Introduction:So in the vein of a couple of other authors I've decided to clean out my hard drive a bit and release some Story's that never quite went anywhere. Some of these stories I lost interest in, some I ran into writer's block that never quite got cured, and others I just decided were really terrible ideas.
My sincere hope is that my proverbial dirty laundry will provide someone somewhere with a few minutes of amusement. Who knows maybe someone will even suggest something in a review that will give me the spark I need to continue with one of these stories.
Background to Scum of the Earth: Originally this started out as the rewrite of one of my oldest stories which I've since taken down. In fact I still have notes on this story going back to 2008, but this abortive first chapter was as far as I ever got. The main problem for me is the plot. Harry runs away and joins a magical mercenary army isn't original and lacks a certain realism. Also Harry spends like two months in the wizarding world before anyone even notices his scar, that's unforgiveable in my book.
But in any case had this story continued the first two chapters would be about Harry's life with the Mercenaries. Chapter Three would've been Harry returning to Britain and enrolling in Hogwarts for his fourth year and competing in the Triwizard Tournament. From there I had vague plans of OOTP that involved Harry using his mercenary army to curbstomp Voldemort, but that was never really planned out in any detail. Oh and at some point he and Fleur were going to do it… I remember being pretty passionate about that for some reason. In any case enjoy.
"Of my earlier life with my muggle relatives, I will say only that I did not enjoy it, and ran away as soon as possible."
-Harry Potter, as quoted in the Daily Prophet, Nov 19, 1994.
Nearly nine years had passed since Albus Dumbledore had left Harry Potter on the doorstep of the Dursley Family. Surprisingly little had changed in the Household since. To a casual observer it still seemed as if there was only one child living in the house, and that's just how the Dursley's liked it. Their nephew, Harry Potter, wasn't normal you see, there was something downright demonic about him, well at least according to several major religions.
And so they had sent their nephew to live in the cupboard under the stairs. The decision was a shockingly irrational and abnormal one for such upstanding citizens, but it was one they made none the less. At the age of four Harry was put to work, earning his keep, with simple tasks like watering the garden and picking up trash. As he aged more and more chores were added until by the time he was eight he was doing the Mageity of the house work.
This didn't satisfy his relatives as much as it should have, and it left his cousin Dudley Dursley with rather idle hands. Muggles have a saying about idle hands being playthings of the devil, and if you asked their schoolmates which of the two was more demonic Dudley would've been declared the winner in a landslide. He took genuine pleasure in being a bully, though he can hardly be blamed for what his parents made him.
Harry didn't care why Dudley was a bully, he only feared for his life when they met on the playground. Harry's glasses had been mended many times over with scotch tape after Dudley had punched him in the face. The cruelest irony of all was when he would tell his aunt and uncle about the broken glasses, he would be the one punished. He had once told them the truth. He would never do that again.
Despite all the outward signs of abuse, violence at the Dursley's was never random. Harry was only ever truly beaten by his uncle when he had done something wrong, or at least when Vernon thought he had done something wrong. Harry still learned to fear these beatings, as any child would, but they came much more often for him than any other child he knew, and certainly more than Dudley who to his knowledge had never received one.
There was no love in Number Four Privet Drive, and Harry longed every day to escape his private hell. Most of the time he thought about his dad or some other long last relation coming to rescue him. He pretended that his dad was a knight, a Noble Lord of Parliament, or a soldier, needless to say he dreamed in vain. But there was another dream that wasn't so lofty, he could run away.
He had first gotten the idea from one of Dudley's movies, that he had caught glimpses of while cleaning and it had stuck in his mind. But he knew that it was a stupid idea, how would he eat? Where would he sleep? What if it rained? Despite all of the reasonable objections the idea of running away soon overcame him and he began to think about it night and day it consumed him. He might never have worked up the courage however if it hadn't been for one incident.
"Up!" screamed a shrill female voice accompanied by a sharp rap on the door of the cupboard, "I said get up!"
Harry awoke with a start, he had been dreaming about something, what it was escaped him at the moment. Something to do with uniforms, though, he remembered a lot of those.
"Up! Now!" came his aunts' voice once again.
"I'm coming Aunt Petunia," Harry answered quickly as he scrambled out his makeshift bed almost hitting his head on the ceiling in the process.
"Go clean the Den!," She snapped when he emerged, "and be quick about it too, it's already ten o'clock and I have a lot I need to do today."
By I, Harry knew she meant him, but he made no protest he knew that it would only be bad if he did. Instead he dutifully went back into his cupboard and fetched the Lysol that was stored there. It might be considered odd that he slept surrounded by cleaning supplies but it was a cupboard after all.
Vernon's den, was more than an office it was a tribute to all that was Vernon Dursley, trophies filled the shelves and plaques lined the wall. A Diploma from the University of Surrey hung, next to a picture of him in his school days. He hadn't been so big then, and if his boastings were to be believed he might've been a rather good boxer. Harry honestly couldn't picture his uncle being anything resembling fit or physically active, though he could attest first hand to his uncle's strength.
Harry shrugged off the thoughts that threatened to flood his mind and got back to the task at hand. Cans, cups, and other trash need to be thrown away, and the waste basket needed to be emptied, and if he didn't have it done soon there would be hell to pay. Then there was shelves to dust, and Vernon probably wanted his trophy's polished too, not that he ever noticed the difference.
It was as Harry was taking down one of his Uncle's old wrestling trophies that the unthinkable happened. Whether it was a momentarily loss of concentration or his palm were sweaty, or it was fate he would never know, but either way the trophy slipped out of his hand and shattered into three pieces on the floor.
Harry immediately flew into a panic, 'I'm dead!, I'm dead! I'm dead!' he repeated over and over again in his head as he stared in abject horror at the broken trophy. He hadn't been able to sit down for a week after the last time he had broken his glasses, he couldn't even begin to imagine what Vernon would do about the trophy.
Slowly but surely Harry began to regain calm, and he noticed the distinct lack of reaction from his Aunt, probably meant she hadn't noticed the sound. Thinking quickly he shoved the pieces of the trophy under a bookshelf, where they were hidden from view. The trophy had been on the top shelve and away from Vernon's eye level so Harry knew he might have a day or two before anything was noticed. But then what? Judging by its size in comparison to the others, the Trophy had been relatively important, and harry knew it's absences would be noticed sooner or later.
Harry began to clean again as he thought about ways to avoid his inevitable punishment. He at first thought to take the trophy and get it repaired, but knew that would be expensive, and stealing from his aunt's purse was as likely to be punished almost as harshly as the trophy being broken. His next thought was to rearrange the display so that his uncle wouldn't notice, but the broken trophy was one of the largest, and most noticeable, so that wasn't an option.
Then just as he began to sink even deeper into depression, a voice in the back of his mind seemed to pop up and say 'just run.' Instantly his mind seized on that idea and wouldn't let go, the logical side pointed out all the old objections, but the threat of hunger paled in comparison to the threat of a beating as bad as the next one would be. Slowly but surely a plan began to form in Harry's mind.
He had once seen a report on the news about how many homeless children there were in London, and although he got the impression that the children in question were usually a lot older than him it had stuck in his mind. Suddenly with the threat of a beating in his immediate future, the dreary conditions and poverty that he had seen on the news looked like a promised land. Adults had a tendency to exaggerate after all right? He could remember his Aunt telling Dudley that riding a bike without a helmet was deadly. Much to Harry's annoyance though Dudley had yet to die.
But how to get to London? Vernon drove there every morning, but it was a bit far of a walk, especially for a nine year old. Then Harry remembered how some of his classmates from school had bragged about riding the bus without their parents. He could do that right? The Busses went to London didn't they?
But Harry knew that busses cost money, as did food, and shelter, How would he afford that? It wasn't as if the Dursley's gave him an allowance, the idea almost made Harry laugh from sheer absurdity. Then Harry remembered the cookie jar that Petunia had placed on top of the fridge. He had seen her dole out money to Dudley from it whenever he asked, which was often. To Harry's young mind that jar seemed to be a never ending container of money, and by the way Dudley acted he thought pretty much the same thing. The plan was basic and riddled with holes, but to Harry it was his only option, and he immediately resolved to put it into action later that night before Vernon had a chance to notice what had happened.
The rest of the day passed at an agonizingly slow pace for Harry, who couldn't help but think that he was about to be discovered at any second. His heart never ceased to beat at what felt like twice its normal pace, and the butterflies in his stomach refused to land. He needn't have feared however, as Petunia had been to engrossed in gossiping with the neighbor in the driveway to notice the noise, and Vernon didn't even go into his den that night.
Dinner was a rather awkward affair for Harry, as he had to fight to keep his hand from shaking. If the Dursley's noticed his odd behavior, they made no comment, probably hoping he would soon die of a deadly disease. Harry took the first opportunity he reasonably could to excuse himself and head to his cupboard.
As he lay on his makeshift bed pretending to be asleep, Harry had a thousand thoughts about how his plan could fail. And every creak of the floor boards, seemed to confirm his fears. Once when Dudley had begun screaming that he wanted something or another, Harry was convinced that it was Vernon finding the fragments of the trophy, and he began to shake in fear. He relaxed slightly when the screaming didn't get louder, and when he noticed it wasn't directed at him.
Once he was sure that the entire house was asleep, Harry grabbed the book bag he had packed full of clothes and other essentials, and quietly opened his cupboard door. He tiptoed his way to the kitchen, set his bag down, and moved a stepstool from the corner of the room to in front of the fridge to allow him to reach the cookie jar. Gently lifting it from its place on top of the fridge, harry made sure not to repeat his mistake with the trophy, the last thing he needed was to wake up the entire house.
Harry was pleased to discover that the jar contained around a 100 Pounds, more money than he had ever had, or even seen in his entire life. He instantly started thinking about the apartment he thought he could buy in London with that money. It was almost enough to live off of for years! Or so it appeared to a nine year old at least. Carefully he placed the jar back where he had found it, though devoid of money, and sneaked out of the door and into the night.
Harry soon learned one lesson that he had never really considered before, the night is scary. Even scarier he thought then his uncle, he at least knew what his uncle would do, but the night… anything could happen at night! Harry had barely made it to Wisteria Walk, before he began to have serious thoughts about turning around. Luckily some inbred stubbornness forced him to keep going, he arrived at the bus station at two in the morning and was forced to sit until the first bus arrived.
The bus driver on the six fifteen, didn't seem to notice that Harry was a little young to be traveling alone, probably because he was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. None of the passengers really seemed to care about Harry's age either; the term latchkey kid was just coming into popular use, but the idea wasn't new by any stretch. The first bus led to another bus, which led to another, and soon Harry found himself in downtown London.
The next week passed in a haze of moments that ranged from glorious, such as Harry eating as much as he wanted for the first time in his life, to terrifying, like trying to find a place to sleep at night. He quickly found out that locking yourself in a public bathroom was the best way, it wasn't glamorous but it kept him out of the rain.
If his relatives had reported him missing Harry saw no signs of it, there was no mention of him on the news, and his face didn't appear on any missing child posters. He hadn't expected it any different and he preferred it that way for obvious reasons.
This lifestyle simply couldn't sustain itself however and by the end of the first week Harry had nearly run out of money, and of course a nine year old getting a job was out of the question. Harry's situation was beginning to get dire, and he had gone two days without food, when an event that could only be called miraculous occurred.
He was walking down a street he had never seen before when suddenly his eyes were draw to a rundown looking pub. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he gazed at it, and he involuntarily reached up and pulled his knit hat tighter down on his head to prevent against an imaginary chill. He felt drawn, compelled almost to go in, he knew it was a stupid idea as no one in their right mind would let a child go into a pub without a parent. Still before he knew exactly what was happening his feet were carrying him across the street and towards the Leaky Cauldron.
His hand touched the door handle and a thrill went up his arm and throughout his body, something just felt right. And so on October 3rd 1989 Harry Potter took his first steps back into the magical world. It took Harry nearly a week to fully comprehend all that the Wizarding World meant, and nearly double that time to convince himself he wasn't crazy.
For the most part the wizards left him alone, it wasn't unheard of or even rare for children to wander around Diagon Alley unattended. His muggle clothes did earn a few hard looks, but it wasn't unusual for a half blood or even the occasional pureblood child to run around in jeans and a t-shirt. In comparison to the muggle world Harry found that the wizard one was a world of plenty. People didn't think twice about discarding large amounts of food and well… everything else. Harry was loath to eat out of the trash, but beggars can't be choosers.
Soon Harry found that unlike in Muggle London, kids his age living on the street weren't a rarity. It was after all rather simple for a Wizarding child to use accidental magic to run away. By longstanding tradition the Magical Law Enforcement squads didn't really make an effort to stop them so long as the kids stayed away from the nicer sections of district.
To Harry this seemed like a paradise, but soon after he took up what could be considered permanent residence in a wizard slum off Knockturn Alley winter began to set in. This might seem like a minor occurrence to someone who's never lived on the streets, but those who have know it's deadly. The food that had seemed plentiful at first practically disappeared, and the few shelters that had been set up by charitable wizards seemed to be constantly full.
Soon Harry was cold and starving, spending more time sleeping on the streets then was advisable when the temperatures were nearing freezing. Then one night he decided that he had enough, he had to take drastic measures. The few friends that he had made in his time in the Wizarding World had told him of the one sure fire way that a kid like him could make enough money to get hot food was pickpocketing. He had at first refused the advice as he thought he was far too good and noble to do such a thing. He had stolen from the Dursley's but that was an isolated case, and they had after all deserved it. To take from a random stranger however, was unforgivable and wrong. When faced with hunger however Harry quickly lost all moral objections to stealing.
"Scott," Harry called approaching the 13 year old who had first given him the idea.
"Fancy seeing you Harry," the underfed looking teen replied casually, "I take it you've rethought my offer?"
"I'll do it," Harry mumbled looking at the ground.
"I knew you'd come around!" Scott replied happily, "come on follow me, the pub on Knockturn and Nox is having half off beer night; best time to do it you know. Most of the buggers down there will be so drunk they won't even miss it until morning and when they do they'll just assume they spent it,"
Harry made no reply as he followed his older friend, all he knew was that his heart was beating a mile a minute and he had to fight to keep his hand from shaking.
"Don't be nervous," Scott said as he looked at Harry, "it isn't that hard, and if you're caught nothing ever happens."
"Never?" Harry asked gloomily.
"Well hardly ever," admitted Scott, "but look Harry I know how you feel, I felt the same way. Listen it isn't bad if you just do it to feed yourself, we got to eat too and those drunken bastards aren't exactly angels."
"It still doesn't feel right," Harry muttered as they turned onto Knockturn.
"Listen Harry, just don't think about it, alright?" Scott said, "if you think about it… that's when things go wrong, just do it."
"I already said I would help you," Harry answered.
"I know, I know," his friend answered, "now you've never done this before have you?"
"No not really," Harry's voice was more than a little bitter.
"Stop moping you agreed to it," said Scott, "now be quiet and you might learn something. Now the first rule of stealing is you do it as a team, which is why I brought you. You do it like that so that your partner can provide a distraction while you get the goods, you get it?"
"Yeah, makes sense," Harry mumbled, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"Good now, in this case," Scott said pointing towards a group of people surrounding a street vendor, "the distraction is provided, watch and learn." Before Harry could reply Scott had approached the crowd, and disappeared into the group of strangers. He emerged half a minute later, and casually ambled up to Harry.
"Did you get it?" Harry asked anxiously glancing both ways as if he expected an MLE Squad to come and arrest them any second.
"Easy as can be," Scott answered triumphantly displaying a money pouch that had the string cut.
"How much did you get?" Harry asked, trying and failing to hide his eagerness.
"6 knuts," Scott said frowning, "Poor bastard, maybe I should go give this back, he's worse off than me. Can't be helped, though, follow me and we can let you get your feet wet."
They moved past the crowd just as a man began to scream about his pocket being picked, Scott found this very funny, and even Harry admitted that there was a thrill in getting away with it. Soon they came onto the pub that Scott had mentioned earlier.
"Ah there's a likely candidate," Scott said pointing towards a large but nervous looking black man.
"What the hell are you on about?" Harry asked incredulously, 'he doesn't look drunk at all."
"No, not drunk," agreed Scott, "just stupid beyond belief."
"What makes you think that?"
"Left arm," Scott said gesturing towards an armband which bore a crest that Harry would come to know very well. "it's called a snare, mercenary bands give them out to their new recruits so they don't run off with the signing bonus."
"So you want me to pickpocket a mercenary!" Harry exclaimed.
"Keep your voice down," Scott snapped quickly, "he isn't a mercenary he's a recruit, they'll take anyone with a pulse, now look at his robes, they're too nice for him to be from around here. Nope he's a regular middle class tosser."
"I'm not doing it," Harry answered, "it's way too risky."
"No it isn't, look his recruiter has to be still in the pub trying to get new recruits, and they don't let people with a snare on wonder far. Since he can't have gone anywhere, and he isn't drunk that means he still has his entire sign on bonuses."
"How much is the sign on bonus?" Harry asked suddenly becoming tempted.
"It varies, but the lowest one is 100 Galleons," Scott said casually.
"I'm in," Harry said without thinking, his stomach was growling and 100 Galleons was more money than he had ever had in his life; more than twice what he'd stolen from the Dursley's.
"Ok, here's what you're going to do," Scott began, "go up to him and just start talking, I need him looking the other way, while I sneak up from behind."
"Can you reach his money bag?" Harry asked worriedly.
"Who's the expert Harry?" Scott responded confidently. "Now just do your part and I'll do mine. As soon as I have the bag just take off running he'll chase me because I have his money, we'll meet up at the shelter in Nox."
"But what if-," Harry began only to be cut off.
"Just do it Harry!" Scott exclaimed. "You talk so damn much, it's a wonder you ever get any work done."
With his friends words still ringing in his ears Harry started towards the imposing Blackman. As he approached the thousand and one things that could go wrong kept flashing through his head, but the thought of a hot meal made him press on. He pulled his knit cap tighter down his forehead to resist the cold. "Do you got the time?" Harry asked awkwardly
"Er… yeah." If possible the man looked even more nervous than Harry, this backed up Scott's assumption that he really didn't belong here. "It's quarter to eight."
"Nice weather we're having," Harry said in a desperate bid to keep the man's attention focused on him, and away from Scot who was rapidly approached the man from behind.
"I suppose so?" The man was clearly wondering why a kid from the slums had chosen to start a conversation with him about the weather.
"Looks like it might rain," Harry continued nervously, as Scott brushed against the man.
"Look kid is there something I can- SON OF A BI-" Harry didn't wait any longer and took off running as fast as he possibly could.
"PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" The man screamed at the top of his lungs. Harry instantly found himself facedown on the ground unable to move.
"COME BACK YOU LITTLE BUGGER!" he heard the man yell, as fear coursed through his veins. "STUPEFY! STUPEFY! STUPEFY!"
"Johnson!" came a gruff voice from what Harry guessed was the door of the pub, "What the hell is going on here!"
"I got mugged sir!" the Johnson character replied in a voice that was full of concealed pain.
"You got mugged?" the gruff sounding man said clearly astonished as two or three men burst into laughter. "Recruits just keep getting stupider, and stupider. Did you at least catch the bugger?"
"One of them," Johnson replied miserably.
"Is that the one here then?" the man asked taking notice of Harry for the first time.
"That's him," Johnson answered as Harry heard heavy footsteps approaching him. Harry could barely hear himself think over the rapid beating of his heart as he was unceremoniously turned so he lay on his back. His eyes took a beefy looking man, in a vaguely military uniform
"You got mugged by a ten year old?" The man said, disgust creeping into his voice.
"There's always to of em'" the man replied with a hearty laugh.
"Sergeant Mage!" came a voice from the door of the pub. "Kindly explain what the devil is going on here?"
Harry couldn't see the owner of the voice, but judging from the way the man who had been inspecting him jumped it had to belong to someone important.
"Johnson got mugged sir."
"Merlin's Beard! Sergeant Mage, you'd almost thing we were in Knockturn alley!" the voice said sarcastically.
"Er… yes sir," the man replied.
"Are you alright Johnson?" the newer man asked.
"He took my money."
"Yes that generally happens in a mugging," the man said dryly. "Sergeant Mage Edwards, at the next available opportunity, see that Johnson is educated on how to address an Officer."
"Yes sir," Edwards replied. "Johnson did manage to catch one of the culprits, sir."
"Give him a thrashing and send him on his way then Mr. Edwards, I haven't the time for these matters," the man replied clearly annoyed.
"Sir! He might know where the one who took my money is!" Johnson said angrily.
"That's nice but, we're due to depart tomorrow morning we haven't the time to go searching around Knockturn for a missing coin purse."
"Sir my family needs that!" Johnson's voice suddenly became desperate, and through his fear Harry began to feel more than a little guilty.
"Mr. Edwards, how many men have we recruited?" If the man had noticed Johnson's pleas then he gave no sign of it.
"17, Mage Smith, sir," the Sergeant Mage replied.
"That leaves us short…" the Smith paused for a moment. "Very well I have an equitable solution. Finite Incantatem," and suddenly Harry could move again.
"What are you doing sir?" Johnson said as Harry sat up and looked the Mage in the face. He was a younger man then the Sergeant Mage and his uniform was distinctly gaudier. He had Brown Hair and steely grey eyes, his nose was sharp and aquiline.
"I appreciate you addressing me properly, Johnson, but that still doesn't give you the right to question me," Smith snapped. "Boy," he continued looking at Harry now. "What is your name?"
"H-Harry Potter, sir."
"Very funny Boy," by the sound of his voice Smith never found anything funny, "but I don't take cheek. Now I shall ask you again, what is your name?"
"H-Harry P-Potter." Harry really didn't know what else to say, he gathered that his name was something of a joke in this new world as most people he introduced himself to laughed.
"I shall ask you one more time, and you will answer correctly or you will regret it!" somehow Edward's whisper was more intimidating then most men yelling.
"H-Harry D-D-Dursley." Harry knew that saying Potter again was a bad idea and Dursley was the first thing that came to mind.
"Much better Boy, now how would you like to be a Mercenary?"
"What!?" Sergeant Mage Edwards had beaten Harry to the punch, "sir he's far too young!"
"To be an infantryman yes," Smith replied, "but he's the perfect age for a pack monkey."
"The Regiment has enough pack carriers, sir," said Edwards.
"Before we left Clive asked me to recommend him for one of the infantryman slots," Smith replied. "I'm simply securing his replacement."
"The boy's a bloody thief!" Johnson exclaimed.
"He won't be the first in the Regiment," Smith shrugged. "What's that muggle saying you're so fond of Mr. Edwards? 'We have in our service the Scum of the Earth?'"
"That's the one, sir." Edwards clearly didn't like where the conversation was headed.
Throughout all of this Harry remained remarkably silent, but finally he felt the need to say something, "what's happening, exactly?"
"I'm offering you a job," responded Smith. "Three meals a day, a roof over your head, new clothes…" He eyed Harry's muggle wardrobe with distaste. "And 10 Galleons a week."
"What sort of job?" 10 Galleons wasn't much, but three meals a day sounded tempting.
"We call them Pack monkeys," answered Smith. "Basically you're a fetch and carry boy. You'll help the cook and the potion master; you'll do the laundry, and other little tasks."
"So I'm a servant?" Harry had been the Dursley's servant for as long as he remembered, after a month or so on the streets doing it again didn't sound too bad.
"Exactly, we would use house elves but the poor things don't do well in the heat" responded Smith. "They get a touch of the fever and die within months; we had to euthanize a couple before we finally just gave up and started using orphans."
"I'll do it," Harry answered. The whole three meals a day thing was far too good to pass up.
"Good!" Smith exclaimed. "Mr. Edwards, his sign on bonus, if you please."
"Sir," Edwards muttered as he grudgingly reached into his pocket and handed over a small pouch.
"Thank you Mr. Edwards," Smith said as he threw the pouch at Harry, who opened it and stared in awe. The pouch although no larger than a man's fist, held more gold then Harry had ever seen in his life. He was so transfixed by this sight that he didn't see the hand coming. "Never!" Smith began as he slapped Harry across his face. "Steal!" he slapped him again. "Again!" he slapped him a final time and snatched the money pouch out of Harry's hand.
"Here Johnson," Smith said tossing the pouch to the recruit. "Don't let this one get stolen.
The group didn't stay long in England indeed the very next morning Harry found himself taking a Portkey to Mexico. Mexico was very different from England, the plants were different, the language was different, even the people looked different. Above all he found the heat to be crippling, in the short walk from the Portkey site to the perimeter of the mercenary camp Harry's shirt became soaked. He took off his knit cap which had up to that point covered his scar, however he also smoothed down his bangs, so he wasn't discovered.
"Tench-Shun!" cried a mercenary guard as he sighted Mage Smith at the head of the party. Instantly the three guards, stood ramrod straight.
"Sir!" said a man with the three downwards facing chevrons of a sergeant on his sleeves. 'Identify yourself."
"Mage Charles Smith, British Volunteers, reporting with recruits."
"You may pass sir," answered the sergeant as he brought his right hand over his heart with the palm facing downwards. Harry assumed it was a wizard variant of a salute as Mage Smith immediately mimicked him.
"Send a runner for Lance Corporal Downs," responded Smith. "Tell him to meet me at my tent and to bring Clive,"
"Yes sir," responded the sergeant.
"Alright you lot," said Sergeant Mage Edwards to the recruits. "Follow me and we'll get you trained up to the regulations!" Harry couldn't help but notice the evil glint in the man's eyes and he felt more than a little fear as he started to go with them as he started to go with them.
"Not you Dursley!" Smith snapped. "You come with me."
Harry found the regiment's camp to be surprisingly non-magical, indeed as far as he could see there were no outright signs of magic. It consisted of rows upon rows of plain white tents that looked like they couldn't hold more than one person at a time.
The camp was populated by British looking men, who wore the same uniform as Smith and the Sergeant Mage. The uniform was khaki in color and the top half resembled something Harry had once seen muggle soldiers wear during a parade. The bottom half however flowed out like any other robe. Rank seemed to be indicated by chevrons on a person's sleeve or in the case of officer's like Mage Smith, little pips on the collar.
As they passed the men, any of them who weren't otherwise engaged immediately gave Smith the same salute the sergeant at the gate had. Harry filed that information away for later use as he had the sneaking suspicion that small rituals like that one were important.
"Sir," said a stout looking brown haired man as Edward's tent.
"Corporal Downs. Clive," Smith said acknowledging a strong looking boy who couldn't have been more than 16. "You'll be pleased to know that I've acquired a new pack monkey."
"Well er… thank you sir, but I'm up to the established number," Corporal Downs responded in confusion.
"Recruit Clive, report to Sergeant Mage Edwards on the double," Smith said as if Downs had not spoken.
"Thank you sir!" Clive exclaimed, from the look on his face one would've though he had won the lottery.
"That was my best boot polisher," Downs said with a sigh once Clive was out of earshot.
"In my experience people who can shine a boot well can do other things even better," Smith replied evenly. "In any case I think you can train Dursley here up to be a fine boot blacker."
"Dursley eh?" Downs said sizing up Harry. "Muggleborn?"
"There are very few things I care less about then the genealogy of pack monkeys," Smith answered dryly.
"He'll have to do then," Downs said with a sigh. "Boy, Salute the Mage." Harry awkwardly copied the gesture he had seen earlier. Downs let out another sigh, "if it's all the same to you sir, I better get started, he has a long way to go."
"On your way, Corporal," Smith replied.
"Sir yes sir," answered Downs.
"So what do you know about the Regiment?" Downs asked once they were safely away from the tent.
"Not much," Harry answered truthfully.
"Well then let me educate you," Downs replied. "We are the 1st British Volunteers, we're under contract to the Empire of Mexico."
"Why Mexico?" Harry asked.
"Because they pay well," responded Downs. "Now stop asking stupid question, a lot of the regiments history isn't immediately important and I'll teach it to you later. What you need to know now is to salute officers."
"Which ones are the Officers again?"
"They're the buggers who've got the metal on their collar and no stripes on the sleeves," answered Downs. "It goes like this cadets, armigers, lieutenants, Captains, mages, and commandant, and you call all of them sir, making sense so far?"
"I guess, sir" Harry responded.
"No," said Downs. "I'm enlisted you call me by my rank. Basically the enlisted side of things goes like this; private, lance corporal, corporal, sergeant, section sergeant, company sergeant, and the Sergeant Mage. Call the privates, private, the corporals, corporal, and the sergeants, sergeant, 'cept for the Sergeant Mage, he's always Sergeant Mage, the officers can call him mister though."
"I think I get it Corporal," Harry answered.
"Good," responded Downs. "Now let's get you out of those damn clothes." The Corporal escorted Harry across the camp, all the while explaining the little eccentricities of the regiment. Finally they came to a large tent that had the letters 'QM,' on the side. Harry's jaw dropped when he entered the tent, it was easily the size of a muggle superstore and seemed to hold literally everything imaginable.
"I take you for a size three," Downs said as he waved his wand summoning a white uniform patterned after the khaki one the other inhabitants of the camp wore. "Laws of war say your uniform has to be distinct from the combatants," Downs said answering the unasked question. "Here run over behind those crates and try it on."
"Bravo!" Downs cried while clapping sarcastically, when Harry emerged decked out in white. "Looks perfect, the clothes have anti-dirt charms on them so don't worry too much about cleanliness, but don't go rolling around in the mud either." Then Downs abruptly stopped, his mouth hanging open.
"Is something wrong?" Harry asked confused.
"Come here, now," Downs said forcefully, his eyes never left Harry as the boy approached him nervously. When Harry was closer to him, Downs reached out traced his finger down Harry's scar, and whispered "Merlin's Beard…"
"Corporal?" Harry had never thought his scar anything to wonder at, and Downs's reaction was creeping him out.
"Dursley, you said your name was?" Downs asked taking his hand away from Harry's scar, "wouldn't perchance be Potter would it?"
"How did you know?" Harry asked confused,
"Come on gather up your things," Downs said by way of reply, but there was something new in his voice that Harry couldn't quite place. They made their way rapidly across the camp; Harry almost had to run to keep up with Downs long strides. Soon they were back at the opening of Mage Smith's Tent.
"Damn it Corporal!" Smith snapped as they entered. "don't you knock?" Harry wasn't sure how someone would knock at the door of a tent, but he put that inquiry aside for the moment.
"Sorry sir," Downs replied. "But I thought it best to show you this immediately, come here," the last part directed at Harry. When Harry approached he felt Downs left up his bangs, and he saw the mage's eyes widen in shock.
"Quite right…" Smith's voice was unsteady. "This doesn't leave my tent, do I make myself clear?" He said regrouping himself.
"Crystal, sir," Downs replied.
"You were right to tell me Corporal." Smith continued. "I'll see to it that you're properly rewarded. Now if it's not too much trouble leave me and Mr. Potter to speak privately."
"Yes sir," Downs replied as he took one last awe filled look at Harry before retreating out of the tent.
"Well it seems you weren't lying after all." Smith sounded as if he still couldn't believe it. "My apologies for the way I acted."
"No problem sir," Harry still couldn't fully understand what was going on.
"If I may ask… how did you find yourself in Knockturn Alley?"
"I-I rather not say sir." It didn't seem like the sort of answer Smith was use to taking, but Harry had no desire to talk about the Dursley's.
"Then I won't pry." Some of Smith's earlier arrogance was starting to come back. "Suffice to say though, you weren't happy there? And that you don't want to go back?"
"I'd rather stay here." Harry was panicking, what had he done? Had he offended the Mage? Was he going to be sent back to die on the street? "If it's okay with you, that is, sir," Harry finished lamely.
"Of course it's okay. But this revelation of yours does change some things… It's hardly appropriate for someone of your stature to be a pack monkey."
"My stature sir?" Harry asked confused.
"Yes, you have quite the reputation… How much do you know about that scar Mr. Potter?"
"Not much sir…"
"Well let us say it's a relic of something…" Smith paused searching for the right words. "It's a mark that makes you very, famous among wizards. The name Harry Potter is very well known in Britain… not so much outside of Europe however."
"What do you mean sir?"
"Nearly a decade ago there was a deranged mad man gallivanting across Europe," there was an odd bitterness in Smith's voice that Harry couldn't quite place. "When he spoke people listened. He was so… eloquent, and he made so much sense, that people began to follow him." Yes Harry decided his voice was definitely bitter.
"He did terrible things Mr. Potter, truly terrible things… Soon people began to fear him so much that they didn't even want to say his name. They called him You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, cowards!" Smith snorted in disgust. "He seemed unstoppable and we woke up every day wondering if he who he had killed that night. He targeted your parents' house. They died. But when he tried to kill you, he failed, instead his curse backfired, and he was the one who met his fate."
"But how? I mean isn't the killing curse unstoppable?" Harry asked in shock.
"There are theories about how it happened, but no one has ever proved anything."
"What do you think?"
"Well Mr. Potter, I believe that Magic is all powerful and completely incomprehensible. But it's not time to dwell on the past, we must look towards your future," Smith changed the subject quickly.
"My future sir?" Harry asked surprised.
"You can't be a pack monkey forever, and now that I know the truth I don't even feel comfortable making you one, quite frankly it's beneath you."
"Beneath me?" Harry said confused. "I've done worse, trust me."
"Mr. Potter, how shall I put this," Smith paused. "You are… special. Destined for higher things, the life of a mere servant is not for you."
"Well don't expect me to complain about it." Harry didn't mind shining someone else's boots if he had to, but if he Edward's was offering a way out, he'd be a fool to refuse.
Harry soon found himself wishing that he was blacking boots. Smith had made it sound like he would be lounging around all day or at least doing something cool. Instead Harry had been sent to work. It wasn't back breaking labor and for that he knew he should be thankful, but mental labor was tiring in its own ways. At the end of the day however Harry Dursley found that he was happier then Harry Potter ever was. And thanks to a couple of concealing charms from Smith nobody would ever be able to guess that he had ever been Harry Potter.
Harry's days were structured with military precision, like everything else in the camp. Reveille was sounded every morning at 6 a.m. and he was expected to be on the parade grounds with the rest of the regiment by 6:30. The regimental assemblies were an interesting thing to Harry for one reason, the regimental flag.
As far as Harry could tell it was the closest thing to a religion he had seen in the magical world. Whenever it passed everyman saluted it, and one or two people even got a tear in the eye. Everywhere it went it had to be surrounded by five sergeants, as far as Harry could tell their sole purpose in the regiment was making sure no harm ever came to it. Harry found the whole reverence for the flag thing to be a mite excessive, but even he found his spirits lifted whenever he saw the flag.
He had said as much to Sergeant Mage Edwards who had heartily replied, "Damn good Dursley, finally getting Regimental Spirit I see. We'll make a man of you yet!"
To Harry's knowledge that had been the first time the Sergeant Mage had ever said anything nice to him. Smith had a completely different reaction.
"Oh that," Smith said with a self-satisfied smirk. "That was one of the Commandant's best ideas. He claims to be a Gryffindor but he's all Slytherin in my books."
"What does that mean again?" Harry responded.
"The Commandant put an area affect cheering charm on the flag, genius, simply genius," Smith repeated with a small laugh.
"So everyone who sees the flag automatically gets happy? And since they associate the flag with the regiment they associate the regiment with happiness?"
"Quite. Let me to tell you Mr. Potter, leadership is nine tenths showmanship. You can be right all you want to be, and you can be as powerful as you feel like, but if no one perceives you to be either then it's all for nothing. "
"Out of curiosity why did you tell me about the flag? Won't the effect be diminished if the men know the truth about it?" Harry asked.
Smith seemed to find that question funny. "They'll never know about that because you'll never tell them. You're a gentleman, and gentlemen don't tell other gentlemen's secrets."
Smith had decided to take Harry under his proverbial wing, and had set aside two hours every day after the morning assembly to educate him on matters the Mage thought important. The classes if they could be called that were highly informal and seemed to have no overriding topic. On some days Smith would engage Harry in a conversation about morality, on others he would try and teach Harry history. Smith's favorite subject however, was turning Harry into a gentleman, indeed Smith fascination with the project bordered on obsessive.
Harry rather got the impression that the man was lonely. The Regiment had some three hundred men its ranks, but out of all of them Smith was the only mage. The captains all ranked below him, and although it was perfectly fine for him to share the occasional laugh with his subordinates, anymore was considered improper. Above him there was only the Commandant, who wasn't the type to socialize, indeed outside of regimental assemblies he was rarely seen.
As far as Harry could see Smith lived for the infrequent invitations he received to parties held by the local nobility. When they came the usually reserved man, would get unreasonably happy for the entire week. They day of he would send his best boots to be blacked by Corporal Downs's Pack monkeys. His batman (servant) would take out his best uniform and pin on his medals, and with his sword at his side he would go sashaying off into town as if he hadn't a care in the world.
When he would return he would spend the next day's lesson regaling Harry with stories from the night before. Sometime they were actually interesting. Other times they involved Smith spending the entire night playing cards with grumpy old wizards, the Mage seemed to take pleasure in these stories, but Harry found his attention wondered whenever the subject of whist was brought up. All in all no matter how much fear the Mage inspired in his men and his enemies, Harry thought that Smith's private life didn't quite live up to his job title of Mercenary Leader.
Although Smith clearly enjoyed their meeting the Mage soon came to conclusion that he alone could not teach Harry everything he needed to know. One man could never teach someone the entire Hogwarts curriculum. So Harry found himself being shoved from one person to the next, each one giving him a little knowledge. Harry found himself very fortunate in the fact that the Regiment employed people with a variety of skills sets.
There was the Potion Master, who insisted on being referred to as Master Davis. Since he was a true guild certified master it was his right, Harry still thought it was a bit much though. Davis was a greying man, who looked to be in his sixties, though it was hard to tell with Wizards. Harry found him to be something off a moody recluse, but nobody could question that he was a genius with a cauldron.
Harry didn't share his teacher's abilities. He could follow directions with the best of them, but he couldn't understand why mixing doxy venom with dragon's blood was a bad idea. He of course knew enough not to do it, he simply couldn't understand why the reaction was so horrible.
"You're a cook not a pioneer!" Davis exclaimed after one particularly bad lesson. "Go learn how to make a pie! Potions is beyond your understanding."
Harry had been more amused than offended by the ranting. Potions wasn't his passion and even if it had been he knew enough not to be offended by Davis's insults. The man was just rude, genius has a way of doing that to people.
He was also rather bad when it came to transfiguration. Try as he might he couldn't see the use to the subject and it showed in his work. He had everything he needed provided for and in spades, why would he need to create something, when a simple snap of his fingers would send any man in the regiment running to fetch it?
His other teachers however tended to be more impressed with Harry. Centurion Adams taught him magical theory and he insisted that Harry had an intuitive grasp for it. The Commandant's Secretary, a Mr. Brown, taught him languages. Harry excelled at it there was something about it that just called to him, and he picked them up easily.
Smith insisted that he learn Latin and Greek, as they were the languages of learning and culture. Harry didn't think so but he saw no point in arguing. His Greek was never great and his Latin was only ever passable. He took to French however like a duck to water, it helped that the upper crust of Mexico all spoke it more often than Spanish, most of them being descended from French immigrants.
Sergeant Major Edwards was supposed to teach him dueling but seeing as how Harry didn't have a wand and the regiment had no wand's smith they dealt with other matters instead; Regimental History, Reading the land, and of course leadership. It was after one lesson that Harry asked the question that had been troubling him.
"Why fight for Mexico?"
"'Cause they're the ones who pay," Edwards answered sensibly, but when he saw that Harry wouldn't take that answer he continued. "I joined the Aurors when I was 16, that was in'71 right when You-Know-Who was getting started. I fought against him for 18 straight years till he eventually went and snuffed it. The thing is when a war goes on 20 years you need a lot of people to fight it and when it ends well you don't need an army of aurors to catch pickpockets. So they downsized the force, from 4,000 to 1,000. Most of them found other jobs easy enough, but me... Fighting's all I'm good at."
"So that's why all of you are here?" Harry asked.
"Not all of us, some of 'em like Mage Smith well… it doesn't bear mentioning not anymore, but you ever notice how a lot of the old hands, the ones in the regiment from the beginning, never roll up their sleeves," Edwards said uncomfortably. "Its been a long time and not a one of 'em look down on me for being muggleborn, not anymore."
"They were Death Eaters!" Harry cried in shock suddenly feeling uncomfortable being surrounded by what should've been his enemy.
"Were, being the important part Dursley," the Sergeant Major said quickly. "I was skeptical about this whole thing at first myself, but its been 6 years since we got here and not a one of 'em has ever shown any signs of going back to his old ways. The wars over with doesn't really matter which side we fought on… trust me your safe here."
"What about the new recruits?" Harry asked still a little unsettled.
"The pays not bad; 5,000 Galleons a year to start out with more for sergeants and officers, bonus pay for combat, and the Mexicans let us loot any villages that get uppity so there's that. Besides some of 'em just want to see the world… merlin knows why they chose this shithole of all places but there you go."
That gave Harry a lot to think about as he walked through the camp. But as he looked around at the soldiers laboring together, he couldn't help but think that the Sergeant Major was right. Whatever had happened in the past was the past, whatever they had done, they weren't doing anymore. And if anyone could understand a desire to forget the past, it was Harry.
A/N As always read and review. More stories will be posted once I have a chance to review them.