Hands, raised.
A hammer, slammed on wood.
A stick. Crack.
"Mr. Potter?"
He snapped his eyes open. A hostile pair of eyes, filled with impatience, met his. "Eyes open. Preferably directed to the front."
"Yes, sir," he replied, but his voice cracked and the classroom filled with giggles.
The teacher seemed to blame him for the noise. "Pen and paper," he half stated, half ordered, a low growl at the end of his voice.
Harry complied silently, not desiring an even more hostile disposition in his teacher. If there was one thing he would not miss out of this whole ordeal, it was Snape. He didn't want to create a replacement for the nasty git in the form of Mr. Collins: his new mathematics teacher.
The man, like Snape, seemed to hate him at first sight. Literally at first sight, because today was his first day at Stonewall High.
"Potter," the teacher wasn't done with him yet. "Tell me, what would I get as a value for 'x' in the first equation."
Harry looked at the problem Mr. Collins had written on the board, and his mind immediately blanked out. This didn't look like math. Math had numbers. Why were there letters?
"You don't know? Well let's try again…" Mr. Collins added another equation to the board, then turned to him expectantly.
Harry got a vague sense of déjà vu. "I don't know, sir."
"Clearly you're not at the level we desire from beginning fifth year students," the teacher seemed almost smug. "What is do I get if I multiply seven and eight?"
Seven and eight. He remembered learning this in primary school. He knew this was supposed to be easy. However, he's never thought about the multiplication of seven and eight since his eleventh birthday. Seven and eight. Seven. Eight.
"Seventy eight?"
"You've just earned yourself an extra two pages of equations for homework."
And that's when he decided that this man was no better than Snape, that there were no perks in being at Stonewall and that his life plainly sucked.
Mathematics class crept by slowly with him failing to grasp any of the revision material that was apparently easily understood by even the dumbest kids in the class. Not that he even cared that much. Perhaps at least making an attempt to understand the material would soothe the teacher's wrath, but how could he concentrate? How could he turn his mind to some trivial set of equations? There were much more important things to think about. Such as Voldemort.
The sound of the bell.
He was the first to bolt out of the door, although he didn't know where to go next. He dug through the mess in his bag before pulling out a crumbled piece of paper on which his class schedule was printed. Lunchtime.
He followed the others in his class, figuring most were headed towards the cafeteria. The school was nowhere near the size of Hogwarts, but he still figured it would take him at least a few days to get used to the place.
Even if he didn't want to get used to the place. He wanted to be back at Hogwarts.
They entered the cafeteria. Harry followed his classmates towards the line that was forming at the edge of the room. Right, food didn't just appear on the tables here.
And apparently food needs to be paid for here.
He stood in the cafeteria with no money, no lunch, and no friends. What to do now? He scanned the room which was becoming rowdier as more teens settled to eat their meals. No one seemed to take note of him, but he still couldn't help feeling slightly agitated as he stood there alone.
There was one table which didn't seem to get louder every second. Few kids sat there. A couple of girls, most scribbling something in their school notebooks (copying homework, he suspected). Then a little further removed from them sat a boy alone.
Just as he thought about approaching him, another boy did so.
"Watcha reading there, Robby?"
Robby stood up reflexively. "Give it back, Thomas. It's from the school library, you can't ruin it."
Harry watched Thomas unfold what appeared to be a newspaper.
"I'm only taking a look," said Thomas innocently, before promptly ripping it in two.
The library.
Any thoughts of making friends halted. He needed to get to the library.
It took him less than five minutes to find it. It wasn't as big or fancy as the one at Hogwarts and certainly did not feel as cozy, but there were books. And even more importantly, there were newspapers.
His heart beat louder and louder with every step he took towards the rack of fresh papers in the corner. With every step the bold letters on the front became a little clearer: Lowest unemployment rates in four years.
His heart tumbled weirdly. He didn't know what he felt in response to this news. Relief was probably there. Relief that nothing grotesque seemed to have happened – or at least not something bad enough for the muggle papers to have noticed.
But he wasn't satisfied. While the inane muggle news was a good sign over all, it still left him with no information.
It was summer all over again. The Dursleys, the muggle news, the letters with nothing written in them. This was supposed to be over by now.
He was supposed to be on the train, with his friends, buying candy from the trolley and reading Ron's copy of the Daily prophet. Not wasting away in a stinky and downtrodden school, where he knew no one, and fishing for the slightest scrap of news in a secondhand copy of 'the Sun'.
Realizing he was slowly tearing the paper in his tense fists, he slammed it back on the rack and stormed out.
The bell, signaling the end of break, rang as he entered the halls. Others joined him there, some entering from the cafeteria and some from outside. It became increasingly difficult to work his way through the crowd who was headed in the opposite direction, causing him to grow increasingly agitated.
With every bump, every elbow in his ribs, and every foot on his toes, his mood soured to the point where the lights exploded with a crack of magic.
People screamed, halting in their place. Not deterred, he weaved easily through the student body and out into the open air. No way in hell was he staying in school all day.
He walked, then jogged, then sprinted away from the school, through the gates and then through the streets of Surrey. A teacher, and possibly an officer, had called after him upon escape but it didn't register. He couldn't sit still and do nothing for another moment.
He had to do something. Anything but nothing. Something.
But what?
The lack of focus put a dent in his impulsive determination. He slowed his pace and as the sounds of his rapt footsteps faltered, the sounds of his panting took over. The area was quiet around him, just a few houses and a small park in sight.
A bus stop. He walked towards it and scanned the destinations. A thought struck him. London. He needed to get to London.
He walked on. The bus wouldn't get him there. And despite, he didn't have money for the bus. Not that he had money for a taxi, but he'd worry about that later.
It took some walking, but eventually he found a place busy enough for taxi's to pass by. But then he faced another problem: no one would take him.
After being ignored by five taxi's in a row, he cursed. He needed to get to London. He'd even endure the Knight Bus if it would get him there. If he'd just had his wand…
He paused for a moment, taking a minute to just breathe and think.
Think like Hermione. What would Hermione think? What would she ask?
Nobody is taking him. Why would nobody take him? He had no money. Could they see that? He wasn't wearing Dudley's old elephant skins, luckily. The Dursleys, when sorting out his stuff for school, had caved in on one thing: his uniform. Something about school regulations and making impressions on the school. He didn't care. He was happy to have one.
A uniform.
A school uniform. That's why no one was taking him. It was kind of obvious that he was skipping school.
He stripped out of his outer layers and tie, so that he was just in a white shirt and his trousers. But it was hopeless, he knew that before even trying. Even without a school uniform, he didn't look a day over fifteen. Besides, he probably looked agitated. Shifty.
But he kept trying. An hour he stood there. His feet started to hurt and his stomach started growling fiercely, but he needed to get there. He couldn't, wouldn't, go back.
If only he had a broom.
He tried getting a lift, which he really should have tried before trying a taxi, but it was just as hopeless anyways.
If only he could apparate.
At last a car stopped. A yellow car. A taxi. He wasted no time to step in.
"Where to?" the chauffeur grumbled, eyeing him curiously but not saying anything else.
"London."
He didn't look very reliable as a chauffeur, and the fact that he'd take a school kid during school hours, without questions, probably meant that he wasn't. But Harry would take what he could get.
It didn't take long before he saw the Leaky Cauldron appear in his sight. The taxi stopped a few shops ahead.
"That'll be twenty, kid."
Harry looked at him. Right, money. He didn't have any.
Without warning he opened the door and ran. The other door opened behind him as the chauffeur initiated his chase. But it was too late. Within seconds he'd burst into the dingy wizarding pub, contently hidden from the muggle's view.
Tom, the bartender, eyed him strangely as Harry asked him to open the way to Diagon Alley. Undoubtedly he'd hear of the news. Of his trial. His wand.
But the man didn't say anything, silently doing as he'd asked.
He was barely able to mumble a thanks before he'd rushed of. There was only so much time before he'd be back at the Dursleys. His time was precious.
He went in search for a newspaper first. His plan of action was to simply ask for one, anyone who passed by.
Securing his scar behind his fringe, he set to work. Luckily, this task went a lot smoother than the taxi had been. In minutes he'd spotted someone at Florean Fortescue's, a copy of the Daily Prophet discarded on the table. The man gave it to him without much care.
Eagerly his eyes scanned over the letters.
Dumbledore: is he daft or is he dangerous?
He wanted to scream.