Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine…the plots or 'plots' are though.

Harry Potter and the Great Escape

What If Harry agreed with his relatives about wizards being 'freaks'?

Harry Potter, aged 11, sulked at the back of the line. He had had an absolutely horrible day so far, and – if he had learned anything about this stupid magical world – he was sure that it was about to get even worse. It had all started with being torn away from his family and then forced to run straight at a solid brick wall, and his day had rapidly disintegrated quite rapidly from that point. He wasn't even going to consider the good three quarters of an hour that he had spent hanging over a toilet basin when he found out that chocolate frogs didn't stop jumping when they were in your stomach. He still felt nauseous in fact.

Rather than look up as the students around him gasped and screamed, Harry clutched his eyes tight and wrapped his arms about his rebellious stomach. It was only when one of the clumsier boys of the lot – Nellie or Nathan or something – bumped into him (holding a real slimy jumpy thing – urgh, don't think about it) that Harry started shuffling in time with the others into what the stuffy old lady had referred to as 'the Great Hall.' What a laugh. He entered behind some silly bint with bushy hair that was going on about some sort of enchantment, and had to push her aside in order to make his way up to the front. The sooner this stupid farce was over, the better, as far as he was concerned.

The stuffy old lady stood in front of them with an ugly hat, at which point Harry tuned out again, the chocolate frog now attempting to escape by climbing up the way it had come. He was never going to be able to eat chocolate again. Disgusting. Wizards had somehow managed to ruin every good thing in his life since this morning. Bastards. He'd show them.

"Potter, Harry," he heard the old lady call out. The hall erupted into sound, and Harry heard his name bandied about. He refused to bat even so much as an eyelash, and stared sullenly at the floor.

"Potter," the nasty old lady called out louder than before, "Harry." What, did she think he was deaf? Harry continued to ignore her.

"Mr. Potter, please step forward." Nope, not going to, can't make me. Harry thought childishly, folding his arms peevishly.

A bony, wrinkled old hand grabbed his arm and started dragging him forward. Harry whipped his head up, and started kicking and flailing his arms at it with all that he had. His screams of anger sounded feral to most in the hall, but to all those close enough to make out the individual sounds, Harry could be heard to be shouting out things than no 11-year-old should possibly know, let alone believe anatomically possible.

The hand wasn't letting go, so Harry resorted to biting. His teeth sank deep into that frail old skin, and he was proud of the thought that he may have bruised some tendons. Well, the hand finally let go of him at any rate, talons curling up in pain as it withdrew.

"MR. POTTER! What is the meaning of this?" It was a man's voice from somewhere behind him, up at the teacher's table. Harry decided that it was time to share his bad day with everyone. After all, misery loves company.

"You people," He began, screaming "are a bunch of inconsiderate assholes!" Absolute silence fell over the hall. Harry felt his stomach stir a bit, but ignored it for the moment.

"Mr Potter," the old lady shrieked, drawing herself up. "Language, young man!"

Harry stared at her in disbelief.

"Fuck it. Simple terms: You Freaks kidnapped me. I hate all of you. Now send me home and bugger off or I will kill you all the first chance I get."

At all the vaguely horrified looks he was receiving he held up three fingers.

"You've got until the count of three…one," Harry withdrew one finger.

"Two," the chocolate frog reminded him violently of its presence and another finger was withdrawn.

Harry never got as far as three, because at that moment, the chocolate frog made it's bid for freedom, escaping out his mouth. A couple of disgusted (and intrigued) first-years watched as it landed on the Sorting Hat.

"FUCK THREE!" Harry screamed, pulling a long, sharp, wicked looking knife, several hand grenades, and a small atomic bomb out of his pocket. Never mind how they got there, he just happened to have 'em, okay?


The professors made terrible mistake of attempting to calm the other students rather than subdue Harry Potter and in that single moment, the world was lost.

Harry ripped his sleeves off his cloak, rolling one up to use it as a bandana of sorts. The other, he tied right back on his arm, shoving various odds and ends into the convenient sheath it made.

Smearing some war paint (that came from Merlin only knows where) on his cheeks, Harry ran over to the stool that held the Sorting Hat, and pulled his knife up to it in a threatening manner. He had his first hostage.

"This is your last chance. Send me home now, or the stupid hat gets it."

And it will go somewhere from here…