Harry James Potter was not a normal boy.
It was one of the few absolute truths in the universe that an eight-year-old boy could understand. He knew that he needed food and water, that the Dursleys would yell at him if he messed up the bacon, and that he was not normal. How could anyone who could vanish and reappear on a rooftop be normal?
When Harry woke up on an otherwise pleasant Sunday morning, just minutes before his aunt rapped at the flimsy door to his cupboard, he took a few minutes to contemplate himself. What would he look like in the mirror? Would he look like William Bennett, who had to shave his head because he had something called "cancer"? Aunt Petunia hadn't exactly been gentle when she'd snipped away most of his hair. He reached up tentatively, searching for the bangs that he knew she'd left. They were still there, still coarse and dry compared to Dudley's downy cowlick.
On cue, a sharp knock snapped him out of focus. He tensed for a second before remembering that he wasn't in trouble, or at least not enough to warrant being locked in the cupboard without food. "Get up, boy!" Aunt Petunia's too-high voice drawled. "Set a kettle for tea and start on the bacon, and don't you burn anything!"
"Yes, Aunt Petunia." The words were clockwork, as was his swinging out of bed and scrambling to the door. He barely paused to pull on a pair of too-large jeans and a shirt that could likely have passed for a dress on anyone else.
He opened the door, and Aunt Petunia paled.
He blinked owlishly at her, his head cocked. "Aunt Petunia, are you alright?" he asked. He wouldn't have minded if she wasn't—an ill Aunt Petunia meant she would hole herself in the master bath for a day or two—but she seemed positively ashen compared to the usually strict voice he'd heard.
"In the kitchen. Now!" This time, he bolted, moving as fast as he dared in the hallway leading to the kitchen. She sounded weird. Almost afraid of him. Was she worried he'd burn the bacon this time? Did she want it burned? He knew Trevor from the class down the hall liked his bacon crispy and black.
Harry dutifully set the kettle on a burner and flicked on two dials. This, at least, could set his mind at ease. He liked cooking. Not as much as reading or talking to William Bennett, but it was something to take his mind off the possibility of no food.
The bacon was fried and lined up to drain in just a few minutes. He debated leaving the pan to sit on the stove; the leftover fat would make that night's salmon taste better, and he might be allowed a piece if it was good enough. When he turned around, however, Aunt Petunia was staring at him as if she'd swallowed a lemon. "Aunt Petunia, should I leave the pan on the stove?"
"Don't ask questions," she snapped. "Just leave it there. I'll wash it out later." She bustled over to the kettle. A bit of water splashed out of the spout and barely missed his arm. He wasn't entirely sure it was an accident. "Boy, I want you out of the house for the rest of the day. Don't come back until dinner."
Harry opened his mouth, about to ask whether he had to weed the garden or clean the attic, but Aunt Petunia's eyes turned frosty enough to chill the room. He nodded quickly and raced back to his cupboard. The old coat he'd gotten as a hand-me-down from Dudley hung to his shins and had a tear down one arm, but it worked well enough, and Harry was warm when he stepped into the chilly autumn air.
Privet Drive and its neighbors weren't all that large, and there was only one playground between the three of them. He was half-ready to turn towards one and swing aimlessly, but a lanky boy with big hands caught his attention. Piers Polkiss, idly swinging a flexing tube in his hands, took a step back.
Harry abruptly turned around and ran the other direction, going faster than he thought he ever had. Piers hadn't seen him, hadn't even turned around from where he was blasting his parents' garden with a hose, but Harry didn't like taking chances when it came to Dudley Dursley's friends.
Harry ran and ran until his lungs burned and his legs were creaking. The world vanished in a mosaic of green, white and asphalt black. The heat pumping in his legs, almost agonizing, was uncomfortably reminiscent of Dudley's well-placed punches.
He stumbled to a stop when his lungs finally gave out and he descended into a hacking fit. Mouth dry, chest heaving, he glanced up.
A massive brick building, almost a castle, stood sentinel over the cracked pavement and leafless trees. Harry stared; two windows stared back. This was most certainly not Privet Drive. All the houses in Privet Drive were made of drywall and vinyl siding and were so neat you could eat off the floor. Everyone on Privet Drive owned a pressure washer, or at least it seemed that way from how the houses sparkled.
This… monstrosity, on the other hand, looked like it hadn't seen even a sponge in its life. The bricks, which he was sure would be a stunning shade of red, were caked with dirt, rust, and grime. The windows were marginally better, but rain-streaks still left them nearly opaque, just a graying film stretched over cracked holes. A puffy, spiraling cloud crossed the sun for just a moment, and while Harry stood in the sun, the building became a gloomy outline against rising buildings in the background.
Still, people came and went. He watched a group of girls, all with strikingly blonde hair, leisurely push the doors open. In the same way, a man with glasses and a thick beard left, carrying a stack of books tall enough that Harry was worried he might fall.
Tentatively, he started toward the dingy glass doors. One of the girls smiled at him as he stepped past her. He wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or skittish, so he settled for a shy smile and a bit of a nod.
The first thing that struck Harry when he beheld the library's interior was the smell. He'd only encountered that particular aroma a few times, and always after one of Dudley's birthday binges. Paper, old and new, pressed and crinkled, filled his nose and soothed his muscles. Books were a luxury in Number 4; his librarian at school practically chased him out of the library, and the only time the Dursleys got an influx of books was when Dudley's birthday came around. Even then, he could only read a few chapters of each before he risked the Dursleys finding out.
Someone tapped his shoulder, and Harry's head whipped up. One of the blonde girls, the same one that had held the door for him, was giving him an indulgent smile. "Are you lost, sweet?" she asked.
He shook his head, not daring to speak. No, he'd heard of the library when Uncle Vernon blared the TV while he was making dinner, he'd just never seen it before now. The girl's smile broadened, and she showed a bit of glimmering white teeth. "Let's find you something to read, then. Can you read well?"
Harry nodded sharply. He was the best in his year at reading, his teachers had said it themselves. It was the only thing he risked being better at than Dudley. Quietly, he said, "I like to read storybooks."
"Ah, they're my favorite as well," the girl whispered, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "Come on, then. You're looking for the third level."
She led him to the winding stairs, both steps and handrail made of mirror-smooth panes of glass. He peeked towards the back end of the library as they passed the second floor. It was much deeper than he'd imagined, easily enough for him to get winded if he ran from one end to the other and back.
Then again, the burning in his lungs hadn't quite subsided yet.
The girl led Harry to a chunk of the library that looked much older than the rest. The wood was stained from obvious use, coffee-stain splotches spreading languidly across grainy shelves. "This is the oldest part of the library," the girl explained. "When it was first built, it was a little thing, barely bigger than this section. Over the years, Surrey kept putting more funding into it until… well, you saw how big the first floor was. They put the shelves up here so nobody would damage them down there."
"You know a lot," Harry said, eyes wide. How old was this place? It had to be at least fifty years old, maybe more!
The girl chuckled. "That's because I spend a lot of time in here. You should too; it'll make you smarter."
Harry frowned at that, though he had it expertly hidden away by the time the girl leaned down to point him towards one of the shelves. He barely listened when she told him something about that particular section, instead running over the presence of the library in his mind. Dudley wasn't very smart; even he could understand that, if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't. He couldn't read as well as Harry, and Harry was sure that if he actually tried he could get much better marks than below average.
Of course, if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon found out he was doing better in school than their precious son, he'd be locked in the cupboard for a week. They might even hit him if Uncle Vernon was extremely angry. He'd only done it once, and it had left a welt on both of them, but Harry was remiss to try his luck again.
He considered just tearing away from the nice girl and running out of the library, but before he could she shunted him towards the weathered bookshelves and grinned at him. All he was able to get out was a soft, "Wait," before she vanished down the glass staircase, waving wildly. Harry scowled.
There went that plan.
Idly, he shuffled between the shelves, looking for something that seemed interesting. Most of the books there were thicker than his clenched fist, but he found a few that seemed small enough to be pleasant. He looked over the cover of the first one. The shell was hard and glossy, shielding a picture of a man in bright armor waving a sword and a menacing dragon. A bright warmth lit up within him. He loved knights!
A pair of red chairs beckoned from a nearby alcove. He nestled into one, the fluffy back and arms giving way beneath his slim weight. He flipped to the first page, reading past the typical "once upon a time" opening he'd seen in the few storybooks he'd read and moving to the first chapter.
When Harry looked up next, it was to the sight of a man in a dark suit striding into the section. His hair was dark, even darker than Harry's deep black, lustrously gleaming in the artificial lights above. That was all he could see of the man besides his gently tanned skin. His sunglasses and sleeve hid most of the rest. He gave Harry a small nod, then reached for a heavy tome with thick pages.
"How is it?" It took Harry a moment to realize the man was talking about his book. He clutched it closer to his chest.
"It's good," he admitted quietly. It was good; the hero had just finished traversing the forest of evil gnomes and had found a drawbridge to the castle where the dragon slept. He could almost see the great cleave of earth, filled with churning monsters, in the fore of his mind. "Do you want to read it when I'm done?"
The man's soft grin dashed Harry's question as soon as it left his lips. "I've got this to finish," he admitted, raising the heavy book. Harry looked closer and noticed the barest trace of a crimson bookmark sticking out from between two yellowing pages.
Harry set his book down, careful to bend the spine a bit and make opening it easier. "What is it?" he asked. "Is it some sort of magic book?"
"Something like that." The man flipped the book open, revealing frayed pages and heavy ink staining splotches across the paper. Intricate diagrams, most of them made of writing instead of lines, dotted each page, followed by dozens of lines crammed as closely as possible. Harry reached out tentatively, only touching it when the man gestured. The paper scratched underneath his nails, sending a shiver up his spine. He pulled his hand back, but the sensation left his fingers tingling with a weird feeling that settled in his gut.
The man gestured for Harry to sit again, and he did so. "This is actually a story," the man admitted. "One I've been writing myself. It is nearly complete, but I only have a short amount of time before I must finish it."
"Are you going to sell it?" Harry asked, intrigued. The book looked absolutely huge. The only books he'd seen like that were in his fleeting glimpses of the library in Stonewall Primary. "It looks like it'll take a long time to read. Uh, sir."
The man's laugh was warm, and Harry found himself relaxing a little. "I'm not a sir. I haven't been royalty in a long, long time. If there's anything you need to call me, it is Noct."
"I'm Harry, sir—er, Noct." Harry shook Noct's outstretched hand, aware of how he was utterly dwarfed. Noct wasn't particularly tall, but he was still half a head taller than Uncle Vernon, and Uncle Vernon was a full two heads taller than Harry himself.
"I suppose it will take some time to read," Noct murmured. "But the lessons within are worth poring over."
Harry, feeling brave and a little warm after Noct's explanation, ventured where he'd normally never even consider. "Do you think… when you're done, do you think I could read it?" he asked weakly.
Noct's smile faded into a neutral line. He glanced up, as if considering it, then grinned again. This time, the curve of his lips was a little more genuine, and he pulled his sunglasses off.
His eyes were a crystalline blue, just as striking as Harry's own emerald. Harry started as Noct's gaze seemed to intensify. "I'll do you one better," Noct promised. "I still have a bit of time left, so I think I can tell you one story from this book."
Harry felt a bit of panic, along with something else he couldn't identify, bubble up in his gut. "Are you sure?" he asked immediately. "I don't want to—"
"Don't worry too much," Noct said, his smile broadening slightly. He tapped the side of his red chair, the puffy armrests denting under the pressure. A gentle thwap of flesh on fabric accompanied the motion. "I think this is a story that you might want to hear. Especially with that book you have."
Harry glanced at the book he had yet to finish, then towards Noct again. His suit seemed a little dingier than before, but maybe that was the stabbing shadows that the lightbulbs cast from above. "If you're sure," Harry finally mumbled.
"Perhaps not the full version, then," Noct said. "I doubt we'd have the time anyway. But I think the short version should suffice." He cleared his throat and turned to a page near the end of the book. Harry stared at it. It was worn, much more worn than the other pages, and several patches of ink had been blotted out or ran to the sides of the book. Still, Noct glanced over the paper as if he knew the story by heart. "This is the story of four friends, leaving their home behind to search for a princess. The leader of these young men was a prince. He wasn't your kind of prince, I think; he was brash and rude, and he didn't like much other than fighting, fishing, and being lazy."
"That doesn't sound right," Harry argued. "Princes are supposed to be brave and adventurous, and they're supposed to be kind too! This is a weird prince."
"I suppose he was," Noct replied, chortling. "Still, he was the heir to a kingdom that was beset by an Empire of vast proportions. The Empire was mighty; they had demons and soldiers that could be created on a whim, and their onslaught overtook the whole of the world before stopping at the Prince's kingdom. Even then, the Empire encroached, until naught but the crown city of that kingdom remained, protected by a Crystal of immense power.
"As the Prince and his three friends searched for the Princess, they learned a great many things, not just about themselves, but about the Empire as well. Eventually, though, the crown city fell to the Empire's might, and the Prince found a new reason to live: to make the Empire return his kingdom and the Crystal they took, no matter the cost.
"With his father dead, the Prince learned and fought, and he became strong in both body and mind. Still, he refused to put on his father's ring. He didn't want to, you see; he was afraid of being a failure, of not living up to his father's expectations." Harry nodded at that. He had a lot of experience with not living up to people's expectations. "After a time, when several of the gods had descended to give the Prince their blessings, he was reunited with the Princess."
"What happened then?" Harry asked, all pretense of nervousness forgotten.
"He met with another of the gods, the great sea serpent Leviathan. The Leviathan did not take kindly to being included in the annals of the history of men. She and the Prince fought… and the Princess was killed."
"What?" Harry gasped. "That's not how stories are supposed to go at all! Stories are supposed to have a happy-ever-after, not people dying!"
Noct smiled ruefully, his grin stained by the merest traces of regret. Harry stared. That was the exact same grin, down to the twitch of the corner of the lips, that he wore whenever he thought about his parents. "I suppose it isn't," he muttered softly. "My story isn't a fairy tale, though. Bad things happen to good people sometimes. It doesn't mean that the story is bad, just that the story isn't over. Besides, I think that this story is going to have a happy ending."
Noct took a deep breath before turning his gaze back to the book, idly tracing a pattern in the worn pages with a finger. "The Prince grieved for weeks. His love was dead, and one of his friends was blinded in the attack. Moreover, he learned that the Princess wasn't dead at the hands of Leviathan, but the Chancellor of the Empire. He raged against the world for a time. But still, he learned. His friends taught him that being angry wouldn't do anything important, that grieving the Princess' death wouldn't solve anything in the long run. His determination found once again, the Prince sought the blessing of the next god and moved to confront the Chancellor.
"They journeyed into the heart of the Empire and faced off against the toughest demons and men that the Empire could scrounge. They found themselves overwhelmed, but the Prince's friends forced a way through, a chance to get to the Crystal and cleanse the Empire's capital of the demonic scourge that tainted it. Something unexpected happened, however, and the Crystal took the Prince within itself for ten years. The world fell to ruin, overrun with demons, and the three friends barely survived."
Harry opened his mouth to interrupt again, furious at the story, but Noct held up a finger. "That's not quite the end yet, boy. The Prince was eventually released, but he returned to a world of nightmares. He fought his way to the edge of the capital, where the Empire's chancellor was waiting, and reunited with his three friends. Together, they moved to confront the Chancellor one final time. They fought with everything they had, and the three friends succeeded in surviving until dawn broke over the crown city. The Prince… he sacrificed himself for the sake of the world he had promised to protect, and brought light to the crown city once more."
Harry waited. Minutes passed in perfect silence, a thick blanket that suffocated his ears. When it finally became clear that Noct wasn't going to say any more, he tried to speak. The only thing that came out was a harsh breath. Still, it was enough for Noct to continue speaking. His blue eyes, once bright like sapphires but now dimmer than the paint plastering his cupboard, stayed glued to the book.
"It's not the most ideal ending, certainly not a fairy tale finish, but I think it's one of the best I could write." He glanced up at Harry, lips curled into a humourless smile. "See, I like the idea of the Prince as a tragic character. It was his destiny to protect the crown city and make his kingdom whole again, even if he had to sacrifice his life to do so. In the beginning, he was a lazy brat that made use of every cent he could, but by the end… he learned the meaning of humility and restraint. He stopped cursing his fate and accepted it with open arms, but he never forgot to defy it whenever he could. Instead of fighting for himself, he fought for his kingdom, for his three friends, for all the people he met along his journey. Yes, I very much like this ending."
After a while, Harry gripped his cushy armchair's armrests tightly. The fabric bent obediently under his half-fists. "Did the Prince ever put on the ring?"
"Yes, he did," Noct responded. "It happened right before he stormed the Empire's capital. He was separated from his friends, you see, and he had to fight through most of the capital alone. Without any weapons or hope, he took up his father's legacy and fought with that."
Noct closed the book and fiddled with the ring on his finger. It was a pretty thing, Harry thought, made of black metal and silver and set with a shiny clear gem—probably a diamond, if the similarity with Aunt Petunia's wedding ring was any indication. "This was the inspiration for the ring," Noct explained, pulling it from his finger. It slid seamlessly off, even though Harry was sure it had fit snugly to the man's index finger just moments before. "It has much the same story behind it. My father left this to me, but I wasn't able to put it on until I faced a few things about myself."
"It's cool." It was cool. The light reflected in the diamond, sending scattered shards of light across the quiet library hall. Even the faint bustle downstairs seemed to dull, replaced by a silence that embraced rather than suffocated.
"I think…" Noct began, pulling his ring back. He flipped it end over end in one hand. The other was rapidly jotting down lines in the book. Harry started; where had he gotten the pen from? "I think that I have a good idea of how this story ends."
"How?"
Noct smiled, mysterious and amused. "By starting another one." He finished the last line with a flourish and closed the book. With a grunt, he tossed it to Harry, who yelped. The book struck him full in the chest, and though he didn't fall over, a dull throb still resonated in his ribs. "You should take that and write your own. Who knows, one day yours might be better than mine."
"But what about yours?" Harry rasped.
"What about mine? It'll fade into obscurity one day. I can see a little something in you—you'll be able to make it to greatness someday. You'll be even greater than the Prince, I guarantee."
Harry went very quiet, and for a moment he simply clutched the book to his chest. It was still warm from the pressure of Noct's hands, and the smooth leather almost glided under his pale arms. "You really think so?" he asked softly. Noct's smile widened, and he leaned down to ruffle Harry's hair.
A small part of Harry wondered when he'd grown his hair back, since he knew Aunt Petunia had shaved most of it off the night before, but Noct's grin took up most of his attention. It was warm, not quite loving, but better than a lot of the looks the other kids gave him at school. Almost friendly.
"One of my friends was a boy that went from a chubby brat that liked video games to one of the strongest fighters I know. If he could do anything he set his mind to, then so can you."
Noct stepped back, his ring still flipping in his left hand. He held it out, the silver gleaming as it rotated softly. "This is my heirloom, the Ring of the Lucii. It come from a long tradition of great men, blessed by fate. I believe that it's no longer my time to carry this ring. That's why I want to entrust you with two tasks, Harry Potter. Your first task is to write down your story in that book. It doesn't just contain my legend, but the legends of everyone who has held the Ring before me. Now, it passes to you."
Noct pressed the ring into Harry's hand and curled his fingers around the warm metal. It seemed to radiate heat instead of the clammy sort of warmth from wearing it for so long. A gentle tingling sensation blossomed on Harry's skin where it touched. "My second task… take this to the one that you feel is destined for it. The Ring knows enough to recognize the next in its legacy, but it needs someone to guide it towards that person. I entrust this to you, Harry Potter, in the hopes that you will continue the line of the Lucii."
Noct stood, leaving Harry clutching a leather-bound tome in one hand and a glistening black and silver ring in the other. He turned the corner, and Harry tore after him, almost dropping the book in his haste.
Noct was gone by the time he made it around the corner, and though he spent the next half hour carefully looking through the library for any sign of him, there was none. Harry eventually dropped into a chair and sighed, looking out the window. Sunset twinkled over the hills in the distance, spreading a smooth flood of orange through the library. Harry idly twisted the ring in his hand, watching it reflect the light in a blaze of furious, fiery light.
When the sun finally dropped below the horizon, Harry tucked the ring securely into his pocket, hid the book under his shirt, and walked back to Number 4, Privet Drive. All the while, he wondered how Noct knew his name. He hadn't given it once.