March 21st, 1991

March 21^st, 1991

In the corner of the playground a ten-year-old boy lingers near a group of children. Dark haired and small, he stands out immediately for his looks, but that is not all that catches the eye of a stranger. It is also his airspace- the way the other children seem to revolve their game and movements around and past him, without acknowledging him at all. It is the silent way he glares at them all and dares not to move, his small, unwavering chin sticking defiantly out.

Slowly the children pick teams: first the biggest boys, then the smaller boys, then the girls, until only that one boy remains. The team captains fight for a minute over who will take him, before it was decided he simply will not play. The look on his face is devastating: it is not a crushed sort of face, but rather a resigned one, as if he expected this to happen. His mien also holds anger, a cold boiling anger that vents through quick verbal abuses at other children, but that never feel like they hit hard enough.

So this boy drags his feet over to the swings, where he sits down to watch the game. He is not so tall yet that his feet can touch the ground while sitting properly in the swing, so instead his feet hang limply in the air as a red ball flies back and forth amongst the children playing.

Outside of the fence surrounding the schoolyard two adults look on. They, unlike him, do not look odd or out of place. In fact, this man and woman look so natural that it is easy to glance over them and forget that they are there at all.

"It makes my heart hurt," one of the adults says.

"Children can be cruel," the other one replies.

They fall into a silence as they watch the boy kick his legs forward and backward, trying in vain to swing higher. In the meantime, two large boys come up from behind and get ready to shove him in the back, which would make him fall out of the swing. But their plan never comes to pass because right before they touch him a spark jumps out of the boy's back and right into their hands. They howl in pain, causing the boy to swing quickly around and glare at them, not knowing what he had done and expecting them to do him harm.

Even through his glasses, even at his tender age, even from his vulnerable position on the swing, even though he is half as big as either of them, his eyes convey a silent fury that only years of bullying can cause. In the blink of an eye he grabs one of the swings' chains, shifts his weight, and spins around so that he faces them. He looks at the two boys, says something obviously cutting and then runs away. Quickly.

"This is why you let him grow up in the muggle world, so that he can learn what it is to be picked on?"

"I let him grow up here so he would learn what it is to fight back."

"By the time he gets to school, he'll not be prepared to trust a single person."

"He will trust those who prove themselves."

"But he will never come to you for help, nor any other adult. You've seen the way his aunt and uncle handle him, not to mention that school attendant who did nothing to prevent those bullies attacking him."

"He cannot learn to depend on the help of others. In the end, it will be up to him and no one else."

"It's a cruel lesson to learn at such a young age."

"But a necessary one."

The school attendant on the playground drags the boy across the yard, passing the man and the woman, though neither noticed them. The attendant who had caught him had not done it by speed- she is overly round in the middle- but simply blocked his way inside the building. She leads him over to the two boys by the swings and makes him apologize. Which he does, even if it sounds forced. As soon as the woman turns her back he sticks out his tongue at his would-be attackers.

"I have to admit, his spirit impresses me."

"Did you hope they would curb that too?" the woman asks spitefully.

"I was merely commenting on his life force."

They fall silent once more and watch as the boy once more sits by himself and enjoys his own company. Unbeknownst to him, as he stews in the childish anger that quickly dissipates, small rocks throw themselves at the two boys who picked on him.

"At least we know his stay has not affected his magic," the man acknowledges.

"He is coming into his power, untrained, and does not know that his anger with the boys hurts them. Maybe we should take him from his family a little early-"

"Don't you think I wish I could?" the man shakes his head, turning so as to look at the woman as he speaks. "The Dursley's home is the best place for Harry."

"Hogwarts is the safest place-"

"It is more than protection. If we were to take that away from him- if we were to show ourselves to be his saviors, taking him out of that place months before any other students arrive- if we were to do that only to force him to come back next summer, what would he think? We would be his heroes one minute and then the object of a great wrath and unjust anger later."

"He will never trust any of us completely if we don't do something."

"He only needs to trust himself."

The woman glances over at the boy sitting on the stairs that led up to his school doors. He looks angry, upset, and lonely- lonely, as a child never ought to look.

"Lily and James- they never would have wanted this for their son."

"Someday Petunia Dursley will tell him about his parents. He and she are connected forever through Lily, though Petunia may try to forget that." The man pauses, pulls a watch out of his clothing and glances at the dials.

"Is she really so horrible that she would try to forget Lily Potter?" the woman asks, not a little amount of shock in her voice. She squints at the boy to see if there are any sign of abuse. He does not seem to be sporting any bruises, but that means nothing. That baggy clothing covers a large portion of his body. "She doesn't even buy him his own clothing! She could at least make an effort to talk to him about his parents."

"To Petunia, Lily represented everything that was horrible in the world- war, death, and fear. It is not odd that she dislikes the memory of her sister."

"Then we should take him from her care!"

"It will only be a few more months and then he will be back."

"Back in a world he knows nothing of, with people who will watch his every move- first hoping for a glimpse of his greatness and when that gets boring they will want to see him fall from grace."

"Can you see yet why this is the best place for him to grow up?"

"Because here he learns early what it is to be expected to fail?"

"Because these are the only people who would get him ready to be singled out in the magical community. He will be adored and hated. Not all Death Eaters are in Azkaban and not all of them will sit idly by as Harry Potter comes into his power. If he grew up knowing he was famous and loved by the world, he may not understand the hate that exists in the world. Having grown up in this place, he knows that hate and understands it. He knows how to fight against the people who feel it towards him, but more importantly, he knows what it feels like."

"He knows what it feels like?"

"Look at the way he watches his cousin, those bullies, those captains who did not pick him. Harry is angry and hate-filled, though he may not realize it himself, and having known that emotion, he will know more about the enemy than the enemy knows about him. Voldemort will never know love the way Harry knows hate."

"And so the pain his family inflicts on him will save him," mutters the woman.

"Who else would he have lived with?" asks the man, almost to himself.

"Anyone else," she responds.

"Sirius Black? Remus Lupin? Peter Pettigrew? Virginia Gibbs? Alexandra Bryson? The Ministry would approve none of them."

"I know," the woman spit. "There was not a better choice."

"There was no choice. James' friends were destroyed that October night. Lily's were gone long before then."

The man and woman stand quietly a while longer, watching the boy who did not know he deserved to be watched. Harry cranes his neck around to look at the clock hanging on the building behind him. He seems to count down the moments until he can leave that dust-covered step.

"They did not deserve this. Harry does not deserve this."

"No. He doesn't."

And together they stand some more, each lost in their own contemplations of the past: of their mistakes, of their choices, of the repercussions, of the death of dreams and brilliant stars.

"Will you be picking him up?"

"I cannot show that favoritism. He cannot come to know me as the person who will save him."

"He will learn to think that of you no matter who picks him up; it is how we all think of you."

"I will send Hagrid." The woman stiffens. "He will intimidate the Dursleys."

"Does Harry know that he is coming to Hogwarts this year?"

"I wrote them a letter."

"Did they read it?"

"One can only hope." His watch buzzes in his pocket. "It is time to go." But neither moves, instead they remain steadfastly at the fence, looking at the boy.

"I've not seen him in nine years," the woman laments.

"Nor have I, but we came to take the anti-owl charm off him and we have done that. Now we must go back and wait another year before we see him again."

"He looks so young."

"He is young." And in silent agreement the two turn and walked a good distance off, neither daring to look back for fear that they might not be able to look away again.

"Do you think those other children knew?" the woman asks as she entered the shadow of the building.

"Knew what?"

"That their rejected playmate is one of the most famous boys in the world? That he will grow up to become one of the most powerful men in the world? That he was the one who destroyed an unbeatable threat- saving all of their horrible lives in the process?"

"I do not think they knew." The man smiles at the woman's anger, catches her eye, and winks.

Then two cracks sound in the air and they are gone.