Disclaimer:

The following is a Harry Potter Fan Fic. Harry Potter and all of its subsidiaries are owned exclusively by J. K.. Rowlings…now that you clearly understand that… on with the story…

Chapter One: The Dreamer

"Live each day, as if it we're your last. It's written in the stars, your destiny is cast." –

Elvis Presley, Wisdom Of The Ages

A man and a boy sat quietly on the floor, sipping tea and enjoying each others company. The man, his handsome face wrinkled by time and the heavy wisdom of age, watched the boy beside him with interest. A long lanky figure, shaggy black hair, cheerful green eyes and a pleasant face that hid and enhanced the emotions he tried fruitlessly to suppress. He wore glasses, old frames that did much for the shape of his face. An odd scar peeked out from beneath the locks of hair that begged to see that sharp blade of a knife. The scar was the mark of a slave in the older mans land, but the boy did not seemed bothered by not having anyone to call master. In truth, the boy was far different from any the man had ever encountered before and it amused and intrigued him.

He had first found the boy several months ago wandering aimlessly throughout his gardens, smelling the flowers and speaking pleasantly to the snow owls that called the trees home. He wore a long black robe, seemly undisturbed by the summer heat that had everyone else around the garden seeking the comfort of nothingness. The boy had been shorter then, his lanky and athletic frame somewhat undernourished, his spurts of growth taking their toll on his food supply. His voice was charming, the strange dialect somewhat comforting as he spoke to the birds and waited their answers.

The birds themselves, unused to the delicacies of human speech, cooed and chirped happily, regaling the boy with tales of flight and song. He merely laughed and responded in kind as though he knew exactly of what they spoke.

The man had met few who understood the tongue of birds and fewer still as young as the boy beside him. After watching and listening for what seemed like hours the man could stand it no longer and he confronted this strange man child that dared to disturb his home and solitude. The boy was unalarmed and unlikely friendship flickered to life between them.

The boys visits became an almost day routine. The man could tell that the boy was wiser then his age. Often times as he laughed the joy could not reach his eyes, instead they remind weary. A clear sign of hardships that the man knew all to well. Still neither one spoke of their lives outside the garden.

In the months that passed the boy became like a godsend to him. distracting him from the war that threatened at his door daily. He trusted this boy more the anyone else he had every known and so, despite knowing so little about him felt the boy was the only one capable of guarding what the man held so dear to his heart.

The man sighed, setting his cup back into its saucer. He knew he was an old man, he'd out lived many men born before and after him, so he didn't not seek to further his years. If he was honest and he often was, he would willingly welcome the release of death by any means it came. He didn't not expect to go slowing in his sleep, he had made far to many enemies to die so peacefully. He could except it, was grateful of knowing it but his soul would only rest if he knew that what little resided in his heart would be safe.

He turned and faced the boy once more, only to find his eyes already on him; their depths lit in amusement. "So talk already, a man can get tired of all your sighing."

The man obscured a smile, the boy sensed him so well. "True my young friend, and I do call you friend though I've known you a short while. To my knowledge we have spoken little about our lives but now I feel I must break this unspoken taboo and ask of you a favor."

The boy looked thoughtful for a moment, then spoke his words rolling off his tongue easily, "Go ahead and ask. I have nothing to keep from you … my friend."

It was strange to hear the boy call him that, yet it felt right, like it had always been so. With a sigh he looked out at the garden, drinking in its beauty and began. Speaking slowly to find just the right words. "My name is Jarnies and I am a warlord, as my father was and as his father was before him. Being thus, my hands are painted with the blood, sweat and tears of many people. I was raised to be a cruel man, hard and emotionless and for many years I was but even the hardest heart must melt." He paused, "I have made many enemies in my life time and even now as I grow weaker they pound on my gates and demand the duel of swords. One day I will fall to one lucky bastard and so I ask you this…tell your name my young friend so I may call upon you to take care of what has weaseled it way into my heart."

He waited for the boy to speak, expecting harsh words or a begrudging answer, knowing he might have over stepped the fragile bounds of their friendship. Seconds ticked by and he watched the sun beginning to set over the gardens, he didn't want to see the boys face. A small part of himself afraid that he would be angry.

The boys laughter came softly, then built until he roared in delight. The man, Jarnies, turned and looked at him in surprise. Of all the reactions he thought to receive laughter was not one of them. His whole body shook with it, his eyes filling with tears. Then just as the last rays of sunlight belched over the far wall he saw and watched as the boy began to fade, like shadows at noon. His laughter was retreating by then, only a few short chuckles left to fall from his mouth.

"So my friend Jarnies, you wish to know my name," as he spoke his body faded further, until all that was left was his voice, "Then I'll tell you…I am called Harry Potter."

***~***

"Harry…Harry…Harry…blast it Harry wake up. We're almost there." A familiar voice dragged him from his slumber and his dream. He stretched and rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes then, squinted up at the girl who had so rudely woken him and yawned in her face.

She was a pretty girl, average height with long wavy brown hair. She wore the customary black witches robe that everyone in the train car had on, although hers was the only one covered in orange cat hair. She was frowning down at him clearly wanting an answer or an apology. "What do you want Hermione?"

"Humph, is that all the thanks I get for making sure you reach Hogwarts at least half conscious." She plopped back down in her own seat and pulled a book from the sleeve of her robe.

He watched her for a moment, her nose stuck in a book ignoring everyone else. She was angry with him. "Sorry, Hermione…thanks for waking me."

She didn't look up from her book but her fingers loosened around the edges. Harry sighed, it was better then nothing. He looked around at the others in the train car, all of them had suddenly found something they had to do and scurried off. All except Ron the is.

Ron Weasley; Harry's best friend and confidant for the past five years watched him with a sheepish look of curiosity. He'd grown over the summer, filled out a little more but his face was the same and Harry knew when Ron was dying to ask him something. "What?"

He inched forward in his seat and whispered, "What on earth were you dreaming about?"

Harry shrugged, "Nothing special. I was just having tea with a Warlord…why do you ask?"

"Well," he scooted closer to Harry. His voice just above a whisper, "Your scar was glowing."