0A/N: I don't know if I've sort of killed canon or not, since I've been reading only fanfiction for almost an entire year, and barely none of the actual books since 2012, and am bound to have forgotten something. I haven't seen any of the movies, except for the first and third, so I have no idea what Voldemort looks like, except for descriptions I've heard and a few unclear photos on Google. I don't think the back of Quirrell's head counts.
So, tell me if you see a mistake, and I'll fix it, with much gratitude. I've moved up HarryPotterStartsDespisingDracoMalfoy to Madam Malkin's instead of the train, on purpose, though.
This is mostly a ficlet with no plot of any sort at all, so... oops? But then, I've never written anything with plot, so it seems odd to expect that now. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: If you're not smart to know this isn't mine, you're not smart enough to sue me. But just in case: I own none of these characters, and am making no profit.
The Wizarding World studies everything magic. Harry studies everything Wizarding World.
xxxxxx
Harry is eleven when he first encounters magic.
He can hear screaming, in the background, the high-pitched, shrill tones of his Aunt, and the deeper obnoxious voice of his Uncle.
It seems like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are angry at each other for some reason, and Harry smiles vindictively, wondering what they are arguing about. He knows it is about him somehow, because the phrases Boy and That Freak are yelled every so often.
He is in the small house near the water that Uncle Vernon has brought them to, for some strange reason he has told no one but Aunt Petunia. He is shivering slightly, watching as the fire flickers up and down every few seconds, waving and stretching like a broken rubber band. Harry listens to Dudley's grunting snores, sounding out every few seconds like an extra-loud hearbeat.
Uncle Vernon has forbidden him from using the blankets, and so he sits as close to the small fireplace as he can, studying the flames, huddling tightly for warmth.
He is tracing the pattern of the fire on his palm with the tip of his index finger when the door is knocked down.
He starts, turning his head toward the doorway, but is not too afraid, because he has nothing to lose, and perhaps it is the person who has been sending all those owls and strangely sealed letters?
He does not expect the gigantic man that bursts through and proceeds to scare his relatives out of their wits, talking cheerfully about someplace called Hogwarts and waving a crumpled pink umbrella around wildly, grinning widely. Harry smiles and giggles inwardly at the terrified look on Dudley's face. The stranger is like a whirlwind, spinning around talking to everyone and shaking hands enthusiastically, though the enthusiasm isn't reciprocated, and within a few moments Harry is holding an opened envelope in his hands and the smell of cooking sausages has filled the entire hut, with Dudley almost salivating, reaching out to poke them whenever he thinks no one looking. Harry stays silent, asking questions tentatively, because he does not understand this strange, smiling, man.
The tall man is called Hagrid, he says, and before Harry can blink, he swept away and siiting on a small wooden boat outside, listening avidly to Hagrid talk about wizards and witches and being handed a large birthday cake, somewhat squashed in the middle and slightly drooping at the edges.
He is ecstatic, because he has never tasted a cake before, except for that little bit of chocolate icing that he had stolen at Dudley's birthday when Aunt Petunia wasn't looking, busy with cooing over Uncle Vernon, who had fallen while trying to take a picture of Dudley holding Pier's gift. He eats in small bits, savoring the feeling of the sugar dissolving against his tongue.
For once, he feels warm and dry, and he notices a strange feeling, not unpleasant. This is being not hungry, he realizes, his tongue still tasting of the slightly-burned sausages. How odd, he thinks. He studies the feeling, poking his arm twice to test whether or not it will go away. How odd, he thinks, when it stays.
He studies Hagrid intently, looks at his warm expression, face creased with smile lines on the edges, still chattering eagerly, and is hopeful.
Would the Wizarding World be full of Hagrids?
If all the Wizarding World was like that, Harry would be happy, he thinks, listening to Hagrid as he chatters away about some place called Gringotts, still smelling fire and sausages.
xxxxxx
Harry is eleven and one month when he second encounters magic.
He is entering Diagon Alley with Hagrid, watching as he taps the brick wall with his pink umbrella. Behind him, the whole of the Leaky Cauldron is staring at him, whispering among themselves. He hears the words "Boy-Who-Lived" and several hushed mutters of "You-Know-Who" and "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named", and wonders what all the fuss is about. He does not mind very much, though, because they don't seem to want to harm him.
He studies all their faces, glancing at their strange sort of clothing that looks like the costumes the actors in Dudley's TV shows wear.
How odd, he thinks.
He is pleased, though, because they seem exactly like the type of freaks that Uncle Vernon had always said he was, and so perhaps he would fit in with them. Surely freaks were friendly to other freaks? He looks at them again, noticing their smiles and looks of kindness, casual friendliness, and something that very closely resembles awe.
Yes, he would fit in with them, he thinks, with careful certainty.
Yes, he thinks, until he meets Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy is blond, proper, snotty, rich, and pseudo well-mannered in a way that was almost insulting. He was everything most people envied on command and exactly the type of person Uncle Vernon would love to have as a son. He vaguely resembles Dudley, Harry imagines, comparing them in his mind, except he was thinner, much more refined, and also a freak.
And Harry hates him. He hates him very, very much.
He studies him later, in the quiet peace of his room, remembering the way he had sneered upon seeing Hagrid waiting outside for Harry, insulting him cruelly and purposely.
He studies the way the boy's lip curled almost the entire time he was talking, chin tilted up so arrogantly and nose so high in the air he looked just a little ridiculous. He wonders about his parents. Would they be like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon?
He thinks of the way Malfoy was speaking, frigid and dripping with disdain, like he was telling Harry you're not good enough for me while speaking with all the manners and respect of a commoner to a king, and is fearful, wondering if he will be a freak again, to those people in this place called Hogwarts.
How disapponting, he thinks, remembering cupboards and spiders and choppy-cut hair.
He ignores the way his heart sinks in his chest, unraveling back into ribbons of dread.
xxxxxx
Harry is still eleven when he third encounters magic.
He is in the Great Hall in Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat perched lopsided on top of his head. How odd, he thinks, running over the edge of the hat's brim with his fingers, studying the way the hat feels exactly like a normal hat. He can feel the stares of all the students of him, the murmur of words buzzing and anticipatory. He is anxious, hoping he will end up in Gryffindor with Ron, the red-headed boy he had met on the train.
But not Malfoy, he hopes fervently. Please, don't let me go to the same house as Draco Malfoy.
Harry wants to ask about the hat, but stays silent. Aunt Petunia had always been angry when he asked questions about those strange things he saw or did, like that time on the roof when Dudley was Harry-Hunting.
He startles as the hat speaks.
Hmm, it says, confused. How so very strange.
Harry is confused, wondering what the hat means, but doesn't ask, waiting impatiently for the name of his house. In his head, he wishes.
Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, please not Slytherin.
GRYFFINDOR, the hat roars, moments later, and Harry is up and gone, handing the hat to McGonagall and almost skipping to the Gryffindor table, giddy and excited. He moves to sit Ron, who is clapping loudly and smiling at him, motioning for Harry to sit next to him. Harry grins and sits down, watching as the next first-year walks up to the hat. The rest of the students seem disappointed, and the Slytherin table is glaring at him, but Harry doesn't care.
It doesn't matter, because Harry has a friend who is smiling at him, and there are so many people clapping and laughing and welcoming.
Later, when it is lonely again, Harry wonders what he meant in the quiet of his dorm room, the loud snores of Neville Longbottom sounding out every few seconds from behind the drapes.
How so very strange, he thinks sleepily, yawning as he traces the designs on the pillowcase.
But in the morning he forgets about quickly, and then eventually forgets that he has forgotten, because all the school seems to love him and he is just so glad that he is no longer the freak that Uncle Vernon said he was.
xxxxxx
Harry is seventeen when he last encounters magic.
Ron and Hermione are right next to him, guarding him from the Death Eaters, shouting encouragement at him as they shoot spells, light flashing green and red, lights flashing kill and stun like some sort of savage string of Christmas lights.
He is directly facing Voldemort, his wand drawn out and held tightly in his right hand. His arm shakes a little, in both fear and excitement, and he doesn't bother disguising it. Behind him, he can hear everyone whispering, terrified, agitated gasp sounding out from everywhere. The teachers are dead silent, too horrified and scared to try to calm the students down.
He smiles cheerfully at Voldemort, who seems surprised, nonexistent eyebrow furrowing in confusion, wondering why Harry does not seem to fear him. (Harry does, but he will not give Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing it.)
He opens his mouth to shout Expelliarmus just as Voldemort shouts out an Avada Kedavra, not prepared at all, despite all those years of preparing and advice.
(In his mind, Moody shouts out an reprimanding CONSTANT VIGILANCE, and Snape calls him an imbecile. Harry does not mind, because they are dead, and the dead have the right to insult whoever they wish, he thinks.)
He is not surprised when the beam of green light hits him in the chest, just as he moves to dodge it. He expects it, even. All around him, he can hear the disbelieving shouts, of anger and terror and sorrow and fear, but Harry is oblivious to it all, focusing the look on Voldemort's face, turning from triumphant to raging as he realizes that Harry has destroyed all the Horcruxes. In a few seconds that seem like days, Voldemort flies backwards, landing dead.
Hermione seems to be screaming something at him, but Harry can't hear her, everything going fuzzy and thick, like glue sliding across paper.
He doesn't hear the sobs of relief turn to shocked cries, too focused on that strange sensation in his chest.
He studies the feeling, which seems to be originating from where the light had hit him. It feels sort of cold, but also warm, at the same time. It is a little soothing, he thinks, attempting to move his arm to poke himself. It puzzles him when his arm does not move.
How odd, he thinks, before it all fuzzes and blanks out.
He can hear screaming.
Taken from: Greatest Wizarding Heroes: The Study of Harry Potter