bHarry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone/b

iChapter One: The Impossible/i

"BOY!" it was always boy when it came to Harry and his aunt Petunia. He was never 'Harry', never 'Potter', or, Heaven forbid, 'Harry', to her. Despite the fact that there were -two- boys who lived on the farm, harry and Dudley, only Harry was referred to as 'boy'. And only Harry was woken up before the sun had risen, by a screeching middle aged woman and a pitchfork. Life had perks, this was not one of them. Today, Harry Potter, who lives with the Dursely family, is thirteen. Today, Harry Potter will spend his day mucking out stalls. Happy Birthday Harry.

"UP! BOY!" The woman screeched. Harry despised her. The whole family, he hated them all, how they treated him, how he had to work for them. But even more than the Dursely family, he hated his parents. He hated Lily and James Potter who had the nerve to up and die when he was a child. The parents who got caught in the East West war and were too stupid to move. He spent his days hating, and being angry. But sometimes, if he worked hard enough, he was too tired to be angry and could think about other things. Like how to avoid his fat cousin for one. Dudley wasn't fat, according to Petunia, but rather "sturdy". Sturdy meaning that he took up enough room for two people in Church and wore shirts three times bigger than Harry's...and jiggled when he walked.

"I'm up...I'm up..." Harry mumbled, rolling off of his nice hard bench and onto the straw covered floor, in time to avoid the pitchfork handle that banged into his excuse for a bed. A tiny wooden boad on some other wooden boards, that's all it was, but it went nicely with the boarded up windows and dirty floor. icharming/i Harry thought, admiring his room, which in reality had been part of a horse's stall until it had been deemed too small to actually house a horse. So Harry got it instead. Yay.

"Boy! Stalls! Horses!" Petunia snarled out. Harry thought that she rather resembled a really ugly bear in the morning. Her hair stuck out at odd angles and she had a shawl wrapped around her that had bits of straw stuck in it. His guess was that she had tripped coming into the stables to wake him up. Ha. Served her right the fat cow.

"Yes, Ma'am," He bowed smartly to her, determined to not lose face in front of his 'family'. Family. Ha. He laughed to himself about family sometimes. Uncle Vernon was a thin man who made up lies about the battles he'd fought in, but mention magic and he clammed right up. Aunt Petunia was plump, and more the 'man of the house' than Uncle Vernon would ever be. Dudley was a fat child of a fat cow-woman who was mean to Harry. Now, Petunia and them didn't really deserve his spite, ireallllly/i In fact, Aunt Petunia was not fat, nor a cow (That would be insulting cows everywhere), she was 'plump', and motherly, like a hyena. Hyenas will sometimes eat their children.

"Dont. Forget. Water." She finished up and stomped back to the main house. He watched her go before picking up the pitchfork. Tomorrow Dudley went to school. Dudley always went to school, Harry wanted to go too, but somebody had to stay to help out on the farm. So of course its very logical that scrawny Harry should do it. Wasn't Dudley supposed to be learning logic at school? The stupid git couldn't even put on his shirt right, his head would get lost in the arm holes they were so big. Harry himself wore practical, NORMAL sized (though they were a bit loose on him because he was so skinny) breeches and a brown-greenish shirt-thing that had a tie up thing on the front. He wasn't sure what to call it, it had been a hand-me-down and reswewed to look like it MIGHT'VE fit. If Harry had been two sizes larger.

"Damned," Was all that Harry said before he went to work.

Water. He had forgotten the water, how silly of him. Harry stared at the lines on his hands as his Uncle raged at him. He barely felt the riding crop on his back. One, two, three, he could trace the lines if he wanted too. He could see how little mountains and villages could live in his hands. He...he was angry at his uncle. So unbelievably angry.

"God Damn it boy! The WATER Boy! She even REMINDED YOU! LISTEN TO ME BOY!" Vernon yelled. Boy, boy boy over and over. Harry clenched his fists, he could study how the skin stretched over his knuckles. Today Harry Potter is thirteen. Today Harry Potter wants to kill his uncle.

"I hate you," Harry said, unbending himself from the kneeling position. His green eyes were unreadable as he looked at his hands. He half turned and the riding crop caught his shoulder. The boy looked at where it lay dispassionately.

"W-What was that?" Vernon stuttered.

"I hate you," The dust stirred, like a million invisible hands swirling.

"Speak up boy!" They say that the birth of a mage is something to be celebrated. They say that power is glorious, and beautiful. Harry Potter would have to disagree. It is ugly, like a black star that burst from his back, and he didn't notice it. He didn't notice anything, except for that his Uncle's hands were meaty, thick, ugly. He decided that he hated his Uncle's hands too. He hated them. But he could only kill things in dreams, Lily and James could only be nice in dreams. Harry Potter only existed in dreams. And he was thirteen. Harry Potter felt the Power on that day, but he denied it, he denied the legacy Lily and James left him. Because he couldn't kill his Uncle. So his back bled red instead.

eheh.

harry potter fandom...I've done what I thought I'd never do. Start a long Harry Potter fan fic.

might turn out to be slashy, depending on how Draco-dear writes himself.

I thought Harry was an angry child. And so he is.

review?