The Anger .

24th July 1991 – Four Years Later:

Harry Potter was standing at the stove, cleaning it, while his so-called family were either gorging themselves, his uncle and cousin, or overly primly picky eating, their breakfasts. The same breakfasts he'd only recently finished cooking but was not allowed to partake in.

As always, he was focussing on keeping his anger in check while he went about the chore.

The sound of a squeaky hinge came from the front of the house. That was the sound of the mail flap.

"Dudley," snorted his uncle. "Go and get the mail."

The fat cousin angrily whined, "Make Harry get it. I've not finished!"

With barely a pause the uncle snapped out, "Boy! Get the mail!"

Tamping his rising anger down, Harry replied, "Yes, Uncle Vernon." He placed the cleaning rag and spray cleaner on the bench top alongside the stove and went out into the entry hall to collect the mail. Picking it up from the floor he quickly began to sort through it. His uncle demanded the mail be sorted with the junk mail immediately disposed of into the bin.

Quickly sorting the mail, Harry found a most unusual envelope amongst the normal mail. It was unusual in that it was made of a type of paper he'd not come across before; it lacked a stamp or postal mark; and was addressed to him, even down to his 'Cupboard Under the Stairs'. It was also the first item of mail he'd ever personally received. It left him stunned.

Hesitating but a moment he quickly stuffed it into the front left pocket of his oversized and torn jeans, before returning to the final sorting of the mail. And quickly walked back to the kitchen. After all, it would not do for his so-called relatives to wait one moment longer than they absolutely had to when receiving their mail. Placing the mail next to his uncle's right hand without a word Harry quickly returned to cleaning the stove. The sooner he had the chore done the sooner he could begin on cleaning the breakfast dishes, and the sooner he could retreat to his cupboard to find out who, and why someone, had written to him.

After he had the dishes and cutlery of the Dursley's breakfast put away Harry was able to return to his cupboard. He'd managed, this time, to grab two slices of now cold - toast and some uneaten bacon. These he pulled out of his pockets to make a sandwich.

After making it he put the sandwich down and drew out the letter addressed to him out of his pocket. Opening it he found a couple of sheets of what looked like somewhat stiff slightly yellow paper made of the same material as the envelope. Written therein, apparently, he had been accepted to attend a magic school called Hogwarts.

The letter also held a document detailing what schools supplies he'd need. One of the items, a cauldron, triggered within him a memory. It was a memory of a place called 'The Leaky Cauldron', which stood as the gateway between the non-magical and magical reals of Britain.

Meditating for a moment he entered his 'mind palace' and found the relevant memory. Reviewing it, he found where it was located; Charing Cross Road near Leicester Square Tube station. Then a short walk south. Identified by a swinging sign of a cauldron with a big crack near the bottom. The wall had only a dark wooden door in a blank white wall.

Now, how to get there. He searched his memories relating to maps and found what he needed. A quick scan through and he had it figured out. He needed to catch an overland National Rail train to Balham. Then switch to the Underground rail system for the Northern Line. Then ride straight through to Leicester Square.

Getting there and back wasn't difficult. His mental rail maps said it would only take him a little over two hours each way. Convincing his aunt to allow him to go to the local public library for the day would only require a little persuasion. He only had to play to her insecurities using what he learned in the book 'Reinventing Influence'.

But did he want to come back? No, not really. He knew the lies his aunt and uncle told him about his parents and how he came to have the scar on his forehead were just that; lies. And he remembered being taken to the bank in that alley behind the pub.

No, he'd tell his aunt he was heading out for the day (so he wouldn't be underfoot) and make his way directly to the bank. There, he hoped to find out if his parents had left him any money. If not, he'd race back home and do what he could to make his own way in life.

He had secreted away in his little cupboard about twenty pounds. He had a little sideline going on with other kids in school. He hid in the library and did their homework for them. But, they had to meet his prices. When they did, they received back homework worthy of top marks. All they had to do was rewrite it in their own handwriting.

No one but his personal 'agents' knew his real identity. And, even if someone managed to get one of the said agents to divulge the identity of the 'homework expert', nobody believed them. Because, Harry Potter was known as a poor student. He was even a worse student than his obese cousin, no matter how much time he appeared to spend in the library seemingly studying. If his cousin earned 50% on an assignment, Harry received 48%. He was always a few marks behind, a few points behind. But no one could work out why. No one knew that he would be beaten by both his cousin and his fat uncle if he brought home a report card that showed better marks than 'Dear Duddikins'. No one knew the efforts to which Harry went in appearing to be a slightly worse student than his cousin.

No one knew his greatest secret.

The morning after receiving his letter, Harry was up early. He 'feed bagged' the Dursleys, cleaned up the breakfast dishes, cleaned the kitchen and then used his recently learned influencing skills on his aunt. Some information about how he could make her day easier if he wasn't there for the day, and he was able to get out.

He quickly made his way to the local National Rail train station and he was on his way to Balham Underground station. Just under half an hour later and he was on an Underground railcar and on his way up the Northern Line direct to Leicester Square.

The trip was quicker than he thought it would be considering it was both a work day and early morning. However, he was soon walking quickly along Charing Cross Road keeping a close look out for the sign for 'The Leaky Cauldron'.

It didn't take him long to find the pub before he was able to duck in through the door. He remembered to calmly walk through and straight out the back door into the alleyway. However, once he was in the alley he couldn't find a memory of how to get through to the other side of the brick wall before him. So, he just waited.

It was only a few minutes later before the bricks began to open up with someone wanting to come through from the other side and he was able to duck through.

Keeping his head down and out from underfoot. He made his way down the alley. If he remembered right, the big marble building halfway down the alley was the bank he needed; Gringotts. Standing either side of the door he could see most fierce creatures that seemed to only be as tall as he was. And they were arm with old-fashioned pikes and double-bladed axes.

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