding War, and to think that one single child, their child, could end it all? Well, one certainly couldn't blame them if they were slightly overindulgent, for it stood to reason that if Liam Potter was as good as You-Know-Who and his lot were bad, then he certainly deserved all they gave him, all the love and attention, and more.

It just didn't occur to the proud parents that a fruit spoiled was a fruit rotten.

As had become per natural order in the last decade or so, the conversation then took home to Liam's achievements, from his first word to his recent Hogwarts letter to his skill on a broom and his hereditary good looks and strong boned stature (which, when referred to as such later on, would make his brother, Harry, snigger uncontrollably, and when questioned, would only laugh harder, if that were possible), but before it did, their other son was brought up, if only briefly and in a dismissive manner, but discussed all the same.

Lily spoke hesitantly, "Do you...Do you think we did the right thing?"

She already knew the answer, but even so, the confirmation of another would be reassuring, to say the least.

James didn't need to enquire what she was referring to, knowing her well after all their years together spent married, or so he thought, anyway. He looked at his wife softly, lovingly, reaching forward to caress her cheek lightly.

"' 'Course we did, Lills', 'course we did. We did what we had to, what was best for Liam, and it's not as though we left him in an orphanage! He was with those mug-" He paused, and then hastily rectified, "With his Aunt and Uncle, after all, and his cousin! He'd've had plenty of company, plus we didn't know that he'd be a wizard, it would've been outright cruel to raise him as the squib brother of the Boy-Who-Lived, you know it would've, I mean just look at your sister. Besides, it was under the direction of Albus Dumbledore, and he's earned his right as the Leader of The Light and as the defeater of the last Dark Lord, Grindelwald. If he says that something is right, then is has to be, yeah? If not him, then who else other than ourselves can we trust?" He finished, unknowingly repeating a paraphrase of Lily's exact thoughts that fateful night.

Lily looked him dead in the eyes, the beautiful brown eyes of the man she'd fell in love with and, to this very day, continued to love even more, if that was indeed possible. She felt as if all she'd ever felt towards him, every ounce of affection, was poured into the heated gaze that rested between them, as she also emitted through her own jade colored eyes what he meant to her.

She, in that moment more than ever, felt eternally grateful to have found James, her James, and even more so that he'd grown up to be this way.

Lily was certain that, with the air so charged between them, they would've kissed if not for the way their seats had separated them. She honestly prefer it that way, for a simple collision of lips felt too...plebeian to display what she felt for her husband and best friend.

So she simply settled for a whispered "Thank you," knowing that James would interpret its meaning. They exchanged soft smiles, and continued the relatively short wait in a comforting sort of silence, each lost in their own private thoughts and worries.

iii

Harry whimpered slightly as he limped his way out of the kitchen, feeling blood trickle down his back, thankfully hidden by the darkness of his t-shirt. It wouldn't do for Lily and James to find out so early of his true nature. The boy dared stop for a second as he stood in the hallway to heal himself; no, it certainly just would not do for the couple to find out what he was.

The boy looked around desperately, hoping that Vernon Dursley had made good on his promise and would not try and seek Harry out. He suppressed a sigh of relief when the worst of his injuries, namely the broken and fractured bones, had been healed, knowing that Vernon had warned him of what would happen if he disturbed his Aunt Petunia, who had no desire to see his disgusting face ever again, and the next time he would see her was at his funeral, assuming people thought that he was worth the money, which he very clearly was not.

Honestly, Harry was surprised and even a little touched to see that they cared so much as to think ahead, though he did, for obvious reasons, not voice this aloud. They were probably eagerly anticipating his death, after all.

Clutching his rather meager knapsack tightly with white knuckles, Harry made his way towards the sparkly silver car that was parked in the driveway of the perfectly made lawns of the Dursley residence, courtesy of himself, naturally. He knew that this was obviously the Potters (admittedly, it felt quite bizarre to refer to them as such, even if it was only in the recesses of his mind.

After all, he had spent much of his life referred to as Potter, by the teachers, who called most of the students bar himself by the forenames, and by the Dursley's when they were feeling particularly fair willed, which, mind you, was not often, considering he'd thought that his name was either 'Boy' or 'Freak' or perhaps a mixture of both, before Vernon had, quite literally, beat it into him to answer to "Harry" or "Potter" or "Harry Potter" without giving the reason beforehand as to why. However, Harry was digressing) Potters car, since one did not need above average observation skills (like he'd developed for the simple matter of survival) to know that the automobile was not usually one that was parked at the forefront of the Dursley abode.

With humor, or, that is to say, as much humor as the ten-year old (soon to be eleven) could've possibly mustered in such a shaken and painful state, Harry wondered blithely as to whether the top of the range car, which is what he could garner it indeed was after having read the few books he had on transportation, in addition to overhearing some of Dudley's more intelligent conversations about the different brands of car, constituted as abnormal and therefore embarrassing, or whether it was revered that such a car had appeared at the front of their house, for whatever amount of time and for whatever reason, as it was a clear representation of higher status and wealth, as the Dursley's so often sought to present themselves as.

The boy knew that Aunt Petunia could spin the tale to the neighbors that Vernon had rented the car, but that all the residents within Number Four Privet Drive would come to loathe the car and the world it stood for, at least for them.

Of course, Harry knew that most children of his age would find no comedy within such a contradictory situation, and even fewer would manage to locate said contradictions, but, then again, Harry was no ordinary boy; though for better or worse seemed to remain in question; although after the life he'd led so far, the metaphorical scales appeared to be leaning in the direction of "worse".

The child slipped on the scuffed trainers he wore, and incidentally the only pairs of shoes he owned; perhaps the one thing, save for the cupboard itself, that he owned that hadn't been a cast off of Dudleys. This Harry was grateful for, for his growth was already so unfaliably stunted that he could not afford to have problems with his feet too, problems which he would have surely contracted if he wore such large shoes, that would appear clown-esque on him.

He smiled to himself slightly, and though it was quite tremulous in nature, it was a genuine smile nonetheless, for which he was proud of himself to be capable of so soon after such a painful beating, of the likes he had only felt a handful of times before, yet it seemed to hurt the most now, when things finally started to look up, only to come crashing down on him, quite literally.

Although it was quite a trivial accomplishment, for if he were to interact with his biological family, he knew that he would have to act nothing short of overjoyed.

Harry wasn't stupid, far from it, really, though few people save from himself knew and even less would admit to it.

From reading a mixture of different novels, the boy had grasped onto the knowledge that no one, and especially not a child, should be treated as he had, yet, of course, situations such as his still arose merely due to the fact that humans such as the Dursely's, were simply despicable.

Well, it wasn't as simple as that, Harry knew. If you asked any of their associates they would describe them as quite the opposite, and it seemed that the only person they'd treated with such levels of hostility was Harry himself.

So, it wasn't that the Dursley's themselves were despicable, rather it was their actions solely towards Harry. And, if you thought about it even more, which Harry often found himself doing in the seclusion of his cupboard once he had no more books left to read, you'd realised that most of the hatred they'd had towards Harry was centered on his "Freakishness."

Before today, Harry had been able to tell from the familiarity that Petunia had treated the ability he'd had with, that she'd perhaps had a rather frightening encounter with someone who'd been of the same "type" as him. Petunia had went to Vernon, who'd promised to protect her, and Dudley...well, truth be told, Harry rather pitied Dudley.

He'd been raised with the incentive to loathe Harry, and had only been acting with the example of his parents. This, coupled with the pairs abhorrent, lazy approach to parenting wherein they constantly doted on the boy, overfed him and praised him constantly, even where it was in no way deserved, made Dudley the horrific product of society he was today.

Anyway, after Petunias tirade, it'd been clear that Lily had been a witch (after much consideration, Harry had decided that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry made to refer to females as witches and males as wizards) and that Petunia had loathed her for it, for whatever reason that may be.

So. The sufficient evidence was set and done, and the logic was consistent enough, and it made sense of the whole blasted situation. Yet, it seemed that the human heart really was beyond the reach of logic, for Harry still felt pangs of hatred for all three of the Dursleys.

He didn't want to hurt them, of course not, he felt pained at the thought of revenge, for that would make him as bad as the Dursleys, even worse for he'd be acting simply for the pleasure of it, and not in a twisted sense of righteousness, as they were. Although he knew that if they were in danger, even Uncle Vernon, he'd still save them, as they were still his family, in the most twisted, convoluted way there was, and they'd had raised him (sort of) and taught him the valuable lesson of what not to do in life.

His heart felt convoluted, blackened, disgusting, with the hatred he felt, and he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of it. Alas, the human heart often seems to work in the opposite of the way we want it to, for it flees all attempts at the invasion of the mind and pierces its way to the very core of who we are.

In the same way, Harry could do naught to control the heightened feeling of utter worthlessness he felt; the niggling feeling that every lie his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin had spout of him were nothing more than the truth.

And of course, no amount of logic could battle the aftermath of abuse. Now, Harry had yet to delve too deeply into psychology, namely his own, for he was still, if anyone had forgotten, a ten year old boy. He'd only managed to make sense of the Dursley situation with, as he often did, sheer willpower; which he'd coupled with logic, a basic understanding of human nature which, along with many things he'd been forced to develop simply to survive, his above average intelligence and finally countless hours spent in isolation and self reflection in his dark, damp cupboard. Somewhere along the line, he'd come up with the inklings of a theory, which he'd continuously altered, as he learned and matured more, until today.

No amount of "understanding" could cleanse the boy of the natural distrust he felt towards, well, everyone, especially since not a soul had offered him hide nor hair of kindness in his entire ten years of existence; well, for all he knew anyway, as he obviously couldn't remember his first year of youth.

He also had an ingrained tendency to be secretive and reserved, and to hide himself; and his bodily reactions towards human contact, which had been proven today as he edged away from the simple hand Lily had placed on his shoulder, even though she wasn't Uncle Vernon.

Yet, in essence, he was just a boy who'd been mistreated his entire childhood, and, more than anything he longed for a family, for a sense of belonging, so it was a given that he'd jump at the first chance of it, even if he was somewhat skeptical of "magic school", his long-lost parents, and a brother he didn't know existed. Harry resolved that he'd get the full story out of James and Lily, and it had better be hella good.

It was as if he were fighting war within himself, and the usually blank-faced boy found that, to his absolute horror, that he felt, well, he didn't know exactly what he felt! His emotions churned and spun within him, a wild storm the one minute, and a calming ocean the next.

So, for now, given his inner conflict, Harry was quite content to see where the situation headed; he couldn't afford to loathe his parents for what they had done, quite literally, as his aunt and uncle certainly would not be donating expenses towards his cause, and he certainly wanted to attend Hogwarts. If he could forge a relationship with his estranged family in the process, then great, though he certainly was not getting his hopes up (or so he'd thought.)

Shaking his head in disbelief of how a single, odd letter had changed his life so dramatically within less than an hour, Harry turned toward Number Four, Privet Drive for what he hoped to be the last time. The sun shone brightly in the morning light, over the perfectly made flowerbeds (which, if he said so himself, he was rather proud of),evenly cut grass and the modest house which screamed of "normal" and said nothing off the rather horrific events that so often took place within its walls.

Surprisingly, Harry felt rather apathetic towards the property itself; he would certainly not miss it nor what it stood for. The only thing Harry felt anything resembling attachment to was the flowers he'd spent so long nurturing, the spiders, and perhaps even his cupboard, to a certain extent.

The boy felt as though this moment were symbolic, a not quite farewell to this portion of his life. With that rather joyful deduction, Harry shuffled towards the silver Mercades, knocking lightly on the door.