A/N: I'm writing this for The 500 Club at DarkLordPotter - Cheers, guys, this wouldn't have gotten anywhere without you. As the name of the club implies, the purpose is to write at least 500 words a day - meaning that updates to this story are going to be fairly regular, probably in the neighborhood of once a week. I've already finished chapter 1, just needs some polishing, so that should be up in a few days as well.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Harry lay on his bed, staring up at the white plaster ceiling, which was chipped and peeling. He frowned. He resolved to ask Uncle Vernon to have a paint job done – the ceiling was wreaking havoc with his concentration.
He glanced briefly around the room, which was nondescript. An average twin-sized bed, an average oak table littered with average miscellanea. Average beige carpeting and an average light fixture, turned off. An average wardrobe and an average bookcase filled with average books. A closer inspection would reveal some titles that one might not expect in the room of a soon-to-be 13-year old boy, but the room rarely had guests. Those few who did enter regularly had no inclination to peruse the selection in any case.
Harry let out a small sigh. He had a desperate hope that the next school year would be more interesting than the last. Studying only took so much time if one was not aiming for perfect grades, and tended to be rather boring besides.
He glanced at the scattered papers on his desk, and felt a small sliver of excitement run through him. The combined political and philosophical system he had been designing since the start of summer was nearly complete. He had accomplished in a month and a half what most philosophers, both ancient and modern, spent their entire lives doing – creating a generalized system of acceptable human interaction.
Harry often noticed that people engaged in rampant hypocrisy, which was generally subconscious. This, of course, applied to philosophers as well as anybody, in fact sometimes more so. There were only two kinds of philosophers who rarely contradicted themselves, he had found. The first was the strict authoritarian, whose answer was always to leave things up to the State. The idea that the State could be faulty was ignored, but one had to make allowances. The second was the religious fanatic, whose answer was to leave things up to God. Or Gods. Or even Satan, once.
Harry had read a treatise by a philosopher who appeared to be an intersection of two, suggesting that a religious oligarchy would solve the world's ills. He had been left fuming after he finished reading, going so far as to snap at Dudley and incite an argument with Uncle Vernon over something meaningless.
And thus, his birthday being tomorrow, he had little to look forward to for the rest of the summer after he brushed up the minor details. He had a month left with nothing to do before next term started.
A slow smile spread across Harry's face. He briefly considered attempting to get his work published, and snorted. Sooner would the dead philosophers rise from their graves than a British publisher release such inflammatory work, especially given the political climate.
"Harry!" A shout came from downstairs, derailing his train of thought. "Breakfast is ready!"
"Coming, Aunt Petunia!" He shouted back.
Harry strode to the wardrobe and pulled it open, searching for a matching pair of socks. Finding a suitable pair, he pulled them on and strode out the door to his room.
He ran down the stairs, stepping on the creaking stair in his haste and through the hallway into the kitchen.
Harry walked in to find everybody already seated at the table. Aunt Petunia was cutting up her omelet into small pieces, and Uncle Vernon was reading the daily editorial. Dudley, as usual, was immersed in the morning television shows.
Harry sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea. "What's in the omelet?"
Aunt Petunia shrugged, looking distracted. "It's with cheese. What did your trainer say, Dudley?"
Dudley pulled his attention away from the television. "He said that I can go back to a normal protein intake, now. We're making good progress, apparently."
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence. Harry finished his meal quickly, looking forward to jotting down some ideas he had. Aunt Petunia fidgeted in her seat. Harry shot her a curious glance. She seemed unusually tense this morning, he thought.
As Harry was taking his dishes to the sink, he heard Uncle Vernon snort and fold up his newspaper. "Tony Blair – worst thing that's ever going to happen to this country. The man sounds reasonable, of course, but he wants the same things as all those other bloody communists. If he becomes Prime Minister…this country is going to shit," he muttered.
"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia snapped. He grumbled an apology.
Washing the cutlery, Harry rolled his eyes. He agreed with Uncle Vernon, but the Tory leadership had made several spectacular errors in the last few years, most notably attempting to prop up the Pound prior to Black Wednesday.
If they continued like that, Harry thought, it was very likely that Blair would become Britain's next Prime Minister. The general election results weren't looking very hopeful, either.
He finished washing the dishes and bounced up the stairs. He had to get these ideas out of his head, now.
Aid to foreign countries should be heavily contingent on those countries advancing individual freedom, and is otherwise acceptable in the case of emergency, such as natural disasters. Support given simply for the vaguely defined purposes of "increasing standard of living" is both ineffective and unjustifiable. Corrupt dictatorships generally misappropriate the funds. Even if this occurrence is eliminated, the funds could be put to better use at home. Reductions in taxes, preferably, but an increase of essential services would be an acceptable alternative.
A better solution would be a campaign focused on donations to private charities, who spend much more per pound on their stated goal than the government does, as they have lower overhead and administrative costs. It is questionable, however, whether the government should spend money on advertising…
Harry put down his pencil, and scratched his head. The ideas were expressing themselves, but the ambiguity and lack of clear-cut right or wrong solution was giving him a headache. It would be so much easier just to say foreign aid was a misuse of tax money, but there were scenarios in which he could see a good reason for the government to give money to another government. Not for munitions, though –
The doorbell ringing, followed by a crash and a shriek from downstairs, caused Harry to fall from his chair into a heap on the floor.
He cursed, and stood up, brushing himself off. He ran to the door, and heard Uncle Vernon shout from downstairs, "Are you alright, Petunia?"
He missed her reply, if there was one, amidst the general chaos that was the living room. Aunt Petunia had knocked over a candleholder on the fireplace mantle. Uncle Vernon was trying his best to calm her down, and Dudley was standing in the corner near the hallway looking bewildered. His attention was soon drawn away from the scene as he saw that nobody was injured, and he noticed the stranger standing in the doorway. She was a thin woman, and quite old, judging by the wrinkles that lined her face. Harry estimated her to be in her sixties. Her graying black hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her two-piece suit was unruffled as she surveyed the scene.
Aunt Petunia seemed to come to her senses, and let the woman in. "Please, come in and have a seat. Would you care for some tea?" Harry noticed her hands shaking as she smoothed down her dress.
"A spot of tea would do us all some good, I imagine," the stranger replied. She pinned Harry with a look and he felt a sudden urge to hide himself in his room.
Aunt Petunia's eyes darted between them. "Harry, this is, ah-"
"Professor McGonagall," the woman finished, eyes still locked on him. "Albus Dumbledore has sent me in his stead, as I am the Deputy Headmistress as well. I am here as you requested to talk to Mr. Potter."
Petunia gave a short nod and dragged Vernon into the kitchen, Dudley following and peppering them with questions.
Harry slowly sank onto the couch, and the Professor took a seat in an armchair. She sat straight, ignoring the cushioned back.
Her gaze softened as she noticed that they were alone. "Mr. Potter. I am here to talk to you about your education in the coming term."
Harry's brain seemed to start again. "I'm not going to Stonewall next year?"
"No, indeed not. Ah, thank you," she said, as Aunt Petunia deposited a tea set onto the table and left in a hurry. "You will be going to the same school as your parents… do I understand correctly that your Aunt has told you nothing about them? About your mother, at least?"
"She finds it difficult to talk about them. I think something happened, she's never told me about anything past my mum's childhood…" he trailed off, and then it clicked. "You knew my parents?"
"Yes, I did." She took a sip of tea. "They were both very talented individuals."
"Wait, so what school do you teach at?" Harry asked.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she replied.
Harry blinked. He drew his eyebrows together. "Show me."
Raising an eyebrow at his brusque tone, she drained the last of her tea and set the cup down. Then she snapped her right wrist forward, causing a long wooden stick to appear in her hand. She waved it over her teacup, which turned into a mouse and ran across the tea set. She waved her wand over it again before it ran off the table, and it turned back into a teacup.
Harry gaped. He picked up the teacup, inspected it, and put it back down.
The universe didn't work like that. The universe just DIDN'T WORK LIKE THAT-
And then he stopped that line of thought, because he remembered reading in a book about Richard Feynman how it was possible that a kettle full of water put over a flame would freeze instead of boiling. The average heat transfer was from the fire to the kettle, but it was possible, if unlikely to the extreme, that the heat transfer would go in the other direction.
He remembered thinking that could cause spontaneously levitating objects, as well. So magic wasn't actual magic, so much as a method of forcing the universe into a certain quantum state?
Either that or some god was having a huge joke at his expense.
"Are you quite alright, Mr. Potter?" she asked, sounding worried for the first time.
"I'm fine," came the automatic response.
"Do you have any questions?" she said, looking at him askance.
"Err, yeah," Harry replied, coming out of his daze. "Where do I get one of those?" He pointed at her wand.
"A wand, Mr. Potter." She had assumed something closer to her normal facial expression. "We will need to purchase your school supplies. You will buy your own wand then."
"Where do we buy supplies for a school of magic?" he questioned.
"We have a hidden shopping district in London," she answered. "It would be best if we could leave soon. I'm afraid I have a prior engagement later tonight."
"Oh, uh, now? Well, I suppose…" Harry ran into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were engaged in a whispered debate and Dudley was once again watching the television.
"Aunt Petunia?" he asked, cutting her off. She looked up at him, a questioning look on her face. "Professor McGonagall said that she needs to take me to pick up my school supplies now. Is that alright?"
"Of course, dear," she said, looking a little lost.
Harry turned to leave the kitchen, and heard Dudley shout, "Bring me back something cool!"
"Sure thing!" he shouted back, and ran upstairs to grab a jacket.
He ran back downstairs to the living room, where Professor McGonagall was waiting.
Harry opened the front door, only to glance back and find her still standing in the same spot, looking decidedly amused. He looked outside, and noticed that there were no cars parked nearby. "So there are magical methods of transportation as well?" he asked.
She gave him a wry smile. "Yes, come here."
He walked over, and stopped a foot away, hesitant.
She laid a hand on his shoulder, and a second later he gasped, a feeling like mild friction burn scouring his exposed skin. And then he noticed they were no longer in the house.
