Summary: In Which a man doesn't hear a prophesy, another man does and makes slightly different plans, a family take hate one step to far, a boy doesn't talk, and another man gives an ironic name. These beget events that change how some events might have gone and how one boy in particular is going to become. SLASH (way later), AU, Bidding his time Voldie, OCC.
Authors note: I thought I would try my hand at an AU, with a Harry/Voldie pairing. And yes, I know I need to update my other fics. I am doing this mainly to get back into the game.
Pairings:
Simon/Voldemort
Severus/?
Remus/Sirius
Lucius/Narcissa
Draco/?
Language
Parseltongue: ~ Blah~
Thoughts: 'Blah'.
Simon Says
Chapter 2: Simon Says Expect the Unforgettable.
Simon was a child given to his own whims. He was a child over the years whose sole existence had been in perpetuating his own interests, and had very rarely, if ever, considered the consequences of them byond if it would hinder or help him more.
Simon enjoyed reading a book outside, this being one of those whims he catered to. He liked the quiet and warmth of an otherwise balmy summer that left the rest of his fellows curled around the air conditioner like wilted flowers. He took this as a sign, though to what yet, he had no provable theories.
Simon on the other hand had always been unbothered by extreme weather and temperatures. There was certain uniqueness, a vibrancy that appealed to him he supposed, and it certainly left him freer to move in environments to do his own thing without the exhaustive annoyances that were the adults in his life.
So Simon, who was sitting in his favorite Oak tree on the playground during free time, was surprised when one of the Caretakers, Ms. Dirpnel called his name from the entrance of the main building. She was a rather stern Matron whose husband had been a missionary that had perished from a disease contracted from a bug bite. The woman often told bible stories to the children, and took those she could corral with her to church every Sunday. Simon was one of those she was never able to corral. He had long ago learned the skills and subsequent benefits of becoming scarce when someone may potentially notice him. It was how he was able to avoid some of his adoption appointments, and the more vicious of the children who didn't take kindly to kids who are as introspective and prone to…difference, as he was.
Still, Simon was either so invisible or so indifferent to the bullying, that the children soon grew bored of him. He suspected that many had even forgotten why they disliked him in the first place after a while. He wasn't worth their time, they weren't worth his, and only newcomers ever reacted to him negatively before succumbing like the rest of them.
He liked it that way.
So when the caretaker hollered outside for him, he was rather annoyed along with being surprised. The fact that the matron was calling his name at all meant only one thing.
An interview.
He was so certain that he had not been spotted by any potential parents during the visiting days.
He stubbornly returned his eyes back to the words in the page. He didn't need an interview. He knew very well that his oddness, particularly his indifference, made him damaged goods as far as having parents went.
Whoever the potentials were, they were most likely the "Good Samaritans" type. Drawn by his background story, his braced leg, and his sad history if not right away turned off by the look of him. He'd had a few of those dragged before him, adults that thought they could tame him, "heal" him, and make him "whole," a new perfect boy that would love them forever for saving him from himself and his past.
Those irritated the boy more than any, because he was content, thank you very much, being exactly who and what he was. He didn't consider himself the standard by which was accepted as normal, and he did have a tragic past, yes, but he didn't overly care about either. Unfortunately for him, these were the sort of adults that occasionally he was forced to waste his valuable time meeting, particularly after the ones who used to be attracted by his looks, the look of a perfect little angel, was eliminated thanks to his freakishly quick to grow, bane of scissors everywhere hair, the ugliest spectacles he could find, but still remain functional, and his overall indifference to the state of his cloths and the presence of shoes.
He looked like a cross between a slob, a bookworm, and a wild child. This was accurate as he was indeed all three, though the slob bit was more for his clothing, not with his possessions or surroundings.
Yes, being a pretty boy was not something he felt useful at the moment, and more hassle then it was worth at any time he thought it may be useful.
Simon returned to his studying, ignoring the frequently louder, more annoyed barks of Ms. Dirpnel.
Simon had only valued the advice of only one live adult in his life.
It had been his first classroom since he had been at the orphanage, his peers were moaning about all the boring stuff they had to slough through until recess or gym or art time or music time like learning grammar and maths and such. A Substitute teacher had been teaching that day, as Mr. Fosk had been at home with his sick son, his wife unable to get out of her shift at the hospital.
Mr. Grahmmal had been a sour, cantankerous old sod, who took the bored bemoans without a hint of sympathy, and had snapped the only worthwhile advice that Simon took to heart, but caused his fellows to ignore.
"It's kids like you that make me wonder for the future. You should hunger for everything your ungrateful hides can learn! Knowledge is power! Without knowing anything in your pee-brain, prepubescent bumpkin heads, you'll never get anywhere, just useless meat sacks suckling off the teat of society…"
Well, it had mostly been a raving rant, and Simon mused that the man probably might have not been far from retirement when he lectured a roomful of 6 year olds about the facts of the dog eat dog world, but there was a wisdom that Simon recognized.
Knowledge is power. To a boy who very much understood what it was like to be powerless, he valued this bit of advice more than anything else, and as such, became his obsession.
Simon was not a genius. He worked hard to learn every scrap of knowledge he could get his hands on, applying himself obsessively. As a result, he had a good understanding of things beyond what was commonly found in boys his age. Now at the age of 10, he held top position in all his classes and had a mind shaped significantly by older and wiser brains then those found around him, especially given as other minds outside of the pages of his books tended ot espouse idiotic lessons like "Green eggs and Ham", "look both ways before you cross the street" (that was just common sense, even squirrels knew that) and the benefits of sharing. Yes, his more knowledgeable ink-worded teachers had given him a rather unique view of people and the world, as well as an understated maturity.
Simon was soon lost in his book, having long since lost interest in Mrs. Dirpnel.
"…Consider that for the foreseeable future I will be living in a society that continues to pay homage to morality and believe in its reality implicitly. So I am likely to be confronted time and again by a question like, "Do you believe x is wrong?" It would usually be hopeless to attempt to refashion the question into an amoralist mode of speaking; at the very least this would change the subject from the particular issue under discussion, say, vivisection, to an abstract issue in meta-ethics, namely, whether there is such a thing as wrongness. But there is still a way I could answer the question both honestly and effectively. Thus, I could reply, "Vivisection is wrong according to morality as I conceive it." For that reply is not asserting that vivisection is wrong, only that, according to morality (as I conceive morality) it is wrong. In the abstract this has no more force than if one were to say, "Unicorns are a type of horse (according to the common conception of unicorns)." In other words, there is no implication that unicorns actually exist, nor, all the more, that, say, a person could possibly find one for the purpose of trying to ride her…" – quote, ( Marks, Joel. "An Amorralist Manifesto part 1" Philosophy Now!).
Simon was yet again reluctantly ripped out of his reading by another voice, this one a distinctly unfamiliar acidic drawl.
"I see that your patron seems to be somehow unable to penetrate those ears underneath all that wild mass of tangle that dares be called hair. Since I haven't the patience to have my valuable time wasted even further by this problem I have decided a closer approach in garnering your attention needs to be applied."
Simon blinked down bemusedly at the man below who glared up at him with clear annoyance, with a dryness in his voice and a sharpness that made Simon muse was not unlike the attack of some blood sucking vampire. It was an apt analogy, as the man himself was distinctly vampirish, dressed entirely in black. Black dress slacks, black cotton dress shirt, with long sleeves, and a cape-like black duster. Simon idly wondered how the man remained so unperturbed in all that dark material under the blazing sun when the caretaker beside him looked ready to melt in her light coloured summer blouse and skirt.
Simon reluctantly closed his book with a snap and shimmied down the tree, landing languidly before the stranger, holding the book in front of him, observing the man with his usual mask of blank disinterest, what little could be seen from around all his hair of course.
Ooo ooo ooo
If Severus Snape hadn't already been presented with the boy's file, a file which had proclaimed the boy's academic prowess, he would have thought he was being presented with the worst of all dunderheads to date.
The boy was insubordinate, disinterested looking, and looked like to one who the term grooming was a foreign concept. Despite Severus being continuously called "greasy" and the barbs shot at his hygienic habits, he at least had the excuse of potion's fumes with the type of hair that was rather inclined to be affected negatively by such. In fact, he was stickler for hygiene and was repulsed by the boy's shocking slobbish appearance. He had a feeling that Lucius would keel over in a dead faint should he meet the brat.
Still, as inclined as he was to be repulsed by the boy's appearance and attitude, there was something in the eyes as Severus went about this abominable chore of informing yet another muggleborn that magic is real (this was after dismissing a grateful Ms. Dirpel) and proving this fact by turning a nearby squirrel into Ram and back again. It was brief, and if he had blinked he would have missed it, but it was that look that made him memorable in that moment of meeting.
It was hunger.
It was eventually gone, but it caught the Potion Master's attention.
He remembered that look, a look he himself had worn when he had picked up his wand for the first time, then his first more illicit tome of potion making. He had also seen it on the face of the Dark Lord when presented with a new tome that contained knowledge he was not familiar with yet.
It was a hunger to know, like an addict craves a fix.
This bemused Severus, if only a bit and he wondered exactly how much of the boy's bland indifference was merely a mask. He was a spy after all; he had learnt to draw accurate conclusions from the smallest of body gestures.
Ooo ooo ooo
After the situation had been explained to the director, who for reasons unknown to Simon seemed to be unbothered by how exactly Simon had obtained entry into a prestigious, never heard of, odd sounding boarding school. Nor did he seem to question the obvious dire quality that shadowed the man who introduced himself as Professor Severus Snape, Potion Master and teacher of potions, especially since the man simply declared that he was taking Simon to obtain said supplies. Simon had noticed that the wizard had his wand hidden in the folds of his jacket, pointed in the direction of Mr. Chunksway the entire time though.
Simon followed the long stridden wizard sometime later as they weaved down the busy street of Diagon Ally. It was fortunate that his professor had his back turned or he would have seen a look on the boy's face that would have unnerved even him.
His look was ravenous. So much knowledge! So much potential to learn, ask, observe and absorb within every inch of the place! It was a preverbal feast to Simon's obsession and it took quite some time to get control of himself.
The professor had explained after apparating them to the Leaky Cauldron, that as he was an orphan and a muggleborn, there was a scholarship that provided the essentials such as clothing, books and tuition for these students. It wasn't much of course, but it was enough to suit Simon's purposes, and he was never one to spend frivolously. He himself had other means of obtaining funds anyway, and it was still a week or two until he was to take the train to his new home, Hogwarts.
The potion master had taken him to a trunk and baggage store first, to pick up a basic school trunk and book bag so he would have something to put his purchases in.
The next stop was a clothing store, Madam Malkins Robes for all Occasions, to get himself a set of school robes, gear, and winter paraphernalia. The professor had been most insistent on the shoes, since he had since long before the time of meeting the man, "misplaced" his previous set of trainers.
He shrugged, humouring the man, especially after the man darkly pointed out that Simon was likely to step in something that wouldn't leave him a foot to step with again later.
The next stop was to buy parchment and quills, which Simon thought was rather archaic, but the man was insistent. It mattered little to Simon, he reasoned that he could just acquire himself some notebooks and pens and pencils later and bring it with him. Again he humoured the man. After all, what silly simpletons thought quills and ink would be good for writing down lecture notes? Were these people so rabidly separatist from muggles that they would avoid practical and none threatening tools? Such thinking was as mind boggling as children's reoccupation with creepily friendly dinosaurs.
The next stop was the apothecary. Here was where the man seemed to become more alive and had immediately left Simon to his own devices with stern orders to wait.
One hour later, the professor returned to find the boy studiously reading the labels of the ingredients, eyeing the contents comparatively. Simon picked up his standard potions kit, with a firm lecture by the professor to take time to familiarise himself with all his equipment and books ahead of time, as he didn't believe in giving breaks, just because first years may be new timers to pioneering, wasn't any excuse in failure.
The next stop was the bookstore. Here both males spent the longest.
Severus Snape was somewhat of a bookaphile, though not at the same degree as his Lord, as Severus was more selective to potions, dark arts and mind magics.
Simon on the other hand, mentally moaned, just a fraction of the titles he had read held such potential, so many potentials! But he just managed to control himself. The professor had mentioned that Hogwarts had an extensive library, as well as the house of Ravenclaw, if he ended up in that house. Besides, he could easily come back on his own time later with his own secured funds, though perhaps he would aim for a second hand bookstore, if he could find one, as the books seemed somewhat expensive.
Still, he was able to get a few extra from what was on his list, as his professor said there was room for a bit of extra material as a muggleborn usually required a few extra tomes to give them a general idea of how the Wizarding World operated. At least, the smart ones should realize the need for extra knowledge.
Simon picked up a book on the recent Wizarding history of the past 200 years, another book entitled Hogwarts a History, and an introductory book on Magical theory.
He cracked open Hogwarts a History, the rest of his books going into the trunk which magically floated behind him, thanks to a handy spell of his professor's, and began perusing the book as they made their way to the final stop.
Simon didn't notice the sign, be he certainly, reluctantly took notice of the sudden dusty silent atmosphere of the place they were now in. there was something in the air that made all the hairs on his body stick up. He felt disturbed and tingly for reasons he could not define. It was a rare feeling, and he instantly was irritated by it.
The man who melted from the dust motes riveted Simon's attention in a way that no one else had since his inspirational substitute teacher all those years ago.
"Severus Snape, Hardwood and dragon heartstring, from a Hungarian horntail I believe. Rigid and unbending, no room for anything but perfection, but inclined to temper, good for dueling."
"Olivander" the potion master greeted with a polite grumble, "this is Simon Says, here for the usual."
"A yes," the wandmaker mused, turning from the cantankerous man to the boy by his side. The wandmaker was somewhat amused by the boy's appearance, especially in contrast to the impeccable Severus. The wandmaker had a sudden feeling that the boy would prove to be an interesting customer.
With a command to remain still, Olivander used a magical measuring tape on every inch of his person. It was only when the man asked Simon which was his wand arm that the boy fully realized what was going on.
He frowned inwardly. He knew that a wand was on the list, but it was something that he felt was odd, very odd. Why would magical beings such as wizards require wands? Weren't they magical already?
As if sensing the question Olivander explained. "A wand is necessary for most so they can more easily assess and direct magic from their magical core into a spell. It acts as a bridge and focus between a wizard's intention and power."
Simon mentally grunted. He thought that was rather lazy really. It was meant to make it easier, and from what he had seen it wasn't just for children as a learning aide, he had seen countless adults with them. In his opinion it sounded like riding your entire life with training wheels still attached and calling him a bicyclist, or wading fins on a long distance swimmer and calling them an athlete.
Simon himself had used his magic, what Severus called accidental magic, only less accidental over the years and more intentional, and he certainly had no wand. While it would certainly imply the need for refinement, it struck Simon as more logical to simply teach one to use their magic without the handicap. Using magic, to Simon, seemed akin to drinking from a cup. One should be able to utilize the contents just as readily as simply taking a drink, and if you can drink already, why have the redundancy of a straw?
Still, he figured that he wasn't going to escape the place without one, and figured that he might as well humour the adults again, after all there were weird unessesaries within the muggle world as well, he might as well just treat this wand issue with the same grain of salt, like adults and there obsessions with shoes and/or religions and just ignore it as nonsense that needed to otherwise be humoured to avoid greater annoyance foisted on his person later.
Perhaps it was these thoughts in his mind, he general disinterest in using a wand and disdain for the practice, that perhaps made him somewhat of a difficult customer.
Olivander was of course, thrilled at the challenged; while the professor conjured himself a chair and sat down to wait out the long haul with a good Potioneer's Journal. It would just figure he got the brat that took ages to be matched.
Several hours later, much to everyone's (but the disinterested Simon's) surprise, the Wandmaker, and child were surrounded by every wand possible to be tried in the store, even the rare ones.
Nothing, not a peep of a potential match.
Olivander had failed for the first time in his long tenure as a wandmaker to match a wizard to a wand.
Severus Snape had begun to wonder if mabe he had the wrong child, but according to the wandmaker, the boy was magical or else the wands wouldn't have reacted my continuously jumping out of the boy's hand the way they did.
Eventually, Severus found that it had grown dark outside and finally felt that his duty on this long troubling day with this long troubling brat had come to a close. He figured that Albus could send along another professor to take the boy to another wandmaker to try out their merchandise. There was no way he was flooing all the way to Romania at this hour.
Long after the boy was gone, Ollivander couldn't help musing that whoever Simon Says was or became, it was certain to be quite something unforgettable, despite the boys best intentions to be otherwise.
