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BROKEN!

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Chapter 1

Epiphany Below

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Descension

Naught breaks a true heart so much as a broken child. Boy almost learnt his name this day; he was certainly taught a hard lesson. Darkness. Terrible pain. Skin-crawling terror. And something deeper within the Dursley cellar down whose cold brick stair he had been thrown – Uncle himself being too fearful to venture where he'd so violently despatched the little one.

Not yet seven, yet seven demons he faced – and worse. What lay, and crawled, and slithered towards him from below? Grazed knees sprawled 'cross cold brick steps. Thrashed soles – bare and bruising – lifted to ease the burning torment, unable to stand and nowhere to run, Boy screwed himself into a tight ball and tried to stifle his whimpering lest that which he feared most should hear, close in, and engulf him in its scaly, spidery, loathsome, grinning maw.

Yet there was light.

Just a little.

As his tightly-closed eyes had adjusted over everlasting minutes, a not-quite-black dimness began to filter in whenever he blinked away sore tears. Yet that faint hope of escaping the totally dark void lay beyond his worst compass: down! Dare he risk all for a mere glimmer?

A gentle voice touched his mind: a forgotten memory? Be brave, my little one. Go courageously through life, and life will open out a way. It was the mysterious lady whose hair flamed red in his dreams. Soft was her singing; sweet her tone.

Encouraged, the child eased one raw knee down a step, staring into the bland dimness. Nothing. Another wincing, cringing step lower, bracing himself inwardly against the pain in his limbs. An edge! A faint vertical line of darkness marked the end of the stair wall below! One ... more ... step – then his terror evaporated like mist in sunshine; he had passed some kind of barrier!

Moving a little faster now by ignoring his tortured feet, a view of the cellar slowly opened up below him. The faint illumination of a street light filtered in through a high grid window, revealing only boxes, suitcases, and shelving – no monsters, no demons, nothing evil at all unless you counted the smell.

Boy sniffed the air. The odour appeared to come from a twisted wicker basket from which dangled some of his Aunt Petunia's long-abandoned underwear. His eyes and nose swivelled away to the opposite wall where a small but interesting-looking chest stood upon a ragged throw of carpet. Even in the low light he could see a broad label, and, propelled by elbows and stomach, wormed over to investigate. Though the boy had scarcely learnt to read, he could pick out a couple of words in his aunt's pinched writing: Mum's Necessaries. Cautiously he lifted the lid.

Papers, envelopes, and shoe boxes stuffed with documents were all that greeted his gaze. They included a big steel box with a lock, and an accounts book, and index cards held together by perished rubber bands. Receipts and business letters meant very little to Boy so he lowered the chest lid, laid back on the worn-out matting, and rested his heels up on the chest to ease the stinging pain on the soles of his feet.

From the cracked and cobwebbed ceiling filtered the faint murmurs of his relatives together with David Attenborough's voice from the television: how he'd wished he could watch the monkeys, and how much he now regretted peeping through the partly open living room door. He twitched his feet and winced at the burning sensation that wouldn't go away. Sadly, his unfocused eyes drifted away to the most shadowy alcove and he closed his eyes, hoping to drift off to sleep.

Something beckoned him.

There was no way for Boy to understand the call of magic, nor to appreciate that love can draw one's attention even through the thickest fog. He opened his eyes. In the corner he faced were the remains of a cardboard box – thrown or kicked – and entangled with more solid shapes: books!

One thing that Boy loved was to escape into the illustrated books of his cousin Dudley – on the few occasions such an opportunity arose – perhaps these were some of Dudley's many throwaways? They didn't look torn or damaged at all really – not like most of his cousin's old books; was it worth the painful struggle to reach them...? Imagine if they turned out to be just Aunt Petunia's recipe books? Or boring stories without pictures? Or... –what if Chronicles of Courageous Kevin was there!

Little Kevin had been a short-trousered character in one of Dudley's picture books. Kevin was bold and daring and went on adventures which usually ended with him rescuing his friend Anna from Villian Vaughn. That book had vanished not long after – codfishskated according to his Aunt. Suppose codfishskated meant thrown away down here like he was?

Inch by inch, Boy crawled towards the treasure he craved. He wasn't crying now – there was a pretty girl to be helped across a raging torrent full of sharks and it wouldn't do for her to see his tears! He rubbed his eyes and wriggled on and on and...

They were not picture books! Boy's disappointment was offset by the pleasing, flowery fragrance that seemed oh so familiar, yet unlike anything he distinctly knew. His wildest pretences could never have dreamt that five years was nothing to a witch's perfume.

A loose page peeped from a thin, dog-eared book, as if wanting to be taken. Nervously, Boy teased it out with tiny, trembling fingertips. The paper felt soft as his skin, and there were fine claw marks – as though scratched by a cat or bird. Lettering, faint yet imposingly large, was angled across it. With difficulty he traced out the meaning using the index finger of both hands together, each fingertip angled inwards to trap one word at a time between them, so it couldn't escape till he grasped not just the nouns and verbs themselves, but guessed something of their significance. The effort took the young child quite a while...

Copy-Charmed For The Potter Family, 27th October, 1981

And then an amazing experience arose within him!

No sooner had he understood the lettering, when his mind lit up to perceive many more words appearing straight across and obscuring the first few. And what curious handwriting! Not pencil. Not crayon. Not even like Uncle Vernon's precious ballpoint with his name engraved on it!

Dear Padfoot, thank you; it is done. At your insistence, James has made Wormy our Secret-Keeper. I still think you are wrong to suspect poor Remus, but our child's safety is paramount.

Little Harry rests quietly on my lap as I write, only giggling 'fuff' at my feathery quill when I tickle his nose with it. I swear he learns a new word almost every day, and I can't wait to begin teaching him spells from the enchanted book Remus gave him for his first birthday. He already leaks much emotional magic, why wait till he's eleven! He's going to be fearless and powerful, and I'm so proud of him.

Lots of love,

Lily

Pain forgotten for the moment, a little smile appeared on Boy's face. His hand smoothed across where the name was. She sounded such a nice lady, and he envied the one being cuddled by her and wished –oh how he wished! – it could be him. Books forgotten, his smile faded and, broken, he began crying again.

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When Push Comes to Shove

The weekend over, a horsey-jawed woman twisted and pan-hammered a pair of larger shoes onto Boy's swollen feet and returned him to school with a threat and a warning to keep his freaky mouth shut.

Boy's reply was no more than a subdued whimper. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."

Playtime for six-year-olds was an explosion of joyful release, squeals of delight, skipping, running, tagging, KitKats to chomp and crunch and splutter – with free milk, chatter, and utter forgetfulness of lessons' restraints! But Boy... he kept his head down, stooped low in a corner behind a crowd of non-threatening five-year-olds. Once too often. A predator learns the haunts of its prey:

"Robber!"

Boy didn't look up. He knew the sound of his cousin Dudley's accusatory voice all too well.

"I said, you're a thievin' robber. Gimme back my shoes!"

Meekly, Boy sat in the dust and began to unlace the shoes, trying to summon up the courage to defy his fat relative. All he managed was to murmur, "Aunt Petunia give 'em to–"

"–Liar! You're nothin' but a little lyin' thief robber – and you've wee'd in 'em too!" He pointed to the dark brown stain of dried blood on the inside as the first shoe came off to reveal one unprotected foot.

Dudley stamped down. Hard.

Boy screamed and pushed and, without warning, his cousin's leg was repelled upward so rapidly, the knee cracked Dudley's chin sending him up and backwards high across the milk crates, spitting blood and teeth, to bang his head on the bike shed wall.

Dudley wailed louder than any whale. A teacher was hurrying over. The 'non-threatening' but confusedly-excited five-year-olds were explaining they thought Boy had attacked Dudley then stole his shoes. Boy cringed in horror as he awaited retribution.

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The Knowledge Of Magic

Mr Cartwright, the unwilling teacher charged with frogmarching Boy home, was as pleased to leave him in the care of Aunt Petunia as she was to close the door on his intrusion. Her fake, polite smile vanished instantly, yet she hesitated until the 'authority figure' was well out of earshot before swiping a hand across Boy's head.

"Freak!" came the subdued cry she could suppress no longer. Then louder: "FREAK!" Finally, a prolonged scream squeezed all the air from her bony chest: "FR–EEEA–K!"

Boy suffered himself to be pushed – no, punched and bashed and jostled – towards and through the basement doorway where he stumbled down several steps as the door crashed shut behind him.

Silence.

What had happened? What had he done? The pain as Dudley had stamped down had been so intense, Boy's entire, desperate, explosive will had been to throw off his cousin's foot from his own. And his wish had come true! How?

The world is ever new to a young child, and an immature mind in a state of learning will accept almost any experience as natural: birds can fly and not fall, fish swim without drowning, wish really hard and if it happens then it can! He decided to try out this new discovery.

The cellar steps held no fear for him anymore. His sole concern was that he wanted the pain to end. Lying on the piece of dusty old carpet, he hoped and yearned but nothing happened, not even when he crossed his fingers. Disappointed, he hungered more and more. Why didn't it work? Why had his wish come true in the playground? He'd screamed then, but he couldn't scream here or Aunt Petunia would hear him. And he'd pushed! He remembered trying to push away the cause of his agony! Closing his eyes tight as tight could be, screwing up his little face into a tight mask, the child now summoned all his concentration on the pain itself...

Something wondrous and astonishing was born then in that common, lowly place. Boy pushed out both inwardly and outwardly with all his might, screaming inside his head, STOP! STOP! STOP!

He never noticed the pain fading away, nor the filthy matting cleaning itself. Perhaps the house was suffused with radiance and trembled, but if so, he knew it not. For there in the cellar of 4 Privet Drive, a broken child, a nobody without a name, surrendered blissfully to sleep as the knowledge of magic was revealed within him.

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The Enchanted Book of Spells

Peace. When Boy awoke, that was the sensation he most enjoyed: a peaceful, relaxed feeling that all was well. He began to crawl, pushing naturally with his feet – till he realised he could stand with very little discomfort and even walk with only a trace of a limp.

His one destination was the corner where he'd discovered the nice lady's letter. It had stirred his feelings before and perhaps it would again. Boy had tucked it back inside its book for safekeeping and, sure enough, there it still was. More sure of himself this time, he opened the book and began to read it more carefully:

Dear Padfoot,

What a funny name! And why would the lady write a letter and not post it in the big red letterbox down the street? Who were James and Wormy and Remus and Harry? Again he wished he were the little child in his mother's lap. Wished! Perhaps he could!

Boy closed his eyes and concentrated really hard. He wished and wished he were Harry until he was red in the face, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't be other than himself. Perhaps whatever he'd done before was only for stopping things hurting? What exactly was it anyway?

He sighed and continued reading the letter over and over. One word stood out more prominently now: magic! Was that what had happened to him? And somewhere it mentioned a chanted, no, enchanted book of spells...

The book! He'd paid no attention to the book in which he'd found the letter until now, because it was too slender to promise enough interest, and the open pages were all words without pictures. There were a lot of big words like Mobilicorpus which he didn't know at all and, towards the back, words he couldn't even think, like Tarantallegra! Perhaps there'd be some easier words near the beginning...

He leafed backwards and was astonished to discover far more pages than there could possibly be in such a thin volume. And there were, in fact, illustrations, but most of them involved a hand and a funny stick which seemed to move about but were no fun at all after a few minutes. He tried his best on the first pages and found a small easy-looking word, and the book said it pulled instead of pushed! Accio.

Closing his eyes, he thought hard about his favourite picture book. "Accio Chronicles of Courageous Kevin"

He struggled with the incantation. He tried being nice and he tried getting angry – he was determined if nothing else. But the book was just not there.

Well, he knew some short words had big meanings – Uncle Vernon used some that Boy was forbidden to repeat – but a few long words like refrigerator were surprisingly easy to use. Long magic words might be easy to use too! His finger moved down the page to Alohomora which could unlock things. What if Kevin's Chronicles was locked inside the big steel box in Aunt Petunia's Necessaries chest?

He really concentrated hard to pronounce the strange word: "Hallo – ho – more – aah? ... Allo... Alohomora!

Boy heard a faint clicking sound up the stairs. Aunt Petunia was letting him out early? Why? Hiding the slim spell book with the nice lady's letter under his shirt, he tiptoed up the steps. He could hear his aunt bumping her foot irritably against the door. Did she want him to open it?

"Auntie?"

Fearing a trick, yet even more afraid he'd be in additional trouble if he didn't come out, Boy nervously opened the door...

"Auntie?"

The hallway was empty. Frowning, he stepped cautiously forward and stumbled over one of his cousin's discarded playthings on the floor. He looked around. Aunt Petunia's coat was missing from the coat rack – Thursday, she'd gone to the supermarket! Then how...?

Better tidy away Dudley's toy or he'd be in trouble, but when he reached down he saw it was a colourful picture book – Courageous Kevin! Head shaking in disbelief, he snatched it up. Had this been bumping the cellar door? Trying to come to his Accio spell?

Never was there a happier boy in Privet Drive! Boy took two slices of bread from a near-full loaf in the kitchen along with an empty marmalade jar he'd filled with water down to the cellar with him. What a feast! On his tummy he lay with the picture book open before him on the raggedy carpet. What fun! He smoothed one little hand across the pages to flatten them and gazed at Kevin heroically leading Anna to safety along a jungle trail! Her fair braids seemed to stick out more jauntily once she was safe – he'd always noticed that – while Kevin strode more proudly with a grim, serious expression on his face that he knew Anna admired; there was still a long way to go! After another bite of bread, Boy turned the page...

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Hiding in the Cupboard

For several weeks, Boy practised spells with mixed results. Some he could not understand; others he understood but could not perform! But so much more satisfying were the ones with which he did have success! "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Lying on his back in the cupboard under the stairs, he watched as the spell book hovered, face down, over and above his gaze. At last he could read more comfortably, leaving his arms and hands free to help with casting magic.

No longer was he a prisoner. Every lock in the house now obeyed him. The metal box in the cellar yielded lots of paper cash, only a fraction of which he spent buying sweets and comics in the local newsagent – but he needed to master the hiding spell if he wished to travel to Wittering where he could buy picture books. A lone six-year-old would attract attention.

"Celare." Boy always whispered his spells for he dare not attract attention. "Celare." he repeated, moving his hand swiftly over himself which was the nearest he could copy the stick movement in the picture without banging an elbow on the cupboard door. He'd tried a short piece of bamboo from the garden a week before but only succeeded in adding scratches to his face. Hands only then if he wished to become invisible: "Celare."

With a shake of his head, he wondered how he'd healed himself that first time solely by pushing the thoughts, STOP! with all his might.

CELARE! – CELARE! – CELARE!

His arms sagged back to his sides and he stifled a groan. Apart from a chilly sensation he'd... wait, he'd been too flushed with excitement and determination to really notice the cool tickle on top of his head. Slowly, he lifted one arm again and held his hand up to the light seeping in at the edge of the door. The finger tips were almost... translucent! Boy squinted hard but wasn't sure. Cautiously he cast a dim Lumos charm and let it float free as a sphere of illumination. He could see it through his finger nails! Knuckles too! Even the tip of his shirt cuff! But that was all. With a sigh, he resumed practising. The summer holidays were almost here!

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A Curious Letter

By his seventh birthday, Boy had become quite proficient at 'acquiring' items from around the house. He could make himself almost unnoticeable and move things where he wished, but he still hadn't mastered the hiding charm. The best he'd achieved was a kind of washed-out appearance but he'd had to remain in his cupboard until it wore off.

He'd been awoken that morning by the sound of someone in the hall. There was a chink of coins and then the door lock clicked open. "OUT!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

Wearily he pushed open the door and stared at the first real gift he'd ever received – from anyone. Two grubby two-pence pieces lay on the carpet. One might have been Irish, but still...

Aunt Petunia was at the letterbox skimming through the morning's post. Angrily she threw one letter at the little waste basket under the side table. It skidded off the top.

"Why haven't you emptied that, Boy!"

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia." But nothing could dampen Boy's spirits this morning. Pocketing his coins, he snatched up the fallen letter and tried to force it into the overloaded rubbish bin as he trotted more jauntily to the kitchen. He was seven! Taking care that his aunt wasn't looking, he swished open the fridge door with one wave of his arm then began preparing breakfast. As soon as the sausages and bacon were sizzling he began bagging up the garbage.

"Aunt Petunia, may I go out to–?"

"–NO! You'll clean the gravel in the drive first, and leave no stone unturned, then squeeze the greenfly at the bottom of the back garden – every leaf and blade of grass mind! After that you can help me prepare dinner this evening."

"Dinner! What about lunch?" Boy almost dropped the kitchen pedal bin.

"Don't bother about lunch. Mrs Polkiss has invited Dudley and myself over for a chicken salad. You should be grateful you don't need to stop working till six! "

He turned over the bacon, lowered the burner, then began emptying the little hall bin into the black bag ready to take out to the wheelie bin.

"Aunt Petunia, this letter..."

His aunt was sipping a cup of coffee in the sunshine at the window. She smiled and waved at someone passing by in the street and muttered something under her breath. Boy wondered if she'd said "Bitch" but it couldn't be because that was one of Uncle Vernon's forbidden small words.

"This letter's come to the wrong address..." He held it up.

She glared at him. "I KNOW, you freak! Why else would I throw it away?"

A faint smell of smoke caused her to shriek some different small words, and Harry quickly rescued most of the sausages.

Dudley, wearing striped pyjamas, came in the door, sniffing the air. "Why isn't breakfast ready yet!"

"Daddy went to work early this morning, Dinky Duddydums! You're on holiday, remember? You don't need to go to school."

Boy served their meal, then, while they were distracted, he furtively dropped an almost complete slice of yesterday's bread from the pedal bin into the frying pan. As it was cooking, he re-examined the envelope. It was strangely thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink.

Turning the envelope over, Boy saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.

With difficulty he tried to speak the whole of the address in his mind, his lips moving unconsciously:

A Tremble
The Porch Under the Ivy
4 Private Path
Much Wittering
Surrey

With a glance towards the back of Aunt Petunia's head as she bent over to check that her egg was the correct shade of yellow, he pocketed the letter, bagged up the content of the hall basket, then scooped out his own breakfast onto a piece of kitchen paper. Moments later he was walking cheerfully up the garden path towards the wheelie bin. And, if Boy could have whistled with a mouth full of fried bread, well, then he would have been whistling. After all, he was on his summer holidays. The sun was bright on his pale skin. He was seven years old today. And, most of all... he was magical.

"Scourgify," murmured the boy, pushing his attention fully towards the gravel drive, and "Depulso greenfly," was all he needed at the bottom of the garden. Finally, he set off towards Wittering with an excuse in his pocket and two coins to scrub together. The stolen bank notes bulging in the back pocket of his worn-out baggy jeans were nowhere near as important as an actual gift.

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The Path To Enlightenment

"Ignore! Ignore! Ignore!" chanted Boy as he walked along. He'd not mastered the proper hiding spell but had discovered this incantation used forcefully enough made people take less notice of him. "Ignore! Ignore! Ignore!"

After a while his right foot began to ache so he twisted out a stout branch from the hedgerow to lean on as he continued gamely on.

His mind wandered to thinking about the large bookstore in Wittering That was where his aunt had purchased Courageous Kevin for Dudley. Five other books were listed inside of Kevin stories, and Boy was eager to read them all. What might befall Anna in Kevin and the Pirates' Treasure? He imagined her marooned on a desert island while Villian Vaughn sailed away with a wicked laugh, a hook instead of a hand, and, of course, a wooden leg.

He reached the outskirts of Much Wittering by mid-morning. He aimed for a shortcut across a small grassy area with a damaged fence his Aunt had used to reach Wittering High Street. There – just ahead! From the look of the well-worn track that cut through the overgrown turf, half the villagers on this side must use it. Yet there was a difference he could not recall seeing on his previous visit.

The broken posts from the picket fence lay rotting where they'd always been. He considered whether any of them might make a better support than the branch he was using as a staff. The track was dry this summer but otherwise much as he remembered it. But surely there hadn't been a house here before? Of wood and stone, and what a curious shape! The lower levels were quite limited in size – as if there might only be a couple of small rooms in each. Above that, each floor expanded like the spreading branches of a tree yet topped by a roof of red tiles. Boy was too young to realise that the angle at which the building leaned to one side was physically impossible. And on that edge, as if cushioning the inclination, grew dense shrubbery and foliage, some of which twined upwards almost to the eaves.

With a blink of his eyes and a shake of his shoulders, the lad turned his attention back to the track. Should he proceed through? Or go round? The plot was confined within a row of homes that extended in both directions. And besides, the track was clearly well-trodden. Boy was seven now; he puffed out his chest and decided to risk it.

Not far in, a white sign with black lettering stood proud upon its own post. He understood the words written upon it immediately because he'd worked them out earlier that very morning:

PRIVATE PATH

Boy pulled the funny envelope out of his pocket and stared at it.

"Welcome... Harry Potter!"

Almost dropping the letter – clutching it back out of the air – the youth turned to the voice. Amidst the dense undergrowth he'd not noticed, there was a porch, and peering out between two thick strands of creeping ivy, was an old lady wearing a twisty, pointed hat.

"I'm rea–really sorry," stammered Boy "I was just..." He pointed along the track, the way he'd been going. The sign caught his attention again, and he lifted up the letter to gaze once more upon the address. "Are... are you..." He looked down again at the address on the envelope. "...A Tremble?" he asked.

"A Tremble by name, and atremble to meet the boy who lived."

"'The boy who lived here..." echoed Boy, not quite accurately. "Is that who you were waiting for when I came along instead? It was lucky you were, because I have this letter for you. It came to our address by mistake."

"By mistake...?" The old woman pushed through the creepers and stepped out into the open.

She did not look very trembly, thought Boy, but then she was wearing long flowing robes that might have hidden the shakes. Her eyes showed no fear at any rate. In fact there was something nice about them that Boy liked and to which he was drawn. He'd only experienced occasional glimpses of kindness during his short life – at least from what he could remember – but the gentle concern in her expression was as warm as the sunshine on his face. He couldn't know she was studying his scrawny figure and ragged clothes, and sensing the fringes of pain within.

"There's thick vegetable soup bubbling on the stove if you'd like some?"

She wiggled her fingers and the hungry boy breathed in a tempting aroma of onions and carrots and peas he'd not noticed before. His eyes widened with hope, but he was curious when she headed back to the porch. "Aren't you going to wait for the other boy?"

She smiled. "That's alright, he's here now."

"Then thank you, uuh..."

"Call me 'Granny', if you like."

The lad followed her quite happily, politely leaving his dirty stick outside on the porch. It was fun, he thought, squeezing through tendrils and vines to get inside a house, and nothing like Privet Drive whatsoever. "Oh, your letter..." He held it out.

"Oh, would you open it for me please, while I cut you some bread?"

Boy did so, and was asked to read it out to her. He couldn't. Not for a while. There were some very big words and the top line dazzled his imagination:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF
WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Ignoring the little growls in his tummy which he blamed on the lovely steamy smells that were filling the kitchen, he worked his way down the page. "They want you to go to a witch's school? But you're too old!"

"Not much older than that letter. It's six hundred and sixty years since it was quilled, Harry."

That was far too much and too many things for the boy to digest in one gulp. Besides, he'd found a huge chunk of fresh crusty bread in one hand, a spoon in the other, and an enormous bowl of delicious soup before him. Quite how he'd taken a seat at the table he couldn't remember because he was too preoccupied with eating, and he daren't ask with his mouth full or he'd risk a thrashing for sure.

Only when his belly was full and he was able to lean back with a contented sigh, did his mind fill up with questions again. "How can it take that long for a letter to come through the post?"

"It didn't. I mailed it first class yesterday."

"To yourself?"

"Yes."

He watched with interest but no surprise as she removed her funny hat and floated it up onto a high shelf before he asked, "Why?"

"You wouldn't have been able to see my house until I told you the address. It's hidden, you see, Harry."

"Why'd you... how did you know that baby's name? I wish I had a name like real boys. Teachers call me Dursley but that's only because I live with my aunt and uncle."

The witch sighed and sat down at the table opposite him. "Your real and only name is Harry Potter. Your mother was Lily Potter. Nobody told you?"

"Like the baby in...?" He pulled the slim spell book out from under his shirt and re-examined the letter he'd carefully placed between pages 123456 and 123457 almost where the 'B's began. "That's me? I'm Harry?"

The old lady smiled. "You've a lot to learn." She leaned over and gently touched his forehead. He flinched instinctively, expecting at least a clip round the ear for being so stupid. The woman was frowning as she more closely examined his scar. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable with..." She gazed deeply into his eyes and he willingly allowed his dearest wishes to be caressed by her scrutiny. Their minds touched briefly. "With... Annie. Yes, I'll fetch her."

Harry watched the old lady struggle up the winding wooden stair and wondered if he'd disappointed her. The moment she'd gone, he heard voices from above: the old witch and then another... a child. He waited.

"Hello."

Dumbfounded, Harry stared at the little child coming down the steps. She was as close to looking like the girl in Kevin's picture book as he could imagine, only even more real: fair hair and braids which stuck out like she'd just been rescued. "Are you... are you the real Anna?"

"You may call me that. After all, you're the real Harry, aren't you?"

He was still absorbing so much that it took him time to speak, and when he finally did, it seemed Boy was accepting who he, himself actually was for the very first time. "Yes. Yes, I'm... Harry Potter."

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

Ten chapters already being polished - around 45,000 words short novel or novella. This is a little harder-edged than my usual stuff so its M for good reason. Don't read it to your kids! And if you're a kid, do NOT read this to your parents! There is a pairing with a known character but I won't spoil it for you.

Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)

- Hippothestrowl

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