Well seeing the reviews against long paragraphs made me reread my own work, and I agree, its hard to read. So I broke it down into shorter paragraphs and I took out the Author's Note in the middle of the chapter.

Chapter 1

"Brat, wake up," an indistinguishable squeal resounded from the kitchen of the Dursley household. 'Number Four Privet Drive' the said brat, actually named Harry, thought sardonically as he quickly got out of bed. 'My personal hell'. He quickly changed into loose-fitting jeans and a v-neck t-shirt and put on a pair of socks. He glanced up at the beaten down clock on the wall. It was 6:00.

Harry quickly brushed his teeth with his own battered toothbrush in the downstairs bathroom and matted his hair perfectly down. He put on his slightly broken glasses and walked to the kitchen. He had to be ready to begin his chores at 6:30, and it was 6:25. His aunt, the wonderful Petunia, was over there waiting for him.

"Okay, freak, you are going to make breakfast now. Pancakes for Dudley, an omelet for me, and bacon for your Uncle Vernon. Is that clear?" Petunia asserted.

"Yes Aunt Petunia," Harry drawled. He quickly got to work, splitting the egg shells and making the batter for the pancakes while he got out the bacon from the fridge and put it on the frying pan with extra butter, as the fat Vernon wanted it. He quickly finished his task of making the family breakfast at 7:00, when Dudley and Vernon's thundering footsteps were audible from upstairs as they had probably both just gotten up and were both brushing. It was incredible how both of them could make such a racket while coming down the stairs; the neighbors frequently complained about the noise.

Today was a school day for Dudley and Harry, and a work day for Vernon, so they woke up fairly early at seven. On weekends, they usually woke up at 9 or 10, but Harry could not sleep in on those days either. Petunia, an obsessive harpy hell-bent on crushing Harry's spirit, would challenge her feeble mind into trying to think of the most grotesque or tedious chores for Harry to do Saturday mornings. She took pleasure in the fact that while most children would be watching cartoons or sleeping in on Saturdays and Sundays, Harry would be forced to work like a dog. Focusing back on the task at hand, Harry set each of the plates with each of his dishes as he poured out coffee for Vernon, orange juice for Petunia, and soda for Dudley. Dudley had recently taken to drinking soda with every meal, a decision that his dentist greatly disapproved of. But everything had to be perfect for ickle Diddykins, so he got his soda.

Harry prepared his own breakfast from the meager portions he was allowed to use for himself: a slice of bread. He was not even allowed to toast it; no, 'that costs electricity which costs money' Vernon said every time Harry asked, of course in much harsher words. He ate it slowly, savoring the taste of the only food he would get for 12 hours. The Dursleys believed that lunch was the most important meal of the day, which is why they spited Harry by not giving him any. They had to keep him alive, but apart from that, they could do anything they wanted to him.

Since he was four, Harry was frequently beaten by his uncle, and given many lashes for the stupidest of reasons. Of course, lashes were with a belt and not a switch, but they were on his bare back and hurt all the same. Of course, eventually, Harry got used to the pain, but was able to fake flinches in order to prevent the Dursleys from attacking him more. The Dursleys took perverse pleasure in putting a seven year old through hell, and Harry knew it. He saw the gleams in their eyes every time they overworked him or did not feed him. Well he had resolved when he got his first lashing, that they would pay for their actions against him. He did not know how, and he did not know when, but they would pay. Of course, Harry sneaked away enough food during midnight to never be seriously hungry and have little to no health effects, but going twelve hours without food was something that no one would willingly do regularly.

By the time the Dursleys had made it down the stairs, Harry had finished his slice of bread and he had the thirty minutes between when he finished making breakfast to 7:30, when they had to leave for school, to do his homework. He went back into his cupboard (he was not even given the basic human decency of a room, something Petunia and Vernon took even more pleasure in) to do his math homework, which he found ridiculously easy, and to finish his social studies homework which he had started at 10:30 the previous night. When he was done, twenty minutes later, he came out of the cupboard and got his tattered backpack ready for school. He made a mental checklist for everything he needed, and after making sure that he was ready for school, started walking, as he did not want to be late.

Even though his school started at 8:00, he had to leave home at 7:30 because his school was twenty-five minutes away by walking, and his uncle did not think that 'freaks' deserved to be driven to school. He had to take a slightly longer way to school because the quicker way crossed the path that Vernon would take when dropping Dudley off and he would encourage Dudley to throw stones at Harry, something Dudley did well without encouragement. Harry quickly made his way to school in time and went into class, turning in his math homework into the tray in the front of the room, then sitting down. Harry was thankful that Dudley was not in his class that year, as his first grade year was a nightmare. Dudley would constantly tell his parents about Harry's grades, which Harry refused to purposefully lower, and in the Dursley household, for Harry at least, good grades were never good. Harry took out his pencil and looked to the board for instructions.

His second grade teacher, Ms. Brady, was an idiot. She was a sixty year old woman who took it as her own personal mission to ruin the school lives of her students. She would find fault in everybody and would have no misconceptions about telling the seven year old students what those faults were, even if they pertained to appearance. She frequently made her young students cry, and she seemed to be an older teaching version of Petunia. However, throughout her teaching, she talked in a sickeningly sweet voice, one that made most students want to throw up. The only reason she was kept at the school was that she had a tenure at Johnson Elementary, and could not be fired as long as she subscribed to the British code. The homework she assigned was long and tedious, and even Harry took at least an hour every day to finish his homework, even though students his age should have been getting at most twenty minutes of homework per day.

The worst thing about Ms. Brady, though, was that she had eliminated all forms of creativity during her classroom and had focused on following tedious algorithms to solve problems. Her class was more suited to a computer than a human, and Harry hated it. He sat at his desk, thinking about how stupid his teacher was when the bell rang. As the rest of the class came in to take their seats, Harry followed the instructions on the board: "take out your reading books and turn to page 332". Ms. Brady went to the front of the classroom.

"Good morning students," she said chirpily.

A sparse group of students scattered around the classroom responded back "Good morning Ms. Brady," while the rest of the class just mumbled along.

"Now now, we can't have that to start our day. Let's try again. Good morning students," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice.

"Good morning Ms. Brady," the entire class replied immediately.

"Much better. Now, we are going to be reading from your reading books on page 332. Does anyone need help finding it? Mr. Potter, you seem like the type to not know how to turn to the right page. Can someone help out Mr. Potter?" she said. Like Petunia and Vernon, she seemed to get a vindictive sense of pleasure seeing her students react when she treated them unfairly and had been trying to get a rise out of Harry for quite a while. Societal pressure too, contributed to Ms. Brady's vindictive sense of pleasure as the entire town knew that Harry Potter was the son of drunkards. Parents shielded their kids away from him, as if he contained some sort of disease, and a few children had teased him about it before. But this field was the perfect place for vultures like Ms. Brady to strike.

Those who had known Ms. Brady knew that she was quite a sweet woman; she was Mrs. Allen for a long period of time. Then, when she caught her husband cheating on her, she gained a vengeance to the world that could only be fulfilled by picking on the weak. And so, the nice Mrs. Allen transformed into the mean and unfair Ms. Brady.

"Excellent. Now Ms. Brown, can you read the title and infer what this story is about?" Ms. Brady asked. "Mr. Potter, what does 'infer' mean?"

Harry frowned at the unfairness of the question. After all, they were second graders, and that was a sixth grade vocabulary word at least. Luckily, he knew what the word meant. "Infer means to form a conclusion based on the evidence provided." he said.

"Excellent, Mr. Potter," Ms. Brady said in her ever-so-sweet tone. "Now, Ms. Brown,"

"Okay," Samantha Brown said. Harry looked down at the page and his eyes almost watered at the title. The title was "Death by Car"

"Death by Car," Samantha read. "Hmm, it seems like it is about a car crash that killed the author's relatives, and by reading the first sentence, it's clear that it's about a car crash that killed the author's parents." she said.

"Good work, Ms. Brown. Now, Mr. Potter, why do you think that the car crash would kill the author's parents. Do you think it could be because they were drunkards?" Ms. Brady asked. She almost was giddy with satisfaction as she saw Harry's hardened look against her. He was her last student to break; if she could break him, she could break anyone. She knew from what his aunt had sprouted throughout the neighborhood that his parents were drunkards and they were killed in a car crash, and she guessed correctly that that would be a sore topic for him.

All Harry's hopes for fairness were shattered with Ms. Brady's final question. He was beyond sad, no, now he was angry. He was angry at the Dursleys for treating him like a slave and now he had an outlet. He imagined hurting Ms. Brady. He needed her to feel pain, to feel anguish, to feel how he felt every day. He closed his eyes and let his anger abate, for anger would not solve anything. No, he needed to school the feeling of anger into one that could be used to do something constructive. He needed to calm down. He needed to be cool.

"Well, Mr. Potter. It is not nap time, you know. Or maybe you need to be transferred back to preschool, after all, what good can come out of the son of two drunkards?" Brady taunted.

Harry snapped. All remnants of his previous calm suave collected nature were gone. He needed Brady to feel pain, pain like he had never felt before. And so he opened his eyes and focused all of his anger onto Ms. Brady.

What happened next would be the topic of conversation of the students of Johnson Elementary for many years to come. Ms. Brady, the most hated teacher at the school, started writhing in spot, twitching in pain and letting out hollow screams. And those who were watching Harry could have sworn that they saw a reddish tint come into his normally emerald green eyes. But Ms. Brady soon passed out and Harry's anger soon abated as he realized that he had caused Ms. Brady to feel pain. He felt many things at once at that moment. He felt angry with himself, ashamed at his own behavior. But some part of him just felt so good. He did not know what it was, but he knew that if provoked he could be dangerous. And as Ms. Brady fell to the floor, he felt content.