Alchemistaus Stahl

Chapter 1
Finding the Book

Harry Potter wasn't a normal child, nor was he widely liked. That however said nothing of his personality, although it spoke volumes in regards to his upbringing. His parents died on the night of Halloween following his first birthday, and he had lived with his Aunt Petunia, his mother's only sister and her family ever since. And due to the rather…rocky relationship the two Evans siblings had enjoyed during the years preceding, he wasn't quite as pampered as his cousin. Of course, there was also the fact that he wasn't their biological son to consider, so all in all it didn't seem too abnormal to anyone that he wasn't received as well and had to work for his place in the house.

That didn't make life without parents very enjoyable though, and far too often Harry dreamed of how his life would have been if they'd still been alive. He knew nothing about them: his aunt and uncle would tell him to shut up if he asked, so all he had were the little crayon drawings he'd done in a little corner of his cupboard when he was four. He'd drawn his mother in red for some reason: often, he wondered if that was his subconsciousness telling him she had red hair or liked wearing dresses that were the colour red. His father on the other hand was brown, and Harry could never decide if his subconscious was informing him to hair colour or skin tone, or possibly both.

He had no photos, and nobody in Little Whinging knew any more about his parents than he himself. His teachers didn't like him particularly much, though that was more Dudley's doing than his own. After all, when Dudley didn't do his homework (which was always) and bullied Harry's homework away from him (which was most of the time), it was Harry who got into trouble. And if Harry should do well on a test, he'd be regarded with suspicion – because how could a child who never did his homework score highly on his tests without cheating? Of course, they could never prove he was cheating – and he wasn't – but that didn't change the way they regarded him.

The librarian was nicer, and more sympathetic. He offered Harry first dibs on new books that came in, and often recommended older ones he was sure the other would enjoy. In fact, he was the one who taught Harry how to read in the first place, and who helped in out in his studies when he struggled. Because he wasn't the school's librarian but the one for the public library, he couldn't know the trouble Harry got into because of his cousin – and Dudley wouldn't step foot inside a library if he could help it.

Mrs Figg was somewhere in between. She was old and smelly and had way too many cats, but she treated him far better than the Dursleys did. She wasn't quite grandmother material, and her cooking was horrendous, but she always made sure to give Harry a little treat when babysitting him. And Harry was sure that if he went there after bruising from Dudley's punches, he'll find the bruises feeling far better when he left. But there was also some other lingering feeling that followed him, something that kept him from completely enjoying his time there.

So, all in all, the library was his favourite place to be, and the only place he went by choice. Four Privet Drive was a place he spent only as much time as necessary in, and while Mrs Figg's place was a step up, he'd never been there without being forced by his Aunt and Uncle. The library however was a place he always went when he was free, to bury himself into a book and wish magic was real so that it could make his dreams come true and give his parents back to him.

Except such magic didn't seem to exist in the real world, even when he tried to find pixie rings in the back garden or bluebells on the way home from school.

Still, he tried. That was all he had after all: the hope that magic did exist, and could help him out. Because no-body else could help him. Reality couldn't help him. He wasn't going to get into a good high school or get a good job and find a happily ever after ending. Even if his Aunt and Uncle didn't put him down for the local equivalent, his marks would see him there. And there were nothing but delinquents at Stonewall High. Harry, skinny little good Harry, wouldn't last two weeks in a school like that.

But he couldn't avoid it either, because his life wasn't nearly as bad as it could be, and he'd last for even less time if he was left on the streets. After all, he had a roof over his head, and two meals a day on average and he had clothes on his back and went to school and everything. Sometimes he read about less fortunate people, people like Oliver Twist who reminded Harry remarkably of himself, who'd asked for a little more than he had and wound up with nothing for a while. Harry certainly didn't want to wind up like that; the chances of finding some long lost grandparent was about the same as his parents being magically raised from the dead. Worse probably, since he technically had family: his Aunt Petunia.

Still, the library was the place to be for him. He never could spend hours there, because he'd have some chore or other to do in the morning and the library only opened until four. But he could live in the lap of magic while he was there, reading books where children could travel to innocent worlds where nothing ever went wrong, or even the darker magic which could change the past or the future. The sort of magic that could turn lead into gold and bring people back to life.

Those were his favourite books to read, and the ones he always sought out first when he came to the library. He'd read most of them several times by now, but he'd read them again and again if he could. It left a deep aching in his chest when he left of course, but it was worth it to be able to dream for a bit. And sometimes he'd give in to the temptation and believe as well. Smell thyme and try and travel to the past. Toss a rock into a puddle (because he was in shortage of coins and rivers) and wish upon it. Draw things in the soil and hope the magic circles would do something…magical. Wave a stick and hope it would turn into a wand. None of those happened, naturally, but it was nice to dream.

And he was planning to do so that day as well, arriving at the library at half past two after finishing his chores for the day and escaping before he got more after lunch. He didn't mind forgoing said lunch in the process: it would only be dried bread anyway, and he hadn't done anything energetically draining throughout the day.

He waved a customary greeting to the librarian, who stopped him before he headed off to the fiction books. 'Got a few interesting stuff delivered this morning,' the librarian explained. 'Not fiction books mind you, but I think this is something you'll be interested in anyway. A bit over the reading ability of an eight year old, but you're one of the most advanced readers I've ever met.' He looked proud too, and no wonder; he was the one who'd taught Harry how to read in the first place. 'Naturally, this isn't the original copy; it's been translated quite a bit since it was written in…the 1900s I think.' He scanned the inside cover and nodded. '1920, in fact. Quite old.'

He offered the book, and Harry took it, reading the back curiously. It seemed to be an account of something or other, a mix between the facts of the German Holocaust and something called Alchemy. It sounded a little like Anne Frank's diary, though a little more content-heavy he noted as he flicked through the pages. There were diagrams too, things that reminded him of the pixie rings and magic circles, and he found himself turning to the first page and starting to read before the librarian cleared his throat. 'I take it you're interested?'

Harry lifted his eyes from the page to nod eagerly, and the librarian chucked, fishing under the desk for a sticky note. He found a yellow pad quickly enough, and scrawled a note to himself before attaching it to the computer screen. 'I'll keep it behind the desk when you go home,' he said kindly, knowing that, for whatever reason, Harry never took books home with him. 'It'll wait for you until you're done.'

Harry nodded and said his thanks, relieved the librarian never asked why he didn't borrow his books instead. The truth was he worried about his Aunt and Uncle's reaction: they abhorred the very mention of magic, and they probably wouldn't like him reading fiction books anyway. 'That junk'll give you crazy ideas,' his Uncle would scoff, conveniently forgetting that Dudley's TV shows were filled with even less beneficial material. But that was how his family was, and Harry couldn't really do anything about it.

He carried the book to a quiet corner of the library and started carefully reading.

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A/N: Some notes about the context:

Harry is currently eight years old, three years before he'll get his letter for Hogwarts. So the year would be 1988. The events of Conqueror of Shamballa took place around 1918 if I'm remembering right (and I'm probably not; it's been over three years since I saw it last). FMA stuff will become more apparent as the story progresses, so I think that's all the relevant information you need for now. :D

The pixie ring and the thyme come from two books I've read: one of Enid Blyton's ones (can't remember which), and The Time Garden by Edward Eager III.