Author's Note: My apologies for the long wait. I got about halfway through chapters of both The Pen is a Sword: Book One and Slytherin's Sacrifice, before my muse attacked me with a shovel and pitchfork. I was forbidden from continuing until I gave realization to this rather pressing plot bunny. So, please forgive me, and I hope that you find this story as intriguing as the rest of mine. Now that this is started, the other chapters will be up soon.

Also, this story will remain under Harry Potter until Xmen: First Class has a category created. Thank you for your understanding and patience. Hope you enjoy the story! Ta ta!

Harry whimpered as he curled up in the corner of the dark, gloomy, bloody basement. He'd been down here for since… well, he tried not to think about that; the beginning of the end. But, invariably, that was all he had left to think about, trapped down here. He was currently trying to recover from his 'Uncle's' attentions almost four days ago, only kept track by the light that peeked through the only window in the room. Unfortunately, not only was the window too small for even the malnourished and emaciated Harry to slip through, but it was too high up on the wall for him to even reach in the first place.

Hey, at least Uncle Vernon had unhooked him from the chains before he'd left, yelling threats down the basement steps. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

So Harry spent his days watching the light wax and wane, attempting to ignore his stomach that- in absence of actual food- was trying to eat itself from the inside out, trying to staunch his wounds with his torn pants and shirt, and wishing someone- anyone- would come.

But he knew from experience, no one would.

Not his dead mother or father. Not his godfather and pseudo-godfather. Not his 'friends' Ron and Hermione. And most certainly not his Headmaster, teachers, or Head of House. He'd been well and truly abandoned.

Everyone, all the people that he'd thought loved him, cared for him, had abandoned him to this hell-hole after the events of the Last Task.

It wasn't anything to do with Voldemort, no, everyone believed him when he'd said that the snake-faced bastard had killed Cedric shortly before using his blood to resurrect himself. And they'd been suitably impressed when the Priori Incantatum had been invoked.

No, what had been the breaking point was when they'd found out that, instead of keeping his wand when the connection was broken, the core had burned out and the wand had shattered.

Which meant that, all the curses and hexes and accios he'd used during his mad escape had been wandless and, most of the time, wordless. After telling this, he'd looked up into Dumbledore and Sirius' eyes, and had been struck silent by the horror and terror found there.

Apparently, this was unheard of. No one could- not even Merlin- cast wandless offensive magic. Yes, certain household charms certainly, and maybe the occasional trick used for awe and flair, but never to attack or defend. According to them, it meant that something was wrong inside of him, that he was missing a crucial element essential to all wizards: the link between Maya's Magic and his wand, his focus.

Meaning his whole body was, in their opinion, positively filled and thrummed with magic, and thus, he was a veritable time-bomb. Hence his frequent, powerful, controlled bouts of accidental magic.

A Freak…

Because, really, when had the wizarding world really been accepting of those that were different?

So, to encourage him to essentially suppress his magic and 'get off his lazy, attention-seeking arse' and develop a link, they'd sent him to the Dursleys with express orders on what needed to be done, and free reign in their methods of doing so. They'd let him back to the wizarding world to fulfill his 'duty' (he only knew about the prophesy because he'd accidentally gone a little further into Dumbledick's pensieve than the Headmaster first thought – thank Merlin for his Slytherin acting skills) of defeating Voldemort when they'd felt he'd learned his lesson.

Yeah right, you bastards.

Not after the way Hermione released the information to Rita Skeeter, saying that it was her duty to inform the general public of the danger that he posed just by fucking breathing – nevermind that they'd gone to school together for four years, and he'd never hurt them once. Not after Ron spat in his face and cursed him, saying that it was just like the self-righteous, stuck-up, pathetic boy-who-lived to try and pull something so ludicrous and dangerous just to get more attention.

When Poppy'd refused to scan him- though he'd all but begged- because she wouldn't put her wand anywhere near that 'menace' and that she would tender her resignation if Dumbledore insisted.

Oh, if only she had scanned him; because then he most certainly wouldn't be here now (as Harry was soon to learn).

And Professor McGonagall… well, her reaction had actually been rather predictable. After experiencing first-hand her rather… questionable 'motivations' and 'punishments', he wasn't too surprised when she slapped him across the face swearing in rather colorful Scottish (that he hadn't understood a word of).

The way that Remus refused to look him in the eye, refused to speak to him, refused to touch him, as though he'd catch some infectious disease – hypocritical son of a bitch! – caused Harry's heart to clench painfully. And when Sirius had looked him, right in the eye, expression full of disgust and distaste, and stated that Lily and James would have been revolted and that a weak, abnormal godson was not what he'd escaped Azkaban for; and he'd better shape up, and fast. He'd even said that he didn't want to see Harry again until he'd 'fixed' himself and apologized for doing something so freakish.

After that, his face and heart closed off completely. He hadn't even hardly paid attention to the Headmaster's disappointed gaze and speech, about how he'd always expected more of him, and how he'd go home until he'd 'learned his lesson'.

As he was leaving the ground Hagrid ran up to them, huffing and puffing. He glowered at Harry fiercely, but, somehow, Harry could see the glimmer of untruth and deception in his black eyes. "I'm very upset Harry. I woulda thought youda known better'n that." Then he sighed sadly. "Well, I'm sure you'll straight'n yourself out. Until I see ya agin, well… Here's a hug for good luck."

And, while Hagrid enveloped him in his arms, a whispered, "Don't take it out 'til ya get there. Sev'rus helped me shrink it." And a small, rectangular packet was slipped into his back pocket.

After that, it'd all been a blur of numbness and soul-deep cold. He hadn't woken up until everyone'd gone, and his Uncle was throwing him down the basement steps, a lascivious grin on his face.

He'd spent a solid week down there starving, presumably so that his Uncle could sufficiently weaken him before the real torture started.

But Harry was far from idle during that time. He'd waited until that night before taking out the package Hagrid had managed to slip him. As soon as it exited his pocket, it enlarged due to the spell that Professor Snape had obviously placed upon it.

He was overjoyed to find that it was his trunk; with his invisibility cloak, his photo album, the Marauders Map, his Gringott's key, some paperwork, a bunch of healing, skelegro, and nutrition potions, and a couple letters. He silently forgave and blessed Professor Snape from the very bottom of his heart.

During the week he'd used his key and a spare rock to saw away at the floorboards under the stairs until he could pry one up. He'd safely stored his trunk under the floorboard and replaced it, moving the suitcases that were stuffed under there at the beginning, successfully keeping it from prying eyes.

That had been, as near as Harry could tell from the tallies that he'd painted on the wall in his blood, about three months ago. Since then he'd already used all the healing potions and salves; even though he'd been sparing and conservative.

But, the plus side of all this time without food or negative attention, was that he could look at his album and read the Gringott's paperwork in peace.

Did Harry ever mention how much he just loves Severus and Griphook?

The paperwork essentially stated that, since he was legally the Lord to the Potter, Gryffindor, Slytherin (apparently Godric and Salazar were a little closer than history remembered – Griphook told him that the pregnant Salazar, being the least liked out of the two, was run off after his and Godric's relationship was exposed – since the times weren't as accepting as they were now), and Merlin, as well as the scion of the House of Black (irresponsible and convict Sirius obviously hadn't gotten a chance to remove him from his will yet), that he was technically allowed to be Emancipated. All he had to do was sign the pretty gold line at the bottom of the contract with the special phoenix-feather quill, and viola, you get one untraceable, independent Harry Potter-not-going-to-bother-with-all-the-last-names.

And the best part, they were sealed by Gringotts and therefore no one would even know that he had filed for emancipation.

There were also bank statements, and he'd been livid to realize who all had been stealing from his Potter vault (they obviously didn't know about the rest). Not only Dumbledore and the Weasleys, but also Black, McGonagall, The Order of the Phoenix, and even a direct deposit account to Hogwarts and the Ministry. Harry had immediately signed a form stating that he wanted all possessions and properties and monies returned to his vault and all vaults sealed to all but himself and the Prince Heir (he figured Severus deserved a reward, and crazy as it sounded, he trusted Severus; and he needed an ally) as soon as he was able to make his escape.

Unfortunately, that was where the problem lay. Although his 'wandless magic' didn't feel like magic, at least the magic that he used to direct through his wand, apparently it still was able to be suppressed by Dumbledore. Turns out, Dumbledore made a lucky guess, as he used ability restraining metals in the doorknob, hinges, and latches in the room, as well as in the walls, rather than magic suppressing metals.

Every time he tried, the backlash had been terrible, and Harry couldn't stop himself from screaming in pain. Just his luck, his Uncle had just returned home and proceeded to 'teach him a lesson' about making noise, and the vicious cycle finally got to the point that Harry was barely clinging to life, and unable to use his 'magic'.

He pulled out his letters again, the only things keeping him sane these past months. Severus, Hagrid, Luna, Neville, and the twins had managed to write him, professing their support and love (except for Severus, obviously).

It was Professor Snape's that he read now, for it never failed to bring a small smile to his face:

Insufferable Brat,

Yes, indeed, for it seems that you take great joy in making my promise to protect you particularly difficult to keep. As it is, I've known that the Headmaster has been using you for quite some time, and it wasn't until now that he'd revealed his true face to you. Now that you know, get as far away as you can. I've provided you the necessary documentation to free you, now it's up to you to disappear.

I have no doubt that you can manage this, as I'm sure that that blasted Cloak has kept you from many a well-deserved detention (and now that I know that you have it, pray that we do not meet again, as I will be calling in all those stored up detentions. And, I assure you, with interest).

With this letter is a piece of spelled parchment, and you're only to use it once you're away and safe. Write a question upon it, and I shall immediately receive it on my similarly charmed parchment. I assure you, Mr. Potter, that I shall be much displeased it you use it lightly, or delay too long. I do not relish the thought of having to hunt you down to ensure that you haven't done something particularly Gryffindor-ish, and finally managed to brain yourself. (Although that would be assuming that, A, you even possess the ability to refrain from being an idiotic Gryffindor; and, B, you possess any brains in the first place)

As soon as you're gone, I would suggest finding your nearest magical community and finding any books that you can that might inform you on how to control this new 'power' of yours. Of course only you could manage something like this Potter, trust you to not do things by halves.

I fear that my time is drawing short, and I can only hope that, for once, Hagrid can manage to act with some degree of believability. Take heart that you're not completely on your own, and for Salazar's sake Potter, at least attempt to stay out of trouble? If it's not too much to ask, insufferable brat.

The Half-Blood Prince

Unfortunately, the neighbors across the street were having some construction done, and so the beeping and the sound of moving machinery drowned out the arrival of his Uncle and the unlocking of the basement door.

But when Vernon slammed the door open, Harry jerked around and stared up in terror. He quickly stuffed his letters in a suitcase that had the zipper half-undone; and not a minute too soon.

Harry scurried away as quickly as he could from the image of his Uncle carrying a bull-whip, but there wasn't enough room.

Harry whimpered as Vernon grabbed him by the hair and shoved him at the wall. As Harry was trying to shake away the dizziness caused by his weak body coming into contact with the wall, his wrists were chained to the ceiling, and his legs to the floor.

But any lingering wooziness was immediately dispelled upon the first strike of the bull whip. Harry yelped then bit his tongue. He wouldn't give his bastard Uncle the satisfaction of hearing him scream. During the day, Vernon didn't want Harry to make a sound, to exist. But during his 'punishments', Vernon wanted to hear Harry cry and beg and plead.

By the twentieth strike, Harry began to lose consciousness, but the bucket of bleach-water thrown on his back woke him up immediately.

By the thirty-seventh, Harry was whimpering.

At the sixty-third, Harry began crying.

And at the sixty-ninth, Harry screamed. And, for the first time in a very, very long time, cried for help.

Help that, he was sure, wouldn't ever come.

Xavier and Eric followed Hank into the odd, cylindrical station. Raven and the rather odd, dumpy fellow that's name slipped Eric's mind, were right on their heels.

Immediately Hank began flipping switches and checking the calibrations, all the meanwhile giving some long-winded and technical explanation that Eric turned into background noise as he checked out the intriguing, rather fetching man named Charles Xavier.

He had the most gorgeous, turquoise-blue eyes that Eric had ever seen, set in a soft, kind, wise face. The dimple in his chin was particularly endearing, only matched by the ones in his cheeks when he smiled. And God what a perfect smile it was. Put that together with gorgeous, silky milk-chocolate colored hair and a body to that was practically sinful, and it was all Eric Lensherr could do to now stare at that perfect ass twenty-four seven.

Thankfully, he'd managed to erect a steel barrier around his most private thoughts, so there was no risk of Charles discovering his rather forbidden attraction. It was the main reason that he'd decided to stay. Friends, Charles had said. Well, Eric was secretly hoping for just a bit more.

He was brought back when Charles put the blue-glowing cap on his head. All the wires connected to it made him involuntarily shiver.

He snorted when Hank asked to shave his head, and was kept from forbidding it by Charles rebuffing that suggestion rather quickly.

"You make a lovely lab rat Charles." Eric smirked, moving in front of his new 'friend'.

"Don't ruin this for me Eric." Charles scowled, and Eric grinned outright.

"I know what a lab rat looks like; I've been one." But any response was cut off by the whirring and humming as the machine was activated. Eric watched in worry as the blue light moved along the wires, until Charles shouted in shock as the cap flared, and it was all he could do not to rip Charles away from the machine when he gripped the handrail for support.

They all grinned and cheered, though, as the machine started beeping and typing, printing the coordinates of all the mutants around the world, along with ability. Eric moved closer, but still within arms-reach of Charles, and stared at the paper in shock. He hadn't realized that… there were so many.

Until, suddenly, Charles screamed and the machines went wild.

Charles ripped the cap off of his head and collapsed, but Eric was there to catch him before his forehead made contact with the handrail.

"Charles! Charles, what is it?" It was only the fact that Charles was in his arms that prevented him from crushing Hank in his own bloody machine. He just knew it, testing, lab rats, pain…

"Eric," Charles rasped, and he jerked out of his past. "It was… we have to… we have to go now…"

"What is this Professor?" Hank asked, holding up the sheet of mutant coordinates. The last fifty were the exact same coordinates and country, but the 'power' column was filled with little infinity signs.

"It's him." Charles coughed out. "A boy… young, powerful…" And he turned pained eyes to his friend. "And… and like you, Eric."

The fury in Eric's faced showed, that he didn't need any further explanation than that. And, for the first time, Charles allowed himself to wonder… if, perhaps, Eric was right.

Seems like they were on their way to England. Number Four Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey; to be more exact.