Chapter Text
Harry was used to focusing on little things. It helped. When something was repetitive and dull, like scrubbing the floor and polishing door handles. But also when something hurt. Like Vernon's knuckles.
Harry didn't like "falling down the stairs, he's so clumsy", as Petunia put it. Not by any means. Sometimes, though, when the silent pressure inside him accumulated to a splitting headache, he'd provoke Vernon just a little bit. Because pain was manageable. Vernon was, quite clearly, in the wrong here. Everyone knew you weren't supposed to hit children. (He knew it didn't really apply to freaks like him, deep down he knew. Even teachers at school knew he was wrong somehow. Most of them treated him halfway decent, some punished him for it. But they couldn't help the irrational feeling that the boy made their skin crawl)
And when Vernon yelled and beat him, sometimes, Harry could make the pattern on the curtains shift.
Sometimes, when the boredom in maths class became painful and the teacher yelled at him, he could change the ink on his homework.
When he sat in his cupboard and pinched his thigh, he could make the dust look like animals.
Once he had changed the colour of his fingernails. Aunt Petunia had nearly ripped his ear off after it.
His small world became bigger when he focused on those little things. Dust. Curtains. Tiles. Spiders. Marks on his arms and thighs and stomach. He could even make the blue, green, purple look like pretty pictures.
One day, Harry fell down the stairs, stupid, clumsy boy a little too hard. Uncle Vernon's belt broke his skin close to his kidneys. When Harry stumbled, for the first time, he actually fell. He passed out, a bloody mess. And the stairs exploded around him. Little splinters in Vernon's eyes, a crate around Harry. Harry woke up from Vernon Dursley's screams.
Still feeling sluggish, he assessed the situation. Uncle Vernon was screaming on the top floor, bleeding from his eyes. Harry was downstairs. Petunia was picking Dudley up from his friend's house. And there were no stairs anymore. Harry thought about it for four whole minutes, while Vernon raged. Harry moved his limbs. He tried to stand up. He was able to walk. He closed his eyes. With everything he had, he wished to be somewhere else, where Vernon could not find him. And when he opened his eyes, he saw a neighbourhood that was most definitely not Privet Drive. Harry looked around. There was a very busy street in front of him. People were wearing strange clothing. Next to him, two adults were haggling over something that looked like a dead frog with overgrown legs and horns. Behind a lantern, there was a little dirty sign that said "Knockturn Alley".
A small man with pointy ears and a long nose looked at him and grinned. "Well, well, well, what have we here", he said.
"Nobody!", Harry said quickly, and looked at his feet. The man laughed. It sounded like barking.
"Come with me, wizard. You look cold", he said. "I am Brogdrak."
Harry winced. He thought about his options. Could it get any worse? Could this man make it any worse? Probably not. So Harry took his weird looking hand and followed him.