It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Rays of sunlight beamed down on the uniform houses and gardens of Privet Drive, and reflected off the highly polished cars that lay in the driveways. The neighbourhood children were enjoying the summer weather, shrieking and dancing about in the jet of water that streamed from a hose plugged into a garden tap.

One little boy, however, was not outside with the other children. This boy's name was Harry Potter. He had no desire whatsoever to join in. Nobody would want him to, anyway. They had made that quite clear the first time Harry had approached them several months ago. The memory of that day still cut him deep to the core.

"Who're you?"

Harry took a nervous step backwards, and gazed at the gang of children in front of him. Some of them were twice his size. He wasn't entirely surprised by their less-than-friendly reaction. Everybody he knew seemed to flinch at the sight of him, or else eye him up and down cruelly as if he didn't deserve to be in their presence. Cousin Dudley. His aunt and uncle with whom he lived. Aunt Marge, who wasn't really his aunt. Still, Harry had thought that these children wouldn't mind if he joined in their game. He had spent many hours watching them enviously through the kitchen window, laughing and playing, his cousin Dudley among them. They had looked nice enough. Now they had curious frowns all over their faces, and some even looked angry. They sniggered at Harry's shirt and shorts, which were far too big for him, the sleeves of the shirt coming down to his elbows and his shorts flapping comically around his knees.

The seconds dragged. Finally, Harry cleared his throat.

"I … uh … I'm Harry. I'm Dudley's –" Harry broke off. Dudley had jerked impulsively and had turned red. He looked both embarrassed and angered by Harry's company.

"What? You're Dudley's what? And how come we've never seen you before?"

Harry took a deep breath, not daring to glance at Dudley, and ploughed on. He knew Dudley would be cross with him later for admitting he was a relation, but what was he to do? Go back inside and stare wistfully out of the window for the rest of his life?

"I'm Dudley's cous - " Harry didn't get any further. Dudley had sunk his fat little fist into Harry's stomach.

"You freak!" yelled Dudley, "Why don't you just shut up? Go away! Nobody wants you! You wrecked my family!"

Harry grunted and bent double, willing himself not to cry in front of all these people, telling himself that he should fight back, that he shouldn't let Dudley get away with bullying him. He forced himself to stand up straight. He swayed slightly on the spot for a moment, and then lunged blindly at Dudley. The surrounding children had formed a ring, and were chanting things, shouting things, jeering. Dudley's eyes glinted maliciously. He seemed to take delight in the other children's encouragement, especially as so many of them were much older than him.

"Go on, little Dud! You tell him! Fight, fight, fight, fight …"

Harry lost the fight. A big boy pushed him from behind, taking him by surprise. Harry fell forwards onto his knees, grazing them horribly. He sat up and looked down at his legs. Little droplets of warm blood trickled from the cuts. Harry burst into tears, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears with his hands to block out the laughter. It wasn't so much the grazes that hurt. It was the humiliation. The rejection. The desperate loneliness.

Harry had long since learned to cut himself off from the others, to keep his head down, to blend into the background. If it was a choice between having company and being picked apart, and being alone and left alone, he would choose the latter. He decided that he liked his own company. He loved to dream.

Harry was sat on the floor of the living room in Number Four. He had a look of utmost concentration on his face, and his tongue poked between his teeth, as it often did when he was concentrating. Harry had a crayon clutched in his right hand, which he was using to draw a picture.

Harry had had a good dream last night. There had been a flying motorbike in it. Harry often daydreamed about flying away. He had only just turned four years old, and was therefore naïve enough to believe that one day it might really happen. Harry tried not to wobble as he pressed the crayon to the page and drew two blue circles, depicting the wheels of the motorbike.

As the minutes wore on, Harry became so immersed in his picture that he didn't even notice his uncle come in to watch the six 'o' clock news. It took Harry half and hour to get his picture just right. He sat back and picked it up, his heart bursting with pride. He grinned to himself and closed his eyes, basking in the wonderful thought of flight. A breeze from the open window played across his face. Harry hadn't felt so good in a very long time. His aunt, uncle and cousin usually managed to squash any happiness out of him. Harry planned to keep this picture private. He traced the lines of the picture with his finger. Seeing his dream on paper, as something solid, made it suddenly seem all the more feasible.

Suddenly, and making Harry jump, Uncle Vernon spoke from the sofa on the other side of the room.

"What's that you've got there, boy? Why aren't you outside, eh?" he snapped, looking very suspicious. "Up to no good, I suppose?"

Harry had no choice but to walk over to his uncle.

"Come on, then, hand it over!" he barked, and held out his large red hand expectantly. Harry shivered despite the heat.

"I – I drawed a picture," he stammered. He hesitated, and then passed it to his uncle. Harry gulped nervously, and shuffled his feet while Uncle Vernon examined the paper. He listened tensely to his uncle's laboured breathing, trying to decide whether he was going to be punished. The crayons were Dudley's. Harry didn't have any of his own. Still, it wasn't as if Dudley ever used them. He preferred to watch the television, like his father. After a few seconds Harry looked up at Uncle Vernon's face.

"Well?" said Uncle Vernon angrily, stabbing a fat, sausage-like finger at the motorbike. "What's this?"

"Iss a modorbike," mumbled Harry.

"Oh, it is, is it?" snarled Uncle Vernon, waving the paper in front of Harry's face. Harry flinched automatically and closed his eyes. "Why is the motorbike here, then, eh?" he stabbed again at the motorbike, which Harry had drawn flying over the Dursley's house, a red square with a door, four windows and smoke furling from the chimney. Harry's eyes snapped open again, and he glanced at his picture, wincing as it crumpled slightly due to the pressure of Uncle Vernon's finger. Now he thought about it, though, Harry had never seen real smoke furl from the Dursley's chimney. His picture suddenly seemed very silly. Totally ridiculous. He still felt sick, however, seeing it clutched in his uncle's hand. Harry resisted the urge to snatch it back.

"Iss flying," said Harry quietly, knowing immediately that Uncle Vernon would not like this answer. He became extremely nervous. Uncle Vernon had turned purple. Very deliberately, his hands shaking with suppressed fury, he tore the picture into four pieces and dropped them into the waste paper basket.

"Motorbikes," Uncle Vernon whispered, his voice full of anger, "do not fly!"

Harry felt dizzy. His heart was pounding. Uncle Vernon leaned forwards off the sofa, his face inches from Harry's.

"Do you know what you are, boy?" he spat. Of course Harry knew what he was. How could he forget? He was a freak, he was stupid, he was ungrateful, he was selfish … he was, according to his aunt and uncle, everything that was undesirable in a person. That, Harry supposed, was why people disliked him. That was why he had no friends. Feigning ignorance, however, Harry shook his head.

"You are a freak." Though he had heard it many times before, the word hit Harry like a slap in the face.

Harry waited until his uncle had left the room, and then hurried over to the waste paper basket. Blinded by tears, he fished out the shards of his shattered dream and tried to piece them back together. He couldn't understand why the Dursley's seemed to hate him so much more than everyone else. He thought he was actually quite a good boy, much better behaved than Dudley, at any rate. But maybe Uncle Vernon was right. Maybe motorbikes didn't fly. Maybe Harry was just stupid. Maybe he was a freak.

Harry screwed up the pieces of paper angrily and threw them as far as he could, disappointment surging through him, ice slashing at his heart, and tears falling thick and fast down his cheeks. He pressed the palms of his hands to his sore eyes, sobbing now, so that all he could see was black. It felt like he was falling down a tunnel, stumbling blindly in the darkness, and there was nobody there to take his hand, to rescue him, and to guide him to the warmth and the light.