A/N: I hope you all enjoy this story. I'm having a great time writing it and exploring where one simple change can take everything. Admittedly, I don't have much time to write, particularly at the moment as I've started a new job recently, but I'm not going to give this up. I don't like Author's Notes, so I'll keep them to a bare minimum and remove whatever necessary to not distract your reading and inflate the word count.

Additionally, I'm beta-reading NeoMare's story Right Side of Hell, which is a great read. I don't want my slowness to impact anyone else's story, so that will tend to take up more of my time. If that story is being updated, be assured I'm still writing this one.

Finally, for your convenience, I will including a summary of the story so far and the end of the previous chapter in any new chapters. This is because I know how difficult it is to remember what's happened so far whenever you get a story update, particularly if you're following a lot of stories. I hope you find it convenient. Now, please enjoy the story!

-Chapter One-

The Boy Who Understood

Records showed that Harry Potter was brought up by his maternal aunt and uncle, Vernon and Petunia Dursley. There were no problems; he was in good health and attended a local school with a perfect record of attendance. Statements from the Dursleys' neighbours confirmed that the boy was being treated well and given good examples on how to become a productive member of society, although he was admittedly not taking those lessons on board during his free time. The local children feared the boy and avoided him. Even looking at his school record, one could see that Potter was somewhat troublesome. His academic scores were poor, to say the least.

Dudley Dursley was clearly the brighter of the two children in residence at Number Four, Privet Drive. Their teachers would confirm this when asked, pointing to the fact that, since the middle of Year One, Harry's grades were always a grade lower than Dudley's in every test. Almost every test. Administrative errors happen. At the beginning of every year, there was often a test score where Harry achieved a high grade, including when Harry was moved into another class to prevent him disrupting Dudley's learning. The boy had cheated and was only caught later.

At least, that was the story presented. In truth, Harry was a bright but quiet boy. It took him until the Spring Term in Year One to realise that he was punished for doing better than Dudley in tests. He had still wanted to do well and to learn; he knew that it would be his only chance to escape from the Dursleys. Formulating a plan, he had approached his teacher and formed an agreement. He would do his best in the tests, but his teacher would record his official score as a grade below his cousin's. It took quick thinking on Harry's part to explain that it was purely to make his cousin feel better about himself, but he was still more than surprised when teacher after teacher agreed to this. He disregarded the vacant looks in their eyes whenever the agreements were made.

None of the teachers could have imagined that the curious Harry Potter spent his nights, as well as a good proportion of his evenings and weekends, in a tiny cupboard under the stairs. Never mind that it was a small space for a child to grow up, he also had to contend with bags and tools and dusters and an old vacuum cleaner for space. The Dursleys were careful not to put any old toys under the stairs, however. They made sure to use the spare bedroom to store the toys that weren't currently flavour of the month with Dudley. Every time Harry was given a toy by a kindly stranger or a teacher, it was taken away as soon as it was discovered. The toys were offered to Dudley, and if they passed muster they were acquired. Otherwise, the journey to the bin was a short one.

Over the years, Harry learned to hide things, just like hiding his intelligence and curiosity. Covering things up with a ratty old blanket rarely worked for long, so Harry began to think. He thought back to the books he'd read, both at school and at the local library. There was a huge section on home improvement and carpentry at one end of the library and Harry remembered reading about Chinese puzzle boxes at the other end. He'd read a lot about all sorts of systems and mechanisms - he just loved to know how things worked. There was plenty of inspiration, but he had to be careful. Late at night, Harry worked within his cupboard. It took him weeks. He had to saw the wood so slowly that it couldn't be heard over Uncle Vernon's snoring. He limited his hammering to one good hit per night, leaving his relatives irritable for lack of sleep, but not knowing what kept waking them up. It was a painstaking process and Harry had to ensure there was no evidence by morning.

The cupboard under the stairs was somewhat more cramped by the time Harry was finished. He hoped against all hopes that his relatives wouldn't find out. He screwed up his eyes, clenched his fists and prayed to whatever higher power there may be that his secrets would remain safe. He was shaking when his uncle next looked in with suspicion glinting in his beady eyes and sighed with relief when he just sneered, his expression partly hidden by his beefy moustache.

"Get up," Uncle Vernon growled. Harry scuttled out from the cupboard, under his uncle's arm and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the frying pan. A pack of sausages had been left in the pan and were already beginning to blacken. Flushed with his success, he planned his freedom while he saved the sausages. The wheels were turning.

Indeed, by the time he had completed this next project, he was almost eleven years old. Not that the Dursleys ever marked the occasion. He had received the same number of presents over the years as the number of photos in which he appeared around the house. Even Dudley could count up to zero. The first thing he received was a letter. It was so very different from the letters usually addressed to the Dursleys. It definitely wasn't a bill. It most certainly wasn't going to be appreciated if he brought it to the kitchen with the rest of the post. Harry tucked it into an imperceptible gap under the lip of one of the stairs and delivered the rest of the post to his uncle. He was careful to put the bills at the bottom of the pile otherwise he would be sure to get the blame.

That night, Harry sat with his knees pulled up to his chest in the near complete darkness of his cupboard. The three distinct sets of footsteps had stopped and it was only a matter of waiting long enough to guarantee that they were asleep. Eventually, when he thought he would explode from the anticipation, he began to move. He pressed the wall of the cupboard in two places, rotated the board that was pushed out from the others and slid back a hidden latch before folding back the fake wall. Shelves lined the area beyond and held the precious items which saved his sanity. There were toys, puzzles, books and writing materials. His eyes slid past these treasures, however, seeking out only the item laying on the floor. It was the letter.

Harry could have used the battered old torch on the shelf, its rapidly depleting batteries powering the dimly flickering bulb, but he wanted to read his letter properly, not missing anything by guessing any hard-to-read words. Sliding a couple of wooden bars to the sides, he pushed up on part of the ceiling. Anybody standing by the front door would have seen two of the stairs folding outwards as though a great wooden monster were about to bite the leg of the unfortunate person climbing over it. The staircase monster vomited out a scrawny boy with a mess of black hair and he pushed his way out of the tight gap, a parchment envelope gripped in his hand.

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Harry flicked the switch of the overly flowery table lamp, eyes darting towards the door to the hallway. He heard nothing, aside from the sound of his heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest. The wax seal was delightfully intricate, so Harry peeled it away from the envelope as carefully as possible. Slowly teasing out the sheets of parchment inside, Harry's eyes drank in the curved but precise calligraphy upon them. Though he hadn't yet ventured into the calligraphy and writing section of the local library, he felt as though he knew what went into creating such beauty. He'd worked out the shape of the nib and the exact angle needed for the shapes created. He'd even noticed the slight differences in form that told him the pen, or even quill, had needed refilling.

Briefly, Harry wondered how many times the pen had needed to be refilled for every invitation written, for it was indeed an invitation. More pressing, however, was the content of the invitation. He was being invited to attend a school and, if the letter were to be believed, it was a school of magic. Harry snorted. If only. He knew how things worked and in the grand scheme of things there was just no room for magic. The real magic was in making something complicated work. Still, it would have been nice to leave the Dursleys. He would have loved to reply to the letter, just to get more of the elaborate story clearly being set up, but the only mention of a reply was 'we await your owl by no later than 31 July.' There wasn't even a return address so, disappointed, Harry flicked off the light and climbed back into the stairs.

Every time Harry was in his cupboard in the week leading up to his birthday, he brushed his fingers across the parchment of the letter, convincing himself that it had arrived. It was nice that someone out there was thinking of him in particular. He liked to daydream, while he was doing his chores, that this mystery professor might give him his first birthday present. For the first time in his life, he counted down the days to his birthday. In his anticipation, the hours dragged by. Cleaning the toilet was a marathon task. Cooking breakfast was an unprecedented slog. Every other plant in the garden seemed to be a weed calling for his attention. More slowly than ever, his birthday arrived.

Sleep didn't come to Harry for a long time and he was certain, by the time he drifted off, that he was eleven years old. Indeed, it was a very groggy eleven-year-old who was grimacing at the screeching of his Aunt Petunia scorning his body's attempt at a lie-in. The smell of burning gave him just enough warning that he managed to raise an arm to fend off the still-sizzling frying pan brandished in his direction. Getting a nice shiny burn for his troubles, he sighed with relief as Aunt Petunia strode back to the kitchen and dumped the charred remains of a dozen rashers of bacon into the bin. Adrenaline flooded Harry's body instantly and he was more awake than he had been in a week. He rushed into the kitchen to cook a box of eggs and nearly half a loaf of fried bread in order to make up for the lack of meat in the day's breakfast.

Throughout the day, Harry tried to stay close to the front door, eager to see if there was anything more to the mysterious letter. When set to dust the whole house, the hallway and the closest parts of the adjoining rooms somehow took more time than the rest of the house. He was quick to water the plants in the back garden, but was very careful to water the soil around the plants in the front garden, making sure that no water rested on their leaves to burn them in the sun. While sweeping the kitchen, he heard a knock at the door and decided to risk answering it. It was Mrs Figg, carrying some bags of cat food tins which rustled as she wobbled in place.

"Is your aunt in, Harry?" she asked as she returned the uncharacteristic smile from Harry.

"I'll go and get her for you," Harry promised. "I'll be right back." Harry entered the sitting room, where the television was loudly displaying a banal, chintzy soap. "Sorry to disturb you, Aunt Petunia, but Mrs Figg's at the door." Aunt Petunia grunted in a manner reminiscent of her husband and unfolded herself from the sofa. She walked past Harry, who returned to the kitchen.

That night, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, fighting off sleep. He had the letter clutched in his hand and was desperate to check the date written upon it. No matter how many times he'd checked with the battered old torch, he wanted to check under the crisp, clear light of the lamp, just to make sure. He wasn't disappointed, and yet he was. The late night freedom had confirmed that he had read the date correctly, but he was sad that nothing had happened. The last day of July had been and gone with nothing to mark its passing.

Sighing heavily, Harry retreated to his cupboard through the stairs. He chucked the letter haphazardly at one of the shelves and shut both the stairs and the concealed panelling. His head barely touched the folded jumper he used for a pillow before sleep greedily snatched him away. Peace reigned for his remaining hours of seclusion and safety until he was woken by a sharp rapping at the door. As he heard, and felt, the footsteps marching down the stairs, Harry could imagine his aunt, hair still in rollers, hurriedly tying her floral dressing gown and scowling at the door. He strained his ears, holding his breath so that he could hear the conversation at the door.

"What is it?" his aunt hissed. Clearly it was too early in the morning for her usual mask of aloofness.

"Good morning, madam. My name is Minerva McGonagall. May I come in?"