The unforgiving noonday sun beat down on southern England. Drought laws were in effect, and many of the prized suburban gardens suffered greatly—there would be no All-Southern England Suburban Lawn and Garden Competition this summer. But of course, that didn't mean that proud middle-class homeowners had simply surrendered to the June heat and unfair laws regulating water usage. Never! Rather, they used any means of trickery possible to keep their prized plots looking better than their neighbors' ones. You see, the All-Southern England Suburban Lawn and Garden Competitions were not quite as important as the participants claimed them to be. Oh sure, bragging rights and all that were all well and good, but in the long run, no one really remembered who won those little trophies any given year. A one-time winner of the competition had little cache in regards to their neighborhood social circles and gossip networks.

That was because competition never really ended after the awards were given out (and also because jealousy prevented losers from curtailing their not-so-latent vindictiveness). People always strove to present their best faces to their neighbors, and annually-dispensed titles and little plastic trophies just played a little part in that charade. The unofficial competitions to be considered the best housewife, the best husband, to have the best car, the nicest home, the fattest bank account—to be the best—they never ended, and were much more significant to a family's perceived and actual long-term success.

Socioeconomic standing.

The English middle-class had really grown in the past decades. Desperate to leave behind their working-class roots, businessmen and housewives fashioned new identities for their families that reflected their bourgeois desires. But there was also more to it than that. There was something sinister in how identity was created and managed. The games people played were ruthless, and their players were vicious. Neighborly smiles were nothing more than masks to cover up what would otherwise be sarcastic smirks, and company family cookouts were battlegrounds for position and rewards. It was do-or-die.

These were lessons Harry Potter knew well. Not that he ever really got the chance to employ them. He was a horrible little menace to the community, after all. A threat to all that was good and decent and virtuous! …well, maybe not that last one, just now, but eventually he probably would be. And yet, despite the fact that everyone thought him to be a deranged criminal, that he wasn't allowed to take books home from the school library in fear that he'd destroy them, and that he often daydreamed in class and frequently outright ignored the teacher during lessons in lieu of doing something he thought was actually worth his time, it was obvious that he was by head and shoulders the smartest person most of them would ever meet. And he was only ten years old.

(Of course, it didn't help that they stuck him in classes for problem children with any number of deficiencies and disabilities, but he had always preferred learning on his own, anyway).

Not that he was a bookworm or anything like that; he was simply quite the little intellectual. Learning just came to him naturally—it felt like his mind was an unstoppable force, always on the go, coming up with new ideas and questions and answers, and soaking up information like he was born to do it; it was like a storm. But instead of losing himself to the chaos of his mind, Harry embraced his nature, knowing he was much better off with the constant hum of possibilities and questions instead of the grey complacency that blinded everyone else to the wide, colorful, intelligent world.

Mathematics was a tried and true companion; problem sets, numbers and variables and complicated shapes and abstract concepts and theorems and axioms and proofs were understood and manipulated with ease. Stories of the great ancient natural philosophers and modern physicists who seemingly bent reality and nature to their will and discovered the deepest secrets of the universe fascinated him. Epic mythologies and fictional tales by renowned authors opened up entirely new worlds for Harry to explore, where his powerful mind could be unshackled from his dreadful existence in Little Whinging and given free reign. His imagination ran wild. Lost in his mind, it was as though he could spend entire days dreaming of greater things—of a reality that transcended the oblique mundaneness of suburbia and what passed for normal.

It was also a coping mechanism.

In his little dream world, interacting with great heroes of literature and science provided some quite necessary respite. They were more real to him as people than were the shallow, cruel caricatures of that inhabited his grim reality, those who wouldn't know talent and greatness if it repeatedly hit them on the head with a shovel (which was actually no more than so many of those disgusting simpletons deserved!). Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly lost, he would try to imagine his world as one of his heroes would see it just so he wouldn't feel like he was the only one who knew there ought to be something more to life than being normal.

Someone like Albert Einstein would condemn the lack of creativity and the open oppression that was so very palpable in the stale air of the sidewalked streets and manicured lawns, and then he would expound about the irrationality of trying to adhere to an unfalsifiable and horribly limiting notion such as normality. (It's all relative, you know?)

And then, of course, Lewis Carroll—one of Harry's favorite authors, incidentally—would end up walking around the neighborhood in the middle of the street, looking for all the world as if he was nothing more than a meandering drunk and not the notorious genius he really was, and go on speaking nonsense in the face of the incomprehensibility of the lifeless and colorless madness that was Little Whinging, and would then decry the lack of opportunities to be curious—because curiosity was a mortal sin in this town. And really, what else could someone do when confronted with the dire sense of wrongness that was Little Whinging than walk in the middle of the street and weep for all the lost souls?

But the wrongness about Little Whinging wasn't always obvious, of course. Sometimes it would sneak up on you and bite you on the nose, or adjust your blanket while you slept so that your toes would freeze in the night. It was the sideways glares that everyone gave and other little tells that betrayed their cruel thoughts. That was the wrongness that was percolating just beneath the surface of everything normal. Harry knew from those signs that all those other people were just like the Dursleys in the worst possible way.

They hated him because he was a freak. Because his clothes were always too big, his hair was too messy, his attitude not quite right. And also because everyone else said he was a bad seed. He was a risk to their way of life—everything they had worked so hard to achieve. His success and happiness would mean that their entire lives were nothing but lies, that they had fallen for cheap, thoughtless, and demeaning materialistic propaganda dished out by the rich, greasy barons who had long ago enslaved consumers in ways that were no longer feasible for politicians.

They looked at him and saw a glimpse of the truth about their horrible lives, and they hated him for it. They didn't know him at all—and indeed seemed to prefer that things stay that way—and yet they had judged him and found him wanting. Truthfully, Harry had expected nothing less. He had never been one to put much stock in hope, especially as he had yet to meet anyone who actually seemed to be worth the air they breathed—the same air that he did, that he had worked so hard to earn his share of! It was hardly like any of those worthless idiots would notice how unworthy they were anyway.

He had figured out long ago that most people's deductive capabilities were sorely lacking. They relied solely on rumor and speculation and their own underdeveloped and corrupted sense of morality to see, when often the truth was staring right back in their ugly faces, only for it to be ignored because they would rather find solace in the familiar and justify their complacency than rejoice in the unknown and embark on a mission of discovery. They were willfully ignorant. In Harry's opinion, it was one of the worst crimes of humanity, an abject sin—their fear of accepting the obvious, real truth staring them in their faces, just because they either couldn't or, in most cases, because they wouldn't comprehend it. Harry was always observing, his understanding of reality changing frequently, and it was just one thing of many that made him different…special.

Harry's abilities of observation were well-honed, especially for one so young. He attributed this evenly to his education and necessity. His talent for observation was quite useful, after all, seeing as it enabled him first to predict likely behavior from small clues, giving him ample time to scheme about how he would avoid his numerous enemies and, perhaps, eventually, one day get out from under the Dursley's terrible thumbs so that he could do something amazing with his life, and prove to the world that he was worthy of his talents. Maybe he would be an Astronaut, or a mad scientist, or a writer. Something special, something that normal people could never hope to do.

But not all of his achievements were academic or strategic. He had also singlehandedly won the All-Southern England Suburban Lawn and Garden Competition for three years now. Of course his name was never on the ugly little trophy; rather, it was his Aunt Petunia who got all the credit for his hard work. But that was okay—he got the satisfaction of knowing that he had done something great, something she couldn't do. And they both knew it. He was infinitely better than she and her ugly, fat, brutish family could ever be. Which was probably another reason why they and seemingly everyone else hated him so much.

This truth comforted Harry at night.

Whatever. He only had a little over five years to go until he turned sixteen and could get out of Surrey—out of his hellish prison—and make it on his own without fear of being forced back. He would never again have to suffer through life, forced as he was to live in a sterile, colorless community of soulless, bumptious suburbanites. He would be free to live as he saw fit, someplace where there was variety and intelligence and creativity, and then he could show everyone his potential, prove to those bigoted pricks that constantly harassed him that he was great, and that they weren't. He had to make a name for himself—rise above the masses of unwashed dregs so that he was untouchable.

He had had to learn his lessons early on, naturally.

His relatives—no, not that, his relations—had taught him well. Not that that was what they set out to do of course. The Walrus, greasy and fatty Vernon, had tried to 'stamp the freakishness out of him.' Which meant, of course, that he could and in fact frequently did justify any number of horrible, inhumane punishments; after all, he was only doing what he thought was right and was limited only by his conscience—it was a shame he didn't really have one, though.

(And more importantly, Harry didn't think the odd things that happened around him and the few little tricks he could do were freakish or unnatural. They were pretty cool! And more importantly, they were useful. He had been cultivating his talents for quite some time. (In secret, of course—it wouldn't do if others knew of what fantastic feats he was capable). And by Zeus was he capable! He was really excellent at moving things without touching them—he deliberately shied away from calling it telekinesis—which helped greatly with his chores.

A few times, he had even managed to set some things on fire, before quickly dousing the flames before anyone noticed. And teleportation?! Ha! How else would he have managed to get all the way to the public library on the other side of town? And that's not even counting all the other circumstances where Harry hadn't meant to do anything at all, and yet, he knew he was responsible for what happened. He was simply having trouble replicating those other feats, but he never stopped trying.)

And the Horse, sour-milk and moldy lemon Petunia, she always hurt him the most, though rarely ever physically—save for the odd frying pan when he messed up the food or slap when he said something particularly amusing—it was instead the total lack of affection she showed to him. Harry was completely unloved, and it left a black mark on his soul that he feared would never go away, despite the fact that he knew he was better than all of them, and that he should be above such a petty emotion like love—especially if it was anything like what the Dursleys showed each other.

And the Whale, sticky rotten-apple Dudley, well, he was just pathetic, and reminded Harry that perhaps it was a good thing he was never considered 'one of the family', if that was how he might have turned out.

As for bloody Marge, the Bitch, the less said the better.

Exhausted, Harry slunk inside from the burning sun and made his way to the sink in the sterile, perfectly organized kitchen to wash his hands and prepare dinner. He was making a roast, and it was going to be delicious. He had been marinating the meat in a red wine and olive oil and basil mix all day and now had to put it in the oven for an hour and a half. The carrots he had just picked outside were cleaned and cut into strips, and tossed in some foil along with a dusting of basil and olive oil and sent into the oven.

Two dozen red potatoes had been boiled, and then were subject to the rather arduous task of being mashed manually, butter and milk mixed in with the clumpy starch, with flakes of potato skin added for decoration and texture, and some bits of garlic for flavor, and finally covered with foil to set on the counter. Inside the icebox, plastic wrap protected the meringue pie that had been whipped up after breakfast—chances were high that it was big enough that there'd be some scraps left over for a midnight feast, which was exactly as Harry had wanted, because he absolutely loved lemons. As far as vices went, he figured it wasn't such a bad one.

The front door burst open.

"Pet! I'm home!" Vernon bellowed.

Apparently Vernon had a bad day—he was sounding a bit too masculine, his voice rather deep and missing its usual wheezing quality—so he had decided to overcompensate more than usual.

"Oh Vernon, dear," Petunia cried, "I'm so happy your home. I've got dinner just about ready for you."

Harry stifled a growl.

The front door slammed shut.

"Good," Vernon grunted.

So ends the charade, Harry thought. But he expected it, of course. The Dursleys couldn't hold their façade of perfection for very long, and Vernon, of all people, ought not to be tested when he was in a mood.

It was a good thing that dinner would be ready soon enough.

gh

Unfortunately Harry wouldn't get to have any of the meringue that he had made, or indeed any of the other food. Vernon had taken the leftovers for himself, despite Dudley's whining. Apparently he had a really bad day. But now Harry was ensconced in his cupboard, likely safe until the Dursleys went to bed, when he could find something to eat. Once he had served dinner, he had immediately left the kitchen to avoid provoking Vernon's temper, and went back to finish pruning one of the rosebushes. He certainly lucked out.

The television switched off, and a low, awkward groaning came from the living room. Harry swallowed a laugh. He was certain it was nothing untoward—he knew for a fact that Vernon was having some sort of trouble that prevented that particular adult pastime and that had made him more ornery than usual, despite the fact that Harry had overheard Petunia reassuring her husband that 'it was fine' and that he was 'still a man'. Harry at first thought the whole conversation was rather peculiar, and it spurred him to steal away for an afternoon and browse the county library's card catalog to answer his questions. Needless to say, Harry was mortified, but also intrigued. So, for a soon-to-be eleven year old boy, he was strangely well-acquainted with the forbidden knowledge of human anatomy and sexual reproduction.

But back to Vernon's groaning.

The fat bastard was likely having trouble getting off the couch again, and Harry was forced to swallow another laugh at the mental image of Vernon rolling his fat rolls around the couch like some morbidly obese, overturned turtle. He could never imagine his uncle as anything other than a pathetic slob, a waste of space, a leech, and all those things that he always accused Harry of being. It was quite ironic, in fact, because Harry was the most active person in the house, and contributed the most to the household except for when it came to paying expenses; it served to hearten Harry when he second-guessed himself. And sometimes Harry thrived off of that nourishment. But of course, he needed real food too.

Hence, he learned several years previously how to break out of his cupboard when it was locked. Harry called up the image of the sliding lock on the outside of the door and focused on it intently. He could feel that strange and invigorating power rumbling through his blood like an electric current, and he put his hand on the door and forced the current out, thinking 'unlock!' There was the sound of metal grinding on metal and a soft snap, and Harry knew he had succeeded. One more lock to go. But it would be much more difficult.

The lock itself ordinarily required a key, and the locking mechanism was encased in metal, so one would have no idea just what exactly to do by simply looking at it. It took a month for Harry to figure out how to free himself after the lock was installed, and it left him with such a headache that he didn't even have the will to go to the kitchen and get himself something to eat for another hour. He knew he had to figure out a better way.

That was the first time Harry had stolen from some place not in Number 4—excepting the school cafeteria, of course (but that didn't really count, did it?). It was a lock just like the one on his cupboard door, something genteel-looking called a rim lock (because even in their cruelty the Dursleys couldn't afford not to put on airs of sophistication), and a small flat-head screwdriver. At first he felt bad about the theft—he didn't like it when people stole his things, after all—but it was necessary, he had reminded himself, so he got over his guilt quickly .

Harry didn't feel at all guilty that he had a horde of money hidden deep within his cupboard that he'd snuck away from the Dursleys over the years, in addition to the stolen toys, clothes, an old plastic watch, several books, and squirreled away non-perishable food for emergencies, so what was a small lock compared to hundreds of Pounds and things necessary to keep boredom at bay and ensure that Harry's basic needs were met almost adequately? So after three days of work, he had managed to take apart the lock, study the insides, and could make the pieces move without touching them. After that, it was quite easy to work his trick, now that he knew what he had to manipulate.

Click.

He slowly swung the door open and crept outside. It was close to midnight, he saw, looking at the ridiculous, ticking grandfather clock that Petunia had bought from an antique store. Harry thought that its antique quality was rather diminished by the fact that most of the other loathsome housewives had also bought suspiciously similar-looking antique grandfather clocks from the same store, and they were all conveniently visible from the street. Harry felt a great disdain for all of those people and their sickening affectations, but he wasn't about to let that get him sidetracked.

Opening the refrigerator, Harry spotted the previous night's dinner in a Tupperware hidden behind the milk. He smirked. It was still there. Reveling in his small victory over his idiot relations, Harry quickly devoured the three roasted chicken legs rubbed with herbs and lemon juice. He was a really good cook. Finishing, he replaced the Tupperware in the refrigerator on Dudley's shelf, and drank straight from the jug of milk. Do not let it be said that Harry Potter could not be vindictive.

Of course, Harry rationalized his vindictive behavior and the thrill he got from it with the fact that there would be no evidence from his midnight feast if he didn't use a glass, and so it was all the better for him. Nowhere near satisfied but nonetheless out of safe options, Harry closed the door and crept out of the kitchen. Pushing open the swinging kitchen door, he came face to face with a purple-faced walrus holding the cursed tawse Marge had once used on her vicious dogs, in whose eyes Harry saw hatred, and also the pain that was about to be visited upon him.

"Oh, shit," Harry mumbled.

He had been caught.

hg

"Put some cover up on that eye!" Petunia screeched, the television blasting in the background.

Harry Potter did not have a good last three days. After getting caught sneaking around in the kitchen, he had been in considerable pain, locked away thoroughly in his cupboard as he was, and was dutifully ignored as two more locks were outfitted to the cupboard door. Vernon had certainly not let up even after Harry had started moaning out in pain, which was quite extraordinary, considering just how high Harry's tolerance for pain was.

It was likely that Harry's reaction only spurred Vernon's drunken rage, now that he thought about it. The day after the attack he spent mostly in a haze, and just lying on his stomach wishing for the pain to stop, and only did he really wake up after Dudley was jumping on the stairs in celebration of his imminent birthday. He had gingerly checked himself over. There was definitely something wrong with his ribs, and his nose was broken, too. Again. And his back? Ugh.

(But that's what is to be expected when a four hundred pound beast tosses a seventy pound boy onto a flight of stairs so as to be given 'a proper beating.' Harry had some practice falling down stairs, but none falling up them. Admittedly, it was an oversight on his part—one that he would have to correct post haste.)

That was why he now found himself lightly applying some of his aunt's make-up to his face. One had to maintain appearances in public, and all that rot.

Harry wasn't sure if he was glad that the crazy old cat lady Mrs. Figg had broken her leg or not. On the one hand, it would get him out of Surrey for the day, and that was always nice. On the other, his injuries still hurt like a bitch, and he would also have to spend the day with the Dursleys and day-old urine stain Piers Polkiss as they celebrated 'precious Diddydums' most special day', or what a normal person might call Dudley's eleventh birthday.

But fine. He'd covered up pain, before. He had a perfect mask; a testament to the famed English stiff upper-lip stereotype. It was polite and aloof. He'd worked hard cultivating it. And it would certainly come in useful today—not just because it'd allow him to cover up his pain, but because he figured he might actually enjoy a trip to the zoo, and Harry knew better than to show any positive emotion when the Dursleys were around.

Things were better that way.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

gh

Truly, Harry thought he would have liked the zoo very much, had he actually been able to observe the exhibits for any reasonable amount of time. As it was, Dudley was sorely disappointed. And so was Harry.

"Mum!" the little shit whined, "Why are they so boring?"

Really, Harry thought, they're in a cage!

Petunia looked at her son piteously. "We'll just have to keep moving, hopefully one of these filthy animals will be doing something exciting, okay Diddy?"

Dudley stomped on the ground, letting out something between a groan and a whine, and ran through the Big Cats Zone in the London Zoo and into the Reptile House, while the rest of the party was left trailing after him.

Needless to say, Harry was disgusted with their thoughtlessness, but he had come to expect as much.

The Reptile House was, admittedly, much more interesting than what else Harry had seen that day. The snakes were moving, at least.

The Reptile House was designed to look like it was cut into a huge rock. The inside was quite dark, except for the large heat lamps that covered the animals' enclosures. There were nozzles that released sprays of water into the room for some reason, so it was quite humid because of the late-afternoon heat, and Harry was again thankful he wasn't allowed to get an ice cream because it would have dripped all over his hand like it did Dudley's.

There were also animal noises coming from the speakers. Wild growls and bird calls, in addition to the occasional tinkling of rain. Perhaps they were trying to create a certain ambiance? Something like a jungle, perhaps? Whatever was the point, they failed. The whole place was a loud, dark, sticky mess, and you couldn't walk without tripping over something.

Though that could be what a jungle is actually like, Harry reasoned.

He walked unnoticed through the throng of disgusting idiots as they complained about the heat, and spied the various snakes moving about in their enclosures. Off in the distance he could hear his cousin yelling and pounding heavily on a pane of glass that was probably the only thing keeping him from being eaten. The glass rattled in warning.

Well, maybe Harry could hope just this once….

One snake in particular caught his eye. It was massive. Humongous. And it had an entire tree to rest its body on. He walked over to the glass and smiled at the snake, but it appeared to be sleeping. He looked over at the bronze plaque.

Python Reticulatus

Burma

Captured 1983

He turned back to the Python, finding it had woken up and was now staring at Harry strangely.

"Oh, uh, hello," Harry said.

Amazingly, the Python flicked its tail in response.

Harry was floored.

"C-can you understand me?" he gasped out.

The Python nodded its head.

Harry's face lit up. "Whoa! That's so cool." He cast a glance around to make sure no one noticed him talking to the snake in case it was weird. "Do you…do people speak to you often?"

It shook its head.

Perhaps Harry had found a kindred spirit in the enormous serpent.

"Huh, well I've never spoken to a snake before. And I know what that's like," he said. "I mean, being ignored, or looked over. But that's okay, you know? We're special."

The snake just stared at him.

Harry looked around the enclosure. It really was quite large, not at all like his cupboard. "At least they feed you here, yeah?"

The snake slithered closer to Harry and raised its head until it was at eye level with him.

"You know, you're a really pretty snake. I've never—"

"MUM! MUM! Look! Come quick! Look what the snake is doing!" Dudley squealed.

Harry turned to the left, only to be bowled over by his obese cousin. He landed in a heap of pain on the hard cement ground, and was completely ignored by the exhibitors as they watched Dudley shout obnoxiously at the python.

Harry glared at Dudley, rage bubbling in his gut. The little bastard! He doesn't even care that he hurt me! No one cares! They just ignore me! I'm trapped just like that snake!

One last time Dudley went to pound on the glass, seemingly only to fall through and into the enclosure.

The glass had disappeared!

Screams rent the air as Dudley splashed into the pit and the fully grown Python slid out of its housing. Harry thought it was big before, but up close he knew he was completely dwarfed by it. Its strong muscles writhed on the floor, making Harry take an aggrieved look at his own scrawny, spider-bitten arms momentarily as the rest of its body tumbled heavily out of its home.

Harry just stared at the snake, unafraid and absolutely mesmerized.

He had set if free!

The snake looked at him again. "Thanks!" it hissed.

Harry gave a weak laugh. "Anytime."

The snake moved away, heading towards the light of the sun as it hissed amusedly at the people scurrying all about in panic.

Harry stood up and glanced around. All the other snakes in the Reptile House were staring at him, which unnerved Harry greatly. Was he expected to free them too? Perhaps they were looking for a leader to start a revolution? That might actually be fun….

Out of nowhere, a great force once again bowled him over, giving Harry another unwelcome reminder of his injuries as he gave a silent cry. He gingerly looked up to see the walrus hurling his great girth over the railing in an attempt to rescue his pathetic son who was wailing in terror.

Harry couldn't help it, he laughed.

The scene was so ridiculous. One obese man was sweating profusely as he heaved his enormous stomach and tried to jump into the snake pit. One obese preteen was flopping about in a foot of water as though he were drowning. One wretched horse-woman was screaming her head off about her precious baby boy as she swatted her small handbag about her feet as though to deter the monstrous, man-eating snake. As if it would condescend to eat her! Ha!

Vernon had almost succeeded in entering the enclosure, but made a mistake when he perched himself on the ledge to catch his breath and swayed…right off and onto the hard floor.

Harry was having the time of his life.

Eventually, the zoo keepers rushed onto the scene, looking quite flabbergasted.

They knew it was going to be a long day.

Two hours later they were all in the car. Piers had been given the front passenger's seat as Petunia wanted to huddle around 'poor Diddykins' and seemingly tried to squeeze the life out of her son as they both cried. Harry had since reapplied his blank mask, so he was able to suppress his amusement at the scene the two idiots were making.

Vernon was still purple from when he fell.

About twenty minutes from Little Whinging, Piers careened his rat-like face to look back at Harry with a smirk that made dread pool in his stomach.

The bastard then decided to open his nasty little mouth and commented snidely, "Did you see what Potter was doing to the snake, Mr. Dursley? He was talking to it! I swear he was talking to it! Hissing! And then the glass disappeared, just like magic."

Vernon almost crashed the car.

Petunia screamed and whipped her head around to look at Harry, eyes narrowed in hate.

Harry knew he was going to get it when they got back to Number 4. There was nothing he could do.

In the front of the car, Vernon eyed Harry through the rear-view mirror like a predator and let out a roar.

hg

Perhaps a week later, the cupboard door was swung open. A bony hand reached in and yanked hard on Harry's arm, pulling him from the cupboard and into the bright hallway.

He weakly opened his eyes and saw a tall, thin shadow that he figured for Petunia. It was really the best he could do. He hadn't healed yet, and his sudden exit from his dark cupboard into the bright hallway was hurting his eyes. His head was also pounding like it had been put to a jackhammer. His chest was horribly tight and he was having trouble breathing. His stomach felt like it had been twisted and rung out like a wet cloth. His back and legs burned from the lashings. His left hand dangled uselessly from his broken wrist, but the break to his right forearm hurt the most; it was the reason why Harry could hardly contain his cries of pain. Damn Dudley's Smelting's Stick!

Had Harry been more coherent, he would have recognized the look of disgust on his Aunt's face. It wasn't disgust at Harry's pitiful sight—she quite thought he deserved what he got—rather, his horrible stench. He hadn't been let out of the cupboard for almost eight days, and had soiled himself. Petunia couldn't ignore it for any longer, lest the smell linger.

She grabbed Harry by the back of his shirt and hauled him out the back door, across the patio and onto the grass. He lay there moaning in agony as the sun beat down upon his pale, clammy skin. His fever had been running high for several days and accounted for a great deal of his delirium.

He was shocked out of his stupor when hot water hit him full in the face. Harry bit back a scream as he instinctively raised his hands to protect himself and aggravated his injuries. The hot water soon gave way to bitingly cold water, but that was hardly any consolation for Harry.

It still hurt!

He let out a low groan.

"Get up, boy!" Petunia commanded. "And keep quiet! Don't let the neighbors hear you."

Harry gave Petunia his most hateful look as he sat up painfully.

"Take your clothes off! You're filthy!" she commanded as she hit his face with the jet of water again.

Harry doubted he would ever manage to take off his clothes again judging by the amount of pain he was in. Still, he had to try. Harry wasn't one to surrender to anything.

Slowly, and ignoring Petunia's recriminations, Harry used his left hand to remove his shirt. Pain seared through his whole arm, and he thought his hand might fall off. But it was better than using his right arm—he didn't even want to imagine how much that would hurt him.

The too-large shirt was sopping wet and was like leather as it stuck to his skin. He pulled up at the front hem, trying to maneuver it so that he could use his elbow to lift most of the shirt and ease the tension off his broken wrist. When his elbow caught the hem, he jacked his arm up so that it was parallel to the ground and quickly slipped out his left hand from the short sleeve. He could do this. He had felt worse pain. He shimmied the shirt over his head and was thankful that when another spray was aimed at his face it hit the shirt instead and made a strange muffled noise, almost like the sound of a large wave echoing around in a cave.

It was quick work to divest himself of his shirt from that point. So he stood up, his boney, black and blue and pale upper body shining in the afternoon light.

Petunia looked at him disgustedly, as though it was his fault for getting hurt. She aimed the hose at his injuries.

Harry kept his eyes shut tight.

Hiding his agony just to spite the wretched woman, Harry took a deep breath, exhaling shakily, and undid the ugly belt he had been given. It was so large that it wrapped around him almost twice, and Harry had even had to make holes in it just so he could fasten it. He pulled at the worn leather strap a bit more.

Harry was beginning to numb against the pain, now, but he'd never complain about that.

With the belt undone, the ragged, cavernous trousers fell down and pooled around his thin ankles, leaving only his thin shorts to cling to him. Suddenly, Harry felt horribly exposed, and he brought his right arm to his chest instinctively. It wasn't a feeling he liked at all….

"Hurry up!" Petunia yelled.

Harry looked at her incredulously.

Sadistic bitch, he mentally screamed.

And perhaps she heard him, because Harry got another face-full of water.

Clenching his jaw and raising his chin defiantly, even as his stomach clenched, Harry pushed down his underwear with the tips of his fingers. They were loose to begin with—and were the only things the Dursleys had ever bought him—so they fell to the ground with the rest of his clothes.

Harry tried not to let the awful, suffocating, heavy shame that he felt destroy him, even as Petunia shocked his whole naked, scared, battered, pathetic, and weak body with the hard jet of freezing water as he turned on the spot. His body protested against his movements, but there was nothing he could do until she released him from his humiliation.

The last time he had been hosed off like this was when he was eight and had teleported for the first time ever on the school roof in view of his cousin, and had been left to rot in his cupboard for several days after being thrashed thoroughly. He completed his third spin and was having difficulty keeping from shivering violently. Another hard splash to the face, and finally, the water was turned off.

Harry stared hard into Petunia's eyes, wondering just what kind of sick pleasure she took from this act, and was sucked in. He saw an image of himself being hit repeatedly with a frying pan, he felt her rage and her hatred of him—like he was breathing in its potency—and for the first time, he was actually scared of what she might do to him. It was horribly intense. He sucked in a sharp breath and was quickly back in his own head as though the last minute had never happened, and it was obvious she was ignorant of the intrusion.

All the better, Harry figured. He had never done mind-reading like that before—he'd only ever gotten short flashes of images, or quick thoughts and words, or indications of deceit, never whole scenes or bursts of emotion. It was intriguing, and he hoped to replicate it—it offered too many advantages for Harry not to try.

But there were more pressing things at hand. Like, for instance, what he was going to do about his broken bones, and whether or not his aunt was going to beat him to death with cookery.

She snarled at him and walked back into the house, leaving Harry to ponder not for the first time just what he ever did to deserve such a horrible life.

gh

On Friday, three days later, Harry was well on his way to being healed. His ribs and stomach no longer ached, his wrist was more or less mended, his head had long since stopped pounding, and he could certainly ignore the now-dull constant throbbing in his arm.

Harry was back to his regular chores now that his unusual rate of healing had finally taken care of the worst damage. He had yet to figure out if the healing was a blessing or a curse, but supposed it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. It wasn't like he expected to be horribly injured after he escaped from the Dursleys. Still favoring his right arm, Harry went about his work as usual. He was to mow the lawn, and then apply the fertilizer. Weed the garden, and then apply the fertilizer. All the while ensuring that nothing whatsoever was tarnished, under threat of pain.

Harry scoffed at that.

As if he'd allow his garden and his lawn to wither.

After an hour of mowing the lawn meticulously so that he could get the right kind of criss-cross patterns in the grass, he had opened the shed to put the lawnmower away, only for a brown owl to land on the handlebar.

"Okay," he said slowly, "uh, hello?"

The owl hooted at him, and stuck out its leg. There was a letter attached.

How odd.

Cautiously, Harry untied the letter from the owl's leg, and before Harry could even hoot back, the owl sped away from him.

"What?" he asked dumbly as the owl seemed to grow smaller and smaller in the sky.

Harry returned his gaze to the letter in his hand.

Mr. H. Potter,

The Cupboard under the Stairs,

4 Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surrey

It was addressed to him!

"What the hell…." he mumbled.

Suddenly, the back door opened up and his aunt yelled at him for wasting time, and he hurriedly stashed the letter in his waistband. He chose to ignore her as she ranted, and instead focused on the concept of wasting time. Harry didn't think it was possible to waste time—he was always doing something, after all, and it wasn't like he was the only one who existed in time, which meant that billions of people were doing things all over the world who were being obviously productive!

So no, definitely not possible to waste time—and put the phrase down as one of the many ridiculous things snobby suburbanites accuse others of doing because they're afraid that if they examine their own lives honestly they'd find that they themselves are the monsters they accuse others of being.

Oh, Petunia was done haranguing him. Harry nodded hurriedly to show that, yes, he had heard her and that, no, he wouldn't do it again. It was best to play the obedient beast for the next few days if he was hoping to avoid another thrashing.

The door slammed shut.

Harry turned around so that his back was to the house and he pushed the mower into the shed, mumbling rudely. Harry was keenly aware of the letter that was stuck between his waste and his underwear, but he wasn't about to risk Petunia seeing it.

Tucked away under the rosebushes, Harry whipped out the letter and stared at it again, only to come to several conclusions, none of which made him feel better. For one thing, someone apparently knew where he slept—which was a problem. No one but he and the Dursleys were supposed to know that, and if Harry knew anything, it was that there was no way they would tell anyone of their treatment of him. Which meant that someone was spying on him! That was unnerving, but he'd think about that later.

He flipped the letter over. On the back there was a strange coat of arms with a lion, snake, eagle, and what looked like a badger, some Latin, and the word 'Hogwarts'.

"Someone likes to drink," Harry chuckled at the funny name.

He carefully ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was written on parchment.

"What the fuck?"

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Blinking rapidly, Harry turned to the second page.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three plain work robes (black)

2. Three sweaters (black or grey)

3. Four collared shirts (white)

4. Four slacks (black or grey)

5. Two Hogwarts ties

6. Five pairs of knee-length socks (black)

7. One pair of round-toed leather shoes (black)

8. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

9. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

10. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)

by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic

by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory

by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration

by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi

by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions

by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection

by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS

ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

"What the fuck?!" he yelled.

It was some sort of sick joke. It had to be. There was no way this was real. Was he supposed to be some sort of wizard or something? Ha! The Dursleys must have…what? They weren't smart enough to pull off a stunt like this. And they would never have anything to do with something related to imagination and freakishness, even if it was to spite Harry.

Freakishness.

No. Impossible. Vernon's just a moron. There's no way… No! He wasn't a witch. Or a wizard. He was Harry. Yes. Just Harry.

Harry shifted in his seat.

There was surely some logical explanation for all of the things he could do, even if he himself didn't really understand how he could do them. Really. There were people all over the world who claimed to be telekinetic. He sighed, reminding himself that those people were charlatans and those who believed them were idiots.

But he wasn't a fraud. He could actually do amazing things. Maybe… It would certainly explain a lot. He had always known he was special, just not…that special.

And since when was he considering this?!

There was no way the Dursleys—

Them!

They knew! They had to know! He had only ever known their hatred and their jealousy. But it was more than that. Whenever something strange happened… They were afraid of him. Afraid of his power—his gift. That realization simmered his anger. He had an advantage now. A physical—no, magical advantage. Never again would they hurt him, or starve him, or work him to the bone. He was in control now. He would harness his power to help himself, since no one else ever had.

Yes. It was certainly about time that they suffered his vengeance in a more appreciable manner; there would be no more of his subtle sabotaging of the Dursleys' lives, so they would either learn to fear him, or…well, he'd think of something appropriate. (He was a genius after all.) And he would show all of his enemies why they should never have harmed him, why they should be afraid of him. He would show them all how great he was, how much better than them he was. Nothing would stop him, because he wasn't a freak—he was a wizard! And he would be the best wizard in the world!

He could feel the current of energy flowing through him. It was hot, and heady. It made his hair stand on end. It was magic. His magic. Oh yes. He could feel it, waiting to be released. So, he would buy a magic wand, would go to this Hogwarts and learn his craft. Maybe he'd even get a toad or two! He could do anything, now…now that he had magic.

hg

Several hours later, Harry was locked away in his cupboard, having come to several more conclusions since the revelation behind the rosebush.

There was no way the Dursleys would pay for him to go to a school for witchcraft and wizardry. And how was he even supposed to get there? For that matter, where was he supposed to buy a real magic wand, or any of that other stuff? These were serious problems that needed to be solved. But Harry wasn't going to let some paltry obstacles stop him. This was his chance!

He could finally seize his opportunity for greatness and run away with it, and he could prove to himself that he was deserving of his powers. In that sense, others could never matter. He would be above vengeance, because there would be nothing to revenge against. No slight could matter to him. He was a wizard. He would be magnanimous in his triumph, and bring his enemies to heel before they could act against him. And it would begin tonight. But first, he had to escape his cupboard.

It was a bit daunting—he had never even attempted to do so much complicated…magic at once. Not to mention that it was not exactly easy to do magic on something he couldn't actually see. Still, he had to try. Harry took several deep breaths to center his thoughts, and called up the feeling of his magic—how he reveled in that fact!—and pushed slightly, thinking of the first and easiest opponent, and what he wanted done.

The small latch came undone with a snap. Just three more locks to go. The rim lock was next, and it would require a bit more effort; not for the first time Harry was thankful his theft from the hardware store was successful, because he knew the exact image he had to call up in his mind, and how he had to change it. He put his right hand against the lock and imagined his magic running through it and into the lock, focusing his mind until there was a click.

Two down, two to go.

The deadbolt, at least, presented little technical challenge to Harry. The key insert was on the inside of his cupboard, so he only had to manipulate the thumb turn that was on the other side of the door in order to release the lock. Though the whole device was a rather heavy metal, and he'd never tried to magic something like that, so while there was no technical challenge, there might be a magical one. Could he focus his magic enough that it wouldn't slide off?

Well, it was about time he was challenged magically. Indeed, Harry had always run roughshod over intellectual hurdles, and even physical ones thanks to his magic (he now realized), so this was only fitting. And, if he couldn't even magic a little lock to open, then how was he going to become the greatest wizard in the world, respected by all others for his achievements?

So caught up was he in his thoughts that he jumped from his crouch when thunder clanged in the distance. Perhaps he was psyching himself up a bit too much.

Harry shook himself loose. His thoughts were getting away from him, and he absolutely had to concentrate—there were things to be done: places to go, people to see, things to buy. He was on a tight schedule.

Calling up in his mind's eye the other side of the deadbolt, Harry focused his will and felt around for his magic. He concentrated intently on the switch, imagining his own fingers touching it, feeling the cold metal beneath his skin. But it wasn't cold, it was warm. And it was vibrating. Screwing his eyes shut tight, Harry pushed his magic into the lock, forcing it into the switch. It was shaking even more now. He was doing it! Just one more push, one more breath, and then—

Click!

"YES!" he yelled, only to clamp both hands over his mouth, trying in vain to force back in those traitorous words that escaped into the night.

Harry's heart skipped a few beats as he listened intently, trying to discern any sound coming from elsewhere inside Number 4 that might tell him whether or not he had been betrayed by his own words.

But there was only silence, save for the thunder that was rumbling toward Little Whinging.

Harry took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. Escaping his cupboard had turned out to be much more stressful than he had anticipated. Harry hoped he'd only have to do it this one last time, but with his luck…

Now he had to open the padlock, which would be much more difficult than any of his pervious magical endeavors. Harry had no idea what sort of mechanism was hidden on the inside of the lock, how complex or simple the gears and tumblers were, or what the release looked like. He was blind, and it made him feel a little vulnerable—like all of his work just may have been in vain. But there was no way some £10 lock could stop him—he was a wizard, his magic was powerful. Still…. He figured his magic wasn't developed enough yet for him to project like that. Harry would have to find another way.

He could try to force the lock to break open. That might work, but it might also break the lock and keep him in his cupboard anyway.

Well, force doesn't always work, Harry remembered.

It was something that Vernon often forgot—that you can't always beat something into submission, or even if you can, there are usually better ways to go about things and still achieve one's aims—a weakness to exploit or some such. And that was exactly what Harry was going to do.

He would ignore the lock itself, because he didn't have to undo the lock at all. The lock was really four pieces: The padlock itself that encased the locking mechanism, of course, the eyelet, around which the shank of the padlock was locked, and what the shank kept in place, the clasp. The eyelet and the clasp were each screwed into his cupboard—and that was the weakness he would exploit. The padlock was little more than a distraction; he only had to reverse two screws that held the clasp in place on the wall, that way the cupboard door would open without Harry even having to bother with the padlock.

It would be easy.

Harry focused his attention on the long screws that jetted into his cupboard, glaring at them.

Really, he thought, I'm liable to hit my head on them!

He forced himself to calm down. It wouldn't do to lose his temper—and he ought to be used to such danger by now, after all.

In his mind's eye, Harry imagined the screws coming lose, unscrewing themselves from his cupboard wall and falling to the floor. He imagined the process over and over again, and finally opened his eyes. With a concentrated push of his magic, the screws started wriggling. Harry focused more. He didn't just want them to unscrew themselves, he needed them to unscrew themselves. He needed to escape. He was going to be a wizard! He wasn't going to fail. He needed this to happen!

He got two small clicks in reply. The screws had fallen out of the wall and onto the floor.

He did it!

Harry pushed on his cupboard door and it swung open. He crawled out, immeasurably relieved. But Harry couldn't stop yet. His journey was just beginning. He had to get ready.

Taking a deep breath, Harry crawled back into his cupboard and rushed to gather what he would need for his journey. He reached deep beneath the bottom-most stairs and lifted the floorboard. He grasped the plastic bag bursting with money and yanked it out. It would have to do for now, so he turned his attention elsewhere. Harry didn't really have clothes so much as he had things to wear, but he would have to bring some of them along anyway. He shoved the less ruined things in his backpack along with the bag of money and three containers of non-perishable food he always kept with him, and left his cupboard for the last time.

Creeping into the kitchen, he grabbed some fruit, two bottles of water, lunch meat, cheese, and bread, and added them to his bag. It was quite full now, so he would have to stop. Harry paused and looked around. It was the last time he would ever be in Number 4. It had to be. Once he found these wizards wherever they were hidden and explained his situation, then surely, surely they would offer him sanctuary.

They had to.

Harry took a deep breath. His stomach was tight, and he wasn't sure if it was from anxiety about his trip or the fact that he hadn't eaten in a while. Regardless, he had to push on. To persevere, despite the fact that he was only ten years old and he was running away from home on some jaunt to find the secretive wizards and make himself a new home among them. Despite everything, he had to succeed. And he would.

He was Harry Potter, after all.

Moving to the front door Harry stopped suddenly, his eye caught. It could be dangerous for him. He was young and far too small for his age. Someone might try to hurt him. He had to be ready for that. There had to be villains among wizards, too. Coming to a decision, he nicked Vernon's pocket knife. He had no idea why the oaf carried it around—he was a salesman!—but whatever. It might serve Harry well. Knives had been useful tools for millennia, not just weapons. He would find a use for it. It certainly wasn't getting any use staying in Vernon's pocket as he sat in his office. Harry slid it into a side pocket of his backpack where he had put some extra socks. It would stay there until he needed it.

He pulled at the straps, tightening the backpack around his shoulders. He was ready.

The storm door was locked, of course, but that couldn't stop a wizard like Harry. With little more than a thought and a quirk of Harry's lips, the locks came undone, the knob twisted, and the door opened. A wild gust of wind blew into Number 4, making Harry's hair even more messed than usual.

Harry stepped into the night and breathed in the fresh and warm salty air.

He had done it! He was free!

An unusual chill went down his back; unusual because it was quite a warm night and also because there was something…different about the air. It was weighty. Like there was a current running through it and across the night that was invisible yet there all the same. There was another rumble of thunder, this time much closer to Little Whinging than previously.

It wasn't likea storm at all, at least, not a normal storm. Harry took another deep breath, filling his senses with the night. Another chill. He had figured it out! He knew that feeling. He got it whenever he was doing magic. Whenever he knew something was going to happen, and then it did. It was anticipation. The night was full of it. Magic. It was waiting for him.

Well, Harry thought wryly as a tight smirk tugged at his lips, I'll be sure not to disappoint.

Taking a slow breath, Harry stepped off the front stoop of Number 4 Privet Drive and into history.