Bright sunlight streamed through a dirty window. The light, left a square of yellow-white light glowing on the brown carpet of the room behind that window. The room itself was inconsequential, merely the smallest bedroom of four in a modest house located in a suburb of London called Little Whining. Brown carpet, pale yellow walls, a small dresser, an almost smaller desk, and a camping cot were the biggest things which could be seen in the room. There were other things-a mess of broken toys and electronics, a collection of brand new, never before read books, a couple of rolls of parchment on the desk, and a young teenaged boy on the cot itself.
The boy was thin, almost skeletal, with pale skin, and messy, black hair which made his skin appear even paler. He currently slept on his stomach, his face away from that beam of light, that slowly made its way towards him.
His sleeping attire consisted solely of a pair of boxers, which left his back exposed to the world. That back was crisscrossed with thin white scars. A collection of knotted, raised tissue. Had he ever been asked where they had come from, the boy in question would have replied that they were a ninth birthday gift from his uncle.
Any reasonable person would wonder why. What could possess this boy's uncle to do such a thing to him.
The simple answer is that said uncle hated this boy.
The longer answer is that the uncle is scared.
The uncle was scared, because this boy is a wizard. A member of that small subset of the populace who are able to harness and manipulate a form of energy most commonly called magic. The uncle was afraid of the magic and power, hidden by the emaciated frame of the boy; terrified of what it could be used for, and how it could so easily destroy him, and his family.
Sadly, this was a fear implanted in said uncle, by means of a small-minded prank played on the uncle by the boy's father.
Then that fear was strengthened when the boy, as a young child, had a bout of accidental magic that broke a teacup in the uncle's hand. As the fear grew the uncle quickly became angry and began to hate the boy.
This in turn lead to a sequence of events where the boy had become the freak; the other. An outsider within their family. Someone from beyond the walls of their civilized, normal world. It was all too easy to hate, and to hurt.
Yet for the horror in which he was raised, this boy has turned out far better than he had any right to.
Had he been awake, one would have been to see the intelligence, honesty and honor shining in the boy's eyes. He was a young man that acted with an almost instinctive nobility.
Which, is a good thing, for this boy is Harry Potter.
The door to the room, swung open; its well-oiled hinges allowing it to move without a sound. In the doorway stood a thin woman. She had thin, blond hair, which appeared almost stringy, where it hung in a limp ponytail against her long neck. Blue eyes, the exact same shape as Harry's, looked down an upraised nose at the boy; they were cold and cruel, and a slight sneer flickered across her face; a slight twitch of her left upper lip, that quickly dropped back down.
Her hands were holding onto her hips as everything about her posture and bearing expressed the anger and disgust which roiled within her as she looked at her sleeping nephew.
"Boy!"
At the screech of his aunt, Harry Potter jerked awake. It was a twitchy, tightening of his body, coupled with an instinctive turn towards the sound of her voice. He had forgotten that he was sleeping on the cot, and not the four-poster bed he was used to at Hogwarts. An act of forgetfulness which meant that he dropped off of the too small cot that was his bed. As he landed, a thick, heavy, transfiguration book smacked onto the top of his head, before hitting the floor with a thud.
Harry looked up at his aunt, confused slightly at why she would be standing in his doorway this early in the morning.
"Boy," she hissed at him, her tone a mixture of command and disgust. "You will clean Dudder's room for him today, and then you'll weed the garden and paint the shed."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied with a sigh and a nod of his head..
"And I don't want to hear any cheek from you today either. Now get to work."
Petunia watched him for a moment more, one eye twitching slightly before she turned away from him, and stomped down the stairs.
Harry watched her leave, anger and hunger churning in his chest. Standing, he let out a short sigh, as he closed the door in order to get dressed for the day. As he did, his stomach growled loudly; a gurgling sound that Harry fully expected to get use to during his time at Privet Drive. After all, it was the third day of the summer break, and the only thing he had had to eat since the snack cart on the Express was a tin of cold soup.
In a matter of minutes, he had dressed, and done his morning routines. He stared out the window for a long moment, wondering when his owl would be arriving, and if she would have a letter from Hermione when she did.
Pushing that from his mind, he turned away and opened his bedroom door. Quietly, in an effort to not attract the attention of the rest of his relatives, he left his small room, and went to the garage to grab a box, and a couple of trash bags.
Soon he was standing in the doorway to his cousin's room; a shudder of distaste wracked his body as he looked around the room. Dirty clothes were all over the floor, alongside empty food packages, and dirty dishes. The heavy cloying stench of incense competed with sweat and the smell of rotten food; a miasma which hung on the air, nearly overpowering the acrid tinge of cigarettes.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment fighting against both nausea and remembrances of his classes on divination. Once his stomach had settled, he began sorting the filth that his cousin lived in. He carried loads of dirty laundry to the garage, piles of dishes to the kitchen and threw the empty crisp and candy wrappers into one of the trash bags.
It was while cleaning the floor in that he found them. They were a set of objects that he had never expected to see in his cousin's bedroom. Three books, almost negligently tossed into a corner of the room, hiding underneath two pairs of jeans and a mustard yellow jumper.
He read the titles quickly, interest flaring into life as he did so. It almost felt like a compulsion as he traced the writing of the first book. Bold red letters across a black background which read: The Anarchist Cookbook. He eyed the other two, smiling at the amusing names of Steal This Book and The Poor Man's James Bond.
Picking up Steal This Book he opened it to the table of contents, and his eyes widened slightly at the list of topics.
Apparently, it covered subjects ranging from finding or stealing food and money to first aid and explosives. A quick glance at the other two's table of contents lead him to discover that they covered similar topics. Harry silently watched the books for a moment, his fingers still tracing the blood red lettering that spelled out The Anarchist Cookbook. After a few minutes of thought, he set them to the side.
There was something important within these books. Something he needed.
He knew this.
He understood that this was a defining moment for him. It was an instinctive urging, a whisper of disquiet in the back of his mind. That same whisper that would twist and coil in his brain as he faced the various dangers at Hogwarts.
With that in mind, he quickly finished picking up the dirty dishes, clothes and trash from within his cousin's room. Despite finding many broken toys, records, and VCR tapes the only other thing of interest was a small paperback book entitled Ender's Game. Harry had quickly added that to his stack of books, as he wondered if Dudley had actually read these things, or if one of his gang had left them here. After all, all of Dudley's gang knew that Dudley could get away with almost anything, and his parent's did not care what he did. Thus, Dudley's room was the perfect place to hide things that they did not want found.
Once the last of the trash was picked up, Harry looked out into the hallway, ensuring that his relatives were nowhere in sight. He quickly carried the four books into his room; he knew he had to hide them so that they would not be seen by anyone.
While Dudley would be able to get away with having them in his room, Harry knew that his having them would be cause for further chores and possibly less food and most likely a beating to boot.
He quickly scanned his room for a hiding place. He lacked piles of clothes, and the stack of broken toys would not really cover the books. That just left beneath his bed; so, he lay on the floor, and pushed them up under the bed. Hiding them deep in the shadows, and nestled amidst the dust bunnies.
After the books were hidden under his bed, Harry returned to Dudley's room and grabbed the filled trash bag to take it down to the rubbish bin. On his way back up, he picked up the vacuum cleaner, trying his best to not start humming. It would not do for Aunt Petunia to think he was happy after all.
Dinner came and he was given two slices of bread, a heavily bruised apple and a slice of ham, and then sent to his room. As he entered, Vernon threw three of the locks with heavy snicking sounds, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he should be happy about being locked in, or upset.
Regardless, he had time to read now. He set the plate on the floor next to his bed, and then reached up under it to grab one of the books. Pulling it out, he glanced at it, and noticed that he had pulled out Steal This Book.
He felt a manic grin stretch his face as he was amused by the title. He touched the bold red and blue on the cover, ignoring the odd picture in the middle of it. Then, he flipped it open, going past the title page and table of contents, his hand came to rest on the first page of actual text.
Big bold letters screamed "Free Food" at him. Just beneath this, was the solitary word "Restaurants." With that as the opening, Harry Potter began reading on ways to subvert corporate systems, and how to survive and think and live outside of the expected rules of society. It described a way of life that seemed like it would be anathema to his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. It described a way of life, that seemed the opposite of what the teachers described to his class in Primary School. In fact, it told of a way of life, in active opposition to the accepted rules of society. But Harry felt like the things he was learning from the book, where things he could use, things that he needed to be able to use.
Things that could help him survive.
And for Harry Potter, survival was much more important than being an upstanding member of society. Besides, he did not care that much for the Wizarding World's society and its focus on blood bigotry and hate.
The fifth day of the summer break, Harry began exercising. For the previous two days he had been debating whether to start or not. The book suggested it. Claimed it was necessary to be in good shape, or otherwise he would be easy to catch and capture. He decided that he needed to both build muscle and stamina.
So, following the suggestions from the book, he decided to start doing the simple exercises that were taught in primary school: jogging, push-ups, sit-ups and maybe chin-ups if he could find a bar the proper height. He thought there was one at the park, but was not sure.
So, he got out of bed an hour earlier than normal, and after dressing in his grungiest clothes, he set out to begin exercising.
He started by jogging around Privet Drive and Wisteria Walk, stopping in the park to do the rest of the exercises on some equipment set up for that purpose. Discovering that, yes there was a chin-up bar after all.
This small change had the impact of making him be active for almost the entire day.
From sunrise to dinner time he was constantly moving and working. If not doing the exercises from the books, then it was the harsh, nearly back-breaking chores assigned him from Vernon and Petunia: weeding, raking, gardening, and organizing the stuff that was stored in the shed. He even had to dig a hole for a pond in the back yard.
Throughout this time, hunger gnawed at him.
In just a few days it had become this bright, painful edge to everything; something that poked at him constantly. It burned while he was doing things, it ached while he rested. Day and night he suffered from it, and the pain grew as the days went on, becoming more and more of a distraction from his thoughts and feelings. Especially, at night when he lay in bed, attempting to read.
On the eighth night Harry began reading The Poor Man's James Bond.
While interesting overall, this book had large sections that he could not really apply to his life, as he lacked ready access to any firearms. He knew that he could probably get his hands on some shotguns or rifles from the local hunting club on the far side of town, but also knew that he would not know what to do with said weapons if he did go get them.
Regardless, he found a lot of information on on explosives and street fighting. He was enthralled as it discussed how to find and how to hide explosive devices. It gave descriptions on the best way to destroy structures and walls or just in general deliver pain and fear and confusion to groups of people.
Finally, there was the section on how to disable people with just his body. He decided then and there to incorporate the suggested exercises into his daily activities. He felt that it would be helpful if he was able to fight hand-to-hand; after all, he remembered how shocked and easily subdued Malfoy was after Hermione popped him one on the nose.
Three nights later he pulled the The Anarchist Cookbook out from beneath his bed. There was still something mesmerizing about that simple cover. It was black, and the title was in a bright red. He smiled, and began reading.
The sheer amount and types of information presented was both daunting and amazing. There was information on creating money and stealing credit cards. Formulas and processes to create different types of bombs or flammable materials, including nitroglycerin and napalm flowed over page upon page. It all existed as a stream of useful information on how to sabotage and destroy.
Then there were the sections on hacking and using the phone system without paying and even parts on effective ways to manipulate people into giving him things.
It was in the section on hacking, that he found the essay. It was a sheet of paper that had been folded twice and stuck into the book. Harry opened it, and noticed that it looked like it had been typed on an old typewriter; it almost looked like some of the books that appeared in the Magical world as opposed to the magazines and books from the muggle one. That said, he knew just from the subject matter that it came from the muggle world. One edge of the paper, was jagged, as if It had been ripped out of some magazine. The title was simply "The Hacker's Manifesto" and had apparently been authored by someone with the name of "The Mentor."
It was a somewhat rambling essay, but there was something in it that called out to him. Something about it which inspired him, and made him think for the first time in years. It made him actually stop and consider things the way he used to before getting his Hogwarts letter.
Calmly, he folded the paper back up, and replaced it in the book. Closing the book, he stared at the red writing for a long moment.
Emotion burned in his chest; anger at his teachers and others at the school. He did not understand why, but he knew that something was going on where he was concerned. Some thing. Some how.
He did not have the words to explain his feeling or thoughts or even the questions that roamed through his mind. Those things were still submerged in the back of his mind. Unsaid, and unasked. Almost, instinctively, he knew that the questions existed. He could feel them there, itching at the edge of his awareness. Despite the fact that he knew they were there, he did not know the questions to be asked, much less their answers.
Giving it up for a bad job, Harry stashed the book back under the bed, and then stretched out and stared up at the ceiling. Thoughts concerning his teachers, Ron and Hermione, as well as all of the adventures they had participated in rushed through his mind. A wash of pain and danger and confusion.
Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes, and forced himself to fall asleep, even as he processed and thought about the information that he had read over the past few days.
On day sixteen, he decided that he had to put into practice some of the suggestions from Steal This Book. He took a slightly longer run that morning, and made two small stops on his way to the park.
The first was behind the small grocers roughly a half mile north of said park. There was a large green rubbish bin which sat next to a heavy looking door. Harry frowned for a moment, and then jumped in. The stench of rotting fruits and vegetables was almost overpowering. Still, he dug through the trash, and finally found a handful of tin cans. They were dented, and the labels had been removed, but they were still sealed and did not show the tell-tale bulging of being bad. He placed them into the pack that he carried, and climbed out of the bin.
A quick glance around, and he started jogging once again.
His second stop was in a location similar to his first, but instead of being a grocer's it was a local thrift store. There were two bins behind this building. One stood a few feet away from the large rolling door, and was obviously the trash bin. The second was across the alley from the building, and had the words painted on the side that spelled out "Donations."
Within, these two bins, he found a number of pairs of jeans and a few shirts that were his size, as well as a few pairs of training trousers and shorts that he could continue exercising in. These also went into his bag, and once again, he was jogging away.
Five minutes later, he was in the park, and starting the muscle building aspects of his exercises.
Once he was done, he went over to a table, and dug through his bag pulling out the tins of food. He sat there, and looked at them for a few minutes, his thoughts dark as he considered what he had done that morning. Harry knew that strictly speaking, what he had done could be considered stealing; he knew he should feel shame for digging through the trash for food to eat.
Yet despite what he knew he should feel, he felt no guilt, no qualms of his conscious, no stirrings of shame or self-disgust.
Rather, he felt the sharp pain of hunger; a gnawing, roiling ache that was settled deep in his bones, and rested heavy across stomach..
Opening the first of the tins, he began eating the corn that was found within it.
That night, he fell asleep with, not necessary a full stomach, but without the gnawing ache of hunger. It was the first time that that had happened since school had let out for the summer.
On the twenty-second night of his summer holidays, Harry finally finished Ender's Game. Closing the book, he looked at the cover for a moment, and then sighed. It had only been a few minutes since he had sent Hedwig off to Hermione, so he expected that he would not get a letter from her for two or three days. Despite not hearing from Ron all summer, Hermione's last letter to him told him that the Weasley's expected to invite them both to the Quidditch World Cup in a few weeks.
Harry groaned slightly, as he balled his fists into his eyes. That was just another set of mysteries that plagued him and his life.
He could not understand how a family as poor as Ron always claimed they were, were able to afford to take them all, plus Hermione and himself to the World Cup. He also did not understand why only Ron's friends were invited to things like this. Lee was a muggle-born as well, and Harry was fairly certain that the twins had never been allowed to invite him over to the Burrow.
Growling slightly, Harry pushed thoughts of the Weasley's out of his mind as stared at the image on the cover of Ender's Game. It was a simple image of a spaceship flying towards the distance, an image that evoked feelings of escape and facing the unknown at the same time.
A sigh escaped him as he forcefully turned his thoughts back onto the story he had just read. He thought about the story, and what Ender had done and what he had been through, and focused those thoughts through a lens of "The Hacker's Manifesto"and the three other books Harry had recently read. Dark thoughts filled his mind, thoughts about corrupt and controlling authority figures and teachers, and weapons against a nearly unconquerable enemy.
As those things raced through his mind, Harry compared Ender's adventures and schooling with his own.
He sat up in the bed, his eyes widening, and then narrowing into a cross frown as realization sunk in. The book was an enjoyable read. It was a fun book. Yet, despite that, the book scared him. It made him worry about his life, and his future. The story resonated with Harry. He recognized it. He understood it. He firmly believed that he lived it.
He easily saw himself AS Ender.
The parallels were there, harsh and obvious as he thought about them. The small adventures that were almost too hard, yet still forced him further on. The way that adults in his life fell into one of three categories: they treated him with disdain and hatred, they were accepting, but cold and aloof and never did anything to help him when approached, or they were caring but absent. The teachers themselves always fell into one of the first two categories. Snape always actively participated in the abuse and derision and scorn directed towards him. Anytime the greasy professor was presented with the opportunity to emotionally beat upon Harry, he took it. Other professors, such as his own Head of House, Professor McGonagall, would simply refuse to help him when he requested said help. She was often absent in her role as confidant and mentor and pseudo parent for Gryffindor House, but it was even worse where he was concerned. She did not believe him about the Philosopher's Stone, and she did nothing to help curb the students who were spreading rumors about him being the Heir of Slytherin in his second year.
Harry was often the focus of anger, scorn and bullying from a number of the students, while most of the rest thought little to nothing of him. Even Ron often reacted with jealousy and anger directed towards him or Hermione.
And he was supposed to be some type of hero or celebrity?
As he thought on this, and considered how often he was antagonized, how often he would respond, and ultimately, who was punished in the situations, he realized that he was constantly being pushed in this. He would be punished by teachers for responding to Malfoy or what not, and that would be the case, until the moment that other people's lives were on the line. The moment, he helped save someone else—and usually that was the school as a whole or a pure-blood-then he would get a pat on the head and a few worthless, useless house points; all so that the Great Hall could have Gryffindor colors for a few hours during a single meal.
Emotion flared in his chest; a storm surge of anger and distrust.
It was all a part and parcel of the whole. All factors in how he was being raised, and trained. He was to have no sense of self-preservation, and be willing to give up his life for other witches and wizards.
Why, he asked himself.
Why was this the case? Why was he being made the one responsible for laying his life down on the line where other magical beings were not? Did not everyone have the responsibility for ensuring that they themselves were protected? He had no family, no wife, just a gathering of friends, and while he loved them dearly, he could not see any particular reason that he would be responsible for ensuring their survival.
He could feel his eyes burn slightly as tears fought to both fall and not fall at the same time. He scrubbed at his right eye in slight frustration.
After a few moments, his emotions centered themselves once again, and he focused his thoughts on the one person he felt himself closest to: Hermione.
Closing his eyes, he released a nearly silent sigh; realization washed over him. She was his Valentine and his Petra all rolled into one. Someone that showed him love and helped teach him; someone who accepted him as he was and did all she could to help him. She was a helper, and a confidant; someone who supported him.
He knew that she might not necessarily be a part of the system, but she was a person whose entire personality, how she thought, how she cared and how she reacted to him in pain, made her easily used and abused by the teachers and other adults in their little game of creating a weapon. He assumed she was not a part of that particular game, because she did not fit the mold with those who he knew were. She was muggle-born and muggle-raised, not someone who was raised in the magical world, unlike the rest of the players in this particular game that Harry was finding himself in. The teachers, Malfoy, the Weasleys and the rest of the worst of the students were all magical-raised. The only pieces that he recognized on the board of the let's make Harry a weapon game that were exceptions to that was Hermione and himself.
And Voldemort.
Dark thoughts flickered through his mind, as those connections were made, and just as quickly, he pushed them away. That was a path of thought he did not want to deal with tonight. Instead, he focused his thoughts back on Hermione and her place in his life.
His decision was quickly made, she, he trusted.
In that instant, he knew that he would not tolerate anyone making fun or arguing with her. Not Malfoy. Not Ron.
Sighing, he thumbed through the book, looking for a certain conversation between Ender and Petra. Then he found it. He re-read the words, absorbing them, internalizing them: The adults are the enemies, not the other armies. They do not tell us the truth.
This was how he now felt about Dumbledore and McGonagall, and to a lesser extent all of the other professors. He had always known that Snape was an enemy.
Even Hagrid was part and parcel of the systemic abuse.
Hagrid himself had admitted that rainy night when he rescued Harry that he was not the person to inform someone muggle-raised of the basics of the Wizarding World. Hagrid had even forgotten to tell him how to get onto the platform. What else did Harry not learn before the start of the year? Was there some type of information package that Hermione received that he did not? He did not know. Harry did not know about what rights he had in the Wizarding World, nor what his responsibilities were, or were going to be after he graduated school.
And it all came back to Dumbledore.
The adults are the enemies, not the other armies. They do not tell us the truth.
Harry knew this to be true; he felt it in his very bones. He knew because he could see the resemblance between Dumbledore and Graff and Rackham. Dumbledore was his own personal Graff, and just like Graff, Dumbledore was raising and training a weapon. He felt that to the teachers, there was not a person called Harry; rather there was nothing but a thing. An undefined object that was being raised and reared to be a weapon; a weapon that could, and would, be aimed at Voldemort and told to attack and then to die, and worse, he would then just happily go and do that. Harry knew he would, because even now he saw it as a perfectly acceptable way in which he could escape the pain and misery of his life.
He could see it now; it would be his ultimate and final act of rebellion.
The way he would get back at the teachers for pressuring him into task after impossible-to-overcome task. He would give up, and either die or destroy Voldemort. Or both.
Harry wondered if he followed Dumbledore's plans for his life and became the weapon that the old man wanted him to be and by some miracle actually survived being pointed and fired, would Dumbledore place his hand on Harry's shoulder, and tell him, "I aimed you. I'm responsible. If there was something wrong, I did it."
Harry somehow doubted that Dumbledore, unlike Rackham, would have even that cold comfort to provide Harry at the end of everything.
There was a part of Harry that believed that Dumbledore would not offer it, even if he was able. There was that small part of him, that believed, that knew, that Dumbledore would never have that much concern over his weapon. He knew that Dumbledore had no worlds for Harry to flee too. There would be no speaking for the dead. There would be the loss of his self, if not in death, then into whatever shape and mold the Headmaster had twisted Harry into by the time his schooling was done.
Harry could almost feel the dark times approaching. It was a twist of tension in his stomach and head, a cold knowledge which sat at the pit of his stomach; the unspoken, unheard, and unacknowledged truth that the trials and troubles that he had faced so far were just the tip of the proverbial iceberg; they were merely the leading edge of the storm that was to come.
And just like that, he knew.
He knew that he had to grow up.
He knew that he had to take control of his life. He knew that he could not blindly be Dumbledore's weapon. He knew that he could not rely or count on any adult at school, that he would be forced to protect the students and his friends-and to ensure that the bullying and bigotry and hate were met with an appropriate response.
And that response did not include the blind forgiveness which the Headmaster seemed to give out so freely to all but the victims of said bullying, bigotry and hate.
Harry scrubbed at his face before getting out of the bed. He crossed the room and placed his hands against the door on either side of the mirror that hung there, leaning into the door slightly as he looked at his own reflection.
He stared into his own eyes, searching for any sense of self, and who he was versus who he wanted to be, who he expected himself to be. He searched his eyes for any hint of the Harry Potter that had existed prior to his eleventh birthday.
Who was he?
Harry Potter or the Boy-Who-Lived?
He lacked answers. He did not know.
So instead of answering, he searched. And he watched.
And as he watched, he saw how the dim, yellow light from the street lamps outside made his eyes glitter with a cold fire. As he watched he considered and thought and he let the anger settle deeper into his bones. An anger that was a harsh coldness that twisted at his gut, and made him question everything in his life.
Harry finally understood what Ender had meant while thinking about the difference between a cold anger and a hot anger. He watched his eyes, as that cold anger flared and flashed within them; something that made them seem hard, like glittering, chips of green colored ice.
When he spoke, his voice was harsh with disuse and a touch of dehydration. The words seemed to sneak out from inside him, and take a life of their own in the still of the night. They were a whispered promise of disquiet, distrust and subversion, which settled firmly into his mind as he stared at his own eyes in the mirror. They were an incantation of change.
Those words, all but stolen from the character Petra, sparked a distrust of adults and others; they were a promise to himself to look beyond the words given to him and to find the why.
To not trust blindly.
To not be the simple weapon, ready to save the world at the cost of his own soul.
He spoke words which he had decided to take on as his creed and doctrine; they were the subtle rule by which he would life his life, and judge not just the teachers, but the other students, and everyone he came into contact with.
Into that quiet, stiflingly hot night, Harry Potter spoke words which would ultimately change the Wizarding World forever.
"The adults are the enemies, not the other houses. They do not tell us the truth."