In Absentia

The blood in his mouth had a familiar taste, one that he had grown used to as years passed in that house, in that cupboard, alone and unloved. Just as the bruises on his neck and the throbbing pain of a broken finger were as dear as some children's teddy bears or blankets, and the gnawing hunger in his belly a bedtime story for the fourth occupant of Number Four Privet Drive.

Nothing at all was abnormal about the residence of Number Four Privet Drive, thought the neighbors, and if the smaller boy, the adopted one, looked a bit malnourished, a bit like a broken doll that had survived a house full of boys instead of just the one large blonde one, well, it was probably the boy's fault anyway. After all, a family that went through the trouble of keeping the boy wouldn't damage him, would they?

Only the Dursleys, the family that owned Number Four Privet Drive, didn't go through any trouble to keep Harry. Harry had been left on their doorstep, like a carton of milk, without so much as a question as to whether or not they wanted the boy; with only the assumption that he would be taken care of. Harry Potter thought that perhaps his treatment at the hands of Petunia and Vernon was a sort of long-reached revenge out toward whomever had left him at the door, a "look, we didn't do what you wanted with the boy, now did we?" at the meddlesome person who had callously left him with an aunt an uncle who wanted nothing to do with him.

When Harry had been younger, he always wanted attention. He wanted the same hugs and presents and candy that were bestowed upon Dudley in spades for every deed. But as he aged, he began to realize that hugs and presents and candy were for loved children, not children found outside like milk cartons, left without a by-your-leave after their drunken parents had gotten killed. Harry very much wished his drunken parents were still alive--after all, they would be just like Uncle Vernon, except that he would be the loved child, and some other child would get beaten for all the sorrows that made men drown themselves in alcohol.

But now that Harry was older, he realized wishes would only come true if someone cared enough to grant them, and no one cared enough about Harry to grant his wishes. And besides, Harry could grant his own wishes.

He'd discovered the ability one night in his cupboard, as the rest of the house went up to sleep, walking hard on the stairs so that dust and cobwebs fell down onto him and his cot. He wished to himself for it to be clean, and when he opened his eyes the dust was gone, the cobwebs disappeared.

After Harry had experimented a few times (and had the satisfaction of watching Dudley and his foolish fat self wander around with his gang of incompetents, looking for him as he sat perched upon the roof) Harry realized if he wished hard enough, he could do anything he wanted.

And after years of having nothing, Harry wanted quite a lot.

That's why when the letter came, Harry was not terribly surprised. Uncle Vernon sent him out to get the mail, with only a mildly painful slap to the back of the head, and there it was, nestled between a telephone bill and a magazine subscription renewal to Better Homes and Gardens. The green ink glittered even in the absence of any bright light, and his name was spelled out, Harry J. Potter, across the yellowed parchment. Harry pondered for a moment on the J, wondering what his middle name might be, before he picked up the letter and put it inside his shirt for later perusal. A grim thought crossed his mind--what kind of people wrote a letter to a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs, and did nothing to help that boy? But the thought left soon enough as he dropped the two envelopes in front of Uncle Vernon's plate, and excused himself from a breakfast he wasn't eating, retreating into his cupboard.

A school of magic--a fairly exciting thought. If they could teach him finer control over his ability--his magic--there would be nothing he couldn't do. However, schools had rules, and he was sure that this Hogwarts, no matter what kind of school it might be, was no different. Was it worth it?

Harry thought it might be. Knowledge, after all, was power. And power--well that meant having the ability to hurt others, instead of being hurt all the time.

He quite liked that idea.