World As We Know It
By: Dark Angel Emrys
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or Harry Potter. I am not making any money off of this; it is purely for enjoyment's sake.
Summary: When a scientist sees young Harry perform magic, his curiousity is piked. After aquiring Harry, he is taken to the lab for experiments. How will the boy who knows of nothing but pain react when the Gundam pilots, now Preventor's, infiltrate the lab, rescuing him in the process?
A/N:
Well, Chapter One! Who'da thunk it?
Idea for this story is credited to Readergirl (Wolfspeaker01).
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Chapter One - Remember, Remember - Part One (1)
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This is the story of a Boy. A boy not special by any means, if you were to ask the family down the road at Number 4, but a boy none the less. If this boy had a name, it was not known. This story starts long before the end of the war; long before the beginning of the war. This is the story of the 'Before-time', as it is known to the Boy who had become Ex938.
The year was AC 186.
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There was once a family who lived in Little Whinging, Surry. Number Four, Privet Drive, to be exact. On the outside, they were the perfect family. A well-to-do husband, Vernon Dursley, who made more than Upper Middle Class wages as a CEO of the major Drill company, Grunnings. The fashion concious wife and mother, Petunia Evans Dursley, stay-at-home mother and gossip central of Privet Drive. Then finally, the blonde-haired blue-eyed son, Dudley Dursley, who was four years of age.
Their home, just like every other home on the street, was the sort of house you would expect to see in a Real Estate magazine. It was a two-story house, white paint with green shutters and trim, white picket fence, and a beautiful garden that looked as though the landscaping company must visit daily. There was, however, one thing that made this house different. And that one thing was currently sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs.
At the age of four years and two months, young Harry Potter was adorable, not that he knew what adorable meant, or that he was, or even that his name was Harry Potter. With messy ebony curls that where just long enough to fall into jewel cut emerald eyes, he was a boy any family would love to have. Slightly undersized, his hand-me-down clothes fell off one shoulder, showing off porclain skin that was otherwise hidden by his large attire and shaggy hair. The young boy didn't know how he had come to live with his Aunt, Uncle, and cousin. The one time he had dared ask, he was told his parents were dead, slapped over the head, and told not to ask questions, 'Or else!'.
At this current point in time, the small boy was sitting in the shade under a tree. His uncle was at work, his aunt at the market. With a small sigh, he stood up, deciding to take a walk. He had plenty of time until his aunt got home, didn't he? He didn't get too far down the street before he saw old Mrs. Everett from Number 8 walking down the street, struggling with her grocery bags. While the young child had never personally talked to the old widow, he could remember hearing his aunt talking about her at a rea party about four months before hand, right after her husband died.
Seeing that she was about to drop one of the bags, he rushed forward, grabbing as many as his small arms could hold. Together, the pair made it to the door of Number Eight. With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Everett placed on the porch, reaching for her keys.
"Thank you so much, dear! You can leave them there. It wasn't too heavy, I hope?" she asked with a kindly smile down at Harry.
"No m'am! Not t'all. I help my Aunt P'tunia with the groceries ev'ry week." He gave her a shy smile and looked up at her through his bangs as he said this.
"Oh! You're still just a baby; where do you live?" She followed the boy's gaze two houses down the road. "Number four, is it? Well, laddy, what's your name?" With a slightly confused and hesitant look, he opened his mouth. Whether he was to answer her or question her, she would never know, because right then a yell came from where his aunt had pulled into the drive.
"Get over here and help me with the groceries!"
With an apologetic smile, he scurried back home, and soon dissapeared inside for the rest of the night.
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Later that night, when he was cleaning up from his family's dinner, he looked over at his aunt. While her husband and son watched television, she made it a habit to make sure he touched nothing he wasn't supposed to. Therefore, they were alone in the kitchen.
Deciding to take a chance, the boy turned fully to his aunt, a question on his lips. "Aunt P'tunia?"
"What is it?" Her gaze turned freezing as he hesitated, wasting her time.
"Do... do I..." he glanced around nervously...
"Spit it out, boy! I don't have all night! Hurry up and finish so I can spend time with my precious Diddykins before his bedtime!" she practically growled this at the boy.
"Do I... have a name?"
"What?!"
"A name... like Dudley? An' you, an' U'cle Vern'n?" He looked at her shyly through his long bangs as he asked this.
"A name?! What in the world made you think you would have a name?! Bad little freaky boys like you don't get names!" If it was possible for humans to spit fire, poor little Harry would've been burnt to a crisp.
"No... No name?"
Petunia sneered meanly down at the boy. "That's right, no name! Now get out of my sight before I tell your Uncle about this! Cupboard, now!
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That night, little no-name cried himself to sleep for the first and last time.
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Three months later, No-Name sighed as he looked out the kitchen window. With the snow covering the ground and tree's alike, it looked like a Yule-tide fairytale outside. Hearing a call from his Aunt Marge, he quickly, but carefully, hurried to refill her glass of scotch. It was barely noon, yet she was more than slightly tipsy. She was well on her way to being roaring drunk.
As she finished that glass, and motioned for another, little No-Name had to make a descision. His Aunt P'tunia and U'cle Vern'n had warned him to be on his best behavior, or he'd get what was comming to him. Making his decision, No-Name shifted nervously as he addressed his Aunt Marge for the first time during her entire visit. "A-aunt Marge? Are you... are you sure you'd like 'nother glass? It's only lu'ch time... a-and the bottle's almost 'mpty..."
Surely his uncle would think that he was naughty if he let his Aunt Marge finish all of the scotch? Surely he'd get praised for making sure she had some later... right?
Apparently not.
"What did you say, boy?" The question came in a deceptively calm and low toned voice. His eyes widened in fear as he looked up at Aunt Marge. No-Name flicked his gaze to his Uncle Vernon, who had frozen at his question.
"Has this boy no manners, Vernon!?" She leapt up, wobbling from the alcohol, and grabbed No-Name by his hair. "I will not tolerate such rudeness! You know what I do when a bitch whelps an untrainable pup?!" She dragged him to the front door, ingoring his cries for mercy and apologies. Red with rage, she opened the door, slamming it back against the wall, and tossed the boy off the porch into the snow.
No-Name laid crumpled on the ground, clutching the thin wrist he had landed on. He dared risk a look up at his Uncle, and looked away when he saw the purple color that he was approaching in his rage. He looked back to his Aunt Marge, who was a few shades lighter than her brother.
"P-please A-aunt Marge! I didn' mean it! I-I was tryin' to be a good boy! I'm s-sorry! Please don' punish me! I'll b-be b-better... I p-p-promise..." No-Name's voice tapered off when he saw that Marge was getting madder and madder with each plea he uttered. He allowed himself one small sob before he slowly stood up, looking at the sibling pair on the porch with fear in his green eyes.
"You want to know what I do to bad dogs, boy?" Marge got a sadistic sneer on her face, and a manical gleam in her eye. "Ripper!" The bulldog appeared in the doorway to the house.
Matching malicious grins twisted the Aunt and Uncle's faces as she pointed at No-Name and gave the command. "Sic him!"
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TBC
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A/N:
Well, I know it's not as much as I promised, but RL decided I needed a nice kick in the rear.
The next part is all planned out, and I know exactly what I'm going to write, I just physically can't.
When I was sparring in my martial arts class, I hurt my dominate hand really bad when I blocked a kick. It'll be in a brace for about 2 weeks. So typing sucks ass. Sorry...
I should have the next installment out next Friday, even with the one-handed typing.
Friday is going to be my posting day, me-thinks.
Once again, I'm so sorry it's not more, everyone.
-Emrys