Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Otherwise, my name would be J. K. Rowling, I wouldn't be composing music, I'd be rich, and I would be found in England. This does not describe me in any way, shape, or form. The plot I have in store is based loosely off of J.K. Rowling's plot, just with some of my own creativity. If you can call it creativity, that is.

I'm going to combine the second chapter of Philosopher's/ Sorcerer's Stone with this one. That way it won't take too long for Harry to get to Hogwarts. It is also needed to explain the fact of him being a Parselmouth. You've already read this, more than likely, but this helps to move the plot along. It's Harry's first display of his Parselmouth abilities, so...

Enjoy!

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Chapter 3: Displayed Disappearance

The next morning, Harry awoke in his uncle's car. Harry had woken up, feeling nothing but a sharp pain in his right shoulder. Harry looked lifted the collar of his shirt to see a bleeding wound. Seeing this, he felt strangely ill about the damage that might have been done to Uncle Vernon's car, knowing the evident beating that would take place. But, when he looked out the car door, there was not even a scratch after the creature had been trying to open the door to get to Harry.

Harry began asking himself questions about what he could have done to the man that had appeared to have transformed before his very eyes. 'Why did he attack me?' he thought over and over again. 'What could I have done to make him upset with me?'

His thoughts were interrupted with the opening of the driver's seat door as Uncle Vernon climbed in, mumbling about poor service and how he'd never stay at that hotel ever again. Aunt Petunia and Dudley soon followed with Aunt Petunia looking livid and Dudley looked as though he were about to bawl at the top of his lungs for not eating breakfast.

Aunt Petunia whirled her face toward Harry and said, "What's your problem, boy? You look as if you were about to get bitten by something," Aunt Petunia said nastily.

Harry thought to himself, 'She doesn't know how right she is…,'

Uncle Vernon turned to look at Harry. "Where did you get that!" he asked angrily, spit flying from his mouth, pointing at the blood-stained shoulder of Harry's shirt. "That was Dudley's, you idiot!" Harry just looked down without saying anything in reply. "Well!" he prompted.

"Vernon -," Petunia began, but she was cut off by Harry.

"I was bitten by a dog," Harry spat rudely, as though it were the most obvious answer. Even if it was a lie, he knew what would happen if he used any word such as "transform."

"Vernon, I think we should go home," said Petunia. She seemed to know more than what she really did. "I think we have done enough shopping."

"Petunia, are you alright?" asked Uncle Vernon. He put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"I'm fine, Vernon," said Petunia, trying to compose herself. "We need to go home. Now!"

"Alright! Alright!" said Uncle Vernon, a little shocked at Petunia's insistence to leave. He twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. They then traveled for the rest of the way to Surrey; no one was speaking a word. Harry and his relatives rarely ever had anything to talk about, so Harry mostly held his tongue around the Dursleys for his own good.

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When Harry and the Dursleys arrived at Privet Drive, Aunt Petunia forced Harry to wash off the blood on his shoulder in the shower. She threw Harry's blood-stained shirt into the washing machine without giving it a second thought.

Harry had barely any energy and he was aching all over his body. He barely could get out of the shower when he was done. When he got over to the counter and put his clothes on, he left the bathroom, feeling dizziness wash over him. He stepped downstairs and would have collapsed onto the floor if he hadn't grabbed the handrail. Harry sidled along the rail and crawled into the cupboard before shutting the door behind him.

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The next few weeks had gone by smoothly, with Harry being locked in the cupboard as usual. But it was soon Harry's fifth birthday. Harry didn't think it would be anything special, since the most the Dursleys had ever given him for his birthday was a piece of toast for breakfast. He was lucky if it had butter.

The strangest thing about this week was that he had been feeling extremely weak. It was almost as if he were ill. Even Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon noticed that Harry had been sickly pale with bloodshot eyes.

"Vernon, if we don't do anything, he might get sick to the point of death," said Aunt Petunia. "I don't really care about the boy, but the neighbors would surely talk if they found that boy was sick and we didn't do anything about it."

"The boy doesn't have ties with our family doctor," grunted Vernon. "The only thing we can do is to send him to Mrs. Figg's. She knows about taking care of illnesses. Somewhat…"

Mrs. Figg was a cat-loving lady who had lived two streets away from Privet Drive. Her house always gave off a scent of rotten cabbage. Although on good days, it smelled like fresh cabbage, Harry was still annoyed by the smell, as he hated cabbage.

"Well, he'll have to stay over at Mrs. Figg's on his birthday then, because she's getting back from vacation in Scotland the day before," sighed Aunt Petunia. She glared at Harry with a seething look as though he meant to become ill. Harry was too weak to just shrug it off, so he just ignored her venomous gaze.

On Harry's birthday, Harry was brought over to Mrs. Figg's by Aunt Petunia. He was feeling much worse than he had and barely had the strength to walk into the house, seeing as the Dursleys hardly gave him any food anyway.

"Harry!" exclaimed Mrs. Figg, rushing up to Harry with open arms, acting as batty as ever. "Come on in! Petunia, I would like to thank you for bringing him over. He hasn't been here in a while, have you?" Mrs. Figg then stared off into space aimlessly.

"Yes, well, I'd best get going then," said Aunt Petunia, shrugging. She walked back to the car where Uncle Vernon was waiting to take his wife back to the house. They drove off and were out of sight in less than a few seconds.

Harry stepped into the house, where a brown cat named Mrs. Truffles had curled up sleeping in front of the doorway. He had almost accidentally stepped on her tail before Mrs. Figg stopped him

"Don't forget, Harry, watch where you are going," said Mrs. Figg, as though she had told him this many times before. She had, but Harry had always forgotten. "Why don't you sit down and I'll show you some of my photo albums?" she offered.

Harry groaned, as this was one of the things about visiting Mrs. Figg he did not enjoy. After making Harry a bowl of potato soup, she grabbed a few photo albums and handed the bowl to Harry.

"There you go," said Mrs. Figg. "That ought to make you feel better." Harry gave a fake smile and let Mrs. Figg open her favorite photo album, which happened to contain many pictures of Mr. Tibbles, the "smartest" of her cats. It wasn't long before Harry found himself nodding off to sleep. Mrs. Figg didn't seem to mind, as she kept flipping through the photo album, only stopping when she was through with each of the photo albums.

"Harry, wake up! You can go to sleep downstairs. You aren't looking too good," said Mrs. Figg, feeling his forehead.

Harry nodded and quietly went down into the former basement where there was a renovated guest room. Harry found himself staring out of a window way above him, watching as the final rays of the sun sank down below the horizon.

Harry felt calm wash over him, not even thinking about what had happened almost a month ago.

As soon as Harry had come close to drifting to sleep, he was snapped awake due to strong pains reverberating around his body. Harry was afraid, and confused as he lost all humanity. His bones were slightly growing, as his face stretched forward into a muzzle. He began screaming in pain as his hands curled into paws. His heart rate quickened as black fur began covering his body. He then let out a ferocious howl, signaling the end of the transformation.

Naturally, this howl caught the attention of Mrs. Figg, who had placed an ear to the door. She heard snarling on the other side of the door and was nearly scared out of her wits. She then heard a yelp that sounded as if whatever was in there had taken a chunk out of itself.

Mrs. Figg carefully opened the door, seeing a young, but still dangerous werewolf pup glaring at her. It howled and ran at Mrs. Figg, who had slammed the door shut. A loud thud! was heard when the werewolf collided with the door, knocking it unconscious for the remainder of the night.

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When Mrs. Figg woke up the next morning, she went downstairs to find Harry lying in bed. She pulled back the covers to wake him up, she saw that he had no shirt on. She then noticed that he had a scar on his right shoulder in the shape of a bite. There were also many scratches all over Harry's body, as though he had been scratched by an animal.

"Oh God, it wasn't a dream," Mrs. Figg said in shock with her hand on her forehead. "I have no choice," she said to herself going into the living room. She started a fire in the fireplace and took a ceramic jar from the mantel. She tossed a pinch of the powder inside and shouted, "Headmasters Office, Hogwarts!" The furious orange blaze turned a shade of green before Mrs. Figg stepped into it, hurtling through the Floo Network of Wizarding fireplaces. Even if she wasn't talented at using magic, she at least had enough to make Floo Powder work.

She fell out of the fireplace in Dumbledore's office, soot covering her clothes. "Dumbledore!" Mrs. Figg called out. She turned around to see Severus Snape staring at her right in the face.

"What do you wish from Dumbledore, Arabella?" asked Snape coldly. He had a smirk on his face and his left eyebrow was raised. "Dumbledore has gone to meet with Cornelius Fudge, but he should be back soon. Tell me," he started, "why have you come from your… Muggle hideaway? Is it getting too quiet for a Squib in that sleepy little Muggle town called Surrey?"

"No," said Mrs. Figg icily. "The reason I am here is none of your concern. So I would appreciate it if you would shut up and mind your business." Mrs. Figg was shaking with anger with Snape. They never did like each other. What with him being a blood supremacist and her being a Squib.

Then, in a flash of fire, Dumbledore had appeared in front of his desk with Fawkes, his phoenix, circling above him. Dumbledore walked over to Mrs. Figg and said, "Arabella, what brings you here?" Mrs. Figg had a feeling that Dumbledore already knew why she was there.

"Well, you see –" Mrs. Figg began, but Professor McGonagall walked into the office, her jaws shaking with anger.

"Albus, Peeves has been terrorizing the house-elves in the kitchens, again!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall. She looked as though she had been pelted with chalkboard erasers, due to the chalk dust covering her robes. "He was floating around, chasing them while clapping erasers together. If I hadn't stopped him…," but she cut herself off, then noticing Mrs. Figg.

"Arabella was just about to tell us why she has come here," Dumbledore explained when he noticed Professor McGonagall's quizzical look. "Go on, tell us."

Dumbledore strode over to a cabinet and opened it. In it, there was a stone basin with a silvery substance swirling around in it that was neither liquid, nor gas.

Dumbledore placed his wand to his head, and pulled out a shining thread from his forehead. He shook the wand and let the strand fall into the basin. He continued to do this several more times until he finally shut the cabinet door, ignoring he stares he had received.

"It was a long visit that I would wish not to discuss," said Dumbledore, shaking his head.

"Well, as I was about to say," Mrs. Figg began, "Harry's Aunt Petunia had taken Harry to my house yesterday, after telling me that he had been sick for the past week. I agreed to take Harry when I came back from Scotland." Mrs. Figg paused for a moment. "He was, however, greatly ill, so I had him go to bed early. Hours later, I had heard a howl coming from his room, so I listened at the door to hear a snarling on the other side of it. I opened the door and saw a werewolf lying in the middle of the floor. I had immediately shut the door, when the werewolf – Harry, I'm certain – ran at the door. He was knocked unconscious for what I believed to be the rest of the night." She continued to recount how she had seen the bites and scratches all over Harry's body.

Snape merely scowled disgustedly, while Professor McGonagall sobbed into her own robes. Dumbledore buried his face in his hands, as he began to speak.

"Arabella, you are to inform the Durselys about Harry's condition and to tell them to lock him in the cupboard extra tightly on the nights of the full moon," said Dumbledore quietly.

"Professor, might I interject?" Snpe asked silkily. "Why can't Potter just stay with Lupin? I'm sure that they would have a… howling good time together."

"Severus, you know perfectly well that Remus can barely keep a roof over his own head, much less another's. We also do not know what would happen if Harry and Remus were to transform together. Remus might try to kill Harry, which is why they cannot know about each other until the time is right." Dumbledore sighed tiredly.

Snape merely snorted.

"I'm sure they would recognize what each other was on first contact," he said.

"Which is why we will have to keep Remus and Harry separate at least until he is eleven, if not older," Dumbledore explained urgently.

"I'll just go then," stated Mrs. Figg. She turned to the fireplace, about to grab another pinch of Floo Powder and throw it into the fire when Dumbledore stopped her.

"Arabella, before you leave, I must tell you this," he began. "Do not let Harry know you are tied to the Wizarding World. We still need you as an undercover observer, now more than ever thanks to Harry's new… furry little problem." Mrs. Figg nodded.

Snape snorted again. Professor McGonagall was still sobbing into her robes.

"We will have to take Harry to the Werewolf Registry at the Ministry of Magic when he reaches the age of eleven," said Dumbledore. "He could get in trouble with the Ministry without being registered by that age. I had hoped he wouldn't have to be exposed to the Wizarding World as soon as he did."

Mrs. Figg nodded again, and took a pinch of Floo Powder from a glass jar. She walked into the fireplace and spun out of sight.

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Harry woke up to find Mrs. Figg at the table in the living room, drinking a mug of coffee while watching the news. He had put a shirt on over his body to cover his scars from the previous night, not knowing that she had already seen them.

"Harry, how are you feeling?" asked Mrs. Figg. She knew what the answer was supposed to be.

"I feel like I've been stabbed into by several hot needles," said Harry. "Other than that, I'm fine." Harry wobbled on his feet, barely even standing up.

Mrs. Figg shook her head and said politely, "Harry, please sit down. I don't want you to fall."

Harry grumbled and said, "I'm fine," right before falling flat onto the floor face first.

"I'll just go ahead and take you back to you relatives'. You'll be alright there," stated Mrs. Figg, pulling Harry up by his wrist.

She led him into the car outside and took him to the Dursleys, where Aunt Petunia was seen watering her begonias on the front lawn.

"The boy wasn't any trouble, I expect," said Aunt Petunia coolly, shooting a spiteful glance at Harry.

"No, he wasn't any trouble at all. Harry, could I speak to your aunt alone, please?" asked Mrs. Figg. Harry shrugged and walked inside.

"Now, what's this all about," Aunt Petunia demanded impatiently, moving on to watering a bed of hydrangeas.

"Well, you see, Harry, your nephew –" Mrs. Figg began, but was interrupted by Aunt Petunia.

"Yes, go on and spit it out," Aunt Petunia urged.

"Harry is a werewolf," Mrs. Figg said finally. Aunt Petunia gave a little scream and dropped her watering can.

"A werewolf!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Figg sadly. "The law states that Harry has to register with the Ministry of Magic by the age of eleven." Aunt Petunia uttered another soft scream at the word "Magic." "In the meantime, however, you will need to keep Harry locked securely in the cupboard during full moons. Should he get out, well, you don't need me to describe it to you." Mrs. Figg gave a wry smirk at her last sentence. Aunt Petunia gave an involuntary shudder and fainted right into her hydrangeas.

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Almost six years later, Harry had become used to his transformations. Of course, the transformations never became less painful. The bad thing was that on the full moon, he was forced to change in a cramped cupboard that gave him barely any room to move at all. This, of course, was a nuisance to Harry, as he, like other werewolves, needed to be able to move freely in open spaces. What was worse is that he didn't even know what was happening to him, or what he even was.

Harry was still living at Number Four Privet Drive, much to the dislike of his aunt and uncle, and was asleep in his cupboard under the stairs as the sun rose and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door. His slumber didn't last long, as he was awoken by the usual rapping on the cupboard door by his aunt.

"Up! Get up now!" she commanded shrilly.

Harry woke up with a start as his aunt continued to tap the door.

"Up!" she screeched. Harry heard the tapping of her footsteps as she walked into the kitchen, and the sound of a frying pan being placed on the stove. Harry rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember if there was something special about the day. He then groaned as he remembered that it was Dudley's birthday.

Harry then heard his aunt walk back to the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded impatiently.

"Nearly," Harry answered weakly.

"Well, get a move on. I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything to be perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Harry groaned again.

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing…," he answered hurriedly. He did not want to upset his Aunt Petunia on this day of all days.

Dudley's birthday – how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He eventually found a pair under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

When he was fully dressed, he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise – unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. However since the incident in the hotel parking lot six years before, his eyes became flecked with spots of amber, turning fully amber when he was angered. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she answered sharply. "And don't ask questions."

Don't ask questions – that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, for his hair simply grew that way – all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel – Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said stupidly, looking up at his mother and father with a horrified expression plastered on his face. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven," said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a Dudley tantrum boiling up, began shoveling bacon into his mouth as fast as possible before Dudley got a chance to flip the table over in his anger.

Aunt Petunia must have sensed the upcoming tantrum as well, because she bent in front of Dudley and placed her hands on his face, and she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that popkin? Two more presents. Is that alright?" She was practically throwing herself at Dudley's feet, begging him not to start another furious rampage.

Dudley thought for a moment, his pudgy face screwed up in calculation. It looked like hard work. Finally, he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty. . . thirty. . ."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

"Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair. Harry snorted.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplae, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction.

Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a momentarily leap of joy. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Harry, on the other hand, was forced to stay with Mrs. Figg, a mad old cat lover who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house reeked of rotten cabbage and Mrs. Figg always pulled out multiple photo albums that contained photographs of every single cat she had ever owned.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy," snapped Aunt Petunia.

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there – or rather, as though he was something very nasty that had no comprehension of what they said, like a slug.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend – Yvonne?"

"She's on vacation in Majorca," Aunt Petunia snapped again.

"You could just leave me here," Harry suggested hopefully. He could be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley's computer.

Aunt Petunia looked like she had just swallowed a lemon at Harry's suggestion.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Harry, glaring at Aunt Petunia angrily. However, they didn't believe him.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, ". . . and leave him in the car. . . ."

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone. . . ."

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying – it had been years since he really cried – but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

"Dinky Diddydums, don't cry. Mummy won't let him ruin your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I . . . don't . . . want . . . t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp-spoils everything!" He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang – "Oh, good lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically – and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy – and funny business, anything at all – and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly . . ."

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was bald except for his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already ridiculed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses. The clothes he wore often had sometimes been patched due to the condition they appear in after full moon nights. Next morning, however, he has gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he tried to explain that he couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished.

On the other hand, he'd gotten in terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.

But today, nothing was to go wrong. It was worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. His favorite subject to complain about was normally Harry, but this time, he was complaining about motorcyclists. Harry was so wrapped up in his euphoria about being able to go to the zoo that he didn't notice what Uncle Vernon was ranting about.

". . . roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," Uncle Vernon grumbled as a motorcycle sped past them.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle last night," Harry piped in. "It was flying. . ."

"MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!" roared Uncle Vernon, his purple face pulsating with anger. He had nearly crashed into another driver who flashed a rude hand signal back at Uncle Vernon.

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

"I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream."

As soon as he said this, Harry wished he didn't say anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated most about Harry, other than his persistent questions, were his references to his dreams.

Harry mentioned that he saw flashes of green light in a few of his dreams to Aunt Petunia when he was younger. Aunt Petunia went very pale and snapped back with, "Don't talk about things like that! It was . . . probably just the traffic light at which your parents killed." Harry wasn't too sure he believed her though.

He even mentioned the incident in the hotel parking lot years ago. All he knew was that since then, he was forced to go to bed extremely early once or twice a month since then. Harry never knew why, but he always felt extremely weak after the night was over and was always extremely tired too. As Harry got older, he just associated this behavior with insomnia.

When the incident was mentioned, Aunt Petunia had to force him to be quiet in earshot of Uncle Vernon, though he had known about the incident and felt compelled to throw Harry out as soon as possible. A red envelope had appeared soon after Uncle Vernon prepared to throw Harry out. Aunt Petunia had taken the envelope into another room and Harry could have sworn he had heard a booming voice in the room shouting at Petunia for a brief moment before she finally exited, saying that they couldn't throw Harry out into the streets. Uncle Vernon complained, but Aunt Petunia snapped back and accepted no argument.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with happy families. Children passed by holding brightly colored balloons while holding onto their parents' hands. The howling of teenagers imitating monkeys was heard nearby ("Idiotic children," grumbled Uncle Vernon.). Even the pigeons were enjoying themselves by pecking at the dropped popcorn on the ground.

While Dudley and Piers were bought large chocolate ice creams, Harry, because the smiling lady in the van had asked what he wanted before Aunt Petunia could shove him along, was bought a cheap lemon ice pop.

'It wasn't bad, either,' Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head which looked remarkably like Dudley. The only thing was, it had black hair rather than blond.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to put a little distance from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of Harry Hunting. Though Harry had rushed to catch up when a familiar man, crouched by the wolf cage, had glanced at him interestedly. (I'll give you a hint: It's not Greyback. Not that it has anything to do with the plot, but . . .)

When they got to the zoo restaurant, they had a burger and some ice cream for dessert. Dudley threw a tantrum when he got his knickerbocker glory, screaming that it didn't have enough ice cream on top. Uncle Vernon bought him another one while Harry had the first one forcefully shoved into his hands. Uncle Vernon gave an annoyed nod to Harry, signaling that he could finish the first. Harry knew that this day was too good to last.

After lunch, they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Harry passed by a few lizards sunbathing under a heat lamp that was glaring right onto a rock. A mere garter snake was lazing around in the adjacent compartment. Harry thought he could hear "So hungry . . . feed me. . . ." hissed at him behind the glass.

Dudley and Piers were all excited over the prospect of seeing a boa constrictor on the far side of the box-shaped room, but were immediately disappointed when they saw it lying on a rock behind its display glass, staring wistfully at Dudley, who was pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," Dudley whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped the glass with his fingertip. The snake did not even flinch.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered arrogantly. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake continued to stare into empty space.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He immediately waddled away to look at a rattlesnake a few windows away. Uncle Vernon and Piers followed him.

Harry wandered over to the tank and looked intently at the snake. There was a rock upon which the snake was perched on surrounded by ankle-deep water. The snake was so languid that Harry could have sworn it had died of boredom. Harry supposed he would have to if he had to lie behind a glass all day with no company except people on the other side who would drum their fingers on the glass, trying to get him to move. After all, it was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom. At least he was let out by his Aunt Petunia every now and then.

Then, right as Harry was about to step away from the glass, the snake lifted its head and did something that greatly startled Harry.

It winked.

Harry blinked. He then looked around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked back.

The snake jerked its head at Uncle Vernon, Dudley, and Piers, who were huddled by a window, trying to get the rattlesnake to move. It then raised its eyes to the ceiling, giving Harry a look that said quite plainly:

"I get that all the time."

"I can tell," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying." To his great surprise, the snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?" asked Harry. The snake drooped its head as it continued jabbing its tail at the sign, meaning for Harry to read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see – so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling towards them as fast has he could.

"Out of the way, you," he ordered, shoving Harry to the floor, knocking his glasses askew. Harry had fallen hard on the concrete floor, trying to readjust his glasses.

What had ensued next was unforgettable and had happened so fast, no one had seen it take place. Dudley and Piers were pressed hard against the glass and, in the blink of an eye, had fallen over the barrier and into the water. The snake had slid over their bodies, lifted itself over the barrier, and was slithering across the concrete floor towards the door.

It had stopped for a moment to glance at Harry. "Brazil, here I come. . . . Thanksss, amigo," it hissed in a low voice, sliding past a woman in a pink dress, who had screamed in terror and had jumped onto a nearby stool. The owner of the reptile house, who was fruitlessly trying to pull Dudley out of the boa constrictor exhibit, was in apparent shock. Eventually, the owner had given up trying to lift Dudley and had run off to try and pursue the snake, leaving Dudley's piggish face to fall back into the water from the small height at which it was pulled.

The assistant owner of the reptile house kept repeating, "But the glass, where did the glass go?"

The zoo director led them into his study. He had brewed Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon a batch of sweet tea while apologizing over and over again. Piers and Dudley only chattered their teeth while Harry was trying to suppress his laughter. As far as Harry had seen, the snake had only slid over them, but Piers and Dudley had turned the whole story into a fantasy where the snake had tried to bite Dudley's leg off and squeeze the life out of Piers. Harry only wished this were true, but then again, when did his desires ever come true?

The situation worsened when Piers added, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you Harry?"

Uncle Vernon had driven Piers home and had shoved Harry into his cupboard, shouting between furious pants, "Cupboard – stay – no meals," before slamming the door and padlocking it shut.

Harry had lain in the cupboard for what seemed to be an eternity; however Aunt Petunia had snuck into Harry's room to force some medicine into Harry's mouth that knocked him to sleep for hours, waking up the next morning with scratches all over his body.


Review Section

Spastic-Fire-Wolf -- Yeah, I enjoyed the Dursleys' descriptions too.

Winged Cat -- As you can see, I didn't forget. XD

Moonblaze Starfire -- You'll just have to wait and see. I'm not revealing anything... (shifty eyes)

Timydamonkey -- Well, the thing is, I doubt Harry could have completely gotten away. I mean, yeah, like you said... He is only four. About the whole Dumbledore-and-McGonagall-being-worried thing... McGonagall was terrified of Fenrir Greyback (for obvious reason). Dumbledore, on the other hand, is a Legilimens, though he doesn't brag about it. He could tell what Greyback's intentions were, but did not know if he would actually succeed and getting Harry. Did I help clear that up? I sort of knew someone was gonna get confused, so I had an explanation ready just in case.

Torn-and-Broken -- Thanks for the compliment. You're a good writer too, but I would suggest using Microsoft Word or something so that your whole fic isn't lumped into one big paragraph. Just trying to lend a helping hand!


Well, I should go ahead and inform you that it might be a while before I post again. I'll try to get it up as soon as possible but Marching Band is coming up, and it's right around the corner. So... yeah... If I can update within the next few days, I will.