Harry Potter 1. Prologue

He liked snakes, he always had. As a small boy in the wild green garden outside of his house he could always be found filthy and bitten, grinning madly as he explained to his mum about the day's discoveries. In the true mothering way she'd listen patiently, smiling in the right places as she helped him wash up and change before his father got home. He'd giggle and touch a grimey finger to her neatly blushed cheek, and she'd tickle him until they were breathless and laughing. Then they'd straighten up themselves, her blue dress and matching apron as unwrinkled as her smooth powdered face and perfectly waved hair. Finally, they'd tidy the spotless red velvet parlor, put on sober faces and await the arrival of his father home from a day of work at the firm.

He remembered the first eight years of his life with a bitter smile; the best times of his life. Ironic that they had been completey devoid of magic. His days had been spent with studying with a muggle tutor until he was released to the outdoors. The first time he'd ever encountered magic was the day his childhood ended.

It had been a golden spring day, a promise after a long harsh winter that had kept him studying plants and the snakes that lived in them instead of finding them himself. The afternoon turned to evening uneventfully, and at last he'd become bored with studying and went in search of his mother to ask, as he did everyday, if she would read to him. The house, while fine and well-done wasn't that large, so it was a mystery when after an hour of careful poking around she was not to be found. 

The scream was the first he'd ever heard in his extremely sheltered life, and caused him to collapse to the richly-carpeted floor, hands covering his head and wishing the eternity of it would end and release him. When at last at did end, he cautiously rose and crept in the direction of the overheard agony, pale and trembling but never stupid, never giving himself away. A burgundy tapestry patterned of tiny green snakes with flashing eyes blocked the direction of the noise, and he probed the wall, finally revealing a seam in the wood-panelling. He bite his lip, and not allowing himself to close his eyes he pressed the door in until he heard a soft click. 

The door gave way, and a stench drifted out, a stench he wouldn't understand for years. Death. The door opened into a creaky wooden case, unlit and unhospitable, made to keep intruders from sneaking silently to where they shouldn't be. However, the builders had underestimated the light-footed talents of a small boy who had learned from the time he first toddled to avoid all notice and detection from his father. Creeping down, breathing so slowly he made no sound, he felt his way in the dark. When the stairs ended, packed earth floor told him he was under his house, deep under house.

Now he could hear voices, harsh voices, and he stopped moving completely, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Frightened beyond belief, his mind reeled and spun, and a million questions forced their way into his innocent young mind. Questions like who were these people, what did they want, and what had they done. In the dark he could see only a faint outline, but it was becoming clearer that it was a person lying in a loose circle of people.

"We lay this death on the head of Albus Dumbledore, may he soon be in our hands to meet his justice."A soft, mocking voice pierced the heavy silence.

The boy's eyes widened as the speaker and the people to his left and right vanished, followed by the rest of the circle, until none were left. With the curiousity of a child, he crept towards the shape on the floor. A slight scent caught his nose, the scent of feminine perfume that was more familiar to him than any other. Heart fluttering painfully, he knelt beside the shape, and saw, to his life-long horror, his perfectly groomed mother. She was battered and bloody, dress torn and soiled, but her face hadn't been touched. He was too young to recognize the signs of torture and rape, but when he learned it added more pain and grief to the moment as if he had right away.

"Albus Dumbledore" The child memorized the name, hate now the driving force of his life. 


	2. A Childhood Warped and Bleeding

Life did change radically over the next three years, and he aged overnight. Every spare moment was used in a different kind of study. After leaving the body of his mother that night, heÕd never seen her again. His father told him without a trace of sorrow that sheÕd abandoned him, telling him that she didnÕt love him or the child. He pretended to accept the lie, but went back whenever his father was at work to explore this new chamber under the house. Inside he found books, robes and a frightening mask.

The books he devoured, studying them passionately, learning this foreign business of magic like a priest learns his scripture. With no wand to focus his power, he had done what few wizards dreamed of accomplishing. Wandless spells. A slight hand movement had great power, and he practices until his hands were stiff with pain and fatigue. Every spell was memorized and locked away in his young mind. Especially the curses. The potions though, they left him thirsty with desire. He could try nothing without the equipment and the ingredients. 

Books were smuggled one at a time from the filthy shelves that lined the dank underground chamber, and were returned with ultimate caution, for he now knew his father as never before. His father had turned into a violent man, every real or imagined fault of the son caused a severe beating, leaving the boy bruised and broken most nights. It was only the newly learned magic that kept him from dying on many occasions, healing himself with a thought while in agony on his blood stained bed. Not bleeding to death was different from relieving pain, nothing stopped the hurting. He was starved, and was forced to cook for his father with whatever appeared for food in the kitchen, leaving him at eleven years old thin and gangly in a gaunt, too-tall body.

The mirror disgusted him. It didnÕt reveal the strawberry-blonde waves or bright blue eyes of his mother, no, he looked a son to his father. Hook-nosed, he allowed his black hair to grow, but it just hung lank. He no longer played in the garden, and it showed on his skin. There was no time for play, and it hurt to much to think of his mother not being there to listen and clean him up and play. He stopped reading non-research books at the same time. He had heard her clear soprano voice fluting over the fairy-tale words in his head.

He longed for company, for companionship, perhaps a friend. At ten years old, his heart had shrivelled, but still beat. An important lesson had been thrust upon him, though. Kindness, happiness, trust and love lead to no good end. He would be bitter and be safe. Nothing would touch him again, no pain and no love.


	3. An Invitation That Hisses

The day his Hogwarts letter arrived was a day of panic, and he steeled himself for the worst beating of his life. At ten years old, he hoped it would be the last, that maybe his father would finish him off and be done with it. _Will he find out IÕve been stealing his books and learning curses?_

His father didnÕt say a word or raise a finger, much to his shock, he just packed him up with the a small amount of odd money and sent him to the train station in a taxi very early in the morning on September the first. His father never said any word of good bye, on the contrary, he didnÕt even leave his chair at the table or look up from his paper.

Outside of the property for the first time was a series of fears and new things, crowds of voices in the city of London, floods of new smells. The driver stopped at a filthy-looking pub called the Leaky Cauldron and told him this was his stop. Confused, he got out, took out his Hogwarts letter and went inside as the yellow cab sped off, eager for a less unusual client.

Before the boy got far, he was pushed from behind by a group of chattering kids his own age. One, a boy with wild black hair and glasses stopped to apologize before running ahead. He must have looked as lost as he felt in the dingy, smoky room, because a large calloused hand came down on his shoulder, causing him to jump and bite back a curse.

ÒLet me help you boy.Ó The man in the ale-splashed apron must have worked there and seen many kids over the years. He guided him in the direction of the back, following the path of the other kids. He tapped a few bricks with a nearly white wand, and opened the wall, revealing another street full of wonders. ÒHereÕs Diagon Alley for you, boy. Now on with you, you only have a few hours before the train leaves to get what you need and get to the train station.Ó

He wandered alone around every shop, carefully picking up every item on the list that he checked obsessively, including a wand, 16Ó ebony with a unicorn hair. The robes were loose and comfortable, and blissfully black, and he changed grudgingly changed back into his stiff breeches and wool shirt. The bookstore caused him to have to wipe a corner of his mouth to keep from drooling with anticipation. However, there was only so much money in that small sack, so he bought only his school books. He stroked the binding of the potion book lustily, promising himself to read a good chunk of it on the train. 

His last decision was what kind of familiar to buy. The shop was crowded, and hot, but he caught her eye through it all. She wasnÕt on the list of recommended familiars, but exceptions, he was sure. would be allowable. A snake. A slender, very small serpent, green and silver glittering rose to greet him behind the thick glass like a queen. He looked up and a tight-mouthed clerk in brown robes and blue, wispy hair stood there, observing. She turned to him with a stern warning.

ÒThis snake, young man, is extremely selective, and deadly. She must choose her owner. However, sheÕs been here awhile, and if she likes you, you can have her cheap.Ó The clerk pulled on dragon hide gloves, and opened a charmed lock on the tank with her wand. It unlatched, and she scooped inside. The snake sat tense between her closed hands for a moment. ÒIf she licks you, you may have her. If she bites you, BetsyÕll hit you with the antidote.Ó She gestured with her elbow to another store clerk who had moved to be behind him. The first woman, Agnes, by her name tag, opened her hands just a crack, and he placed his steady finger up to it, confident in this as nothing else.

An unmistakable snake lick slowly met his finger, leaving a thin trail of silver. He looked up to meet the eyes of Agnes.

ÒSheÕs yours, boy, but be careful, sheÕs a registered creature so if thereÕs a killing made by one of these snakes, theyÕll investigate you.Ó He nodded, and eagerly took the tiny snake in his own hand. Her scales whispered dryly and smoothly against his skin.

Ò_My name is Selah.Ó_ He heard clearly in his mind. This was no Parseltongue, as he had studied, this was something new, some power only this species of snake had. She twined her way around his thin left forearm before returning to his open palm. He swore he heard a soft chuckle.


End file.

Harry Potter, Drama, Romance