Disclaimer: I'm a brown haired 15 year old American girl; so therefore I am not J.K Rowling.

A/N: Hello once again! So this idea came to me while asleep, I know, I get a lot of ideas that way. So anyway, just so you guys all know, I'm American so I'm doing my best to try and make it sound that they are British with little to no mistakes, which probably won't happen. So just tell me if I made a mistake and I'll try to fix it in the future. Ok so I'll stop rambling, here's the story. Also I need a beta also, so if anyone's up for the job….


The small 10 year old boy, dressed in clothes that seemed to swallow his skinny frame, stared blankly down at the sheet of paper in front of him, his pencil lay forgotten at the edge of his desk. His emerald eyes, hidden behind wire-framed glasses, were clouded over in thought. His messy, jet black hair stood out against his pale skin. The boy looked up from the paper, and around at his classmates, all scribbling on the paper without a second thought. He switched his gaze to the window ahead and subconsciously traced the thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, just under his fringe. After several moments of staring blankly out the window, he readjusted his gaze to the paper in front of him.

'Since you are graduating Primary school, I would like all of you to write a letter to your parents, thanking them,' the words of the teacher rang out in his head. To his parents? What parents? To him, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were nothing close to what one would call a parent. Wasn't a parent supposed to be kind, loving, caring? Nobody had ever showed him anything like that, nobody he could remember at least.

Parents, he thought again. Mum. Dad. No those words were to foreign, they sounded so strange in his head. He set his hand under his chin and sighed, the sound was drowned out by the scratching of multiple pencils. Again, he lifted his head and scanned the classroom. His teacher was at her desk, scribbling something on a paper, setting it aside in a pile, then moving on to another. His cousin, Dudley, was slowly writing something down on the paper, his pencil engulfed in his beefy hand, his face screwed up in an uncharacteristic look of concentration. This almost made the boy laugh, watching his cousin struggle with such an easy task, but then he realized, wasn't he having just as much trouble with it too. Sure, they were both for completely different reasons, but still; at least Dudley had something on his sheet.

The boy looked at the clock overhead. Half past one, he read, he had been sitting here for no more than ten minutes, not doing anything but staring at a sheet of paper. He needed to get something down in thirty minutes. He sighed again, except this time it was barely audible. He snatched the pencil from its residence at the end of the desk and began to write:

Dear Mum and Dad,

He stopped. How weird it felt just to write those words, he couldn't imagine how weird it would be to say them, but then he remembered; he would never get the chance. He started at those four words, getting lost in his own thoughts.

Dead. That was the first word that came to his mind when he thought of his parents; the second: Gone. Never anything the other kids thought of. Not love. Not warm cookies. Not hugs and kisses. Not even a goodnight. None of those, just those two words: Dead and Gone.

The small child allowed himself to get deeper into his memories, trying to think of them. Were they nice? Did they love him? Would they be proud? Or ashamed? The thought of disappointing his parents made the boy cringe. He dove deeper into his subconscious, squeezing his eyes shut so tight it hurt.

First came the scream, a woman's, he thought. Then came the light; the familiar, green light. Last came the pain. A pain that made his eyes snap open and tear up. It felt like a knife, he thought, a knife splitting his head open. The vision, if you could call it that, was familiar. It was the dream, the dream that had haunted him for years, always the same. His hand immediately shot up to his forehead, his scar to be particular.

As he rubbed his scar, his eyes immediately found those two words. Mum. Dad. Those two people he never met. Those two people that died in the crash. Those two people who will never know him, their son.

Suddenly and inspiration hit him. He relaxed his hand, which tensed in pain, reset his pencil to a more comfortable position, and began to write:

I know that you will never get this letter, you will never read these words, I know that and it's ok. Most likely, this letter will end up in the fire, while Dudley's is tacked up to the refrigerator, but I'm used to it. There are so many things I want to ask you, Mum, Dad. There so much I don't know, so much I need to know. But see that's the thing, I know I'll never know, you'll never be there to kiss me when I get home from school Mum. You'll never be there to talk about football and rugby Dad. But that's ok. I know you didn't choose to leave me on purpose, I know that you didn't die on purpose. But since I don't know things about you, you don't know things about me. I'm 10 mum, dad, it's been 9 years since you've seen me last; 9 years is a long time, and I've changed, grown. I got a scar that day, did you know that? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said that it was from glass, glass from the car. I don't know what you look like, were you pretty mum? Were you strong dad? Did either you wear glasses, like me? Do I look like either of you? The Dursley's don't have any picture of you. I don't know why, they won't tell me. But Mum, Dad, to make up for the things I don't know, there are something's I do know. It isn't a lot, but it will do.

I know that you are my family, that you love me. I know that, with you, I felt safe. There's a feeling, I just realized, that when you think of someone, you feel warm. That's how it is when I think of you. I know that I love you, that even if I can't remember you, I'll never forget you.

I love you Mum and Dad, and I'll miss you.

Your Son,

Harry James Potter

Harry dropped his pencil and re-read the finished letter. He looked at that last sentence. Never had he said those to someone. Never had anyone said that to him. They were strangers to him, those emotions. Those words were foreign, like every single word in that letter. But he knew he was writing from the heart, that everything in his heart was a stranger. He stared at the letter, his hand trembling as he re-read it over and over again, letting the words wash over him, their full meaning taking effect bit by bit. Right when he read the last line for the fifth time, a drop landed next to it, a tear drop. Harry raised a hand to his cheek and it came back damp, he was crying, not a lot, but a little. He discreetly wiped them away before anyone could notice, if Dudley or his gang saw this, he'd never hear the end of it.

He heard the teacher before he saw her. He heels were clicking on the floor, stopping at each desk, picking up the students papers. She read a little, saying complements about the students work. His body tensed, it wasn't that he was scared. He knew he didn't do the assignment correctly; there wasn't a mention of a thank you anywhere in those lines. No, he wasn't scared; he didn't want her to read it, not while he was here.

The clicks were getting closer. Five students away. Three more. He was next. He saw her shoes stop in front of his desk, a hand reached out expectantly. When he made no move to give it to her she softly said his name, "Harry," her voice was gentle, "can I have your letter?" He looked up into her age-worn face, not meeting her eyes. After a few seconds he placed his letter in her hand; she took it, placed it on the stack, and scanned it.

After what felt like a lifetime to Harry were only a few seconds in reality, she moved her gaze to Harry. "Very good, Harry." She said softly. She tried to sound normal but Harry finally looked in her eyes, and they betrayed her.

Her kind, warm brown eyes showed sadness and sympathy. Harry didn't want that sympathy, he wanted to yell at her, tell her he was ok. He wanted to tell her he went 9 years without any sympathy, and that he could 9 more if he had to. In reality he knew he couldn't, in reality he needed someone, anyone, to show him that he was loved. He didn't want to face that reality.

He tore his eyes away from hers and looked down at the desk, pretending to be fascinated by the smudges that littered its face. He kept his gaze down at the desk long after her heels clicked away.

When he finally lifted his head from his gaze at the table, he immediately made contact with Dudley's smirking face. Harry knew that look, he knew what it meant, and, being too tired to retaliate with a glare of his own, he promptly dropped his head back down to presume looking at the desk.

When the bell rang, Harry shot up out of his seat and all but ran for the door. As soon as he untangled himself from the giant mass of kids spilling out onto the sidewalk, he sprinted all the way to Number 4, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the letter, Dudley and his gang, and most of all, the whole world.

He didn't hear Aunt Petunia's shrieks of 'GET OUT NOW!' when he sprinted through the house in his dirt covered shoes, leaving prints on her newly cleaned floor. All Harry did was run into his cupboard, slamming the door behind him. He flopped on the bed, burying his face in his pillow before the tears broke the surface. That is where Harry James Potter, The Boy Who Lived, sat for a good two hours. He fell asleep, crying out all the emotions that he oppressed for 9 years, all the hurt, all the sadness, all the loneliness, and all the emptiness he suffered throughout the years poured itself out of this one special little boy, and onto the old, worn down pillow case which hid his face. Soon after, Harry fell into a sleep filled with green lights, women screaming, flying motorbikes, and two people, one a women, with beautiful emerald eyes, so much like his own; the other, a man, looked like a replica of the young sleeping boy.

Harry James Potter slept, only to have his dreams woken up by his Aunt, screeching at him to start supper. When he awoke, the dream was nothing but a distant memory.


Everyone was gone; the once busy halls were evacuated hours ago. Not even the janitors were mulling about, they finished cleaning an hour ago. Yes, everyone was gone, everyone, with the exception of Louise Curry. She sat in the same chair she had sat on all day, the only thing different was the mug of lukewarm tea, that sat forgotten on the side of her desk.

The reason Louise sat there was simple. She was staring blankly at a letter, a letter one of her students wrote. Harry Potter to be exact. She had read over it at least 20 times to where she could recite it word for word. She had stopped reading it when the last janitor told her that he was leaving. She spent the last hour imagining this boy's life, how when she first read it there was a single tear drop next to the last sentence. She avoided letting her own dampen the letter, instead wiping them away the minute they surfaced.

How could a child write this? She questioned herself over and over again, and over and over again she got no answer. She always believed Harry Potter was smart, yes, he was quite an intelligent boy, always doing his studies, a bit too quiet for a 10 year old, never had she seen him talk to anyone unless required.

Could he be one of those children? The abused, outcast ones that never have friends? This thought entered her mind way to many times for her liking after reading this letter, but she always cast it aside as rubbish. She has seen his cousin, Dudley, a spoiled kid, if she had ever seen one, and young Harry was the complete opposite.

She pulled her gaze over to the stack of papers beside her, and then to the clock, seeing the time, she sighed. Richard would be home in a few minutes and she had not even started supper. She'd have to finish grading these at home he resigned. All thoughts of Harry discreetly slipped from her mind as she stacked up to remaining papers, leaving Harry's behind, picked up her, now cold, tea. She exited the room without a second glance, switching the lights off.


"Mum, Mum, MUM!" came the cries of excitement from Number 4. "Mum! Come on Mum! My letter's here!" a pudgy boy came waddling into the kitchen, a crumpled envelope engulfed in his beefy hand.

"Didn't see yours, freak" the boy sneered before roughly pushing the other boy into the cupboard he was emerging from.

Harry James Potter righted his taped-fixed and pushed himself off the dust covered floor, rubbing his bruised bottom. Harry walked carefully out of the room, making sure there were no other obstacles in the way.

Once the coast was clear, he made his way into the kitchen, already hearing Aunt Petunia weep in joy on how fast her 'little Dudders' was growing up. He stopped in the doorway to look at the spectacle in front of him.

Aunt Petunia had Dudley in a tight embrace the letter clutched tightly in one boney hand.

"A-And t-then yo-you'll be in highs-sch-school, and then y-you'll be i-in a u-n-univer-sity. Oh-oh my dud-dudley-di-didi-dums-s. oh a-and…" but it took Harry all his control not to gag in disgust, but it got to be too much, so Harry quickly left the house; leaving a sobbing Aunt Petunia and a struggling Dudley in the kitchen.

When his feet landed in the perfectly clean hallway harry slowly made his way to the door, his eyes closed, wanting what Dudley said to be true.

Harry opened his eyes, his heart pounding. Suddenly it stopped, there it was, the letter, Dudley was lying. But piece of information this got the best of Harry's curiosity.

Why would Dudley lie about this? Wouldn't the better option be to bring the letter in and use it to ridicule him in front of everyone? Harry had no idea why Dudley didn't take the letter, but for some reason, a wave of suspicion washed over Harry as he reached down at the letter lying face down at his feet.

This time Harry thought his heart really stopped, he couldn't hear it, he was pretty sure he was holding his breath too. With a shaky hand he turned the letter over and the whole world stopped.

This wasn't it, No what was this, a joke maybe, he never got post, why would he get one today of all days. The writing wasn't his.

With a split second decision, Harry clutched the letter in an iron grip, and bolted out of the door, onto the manicured lawns of Privet Drive, having one destination in mind.

The playground was deserted, just the way he liked it, not anyone around to tease him, nobody there to whisper when he walks by, nobody there to bully the weird kid. Harry sat down on a hard swing, on question running through his head. Who sent the letter? No answers came to mind, so after a huge inner battle, Harry opened the letter, and looked inside.

There was a simple sheet of paper inside. He didn't know what he was expecting, some sort of secret wonder, a treasure of some sort. He laughed off some of his nervousness, the sound echoing throughout the empty playground.

He reached in a trembling hand and extracted the letter from the envelope. The world slowed down again as he opened the folded sheet of paper and began to read:

Dear Harry,

He jumped at the mention of his name used so formally by a stranger, how did this person know him?

What make you think we would never get you letter? The world works in wonders, y'know.

It was then when the letter fell out of Harry's numb hands, fluttering down to land the hard dirt below.

He looked at the letter flowing lazily down to the ground, his mind was working so fast that he couldn't make sense of anything in the jumble. One thing was for sure, the writer was no stranger.


A/N: Oooooooo. Evil cliffhanger, please don't hurt me. I think that this was a good place to leave off. Now do me a huge favor will you. Move your mouse over that button that says 'review', yep that one right there, now click it. Yep that's it. Now will you please write a review for me? tell me whatchya think, eh? C'mon you could wirte anything, except no flames, ok, and thanks for taking the time to read my writing, until next time.

Frissa :]