Hello, I LIVE! I finally have a grip on College and have this story hashed out. Bonus cookies to whomever guesses the series and characters referenced in this chapter.
"Speech."
"Thought."
Spells/Incantations
A rather large man fell onto his couch alongside his wife in their sitting room. It was an ordinary room, attached to an equally ordinary house, with decent furniture and an unassuming paint scheme. Upon the mantle of the fire there stood some twenty photographs of the large man, a rather reedy woman, and a slightly overweight boy; the pictures, of course, showed the family in various outfits and locales. Yet there was one subject missing from those reflective frames, the focus of the apparent patriarch's current exasperation.
"I'm telling you, Petunia, that boy isn't normal," said the man, "He's one of them after all. And he'll be going to school this year, what if something happens? What'll we tell the faculty, eh? If he pulls another odd stunt like moving my order forms again we're finished!"
About a month earlier the boy in question had somehow shoved an entire indexed stack of order forms for drill bits onto the floor, where it had proceeded to virtually detonate, scattering the forms into such a disheveled mess that it had taken near on an hour to track them all down, and another two to re-sort them. They, the papers and the boy, had been on opposite sides of the kitchen at the time.
"We've put up with his freakishness for five full years, love, and he won't stop! Since day one his… abnormality has been plaguing us! Chores, punishments, yelling, beating, and it's still in my house. Well I won't have it near others, not if he'll bring down all kinds of unwanted attention on our heads!"
Petunia looked pensive for a moment and then thought out loud, "We've tried to force it out of him Vernon, but he keeps doing it. What if…" She trailed off, gazing toward the kitchen as if searching for something.
"If?"
She looked back at him, "Remember that dinner we had with your sister the other week, what was it she mentioned about some sort of school opening in a month or so?"
Vernon nodded. He remembered all right: it was a military academy, some type of boarding school or another that had dorms and…
His face paled, "You're not considering… A military academy? How could we afford that? I'd sooner burn money than waste it on that freak!" By the end of his expulsion, Vernon had turned red at the mere thought.
"Well, we are sent that payment for his upkeep; if we use that to pay then the cost should be covered. Besides, Vernon, think about it: He'll be gone for months at a time! Isn't that worth a few pounds? It'll just be you and me and Diddykins."
Vernon sighed and relaxed, thinking about not having to watch the wiry little bugger all the time and being able to enjoy a meal without the boy potentially blowing up his sausage. Again.
"You do have a point love," He conceded; then added, "And think of this: who better to straighten the boy out than a good old-fashioned drill sergeant? A year with that'll have him jumping to attention!" A grin spread across Vernon's face at the image of a black haired boy saluting him as he came home from work. "Alright then, darling, I'll look into it tomorrow. Have to deliver a report to my manager anyway, so it won't be a wasted trip. If all goes well, we'll be rid of him in September!"
"Potter, Harry?" The instructor called out. A small, black haired, green-eyed boy stood at the call.
He, Harry, stood in a rather stark room, no extraneous posters or arts and crafts as far as he could see. There were no monkey bars out on the grounds, and no teeter-totter either. This place was really different from his old school…
"Cadets, this is our newest member. He will be with us for the foreseeable future so try to incorporate him. Remember: We are a part of Her Majesty's armed forces. What do we hold above all else?"
The class, excepting Harry of course, replied as a whole: "Teamwork above all!"
"Right in one. Cadet Potter, in time you will learn this as closely as we have. Here we are a unit, not a collection of individuals. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," said Harry.
"Sir, yes sir," corrected the instructor, "I am your superior, you will address me as such. Are we clear?"
"Sir, yes sir."
The instructor grinned, "We may just have an easy first year yet."
The entire class, save Harry once again, laughed
"Blues 2-8, go right; 9-13, you're with me. Potter!"
Harry's head snapped up, "Sir!" He barked, "Orders, sir?"
It had been four years since he had started at the Colonel Ackerson Military Academy (CAMA) and the cadets had become big enough to be deemed fit for rounds of capture the flag about four months ago. Carrying plastic-pellet rifles, of course. Realism and all that.
During this particular exercise, Harry's teammate Kurt had been appointed leader of Blue Team. As such, his orders were law.
"I want you to cover our out. You have the "explosives", right?"
"Affirmative sir, we won't be run down if I have anything to say about it."
In this exercise they were located in a decent patch of forest near one of the military's numerous bases around the country. The teams had been driven nearby, separated, and then given their mission objectives. Blue was to capture, Red to defend. Simple enough. The exercise would end when all of Blue team had been eliminated, or the Red flag had been captured and returned to the temporary camp for the instructors.
"Good. Keep your ears up and your head on a swivel. Do not let the Reds find you. Don't let them take this spot."
"Sir, yes sir."
Kurt cracked a smile at that. Harry always took his orders seriously, and he always carried out his orders. Perfectly.
"Alright; all cadets on the right, wait for my charge, then join in. Grab the flag and run. I want two members on each team on overwatch. We move in silen…"
Kurt's voice trailed off as he walked away. Harry didn't mind not hearing the rest; he had his orders already. He dashed from tree to tree, planting small canisters with care. Harry held the activation switch in his pocket and as soon as his team came back he was going to prime all of the motion sensors. A parting gift to any pursuers. His task done, Harry sank into the shadows of a large tree on the edge of their clearing, trying his best to blend as a warmth blossomed from his chest. The other team always fell for his ambushes. They never saw him coming.
Two minutes later, a large squad of Reds, at least half of their whole team, moved into the clearing. One of them spoke.
"You think they'll come through here then, Pat?"
Pat, the apparent leader nodded, "Yea, this is the only quick way back to base. And we'll be right here waiting."
The Reds chuckled.
"Don't get relaxed," barked Pat, "We need to set up a perimeter. Remember what CPO O'Connell taught us." There were nods all around. The team slowly spread out, sweeping through the foliage.
Harry watched from above, having slinked his way up the tree while his opponents were talking. Now that Harry got a good look at them, there were nine trainees. More than half of their force was here! A bolt of fear shot through Harry. How was he going to take them all out? He quickly took inventory: his rifle, his sidearm, the paint bombs planted around the clearing… And his faux combat knife.
Harry grinned as a plan formed in his head. Directly below him was one of the trainees, and what good fortune: it was Pat! As silently as he could, he drew his knife and unholstered his pistol. Then he dropped to the ground below in a crouch, just behind Pat. His target did not hear him. Harry raised the knife, then drew a blue line across Pat's throat. A small gasp escaped Pat before he obliged the rules and fell, "dead." The nearest Red began to turn.
"I need to be somewhere else," thought Harry, " I need to be over there!"
As his need rose, a familiar warmth rose with it. He let it envelop him; and without even a sigh of wind, he was gone. Harry found himself in a flickering, shadowy version of his clearing. Deciding to muse on this gift later he ran towards the other side of the glade, and through one of the cadets. Placing himself behind the tree, he pulled at his power, dragging It back within himself. As he faded back to normalcy, Harry felt exhausted. Delegating the shock to some other time he leant around the tree.
A cry had arisen from the Red: "Pat's down, Pat's down!"
"What, how?" Came the response.
"Looks like a knife!"
As the others rushed forward chattering about the improbability of a knifeman vanishing that quickly, Harry grinned again. Never let it be said that Cadet Potter ever let an advantage go to waste! The grinning boy quickly unlimbered his rifle and took aim. A quick flick and the safety was off, a pull and tens of small plastic pellets flew from his barrel every second, pelting the unfortunate Reds where they stood. One by one, they fell as the rules demanded.
Once he had put another round in each of them to ensure their "deaths" he strode forward. "Do you know what you did wrong?" He asked. None answered. "You all grouped up when Pat fell. Easy targets."
The Reds groaned; that was one of the first things their Sergeant had taught them! Never bunch up!
Harry laughed at their noises of discontent. "Yea, Sarge'll be really unhappy with you lot. What'll this be then? The fifth time I got the drop on you? Ouch."
Harry was still chuckling when Kurt's team returned with the flag. "Potter, what's so fun- oh. You got them again?"
Harry straightened. "Yes sir, took the commander out and the others bunched up. Like shooting fish in a barrel, sir." Harry still couldn't suppress the grin.
Kurt and the others grinned back, "We were wondering where the rest of them were! Light resistance at their base, planning to ambush us were they?"
Before Harry could answer a smattering of rounds tore through the leaves overhead. Blue Team ducked. "Oh sod it all, run!" cried Kurt as the blues beat a hasty retreat. "Guess we missed the heavy gunners then eh? Potter, give 'em their present!"
Harry nodded while falling to the rear and fished out the trigger, then promptly dropped it. Without thinking he reached out to it with his power and pulled. The small mechanism raced back into his hand and he hurriedly punched the activation key. Not two seconds later cries of dismay emanated from the booby-trapped clearing as the dull thuds of paint bombs sounded off.
Harry smirked and raced all the way back to the outskirts of the wood. His team was waiting for him. With a roar they hoisted him onto their shoulders and made their way back to the camp, cheering all the while.
As Harry lay in his bunk he stared at his hand in the half-light of the moon. How had he traveled like that in the woods? He knew that he could move things without touching them, people never found him when he didn't want them to, but that? That was new.
Harry had become aware of his "asset" when he was five. He had begun honing his talent almost immediately afterward, fearing that if he had not used it the powers would have faded away. Harry had become very adept at moving things, and even people, even before his start at the academy. Afterward, he had needed every bit of his talents to win the games that the instructors had the cadets play. Tripping other runners, slowing his own falls off of an obstacle in the course, speeding himself up, all had become second nature.
"This shadow walking thing though, what caused it?" Harry wondered. He tried to recreate the feeling he had had when his "fade" had occurred: the panic, the fear. Slowly, a warm tingle spread through him, and he faded into the grayish world.
"I wonder," Harry thought, "Can I touch things?" He moved to grab one of his books, and his hand went through it. Startled, he shifted back and pain lanced up his arm. Harry's hand had fused to the book! Harry clutched his arm to himself, he couldn't think, he couldn't even scream! Desperate, he shifted his hand into the shadows, and he felt the intrusion disentangle and let it drop. No longer in contact with Harry, the book blurred back into tangibility and fell onto his lap.
Harry gasped in relief; that had hurt, damn it! He was careful to not entangle with anything else when he shifted back into the Grey. This time he merely passed his hand close to his sheets, and a sort of pressure kept him away from their surface.
"Huh," he thought, "Objects naturally repel here. Guess that's how I didn't fuse to the bed." Just to test, Harry pushed his hand through the barrier and found himself reaching into his mattress. After pulling his hand out, he felt exhaustion wash over him. Fading back into solidity, Harry fell back onto his bed, and was asleep before he hit the pillow.
Vernon turned off the telly and opened the door at the knock. On the other side stood his wife, son, and nephew all returning from Col. Ackerson's. Vernon smiled at his boy.
"Have a good school year, son?"
Dudley had been signed up to attend the Academy a year after Harry. After seeing the positive change a single year there had given their nephew, it seemed only fitting to send their son as well.
Dudley nodded, "Yea Dad, woulda had a better time if Harry'd not always got the drop on us in training. The Sarge was always making us do pushups."
And it showed: Dudley possessed, for an soon to be twelve-year-old, massive arms and a torso to match. No sign of the slightly rotund boy from years gone by. This Dudley was trim and proper in his cadet's uniform.
"Ah, he did, did he?" Vernon eyed Harry warily, "And what'd the trainers have you do then, nephew?"
Harry shrugged and replied, "Our team ran the entire time the others were doing pushups or sit-ups. Same as last year, sir."
Vernon beamed, here was a sight that warmed his heart: his son was happy and healthy, his nephew was polite and normal, he himself was much trimmer due to taking a renewed interest in exercise, and his wife had a bit more meat on her bones after eating the same hearty meals he and the boys did. Life was good for Vernon Dursley.
"Come on in, then. Dudley, did you receive any awards or accolades?"
Dudley dropped his bag near the sofa as his father sat near his mother and fished out a small burgundy medal. "Yea, I got this one for being captured, and then busting myself out again with their flag." Vernon and Petunia applauded with vigor, a new medal to show off to the neighbors!
Harry groaned on his way up the stairs, "One of the few times his team makes off with the flag, and he tears half of my team apart to do it. Then he hightailed it back to base, while muling all of our weapons!"
Dudley jabbed back with: "Oh, don't be so glum Harry! You managed to get a pat to, right? 'Special talent for stealth, reconnaissance, and covert operation,' I think the sarge said."
By this time Harry had come back down the stairs to be part of the group. His Aunt and Uncle weren't horrible anymore, in fact it was actually fairly pleasant to be around them. He did remember his treatment from before though; and so would always toe the line, which was why he had brought his school report with him.
"That'll be your summary then?" Asked his Uncle, as expected. Harry nodded.
"Well, let's see!" Vernon took the paper from the wiry lad and began to read.
Harry turned and asked over his shoulder, "Anyone want some lunch? I'm making some hodge-podge out of the fridge."
Vernon grunted his assertion, still reading, as did Dudley as he stowed his medal. Petunia though, "No thank you, I had a sandwich on the way to picking you two up."
Harry gave a thumbs up without looking back.
Vernon set aside his nephew's rather excellent school summary and motioned for his son to hand over his. All was right in the world, his wife had gone to help Harry make the lunch, and nothing would bring him down from his contentment.
Albus Dumbledore watched as the owl entrusted with Harry Potter's letter flew off into the dusk just before dawn. He had placed a special charm on the parchment to know when Harry first opened his letter. Ten years of plans being set, ten years of preparing obstacles and tests. Dumbledore had finally arrived at the tipping point, the point where his meticulously laid path for Harry Potter would finally be put to use, the point where he would begin moulding the perfect weapon of the Light.
Harry had likely led an isolated existence, deprived of friends or compassion, thanks to the manaphobic Dursleys. He was in just the right condition for the first of many personality structuring moves.
Everything was in place.
The aged man interlaced his fingers as the first fingers of dawn speared the sky. A single thought ran through his mind.
"Happy birthday, young Harry."
