When Mike Ross made blue sparks fly during the kindergarten nap time, no one was around to see it.
It was quite fortuneate actually, that the teacher's back was turned and the rest of the kids (who didn't have a whirring mind to keep them awake) were asleep. Mike had been bored, laying on the ground with his head on a pillow and unable to drift off into the realm of dreams because his mind had too many thoughts (and memories and ideas and images and numbers and words) to allow him that passage, but he was still too young to have learnt to live inside his mind in such instances and so he couldn't do much more than lay and await the end of nap time. But inevitably, that had been too much - or, more likely, not enough - for him to handle, and the end result had been an array of blue sparks momentarily dancing through the air above his head, much to his surprise.
If he had been any other child, he would have called out - attracting the attention of the teacher who would be partially annoyed and partially amused/fondly exasperated as they did their best to calm the child down but still indulge the fantasies of magic they clearly possessed. The child would be eager to show off their new-found ability, resisting the attempts to corral them into a slumber as long as they could, all the while babbling about what would be perceived as an overactive imagination or a adoreable dream. They would eventually be coaxed back to sleep, and when they woke up they would remember the incident but assume the same as the teacher - that it was just a pleasant, half-remembered fantasy.
Mike Ross was not any other child.
Once Mike read something he understood it, and once he understood it he never forgot it. And Mike had read a lot.
He knew tales about those with the ability to do things that were different. Whether it was a society that persecuted those with magic, a dystopia where psychics were slaves, or an evil government that wanted to harvest the abilites for themselves, it all ended the same. Mike had watched enough X-Men Evolution to know that being ostracised by society, by family and friends, and being treated as a freak was in the cards for those who were different. He had already experienced it on a minor scale for his perfect memory and the knowledge it granted him as he was able to recite things perfectly, but a photographic memory was not quite on the same level as blue sparks somehow materialising out of thin air. He didn't know enough about his situation to inform anyone else, so therefore he wouldn't.
Mike Ross was not any other child, so instead of calling out to the teacher, he simply lay still where he was for the rest of nap time. Eventually, due to the use of his undeveloped magical core, he fell asleep.
The thing about Mike's perfect recall was that it was just that: perfect. Mike was able to remember everything he saw, everything he heard, everything he read, everything he smelled and everything he felt with perfect clarity - down to the last detail. This beautiful, terrible abnormality was something that one might suppose was both treasured and reviled by the boy who possessed it. It would be incredibly useful, after all, to be able to spout whatever information needed for tests or real life, but of course, there must be the drawback of having painful memories so close to the surface. Not to mention the way he must be used by his classmates and resented for his intellect.
This was true, but that was not how Mike looked at it. He didn't feel glad or upset about his memory, simply because that had always been the way it was - he didn't know anything different. His mind was his companion, for better or worse, and he never saw any of its aspects as benefits or drawbacks, but just as something that was normal. It wouldn't be until years later that he would fully understand the questions that others sometimes asked him about it, but even then his answer would be largely unchanged.
So when he aced a biology test without studying at all he didn't feel a wave of relief and when his mind replayed the scene of glass and blood and metal of his parents' deaths he didn't curse his brain. It just was. Just like it had always been.
It had been why Mike had never doubted what he had seen that day in kindergarten. He remembered the blue sparks and the warmth that had soaked through him when they had appeared - when he had created them. Mike was a naturally curious child. He was studious and hardworking even from his earliest moments, so it hadn't taken him long to delve into recreating the magic - although he was careful not to do it in the presence of others. The blue sparks appeared again. And again, he was very tired after.
Research. Research. Research. Ah-hah. Remembered information. Blue orbs. Research. Practice.
Once Mike read something he understood it, and once he understood he never forgot it. All that information swirling around in his immediate memory. Deeper in each page of a book or button on the internet. Discoveries drawn - some correct, some incorrect, but with an awareness of the fact that he didn't have all the answers. The conclusion that Mike Ross eventually, finally came to was magic.
When people asked, Mike told them that he was eight when his parents died in a car crash. What he left out was that a part of him had died in that same instant.
A drunken collison in the late evening. Screeching metal and the crunch of a rolling car. Shattered glass stinging his face and a restraining seatbelt trapping him in place. Just out of reach of the bleeding things that were once his parents. Marred and lifeless and oh so dead.
Every image, emotion, sound and feeling etched forever in his mind. The first time that the word 'tragedy' was justifiably applicable to his life.
When the light died, and Mike was still trapped in place, he tried to summon the sparks, to no avail.
It would be months before his magic returned. Months before any feelings other than numb disconnect returned.
Months before a part of him returned from where it had died.
Trevor Evans was a delinquent child who didn't care about his grades, was rude to the teachers behind their backs and thought he was too cool for everything. And Mike loved him.
He hailed from a home where his father was always absent, his mother was always drunk and his big sister had fled for the city as soon as she was legal. It was that neglect from his parents who never gave him the time of day except to yell at him for something or declare how much of a disappointment he was that had resulted in him needing to find approval from those many would describe as 'unsavoury' and 'bad influences'. It was also that neglect that brought forth his compassion for the little guy, which was why he had stepped in that first time he saw some big kids picking on that scrawny, sarcastic little kid from his class in the play ground.
Mike knew this; he knew that his hero-turned-best-friend had flaws, but despite his penchant for getting them both into stupid situations, he was there for him. Trevor never let anyone get away with anyone calling Mike a freak or making fun of his less than expensive clothes or calling him out on being an orphan. It was common knowledge that if you messed with Mike Ross, you'd have to deal with Trevor Evans. It was less commonly known that messing with Trevor yielded the same results, but vice versa.
Mike had made it his business to watch out for Trevor when he inevitably got himself into trouble. When he agravated a group of older boys, Mike would use the system - whether it was that of the school yard or the official teachers' one - to find a way to get them out of trouble, either by pacifying them or offering a better deal or downright threatening them with teachers. If that didn't work, and he was unable to dig them out of a mess, well, he'd just have to make sure they weren't the only ones to go down and suffer. He knew that Trevor always loved it when he managed to twist a situation to suit them both, and that was another reason why he was so attached to his best friend. Trevor never gave him grief over using his own methods to fight back.
Despite the knowledge he had dregded up of both his own abilities and what he believed the world to offer in regards to magic, Mike had not been expecting Professor Minerva McGonagall to appear on his Gram's doorstep in June 1991, nor had he expected the fantastical invitation to attend a magic school in Scotland. But Mike had a quick mind and it was great at adapting, so rather than standing still in awe or nervousness while the Professor calmly explained the reason for her visit, Mike burst out a slew of questions about the world, which had just expanded for him again. The look on the Professor's face when he revealed the knowledge he had already gathered was quite comical, although he was too busy seeking more to appreciate it at the time.
"So there's more of us - enough for us to form our own hidden community? Do we have regular contact with each other? Are we secluded, or hidden in plain sight? How do we avoid everyone else? What happens if someone sees magic being performed? How many things from legends are accurate? Is what you're wearing a uniform or something?"
"Mike!" Gram's voice cut through his spiel and he looked to see two shocked faces of elderly women staring at him.
Oh, right. Gram was probably still stuck on the whole 'magic is real' thing.
Eventually the Professor recovered enough to adjust her glasses and look down at him in curiosity, "Well, I must say, Mr Ross, you seem to have come to terms with this situation already."
Mike evaluated the Professor and decided that the stern visage belied a sense of humour and certain patience for children, but only if he didn't push her too far. He had a feeling that whatever first impression he made would likely stick.
With that in mind, he shrugged, "Blue sparks in nap time were a give away."
"Mike?" Gram questioned in slight shock and he carefully hid his wince. The Professor seemed to grow more curious, a spark in her eye lighting up behind her glasses.
"Sorry I didn't tell you, Gram. I haven't ever told anyone - not even Trevor. All the stories say that it's a bad idea."
"Stories?" The Professor questioned, a brow raised.
Mike met her gaze steadfastly, "It's a common theme in both literature and history. Those who are different are ostracised or persecuted because society is both scared and jealous of something they don't understand."
There was something there in the Professor's gaze that conveyed sorrow and wisdom, "I see. Yes, that is unfortunately true of our world and you are very intelligent to have picked it up for one so young."
His Gram just shook her head sadly, "Oh, my poor Mike."
Mike consumed knowledge. He read book after book after book that was recommended by the Professor and he learnt and absorbed information about a world that existed under the noses of everyone else, but that was now at his fingertips. He made a few visits to magical shops in the US, gathering some of the supplies mentioned on his list, but all he was really interested in was the people. The society and culture. The magic was facinating, but it took second place to the new concepts and philosophies and people and laws and systems of society to use and circumvent as neccessary when he was older.
He knew his Gram had complicated feelings towards the whole thing. She was a seventy-year-old woman who'd just discovered that there was so much more than what she thought there was to the world, after all. She must have also been worried about him - the last of her family - leaving for a different school in a different country, in a world so far out of her reach. But he could also sense the happiness she felt for him. Mike knew his Gram could see how much this opportunity to discover meant to him - how it had brought back a part of himself that had been missing for so long, and that was why she was allowing this.
Trevor could tell something was different too. Mike knew this from the long, contemplative glances that he shot his way when he thought that Mike wasn't looking. Trevor knew that something was different about his friend and Mike didn't try to hide it from him. He told him that he would be going away for school now - in Europe - and he could see the envy, the sadness, the fear and the happiness that Trevor felt for him at what he understood to be some sort of scholarship for gifted kids. Mike knew that he would miss Trevor, but he also knew that they would both be OK without the other. He also strongly suspected that a lot of Trevor's worries would prove to be unfounded. He himself had been privately anxious about how going to Hogwarts would affect his friendship with Trevor, since they would be seeing so much less of each other, but something told him that it was going to take a lot more than the distance between continents to break up that friendship.
The Professor took him to Diagon Alley in London a month before the Hogwarts term was set to start. It was different to any of the magical places in New York. More... charming, he supposed. Old fashioned, but still wonderful. It was like stepping into the Victorian Era, but a lot brighter and wondrous. Mike wondered if all magical places were supposed to mimic a different time period - from what he gathered, Hogwarts was a more Medieval setting, while the places he'd seen in New York were still stuck in the 20s.
This time, Mike spent more time discovering what he could from the scene and the people, rather than burrying himself in books as was his usual tendency. Thankfully, the Professor was there to keep him on track... and to stop him from traipsing down Knockturn Alley by mistake. Despite her stern, disapproving demeanour, Mike was sure that he'd managed to see a small, fond quirk of her lips just before she dragged him into the wizarding bank. Although, it ended up for naught as he ran rampant again once inside.
The Goblins were facinating. They had their own social boundaries and morals and were complete genuises in their field, although their bedside manner could use a little improvement. He supposed that it was only fair considering how disrespectful some of the customers had been. Mike ended up spending a lot longer than the Professor had probably intended spurting queries about the financial and legal systems to the closest thing to an expert he believed he would be able to find. The Goblins had seemed bewildered, amused and grudgingly impressed by him, but he wasn't sure if it was from the intelligence he'd displayed or the fact that he didn't mind talking to people who weren't human. Well, he'd met and befriended stranger characters in New York, who were just as prickly as any of them, so he was hardly perturbed by any of their irregularities. In fact, he'd often observed that the harsh exteriors of others were just shelters for the most wonderful people.
Eventually the Professor's patience ran out, and Mike was forced to cut his inquisition short, although he was happy with what he had learnt. He wasn't entirely sure how he knew, but he suspected that something had changed a little. Nothing major, or even neccessarily important. Just... something.
Ollivanders was a fantastic followup. Mike could clearly remember every moment that he had ever used magic - he could remember the feeling that washed through his body. The warmth and safety and rightness that he had coveted more than ever since the accident that claimed his parents. It was a feeling he felt rush through him once again when he waved his wand for the first time. Alder wood with a phoenix feather core, 14 & 1/4 inches and a reasonably supple flexibility. The rest of the wands he handled might as well have been slightly heated sticks, but this one was different in a way that he suspected everyone would understand and feel towards their own wand.
Ollivander himself was an incredulous individual. Mike plied him with as many questions as he was able about his craft, which the slightly creepy old man seemed only to happy to indulge, even though the Professor sighed and muttered what sounded like, 'Not again,' from where she stood in the corner. But Mike didn't pay her any heed beyond ensuring that she would not make him leave the shop too early. Learning that the wands each had a personality, partially defined by their wood type, length and core, was amazing, and he understood that the wand maker was more than a master; he was an artist in his craft on par with those such as da Vinci, Beethoven and Aristotle in their own fields.
The robe shop was next, and Madam Malkin was a sweet lady who reminded him of his earlier memories of his Gram - back when she was more energetic and not carrying the weight of age or the death of her son. He wasn't as fond of the experience of being fitted as he was of the other shops. He was slightly overwhelmed, and he was forced to stand too still. His questions to Malkin turned towards the culture of the magical world, rather than her art.
The apothecary was like being in a candy shop. The Professor seemed to have become used to Mike and his intensley inquisitive mind by that point, as she only gave a small sigh and shake of her head before standing to the side and allowing him access to the shop and its employees. Naturally, Mike took full advantage of the opportunity, much to the horrified joy of the shopkeeper, who apparently had never come across a cyclone such as Mike.
But it was Flourish and Blotts' that Mike would dream of the most. A rich garden filled with ripe fruit that he had never seen nor tasted before. Seemingly infinite lore on subject matters that Mike had never come across before. A wealth of knowledge that Mike knew nothing about, just there waiting for him to have the time to find it. Mike made it his business to flick through as many pages of the most obscure books as possible, leaving anything regarding the books on his Hogwarts' list to be perused at a later date. He was required to read those later anyway, so for now he would discover whatever he could.
Staring out the window of the Hogwarts Express, Mike thought about his life. Scenes played through his mind, diverging points where he could imagine different outcomes at the forefront. The first time he used magic. His parents' deaths. Meeting Trevor. Living with Gram. Pages and chapters of the saga that was his life. This was another point, he realised. The choice to go to a magic school in Scotland - it wasn't difficult to discern.
Tap tap
Mike looked up from the window as the door to his train compartment was brusquely opened by a bushy-haired girl and a round, blond boy, both his age. They made for an interesting juxtaposition, the girl whose attitude seemed as big as her hair, as she led the way with a bossy sort of confidence, while the boy was nervous and shy, trailing behind her and barely holding back tears.
"Hello, have you seen a toad? Neville here has lost his," the girl explained their sudden appearance, her voice loud and fast-paced.
Mike shook his head, "Sorry, but I'll keep an eye out."
The girl blinked in surprise, seeming to focus on him, "Are you American?!" She asked in eager interest.
"New Yorker, born and raised," Mike confirmed.
"Oh wow, that's interesting! What made you decide to come to Hogwarts? Have you had much experience with the wizarding culture in America? I only found out about the magical world myself when I got my letter, but what about you? Is there a difference between the different wizarding cultures of the world, or are they are fairly similar? Oh, I'm getting ahead of myself! I'm Hermione Granger, what's your name?"
Mike's first experince with Hurricane Hermione only lasted a few minutes before she remembered that she was supposed to be helping the boy find his toad and she reluctantly left to continue her noble quest, but both he and her had thoroughly enjoyed the quizzing experince, even though she spent more time asking questions than he did answering them. It gave Mike hope, which he hadn't realised he needed, that making friends would be possible, even in this foreign society. At least, he believed that he would be able to count Hermione as a friend.
Not even a minute after the two had left his compartment, Mike began to feel lonely for the first time in a long time. He suspected that Hermione's eager acceptance and enagement with him had awoken the part of him that craved company, so he decided to go and catch up with the two who were undoubtedly still strolling through the train. Stepping out of the compartment, Mike was surprised to hear a croak.
"I'm going to assume that you're the toad that those two were searching for?" Mike asked, looking down at a toad.
The toad croaked again.
Mike sighed, but felt is lips twitch into a smile as he picked up the toad and went in search of the two kids.
Stopping on his journey a few times to ask people in the other compartments if they knew which direction Hermione had led Neville, Mike eventually found himself outside a compartment, looking in at what appeared to be Hermione bossily lecturing two other boys while poor Neville stood shyly behind her. Smiling in amusement, Mike slid open the door and noticed the way the red-haired boy immediately latched onto him as a potential distraction.
"Who's this, then?"
"Mike Ross," he introduced with a smile, before turning to Neville, "Neville, I think I found your toad."
"Trevor!" Neville darted forward with unprecedented enthusiasm, and Mike would have paid more attention to that had his mind not suddenly been overtaken with images involving his own best friend as a toad. (Later that night he would find himself snickering uncontrollably for a full five minutes.)
"There you go, Neville! I knew he would turn up eventually, and if we hadn't gone around asking about him then Mike wouldn't have known to bring him to us," Hermione declared imperiously, obviously happy to find a correlation between her actions and a successful outcome.
Mike turned to the two boys he had yet to meet, "Mind if we stay in your compartment? I was getting kinda lonely by myself."
The dark-haired boy with glasses look slightly startled at having been adressed, but he swiftly gestured to the empty seats with a shy shrug.
Smiling, Mike took a seat next to him while Hermione pulled Neville down next to the red-haired boy. It was then that Mike noticed the pile of candy sitting bemusingly next to Harry, but he shrugged it off. Before anyone could say anything, however, the door to the compartment flew open and a slight blond boy waltzed in with two large, blunt boys flanking him.
The blond boy ignored everyone else in the compartment as he directly addressed the boy with glasses sitting next to Mike, "Is it true? They're saying Harry Potter is on the train. Is that you?"
A quick glance around the compartment showed a scene that was all too familiar to Mike - the underdogs being cowered by some kid believing he was superior because he held the power, whether physical or social. The kid with the glasses was wide-eyed, probably also recognising what this was but having no clue how to react to it. Seeing this, Neville's nauseatingly nervous face, Hermione's growing indignation and the red-head's... Trevor-ness, Mike decided to try and diffuse the very volatile situation.
He leaned across the kid with the glasses and held out his hand to the blond boy, "Hi, I'm Mike Ross. Who are you?"
There was silence as he was stared at in stupefication and incredulity from all parties, before the blond kid looked down at his hand with an expression that said he was trying to decide whether or not he should bring himself to touch someone so obviously beneath him. Mike didn't so much as blink when the kid's grey gaze turned to him and he was examined.
"Draco Malfoy," 'Draco' introduced, without responding to Mike's greeting. Without any prompting, Mike's brain ran through a summary of what he had discovered about the Malfoy family from his books. Old family hailing from France; Noble house; Current head Lucius Malfoy; Values money, tradition and breeding. "I don't recognise the name 'Ross', but I assume from your accent that you're foreign?"
In the interest of keeping the peace, Mike neglected to call the boy out on being a poncy git with a superiority complex, instead smiling amiably as he answered, "New York. French-English, right?"
Draco seemed surprised, but he quickly hid it in favour of acting superior, "Yes, the Malfoys have a proud history in France," but then he returned his attention to the kid with glasses, although his tone was slightly less demanding than it had been before, "I remember meeting you at Madam Malkin's. You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"
The kid, who had been lookin between Mike and Draco in surprise, focused his attention on the latter when he was addressed, "Yes, that's right."
Draco gestured behind him to the two boys, "These are Crabbe and Goyle," he paused, but before he could say anything else, Hermione took the opportunity to introduce herself.
"I'm Hermione Granger, and this is Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley," her tone was the same as it had been before, none of her previous indignation was present in her voice, thankfully.
Even so, Mike saw Draco sneer at the forcefulness of Hurricane Hermione's attitude. He decided to step in quickly.
"So... Hogwarts," he was relieved to find he had everyone's attention, "Anyone know what to expect?" He himself did know a lot of what to expect, having read as much as he could before coming, but he figured this would be a safe topic of conversation.
Before Hermione could launch into everyting she knew, like she usually would, Draco spoke up.
"Well, if you're worth anything at all, then you'll get sorted into Slytherin," Draco announced, and promptly ruined any chance of a peaceful, non-confrontational discussion.
As the compartment devolved into a tirade of insults, raised voices, confusion and arguments, Mike sighed.
Oh well, he'd find a way to salvage this.
Somehow.
Maybe.
Not that Mike would ever try to judge another culture, at least not without having experienced a lot of it beforehand, but he couldn't help but think that sorting the students was a really stupid idea.
Oh, you think so now?
Don't expect me to apologise for something I didn't say aloud. You can think what you want; it should be your intent and actions you are judged for. The mind is a safe space.
You might want to look into Occulumency then, if you want to keep your thoughts private.
Thanks for the tip.
The idea of classifying people based on their backgrounds, talents or values did not seem like a good way to encourage creativity or good relations. Besides, people couldn't really only be classed in one of the four; there were way too many other factors that make up a person for that to work.
That's an interesting point. Creativity and house-relations do suffer under the system and stereotyping is rampant, as is bullying based on houses. However, people do forge bonds with their housemates and it makes their friendships easier because they share core values, while still being diverse enough as people to help each other grow.
Sounds like a good idea in theory, except the segregation isolates the houses so they receive too much exposure to concepts they already understand and don't experience knew perspectives. It teaches them that they are all too different from each other and fuels prejudice, resulting in hostility that is carried beyond their schooling. It conditions them to hate or fear each other, and to never act like each other, as well as limits their options for friendship and inhibits personal development.
You are correct, although I do not believe it to be as extreme an issue as you make it out. There are plenty of inter-house friendships, despite the overall rivalries, even beyond the dangerous conflicts.
I may have overestimated on the severity with which the house system negatively impacts on the students, but it still does negatively impact them unnecessarily.
That may be true.
...
...
We should probably get this over with, though.
Ah, right, of course. Hm... You are a tricky one. You have attributes that are welcomed by all houses, but that is not unnusual. What is odd are your values and drive. You want to do as much good as you can, to help people, but you aren't afraid to be underhanded to get what you want or to pursue things to your own interests. You sympathise with others, but you are also fiercely competitive and love to win. You can be brash or sneaky and it is a toss-up as to whether you let your emotions rule or overcome them. Acceptance, creativity, competitiveness, purpose, intellect, loyalty, kindness, cunning, and courage are all things you value heavily. From your personality, I believe you would be good in any of the houses, but great in Slytherin. Even then, though, you being a good Ravenclaw would be greater than being a great Slytherin.
That sounds convoluted. I'll leave it to your judgement, but I will do my best to live up to your decision. I like surprising people and turning things on their head.
Oh, I look forward to seeing this. In that case, I believe you would be better in... RAVENCLAW!
When Mike Ross first took his seat at the Ravebclaw table, everyone saw it and yet no one noticed. There was the general, mindless smattering of applause while the few aquaintances he had made on the train paid a little attention, before going back to worring about their own places at their table or their imminent sorting. That was fine, of course, and to be expected. To the hall, he was just any other child, his presence incomparable to that of Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, or Draco Malfoy, the Malfoy Heir.
But Mike Ross wasn't just any other child.
No one knew it, but it would not take long for Mike Ross to become one of the most used names around the school as people began to recognise that. His presence would have an impact on the people around him, to an extent that not even he would have fortold when he made his declaration to the Sorting Hat.
But for now, he would just shake hands and smile as he waited for his new opportunity to begin.