The Anger .

Chapter 1

'There he is,' thought the furious young raven-haired boy with the bright green eyes. 'That's the arsewipe responsible for dumping me on the Dursleys.'

He was walking last in line, alone, of about forty children roughly the same age as he. They walked up between two long tables with children of various ages, from eleven to seventeen. Sitting to his left were children wearing robes trimmed in yellow and black. To his right, their robes were trimmed in blue and bronze. The tables were covered in flatware and crockery that appeared to be made of gold. Above, hanging suspended in the air, were hundreds of candles. Their light filled the room with a soft but all encompassing warm glow.

The children ahead of him were looking around uttering sounds of awe and whispering to each other about what they saw. One young bushy brown-haired lass just ahead of him was talking to a blonde-haired lass about how the ceiling was supposed to be 'charmed' to show the night sky.

The raven-haired boy was only paying attention to it all, almost peripherally. Almost his entire focus was on the man wearing garish robes and a long white beard, sitting on what looked like a golden throne. He knew who the man was - who he had to be - Albus 'Arsewipe' Dumbledore; the one who sentenced him to almost ten years of Hell. McGonagall, a tall, stern looking woman with the epitome of a witch's hat perched on her head, told the group of children he was with to form a line in front of the small stage she had just mounted. He recognised her, too; just as he did the giant of a man who collected them from the train station.

The boy paid her little mind. He could feel the constant headache he'd had since he was seven years old beginning to intrude again. It always happened when his anger began to build - his rage. As always, he forced it back with an iron will. A - coping mechanism - he'd developed long ago. The Dursleys never allowed him any sort of pain killer. And, as always, it made him feel within himself as if he was suffocating. Like something was squeezing him deep inside. The boy watched as the hat, clearly demonstrating more magic in evidence, began to sing. The tune, though quite basic, allowed the hat to sing about how unlike other hats it was before it sang about the four houses of the school. Then it gave a short riff about putting it on to be sorted.

Once it quietened again, the children around him and throughout the hall, began to clap. The boy just wished they'd do so quietly. His headache was building along with his anger. He was struggling to force it back.

McGonagall unfurled a scroll as she waited for the applause to die down. Once it had, she began to call names.

The boy was trying to focus within himself while only listening with half an ear. From experience, he knew - if given time - he could force the anger away; and, with it, the headache. He had his eyes closed, focussing. It helped that he didn't have to look upon the face of the old wanker on his throne, McGonagall or that Hagrid bloke. He would bide his time. After all these years he was able to quickly and methodically force the pain and anger down.

It never went away completely, though. Not since that evening; the evening his so-called loving aunt hit him in the side of the head with a frying pan. The one that had slipped out of his sore and soapy hands as he stood on a low stool at the sink washing dishes.

It had slipped out of his hands and hit the floor, making a racket. His aunt had stormed in, furious. She screamed at him about how they were trying to watch the evening news on the BBC. She'd bent down, grasped the handle of the pan from where it had landed on the floor, raised it, and hit him in the side of the head with it.

The hit had knocked him unconscious, as the next thing he remembered was waking up back in his cupboard with a blinding headache. He was just glad it was late at night as the rest of the house was quiet. He couldn't see any lights on, filtering through the gaps in the door. But, since that night, he'd had the headaches.

Shoving those thoughts aside, too, the boy was pulled out of his meditative state when he heard his name called. The way it was called sounded as if it wasn't the first time, either.

He opened his eyes and saw the old witch, McGonagall, staring sternly at him. He could also hear whispering coming from the other children. The other students. He knew what they were whispering.

'The Harry Potter? The Boy-Who-Lived? Is Harry Potter here?' All nonsense. He hated them for it.

He felt a hand of one of the other children he didn't know who, nor did he care - give him a light nudge forward by his shoulder. He noticed the old arsewipe and some of the other - teachers? - lean forward slightly, as if in anticipation. Wankers.

He walked forward, heading for the small wooden stool. McGonagall stood alongside it, ready to place the hat that could sing on his head.

As he reached the stool and was about to turn around to sit on it, the scent hit him. That same scent he remembered from his memories. That same scent that was on her - one of the other people besides the whiskered arsewipe, responsible for him being dumped on the doorstep of the Dursleys. The perfume of the old witch brought the memory of that night back to his full consciousness.

The sense of smell, the memory of smell, was one of the most powerful of mnemonics. Her perfume triggered the memory deep within the boy - Harry Potter. It also re-awoke the anger the boy had been trying to suppress.

"Dumbledore you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future - there will be books written about Harry - every child in our world will know his name!"

Harry stopped. He felt his hands clench into fists. Taking deep breaths of rage he turned to the old witch and snarled, "No!"

Minerva McGonagall had never, in all her years at Hogwarts, heard a student refuse to be sorted in such a manner. And definitely not one who would do it with so much anger; so much venom. There had been others in the past, but that was due to the child's fear of the hat. However, young Mister Potter was clearly unafraid.

"Excuse me, Mister Potter?" she asked the boy in shock. "I said, 'No!'," replied young Harry. "I will not be - sorted - I do not believe I shall be attending this - school."

"Mister Potter!" exclaimed McGonagall. "You must!"

"Bullshit, lady!" Harry snarled back, louder than before. "About the only reason I came here was to meet face to face the arseholes who dumped me as a baby on the doorstep of the people who spent the next near ten years abusing me! Well, now I've seen them. And you disgust me!"

The entire hall was completely silent. Most faces appeared horrified by what they'd just heard, and the venom in the voice that had just delivered it.

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