If one were of the right altitude and mentality to peer into the second story window of Number 4 Privet Drive (the one with bars on it), they might see a nearly-twelve-year-old boy staring at his hands. With the expression on his face, one might come to the conclusion that there was something mind-boggling on the child's hands. The way his emerald green eyes narrowed in an aggressively curious way, brows furrowed in concentration, and his mouth twisted ever so slightly, all adding up to form an image of overenthusiastic analysis of a pair of perfectly normal hands.

The thing was, they weren't normal hands.

Ten months out of the past twelve, they held a strange, finely crafted twig and waved it in esoteric patterns. They would clutch a stick of wood, keeping it between their owner and a fifty-foot drop to the ground, and on occasion release that hold to snatch at a small, fluttery golden ball. They had once even locked around the neck of a massive, lumbering beast, and coincidentally shoving the (expensive) twig up the monster's nostril. They had also grasped the face of a mass-murdering megalomaniac, and burnt him to a crisp. Indeed, they were rather unusual hands, for a rather unusual boy.

It was that last act that the boy pondered now, every so often blowing a lock of his untameable jet-black hair out of his eyes. How was it that those hands had done it? His esteemed Headmaster had told him that Voldemort was so evil that he couldn't bear to touch someone who had the purity of a mother's dying love within them. Harry didn't think so; Uncle Vernon was a terrible person, and he didn't burst into flames like a marshmallow put too close to the fire whenever he touched him. On some level, Harry did believe his mother's love had something to do with it, because the only other solution was that Harry's magic was a closet pyromaniac, and that was already Seamus Finnegan's thing. Perhaps... perhaps his mother was a pyromaniac? Harry didn't recall anyone mentioning any, er, combustive tendencies on his mother's part, but then again nobody ever really told him much about her besides she was smart.

He had to admit that figuring out a way to set things on fire even after you were dead would take quite a bit of smarts. And didn't they say that Voldemort, after trying to kill Harry, was reduced to ashes?

Harry nodded decisively. If his mother was a pyromaniac and wanted to set literally everything on fire... well, he owed it to her to follow her wishes. Now if only he could figure out how to activate his , er, "Mother's Love." He picked up his quill and glared at it.

"Flame On!"

Harry wasn't really surprised that didn't work.

He gathered his focus and shouted mentally, 'be on fire.'

The quill stayed resolutely not on fire.

Harry sighed and glared at the feather. How had he done it before? How?

Harry tried to recreate his feelings from the confrontation. He breathed in and out slowly, and allowed emotions to flash across his mind.

Hate

Nothing.

Fear

Nothing.

Anger

Nothing.

Pain

A spark jumped across his fingers.

Danger

The quill dissolved into ash.

Harry stared at the pile of ash on his desk. "I did it." he muttered disbelievingly. Suddenly, fear crashed down on him. He had done magic outside Hogwarts, he already had a warning, he was going to be expelled... He groaned and laid back on his bed, awaiting the owl to seal his fate.

Two minutes later, Harry idly noted that the response time had been a lot faster last time.

Six minutes later, Harry wondered why it was taking so long.

Eleven minutes later, Harry began to hope it hadn't been noticed.

Eighteen minutes later, Harry was jubilant. He could set things on fire and the Ministry couldn't detect it! He cackled manically. "TAKE THAT, MAFALDA HOPKIRK! SOD YOU AND YOUR BLOODY RESTRICTION ON UNDERAGED SORCERY!"

An answering shout came from downstairs. "BE QUIET, BOY!"

Harry simply cackled harder and melted the locks off his bedroom door. "I DON'T BLEEDING HAVE TO! I CAN SET YOU ON FIRE IF I WANT TO, AND I WON'T EVEN GET EXPELLED!"

In the laundry room, Petunia had a sinking feeling in her stomach. "Oh God, not this again." Like mother, like son, or so they said.

Harry stared at the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 in disbelief. Why wouldn't it let him through? This wasn't even something Harry could solve with fire - it was complex spellwork that powered the barrier, and it wasn't a wall but a portal. Oh well.

"Whatever the deal is with this thing, it has about five seconds to fix it or it'll end up a molten pile of useless."

He heated up his hand -Danger Pain Survive Burn- and held it towards the Barrier. The heat came off his hand in waves, and he started counting down.

"Five... Four... Three... Two..."

Suddenly, Harry's luggage cart rolled through the barrier. He let go of the fire and casually stepped onto Platform 9 3/4, ignoring the terrified redhead cowering behind a trunk behind him.

"Harry, Harry, Harry! I understand that a few people know you, but you don't have to keep doing things to keep yourself relevant-"

Harry turned to the smiling ponce. "I can see you're a man who takes pride in his appearance, yes?"

Lockhart grinned and winked conspiratorially. Harry reached into his bag and pulled out his copy of Magical Me. He rested his hand on the winking and grinning face on the front of the book and heated it up -DangerPainBurnFire- all the while staring into the real man's eyes. A soft sizzling noise cut through the silence between the two. Harry raised his hand off the book. Cover-Lockhart was clutching a terribly burnt face, clearly in total agony. Harry said nothing, and simply stared at his DADA teacher.

"I recommend," he began softly, after the silence had stretched long enough. "that you leave me alone."

The man positively scampered.

Harry stared at the spectral form of Tom Riddle, nonplussed. "You know, you're not that scary. You're just an idiotic megalomaniac."

Tom snarled. "I'll show you the true power of Lord Voldemort!" the ghostly boy turned to the massive statue. ~Speak to me, Slytherin, Greatest of the Hogwarts Four!~

The mouth of the statue rumbled open and slithering sound emanated from within.

Harry laughed mockingly. "Oh, good one, Tommy boy! Here - you wanted to know how I killed you, when I was the one hit with the killing curse? Here's how!"

He turned and stared the Basilisk straight in the eyes -DangerPainDeathBurnSurvive- Harry's emerald gaze filled with fire, and easily followed the massive snake. Flames licked at his hand, even as he curled them into fists. As the Basilisk lunged for him, he punched it square in the nose. Fire raced across its body, turning flesh to ash. The massive skeleton landed on the floor, wrapped in thick hide, but otherwise completely bare.

Tom stared. "What."

Harry turned his fiery gaze to the teenaged Voldemort. "Yeah," he commented offhandedly as he reached for the Diary. "My mother was probably a pyromaniac."

Before Tom had a chance to reply, flames rushed across the Diary, incinerating it instantly. At the foot of the statue, a small form stirred.

"Oh, good, you're up."

Remus Lupin stared at the small boy in front of him. While his hair and face were purely James, the glimmer of mirth in his emerald eyes as he shook the ash out of his brand new cloak was entirely Lily.

"Gee, who knew Dementor Cloaks were so comfy?"

Remus groaned. "Oh Merlin, not this again."

Ron poked Scabbers suspiciously. "Hey Harry, something seems off about Scabbers."

Harry turned and peered closely at the rat. "Yeah, wasn't he fatter before?"

As the messy-haired Boy Who Lived picked up the rat, he realized he had never actually touched Scabbers before. This realization was caused by a blast of fire the moment he made contact. When the smoke cleared, a short, pudgy man lay unconscious against the wall. Ron kicked him.

The man woke up. "Oh God please no! Lily I'm sorry please just don't set me on fire again!"

Harry glared. "Who the hell are you, and why were you pretending to be my friend's rat?"

The man sobbed. "I'm Peter Pettigrew I betrayed Lily and James' secret I led The Dark Lord to them It's all my fault I'll confess everything just please don't burn me!"

Harry shrugged and started writing a letter to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.