Disclaimer – The world of Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling and various publishers. I make no claim to ownership

Author's Note (please read): Although this may initially appear to be a retelling of Harry's adventures at Hogwarts as written by J.K. Rowling, I can assure it is anything but that. Although the majority of the characters in my story will come from the original books, their roles will very likely be different, as will their personalities, to an extent.

Furthermore, this story will follow its own stride. Do not expect to find fluffy guarding the philosopher's stone, or even a philosopher's stone for that matter (I'm not suggesting there won't be a philosopher's stone; just an example). I hope to create an entirely new story, with Harry as an entirely different person (stronger, smarter, darker), but I will draw from the universe created by Rowling, and I will more or less obey the rules of the world she has created.

So if you are expecting me to follow the sequence of events as laid out by J.K Rowling's books, you will be disappointed. There will, however, be many similarities in the beginning, but the story will diverge quickly once it is on its way.

I plan to write a great deal (hundreds of thousands of words), so this is a very long term project. That said, I will attempt to be as regular as possible in my submissions and write as much as I can. I will not abandon the project until its completion, and even if there are delays, I will not give up on it.

I appreciate feedback.

CHAPTER ONE

Escape from Privet Drive

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by not later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

"Bloody hell."

The letter had arrived two weeks ago, lying by the front-door. Luckily, Harry Potter had been the first to see it—before Vernon, Dudley or Petunia could hide it from him or even have him locked up for it in the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard was an unwelcoming place, cramped, tiny and dimlit, and it served as his permanent home. He was little more than a prisoner in the Dudley residence, subject to their whims and forced to act however they wanted him to. He was their servant and punching bag, a sub-human at their mercy.

Two weeks he'd kept the letter hidden, reading over it carefully, feeling the coarseness of the parchment under his fingers and wondering whether to believe the letter's irregular contents. He wanted nothing more than to embrace the prospect of a school of witchcraft and wizardry, if only as an escape from his living hell.

When he'd been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. It had made him believe there was something else out there for him.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes, but they stayed well away from him. Odd things happened around Harry that no one could explain. Bullies twice his size slipped on solid, dry concrete; people stumbled when he was attacked. Nothing seemed to make sense. And there was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead—standing as a reminder to all that he wasn't normal.

But Harry wasn't about to get his hopes up.

He may have been eleven, but Harry was no fool. What he knew of the world told him the letter had to be a lie—a fabrication for which he couldn't fathom the motive. Why would anyone set up such an elaborate prank? It was definitely outside Dudley's scope; after all, it took some genius to come up with the exotic booklist. Of course, that left only one possibility: the letter was real. Harry was anything but normal. Very early in his life, he'd stumbled upon his peculiar ability to speak to snakes. There were other things, too. If he concentrated hard enough, focused his mind to the task, he could cause certain events.

It first happened when Dudley startled him one morning when he was still groggy and recovering from nightmares of Vernon beating him. Dudley had leapt out of his bedroom, scaring a half-awake Harry almost out of his skin. The incident ended with Dudley on the floor, his nose mashed as if he'd been hit. It'd been so swift that they'd all believed Harry had hit his cousin, but he knew better. They hadn't even been close enough to touch. And he remembered when Aunt Petunia had cut his hair really short and he had hated it. When he woke up the next day, his hair had been normal.

This letter, unbelievable as it was, explained all the bizarre events in his life that didn't fit neatly into his logical interpretation of things. Harry was smart—book smart and otherwise. He'd studied well ahead of what he normally had to and he was quick to grasp anything he read. His only flaw was that he was easily distracted—the boredom of mundane human studies left him with little interest in knowledge. But there was nothing he couldn't learn if he put his mind to it.

Perhaps he suffered somewhat from boredom, possibly because he was challenged at all by his studies, but

Was that part of being a wizard, he thought? To be smarter?

Was Hogwarts his way out of Privet Drive?

There was only one way to know. He needed school supplies. Therefore, money. He had to get to this Hogwarts by some means, and he undoubtedly required his guardians' permission before he could even consider attending. There was no way that was happening without Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia knowing. He'd considered it from every which way and came to same conclusion. It meant he had no choice but to show them the letter; hopefully, they would be so glad to be rid of him that they'd support his departure. Of course, that depended entirely on whether or not they took the letter seriously, which they probably never would.

But it was worth the risk. He didn't want to spend the next seven years at number four, Privet Drive until he was old enough to leave. The most Vernon would do was slap him a few times. It was worst when he was drunk, so Harry would be careful to approach his uncle when the man was sober. They would very likely lock him in his cupboard for a week or two when they were done punishing him, but Harry had honed his concentration to the point where he could open the lock to his door with a single thought, so it really wasn't that much of a deal.

So after two weeks of careful deliberation, Harry decided to reveal the letter to his guardians. It couldn't have been worse. This is more or less how it went:

He entered the living room, ignoring Dudley as he munched down on a chocolate bar. The chubby boy aimed a kick at him as he passed, but Harry's swift reflexes saved him from it. He'd always prided his speed and ability to react under pressure. He wasn't physically imposing, but he had a wiry build that was deceiving to most. Harry had spent years doing all the chores, from mowing the lawn to cleaning the house, and it'd made him stronger than he seemed.

Vernon was in his chair, reading the morning newspaper and his Aunt Petunia bustled about as usual, shooting Harry a sour glance as soon as he entered. The woman couldn't sit still if her life depended on it. Harry decided to take the direct route and get right to the problem, knowing his Uncle wasn't known for his patience. It was better to get it over with in one fell swoop than to have to explain to them what exactly was happening.

"What is it, boy?" snapped his Uncle, spotting the letter. "What's that in your hand?"

He knew it was better not to look his uncle in the eye for too long, but he have him a very direct look, hoping his emerald-green eyes wouldn't reveal his unease. "Uncle Vernon," he said tentatively, approaching the large man. "I've received a letter from someone. I think you should see it."

"A letter? Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon.

I want to kill him, thought Harry. I really want to kill him. I'll never come back once I'm out.

He didn't let his thoughts show on his face as he edged forward and handed the letter to his uncle. "Maybe you should see for yourself."

His uncle gave him a disgusted look and shook the letter open with one hand, glancing at it. The man's face screwed up in an ugly frown as he contemplated its contents, but his features endured a swift and drastic change. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge. His eyes widened in fear, and short and rapid breaths puffed out from his twitching lips.

Harry was astute, and he had an instinct when it came to reading people. He'd seen his uncle angry almost every day of his life, but he'd never seen him scared. At least not like this. There was true fear in his eyes of the kind that only came from knowing something that was capable of terrifying him. It meant he believed what was in the letter, and that made no sense to Harry.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped, his hand shaking slightly.

Dudley tried to grab the letter from his father's hand, but Harry tripped him promptly with an outstretched leg. Neither his aunt nor uncle noticed the quick move. They didn't even spare Dudley a glance as the boy sputtered in rage, trying to get back on his feet. Aunt Petunia stumbled to her husband's side, took the letter from him and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He squealed like a pig and tried to swipe Harry off his feet, but he kept his distance easily, watching his uncle's severe reaction to the letter. He wanted to kick and punch Dudley, but now wasn't the time.

"What's happening?" Harry demanded apprehensively, advancing forward. "Tell me what you know!"

"Dad!" screamed Dudley. "Harry just hit me! He hit me!"

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope. Harry didn't move. "I said get out you stupid boy!"

"TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!" shouted Harry in response, fists clenched at his side. "IS ANY OF IT TRUE? AM I…AM I A WIZARD?"

"Dad, he hit me! I want you to lock him up!" demanded Dudley. The boy only then seemed to realize what Harry had said, and his mouth gaped open in terror. "W-w-what did you just say?"

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon at Harry. "OUT! OUT! OUT!"

But Harry stood firm, for the first time in his life. It wasn't that he'd been afraid before, but it hadn't seemed to have a point. For once, he was fighting for something he absolutely needed. He wasn't about to back away from the single chance he had to escape from Privet Drive, and his brittle eyes held steady before Uncle Vernon's advance.

"I. Said. OUT!"

Petunia screamed and Dudley cowered just as his uncle swung a meaty fist at Harry's face, which connected solidly with the boy's left cheek. The collision jarred his skull and rattled his brain, sending a wave of pain thundering through him. He sprawled across the floor, vision swimming, and something inside him snapped with brutal suddenness. All the years of torment condensed in that single moment, bringing his fury to bear.

There was a flurry of motion, almost as if a wind was blowing through the living room, and his uncle was thrown bodily into wall. He hit with a loud thud and slid to the ground opposite Harry, eyes glazed with shock and anger. Even Harry, injured as he was, forgot about the pain at the sight of he'd done, albeit involuntarily. And the look on Vernon's face said it all.

It was unforgivable.

It wasn't enough to stop him.

If Harry didn't do something, there was a chance he wouldn't be around to do anything at all.

He scrambled for the door just as Vernon leapt for him. The crawling man managed to grab hold of Harry's ankle, tripping him back to the ground. Harry shook off the pain and tried to struggle free, but his uncle had a firm grip on him. Petunia's screams filled the living room and Dudley was frozen in abject terror, still trying to process what was happening.

"I'LL KILL YOU, FREAK!" screamed Vernon. "YOU BETTER RUN OR YOU'LL DIE LIKE YOUR PARENTS! WORTHLESS FREAK!"

"Get off me!" spat Harry, cocking his free leg back. "Get off me, you sack of shit!"

He hammered the heel of his shoe repeatedly into Vernon's head, which forced the man to release him immediately with a howl. Harry was out of the door a second later, staggering for the front of the house. He could hear Vernon's shouted threats following him, but survival drove him right out onto the street. He kept running, putting foot before foot, not thinking—not feeling. He didn't stop until his lungs burned and his legs ached with exhaustion.

After a while of stumbling about, he gathered his wits about him and looked around. His surrounding were familiar. He was in Westeria Walk, not far from Privet Drive and close to where Mrs. Figg lived, an odd lady who kept more than a few cats and had always been kind to him. Harry supported himself on his knees and let out a heavy breath, feeling a tide of helplessness wash over him.

He was alone.

He had nothing.

He could never go back.

Author's Note: In the next installment, Harry tries to figure out what to do now that he's left Privet Drive. It won't be easy. Please tell me if you liked the pace and detail.