Most of those who had been killed were muggleborn's, those whose families were not magical. According to Professor McGonagall, this Lord Voldemort was an advocate of "Pureblood rights." He believed that those who were born into a family with magic were of a higher stock than those without it, and that those without it should either be killed, or enslaved. It reminded Harry of what he'd learned about Adolph Hitler, whose hatred of those of Jewish religion was well known.
Another thought occurred to Harry, one that caused him to almost frown. That night nearly ten years ago when his parents had been slain, he remembered it so well, and yet until this moment he knew next to nothing about it. All he had known was that a man calling himself Voldemort had come to his house, killed his parents and tried to kill him. Nothing else. He had had no context for that no night, no clue as to why it happened. All he had known was that it did. Until now, at least.
It was one of the disconcerting aspects of having eidetic memory. His mind could only recall what it remembered, and while it remembered everything that did not mean it knew everything. He could have the memories of something he had seen happen, anything, recall it down to the smallest detail, but sometimes, without the context of what happened before the incident everything he saw, and everything he remembered, could be rendered useless. This was an experience he was becoming intimately familiar with now, and he had to admit, he did not like it. Not one bit.
Harry made a note to correct this oversight as soon as possible, preferably when he entered Diagon Alley.
Professor McGonagall stopped speaking. It had been nearly an hour since she had started as there had been a lot to tell. Throughout it all Harry had sat at the table, back straight, hands clasped on the hard grain surface, a look of interest on his face. When the stern looking woman finally stopped speaking, Harry leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into hers as he digested her words.
"So you're telling me that everyone in all of Britain knew what happened that night Voldemort had killed my parents and tried to do the same to me?"
McGonagall grimaced at his use of the man's name, but Harry had more important things to think about than the fear it invoked.
"Why is it that I never knew of this?" he asked, looking at the woman with a frown.
"That is because you were raised in the muggle world," McGonagall explained. She had already gone into a basic description of what a muggle was, a human with non-magical abilities. The term sounded derogatory to Harry. He didn't approve of it, but didn't bring it up either. There were more important things to think about.
"And why, pray tell, was I raised in the muggle world?" he asked, both genuine curiosity and slight anger could just barely be discerned in his voice. Now that he was hearing about how famous he was, he had to wonder. Why was it that he was sent to the Dursley's? If he was so famous, then why was he not brought up in the wizarding world? If he had he would have not have been so humiliated when that mob had, well, mobbed him. Never in his life had he shown such weakness, never had he felt as ashamed as he did now.
"It was Professor Dumbledore's idea," McGonagall said, and Harry watched as her nostril's flared slightly. It was clear to him that she did not approve of his living with the Dursley's, which pleased him slightly, though he masked it well. Now onto the next question.
"And just why did Professor Dumbledore think it a good idea to leave me in the care of a muggle family?" Granted, those people were his relatives, but they knew nothing of magic. Hell, they hated magic! To them magic was unnatural, something that shouldn't exist, something that defied to laws of science. To them, anything so unusual, so freakish, was to be hated, not embraced.
"He felt that it would not be a good idea for you to grow up knowing of your fame," McGonagall explained. "He did not want you to become egotistical, which is what would have happened if you grew up in the spotlight."
Ah, now that made sense, Harry thought. Yes, he could see why Dumbledore would want him to be raised away from his fame. People who grew up in the spotlight became ugly, pig-headed; they let their own innate sense of superiority go to their heads and became nothing more than arrogant fools who believed theymselves better than everyone else simply because they were famous. In that regard at least, Dumbledore had done right.
What he had not done right in was leaving him with those people. Those magical hating fools who abused him when he was younger. Those idiots who hated him so much that for his first five years there, Harry had been subject to their abuse.
Harry felt anger, white hot anger raging through him. Anger at Dumbledore for leaving him on the doorstep of those disgusting people. Anger at the Dursley's for not being able to see past their own fickleness and hatred. But most importantly, Harry felt anger at himself, because he knew he was better than this. That he was above such petty emotions and hatreds. What was done was done, the past could not be changed, and getting angry over it would not help him move towards a better future.
Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, he allowed his anger to go with it. When he opened his eyes again it was to see Professor McGonagall giving him an inquisitive and worried look. He smiled at her. "Thank you, Professor, for enlightening me about that which I was ignorant of. I have heard the saying that ignorance is a bliss." His smiled turned amused. "After what has happened today, I don't think I agree."
The stern looking Professors lips twitched. It looked like she was trying to smile, but had at some point forgotten how. "Considering what happened today, Mr. Potter, I am not sure I can blame you for that." Her somewhat smile once again became a thin line. "And now that we have that out of the way, perhaps you can tell me why you are here without a teacher?"
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