Harry Potter- The Boy Who Truly Lived

Disclaimer: It all belongs to her! The great J.K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her world. Don't take away my toys.

Chapter One- The Boy Who Arrived Crying

When Harry Potter was deposited on his aunt and uncles doorstep like the morning milk, he was a very small child. He was a toddler, wrapped in a thick woollen blanket around his whole body, he was protected from the late Autumn wind, for them most part. He felt a little cold around his face which he didn't like, and he was bored. He couldn't articulate his feelings well. He did what any one year old would do. He cried. As he was a quiet child, his cries were little more than a whimper. When his aunt opened the front door on that eventful morning, the crying child gave her a start and she screamed. Her screams scared the small child and he cried louder.

What could the woman do but bring the child inside? Although she was loathe to do so. When she brought the basket inside and placed it gently on the kitchen table, the child stopped crying with a hiccup and gave her a small smile at appreciation of warmth and a different scene than the plain white of the front door.

Another child was in the room with Petunia and Harry. Dudley was strapped into a high chair, yowling loudly and making his porridge into what looked like a false beard. He had missed his mouth with his porridge covered fingers.

By comparison to Dudley, Harry was a gentle, quiet child. It was after a moment Petunia realised that the small child had a piece of paper slightly scrunched up in his left hand. She gently touched his fingers and he opened his hand up slowly, releasing the note. She took it from his small hand and opened it up to read it.

Her gentle mood abated as she read the note. It was written by a man whom she had received correspondence from before; a man who had refused to allow her to attend his school; a man who had plenty of tact in writing, but had not even met with her to tell her that her sister had died. Lily and James were dead. That is what the note said in essence. Lily had died, with her husband James. They had been murdered. Harry was alive, the sole survivor of a murderous rampage by a crazy man with a crazy false name. Her gentle mood had curdled and she was in a rage. She looked up at the peaceful child. Peaceful, calm, smiling Harry. His smile mocked her. She knew that she could never be what this child needed, her rage was already affecting her perception of him. Unfortunately for her, she had no choice.

She was obliged to look after Harry, to care for him 'as her own child'. 'As my own child' Petunia thought angrily 'my sister has just died and I'm told about it with a letter! A letter'. She repeated the word 'letter' in her head over and over in a state of disarray. She was starting to feel as though her life had crumbled, and the presence of this child had been the starting pistol.

After heralding the death of his parents to his aunt, Harry could not hope to ever feel completely at ease around his aunt, uncle and cousin. Whenever his aunt looked at him, her eyes met his and all she saw was Lily. Lily's eyes staring out at her from a replica of James, his father. For the first three years that Harry lived with Petunia, Vernon and Dudley, Petunia's eyes filled with tears each time that she looked at him. Petunia couldn't take Harry anywhere on her own without bawling. Vernon was required to take Harry anywhere that was absolutely necessary. When Harry had to go for his first eye test as a child, Vernon had drove Harry to the opticians, and had to sit in the room while Harry proved that he was pretty blind.

Vernon detested having to take Harry anywhere on his own. It made him resent Harry even more than his already did. At least the eye test and the glasses were on the NHS. Harry had wanted a thin framed rectangular frame, but Vernon didn't want to pay the £20 that it would have cost. Harry was left with the choice of the big round black ones, or a strange reddish purple coloured pair that had a smaller frame. He chose the black ones. He didn't like the way they made him look skinnier, but he couldn't wear the red-purple ones. They were extremely ugly and looked girly.

Over the years, Harry did not lose the kindness that he had bestowed upon him by his gentle and kind parents, but he did learn that he should be careful around others. His fostered family had proven this to him. His cousin Dudley had learned to treat Harry with a strange kind of fear. This resulted in Dudley needing to assert himself in the hierarchy of the house. Basically, Dudley wanted to hurt Harry in any way he could, whenever he could. Dudley was not a cruel boy by nature, but because of the attitudes to Harry within the house, Dudley learned that he could hit others whenever they concerned or bothered him. His parents had no problem with Dudley punching or throttling Harry, so why was anyone else any different?

Harry's responses to this attitude were to do as he was asked, and then when left alone he would stay far away from them all. He slept under the stairs in a small cupboard that most people used for storage. His aunt and uncle couldn't see fit to give him a room. In their minds, he was little more than a cat. They could call him when they wanted to, and then left him to his own devices when they didn't want to acknowledge his existence. Petunia and Vernon didn't refer to Harry as a cat, but occasionally, when they were alone together they called the cupboard under the stairs the 'cat hole'. Harry's only joy came when he could be alone in a room other than the cat hole, with a book. It was too dark to read in the cupboard under the stairs. Sometimes he feared that the problems with his eyes were due to trying to read in there as a small child. His aunt alleviated these fears once when she screamed at him a comment that told him his father had glasses similar to his own.

As a ten year old, Harry was intelligent, although didn't try to excel. He tried to stay under the radar. Any success that he had, resulted in stern looks from his aunt, shouting from his uncle and beatings from his cousin. As such, Harry always sold himself short when completing assignments for school, and when completing tests.

He wanted to just be marginally better than Dudley. By just barely beating Dudley in tests, the result wasn't much more than losing his dessert to Dudley. Had Harry worked to his fullest capacity, he would have easily been within the top 10 percent of his year group at school. He was scrawny, with too much wavy black hair that stuck up in strange places. This, topped with his sellotaped glasses (Harry was permitted new glasses every two years- Vernon didn't want to go back more often than he had to for new NHS glasses, and Dudley periodically found new ways to break them), and Harry wore clothes that had belonged to Dudley who was much bigger (in height and width) than he. The only clothing that Petunia ever bought for Harry, was his own underwear, which was not the case until after an incident with his PE teacher in school. Overall, Harry was an odd looking boy. Not skinny enough to be on a doctor imposed diet, but skinny enough to see the bones on his legs, not well nourished, but clear and healthy skin that covered his small frame meant that no authorities ever were encouraged to get involved in Harry's wellbeing. His bruises and scrapes and cuts healed extremely quickly. His aunt and her family were careful about giving him what he needed, but he didn't get extras. Ever. Not even a proper birthday present. If he received a gift at all, it was usually something that could be found in a drawer or in a pocket.

As his eleventh birthday approached, Harry hoped that he would get something better than last year. 'A pen would be good' he thought one day whilst pruning the roses in the back garden, 'I start secondary school soon and I'll need my own pen'. He didn't hold much hope though.

It was with this thought that he heard a snap and a rattle. The post.

"Boy, get the post" bellowed Vernon from the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. Why the big oaf couldn't get it himself Harry didn't know. Vernon was at least 20 feet closer. Harry knew better than to complain or suggest to Vernon to get off his bum and get it himself though.

"Yes uncle Vernon" Harry said obediently, although as soon as his back was to Vernon he poked his tongue out. He considered what would happen if he had poked his tongue out to Vernon's face. Probably get his tongue chopped off with a kitchen knife he thought sadly.

Harry grabbed the post, and quickly sorted it in his fingers. Postcard… from ergh, Vernon's sister Marge, a bill, blah blah…. Wait, something for Harry! Without sparing a moment to look at it properly, knowing that Vernon's temper wouldn't stretch to waiting much longer than a few seconds, Harry slipped his own letter in the back of his jeans waistband and pulled his t-shirt over it. As Vernon had opened his mouth to ask what was taking so long, Harry put the sorted post on the table and went back to his duties in the garden. When he got to the bushes, he slipped the letter out and hid it under a plant pot for the time being. People were around. He would look at it closer later on. Harry continued with the pruning, hearing Vernon saying something about funny whelks. Later in the day, exhausted but excited, Harry slipped his letter under his bed in his cupboard, before cleaning up for dinner. Although no one was around, and he was dying to read his letter, if he hadn't washed, dressed and started the dinner his aunt would give him a horrible look when she got back from the neighbours, and Vernon might get the belt out and strike him with it for keeping them all hungry.

After dinner, Harry retired to bed in his cupboard and looked at the letter properly. It was definitely addressed to him. It even had his cupboard on the envelope. 'No mistake there' he thought matter-of-factly. He was not bitter about it. He just accepted it. The letter was even stranger than that. It was written on heavy, yellowish old fashioned parchment, that was folded into an intricate envelope, and sealed with a wax seal. The crest on the seal was interesting, but he couldn't quite make it out. He silently broke the seal and opened up his letter.

After reading his letter, Harry had more questions than answers. He found some truth in it, but it was very strange. He had been invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Something about the implications resonated as truth with him for some reason, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He needed answers. He had no one to talk to. The letter asked him to 'owl' his response. He didn't know what that meant. 'Why couldn't they have left a phone number?' he thought, feeling frustrated.

Without any option, Harry brushed a spider out of his hair, and walked out of his cupboard with the letter, straight up to his aunt and uncle who were cuddled up, watching a movie on the sofa, with Dudley asleep on the single chair, curled up but hanging over the edges reminiscent of a very large, very fat hedgehog.

"Aunt Petunia" Harry started. Petunia looked at him with the usual contempt she gave him, until she noticed the letter he held in his right hand. Without blinking, she drained of all colour and sat up straight. Vernon looked confused, and then glanced at Petunia. Realisation dawning on him, he seemed to gain the colour that Petunia had lost. His face became a beetroot-like colour.

Before either of them could say anything, Harry brandished the envelope towards them, and held onto the letter for the moment.

"I had a letter sent to me today" He did this deliberately so they could see how it was addressed. Petunia gained extra colour, but it wasn't right. She became a strange green colour, and made a strange sound like a strangled cough.

When Harry brandished the letter, Vernon made to grab for it, but Harry did not allow it. He darted backwards out of reach. He didn't want the letter to be torn up, although he had already memorised it. He wanted to keep it if he could. Harry summarised it for them, and then asked a question.

"What can you tell me?"

It was perhaps the lack of a childish question that caused Vernon to quaver with fright. Harry seemed in his eyes to be more of a threat than ever.

Harry did not receive answers that night, but the next morning, his aunt and uncle cleared Dudley's second bedroom out of all of the things that were rubbish and moved Harry's meagre possessions in. His aunt also left a small package on his bed: a wicker Moses basket, a blue blanket, and a crumpled piece of parchment with a message on it, with a familiar name on it.