The Three Brothers

29th November 1990

"Get UP!!" the voice bellowed and pounded on the door for half a minute.

The only occupant of the room opened his eyes and silently sat up on his bed. Harry James Potter or freak, as he was commonly addressed to in this household, prepared himself for the day up ahead. The thin, worn out mattress under him had been hardened by years of use. It was far from luxurious, but a much better alternative to his previous accommodations in the cupboard under the stairs. So, no reason to complain, really.

Harry got up and exited the room—the smallest bedroom in 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He quickly made his way to the bathroom, aiming to finish his morning rituals as quickly as possible. He was given this privilege twice a day for five minutes, and he really didn't want to waste any of it. The memories of doing that were not pleasant, and Harry didn't have many pleasant memories to begin with.

He had been living with the Dursleys—his relatives and adopted family—since he was a baby. For nine years he had called this miserable place his home, and he couldn't wait to get out of here one day.

This was actually the first rule that they had drilled into him; that this place was his home, whether he liked it or not. When he had asked why he was given a hard slap on his head and introduced to the second rule of the Dursley household; don't ask questions.

After finishing up in the bathroom, Harry proceeded to the kitchen to do his first chore of the day. Cooking breakfast for his family. The Dursleys liked to feed themselves as much as they disliked feeding Harry, and Harry was as thin as a stick.

"What took you so long, boy?" Aunt Petunia sneered at Harry from the table, a cup of steaming tea near her pursed lips. "Don't dilly-dally around now, get cooking."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied mechanically. Moving into the kitchen, he deftly picked up the skillet and set to make six-and-a-half helpings of breakfast—eggs and bacon with toast. Three were for Uncle Vernon, two for his cousin Dudley, one for his Aunt Petunia, and a half helping for himself.

As he worked in silence Petunia gave him a long look, looking for signs of any insincerity. Not finding any, she returned her attention to the folded newspaper in front of her.

As Harry was frying the eggs, his thoughts drifted off to the dream that he had this morning. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. And a large man.

He had had this dream many times over the years, and he liked it better than the other one which he saw often. That one was quite unpleasant, with a woman crying and flashes of green light. His musings were interrupted by Aunt Petunia's shrill voice

"Watch it freak! Don't you dare burn the bacon again."

Muttering a quick apology, Harry concentrated on the breakfast again. Once he was done, he ladled out the eggs and bacon on the plates, making sure the servings were correctly proportioned; his being the only one allowed to be lesser than usual.

He carefully brought the plates to the table and placed them at the appropriate positions on the table.

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"Breakfast is served," Mark called out. "Come on dad, hurry up or it's going to get cold."

"Yeah, give me a second," the reply came back from the bedroom. Mark drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, his eyes darting to his plate every other moment.

A tall figure of John Smith soon entered the room walking in slow but solid steps. Seeing the look on his son's face he couldn't help but comment.

"You know you can start your breakfast without me, right?" John pulled a chair and seated himself gingerly.

"Yeah, right." Mark rolled his eyes as he started pouring his father his morning coffee.

"I'm serious. Hell, you shouldn't even be the one doing the cooking in the first place. It's my job to take care of you."

Mark shook his head absently as he started pouring himself a cup of coffee. John swatted at his arm and gave him a stern look.

"What?" Mark looked at his father with careless surprise. "I stayed up late, okay? The performance? I was practising." Seeing the look on John's face, he grudgingly went for the juice. Remembering John's earlier remark, he replied.

"And Dad," Mark looked his father in the eye. "Your job is getting better, you understand?"

"Hmmm." John nodded through a mouthful of eggs. "You ready for the performance today?" His eyes looked over his plate to study his son.

If an outsider saw them together, it would not be immediately obvious that they were father and son. Mark had inherited his square jaw and strong nose, but that was where the similarities stopped. John was fair, with a head of dirty blond hair, while his son had the bronze complexion and jet-black hair of his late mother. John's eyes were a deep blue of the sea, while Mark's were a dark brown of ebony.

"Yeah, I guess," Mark replied. Buttering the toast in his hand, he continued; his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Just a bit nervous."

"You'll do alright"

"I know, Dad," Mark replied confidently

John smirked slightly at this. Another thing Mark had inherited from his mother.

"Listen, Mark." John assumed a serious visage; one that he had assumed when he had led his squad as Captain Smith of the 22nd Regiment, Special Air Services. "I don't think you should come to the hospital this week. Edwin and I can handle—"

"I'm coming, dad." Mark interrupted, not bothering to look up from his plate. "You handle the chemo better with me there, and I know that for a fact."

"That's exactly why I don't wish you to be there, son. I know how hospitals affect you because of your ability. I don't want to unnecessarily expose you to it"

"Dad, it's been two years since I've had it under control. I don't get those episodes anymore. I'll be fine. So, don't you dare leave me behind," he said pointing his fork at John.

John grumbled his assent as he sipped on his coffee. His son had somehow managed to inherit the stubbornness of both his parents.

"I'm done. I better go and get ready." Mark looked at his father, who replied with a slight nod. Picking up his polished plate, he took it to the sink before heading to his room.

John smiled at the retreating figure of his son; at least he had done something right in managing to teach the kid some discipline. He had often feared that in Sarah's absence he would fall short in being a good parent.

He still remembered the early days of Mark's childhood, when he'd struggled with taking care of a baby. Sarah's mother had been a great help, babysitting Mark when he couldn't and guiding him through the motions of parenthood. But she too had passed when Mark was four. Somehow through all of it, John was proud of the person his son had grown up to be.

'But then, even my dad did alright with me.'

John remembered the bear of a man who'd raised him. He would have loved to have a grandson like Mark. John had himself grown without the love of a mother; something that seemed to be the fate of Smith men in general. The thoughts of his Sarah pained him, more so than the physical pain his body had endured for the past six years.

"Bloody Leukaemia," John grumbled, snorting audibly moments later. That had been a good pun.

Smiling, he picked up the copy of Times on the table, going straight to the international section. The UN had sanctioned intervention in Iraq.

John wondered if his boys were going to be deployed. He'd have to talk to Edwin about it today. Shaking his head, he started going through the other articles on the page, scanning them for any significant information with an eye trained on reading intel reports for a decade.

A few minutes in, Mark reappeared in the kitchen. He was holding a large black case containing John's old bass, his schoolbag slinging on one strap.

"I've got everything dad. I'll see you after school, alright?" Mark pulled on the strap of his bag to stop it from slipping off his shoulder.

"All the best for today, champ." John looked over the paper with a small grin on his face. "Sweep them off their feet. Say hi to Ollie for me"

"I will. Bye."

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"And thus we can see that x+3y would be 90. Now if we had —"

Mr Wiggins continued to drone on to his class who were silently taking down notes. Harry had already zoned out five minutes before, having solved all the questions in his head.

Since he wasn't supposed to answer questions anyway, he had distracted himself with other thoughts; namely the upcoming Christmas holidays. He wondered if he could convince Aunt Petunia to get him a pair of shoes. His current pair were in tatters, barely held together by tape. They wouldn't last past a couple more months. There wasn't a very good chance she might agree, however, since they had already donated Dudley's old pair at the charity collection in September.

"Mr Potter!" Harry's thoughts were interrupted as Mr Wiggins called out for him, his face barely holding in the contempt he had for the delinquent he believed Harry to be. "What is the answer to the third question?"

"43," Harry replied, after remembering that the answer was 42. A small wave of giggles broke out in the class, dying down at the look Mr Wiggins gave everybody. He then looked at Harry.

"Wrong answer. Pay attention boy, or I'm sure you wouldn't amount to anything in life," he snarled before continuing on with his lesson.

Harry simply nodded mechanically and zoned out on his teacher again.

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"Seems you can't even handle simple maths, hun Scarhead?"

Harry closed his eyes, cursing inwardly. Couldn't he have a peaceful lunch just once?

Of all the names that Dudley and his friends used to bully him, Scarhead was the one that hurt him the most; not that he'd let them know it. It was accurate in its description of the zig-zag shaped scar on his forehead just above his right eye, visible clearly against his pale skin. But that was not the reason he hated the name; at least not the only reason. The scar was an ugly reminder of the car crash that he had survived and his parents had not, leaving him to be raised in the custody of his Aunt Petunia, his only surviving family.

Grudgingly accepting his fate, Harry opened his eyes. In front of him stood Piers Polkiss, backed by members of Dudley's gang.

Now Piers was a smart kid, unlike the rest of his gang. He was the reason that they all managed to pass in school. In return, he was able to act superior amongst all the bullies in Dudley's gang, despite his scrawny build and overall bullyable personality. Only Dudley ranked higher than him.

"Perhaps the freak has gone deaf," remarked Malcolm, another one of Dudley's gang.

"Let's smack him till he's cured then." Dudley face twisted into a sadistic grin before he lunged at Harry.

Years of reflexes surfaced themselves and Harry ducked in a fluid motion, his feet carrying him away as swiftly as possible. The others chased him through the schoolyard, but Harry managed to evade them successfully. That was until he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

"HARRY POTTER!"

Harry g.r.o.a.n.e.d. It was the English teacher, Ms Jenkins.

"Mr Potter!" she began, "You will not run around the playground like a ruffian, do you understand!"

"But, Ms Jenk —" Harry tried protesting.

"You may think it entertaining to behave like a delinquent, but it is certainly not up to this school's standards. Heaven knows how Mrs Dursley —"

"But —"

"No. No more buts, Mr Potter. I do not want any more of those pathetic excuses from you. Especially any trying to blame model students like Polkiss and Dursley. Is that clear?"

Harry suppressed his anger at the unfairness of it all, wondering again why he hadn't died in the crash that scarred him. Model students?

"Am I being clear, Potter?" Ms Jenkins asked again.

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry replied softly, his head bowed in submission. Ms Jenkins looked down at the untidy mop of black hair and nodded once. Harry's eyes, hiding behind smallish round spectacles, watched her turned around and leave. Once she was out of sight, he let out a breath of relief'; only to hear Dudley's voice behind him.

"So, you thought you could run away then?"

Harry g.r.o.a.n.e.d inwardly. This was going to be one of those days.

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"Happy Birthday!!" John wrapped his son into a tight bear hug, messing up his hair playfully.

"Thanks, dad," Mark mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his sleeves.

"Finally, eleven! How does it feel kid?"

"Younger than twelve," Mark smiled sleepily. John gave him a pointed look.

"Sorry, okay? I feel great, Dad. Just a bit sleepy"

"You know, you must be the only kid your age who isn't excited about his birthday"

"Am I allowed to open my presents now?"

"You can see them tomorrow, or rather today in the morning."

"Just as I thought. Nothing to keep me awake anymore," Mark dangled his words, but John didn't catch the bait.

"Morning. Along with Edwin's presents"

"Hmmpf. Goodnight, then." Mark turned to leave. He reached the passage when John called out

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Mark turned and gave a tired smile.

"I Love you Dad. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, kiddo."

John watched Mark almost tumble off to bed. Damn, he must have been really tired. Deciding to stay up a little longer, John settled in his armchair.

'I'm lucky to have him,' he thought to himself. In all honesty, Mark was one of the few sources of comfort for John, especially since his diagnosis. He didn't know what he would have done if he was alone.

Eleven years. Time had really flown, hadn't it? A few more years and Mark would be a full teenager. John had no idea how to deal with a teenager. He'd be winging it. Then, he bet everyone else was winging it too.

Mark was growing quickly now, not unlike John himself. He'd probably end up crossing six feet like his old man.

'And not just growing vertically,' John chuckled to himself. In all fairness, it was time for the boy to start paying attention to his health. John had been lenient on him until now; perhaps it was time to change it.

Despite having been raised in the company of ex-soldiers like Edwin and himself, Mark had shown no proclivity towards exercise or sports. The only physical activity he would happily partake in was swimming.

'Maybe when he starts noticing girls.'

An image flooded John's mind—Mark, all grown up. His physique a copy of John's own, his face akin to Sarah's. A perfect mix of both his parents. A sight that would make any parent proud.

Sarah. John's thoughts turned to his dead wife, and how she had missed seeing her boy grow up.

Before the thoughts turned to melancholy, he took a deep breath and winced at the pain in his lungs. He would never admit it, but having Mark by his side during the recent treatments had really made a difference. But the effect the trips had on Mark…

Being surrounded by sick and suffering patients— that couldn't be a bearable experience for Mark.

'Maybe he really has it under control now,' John wondered. Mark had not shown any signs of discomfort lately. He had been—indifferent.

An errant thought entered his mind. Could Mark be using his abilities to alleviate his pain? Immediately, John dismissed his thoughts. He had no way of knowing the truth, and he feared he didn't really want to.

John looked to his left at the small stack of neatly wrapped presents on the couch. They were mostly books; encyclopaedias and textbooks that Mark had lingered near during their last visit to the bookstore. Picking up the topmost from the pile, he ran his hand over the smooth gift paper.

"The Feynman Lectures on Physics," he muttered allowed, remembering the contents of this one. He had gotten these on the suggestion of one Jeremy Watts—Engineer, and brother to Sergeant Watts from his old regiment.

He had sounded like a bright lad when John had spoken to him on the phone, but had staunchly refused to believe that a ten-year-old had already gone through sixth form science workbooks. Watts had finally relented to John's requests for suggestions by mentioning this book— 'Bloody brilliant,' he had called it.

John put the package back on the pile. His son was probably going to grow up to be a scientist of some sort. The amount of time that Mark spent tinkering around with books and his electronics kit was evidence for it.

'Got it from his mother. She would have...'

John stubbed the thought before it could grow any further. He turned his thoughts towards his other present for Mark; the special one.

The black and gold custom Stratocaster had not come cheap, but John thought it worth every penny. His son was a damn better guitarist than he ever was, and his old Bass was just putting a limit on Mark's talent.

'At least he knows how to have fun. Got that from me,' John smirked. Looking at the radium hands on the kitchen wall, he saw it was quarter-to-one. He had been up long enough.

Getting up he stretched himself. Giving the pile of presents a last look John headed to get some sleep. On his way, he stopped to look at the sleeping form of his son.

'Happy Birthday kiddo'

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