Authors Note: This story will be post-Hogwarts. The Prologue is the exception to the rule.
They all lied to me. That is my first thought when I discover the truth.
The second one is: one day, they will die for it.
The giant man does not notice my scowl, or how my mind connects the puzzle pieces that have been missing all my life. The Dursleys, my teachers – even this new man – they think I am too young and too stupid to understand what is happening. But I trick them all – I never let on just what I see, what I know. It will be their downfall.
I laugh when the giant man gives Dudley a pig tail. It's not funny – if anything, I should be mad at the giant. He, after all, is going to leave, and I will be left with a very angry Vernon and Aunt Petunia. But I laugh anyway, because for the first time that I can recall that Dudley is in pain.
And there is nothing Vernon or Petunia can do about it.
So I laugh.
The giant man turns to me, his face open, his expression happy. He's the idiot, not me – he thinks I'm on his side. But I know that he too, is a liar. He shouts at the Dursleys, tells them off and threatens them – more than threatens Dudley – but he too is a liar.
Because clearly, he knows who I am, and in eleven years, he never came for me. If the Dursleys are as bad as the giant says they are (and they're not, they're much worse – the giant man has frightened them into behaving) then how dare he wait until now to tell them how wrong they are.
He says his name is Hagrid. I say mine is Harry. He laughs, tells me he already knew – that I'm famous where he comes from. That I'm a hero.
I laugh. If nothing else, that is funny.
It turns out I am wrong, and that I am going to be leaving the Dursleys after all. Hagrid has a small boat, and as we head back to the shore, he tells me fantastic stories of my parents and of magic.
Magic.
Apparently, I am to go to a special school and learn to be a magician. At first, I did not believe him – but then I remember the pig tail, and now the boat is rowing itself, so I am forced to change my opinion. Even so, I am wary. Magic or no, it is not normal for giants to steal children from their houses, even if one does not wish to be there. My opinion is never asked for, my consent assumed. That does not mean he is wrong, but clearly, he is not to be trusted.
"An' then there's Slytherin." The giant man says with emphasized disgust. "You'll wan' none of them – never was a rotten witch or wizard that didn' come from Slytherin."
I do not know what a Slytherin is – I seem to have missed an important part of the conversation. Reluctantly, I put aside my hatred for this giant, and listen to what he has to say.
Too often, people are all to willing to give you the rope.
For the first time, I am happy that I was polite and friendly to the giant – his tremendous bulk notwithstanding as reason enough. All day, he shows me things that I cannot begin to describe, a place of... magic.
Diagon Alley. I have never been to London proper before, but it is obvious that even if I went a million times, I would never have found it if I had not been looking for it – and even then, only if I had magic.
And yet, it is a city unto itself. Hagrid has a copy of the letter that Vernon would not let me read, and tells me we will follow the instructions, buying all the things I will need for this new school. It gives me hope – if all of this existed, then surely there must be a school for one to learn about it. For the first time, I allow myself to dream. But dreaming is not enough. I must learn all I can about this new world, so that one day, I will be the best. So that nobody can make me go where I do not want to go. Because magic does not change the simple fact that there are many Vernons in the word.
The first place we go is the bank. There I learn my next lesson.
The giant man and his ilk have lied to the Dursleys as well.
There is no other explanation. If the Dursleys understood the extent of my 'freakishness', then they would have come here themselves, and taken this from me. A vault, protected by goblins of all things, full of piles of gold and silver and bronze. I am glad that Hagrid is talking to the goblin – I cannot hide my look at this unexpected prize, and for now, I need Hagrid to believe that I am still a lost little boy – which is more true than I am comfortable with. I cannot afford to alienate the one person who has told me all I know – even if one day he will pay too.
I am given a bag to place a combination of the coins into it. Hagrid tells me how many of each coin make up the other, but this information is not useful in its own right. I do not know how much my supplies will cost, and so I have no idea how much to take. It is frustrating, but I will get by – if I must, I can always come back here. Hagrid makes a stop at his own vault, but it's all but empty – a small brown package is all that is in his vault. He takes it, sticking it into his pocket while looking at me uneasily. I shrug – the giant's business is his own.
We go and buy all the books I will need from the list. I also buy a few books about wizard history and even what looks like a wizard novel. The Cursed Caliph of Cairo, it is called. It was in in a selection of Witch Weekly's Best of the Books. I assume that is equivalent to a best seller – perhaps Witch Weekly is a magazine for book lovers. It will do – I will not enter this new world without having any idea as to how they do things. I have already endured being thought stupid, I will not do so now.
Hagrid does not mind. Not that it is his business, but again, I do not want to upset him quite yet. Instead, he gets teary-eyed, saying that of course I want to discover the world my parents grew up in – that I too should have already been a part of.
We continue to a number of other shops. Some, like the bookstore, are very similar to their nonmagical counterparts. Others, such as the Apothecary, have no equivalent. It is an experience, to say the least.
Finally, we come to the last item on my list – a wand. When we reach the front door of our destination, Hagrid mumbles an excuse of needing to pick up one last thing. I smile. I can add two and two – his request that I not mention his use of magic, his use of an umbrella... and now avoiding the wand shop. The giant has something to hide – something that he has let me find out about.
For now though, I listen to his excuses, and assure him it is alright. I am to pick a wand, and then go across the street to the main square, where there is an ice cream parlor. I am to meet Hagrid there, no excuses.
With a nod and a smile of reassurance, I enter the wand shop. It is musty and quite dark – not at all what I expected.
"Ah, Mr. Potter. I did think you might be around today. You'll be wanting a wand, I presume."
The voice does not ask it as a question – it knows everything it wants to know. I jump, startled, and look around for the source. In front of me, a short, thin, balding man appears from behind a shelf filled to the ceiling with small wooden boxes – wands, I guess.
"Yes, yes of course you are." He says, answering his own not-a-question. "Let's get you sorted out then."
It is frustrating. For an hour, we go through more wands than I can count. I do not want to admit it, but for the first time since coming to Diagon Alley, I am beginning to doubt myself, and my place in this new world I have entered. When another wand is snatched from my hand before I can even wave it, I snap at the old man, demanding to at least try the wand. He does not look at me, rummaging through the boxes, mumbling that it is the wand that picks the wizard, not the other way round.
Finally, he picks up a box of dark, shining wood, taking the lid off. "A very unusual wand," he tells me, as if we are sharing a great secret. I pick it up.
And for a moment, it feels right. Perfect. As if until this moment, my arm had not been complete. The old man breaks into a smile, before it falters as he watches me.
Suddenly, my arm grows hot, as if the entire limb is being burned. I feel angry – my vision fades into spots of red and black, as if the world around me is bubbling in fire. Yet I cannot let go, my hand white as my grip tightens on the wand against my will.
And then it as if the whole world around me explodes. The pain is unbearable, the noise hellish. It lasts a fraction of a second, yet I can remember every part of it with perfect clarity. A storm of pure violence and fury has erupted from me, or the wand, or everything around us. Shaking, I come to, looking at the wand. It looks like a burned stick now, a sliver of steam coming our of numerous cracks in the blackened wood.
"Not Phoenix feather then," the old man replies, his voice calm, but even he is paler than before. Snatching the wand from me, he shoves it back into the box with a speed that seems unnatural, before he moves away, a pale box tinged with red in his hand. "Unicorn, fourteen inches, cedar. Well grounded, ideal for charms work..."
Twenty minutes later I leave the wand shop. Eleven and a quarter inches, dragon heart, hawthorn. I am told such a wand will channel great power, though may have difficulties with intricate detail. He tells me my mother's wand was quite the opposite.
This I take as a good sign, because she is dead, and I am not.
When I arrive at Fortescue's Ice Cream, Hagrid is waiting outside with two icecreams, looking very anxious. I ask how he knew I was coming, pointing at the waiting ice cream. He tells me the ice cream doesn't melt until it is eaten. I nod – magic.
When we finish, Hagrid pulls up a bird cage, with a snowy white owl inside. He tells me she is a birthday present from him – that her name is Hedwig, and she is a magic owl. I ask how an owl can be magic, and Hagrid launches into a tale about how wizards use them as a sort of post. I nod politely, expressing my gratitude for such a thoughtful gift. I consider telling him that it is the first gift I have ever gotten, but decide against it. He had met the Dursley's, he can surely make his own conclusion. If not, I'm certainly not going to feed them to him.
I take a closer look at the bird. It looks back, too aware that I am watching it. If it delivers post, it must be an intelligent animal. And with magic... I do not like this gift that can watch me back. I do not trust it.
As soon as I can do so without suspicion, I will kill it.
But the reason I am glad that I befriended this giant is because he gives me the choice to not see the Dursleys again – until next year. He says that the headmaster of the school has given permission for me to lodge in Diagon Alley for the month, with Hagrid as my keeper of course, until it is time to begin term. Of course I accept – a month will give me ample time to acclimatize myself to my new environment.
And now I have a second name. One who is clearly the boss of the giant – Albus Dumbledore.
More than likely, he is much more to blame than the giant. Certainly, one day I will face him, and make him answer for his crimes.
Unfortunately, even a single question to Hagrid makes it clear that such a day will not come for a very long time.
I spent ten years in a cupboard under the stairs. I can wait.
One month later, and Hagrid takes me to King's Cross. It is time to go to Hogwarts.
I have learned much in that time. I have read most of my school books, though I am not allowed to use magic, Hagrid tells me. I do not know if he is lying, but until I can ask someone without bringing attention to myself, I obey. Not that it matters, I don't know any spells yet anyway.
The Cursed Caliph of Cairo was a waste of time. Witch Weekly is a magazine for young witches, and The Cursed Caliph is... a book for young witches. Still, it is good that I made this mistake before I met any wizards my own age – it would have been humiliating to have begun reading it at Hogwarts, only to find out then what it was truly about.
Hogwarts. There is very little written about it, surprisingly. One giant tome called Hogwarts, a History seems to contain all there is about the school. A copy of it rests in my trunk, but I have only read a little of it. It is full of useless trivia, telling me nothing about what I can expect to face.
But in my experience, I have learned to read between the lines. Ways to talk to Vernon or Petunia or my school teachers without telling the truth or lying. The book about Hogwarts stinks of the very same roundabout explanations.
For instance, I am told that there are forty thousand wizards in all of Britain. And yet, without giving exact numbers it seems that a Hogwarts year consists of only around forty students. It is certainly clear that at any one time, Hogwarts never houses anywhere near four hundred people. And yet, the pictures of the school show a castle capable of holding many times that number.
It is all very mysterious.
I board the train without Hagrid – he has left me since I crossed over the barrier. I do not stand around on the platform. I have no family or friends to say goodbye to. Instead, I lug my trunk onto the train, move to the very back of the train, and slide into an open compartment.
The ride is long, but nonetheless present. A few people join me in my compartment, but I do not look up from my book. For their part, they make no move to interrupt my reading, and so we pass the time in civilized silence. I like the silence.
Despite all the stories that the children tell amongst themselves, and the lack of explanation in Hogwarts, A History, we are told that each of us shall put on a talking hat to determine out future house. We are told by the hat that our house is chosen by our natural qualities. It seems a very divisive way to segregate school children. I shrug – in truth I don't care very much. One of the children behind me curses his brothers who told him he had to fight a troll.
Well, well – Mr. Harry Potter. You've been quite the talk of the castle since your owl arrived. Now what to do with you – tricky one, you are.
Already, I do not like this hat. Like the owl I have yet to rid myself of, it knows too much for a thing.
Yes... yes. You'd do well in Slytherin. The hat continues, as if I had not thought anything. Perhaps it is unable to truly see individual thoughts or communicate with me – the old witch did say it judges us on personalities and qualities, not exact experiences or current thoughts. An important difference, as I have very few of the latter that I want to share.
But...your ambition is narrowly focused. You desires to limited to your own wellbeing. Worthy enough, but not quite what I'm looking for. Such dedication, and the mind to master what you need... a thirst for learning. Yes, Slytherin is not quite right for you.
The hat shouts, "Ravenclaw!" Face impassive, I move to the table with the blue banner above it. The looks of my new house mates range from curious to questioning to mildly bored. I sit next to a boy with curly blond hair. He gives me a nervous smile. I return one, though full of confidence – I am going to succeed here.
And my house mates will follow.