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By jsaba

Drama / Adventure



Chapter 1: Christmas Eve

Hey there, whoever is reading this! I'm Jsaba, and I'm back with a brand new story that, for once, does not belong to the minds of Mike and Brian but from one of the most amazing authors, J.K. Rowling.

Now, I know that most of the ideas in my story, or perhaps the plot itself, have been used many times ever since before I could type, much less have a fan fiction account, but I don't care about that. Guys, there are still some new fan fictions with old ideas. What matters is the style and how to organize these ideas, so I hope you like mine.

Anyways, starting from that, I would like to give credit to anyone who wrote a story with this very same plot and apologize because I have not read them all. Special thanks to Snapegirlfm, because she managed to give the most realistic plot, and I hope to achieve what she did and even more.

So, without further waiting, enjoy my newest idea.


Harry Potter was, right now, asleep as peaceful as he could in his dusty, old cupboard. However the eight-year-old's peaceful state did not last much longer as the sound of his cousin's heavy body hopping down the stairs caused the cupboard to rumble. It sent wood peelings flying all around in the very limited space, causing Harry to sneeze.

After sneezing a few times, he rubbed his eyes, trying to release the pain of the small wood pealings that broke into his eyes, much like Dudley's screams of "It's Christmas!" and his heavy footsteps broke into his ears, depriving him from precious sleep. Harry sighed and made an attempt to grab his glasses when another sound made him jump onto the floor.

It came again and again. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Harry quickly got up and moved his hands around on the floor, successfully getting a hold of some spiders but never finding his glasses that fell down somewhere.

The sounds that Harry identified as his aunt knocking on his cupboard door grew louder and were joined by a mixture of "Up boy!" or "What in the name of the lord are you doing in there? Get here immediately!" Harry started to panic, fearing a punishment. Finally, with a little of Christmas luck, Harry's palm collided with his glasses somewhere under his very small bed.

The eight-year-old put them on his nose, held together with cello tape, as usual. He was rather disappointed and angry because now a crack was visible in one of the lenses, and it made his vision much worse than the glasses already did.

For a minute, Harry took off the glasses and stared at the broken glass. However, he quickly put them back on and progressed for the small door, which was about to come down any minute due to his aunt's violent knocks, if not of her voice.

Harry winced as the bright light of the hallway crept into his eyes. He looked down at his shoes, expecting to hear any type of humiliation or maybe even get slapped or something. In the end, after a minute of dreadful silence accompanied with Petunia glaring daggers at the small boy in front of her, Harry felt a sharp pain invade his pale cheek as loud yelling invaded his ears, nearly causing him to be deaf.


Harry had nothing to do but mumble yes and hurry to the kitchen. He bumped into the door, adding more pain to his face. The boy still felt his aunt's eyes stalking him, so, slowly, the eight-year-old opened the kitchen door and slipped inside followed by Petunia Dursley.

Instantly, Harry's eyes collided with what was a mountain of different coloured and sized presents that his cousin was going through quickly.

The mountain covered up almost the entire kitchen table, ;ike it normally did on any occasion, making Harry wonder where exactly was he to eat.

Harry kept progressing towards the stove, dreaming of being there instead of his fat, stupid cousin opening all those fabulous presents. As a matter of fact, the eight-year-old would not have minded one present, but he did not bother or dare touch Dudley's or search through them. He had had seven years, which was more than enough to allow him to receive the message that he was not going to get anything, whether it was Christmas, Easter, or his very own birthday.

Harry did not realize that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, drenched in his dreams and wishes, as he stared at his cousin opening different toys until Uncle Vernon, his aunt's husband shot him a nasty glare.

Harry walked quickly to the stove and started the fire, trying to look into the bright side, which, in this case, was that at least the fire was warm.

As the eight-year-old worked hard on the scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes, he felt every cell of his body ache.

For starters, Harry was freezing cold. In the end, he had nothing to wear but Dudley's old cloths, and as a punishment he got no coat this year, since Dudley threw a tantrum claiming that he was not going to give a freak any of his cloths.

Other than the coldness freezing his veins, Harry's cheek was hurting and stinging so uncontrollably that he was having an inner battle with himself trying hard not to cry. The pain in his forehead that was slammed into the door did not help him very much.

Harry was sure that the slap on his cheek was going to bruise, which was nothing he was not used to, but it was something that was going to disturb his sleep as he twisted and turned a lot as he traveled through dreams.

As for his forehead, the eight-year-old felt blood dripping down his forehead, and before it landed in any of the pans, Harry left the bacon for a second and wiped it away with his overgrown, ill-fitting T-shirt.

Harry felt awful.

Anger boiled inside him as he listened to his aunt and uncle cuddle their son and congratulate him about all the gifts he received from Santa and praising him because he was apparently the best boy in Britain.

Liars! Harry thought furiously. Dudley had to be the naughtiest boy in Britain! Maybe those gifts were mine because I lived with Dudley without strangling him, the selfish part of the young, poor boy's brain mused. Maybe Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia swapped the names over night and brought them here to Dudley's favourite place. Yes, such liars!

Harry, for a second, was proud of his explanation for what was going on. At school, the teacher told them that Santa comes to good boys and girls and that he gives them candies and presents as a reward for being good and nice all year long, while he punishes naughty kids and brings them nothing for Christmas.

That fat hippo! Those are my gifts! I can't believe they brought them here instead of under the tree and removed my name!

A minute passed with Harry growing more and more frustrated at the thought of what his relatives did. That was, until the realistic part of his brain had a say in things.

Come on Harry! In the name of everything, do you think that is true? Remember when you asked Aunt Petunia, when you were four, about why Santa did not bring gifts to you while Dudley got so many gifts?

Harry sighed as a silent tear slid down his swollen and un-swollen cheeks.

I know what she said. Santa does not come to visit freaks like me.

With those thoughts to keep him company, Harry finished cooking breakfast and emptied his cooking onto plates to serve on the overcrowded table.

Sadly, the table was so drowned in presents for Dudley that Harry could not find a small space, much less a place for plates of goods he made.

Carefully, Harry started removing some gifts to put down the plates; it was indeed a very hard task considering his broken glasses. But when Dudley spotted him...

A loud cry was heard in the house, coming from the fat eight-year-old in the room, who was surrounded with wrappings torn away, causing a mess that Harry was sure to clean later. Up until now, he had thirteen different presents including a new set of computer games, a mini TV again, a remote-control car and a small, remote-control helicopter, a punching bag – which Dudley would probably leave, preferring to use Harry – and many other items.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were immediately alarmed. Aunt Petunia left the cake she was decorating, and Uncle Vernon almost dropped his hot coffee on his morning paper.

"What is it, my dear Dudle-ickliness?" Aunt Petunia asked in a soft voice dripping with concern as she bent down and hugged her son, who, from her hug, stuck his tongue out at Harry before moving in with his little Christmas play.

Harry gritted his teeth, not seconds after uncle Vernon's huge fat palm slapped him on the back of his neck once more dropping his glasses.

"What did you do now, you little freak?" he asked, his voice dripping with what it normally did when he talked to Harry – hate and disgust, in other words.

Harry fell to the floor, as he was an underweight, scrawny, little eight-year-old and Uncle Vernon was a huge, fat, full-grown man.

Harry's hands scouted once more for his glasses for the second time in a quarter-hour.

What was with his relatives today?

They were mean and beat him a lot but why his glasses? Was it a Christmas special or gift?

Aunt Petunia is going to kill me, Harry thought as he grabbed his glasses, which now had one broken frame in them.

She probably will forget that they broke it and blame me for being clumsy!

By the time Harry readjusted his glasses over his nose once more, Dudley started babbling like a small baby.

"H-Harry... H-h-he is g-g-going to r-ruin m-my C-Christmas presents m-mom! I saw him s-start! H-he-"

"What?! No! I was moving them to the side a little because they took up all the space. Aunt Petunia told me to place breakfast so I was!" Harry interrupted Dudley in a high, sharp tone ruled by fury.

That only earned him a kick in the stomach from his "loving" uncle that sent him flying until his head hit the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen.

"Let my boy speak, you freak!" roared Uncle Vernon.

Harry wanted nothing more than to nurse his now-bleeding ear.

Dudley continued.

"He-he is always r-ruining everything w-w-with h-his freakishness!"

Dudley broke into a fit of fake sobs as Aunt Petunia comforted him.

She rubbed circles around his back and murmured things like "My poor boy!" and "That useless, ungrateful brat!"

Harry could not make out all of what she said due to his very injured ear,. Pain throbbed in his head like hell, as he heard Uncle Vernon once say when he was sick.

Before Harry knew it, he had received a harder kick in the chest from Uncle Vernon.

"You insolent, useless freak! Do you think Santa cares a damn about freaks?! You are the most pathetic useless..." Uncle Vernon continued draining Harry with insults and calling him names that his teacher gave him detention when she heard him repeat.

All of that was as Aunt Petunia comforted Dudley while he made faces at Harry.

After what seemed like eternity, Harry was kicked out of the room, literally kicked out, without breakfast or anything but the word "FREAK!" and "GO TO YOUR BLASTED CUPBOARD!" and his wounds to keep him company.

Harry dragged himself to his cupboard, not daring defy Uncle Vernon's orders. Fearing more injuries, the cupboard door was locked behind him.

Harry collapsed to the bed, somewhat exhausted. He felt blood dripping down his face and bruises forming on his chest and stomach. Was this what they called passing out from blood loss, the boy wondered before his eyes closed and he was engaged into dreamless sleep.


Harry awoke with a start when he heard a louder thud, which was more like a canon blast in his cupboard door, and he immediately knew his "dear" Aunt was calling.

Harry rushed to the door, which his aunt opened, wondering what time was it.

"You little freak," She said in a dangerous, sharp tone, accompanied with death glares. "We are going to a party for Christmas. You have a list of chores to do on the fridge. If you do anything else while we are gone, those marks will have more friends to accompany them, do you understand?"

"Can I go with you?" The words escaped Harry's mouth before he was able to tame them.

That earned him a whack on the nose with his uncle's belt right then and there as his uncle was putting it on.

"No freaks are allowed boy."

With that, the family went away, leaving Harry on the floor, his nose bleeding, adding more blood to the dried blood on his face.

However, before they left, Dudley came over and whispered in his ear, "I wish you never came, you useless creep!"

And then they left.

Harry laid there on the ground as he heard their car's engine roar and take off. It was eight P.M, he thought, as he looked at the clock on the wall.

Harry remained rooted to the spot for several minutes, blood dripping down the carpet, but he did not care anymore.

No one wants me! Maybe I am a useless pathetic freak, but, still, am I that much of burden?

Fine! I'll give them the nicest gift ever and runaway from here forever! Like that boy in Dudley's cartoon! I'll try using my freakishness and never coming back ever again!

No one will miss me, and it would be better this way.

With that, Harry walked into the kitchen, where he eyed the foot-long paper of chores waiting to be done on the fridge. He ignored it, walking past it and to the sink.

Harry washed his nose with hot water before he cleaned it with tissues, not being able to find gauze.

The eight-year-old treated all of his injuries, using all of the knowledge he gained from visiting the nurse's office after being beaten by Dudley and his gang.

After his wounds felt a little better, Harry went to his cupboard. He emptied his school bag and stuffed some clothes in there.

Harry journeyed back to the kitchen, where he grabbed some food and stuffed it in his back pack. Then, he went to Dudley's room, where he grabbed some mittens, a scarf, socks, a hat, and a coat.

Harry picked the smallest one, knowing that Dudley wouldn't miss it, much less notice its absence, due to all of the clothes in his crowded wardrobe. He tried it on himself, but still it was too wide for him. He sighed and then walked along the house, collecting some important things.

After he was done, Harry scribbled down a note for the Dursleys just because they raised him. He wrote one sentence in order not to empty all of his hate on a paper that wouldn't fit it anyway.

I am no longer a burden.


There, that was enough.

Harry looked at the house he had known for seven years. He was not sure why, since he knew nothing but pain in it. With a deep breath, he pulled the scarf up to hide the bruises on his face, so that he wouldn't be caught before his adventure started, and opened the door.

For the first mile or so, Harry walked waving to some of the people he knew, trying to act normal. Then, when he was at the edge of a forest, the youth started running.

It felt fabulous.

He was free! Harry fought the urge to yell, "I'm free!" fearing it might attract attention or monsters.

He froze. Harry never thought about animals. He only considered cops returning him to the Dursleys.

But he lived with the Dursleys for seven years. Being eaten alive would be much better than returning to their custody.

Harry walked deeper into the forest. After a long time, he stopped to rest, hoping that he brought one of Dudley's old watches. Something told him that it was way past midnight. He fell down and leaned against a tree trunk as he nibbled on some cheese and bread and drank water before he fell into a needed sleep.


In the morning, Harry woke up more comfortable than ever.

Although his body ached as if every cell in it was sore and he was freezing, he was free.

After a breakfast of cheese and bread, again, Harry continued walking.

He walked until late in the afternoon, hoping not to be caught and ignoring his aching body and hungry stomach.

When it became late at night, Harry felt him.

Someone was following him, and he had been for the two past hours. The man moved forward as the eight-year-old was engulfed in possibilities. He grabbed the small boy, and Harry panicked.

Whatever happened next, he had no idea. He felt something grab him by the navel and place him somewhere different at top speed. Harry found himself in a small village, but he was too frightened of being caught to actually mind what he just did.

Probably my freakishness, he thought as he ran. I have to get out. I don't want to return.

That's when Harry, running at top speed, bumped into a tall, slender man with black robes and shoulder-length, ebony hair.

Both child and adult fell down on the ground.


Any ideas who the man can be?

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David Ramati: I can easily identify with the characters as having gone through those terrible times myself. The writer has skillfully brought yet another side of those days to life. A good read which I recommend to everyone.

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