Harry Riddle and the Song of Death.

Merlin's Snake!

Juarez pulled a large present over to him and started attempting to open it and eat as much food as possible at one time. "Li'l tyke wants his money's worth, eh? Wants both food and gifts. "Good man, Juarez, good man." Uncle Dave chortled, slapping his shapeless hands on his equally shapeless great fat belly.

Harry shuddered in disgust, hastening to finish the dishes so he could go back to his room. Uncle Dave disgusted him more than anything else. He'd rather swallow a bucket of live maggots, swim in a sea of leeches, get raped by a dementor, and come face-to-face with a rotting corpse that had been killed in a gruesome way than willingly stay in a room with him for longer than he had to.

Harry put the last dish away and turned to his aunt. "Is there anything else you'd like me to do, ma'am?" Aunt Susan looked personally offended. "No, you freak. Now go away!"

Harry gladly hurried out of the room, sliding into his room. He heard the door lock behind him and sighed in relief, before looking around his room. Well, it really wasn't much a room. In fact, it wasn't a room at all.

Harry slept in the cupboard under the stairs.

It wasn't bad, in fact, it was his favorite place to be. It was small, so small in fact that he couldn't stand up, and was no more than three feet in any direction. One wall was a shelf, one that contained nothing but spiders, cleaning supplies, dust, and dried blood.

That was all the room contained. The door had a vent in it that Harry could use to look out and also let in some light, which Harry used to move around safely. The floor was made of wood. The walls were made of wood. The roof was made of wood. The shelves were made of wood. The cleaning supplies were outdated by almost eleven years. There was a small sack for Harry to sleep in.

None of the Jeffersons could even get close to fitting. That was Harry's favorite thing about the cupboard. As long as he was in it, he was safeish, and that was safer than anything else he'd get around here.

Harry sat down and pulled a book out of what he called his 'locker dimension', and began reading. His locker dimension was simply a place that both was and wasn't, a place both here and there, a place to put and take stuff. It was an area of folded air, that you could and couldn't touch, that you could put stuff in and take stuff out of but couldn't touch or feel or see. Harry kept everything that he wasn't supposed to have there. Nobody else could access it, much less Ungifted and Muggles like the Jeffersons.

Gifted or Sorcerers were those that had magic.
Ungifted were those who didn't, often called Squibs.
Muggles were unmagical folk.

Harry could do sorcery. He didn't claim to be any good at it. After all, he was almost eleven years old and he could only do nonverbal, wordless, and wandless spells up to Voldemort's level. He wasn't even up to Albus Dumbledore's level yet, which was a huge disappointment. He wanted to reach the level of Merlin by the time he finished school, and yet he wasn't even at the level of Albus Dumbledore yet.

Unfortunately, he only used spells when he had to, as Albus could track those with the underage Trace. Anybody not yet of age who had magic was put under a magical trace when they were born so that their parents or magical guardian could always find them.

And Albus had stolen his Trace when he'd left him at the Jeffersons. Called himself Harry's magical guardian, a title which really should have belonged to one of his numerous godparents, and not the headmaster of a school that he would not have attended if he'd had a choice, and therefore had the Trace bound to him. He also claimed to be Richard's magical guardian and got Richard's Trace, which was utter bullshit, as Richard also had numerous godparents who would be thrilled to watch over him. Besides, who said that they were going to Twisted Spiral?