Stargate Reclamation (Harry Potter/Stargate)

Harry didn't see the light of day for the next three and a half weeks, locked inside his cupboard as punishment for what he now called the zoo incident. During this time, he'd been left completely alone by his aunt and uncle, who were more focused on Dudley's recovery; it wasn't going well. Dudley kept waking up in the middle of the night, screaming about snakes trying to swallow him whole — as if anything could swallow something of his size whole. By the time Harry was allowed out, the summer holidays had already started. Like always, whenever the Dursleys kept him locked up, the school didn't care one bit about his absence; they'd never gotten over how he 'lied' to them about being abused, and they were actually more disappointed whenever he did turn up.

It was a random morning when Petunia swung open his cupboard door. He'd been laying peacefully, when suddenly he was attacked by the influx of light. His eyes hadn't even had chance to adjust when Petunia had shoved a duster into his hand. "Go on, get to it," she said.

In Harry's absence, the house had developed layers of dust and grime, and plenty of the chores had piled up too. The garden had suffered most; the grass had grown higher than it had been allowed to since Harry was first forced into cutting it, and weeds had sprung up all over the place. Compared to the other, immaculately kept houses of Privet Drive, the Dursley's house looked positively wild. This is what had driven Petunia to release Harry; she could no longer handle the neighbour's looks and whispered comments. It would've taken Harry days to fix it all, but he had a secret weapon — his telekinesis, which he'd been training every moment he could.

During those blissful three and a half weeks away from the Dursleys, Harry had been able to focus entirely on his newfound ability without interruption. He experimented with it in every way he could think off, which eventually led to him sneaking out most nights, not just to eat and drink, but to discover things he couldn't from inside his cupboard. What was the heaviest thing he could pick up? He managed to lift up Vernon's new car, though only a few inches off the ground, and not for too long either. Then he tried picking up multiple objects at once, and had various sized rocks orbiting him for an hour, like a miniature solar system. With every training session, using telekinesis became easier and easier, and it continued to prove itself to be everything Harry wanted it to be and more.

When he was confident enough, Harry tried something that he didn't expect to work, but it had, and since then, it had provided him with hours of entertainment. It turns out that he could manipulate things without needing to see them. He had this sort of sixth sense that he could expand around himself in a kind of bubble, allowing him to feel for what was there. He likened it to a blind person trying to figure out their surroundings by reaching out and bumping into things. With this facet of his power, the house became his playground, and naturally, he immediately began messing with the Dursleys.

 Harry started out with little things, like grabbing Dudley's foot as he walked to make him fall over, but it soon progressed from there. Vernon would be drinking his tea, when suddenly, the cup tipped and the scalding liquid would go all over him. One time, Petunia had been trying to cook — trying being the keyword, Harry was usually the one who cooked — and the pan would slip, giving her quite a nasty burn. The frequency of such events got so bad that Dudley became convinced that the house was being haunted, despite Vernon's vehement denial of the existence of ghosts. Harry spent a lot of time stifling his laughter whilst listening to this.

As a result of all the bad luck, Vernon had been quite agitated. It was also affecting his work, from what Harry had heard when eavesdropping on Vernon's rants to Petunia. Vernon was in such a bad mood that he was even snapping at Dudley, who had taken to carrying his Smeltings stick everywhere (a knobbly stick given to all boys attending Smeltings school). Dudley kept swinging it at imaginary ghosts whenever he heard the faintest noise, and he'd already broken one expensive vase, three lights, and recently cracked the window in his second bedroom.

That had happened last Sunday, but it was now Wednesday morning. Everyone was in the kitchen; Vernon sat at the table trying to read his newspaper, whilst Dudley, with Smeltings stick in hand, waited impatiently nearby for his breakfast. Harry was busy cooking said breakfast, with Petunia watching his every move. She did so from a distance, unwilling to go anywhere near the cooker after her series of unfortunate burns.

"I need a new computer," said Dudley suddenly, now tapping his stick on the floor out of boredom.

Vernon lowered his newspaper, a frown showing beneath his bushy moustache. "What happened to the one we just bought for your birthday? Did you hit it with your Smeltings stick?"

"No!" Dudley denied, but he wouldn't have said any different if he had hit it. "It just isn't working. It's too slow."

"Nonsense, it's brand new," said Vernon.

"But it is!" insisted Dudley. "The old one's way faster!"

Harry scoffed quietly, disguising it as a cough when Petunia looked his way. Of course, the old computer was faster; Harry had spent a lot of time working on it — improving it. He'd been sneaking out in the dead of night to use the old computer ever since Dudley first got it. The technology fascinated Harry, and he was eager to learn everything he could about it, and it would've been the same with the new one, if he hadn't been so preoccupied learning the ins and outs of his telekinesis.

Vernon finally seemed to believe Dudley, or had simply gotten sick of the whining. "The store must've sold me a faulty unit. I knew that store attendant couldn't be trusted - men shouldn't have long hair like that - probably one of those hippies you see causing trouble on the news."

Petunia chimed in, taking the opportunity to excuse herself from the kitchen, and the hot cooker. "It's alright, Diddykins. We'll go into town today and return it, then we'll bring you back another one."

"A better one?" asked Dudley.

"Yes, a better one. Won't we, Vernon?"

Vernon grumbled, not wanting to pay for a more expensive computer unit, but he nodded when Petunia pinned him under a pointed stare. He returned to reading the newspaper, grumpier than before, and mumbling about hippies. Whether the store employee was a hippy or not, Harry mentally apologised for inadvertently sentencing them to Vernon's wrath.

As Harry finished cracking the eggs into a pan, the letterbox clicked.

"Boy! Go get the post!"

"I'm busy cooking," Harry reminded his uncle.

"Dudley, go hit the freak with your Smeltings stick."

Dudley slumped in his chair, sulking because Harry had already stepped out into the hall. A pile of letters waited for Harry by the front door. There wasn't a lot today; a couple of bills that were bound to worsen Vernon's mood, and a magazine for Petunia with some attractive models posing on the cover. Harry had mistakenly thought that was it, but hidden beneath the lot, there was one more item that made him freeze in his tracks. It was a thick, yellowish envelope addressed to him.

Mr H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up, and he looked around wildly. Despite the hallway having no windows, it felt as if there a million, beady eyes watching him. Harry read the letter's address again. Hoping there was a chance that he'd somehow done so incorrectly the first time, but those words — The Cupboard under the Stairs — remained unchanged, written in emerald-green ink. Whoever sent the letter knew that Harry slept in the small cupboard beneath the stairs of number four, Privet Drive. Only a few people were supposed to know that, and ignoring Vernon's sister, Marge Dursley, all of these people were already in the house.

"Boy!" came Vernon's shout from the kitchen. "What's taking you so long?! Hurry up!"

Harry had to think fast; Vernon would surely take the letter if he saw it. Going to the vent on his cupboard's door, he shoved the letter through, then took the rest back into the kitchen. He did his best to act normal, but it was a struggle.

"About bloody time! Did you get lost or something?"

Harry's mind was too much of a storm to come up with a snarky retort, like he'd usually do. Luckily, Vernon didn't notice and snatched the bills out his hand, tearing them open and regretting doing so once he saw what they were. Meanwhile, Harry tried to figure out who might've sent the letter. Who could've been spying on him? That was the only way they could've found out about the cupboard. But what Harry was really worried about was what else they might've seen, like him using his telekinesis.

"Is there something wrong with you, boy?!" Vernon's loud voice snapped Harry back to reality. He was still by the table, standing there aimlessly after giving his uncle the post. "Stop just standing there and go finish breakfast! It better not be burned, you hear me, or else!"

Harry walked numbly back to the cooker and went through the motions of checking the food. Even as he plated everything up and took it to the table, Harry's mind hadn't once left the letter.

Dudley dug in with as much manners as a pig, accompanied by the occasional snort and grunt. Petunia was the exact opposite, eating at a measured pace, and in small bites; she liked to imagine that she was fancier than she really was. Then there was Vernon, who held his knife and fork tightly, but had yet to take a bite. Vernon's narrowed eyes were looking Harry up and down.

"What's the matter with you?" Vernon demanded. "You look like you've seen a gho—" He stopped himself before he said the word ghost, glancing towards Dudley, who was too busy stuffing his face to notice anything else that was happening.

"I'm fine," replied Harry, "but thanks for asking. It's nice to know you care."

"Don't get smart with me, boy."

Vernon pointed his knife at Harry, waving it in a way that was meant to be threatening. Petunia had stopped eating and was now frowning alongside her husband.

"What have you done?" she asked, her shrill voice laced with suspicion.

"Nothing — I haven't done anything."

Neither of them believed Harry. They weren't going to let this go. It had been stupid of him to let them get a glimpse of his current turmoil. Harry's eyes involuntarily flitted to the post laying on the table. There's no way his uncle could know that there had been another letter, or at least that's what Harry told himself.

Vernon slowly raised himself out of his chair. "Lying to us, in our own home. Perhaps you need another reminder of what happens when you show us such blatant disrespect…"

Harry's heart raced in his chest. He couldn't afford to receive a beating right now; that would mean being thrown in his cupboard where the letter laid, out in the open — they might see it! The idea of stopping Vernon with his telekinesis came to mind, but he dismissed it just as fast; unveiling that secret wouldn't do him any good right now. What he needed was something to divert their attention, and that was something he could use his telekinesis to do. Harry used his power to take hold of Dudley's chair and broke the back two legs, sending his cousin tumbling backwards, landing on his back with a mighty thud.

"AHHH! GHOSTS! IT'S THE GHOSTS! THEY'VE COME TO GET ME!"

Dudley flailed his arms and legs about as he yelled. He looked like a turtle that had gotten stuck on its back, unable to right itself. The Smeltings stick had fallen too, rolling just out of Dudley's grasp, and he was more focused on reaching this than getting back up, wanting his weapon to fight off the ghosts.

"DUDDY!" screamed Petunia, jumping to her feet and forgetting about Harry. Vernon, already standing, tried to get to Dudley but he had to dodge the swinging Smeltings stick.

"Stop it, Dudley! There's no such thing as gho"—SMACK!—"OW!"

With Vernon dazed from a hit right between the eyes, Harry took the opportunity to sprint out of the kitchen to his cupboard. He yanked open the door, finding the letter sitting innocently on the mattress, ignorant of what its arrival had caused. Grunts of exertion echoed out of the kitchen — Vernon and Petunia had managed to get around the Smeltings stick to pull Dudley to his feet. Time was running out. Harry grabbed the letter and bolted out of the house.

Harry ran so fast that he almost didn't notice Mrs Figg, who hobbled down the street on her crutches. He dodged to the side at the last moment, avoiding a collision, but Mrs Figg still nearly toppled over in surprise.

"Oh God, Harry! In a bit of a rush are…"

But that was all Harry heard before he got too far away from Mrs Figg's quiet voice. He got to the end of Privet Drive but continued running, no destination in mind — only the need to get away from the Dursleys and figure out what was going on. Only once he'd gotten a dozen streets over, and there was little chance of the Dursleys finding him, did he finally stop to take a much-needed breather; bent over double behind a parked car, inhaling lungsful of air, wondering how everything had gone to shit so fast. The answer, he knew, was the letter his hand, in all its mysterious glory.

Did the sender know the trouble their letter would cause? If they'd been watching Harry, they had to have seen how badly his aunt and uncle treated him, yet they'd sent the letter anyway. In fact, there had been a distinct lack of police turning up to the house for a welfare check, so the sender hadn't told anyone what they knew. Maybe — like so many others — they just didn't care. 

Harry was about to bite the bullet and open the letter when a group of teenagers walked by, bouncing a ball and enjoying the beginning summer break. None of them saw him, thankfully, but it made Harry realise that opening the letter out in the street might not be the best idea. That's when he noticed what street he was actually on, and realised that either by chance, or subconsciously, his legs had carried him towards the one place in Little Whinging that he felt somewhat comfortable, having spent so much time there; the town library.

Over the next few minutes, Harry ran the rest of the way to the library, dashed through the doors and up to the second floor, where he knew there was a desk nestled in a small alcove that no one ever went near. He sat down as the sun got high enough in the sky to bathe the table in its warm rays, shining in from the nearby window and no longer blocked by the tree right outside.

Harry held the envelope in both of his small hands, briefly looking at the address, confirming again that it said what it said, before turning it over. Here, there was a detail that he'd not paid much attention to yet; a purple wax seal (who sealed letters with wax anymore?) with an unusual coat of arms stamped into it; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounded the letter 'H'. Was that meant to be 'H' for Harry?

Rather than guess, he broke the seal and took out two sheets of parchment, both written in the same emerald-green ink as the address. Taking a closer look, the ink seemed to be glowing, and not from the sun shining on it, but on its own. Shaking his head, Harry started to read the first sheet.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term beings on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

What the hell was this? Harry flipped the letter over, but the back was blank. He read it again, and then again, and then one more time; Harry found himself doing that a lot today, reading things multiple times, making sure that he wasn't going mad.

A joke. All this worry and stress, and it was just a stupid joke! Harry didn't know whether to punch Dudley in the face or shake his hand for a job well done. He'd succeeded, after all, in what must've been his aim — to get Harry in trouble.

Albus Dumbledore … Supreme Mugwump … Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry had never seen an absurder collection of words. Expecting much of the same, he looked at the second sheet of parchment. As the message said, it contained a list of items that was deemed necessary when at the very real magic school, including things that were both fantastical and stereotypical. It even said something about broomsticks!

Laughter bubbled up from the bottom of Harry's gut, but even as he began to giggle away in his own little nook of the library, a voice in the back of his mind told him how stupid he was being. In what world was Dudley Dursley smart enough or creative enough to come up with a plan like this? Dudley might have a brain, however small, in that thick skull of his, but there was no chance he could have come up with the strange names and items that were in the letter. Not to mention, every word in the message was spelt correctly! At least, the words Harry could recognise were spelt correctly. Dudley couldn't even spell his own name!

But if it wasn't Dudley, then that left just two people — Vernon and Petunia — who were both equally as unlikely to have wasted their time doing this. What reason would they have to do it? Vernon didn't need to find an excuse to abuse Harry. And from how Vernon reacts almost allergically to the mere mention of anything abnormal, he would have had a heart attack trying to come up with everything that was in the letter.

A stray thought buzzed about Harry's head, one that he swatted down like an annoying fly. There was no way something as outlandish as magic could be real. As if to reassure himself of this, he went back to the message, feeling his amusement return in an instant. We await your owl by no later than 31 July — there was no way it meant a real owl. Just then, Harry heard a faint noise that sounded oddly owlish. Turning to the window, there, in the highest branches of the tree, was a large barn owl. Harry blinked. The owl didn't; it was staring with big black eyes at him — no, not him — at the letter in his hand. He moved the letter side-to-side slowly, and the owl's eyes followed it.

Alright, this was getting weird. Doing his best to ignore the feathery spectator, Harry read the letter, yet again, except with his mind slightly opened to the idea that it could be real. Hogwarts … a school for magic. The implication being that there was enough witches and wizards that a school was needed. If it was real — and that was still a big if — just how many magical people were there? How rare were they? And how had they managed to stay hidden? The answer, he supposed, was magic.

Harry let out a single, short laugh. In honest truth, he didn't know why the idea of magic was so impossible to him. He liked to think it was because of his love for science; how science could be used to explain, well, everything.

Not everything, Harry corrected himself. The letter floated a couple inches off the table. Science couldn't explain Harry's telekinetic ability, or how he could heal so fast, and talk to snakes. He'd chalked it up to evolution up to this point, until he had the opportunity to investigate further, but what if, all this time, it was because of magic. The idea was as unsatisfying as it was annoyingly appropriate.

The longer Harry sat pondering, certain events in his life began to make sense. No matter how fruitlessly the logical side of him fought against it, they pieced together slowly, taking him to an inevitable realisation. But there was one major event that hammered it home. Harry suddenly found himself back in his childhood nursery on that dark night, watching in a new light as the cloaked figure murdered his mother right in front of him. The weapon, that he figured was some kind of secret technology, was actually a wand. The words spoken to summon that green light of death, Avada Kedavra, was a spell.

The person that had killed Harry's parents was a wizard.

So was Harry — so might've been his parents for all he knew. He tried thinking back to when they were alive, to when he was a baby, searching for a moment in which they displayed their own abilities in front of him, but as always, he was taken right back to the memory of them dying.

Approaching footsteps snapped Harry back to the present. He slammed the floating letter back down to the table as the librarian rounded the corner, stepping out of an isle carrying books that she was returning to their correct shelves. She saw him and smiled; Harry had spent so much time in the library over the years that he was bound to speak the librarian at some point, and in doing so, he had discovered that she was quite a stern, but nice woman.

The librarian walked closer, and Harry put his arms over the letter, attempting to hide it. This made her tilt her head inquisitively, then suspiciously, likely coming to the assumption that Harry was looking at something he really shouldn't be. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly paused.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked, instead of whatever she was going to say.

"I-I'm fine," said Harry, but he hadn't meant it to sound so shaky. Something splashed on the table. Looking down, Harry saw that it was a teardrop — he was crying.

The librarian crouched low beside Harry. "Are you sure? I might be able to help, if you want."

Harry very much doubted that. He shook his head, shaking loose a couple more tears. "No, no … It's alright…"

The librarian didn't look so sure, but she smiled anyway, straightening back up to her full height and speaking kindly. "Alright then, dear. I'll be by the front desk if you need anything, okay."

With that, she walked off back amongst the shelves, looking back at him once before disappearing. Harry had never realised how kind she was, having only seen her sterner side before then. The library truly was the only good place in Little Whinging it seemed. Wiping away his remaining tears, Harry was left alone again to come to terms with the truth he could no longer deny — he was a wizard. What that actually meant, he didn't know, but he supposed he might learn this at Hogwarts, if he were to attend. Honestly, anywhere would be better than St Brutus's institute.

Thinking of that place — where the Dursleys were so eager to send him after summer — had Harry thinking about the Dursleys themselves. How would they react to the nephew they despise being a wand-wielding wizard. Could they survive the utter shattering of their normal life? He might tell them, just to see their faces. How purple could he make Vernon's face go? What a glorious moment that would be.

{ ϟ }

With the sun dropping beneath the horizon, and the sky settling into star-dotted blackness, Harry stepped onto Privet Drive, starting the last leg of his journey back to the Dursley house. It hadn't been twenty minutes since the librarian had come back to his table, announcing that the library was closing for the day before walking him to the exit. He'd spent the entire day there, thinking about what he'd learnt and what it would change.

 When Harry arrived at number four, he saw the flashing light of the television through the living room window. The Dursleys were still awake. He didn't doubt that they were waiting for him to return so that they could dish out punishment. Harry had expected they would be ever since he fled the house that morning, hoping that the letter would be worth it, and was it ever. Leaving the house a human with inexplicable powers, he returned a wizard with a new path open to him that might take him away from the Dursleys forever. He gripped the Hogwarts letter tight in his hand, as if it was the ticket to the freedom he desired — because it very well could be.

 A gentle flap of wings came from his right, almost too quiet to hear. The same barn owl from earlier, the one that had spent the entire day watching him from the tree outside the library, landed on the wall outside the Dursley's house, looking at Harry with intense eyes. It was waiting for his reply, and Harry felt an urge to explain what was taking him so long.

"Hey—ahem—hello, I mean…" Harry sighed, feeling stupid for getting flustered over speaking to an animal. "I'm sorry for making you wait, it's just, I need some more time to think. It's a big decision — I'm sure you understand … … of course, you don't … you're an owl…"

The day must've taken more out of Harry than he realised. He looked at the owl, who was still sat there, as if waiting for him to continue. "Look, I'm not going to have a reply for you tonight. The letter says I have until my birthday — the thirty-first. I'll definitely have one before then, but in the meantime, I don't know … can't you, like, leave and come back? You don't have to stick around here and wait." The owl flapped its wings and hooted, then took flight and landed in the neighbour's tree, where it closed its eyes and went to sleep.

"I guess you do have to stay and wait." Harry was in slight disbelief that the owl had understood him, but it wasn't actually so strange when he recalled the many conversations he'd had with snakes. Could wizards speak to all animals, he wondered.

Harry sneaked around to the back of the house, crouching low to not be seen. He tried the back door, half expecting it to be locked, but he was pleasantly surprised when the handle gave way with a soft click. Opening the door just enough to slip into the kitchen, Harry went slow, making sure to make as little noise as possible as to not alert his relatives that he was back. They'd soon find out, that was unavoidable, but first, Harry needed to hide the letter deep in his cupboard so that they couldn't take it. Until he figured out what he was going to do, the last thing Harry wanted was for the Dursleys to learn that he was a wizard.

He made it across the kitchen without trouble. Vernon and Petunia were focused on one of their shows, grumbling to one another about this or that. The television was helping mask the sound of his footsteps. Harry was now a mere metre from his cupboard, so close, but as he came into full view of the hallway, he came face-to-face with Dudley, who had been coming down the stairs. Dudley, carrying his Smeltings stick and a pack of biscuits, jumped out his skin upon seeing Harry, dropping the biscuits and swinging his stick with a shout.

"GHOST!"

Harry had no time to avoid it. "Ow! Fuck!"

Dudley caught him on the wrist — the wrist of the hand holding the letter, which he subsequently dropped to the floor. Dudley came to his senses, realising that it was Harry and not a ghost. Unfortunately, Dudley also noticed the letter and was quick to pick it up and run into the living room before Harry could stop him.

"The freak's back! And he's got something!"

Harry chased after Dudley, bursting into the living room as Vernon stood out of his armchair. Petunia stayed seated, sipping a cup of tea and looking curiously at Dudley, who was fiddling with the letter.

"Stop! That's mine!" Harry shouted.

"You be quiet! You're in enough trouble as it is," snapped Vernon. "What have you got there, Dudley?"

"It's a letter," replied Dudley, finally managing to open the envelope.

"That's my letter!" Harry shouted again, louder this time. "Give it back!"

Vernon scowled. "Who'd be writing to you? Who have you been talking to?" Harry stayed silent as Vernon advanced towards him. "Keeping secrets, aye? Looks like I'll need to teach you what happens when you keep secrets in this house."

Vernon was almost within reaching distance of Harry when Dudley grabbed everyone's attention again. Letter in hand, Dudley furrowed his eyebrows, trying to read it.

"Hug—Hog—Hogwarts? What's that?"

Petunia let out a loud gasp, her teacup slipping out of her hand, its contents spilling out and ruining the expensive living room rug. Her face stretched into an expression of horror, wide eyes darting back and forth between the letter in Dudley's hand and Vernon. Harry couldn't see Vernon's face because he'd turned towards Dudley, but Harry could see that his uncle's entire body had tensed all at once. For a minute, the only sound in the house came from the television.

"Oh my — Vernon! Oh my goodness! It's the letter!"

Petunia's words brought Vernon out of his stunned stupor. He tried to step towards Dudley, but struggled to do so on his shaky legs. "G-Give me that letter, Dudley!"

"No!" Harry interrupted. "It's mine!"

Vernon rounded on Harry. His face had gone ghostly pale, even his moustache lost some of its colour, but now he was quickly turning red. "YOU! WHERE DID YOU GET IT?! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT LETTER?!"

"It was in the post his morning," replied Harry.

This immediately drained the returning colour back out of Vernon's face. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out so he closed it again. This happened a few times before he managed to string some words together. "The morning post … you've had it since the … you've read it…" Vernon looked to Petunia, and they had a wordless conversation. Harry tried to decipher what they were communicating to each other from their facial expressions, but it was impossible. At last, Vernon spoke again in a low, threatening voice. "Listen here, boy. It's all lies. Everything in that letter is a lie — fake — a joke. Whatever you want to call it. There is no such thing as magic!"

Magic? But Harry hadn't mentioned anything about magic, and the only Dursley who had read the letter was Dudley. He didn't remember Dudley saying anything about it either. "How do you know what the letter's about? You haven't even read it…" But then Harry thought about how his aunt and uncle had reacted to hearing Dudley say 'Hogwarts', and what his aunt said afterwards. It was almost like they…

"Knew… You knew…" Though Harry's words came out barely more than a whisper, both Vernon and Petunia flinched as if he'd shouted. "All this time … You knew that I was a wizard."

"YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THOSE FREAKS!" Vernon's roared, and fuelled by rage, he made to take the letter from Dudley. Harry didn't let him. The letter jumped out of Dudley's hand, dodging under Vernon's outstretched arm, and flew over to Harry who plucked it out of the air. This show of his ability silenced the house once more.

"Not one of them?" Harry said in disbelief. "You've only been calling me a freak my entire life, but now suddenly I'm not? What's changed? Is it because I've learnt what you really mean when you say freak? That what you mean to say is wizard." Vernon and Petunia flinched again, this time at the word wizard. Harry continued, growing angrier. "What! Got nothing to say?! No insults? No threats? Are you going to do anything?! Go on, take Dudley's Smeltings stick and beat me! Like you've been doing since I was five-years-old! I know you want to!"

Vernon actually looked at the stick Dudley held in his trembling hands, considering doing just that. Vernon's hand twitched, as if he was about to make a grab for it, but then the stick was yanked away from Dudley by an invisible force. It flew across the room and landed somewhere behind Harry, far out of reach. Petunia cried out, leaping from her chair and racing over to Dudley, pulling him behind her, though her stick-like frame did little to hide him.

"You know what I think?" said Harry, making the Dursleys whimper. "I think you're too scared to do anything. Now that I know what I am — what you kept hidden from me! Feel free to tell me I'm wrong. Come on, I'm waiting."

The Dursleys said nothing, cowering further into the corner of the living room. Harry's anger spiked. The flower vases on the mantel piece suddenly exploded, showering the room with broken ceramic, making the Dursleys scream in fright.

"M-Mummy… W-What's happening?" Dudley's tiny brain was running a mile a minute, trying to understand what was going on, and failing miserably. All he knew, was that something bad was happening, and it was because of Harry. This had brought out Dudley's true, cowardly self for all to see.

Petunia tore her eyes away from Harry, and in doing so, re-found the ability to speak. "I-It's okay, Duddy. E-Everything's going t-to be okay."

"Don't go making promises, Auntie," growled Harry. There was a series of bangs in the kitchen. In the next moment, every knife and sharp utensil that the Dursleys owned flew into the living room, surrounding Harry's terrified relatives, hovering ominously in the air. The Dursleys were well and truly trapped, faced with the razor-edges of Harry's fleet of weapons.

"Well?" prompted Harry, but Vernon and Petunia still said nothing. Did they think staying silent was going to save them? "Pathetic. But I expected nothing less from people like you. Now, listen close, because this is what's going to happen next. I'm going to ask some questions and you better answer them honestly, or else my control might … just … slip." Harry punctuated this by making the knives move forward. Vernon nodded frantically, whilst Petunia sobbed, hugging Dudley closer, before she too nodded.

"First question then," said Harry, glaring at his relatives, daring them to try lie. "Why? Why did you lie to me all this time? Why didn't you tell me that I was a wizard?"

Petunia continued to sob, and it became clear that Vernon was going to be the one answering. "W-We swore when we took you in t-that we'd put an end to all that nonsense. We tried to m-make you normal — we tried — but you s-showed the signs. S-Strange things — impossible t-things — happening around you. And you — you were s-smarter than you ought to be. P-Petunia said the same kind of things h-happened with her sister. We r-refused to have a wiz— a wizar— one of those in our h-house, s-so we didn't t-tell you…"

"So, I was right — you were scared of me. Well, I guess your fear feels quite valid now, doesn't it." The floating knives shifted around, changing what angles they pointed at the Dursleys, reminding the Dursleys that they were still there. Not that they needed it. Harry moved onto another bit of information that Vernon had unwittingly confirmed for him. "So, my mother was like me. She was a witch."

The repeated mention of her hated sister made Petunia explode; her anger emboldening her. "OF COURSE, SHE WAS! I knew the moment I saw those sickening green eyes of yours that you'd be the same — a freak, like she was! But I was the only one who saw it back then! Oh, our parents were so happy to have a witch in the family — it was Lily this and Lily that. I bet they weren't so proud when a group of your kind broken in during the night and killed them!"

Harry was taken aback. Like his own parents, his grandparents were hardly ever mentioned in the Dursley's house, and Harry wasn't sure what to feel finding out that they were killed by wizards, also just like his parents — or that it was apparently his mother's fault. Harry was less inclined to believe Petunia on that, but his aunt didn't care, continuing her rant either way.

"Lily didn't even come to the funeral that she caused! That group had been looking for her! But no, she didn't need to attend — shacked up with that good-for-nothing Potter she met at that school — becoming his whore! Then they had you, and went and got themselves blown up! And we were forced to take you! No choice…"

Petunia didn't stop, but Harry was no longer listening. His knuckles turned white — his nails cut little red smiles into his palms from how hard he was clenching his fists.

"If that whore hadn't gotten herself killed—"

"MY MUM WAS NOT A WHORE!" Harry's yell shook the house, but that was also from his telekinesis reacting to his fury. The windows rattled and the walls creaked, as if Little Whinging was experiencing an earthquake. "She was a better mother than you'll ever be! And my dad, he died trying to protect us! They were better people than you could ever hope to be!"

The knives were a little over a foot away from skewering the Dursleys. In trying to create some space, Vernon caught himself on one of them, and a long cut appeared down the arm of his shirt. "C-Come on, boy—Harry." Vernon hastily corrected himself. "W-We can s-see that we were w-wrong. We're s-sorry. Why d-don't you stop this — we'll f-forget it ever happened."

"And then what?" Harry's question was met with silence. "Am I supposed to go back to being your slave? Getting beaten for daring to take a single slice of bread, or a glass of water. No — I don't think so. The days of you telling me what to do — of beating and degrading me — are over."

Petunia wept, mistaking his words to mean that they were done here, and that it was time for Harry to take his revenge.

"Don't worry, Auntie," clarified Harry. "Nothing's going to happen to you — not yet. I still have some questions left." Harry looked to Vernon. "Who forced you to take care of me?"

"W-We never met them," replied Vernon. "T-They left you on the doorstep in a blanket."

"Then how did they force you?"

"T-There was a letter."

Another letter. Why were magical people so intent on using such an outdated and slow method of communication? Harry was beginning to get worried that this was going to be a pattern.

"What did the letter say?"

Vernon inhaled sharply, like Harry had asked the one thing he dreaded. "I-I-I c-can't remember."

Frowning, Harry sent one of the knives forward with a burst of speed, embedding it in the wall right beside Vernon's head. As Harry hoped, this managed to jog his uncle's memory.

"W-Wait, wait! I do remember something! A name — something s-strange, like … like … Balas Bummlenore or—"

"Albus Dumbledore," interrupted Harry.

"YES! HIM! I remember now — he was the one who left you here!"

Harry looked down at the Hogwarts letter in his hand, where inside, written on the yellow parchment, was the name Albus Dumbledore, along with a ton of other stuff. He didn't understand, and he voiced this confusion out loud.

"Why would the headmaster of Hogwarts be the one to bring me here? What does he have to do with any of this?" The Dursleys shook their heads. Harry was beginning to think that they didn't know nearly as much as he hoped they did. "Where's that letter? Did you keep it?"

"I-I burned it," admitted Vernon, acting like he'd just admitted to a murder. He recoiled as if expecting a knife to finish him right there, but Harry just growled, turning to Petunia, uncaring if she was too distressed to speak; his next question was for her.

Harry took out the list that came in the Hogwarts letter, flashing it towards his cowering aunt. "If my mother went to Hogwarts, then you must know where she bought all this. Where did she get it?"

The letter was extremely vague when it came instructions, only saying what Harry would need, but nothing about how to get it. Last time he checked, the local corner shop didn't stock cauldrons; the same with wands, not to mention all those books written by bizarrely named witches and wizards.

"I-I don't know," said Petunia, but she went on in a panic after seeing Harry's frustration. "A w-witch came to the house to collect Lily a-and our p-parents. She t-took them to somewhere in London."

"WHERE?!" demanded Harry, loudly.

"It had s-something to do with an alley! I d-didn't go with them … I didn't go with t-them…"

Seeing his wife in such a traumatised state, Vernon mustered what was left of his courage. "That's all we know! We've told you everything! Let us go!"

Harry held himself back from flexing his telekinesis to remind Vernon who held the power here. "That can't be it. You've got to know more! Who was after my parents? Who killed them?!"

"We don't know!" bellowed Vernon.

"We don't … We don't know … please…" whimpered Petunia, clinging to Dudley like a lifeline. Dudley had done himself a favour by keeping quiet, not drawing any of Harry's attention towards himself.

Harry took one more, long, hard look at both his aunt and uncle, and saw that they were telling the truth. Even if they did know something else, Harry didn't know the right question to ask, and they were too terrified to recall it on their own. "I believe you…" he said.

There was no reason for Harry to stay here anymore. He should just leave — go out and find these hidden witches and wizards. Never come back to this God forsaken house. It was as he was about to do this that memories flashed through his mind of all the times his uncle had beaten him whilst his aunt stood by and watched. They'd made his life a living hell for almost ten years, and for what, because he'd been born different than them — better than them. The knives vibrated, creeping closer to the Dursleys ever so slowly. The Dursleys deserved to feel a fraction of the pain they'd caused Harry.

"N-Now, wait j-just a s-second," stammered Vernon, reacting to the knives closing in on his family. "D-Don't you t-think this is going a b-bit far?"

Harry's face was slack — emotionless. "On the contrary, Uncle. I don't think I've gone far enough."

One of the knives got close to Dudley, but Petunia pushed it away, cutting herself badly in the process. The sight of blood sent her into a pleading frenzy. "P-Please, Harry! We're sorry! We're so sorry!"

"Stop this madness, boy!" yelled Vernon, trying to intimidate Harry as he'd done so often before. It had no effect this time. Harry could see the utter terror in Vernon's eyes as he came to terms with the reality of what was about to happen.

"Please, Harry!" Petunia continued to try, screaming to be heard over Dudley's blubbering. "Lily wouldn't want this!"

Finally, Harry reacted, snarling at the nerve of this woman — the aunt that had abused him — to try and use his own mother against him. He snapped back with years of hate fuelling him. "My mother wouldn't have wanted her sister to abuse her son either! But that didn't stop you!"

With that, Petunia could see that nothing she might say was going to change Harry's mind. In what would be her last minute, she first looked to her husband, then to her son. Dudley had never been so scared, watching the sharp knives approach him like lions stalking their prey. It awoke something inside Petunia, who looked back to Harry with new determination in her eyes.

"Please…" she began, sounding like she was just going to continue her pleading, but it was different this time. "Please spare Dudley… It wasn't his fault … Take us, but please let him live. Do anything you want to us, just anything but him, please."

Harry's mind tried to tell him otherwise, but he ignored all of the memories that arose — struck deeply by Petunia's words. They were almost exactly the same as Harry's own mother had pleaded that horrible night…

Suddenly, everything blurred and when it cleared a moment later, Harry was no longer looking upon his cowering relatives, but rather his own mother. She was crouched low, wearing the exact same clothes as in his nightmares, and cradling a bundle of blankets to her chest. That was him. Harry just knew that it was him as a baby that Lily was holding so preciously. Why was he seeing this? Lily looked up at him and Harry felt as if one the knives had turned around and pierced his own heart. He'd seen her terrified face so many times before, but never like this, staring up at him, like it was him that had caused it — like it was him that she was so scared of.

It's not real. She's dead — this isn't real. No matter how many times Harry told himself, the mirage of his mother wouldn't disappear. Was this supposed to be his conscience? That didn't make sense! He didn't feel guilty — the Dursleys deserved this! They were the absolute worst example of what humans could be! The world would be a better place without them! Reacting to his thoughts, Lily grew more distraught, tears cascading down her face.

Harry tried to shake it out of his head, reaffirming his decision to himself, hardening his resolve. This was justice, for everything the Dursleys had done — and what they would do if allowed to live. A sudden chill swept through the room and down Harry's spine. A presence appeared behind him, but Harry's body refused to turn. Whatever it was, its breath came right up against Harry's ear. Then it spoke.

"Do it, Harry… Kill them…"

The world stopped. Harry would recognise that cold voice anywhere. A hand crept onto his shoulder, settling there like an axe hanging over his head. Harry didn't need to turn his head to know that it was the pale, bone-like hand of his parent's murderer.

"No… You're not here…"

Harry didn't know whether he'd said that out loud or his in head. The murderer laughed the same insane laugh that it had moments after killing his mother.

"They deserve to die … For everything they've done to you … For everything they would've done if you hadn't stopped them…"

"Stop it … You're just in my head … You're not real!"

The murderer's voice got louder — demanding. It was the only thing Harry could hear, echoing around his head.

"Take your revenge, Harry! Kill them! Become like me — KILL THEM!"

It felt like a bucket of ice water had suddenly been dumped over Harry's head. Every single one of the knives dropped, clattering against each other as they landed on the carpeted floor, released from the influence of his telekinesis. Harry staggered, grabbing his chest and choking on his breaths. He looked at the mirage of his mother, who was no longer staring at him in terror; instead, she was looking at him with hope.

Harry spoke between gasps. "I'll … I'll never be … like you."

The hand gripping his shoulder vanished, along with the cold that had descended upon him. Lily smiled at him proudly, lighting a warmth inside him that chased away the remaining chill. She then faded away, and left in her place — exactly where they'd been before — was the Dursleys, staring at him with their wide, frightened eyes. They were staying completely still, afraid that if they moved, Harry would pick the knives back up and resume where he left off.

Harry paid his relatives no mind, too focused on himself and what he'd almost just done. All the emotions that had been muted in the moment came rushing back, drowning him in a sea of doubt and regret — and fear — so much fear of himself and his actions. Harry stumbled all the way back to the living room door, grounding himself in the present with the feel of the wood beneath his fingers. He couldn't believe that he'd almost become the same as the monster that had killed his parents; it made him want to throw up — he would've if there was any food in his stomach.

Harry chanced a glance around, but averted his eyes upon seeing his relatives. He couldn't look at them without thinking about what he almost became. But the entire house reminded him of it. He needed to get out here.

As Harry reached for the door handle, there was a roar behind him. Vernon charged at him holding one of the discarded knives high. Harry held up a hand, halting Vernon with telekinesis. He could feel Vernon struggling against his power, but it was a pointless effort. With one thought, Harry sent Vernon soaring back across the room, crashing into the television; there was a shower of sparks and a lot of popping.

"VERNON!"

Petunia had been about to rush to her husband when she stopped. She looked towards Harry, fearing that she or Dudley would be next, but all she found was empty space. A draft blew through the house, coming from the front door, which had been left wide open.