Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter etc. etc. etc.

Chapter One: I wish I was a Wizard

Harry ran for his life. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of his pursuers as they came closer and closer. Gasping for breath, he ducked into a nearby farm and crouched down in the shadows behind a pair of barrels.

Please don't notice me, please don't notice me, he chanted silently. If his pursuer's caught him, he knew he would be beaten soundly. Again. Sadly, it seemed to be a common occurrence.

His name was Harry James Dursley, a boy of ten, yet so scrawny that he could be mistaken for eight. Of course, he wasn't a real Dursley. Born out of wedlock, or so his aunt loved telling him. And she never let him forget that they had taken him in out of the kindness of their own hearts – given him a place to stay, instead of being dumped in the nearest orphanage like the other bastards. And for that, he should feel glad – glad that they had taken him in, and return, repay them, do all the work around the household, whether it be harvesting crops or running errands. Not that they would ever trust him with money.

Sometimes, he wondered whether he was lucky they didn't dump him in an orphanage. Those that did usually died of starvation – and if you were one of those lucky to survive, you got roped into one street gang or another – thieves, pickpockets, hired muscle and the likes. But then again, he would probably never have to see Dudley again.

Speaking of Dudley, he suppressed a groan, and peered out from behind his hiding spot. Grimacing, he noticed that Dudley, or Big D, as he was called by his cronies, had finally caught up, and they and were prowling around the premises. Hopefully they'd get tired of searching for him and bugger off. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the wall of the barn.

Harry was an only child – his mother, Lily, had died when he was one. It was said that he was found on the doorsteps of his relative's hovel in Ewel, and that his aunt's scream when discovering him could have woke the dead.

He had stayed with his relatives, sleeping on the floor of their dwelling for 9 miserable years. Scruffy looking, with clothes that had been washed so many times their colors had faded to a muddy brown, he looked just like any other street urchin, except for his eyes. They were a peculiar shade of jade green, and almost seemed to shine with their own light.

He was ten now, almost eleven. The 31st of July. His birthday. A few more years and he would be old enough for his relatives to dump him into the army, or the navy, whichever one paid the most. His relatives seemed eager enough to get rid of him. As his Uncle Vernon always said, 'Hurry and grow up boy, so we can enlist you in the King's Army. Then we can stop wasting good coin feeding and clothing you,' although Harry always doubted that he would. He was too valuable at the farm for them to get rid of him. After all, who would do all the work? An extra pair of hands on the field was a godsend once harvest season set in.

But then again, maybe life in the army wasn't so bad. At least they got paid, fed, and clothed. And once in a while they even got to shoot somebody. Maybe he would even get to meet one of the nobility, the elusive Lords who always seemed to look down upon them commoners. As was their right – after all, they had something that Harry and the rest of them would never possess – magic.

Sometimes, he wished he was born into one of those families with magic, any one of them would do, he would even settle for just having magic, for at least then, he would be somebody instead of the nobody he was now. Magic is Might. He couldn't remember where he heard those words – perhaps they were etched on some wall somewhere, but deep inside him, he knew they were true. For magic was power, and those without magic were scum. It was not always this way, he knew. Once they had a magicless King. A muggle King. King George the III. Otherwise known as King George the Fool.

King George, of the House of Hanover, had reigned for just over two decades before he was overthrown. His reign was marked by great instability – first generated by disagreements over the Seven Year War, as well as the American Revolution. Yorktown, 1781, was the last straw, and a revolution, spearheaded by various Lords, the Malfoys, Greengrass, Notts, Bones, and a host of other names he couldn't recall had ended it. Now they had a new King, a magical King, King Voldemort, first of his name, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

Arrayed around him were the various Lords of magic, ranging from the aloof Davies to the rich and affluent Malfoys. All those who did not possess magic were thrown out, stripped of their lands and titles, whether they were a lowly Viscount or a Duke, the new regime tolerated no mag icless peers. No Muggles. Those that resisted were crushed – brutally.

The new King's reign was marked with swift and decisive actions – the army was reorganised – while the core of the army was still formed by muggles – the scum of the earth, according to Lord Nott, they were now led by wizards and witches. All those of the officer class were required to wield a wand, for it was believed only those with magic knew how to properly handle troops. For they were wizards, they were nobility, and they possessed magic, which set them apart from the common soldier. It was not unheard of for a soldier to rise up from the ranks – indeed, it was Harry's dream that he would one day join the army and, through an act of heroism or another, manage to achieve a battlefield commission to Ensign, or perhaps even a Lieutenant – but they rarely rose any higher. For they were muggles, they could not perform even the simplest spells, they weren't wizards.

The Treaty of Paris, signed in 1783, ending the vastly unpopular war with the American Colonies. Ireland had fallen the year after, its ragtag army crushed by the British, soon being absorbed into the United Kingdom. And these past few years, King Voldemort had consolidated his rule, legitimizing his regime and passing a variety of new laws, establishing the civil code of conduct – being one of the first European countries to do so. It wasn't long before normalcy set it, after all, it just seemed right. Wizards were gifted. They could do things that no normal man could. They were blessed. They were chosen, and it was their sacred right, their duty, their obligation, to rule.

And so, here he was, Harry Dursley, ten, almost eleven, hiding behind a couple of barrels in a run down farm, wishing that he was a wizard.