While my trip back to college has been canceled and my classes have also been canceled, I worked on this! Hope you all like it!

Compulsion, Chapter Two

::::

Harry sighed as he stood near the door of Privet Drive, waiting for his aunt, uncle and cousin. He could hear Dudley whining about his halloween costume upstairs. The Dursleys were going to a costume party, and Dudley was dressed up as Spiderman. Petunia and Vernon, of course, did not participate in dressing-up, but that didn't stop Dudley from attempting to squeeze into the spiderman suit. Harry had thought the whole thing to be a very good experiment on the limits of the elastic properties of spandex.

After Dudley was finally done dressing, the Dursleys and Harry piled into the car. Harry was dropped off at Mrs. Figg's unceremoniously while Dudley taunted him about all the sweets he would miss out on. The words rolled off Harry easily; there was very little that Dudley could say to rile him up nowadays.

Mrs. Figg was as always, horrendously boring. He had already been made to pour over her scrapbooks of cat photos countless times in previous visits, and each time, she would point at the cat and tell him about all the habits of the cat – what it liked to eat, sleep, play, and other things that an eight-year-old could care less about. Her house smelled funny too, and the scent made him wrinkle his nose and sneeze occasionally. Really, Harry would much prefer to be left at Privet Drive – now that he could easily bypass the lock on the cupboard door, being left alone was something he cherished.

Luckily for Harry, Mrs. Figg had decided to pass out candy this Halloween, so her endless stories were interrupted by the rings of the doorbell. He even snuck a couple pieces of candy into his pocket when she answered the door. There was a bowl of chocolate and lollies on the living room table, and although Mrs. Figg hadn't forbade him any, he didn't want to take chances by asking. There had been several times in the past where Harry would ask for something that the Dursleys would not allow, and Mrs. Figg would hesitate, and then refuse him with a regretful tone.

As the evening progressed, the trickle of trick-or-treaters turned into a steady stream, and Harry spent most of his time bored, listening to Mrs. Figg pass out candy to the children in costumes. He was slightly jealous of the children as he had never been allowed to go trick-or-treating, but the emotion did not perturb him much since he had experienced far worse injustices.

Harry idly examined the wallpaper, noting that it was peeling in the corners of the walls. Aunt Petunia would throw a fit over that kind of thing, he thought. There was a small drawer table with statues of cats set upon it, and a cardboard box filled with old newspapers, set aside for recycling.

He walked over to the box, curious. Harry loved to read, and sometimes nicked old newspapers from the recycling bin. Many of the political issues and current events flew over his head, but Harry enjoyed devouring all the words, even reading through the classifieds.

Curiously enough, the name of the newspaper, which peaked out over the top of the box, was not one that he recognized. The Daily Prophet, an odd choice. Perhaps this was an astrology publication?

He unfolded the newspaper, and froze. His eyes went wide.

The photos in the paper were moving. Figures shifted and moved and smiled.

The headline screamed ANNIVERSARY OF THE TRIUMPH OF THE BOY WHO LIVED. But it was perhaps next line of the article that shocked Harry the most.

Harry Potter – where is he now?

Harry blinked rapidly several times, not quite believing what he saw. He was dimly aware that Mrs. Figg seemed to be still occupied with the trick-or-treaters at the door and not quite knowing what to do, he read on.

The Boy-Who-Lived, now eight years old, has not been sighted in the Wizarding world since that fateful Halloween. Where is the child who miraculously survived He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Where is the child whose name will be the toast of many Halloween revelers tonight? It is a mystery. As always, Hogwarts Headmaster and Supreme Mugwamp Albus Dumbledore has the same words - "He is safe." The Boy-Who-Lived's location is a jealously-guarded secret, although many would say that the danger is passed, and the secrecy, unwarranted. For a review of all known facts of that night, and theories behind the deflection of the Killing Curse, turn to page 7. For newly discovered photographs of the Potters, turn to page 8.

Harry read through the newspaper rapidly, eyes widening.

Evidence shows that the night He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named approached the Potter home in Godric's Hallow, he was alone. James Potter was found dead on the first floor of the home, presumably fighting the mass murder. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named then moved onto the second floor of the house, killing Lily Potter. It is then that the famous incident occurred – the Killing Curse casted by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named somehow backfired, marking Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Albus Dumbledore, who was one of the first on the scene, said "Lily and James died protecting their son. Let us honor their sacrifice."

The world seemed to slow down, and when Mrs. Figg finally came back into the room, Harry had already stuffed the newspaper in the side of his trousers for further examination later.

The rest of the night was a blur. Questions ran through his brain, and Harry was dimly aware of a sharp pain in his hands. When he looked down, he saw that he had been clenching his hands so tight that his nails had drawn a bit of blood in his palms.

When the Dursleys picked him up, Harry was moving on autopilot – the horrid sounds of Dudley eating candy and his whining for more chocolate didn't even register. He numbly walked into the house, following after the Dursleys.

My parents – they weren't drunks. They loved me. They loved me enough to die for me.

And these thoughts created a gaping hole inside of Harry. The knowledge of a world of magic had been shoved to the back of his mind. A sense of loss, of what his life could have been, of the knowledge that someone had once loved him – maybe he was worthy of being loved, maybe he wasn't a freak, maybe, just maybe that he deserved to be happy as any other child –

It made him want to laugh, to cry, to rip apart walls and curl into the darkness of his cupboard and never leave.

It was in the midst of these thoughts that he accidentally walked straight into Vernon who had been walking to his armchair with a glass of brandy in hand. The amber liquid sloshed all over his white shirt and tie, with a few drops landing on Harry's arm.

"Boy!" he roared, his face turning pink at an alarming rate, "Watch where you're going! Look, look what you did, you miserable..."

Vernon ranted and raved, but it didn't affect Harry, who had jerked a little, and then settled back into his previous state of shock. And, because Vernon was the sort that gained satisfaction from causing others pain, he grew even angrier at Harry's lack of reaction. The boy's eyes were distant, and Vernon hated being ignored.

"YOU LITTLE FREAK, ALL YOU DO IS CAUSE TROUBLE," he yelled, spittle flying, "YOUR DRUNK PARENTS, ALL THEY COULD DO WAS BURDEN US GOOD PEOPLE WITH YOUR FREAKISHNESS. THOSE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING FOOLS!"

And quite suddenly, Harry snapped out of his stupor. Anger blazed in his eyes.

His parents?

His parents?

The ones they lied about, the so-called drunks, the ones that died on this day?

"You're a liar," Harry said, barely restrained with a rage. His hands were balled up into fists, and although Harry didn't realize it, he was shaking with anger.

Vernon looked stunned. The scrawny boy had never responded, had never yelled back. He usually stood there and took the insults and blows with hurt in his eyes. Harry stood with a defiant glare, looking up at his large uncle.

Vernon looked unsure what to do for a moment, but regained his anger, and seized this chance to yell even louder, slamming his glass down onto the table, causing several cracks to appear in the glass. Petunia and Dudley had ran down, and were watching the scene unfold; Dudley, with a twisted glee, and Petunia with grim satisfaction.

"YOU'RE A LIAR," Harry roared back, "MY PARENTS WEREN'T DRUNKS!"

"YOU LITTLE SNIT," Vernon shouted, "THEY WERE THE WORST SORT, THOSE FREAKS – "

"HOW DARE YOU! YOU'VE LIED TO ME MY ENTIRE LIFE, MY PARENTS LOVED ME, WHEN THEY DIED, THEY WERE PROTECTING ME AND THEY WERE MURDERED –"

Vernon's face suddenly turned white, and he looked at Harry with undisguised rage.

"THEY WERE FREAKS AND YOU'RE ONE TOO! I'LL BEAT THE FREAKISHNESS OUT OF YOU, YOU LITTLE PUNK," as he took stomped toward Harry, his right hand curled up in a fist.

Pain suddenly exploded as Vernon's meaty fist connected with Harry's face. He flew back, his head and back crashing into the wall. Wincing, he stood up stubbornly, and the throbbing pain all over gave Harry a blazing clarity in his rage. All the injustices he had experienced, all the nights he had spent crying, all the bruises and headaches from Vernon's fist and Dudley's bullying – they welled up into a great anger that burned inside the young boy.

"YOU DARE, AFTER ALL THE LIES YOU HAVE TOLD? HOW COULD YOU?"

How was it fair that Harry wasn't allowed to do well in class? How was it fair that his uncle, who weighed several times more than Harry, shoved him around like a rag doll? How was it fair that Harry went to bed without dinner at least every other night, while Dudley shoved his face with food? Harry vaguely noticed Vernon's mouth opening to speak.

"NO, YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME." Harry noticed that something powerful seemed to surged within him, and it was pulsing in time to his heartbeat. A hint of fear suddenly appeared on Vernon's face, but all Harry could think about was the pain that rushed out of him like a river. There was a pounding in his head. All he could feel was the pain, the anger, the hurt, condensing into something that burned all throughout his body. The eight-year-old boy was dimly aware that his vision was becoming hazy at the edges.

There was a loud voice filled with fury resonating throughout the house. It accused the Dursleys, shouted at them, commanded them. The Dursleys stood shook still, and Harry, through the thick pounding inside his head, realized that they were looking at him with fear.

"YOU, ALL OF YOU – THIS WILL NOT GO ON ANY LONGER."

Waves of something hot seemed to pour off of his arms, which Harry hadn't realized that he was holding out. The voice was still going on heatedly, but Harry wasn't even sure what it was saying anymore.

One by one, the Dursleys collapsed to the ground, their eyes glazed over. Somewhere in the back of his mind, right before a sudden exhaustion overtook his body and blackness claimed his vision, Harry realized that that the powerful voice had been his.

Harry shivered as he woke up, groaning. For some reason he felt exhausted, even though he hadn't been forced to do any yard work the day before. Light hit his eyes as he turned over.

Suddenly, Harry sat up straight, realizing that he wasn't in his the darkness of his cupboard when his hand brushed the smooth surface of the ground. In the cupboard, his hands only ever felt the dusty thin cot and the rough, unfinished floor.

He had spent the night on the wood floor of the living room. The memories of the night before rushed through his brain, and Harry blanched as he realized what he had done. His uncle had left him on the floor after he had passed out, but that meant he probably had something worse coming later.

The eight-year-old boy gingerly touched the side of his face and winced. Normally Uncle Vernon was more careful about where he hit Harry. This bruise was most likely much too vivid for Petunia to allow him to go to school.

Oddly enough, there was little sound in the house. He glanced at the clock hanging over the mantle – six in the morning. It would be at least thirty minutes before Petunia came down to wake him up to make breakfast.

There was a sharp intake of breath when Harry realized exactly why the Vernon had been so angry. His parents. Oh, his parents.

It all came crashing down again. He wasn't a freak. He was a wizard. He had magic.

His parents had died trying to save him.

It was then that Harry noticed that something was stuck on the waist of his trousers. The dark-haired boy suddenly stiffened. He had completely forgotten that he had pilfered the newspaper from Mrs. Figg.

Carefully, he slid it out, reading the front page again. When he read the line 'For newly discovered photographs of the Potters, turn to page 8', Harry froze. He had not had time in Mrs. Figg's house to see the photos, and his aunt and uncle had never shown him any photos of his parents. With shaking hands, he turned the pages of newsprint.

There were two photos, black and white, and moving. One was of several boys, flying around on brooms. But it was not this that made Harry gasp – it was the portrait of a family, of a bespectacled handsome man and a women with long hair, looking lovingly at the bundle she carried in her hands. A tuft of unruly black hair sat upon the young baby, and Harry knew he was looking at himself, in the arms of his parents.

The man, who had the same unruly hair, chuckled, while the the women looked out at him with kind eyes, smiling.

A tear trailed down Harry's cheek, followed by several more.

::::

Review! :)