The London air, thick with the promise of rain, hung heavy over Surrey. The drizzle began without warning, a fine mist that settled on everything, mixing with the city dust to create a smell that was uniquely, drearily, London.
Within the walls of St. George's Primary School, three boys with greasy hair and the premature sneers of seasoned troublemakers leaned against the brickwork. They radiated a lazy apathy, a stark, deliberate contrast to the vibrant energy of the schoolyard.
Just then, a scrawny, dark-haired boy hurried past them, clutching a loaf of bread. He was swimming in an oversized school uniform, his face dominated by a pair of large, black-rimmed glasses and a peculiar, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
The three bullies exchanged a look. The tallest of them, Piers, pushed himself off the wall and smoothly fell into step beside the smaller boy.
He slung a heavy arm around the boy's shoulders, his tone falsely cheerful. "Oi, look what we have here. If it isn't little Mr. Carter." He gave the boy a little shake. "Fifty pence you owe me from last week. Time to pay up."
The scrawny boy flinched, his head ducked low. He didn't dare meet their eyes, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I think you have the wrong person. My name isn't Carter."
CRACK.
The slap was sharp and loud. The boy's glasses flew from his face, landing on the damp pavement as he stumbled back, his hair falling into his eyes.
"Am I talkin' to a wall?" Piers snarled, his friendly mask gone in an instant. "I say your name is Carter, it's Carter. Got it?"
The commotion had started to draw glances from other children. Without a word, the other two bullies moved into action. One, a short, chubby boy named Dennis, began shooing away the onlookers. The other, Malcolm, stood guard. With practiced efficiency, Piers dragged the boy towards a secluded corner of the school grounds. Their movements were fluid, a routine they had clearly perfected.
Bullying was a fact of life at any school, but at St. George's, this particular trio had turned it into an art form. The other children, seeing what was happening, scattered quickly.
"Hand it over," Dennis demanded, snatching the bread from the boy's grasp. "I haven't had breakfast yet, might as well..." He took a bite and immediately recoiled, spitting onto the ground. "Blech! This thing's hard as a rock! Who eats this rubbish?" He'd barely left a tooth mark on the crust, the effort jarring his jaw.
"That's my cousin's!" the boy cried out, scrambling to pick up the discarded loaf. He clutched it to his chest as if it were a priceless treasure, his eyes welling with tears as he stared at the shallow indentation. "It's ruined. Dudley will be furious if he knows someone touched his food."
The boy's sheer panic over a simple loaf of bread was bizarre. He had taken a slap to the face without a tear, yet the thought of his cousin's anger seemed to terrify him.
Dennis scoffed. "And who's your cousin supposed to be?" As if anyone at St. George's would dare to cross them.
Piers' eyes glinted with a nasty sort of cunning. He leaned in, patting the boy's cheek with mock gentleness. "Oh, so it's your cousin's bread, is it? Right then. That means your cousin, uh... Moses... he owes us fifty pence too. So that's one pound total from the two of you."
The boy was visibly shaking, but he found a sliver of courage. "My cousin's name isn't Moses, and my name isn't Carter!"
He knew, instinctively, that giving in would only lead to something worse.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" Piers's voice dropped, becoming a low growl. "Now, tell me. What. Is. Your. Name?"
"Harry... Harry Potter!"
SMACK!
Another sharp slap sent Harry's head whipping to the side.
"Still not listening, are you?" Piers hissed. "Your name is Carter. And you and your brother owe me one pound." The trick was simple: if Harry "admitted" to being Carter, they could tell any teacher they simply made a mistake. The money? Oh, he gave it to them willingly.
But the name, "Harry Potter," had an unexpected effect. Malcolm's face went pale.
"Piers, stop," he said urgently, grabbing Piers's arm. "He said his name is Harry Potter."
"So what?" Piers shot back, confused by his friend's sudden panic. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"We need to go," Malcolm insisted, tugging at his friends. "Now."
Dennis, catching Malcolm's nervous energy, frowned. "Why? What's the big deal? Who are his parents?" That was always the first question. You didn't want to accidentally shake down the son of a policeman or a local gangster.
"They died," Malcolm blurted out. "Car crash, I heard. C'mon, let's just go."
Hearing this, Dennis and Piers relaxed. "An orphan?" Piers said with a cruel laugh. "Then what are you so scared of, Malcolm? We were about to be a pound richer!"
Malcolm looked at his two idiotic friends with pure desperation. "His cousin... it's Dudley!"
"Dudley?" Piers repeated, still not getting it. "Which Dudley?"
"How many Dudleys are there at St. George's?" Malcolm almost shouted, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Dudley Dursley!"
"Who's that?" Dennis asked, growing annoyed at the mystery. "Just spit it out already!"
Piers, however, was starting to connect the dots. He turned back to Harry. "Oi, Potter. This cousin of yours... what year is he in?"
"Fourth year," Harry answered honestly. "Same as me."
"A fourth-year?" Piers was completely relieved now, baffled by Malcolm's fear. "We'll be gone by next year! Malcolm, you're losing your nerve."
"You idiots still don't get it, do you?" Malcolm whispered, gesturing for them to lean closer. He looked around as if the walls themselves had ears. In a voice so quiet it was barely audible, a voice filled with a deep and profound dread, he finally spoke the name.
"You've heard the stories... the name they call him..."
Piers and Dennis leaned in, their curiosity piqued.
"Dursley..." Malcolm breathed, "...the Food Protector."
The name landed with the weight of a dropped anvil. In the sudden, heavy silence that followed, everyone—bullies and victim alike—seemed to hold their breath.
***
(End of Chapter)
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