Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

The classroom was small and crowded. A woman stood in the front of the room, a chalkboard to her back. Students sat before her with their desks assembled into meandering rows. Chalk dust momentarily hung in the air as the woman swiped the board clean. Her practiced hand assertively transcribed the next of a series of equations onto the board. "Now let's see… who have we not heard from yet today?" The class groaned in reply. The woman paused as if waiting for an answer, one she knew full well would never come. "Ah Piers," she called, directing her gaze the very back of the room, "why don't you have a try?"

Piers muttered something undoubtedly nasty under his breath before rising from his desk. He stumbled his way to the front of the classroom, tripping over backpacks and desk legs on his way. "Sure thing Mrs. Newman!" Piers growled with faux reverence.

Mrs. Newman smiled to herself as Piers scrawled some nonsensical mathematics on the chalkboard. She took a kind of sadistic pleasure in the torment she was causing. Ten minutes from Christmas break and she was still giving them problems to solve. She almost laughed out loud as she scanned the room. Children everywhere were squirming in their seats. Twenty pairs of eyes were firmly focused on the antique clock above the door.

However, there were twenty-two students in attendance. Piers' presence at the board explained one student's diverted attention, but one student had his eyes cast directly upon his desktop. He was a short and scrawny boy almost lost beneath the billowing hand-me-downs he wore as clothes. He never socialized or played with the other children. He never joked in her class, instead only speaking when directly questioned. Normally such responsible behavior would please Mrs. Newman greatly, especially with the dreadful bullies Dudley and Piers under her tutelage, but instead the quiet boy had always concerned her. Harry Potter had always struck Mrs. Newman as someone who only wished to disappear. However, his clownish attire, striking mop of hair, and the jagged scar on his forehead, brought him the very attention he loathed.

Like the other children, Harry was fidgeting endlessly, but his unrest was not due to looming excitement but an impending sense of dread. "Oh no, only four minutes left," Harry whispered under his breath. The only student more upset than Piers himself at Mrs. Newman's question had been Harry. He had no way out. Harry had planned on sprinting from the room at the sound of the bell, hoping to outrun his cousin and his friends before their traditional Christmas holiday celebration. Now there was no way he was getting by Piers. Harry barely noticed Mrs. Newman chew out Piers for his sloppy work. His ears were deaf to the sudden roar of noise that accompanied the student's celebration as the clock struck three.

Harry was finally awoken from his catatonic state by the feeling of a pudgy hand on his shoulder. "Come now Harry," his cousin sweetly drawled "Dad should be outside soon. We wouldn't want to keep him waiting now do we?" Harry rose to his feet but his cousin's hand remained. They began to walk; Dudley's considerable weight pushing down on his shoulder caused Harry to stumble.

Their sneakers squeaked as the three boys walked down the scuffed linoleum floor. Bustling students gave way to the group, knowing from experience what was to come. Everyone in school knew Dudley Dursley. His cruelty and spite the stuff of legend. Everyone in school was also familiar with Harry, the bully's favorite target. Two boys joined the procession. Harry recognized them all too well, Ben Krueger and Christopher Scott. Those two were always good for a kick to Harry's ribs when he went down. Harry heard their voices, the rises and falls of volume, but was deaf to their words. He was overwhelmed with sickening dread and every ounce of his brain power was focused on steeling himself for the physical trauma he was about to endure. Dudley made Harry go through hell everyday of his life. Quick kicks and taunts made up the bulk of the day to day aggression. He couldn't get away with much more than that around teachers or his parents. Although the Dursleys certainly did not care for their nephew, they did not want Dudley to go too far. Bloodstains were pesky to remove and questions from concerned teachers were undesirable. No, Harry got by alright most of the time; Dudley was mostly kept in check.

What had always been unbearable, however, was the first day of vacation. The chaotic atmosphere provided the perfect opportunity for a beating. Teachers were too busy dealing with rambunctious students to interfere. Dudley and the gang could just drag Harry behind the dumpster and have their fun. Harry provided them an outlet to vent frustration during the term, allowing them to slip into the holiday mindset. And of course, Vernon and Petunia were unconcerned with Harry's condition, for he would be out of sight from meddling teachers long enough for the wounds to heal.

Harry looked up just in time to see a bright red dodge ball impact squarely with Dudley's head. The ball contorted for a split second before rebounding and bouncing off across the blacktop. Dudley's mouth flopped open and shut, but he could not speak. The rest of his gang mirrored his shock and the playground went silent.

One solitary figure stepped forward from the crowd. A girl with dirty blond curls. Her mouth contorted into an angry grimace. "Dudley Dursley, you let go of Harry right now!"

What the hell, Harry thought. Who was that? Sarah something. He had class with her once or twice but had never really spoken with her. Harry had no idea why a practical stranger would stick up for him. Normally, people were afraid of stepping on Dudley's toes; no one wanted to get on the wrong side of the school bully, lest they find themselves to be his next target. But this girl was different. She risked her own wellbeing to help him. To help a nobody.

Dudley's shock was not long lived. His flabbergasted face soon purpled with rage and he screeched like a tea kettle. "Who the heck do you think you are? You're going to pay for that !" He clenched his hammy fists and waddled off towards his assailant. Sarah stood still when first faced with the raging behemoth. Her defiant expression faltered as Dudley grew closer. She turned to run but Dudley was upon her. The large boy lowered his shoulder into the girl and knocked her backward. Choked sobs could be heard throughout the now silent schoolyard. Piers crouched down and grabbed a hold of Sarah's hair. She wailed as she was roughly dragged to her feet.

Harry knew he had to move. He needed to protect his savior. Someone had stood up for him. She had cared for him. Harry berated himself, furious at his feet's stubborn refusal to move. He closed his eyes, wishing it would stop. He pressed his palms against his ears, hoping Sarah's screams would stop. But as he tried to ignore the truth, a strange feeling welled up within him. Rage bubbled through his blood.

When Harry opened his eyes Sarah was no longer the only one screaming. Piers was clutching his hand as if burned. His flesh was blackened and a sickening burning smell filled the air. Christopher Scott was hanging from a tree, a branch caught onto a belt loop. Ben Krueger was climbing out of a nearby dumpster

Dudley Dursley was hit worst of all. The sidewalk was cracked where he had collided with it, and he was clutching his behind, having defecated in his drawers.

Sarah's panicked gaze was focused on Harry. He met her eyes and she shuddered. Turning on her heels, she sprinted down the street towards safety.

Harry was far beyond confused. He had no idea what had happened. Other than the rage, he had felt nothing. He had not felt his legs move. He did not remember throwing and punches. He did not remember screaming, but the rawness of his throat told him he had been. Everything had been a blur. He spun around, taking in the horrified stares of his classmates. Mrs. Newman stood frozen. She had most likely noticed the scuffle and moved to break it up, only to be struck by the awesome display.

Harry fell to his knees and hugged himself tightly. This couldn't be happening there was no way. He wasn't some freak like Uncle Vernon said. He wasn't dangerous. He was normal like everyone else. The scene surrounding the boy suggested otherwise. It showed a truth Harry was unwilling to accept. He would never fit in. He didn't belong.

"I wish I was anywhere but here."

Harry felt someone jab his shoulder. Dudley had gathered himself and was seeking retribution.

"I wish I was anywhere but here."

More fists joined the beating as Dudley's gang backed up their leader.

"I wish I was anywhere but here."

And suddenly he was.

The door creaked open and startled Bartholomew Brosgood from his slumber. The elderly man rubbed the sleep from his eye and licked his palm, using it to slick back his pure white hair. He hopped to his feet, painfully rubbing the soreness from his left knee. Bart grabbed a gnarled cane from the vast collection behind the counter and waddled over to greet his visitor. "Welcome sir. Were you looking for anything in particular today?"

The customer coughed at the dust swirling around the room and nodded his head. "Yeah Bart. My damn roofs' sprung a leak. The missus has only got one pot to cook in back home and wouldn't let me use it to catch the drip. You got anything cheap I could use until I get around to patching it? You know times are a bit tough economically… something really cheap?" The man, dressed in a ragged coat shrugged his shoulders and looked to the shopkeeper hopefully.

Bart let out a chuckle as he began browsing his wares. "Yeah," he began, "I think we should have something for you here." He picked up a tarnished metal pot and rapped sharply on the bottom. "Hmm that one may be a bit too pricey." He tossed the metal pot back to its rightful place on the crowded shelf. Bart continued in this manner for a quarter hour, navigating through the cluttered shop with practiced ease. He tested a few more potential rain receptacles before finally settling on a suitable item.

The customer, Daniel, reached into his pocket and tossed a few silver coins onto the countertop. He grabbed the earthenware flowerpot and headed for the door, waving goodbye to Bart over his shoulder.

His first sale in a week having come to fruition, Bart stretched and was rewarded with the sound of popping. He clambered back to his seat and prepared to watch the day pass away.

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Harry was certain he was no longer in the school yard. It smelled far worse. The acrid scent of sewage assaulted his nostrils, snapping him to complete consciousness. The glow of a streetlamp cast a dim haze over his surroundings. Harry found himself halfway in a sewer. Well that explained the stench.

Groaning, Harry gripped the coarse concrete of the curb and pulled himself upright. "Well there's another pair of Dudley's castoffs ruined," Harry mumbled as he appraised his torn and stained jeans. He stood there for a few minutes rubbing the brown blotches furiously, as if hopping friction would magic them away. It was at that moment that Harry began to think. His thoughts sending him into panic. The young boy's head flailed around frantically and his body whipped around with it. This was most certainly not the familiar playground of his school. There were no schoolchildren playing, no basketball hoops. The air was not filled with high-pitched prepubescent voices; in fact, there was hardly and sound at all.

The silence was broken when Harry knocked over an old metal trashcan. It clacked against the pavement and rolled noisily for a few feet. Harry collapsed onto his knees and vision swam with tears. It looks like he got his wish after all, but he wanted to take it back. He never thought he would miss his idiot cousin, but he certainly did now. At least he had had a home. People knew him, even if it was just barely.

Harry was roused from his self-pity by a wheezing shout. An old man was shuffling towards him, branding an old broom like an Arthurian knight. His gait was choppy and voice painfully soft, but Harry could tell the man was serious. "Shoo you goddamn mutt! Get out of my trash!" The man stopped abruptly when he noticed he had been yelling at a dirty child and not the local stray.

"Please help me sir," Harry began before receiving and emphatic whack to the face by the broom.

"Get out you dirty urchin! This is private property not a shelter. Go piss elsewhere." Harry sat there stunned. Several weak thumps reigned upon his head before he began to scramble away.

"Please, I'm lost. I just need help."

"GET OUT!"

Harry stumbled to the far side of the ally and turned to the left. He became more surefooted as he jogged to the alley's opening. There was no one in the street. Only bleak buildings that looked to be on the verge of collapse. This was most certainly not Little Whinging. Harry had absolutely no idea where he was. There were not even any street signs to give him a hint. Confused and dejected, Harry sat down at the corner and waited.

A few hours later a rusty and ancient pickup truck puttered down the road and stopped in front of Harry. A window rolled down and out popped the head of the broom man. "Get in kid. My names Bart, what's yours?"

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The dusty confines of Bart's shop became Harry's sanctuary. He stayed there during the day and helped Bart organize and restock the shelves. Polished old silverware and dusted pieces of creaky furniture. Harry thoroughly enjoyed these menial tasks. The busy work occupied his mind as well as his hands, removing his frightening dilemma from his thoughts.

"Ugh, here take this" Bart grunted, rousing Harry from his thoughts. The old man was quaking under the weight of a large box of books. Harry quickly hopped up and relieved Bart from his burden. "Go put them in the shelf by the door." Bart reclaimed his usual seat behind the counter.

Struggling under the weight of his load, Harry made his way to the bookshelf. The shelf was perhaps Harry's favorite part of the shop. He had always enjoyed reading books. The library was the one place Dudley would never follow him. He made the most of his time there, reading novels and histories. The Dursley's never gave him enough time to read at home. They kept him constantly occupied with chores around the house, barely leaving him enough time to complete his schoolwork.

Harry often lost himself in Bart's books. They were certainly odd but interesting none the less. He particularly enjoyed the oldest of the tomes. Many of them were nonsensical, full of Latin spells. Histories spoke of goblins with strange names and the wizards who opposed them. Harry enjoyed those stories the most. The characters possessed such determination and power, so unlike him. When he was sure Bart's attention was diverted Harry reenacted the fantastical scenes; he whipped his arms around as if calling down the elements upon his foes.

Harry felt bad about his frequent lapses in focus, but Bart never seemed to care that Harry rarely finished the odd jobs he was given.

A man walking by tossed a newspaper against the door and continued down the street. Bart called for Harry to collect the paper and he complied. Harry opened the door, jingling the bell, and stepped outside. Harry picked up the paper and studied in curiously.

Charles Manson Sentenced to Death in US

The front page was graced with the black and white photo of a craggy middle aged man in prison attire. The date read April 9, 1971. Harry wanted desperately to ignore the date, play it off as some kind of joke. But he couldn't. Things about his new home were most certainly odd. At first Harry had thought Bart was an antique dealer. A large portion of his inventory was old and worn, but even the new items were retro in style. Bart owned a small black and white television, and Harry had thought he had just been frugal. Only old shows and movies ever played on it. At first Harry had thought the selection was only a matter of taste, but now he was not so sure.

Shaken by his realization, Harry walked back into the shop. He made his way over to cramped corner and sat to further mull over the paper. A faint bell chime heralded the arrival of a customer, but Harry did not look up. He was distracted by a searing pain in his forehead. Faint voices reached his ears.

"How may I help you sir?"

The voice that responded was firm and confident. "I am looking for a cup."

Harry thought he heard a hint of panic in Bart's reply, but assumed he must have imagined it. "We have some of those, if you'll just follow me."

"No, the one I want is behind you. In that chest."

"I… I don't know what you're talking about sir. I think you should leave." The fear had definitely not been imagined. Harry crawled forward and his scar grew in pain with each step. He sought cover behind pieces of furniture as he approached. He got a glance at the customer. He was a sharply dressed middle-aged man. His handsome face was framed by immaculately maintained brown hair. The man laughed, the sound seemed far too cold to have come from him. Harry's hands began to shake.

The customer reached one hand into his coat pocket and procured a slim piece of wood. He flicked it once and a large chest flew forward and landed on the counter. Bart lurched forward, trying to snatch the box back. His efforts were greeted with another laugh, and another flick of the stick left Bart standing unnaturally still. The man pointed his stick at the chest and a green light issued forth. Florescent lines drew themselves across the chest, coming together to form a complex pattern. The chest opened with a deafening click. The man grabbed the chest and turned it over. A few glittering jems, a small dagger, an old book, and a small golden cup fell onto the counter.

"You could have lived you know. All you needed to do was give me Helga's cup, you idiot squib." Quick as lightning, the man snatched the cup from the counter and gazed at it with relish. "Your family was pure," he continued, "and you just had to soil their good name Bartholomew Brosgood." Harry looked into Bart's eyes and saw absolute terror. "AVADA KEDAVERA."

Harry recognized the sickening green light. He dreamed about it from time to time, always accompanied by screams of terror. The pain in his forehead blazed and he almost blacked out, but he could not tear his eyes away from his friends form as it clumsily fell to the ground. Harry screamed in rage as he ran towards the murderer. His friend was dead and Harry refused to just stand by.

The man laughed as he noticed the approaching boy. "Ah, I wasn't expecting anyone else. No matter, you can die as well." The man raised his wand and Harry grabbed his wrist.

Harry was absolutely blinded with pain. It was the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. He fell back and writhed on the ground. It took a few seconds for Harry's head to clear, and he realized that his own screams were not alone. He opened his watery eyes and looked at his assailant.

The man was bellowing inhumanly. He was clutching his right arm as it seemed to melt away. His hand was gone. His forearm was rapidly turning to dust and scattering throughout the room. The man snatched his stick from the ground and snarled out an unintelligible phrase. A jet of red light leapt from his stick and impacted his own shoulder. His arm was cleanly severed and it fell to the ground in a bloody mess. The man's eyes connected with Harry's, blazing with rage. He raised his stick at Harry once more.

The familiar rage swelled within Harry once again. It exploded outward, knocking the man off his feet. Harry lunged forward and grabbed the man's exposed ankle. This time the pain was too much for him. His eyes rolled back in his head and he saw no more.

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Harry awoke to a light flashing in his eyes. A robed man was pointing a glowing stick at his face. Remembering the murderer's stick, Harry panicked. He jumped to his feet and lashed out knocking the stick away. Before he could do anything else, Harry felt two arms firmly wrap around him.

"It's okay boy. Calm down. Calm down." Harry continued to struggle for a few minutes before dissolving to tears. He turned to look for Bart, finding his friend covered with a black sheet. Another robed man withdrew his wand and aimed it at the body. It rose from the ground and glided through the front door.

"Don't worry. You-Know-Who is gone. He left before we got here. I'm surprised he let you live though." He patted Harry's shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. "Never heard of him doing that before." He guided Harry over to chair. "Your safe now, I'm an auror. I just need to ask you some questions, are you feeling up to it?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders and looked towards the ground. "What did he want? What did he come for?"

"A cup sir."

"A cup? What kind of cup?"

"It was small and gold. That's all I saw."

Before the man could ask his question another auror entered the shop. He glanced at Harry and let out a shocked gasp.

"James! What are you doing here James?" He grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him to his feet. The first auror moved to protest, but the second cut him off. "He can answer the questions later, now he needs to get home." His grip on Harry tightened. Harry felt an unpleasant squishing sensation and a flash of light. The next thing he knew he was standing in front of a quaint home. The sign in front read Godric's Hollow.

The auror walked to the door with Harry in tow. He banged on the door several times and waited. "I'm not sure what you were doing out there James, but your father will not be pleased." Harry was beyond confused. Who was James? This man was talking like he knew him, but he had definitely never seen him before. Harry just hoped he could get some answers soon.

The door was opened by a young boy who looked to be about eleven. He was wearing a deep red shirt with the image of a small winged golden ball on its front. To Harry's amazement the ball darted across the shirt, it was on the right shoulder, then the center. Harry tore his eyes away from the shirt and looked at the boy's face. The bespeckled boy looked quite familiar. Quite familiar indeed.