14 July 1988

Harry Potter ran. He ran as fast as his seven, soon to be eight-year-old legs could carry him. Granted, it wasn't particularly fast on an adult scale, but it was usually enough to carry him away from his beached whale of a cousin and his sadistic, sycophantic followers. Unfortunately for Harry, Dudley's gang had recently developed something that passed for group tactics, and even the most formidable prey is often unable to escape a determined and well-coordinated group of hunters. Just ask an elk. Unfortunately for Harry, he was far from formidable, and even his unflagging stamina could not overcome the simple mistake of turning down a blind alley in the shopping district. Dudley and Piers quickly cornered him, and Harry knew that he would never manage to dodge both of his pursuers to escape. He might have been able to sneak past one of them, but one of the two would surely nab him, and then the beating would be even worse. He was left with two choices, either to accept meekly the beating that his cousin would deliver or to attempt to jump the fence at the end of the alley. Knowing Dudley would find it very difficult to follow, Harry chose the fence.

With a running start and a boost from a fortuitously placed packing crate, Harry leapt over the wooden fence at the back of the alley with all the cat-like grace he had learned from years of dodging his tormentors. He found himself at a loading dock of some kind and, circling the building in front of him, rapidly discovered that he had made his way to the Little Whinging Public Library. Harry smirked. There was no way Dudley would find him in the library. Books were Dudley's kryptonite, a term which Harry had come across after sneaking a number of dusty comic books out of Dudley's second bedroom into his cupboard and reading them by the miniscule rays of light that filtered into his cupboard during one of his numerous confinements. Apparently, the written word in any form was abhorrent to Dudley, even if it told stories of adventure, accompanied by exciting graphics. 'Maybe Dudley can't even read them.' Harry snickered at the thought, and it never occurred to him that it was at all unusual that he could read the comic books, which were intended for boys between nine and twelve.

Relishing his amusement at Dudley's stupidity and blissfully unaware of his own ignorance, Harry walked into the library, which he found to be air conditioned. Harry allowed his smirk to grow, having realized that the library would make the perfect summer hideaway. He would be far cooler than he could ever be in his cupboard, his cousin would never find him, and he could entertain himself by reading a virtually unlimited supply of books. It would not be perfect, of course, because he would still be required to spend the majority of his time at his home, completing the plethora of chores his aunt liked to assign him. Fortunately for Harry, his uncle has not followed through on his threat to make Harry begin mowing the lawn that summer. Vernon had, of course, correctly concluded that the neighbors would likely frown on a scrawny boy pushing around a machine larger than he was and which could easily remove a foot. Harry was naturally unaware of Vernon's thought process because none of his neighbors, teachers or any other adult of his acquaintance had ever shown any concern for his well-being; he was simply grateful that he was not required to mow the Dursleys' large lawn thrice a week, as would be required to keep the lawn to Uncle Vernon's exacting standards wherever Harry was involved. He could, instead, spend his time in the library and only rake up and dispose of the grass clippings once per week, which was quite as often as Uncle Vernon was willing to mow the lawn himself, thank-you-very-much.

Harry read three books intended for children his age in his first day at the library, all written by an American woman called Warner. He found the idea of children living in a boxcar and solving mysteries quite comical, but he enjoyed the sense of belonging the books granted him. Having read stories about children his own age, he even felt like he had made friends. Still, he got the strange impression that all the stories were basically the same and he quickly grew bored with the series. It did not occur to him that he had read the stories far more quickly than he should have done, even with his extraordinary reading level. He was similarly ignorant that he should never have reached the conclusion that the stories were all fundamentally identical so quickly.

As the library was closing for the evening, Harry found a book called The Once and Future King which sounded interesting. The book's back cover promised kings and queens, romance and war, love and betrayal and, most exciting of all, a wizard. Harry snuck the book inside his oversized t-shirt, knowing that his Aunt and Uncle would never allow him to get a library card, and he was grateful for the first time in his life that he was only allowed to wear his cousin's enormous hand-me-downs. Harry walked out the front door, past strange devices whose purpose he could not guess, with his pilfered book. He was unaware that the frame-like structures were intended to prevent patrons doing exactly the sort of thing he had just accomplished, and simply concerned himself with getting home before dark. He had already forfeited his supper by staying overlong in the library, and his aunt was likely to banish him to his cupboard for several days if he failed to arrive home before Dudley returned from his evening mischief.

He'd had a wonderful day, and so consumed was he with his adventures in the land of literacy that Harry overlooked the truly spectacular events that had begun to occur around him. His magic was finally beginning to respond to his conscious desires rather than his unconscious fears. Changing the color of his teacher's wig hadn't had any practical value, but the ability to perform petty larceny without detection turned out to be quite useful. Once he arrived home, Harry took advantage of his aunt's inattention to slip his pilfered book into his cupboard, where he began reading it later that night. He was fascinated by many of the characters, but Merlin, the ancient wizard with his garish robes and slightly barmy manner, interested Harry most of all. He seemed so familiar that Harry was certain he must have met him somewhere before. He just couldn't be sure where.

The remainder of Harry's summer passed quickly, as did the summers that followed. He read everything that he could lay his hands on. He read fantasies and mystery novels, history and science books, ever expanding his knowledge and deductive reasoning skills, though Harry himself never thought of it in those terms. Somehow, though, he was always drawn to the more fantastic books, whether fantasy or mythology. He even read a few old Greek tragedies, and he was amazed at the extent to which magic appeared to play a part in the lives of the ancients. Somehow the fantastic parts of the stories he read seemed comforting, like he imagined going home might be if there were no Dudley or Uncle Vernon to hit him and no Aunt Petunia to berate his "freakishness." His secret time in the library gave him a sense of belonging that he could never achieve elsewhere in his life.

Every year, on his birthday, Harry allowed himself a small treat. It was a relatively minor act of defiance, but it was the only way he could think of to remind himself that his birthday was important, even if no one else seemed to agree. He would creep out of his bed early in the morning, just as the sun was rising, and complete as many of his chores as he could before returning inside to cook breakfast for the Dursleys. He would sneak an extra piece of toast in the kitchen, risking his uncle's wrath, before serving breakfast for the Dursleys and joining them at the table. After finishing the meager breakfast allowed him, Harry would quickly wash the breakfast dishes before scurrying about the house, completing whatever chores had been assigned him and absconding to the library before his aunt could find him to assign more work. He always found the largest, most interesting book he could and inevitably read it in its entirety in one day. On his tenth birthday, Harry read all three parts of The Lord of the Rings in a single day. He never wondered whether this was at all odd; it was quite natural as far as Harry was concerned, and he simply accepted it as his birthday present to himself.

The summer of 1991 passed in much the same way, with each day little different from the day preceding it. Harry's chores had grown since the summer three years previous when he had first discovered the joys of the Little Whinging Public Library; his uncle had finally decided that Harry was old enough to mow the lawn and, as Harry had once predicted, he was required to do so three times a week to meet his uncle's exacting standards. Everything changed dramatically, however, in the last week of July when Harry received a letter. This was quite an unusual occurrence, as no one had ever written to Harry before, and none of the Dursleys had ever seen a letter addressed so precisely:
Mr. Harry Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey

A/N: Thanks to my beta reader, werekitten, for her helpful suggestions. This is my first attempt at creative writing in a long time, and it seems that I needed a bit of help to ease back into things. Per her suggestion, I'd like to inform the reader that kryptonite it the only known material with the ability to harm Superman. I thought everyone knew that, but apparently I was mistaken. In honor of that oversight, Brina now receives my gentle teasing, provided that she's actually reading this. I blow my nose at you, young lady. Superman and kryptonite are both owned by DC Comics.