"Potter, Harry!" Professor McGonagall called.
Whispers spread through the hall.
"Harry Potter?"
"The Harry Potter?"
A minute passed, but nobody approached the Sorting Hat. In all her years as a teacher, Minerva had met every sort of first-year. Some were brave; others were terribly shy and frightened. She waited patiently for the full minute.
But no longer.
"Mr. Potter, please come up to the Hat. Don't hold up the Sorting," Minerva McGonagall repeated, searching the crowd intently for the boy.
Still, nobody came forward. Potter was nowhere to be seen.
Professor McGonagall sighed inwardly, put on a stern expression, and went to fetch the boy herself from the much-thinned crowd of first-years still awaiting their turn. But Harry Potter was not there, though she distinctly remembered seeing him in the smaller hall. He had kept his distance from everyone, staring fearfully at everything around him.
McGonagall had often seen similar behavior in children raised by Muggles, but they had all managed to get through the Sorting. Perhaps he had fallen behind?
"Maybe he stayed in that little hall?" suggested a red-haired boy who had not yet been sorted.
"A Weasley, no doubt," Minerva thought.
After confirming once more that Potter was missing, she strode toward the smaller hall, where the first-years had stood not long before, in full view of everyone. She had no other idea where to look.
Harry Potter was in the far corner, sitting on a bench and lost in thought.
"Mr. Potter, all your classmates are already in the Great Hall. Why are you still here?" Minerva McGonagall asked.
Harry merely shrugged and looked fearfully at the Transfiguration professor.
"He's anxious and frightened," Minerva realized. "It would be best not to scold him just yet."
"Let me walk you there," she said gently.
Harry pressed himself farther into the corner. When Professor McGonagall approached, he opened his mouth and stammered, "No! I mean... d-don't... I'll... go by myself..."
He glanced warily at her, then slowly started toward the doors to the Great Hall. Minerva watched him go before following at a short distance. This called for a delicate touch.
The doors to the Great Hall opened. Harry paused at the entrance, casting a frightened glance over the crowd of astonished teenagers, then began making his way step by step toward the Sorting Hat.
As he drew level with the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, he heard voices.
"Harry!"
"It's Harry Potter!"
"What's wrong with him?"
The boy stopped abruptly, panic seizing him. His legs felt like lead and refused to move. His mind raced through his options. What should he do? Run and hide? That sounded pretty good.
McGonagall came up quietly behind him, took his hand, and said gently, "Come on, Harry. I'll walk you there."
The ritual handshake with Piers flashed before Harry's eyes. He yanked his hand away and screamed, "No! Please don't touch me!"
Then he bolted blindly out of the Great Hall.
Dumbledore was horrified. Hagrid had, of course, told him the boy was frightened, but he had not thought the situation was this bad. After all, he had seen Harry, and the boy had not seemed much different from an ordinary child his age.
Yet Harry Potter had shot out of the hall as if Voldemort himself were chasing him.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts stood. "Carry on with the Sorting. I'll handle this." Dumbledore left the hall through the same door Potter had run out of.
Why was the boy behaving like that? Surely Petunia could not have treated her sister's son badly. Could she really have?
Dumbledore had thought that, despite her conspicuous disdain, she loved her sister and would never take her anger out on him. But if not her, then who? What had happened to Harry Potter? And when?
To understand how this had happened to Harry, we must look at his childhood.
What was the earliest moment in his life that Harry remembered? Potter himself had tried to figure it out, but he did not know for sure. He did remember one event from his very early childhood, but he had been treated badly even then. That meant something had happened earlier, something that might explain the Dursleys' hatred. Unfortunately, Harry could not remember it. No matter how hard he tried, he could not understand the reason for their hatred. Dudley seemed no different from him, yet he was treated completely differently.
With nothing else to go on, let's start with the last thing Harry remembered.
July thirty-first. He had turned seven. His gifts were two pairs of Uncle Vernon's old socks. He had wanted something else so badly, though he could not remember what. Probably one of Dudley's old toys.
What happened after his birthday had vanished into the depths of his memory, so we'll move ahead six months.
January seventeenth, the first day Harry ended up in the hospital.
Dudley and his gang, Dennis, Gordon, and Malcolm, decided to build a snowman, but the snow was too powdery to hold together. So they used Harry as the foundation. It was simple: Harry spread his arms while Dudley and Gordon piled snow all over him. Dennis found a carrot and a bucket somewhere, and there they had a fine snowman.
At first, Harry had seemed happy that they had decided to play with him, but he quickly changed his mind. He could have died of hypothermia that day, but a couple passing by became curious about the strange snowman. When they discovered a person beneath the snow, they immediately called an ambulance.
Harry got off relatively lightly that day. Though not that lightly: he had pneumonia and a fever of thirty-nine degrees for two weeks.
But at least he survived...
After he got out of the hospital, Uncle Vernon hit him for the first time. Dudley told him he did not know how Harry had ended up as a snowman, so Vernon Dursley decided that this was how the boy's abnormality showed itself.
From that day on, things got much worse for Harry. Dudley realized Harry made a great punching bag, and Potter began getting beaten regularly. Neither Dudley nor his friends knew how to do it properly, but it still hurt, and it felt terribly unfair.
Let's move on.
The happiest birthday of Harry's life. Of the ones he could remember, of course. Perhaps he had had a happier celebration when he lived with his alcoholic parents, but he did not remember it.
He was turning eight. Why was it the happiest? It was very simple. They gave him a cupcake.
By then, Harry had more or less accepted that he would never be treated well, so he understood that the Dursleys would not give him anything for no reason. Most likely, Dudley had refused to eat the cupcake, and they had not wanted to throw it away. Harry's birthday had simply come around at the right time.
Even so, he glowed with happiness and felt grateful to every one of the Dursleys. Harry had never eaten anything sweet. Dudley ate everything just to spite him. The only sweet thing Harry ever got was sugar, which Dudley could not possibly eat all by himself. But they watched the sugar bowl, and Harry rarely managed to take any. When he finally did, he was disappointed: sugar by itself did not taste good at all.
The cupcake, on the other hand, tasted much better. Harry could not even describe its flavor properly; he did not know the words for it yet. That day, Potter broke the treat into many pieces and locked himself in the cupboard so Dudley could not take it. He spent the whole day eating the delicacy one bite at a time.
He still remembered that taste, and probably would for the rest of his life. The first happy moment of his life remained the last.
After that, things got much worse.
Harry met Piers Polkiss.
Late June. A new boy showed up at St. Gregory's Primary School, where Harry and Dudley went. Harry immediately noticed that the newcomer was like him: skinny, quiet, and always looking a little beaten down.
His arrival at the end of the school year threw Dudley off. For a while, he could not figure out how to deal with the new boy and, as a result, could not turn him against Potter. Harry quickly realized this was his only chance to make a friend. At first, he and Piers exchanged a few words, then something like a conversation developed between them. One day, Piers invited Harry over for the weekend.
Potter was incredibly nervous. Until then, he had not spoken to anyone except his cousin and his gang, and it was hard to call that talking. After receiving the invitation, Harry paced around the cupboard, his mind racing. What should he bring? What should he wear? How should he act? Should he bring a present?
Harry decided he would never get another chance like this, so he took the best things he had. He put on a white shirt and black trousers that Dudley had received for his seventh birthday. It was the only decent outfit Harry owned, and he had come by it by chance. Dudley had received more than two dozen presents and simply had not noticed the tiny package beneath his first game console.
Harry had noticed it.
Potter was old enough to understand that what he had done could be considered stealing, but moral dilemmas did not worry him much. He was more afraid that someone would discover the missing clothes. At first, he had even wanted to put the present back and pretend he had taken nothing, but soon reassured himself that Dudley would never miss the clothes. He considered that sort of gift useless.
Harry did not particularly dream of nice clothes, but he treasured this outfit.
As a present for Piers, he took a slingshot. He treasured that, too, though he did not know how to shoot it. He had gotten it without even trying: Dudley had tossed it to him himself. Dudley had wanted to frame Potter in front of Petunia after accidentally hitting her with it. Harry had even fewer belongings then than he did now, so he quickly noticed the extra item and hid it properly.
Unfortunately, he had not managed to avoid punishment. Petunia said she was still sure Harry had shot her, because nobody but him could have done it. The punishment had cost him the slingshot.
And so, at seven o'clock on the evening of June nineteenth, Harry stood outside the Polkiss family's three-story house. After waiting by the door for a little while, he gathered his courage and pressed the doorbell.
Piers opened the door.
"Oh, hi, Harry!" he said with a smile.
Piers held out his hand, and Harry shook it warily.
"Hi, Piers."
"Here, this is for you," Harry said, holding out the slingshot.
"Thanks, Harry." Piers accepted the present, his eyes sparkling. "Wow! Cool!"
Piers liked the slingshot. He immediately began twirling it around, then snapping it up and aiming at imaginary enemies. Then he came to his senses.
"Let's go to the dining room. Would you like some tea?" Piers offered. "Mum and Dad went to some conference. They'll be back soon, but for now we have the whole house to ourselves."
"Of course!" Harry said happily.
They each drank two mugs of tea. Potter chose a tea with some kind of red berries in it. Piers told him they were rose hips. Harry had no idea what rose hips were, so he just nodded, though he wished he had something to eat with his tea. Piers had biscuits with his. Harry wanted some, too, and spent most of the time trying to work up the courage to ask, but never did.
When they finished their tea, Piers invited Harry to his room.
"Listen, the reason I invited you is that I need someone to help me try out some tricks I read about in an interesting book. Will you help me?"
"Of course I will!" Harry could not give any other answer.
"You'll see in a moment," Piers replied.
They went up to the third floor and entered Piers's room. Board games, books, and toys were everywhere, but everything was neatly arranged. The room was not messy at all; if anything, it was clean and tidy.
Two books lay on the desk. One was some kind of encyclopedia about the human body, with strange pictures. The other was titled The 100 Best Board Games from Around the World.
Harry had never played a board game, at least not in the time he could remember. He had only just begun to feel happy that they were going to play when Piers put the board-game book away and handed him the strange encyclopedia.
"This is the book. Cool, right?" Piers said, undisguised happiness in his voice.
Harry tried to figure out what he was looking at. Something about the structure of the human body... An anatomy encyclopedia?
He opened the cover and read the title: Every Torture of World War II.
"This one?" Harry looked at Piers quite differently.
"Yes! My dad gave it to me. He said you can't buy it anywhere." Piers could not have sounded happier.
"And what are we going to do with it?" Harry asked, his fear obvious.
"Oh, I'm going to try a couple of techniques on you. You don't mind, do you?" Piers explained calmly, as if he were talking about a cup of tea.
Harry stared at Piers in horror. He did not know what to do. Part of him wanted to run away in a panic. Another part did not want to lose what might be his only friend.
As the more sensible part began to win out, he suddenly realized something important. So what if he ran away now? Then what? He would be beaten and humiliated until he was eighteen, with no friends and no one to talk to.
No, he would not run. After all, everyone had their quirks. Harry remembered how he had somehow turned his teacher's hair pink from a distance. He was not exactly innocent himself.
"All right. I don't mind. Just pick the least painful technique, okay?" he said, making up his mind.
"Excellent, Harry! I knew you were my friend!" Piers exclaimed happily. "Choose for yourself. There's all kinds of stuff here: fire, water, sharp objects, psychological torture, and lots of other specialized methods."
"Um..."
Harry thought it over. He could not swim, and sharp objects sounded awful.
"Let's do fire. I've never been burned, so at least I'll find out how much it hurts."
"Okay. I'll go get some matches," Piers said, leaving the room.
He came back about two minutes later. In the meantime, Harry had prepared himself mentally for the possible pain. He doubted it would hurt much. Fire had never frightened him; if anything, it had attracted him.
"Here. I found them," Piers said as he entered the room and locked the door.
"So our parents don't see what we're doing in here," he explained. "All right, we'll start with the simplest thing. I'll light a match, and you'll hold your finger near it, but not too close, or it might catch fire. The book also says you're supposed to be tied up, but since we're only trying it out, I'll just hold your hand."
Piers lit a match and took Harry's hand. Harry held out his finger, a little afraid.
It did not hurt yet.
After thirty seconds, Harry's finger began to hurt badly. The pain grew worse with every second.
"Stop! That's enough!" Harry shouted, trying to pull away.
Piers held his hand tightly. "We've only just started. It says at least a minute should pass, but if you want to speed things up..."
With that, Piers lowered Harry's finger right onto the match.
Harry had never felt pain like that before. Even all the beatings from the Dursleys could not compare to the horror of fire.
"Aah!" Harry screamed and hit Piers with all his strength using his free hand.
Piers had not expected that. He loosened his grip for only half a second, but that was enough. Harry pulled his hand free and clutched it to himself. The pain was horrible. Blisters had formed on the burn, and the wound looked awful.
"Piers, let's not do this any—"
Harry could not finish. Someone lunged at him. It was Piers.
"You little bastard!" Piers screamed.
A fight broke out. Harry was winning because he had a rough idea where to hit someone to make it hurt and keep them from hitting back. He had Dudley to thank for that. After two minutes, he slammed Piers's head against the floor, and Piers stopped attacking him.
"Open the door!" Harry demanded.
"Yeah, sure," Piers said.
He got up and headed not for the door, but for a small cupboard. Then he turned around, a silver knife in his hand. Harry jerked back, but Piers was faster. Silver flashed, and blood spurted from Harry's neck.
He fell to the floor and tried to press his hand against the wound. Piers kicked him in the face. He seemed to have broken Harry's nose, but Harry had no time to think about the kick. He was more concerned with the stream of blood pouring from his neck.
"Afraid of fire, you piece of shit?" Piers asked hatefully. "I'll give you fire."
He opened the door and ran downstairs.
Harry struggled to pull off his shirt and used it to plug the wound in his neck. He remembered Uncle Vernon's first-aid lecture, the one he had given to Dudley. When the bleeding stopped, Harry ran out of the room, but Piers met him at the door with a punch to the face. He sprayed Harry with something from a canister, lit a match, and threw it.
Harry caught fire.
Piers stood in the doorway with the knife in his hand, preventing him from getting out. Dimly realizing he would die unless he did something at once, Harry jumped out the window.
Harry Potter survived that day by a miracle. Two fortunate circumstances saved him. First, the elder Polkisses had just arrived, and Harry nearly landed on their heads. Second, the house had a swimming pool, and John Polkiss threw him into it before he could burn to death.
Numerous cuts, second- and third-degree burns all over his body, both arms broken because he had landed on them when he fell, and a severed transverse artery in his neck. Those were the results of Harry Potter's adventure.
Based on Harry's testimony, a criminal case was opened against Piers Polkiss, but it was closed almost immediately for lack of evidence because the Polkisses refused to testify against their own son. Harry never learned how the elder Polkisses reacted to their son's actions. But after spending the whole summer in the hospital, he found Piers alive and well at school.
From that moment, Harry's life became hell. It was hard to describe the next two years any other way. Piers became friends with Dudley, and together they began trying different kinds of torture on Harry. Before, Dudley and his gang had simply beaten Harry. Now they had a mastermind.
The torture began with the ritual handshake. To commemorate their first meeting, Piers would force Harry to shake his hand, then start experimenting. Over the next two years, they drowned, cut, burned, and stabbed him, performed some kind of needle experiments on him, and at one point kept him from breathing for a while.
When they had worked through every item in the torture book, Piers's genius really came into its own. Harry had a choice: lick Piers's foot or have his hair set on fire. Harry always chose the options that did not involve the word "fire."
He ate worms, threw textbooks at teachers, ran naked after old ladies, and did many, many other things Piers thought up. In short, he did everything they ordered him to do. The only alternative was fire.
By the age of ten and a half, Harry was terrified of people and fire. He spent all his time either sitting in the cupboard or running away to the woods for the whole day. They were only a mile away. School was hardest, because there were so many people there. Harry stayed as far from everyone as possible and tried not to touch anyone. Soon he realized he could tolerate having people around as long as they did not touch him.
That was how Harry's life went until his eleventh birthday.
It was both a horrible and a happy birthday. It was horrible because an enormous number of letters were being sent to Harry, and he had long since learned that when someone tried to contact you, trouble was sure to follow.
But at the same time, Harry Potter was happy. They had not tortured him for three days, and he had left Privet Drive with the Dursleys. That meant there would be no torture until they came back, since without Piers, Dudley could only beat him up. Ha!
So the farther Vernon drove from Privet Drive, the happier Harry became. Even having three people right beside him did not seem to spoil his mood.
But that night, an event awaited Harry Potter that would change his life forever.
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