Harry Potter was widely considered an odd boy by the inhabitants of Privet Drive.
But not just any old odd boy, oh no, Harry Potter was Odd.
The capital O is very important to the matter of how Odd Harry Potter was, his fourth grade teacher was in fact heard to be calling young Harry 'Odd Potter' on more than one occasion, a name that seemed to stick even if no-one would brave saying it to his face.
To Harry Potter however, it seemed like everyone else were the odd ones. They would stare and whisper as he walked past, they would even point at his clothes when they thought he wasn't looking. And even sometimes, when he spoke, they would just blink at him in dazed confusion, as if they couldn't understand a single word he spoke. (Even when he was speaking the Queen's English perfectly thank you very much)
Unlike how the adults reacted, Harry didn't seem to dwell on the oddness of everybody else. Why would he choose to, after all? It wasn't his fault that they chose to act like this, he had enough on his plate with ensuring that the Dursleys didn't find any reason to come after him again. Not that anybody else knew that… they all had the most odd of habits, that they couldn't see Harry being knocked around the head, even if right in front of them. (Their eyes dazed again… rather odd it was – not that he cared much)
But yes – or rather no – Harry didn't dwell on the oddness of others. He had his own distractions, an admittedly odd one named 'Glockenspiel' or 'Glock' for short. Or at least that's what Harry called him, Glock couldn't speak, probably because he was a dog, also because none of his other friends in Privet Drive could speak, but mainly because he was a dog.
It didn't matter to Harry that his best friend couldn't speak – or was a dog – in fact Harry often spent all their time together talking enough for the both of them, something Glock adored from him as they went on walks around the suburb together. What did matter to Harry, something that he'd always been ashamed of, was the childish pleasure he would feel when other people tried to touch Glock.
To put it simply, they couldn't.
Glock was solid only to him. Glock was his friend, nobody else's. Nobody else ever knew he was there, if they did, they'd have told Harry to get him out of the classroom, or perhaps they would have stared at him strangely like Principal Johnstone had when Harry had explained that it hadn't been Harry that had thrown the desk through the science room's window. (It hadn't been him either, it had been Her – the beautiful red-haired woman who constantly followed him around, moving things when she was angry, and silently singing him to sleep each night in his cupboard)
Principal Johnstone hadn't believed him though, but on the plus side Harry hadn't gotten detention, only a warning about watching his behaviour or he'd be given a nice warm white jumper. (Harry wasn't so sure about what was bad about this jumper, it seemed really nice, letting him hug himself all the time. But Principal Johnstone had been afraid of it, so Harry had done the nice thing and played along)
She was also another of Harry's friends, (Not his best friend though, he read a book once that said dogs were a man's best friend, not women), and although just like Glock she couldn't speak, she always said more than enough with just one sad smile.
She was standing right over there too, her red hair still constantly moving as in a heavy wind, a tight smile on her face as she watched Aunt Petunia fussing around Harry, insisting that he wasn't cooking the bacon fast enough. She was being annoying too – Aunt Petunia, not Her – and so Harry did the one thing that he knew would always make his Aunt leave him alone.
He looked at her.
Tilting his head to the side slightly, Harry stared at his Aunt intently, fighting the urge to blink as he felt his eyes glazing over slightly, the wind whispering in his ears as Petunia started shifting uncomfortably before snapping at him to "Hurry up and start on the eggs," before rushing from the room muttering about weirdos.
Smiling faintly to himself as he turned back to frying the bacon, Harry was just preparing himself for a long day of chasing Glock through the park when he felt it. Setting down his spatula, he took a deep breath before slowly turning around to face the young girl standing behind him.
Her name was Wendy Louis. She was in his class at primary school, in fact, she'd made fun of him when he gotten an 'F' on his maths test.
And now she was dead.
Tilting his head again slightly, Harry watched as Wendy reached out hesitantly, steeling herself for a moment before stepping forward to press her palm against his cheek. Leaning into it, Harry felt his lips tug up into a gentle smile, encouraging her into doing what he knew she wanted to do. Almost fearfully, Wendy's own mouth twitched up into a pained smile, the girl looking lost as she stood in his kitchen in the pretty white dress he remembered her wearing to school last week.
"Boy!" came his Uncle's angry call, "You're burning my bacon!"
Pausing for a moment, Harry turned his head to watch as his Uncle lowered his considerable bulk into his seat at the table. "He killed her," he whispered knowingly, Uncle Vernon freezing and going pale as he stared at Harry with nervous wide eyes, "He killed her, and he's going to do it again".
Ignoring his Uncle as Vernon started stuttering, Harry turned and strode from the kitchen, lengthening his steps to make himself go faster as he followed the skipping Wendy. As both his Uncle and his Aunt called after them, Harry opened the front door and left number four Privet Drive, leaving the door open behind him so that Glock – who had been sleeping under the kitchen table – could run out behind him.
Walking along the pavement, a wordlessly giggling Wendy skipping beside him, Harry found himself getting completely and utterly lost. He knew not where he was going, only that he was going to get there, and that when he got there he'd know where there was. And it seemed there was where he got all too quickly, crossing the road to stand in front of his school, which on a Saturday was completely deserted and empty. (As it should be all the time in Harry's opinion)
Turning his head only, Harry stared at Wendy silently, the girl staring back at him for a moment before leaning forward to look past him. Following her eyes, Harry watched as the cheerfully red station wagon pulled up alongside the curb, the smiling face of his teacher appearing in the window as it was wound down.
"Ya'll alright there Harry?" Mr Morensen asked slowly, a grin splitting his face in half. "Didn't forget it was the weekend did ya?"
Stepping forward, Harry opened the door to the car without prompting, moving to the side so Wendy could climb into the passenger seat and then through to the back – her white dress suddenly torn and bloodied as she wore a necklace of black hand prints around her neck.
"I don't forget," was all Harry said in response, watching as Wendy settled down in the back and reached through the gap in the seats to brush her fingers across his cheek. "You know I don't, Daniel".
Mr Morensen looked a little confused as to what Harry was talking about, before apparently remembering that he was rather odd and deciding to just nod his head sagely. "Of course not, Harry," the man agreed, "Say. Why don't ya climb in and I can drop ya off at yer Uncle and Aunt's?"
"I don't forget, Daniel," Harry repeated.
"Harry, I think it's better that you call me Mr Morensen," the teacher corrected gently, "I don't want the other kids thinking I'm playing favourites".
Frowning as he looked away from Wendy's face, Harry narrowed his eyes at Mr Morensen. "I don't forget, Daniel," he repeated for the third time, "And you didn't tell Wendy Louis that. 'Call me Danny', you said, 'We're friends remember?' you said".
"W- Wendy?" Mr Morensen repeated nervously, "I don't know what you're talking about Harry, I haven't seen Wendy since class ended on yesterday".
"Odd," was all Harry murmured as his eyes flicked back to Wendy, "She's sitting in your back seat".
As Mr Morensen twisted about to look, Harry stepped back and closed the car door, not batting an eye as Mr Morensen let out a choking noise as his seatbelt tightened around his chest and pinned him there. "I think you're lying," Harry corrected as he stepped forward again and let Wendy place her palm against his cheek once more, "I think that you told Wendy to climb in so you could take her home. Only you didn't. You took her to your home," he explained slowly, aware of the way Mr Morensen had frozen in place and was watching Harry in horror, "And then you hurt her. Squeezed her throat too hard, too much".
"She's still got the bruises you know," he added conversationally as he turned back to stare at the teacher. "Goodbye Mr Morensen. You were a nice teacher".
Mr Morensen was no longer paying attention to him however, instead struggling wildly to get away and out of his car, a look of complete panic on his face as Harry watched Wendy leaning forward between the seats to place her hand on the dashboard of the car.
'Thank you' Wendy whispered to him silently, tears running down her face as all the controls and consoles lit up, the car switching into gear suddenly.
"No, no, no, no, no," babbled Mr Morensen as he tore the keys out of the car, slowly turning to stare at Harry in horror. "What are you?"
"I'm a ten year old boy," Harry said simply, "And you're a murderer".
"Goodbye Wendy," he added as he turned and started heading back down the street, listening as someone slammed on the accelerator of Mr Morensen's car and it tore down the street on its own. If Harry had stayed and watched, he would have seen Mr Morensen's car heading straight down the street, and straight into the path of the 6'clock morning bus. But he didn't (He'd seen too much death in his life to want to see more) and instead he just kept heading to number four Privet Drive with Glock chasing after him with his docked tail wagging crazily. (As if they hadn't just gotten justice for Wendy Louis; age 10)
When he finally returned to the place he was forced to call 'home', Harry pushed the door open and scooped up the letters on the mat as he continued forward to the kitchen. Dropping the letters on the table in front of Uncle Vernon, Harry lightly bumped his Aunt out of the way and returned to cooking their breakfast as if he'd never stopped.
"Ma- Marge is ill, again," Vernon finally stuttered out, the odd man never seeming to know what to say. "Ate a funny whelk it seems, poor woma- urk".
If Harry hadn't known his Uncle so well, then he would have perhaps just dismissed that funny noise as Vernon being Vernon. But since he knew his Uncle inside and out, better than he knew himself in fact, Harry couldn't help but turn curiously to find him staring at one of the letters delivered that morning. And for some reason, She was standing behind Vernon, not glaring at him for the first time in forever and instead smiling down past him as she reached out to caress the letter before looking up at Harry and gesturing for him.
Knowing what she wanted without her needing to speak, Harry put the spatula down for the second time that day and strode over to Vernon, ignoring his Aunt who was calling his Uncle's name in worry as he reached out to gently pluck the letter from the man's hands. Ducking under his Uncle's sudden dive for the letter, Harry tore it open and pulled out the first piece of parchment, unfolding it and smiling faintly at the words written.
"Dear Mr Potter," he read aloud, making his Aunt and Uncle freeze as Dudley helped himself to his father's bacon. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".
Folding the letter up, Harry tucked it into the waistband of his too-large pants and returned to finishing up the last of the bacon. "Hear that Mum?" he asked slowly, glancing up at the red-haired woman who was standing behind him and thus towering over him, "We're going to Hogwarts". (Finally)
Inspired by something I've got no bloody idea what was... probably the movie 'Odd Thomas' actually now I think about it, considering the overuse of the word 'Odd' at the beginning and the way it resembles the opening sequence to the movie.
Anyway, I loved that movie, I'd totally suggest looking it or the book up. Seriously the movie made me cry, and I'm a big tough manly man (Cough).
Anyway, the Undercover Operative cannot claim to own Harry Potter.