July 30th 1995
It hadn't been a bad day so far; twelve pounds twenty three pence and what appeared to be five French centimes. Andy sat up, brushed his hair from his eyes and pocketed the change. He would eat well today, all in all things were looking up, and since summer had arrived he had stopped hating England quite so much. Reaching out he placed his guitar; his most prized possession and his livelihood into its case. Pausing to tie the shoelace on his worn converse high tops he hauled his duffle bag onto his back and shouldered his guitar. The sun was still beating down despite it being early evening and for a moment Andy found himself remembering long days at the beach in Santa Cruz a lifetime ago, or was it just three years? Shaking his head he turned and walked briskly up a side street which led away from Trafalgar square where he had been busking since early this morning. In the distance he heard Big Ben sounding five o'clock, a newspaper blew across the footpath in front of him, on instinct he seized it and checked the date, July 30th. He pondered the paper for a moment before casting it aside and continuing on his way. I'll be fifteen tomorrow Andy thought, he considered buying himself a birthday present, something small, perhaps new strings. He hadn't had a birthday since he had run away; well it depended on how you looked at running away, escaped was probably a more accurate description.
Andy turned onto a wider street whose name he couldn't remember at that moment and stopped to gaze in the window of a McDonalds. Inside a group of children laughed and bounced around as a clown who bared only a passing resemblance to Ronald McDonald carried a cake which proclaimed that it was Timmy's birthday and he was apparently six. Andy unfocused his eyes and let them rest on his reflection, he started at the bottom and worked his way up, black converse shoes scuffed and home to numerous holes, his once green cargoes pants were now an odd shade of grey with streaks of dirt. A Nirvana t-shirt that was getting too small clung to his chest a contrast to the chequered shirt which was at least four sizes too big and hung from his shoulders. Around his neck a small silver surfboard dangled; a constant reminder of what had been. His hair stood untidily in every direction his fringe hanging in his eyes; he brushed it back to reveal piercing green eyes. At his point Timmy succeeded in blowing out his candles, Andy smiled to himself and walked on down the street. A few moments later he stopped at a corner shop and bought himself some food being careful not to over spend as tempting as it was, he purchased a couple of oranges and a ham sandwich along with a small carton of milk to wash it down. Andy had started eating more healthily the previous winter when he had become sick for several weeks, it had seemed like a lifetime as he lay in a damp packing crate on waste ground by London's docklands he had felt sure he would die there, he had wondered in the brief moments of lucidity during the fever if his body would be found and if so would anyone ever know who he was. Then one day he had woke to find himself not exactly well but certainly better, he had managed to find a hostel to spend a few days before fleeing when the manager had brought a woman from social services to see him. After that he had made a point of trying to beg, borrow or steal more fruit and vegetables whenever possible, it seemed to have worked and he hadn't been ill since.
Andy passed by a large book shop and then sat down in the doorway of a record shop, he had looked back at the book shop and for a second thought he saw a small pub, he blinked and there was the bookshop, he screwed his eyes up tight and opened them again as he did so he was sure he had caught a fleeting glance of a grubby door, You're losing it dude, he told himself, probably just hungry and a little sunburnt he decided. He tore the sandwich from its wrapper and took a huge bite whilst opening the milk, much better. He peeled an orange slowly and considered for the millionth time why he had come to England, there was no real reason he decided again for the millionth time, he had just felt he had to, so having lived in an underpass in San Francisco for a year and a half having left "their" house he had made his way to New York and found passage on a Moroccan cargo ship bound for Southampton whose captain hadn't found it unusual for a fourteen year old to be alone in the world. His first impression of England wasn't good, it was late September and raining, the fact that it rained solidly for another two months had been an unpleasant surprise. Eventually he had made it to London where he confirmed his suspicion that he had no idea why he was there and had no idea what to do next, so he busked, some days like today he did well, other times he made nothing for a week, those times he searched through garbage, rubbish he corrected himself, to find food, or shoplifted for it. He had long since lost any great sense of guilt about stealing, he only did it when he had to, usually he made enough with his guitar, but if it was a choice between steal or starve he figured it was ok.
Andy savoured a sweet piece of orange and was deciding between eating the second orange now or saving it for later when he noticed a very odd man striding across the road with apparently casual disregard for the traffic that was screeching to a halt around him. It was not the mans poor grasp of the Highway Code which caught Andy's interest because he'd seen some stupid people in his life. No, it was his cloths, and again Andy had seen people with a weird dress sense but this guy truly took the biscuit. He was wearing a long black robe with a silver clasp which billowed around him. He was tall with blond hair and steely grey eyes which were narrowed in, his face was aristocratic and his mouth was upturned in a contemptuous sneer at the world in general. Andy pulled his guitar case closer to him on grounds that the guy didn't look like he would step over it. He looked up again and noticed a boy of his own age trailing behind him similarly dressed dragging an enormous case behind him, the first thing he that crossed Andy's mind was that they must be father and son as the resemblance was uncanny, that and the stupid cloths, well that wasn't strictly true, the first thing that crossed Andy's mind when he saw the blond boy was that he was probably the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. The man had passed Andy without a glance and was somewhere behind him when the boy tried to mount the kerb in front of Andy. The boy tripped. He tripped quite spectacularly and fell flat on his face the contents of his trunk spilling out onto the footpath. Andy considered helping him but from past experience he knew people didn't generally want help from a filthy street kid. The boy lifted his head and spat blood from his mouth, as he did so his eyes met Andy's and widened in recognition, the recognition changed to surprise and then suddenly narrowed into hatred. Andy raised an eyebrow at the boy and decided that as cute as he was, and he was damn cute, he was possibly a little too odd.
"Draco. What the hell are you doing?" a snarl came from behind Andy, as the tall man strode towards the prostrate form of the boy.
Draco? Andy thought, a pretty fucked up name but then again the kid hardly seemed normal. By now this Draco character had got to his knees and was valiantly trying to gather the strange assortment of the objects which had fallen from his case. In his left hand he was holding a jar containing what looked suspiciously like a pickled bat. Under his arm he had a pile of old fashioned parchments.
"I'm sorry father..." Draco started to drawl in an upper class accent which appealed to Andy.
"You are pathetic; I do not know why I tolerate your continual ineptitude. You don't deserve to wear the name Malfoy. Draco was on his knees at this stage just high enough for the back of his fathers hand to cuff him in the eye knocking him to the ground and spilling the parchments everywhere. "Do not apologise Draco, Malfoys do not apologise, it is a weakness."
Andy stiffened feeling his temper rise, He still didn't move, he hadn't lasted this long on the streets by getting involved with things that weren't his concern. Draco was scrabbling to retrieve his papers when his father reached down to pick one up, he stared at it for a moment and then looked away as if in disbelief then he returned to the parchment. Andy watched as his face hardened into a black mask of rage, he turned and flung it at his son who had been looking in the opposite direction.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" the man roared stepping towards his son. Draco jumped and turned to see what his father had thrown, his face went white and crumpled into a look of sheer terror. Andy craned his neck to see the sheet, his first thought was that Draco was a good artist; his second was that Draco's father probably wasn't concerned about his sons artistic talents but rather the subject matter. Draco started to mumble…
"It's, I mean, I…" then he looked down.
"You drew this, you my son, you're a… No son of Lucius Malfoy is one of those …Worse than a mudblood" He looked at the cowering boy in disgust and then savagely kicked him in the chest.
"You Faggot" Lucius spat as Draco smashed against a lamppost. Andy snapped. Memories flooded back Shouting, pushing him, the smell of alcohol, the fear, punches raining down on him, being called horrible names and then running. Andy flipped to his feat and stepped onto the street, his vision was clouded with anger, and all he could see was the boy lying on the street, blood pouring from him mouth, his father pulling his arm back to punch him.
"Get your fucking hands off him" Andy screamed grabbing Lucius's arm. Lucius whirled knocking Andy back.
"You" Lucius said with loathing and drew back to throw a punch at Andy. Andy decided that wondering why this man thought he knew him could wait until after he was trying to kill him ducked under the punch and hit him with a savage upper cut in the nose which gave a satisfying crunch of broken bone. Andy had never heard of the Marquis of Queensbury and wouldn't have had much time for him if he had, he side stepped the elder Malfoy and kicked the back of his knee causing him to go down in a heap. Draco was had rolled onto his side and vomited on the street his eyes were dull and he was slowly curling into a ball. Andy knelt to help him rubbing some blood from his left eye.
"CRUCIO"
Andy's world exploded in pain. He fell on top of Draco, his head turned to see the elder Malfoy standing pointing a strange stick at him. His skin burned as if on fire; waves of agony shot through his body. He writhed in agony, convulsing as time seemed to expand forever; the universe existed only as pain, nothing else, he couldn't remember who or where he was, he couldn't remember a time when there wasn't pain.
Suddenly then the pain stopped. Time started. Faces crowded around him, strange faces, people spoke, he didn't understand them but they seemed comforting. Andy became aware of sound, voices, very excited voices, lots of them. To his side someone touched his shoulder and said.
"Harry, Oh Harry dear. Harry can you hear me?" Andy moved his head to identify the voice, a plump kindly women was looking at him in distress. Andy tried to speak but no words came out. His body shook out of his control. An old face filled his vision, Andy got the impression of lots of silver hair and definitely a large nose, he tried to speak but nothing seemed to come out.
"Don't try to move, Everything will be alright. Molly would you mind if the two boys were to stay with you in the Burrow?" a kindly old voice came from the old face.
"Of course Albus, You know Harry is like one of our own" the female voice exclaimed.
"I realise that Molly, but this isn't Harry" the old voice said. Andy was relieved that at least someone realised he wasn't this Harry character.
"But it…?" Andy felt his hair being moved on his forehead.
"Look, Molly no scar" Andy heard a gasp.
"You don't mean it's…"
"Yes Molly, I believe this is Andrew David Potter…"
July 31st 1995
His head ached, he began to sit up; this turned out to be a mistake, he discovered his chest ached too. After a few minutes he slowly opened his eyes hoping this wouldn't result in more pain; it did, however he persisted and found himself looking at a white ceiling. Nearby he could hear something moving, he was terribly confused, perhaps it was a house-elf. Something was wrong. He grimaced, pushed himself up with his elbows and looked around the room. Where the hell was he? This certainly wasn't his room, it was too small for a start and quite frankly the décor was horrendous. He turned his head to the source of the noise and found himself looking at...
"Potter?" Draco drawled or at least he would have drawled if his throat hadn't been so dry, as a result he croaked. Potter's head snapped around and stared back; he looked even scruffier than Draco had remembered him and there was something else different that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Potter put his finger to his lips.
"Hush" then he swung a bag onto his back and slipped quietly out of the room. Draco sat up further provoking another wave of pain from his ribs. What was he doing in a room with Potter of all people? He found a glass of water and began to sip it as he tried to remember how he had ended up here, wherever here was. Father had been taking him to Diagon Alley to buy some books for a summer course on the Dark Arts in Bulgaria, he had been looking forward to it all summer, if only because it would get him away from home. Draco remembered arriving in London and then they had, suddenly the events of previous day flooded back in a torrent of horror. Shit, oh shit, how could I have been so stupid? Draco groaned the horror of what had happened enveloped him; the glass slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground exploding into a thousand pieces.
Andy had woken about ten minutes earlier feeling similarly rotten. He lay for a few minutes enjoying the warm soft bed before opening his eyes. He shut his eyes quickly, he counted to five and tried again; no good, on the sloped roof above him there were posters of people flying around on sticks chasing some sort of ball, this in itself wasn't terribly disturbing; no what was disturbing was the fact that they were actually moving and more disconcerting even than that was the fact that they were waving at him. Not long after he had started living on the streets he had made up his mind not to do drugs, not from any moral objection just that his life was difficult enough without a hundred dollar a day heroin habit, as he stared up at the strange stick people Andy fervently hoped he hadn't started without telling himself. He sat up fully and looked around the room, it wasn't very big but it seemed cosy (apart from the stick people of course), an empty fish tank sat on the windowsill beside a pile of books. Swinging his legs around he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out for the topmost book, "Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4", he quickly put it back and stood up. It was definitely time to get the hell out of here, a stick person shot across the wall and back up to the ceiling, Andy shivered and spotted his cloths on a chair, as he reached for them he noticed another bed complete with occupant. It was the blond boy from the day before, what was his name? D something, it had been strange whatever it was. He was still cute though. Brushing aside such thoughts he got dressed, throwing the red striped pyjamas that someone had put him in on the bed. As he dressed he noticed his cloths had been washed and patched; that was a first. The other boy started to stir and Andy hurriedly pulled on his tattered shoes. Just as he was about to leave he heard the bed creak, he turned to the noise.
"Potter?" the blond haired boy croaked. Andy considered correcting him but decided there was no point, he raised his fingers to his lips and quietly whispered.
"Hush" With that he shouldered his duffle bag and slipped out of the room with his guitar held tightly in his right hand. He found himself standing at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. He made his way as quietly as possible down the creaking stairs, two zigzagging staircases later he was on the ground floor. A dark hallway led into a tiny kitchen; sticking his head around the corner Andy made sure there was no one inside before slowly entering. A scrubbed wooden table occupied most of the room; a large old fireplace faced him and at the other side of the table was a door. Glancing through the window he could see a yard; excellent. A noise upstairs made him jump and he made his way past the fireplace towards freedom.
POP
Andy spun around and came face to face with someone's chest; he looked up to be greeted by a general impression of red hair. It was a tall gangly boy of around his own age with freckles and bright red hair. "Harry! How did you get here ahead of me?" the boy exclaimed. Andy took a step back clutching his guitar in front of him as if to protect himself. He opened his mouth to correct the boy on his identity.
"I'm not Har…" he started to exclaim.
POP
Andy let out a terrified gurgle; another boy also with red hair but older had appeared next to the first. He stepped back and bumped into a chair.
POP
Andy fell over the chair and sat looking up in horror as another boy identical to the second appeared. Scrambling backwards across the floor Andy bumped into the door. The three boys were staring at him.
"Harry, what's wrong?"
"Weren't you behind us?"
Pressing his back to the door Andy tried to stand up, he was deathly white and his stomach was twisted into a knot. His left hand searched for the door handle.
"Oh dear" a short plump woman was standing at the hall door looking concerned. "Ok dear just calm down, it's all going to be fine; just relax". She smiled at Andy "Why don't you sit down and I'll explain everything" "Fred, George give him some space, can't you see the poor boy is terrified?"
"But mum, what's wrong with Harry?" the first boy asked eying Andy with concern. Before she could answer there was another popping noise. For a second there was absolute silence, and then Andy started to scream, his hand found the handle and he fell backwards out the door. He dragged himself to his feet and took off across the yard as the room behind him exploded in chaos; half way across the yard he tripped landing on his guitar. A loud cracking announced the end of his most prized possession; Andy didn't care, he dropped it and took off down the garden jumping thru a hedge at the bottom. He immerged into a large field. He raced on; reaching the end of the field he jumped into the next hedge only to discover it had a stream at the bottom. Landing face down in the cold water shocked him out of his hysteria, standing up he looked back from where he had come. There was no one following, he paused for a second to get his breath back and then slowly climbed up the far bank of the stream. He made his way out of the hedgerow into another much larger field. As he walked across the field he could feel his body relaxing; what the hell was that? He started to shake, he'd never felt such fear. It had been like looking into a mirror, but so real. Maybe it had been mirror; the other boy had certainly looked as shocked as Andy imagined he must have. He really hoped this was a dream. Then he heard a voice shouting something behind and apparently above him; he really didn't want to turn around. He looked back nervously and saw… nothing; then he looked up; squeaked; turned around and ran as fast as he could. It was one of the stick men, racing across the field about forty feet off the ground. Blood thundered through his head and his lungs burned as he ran flat out towards the tree line; the shouting was getting closer, Andy dropped his duffle bag and willed himself to run faster. Something shot in front of him and stopped dead in his path. Too slow; it was the tall red haired boy sitting on what looked like an old fashioned broom which was hovering a few feet off the ground. The boy seemed to be saying something to him however Andy could hear nothing but his own rapid breathing; he felt so weak, he was going to throw up; turning around unsteadily he saw two more figures streaking towards him. He turned back in despair and stumbled towards the boy who had got off the broom and was approaching slowly. Everything was starting to get brighter around Andy; he could feel his lungs beginning to close. He fell to his knees gasping and tried to crawl to where he had dropped his bag; he needed to get his inhaler. It was too late; he rolled onto his back as spasms wracked his body. The last thing he saw before he passed out was a blur of red and someone leaning over him.