A Nameless Heretic Production:
Crimson
Chapter Three: The Lonely One
Harry James Potter was a very strange child indeed.
He easily stood out among his prim-and-proper classmates, who had been groomed and conditioned for years now to grow into 'upstanding members of society.' With his wild black hair, which never stayed in the same pattern of disarray two days in a row, he easily contrasted with the clean-cut and combed children of Little Winging. Another one of his defining features was his startling green eyes, which seemed to be forever gazing into another realm that none but Harry could see.
Indeed, while the boy did seem rather… slow… at first glance, he proved to be one of the most intelligent of his class. He rarely spoke, and when he did it was usually in a distracted manner. He had been taken in to be tested for drugs several times, but they always came out negative. He had even taken an IQ test to see if he was just plain stupid.
The woman who had looked over his test had fainted, and the only thing that she told Harry's teachers was to keep him in school, for there was nothing to worry about.
And so, the mysterious five year old grew up breezing through school, acing nearly everything they through at him. However, if he lacked interest in a subject (History, for example) he'd completely bomb it. Teachers often caught him sleeping in class…
"Mr. Potter?" asked Ms. Karen, standing next to the black-haired youth's desk as he slumbered, tapping her foot. She sighed, and gave him a light smack on the head with her ruler. He woke, looking around in a confused manner. "Ah, so you've decided to join us. Tell me, Mr. Potter, what is the simplified form of 9 thirty sixths??"
Harry gave her a blank look, and blinked. "One fourth."
"What is it in decimal form?"
"Zero point twenty-five."
"What would be the denominator of an equal fraction with the numerator of three hundred and ninety two?"
"One thousand five hundred sixty eight."
Ms. Karen sighed resignedly. "You got it right this time, Mr. Potter, but be careful… one day you'll be in class and wishing you had paid attention."
"Yes ma'am," said Harry. Ms. Karen returned to the board, and continued with the lesson. "…what was I supposed to be careful about again?"
Such was life in the world of Harry James Potter, the oddball of Little Winging, Surrey. However, his passive, seemingly idiotic genius was not the only thing that made him especially unique. While the other children immediately began forming their own cliques and circles of friends, the Potter child was alone. He made no effort to make friends, preferring to read books (which Ms. Karen was never able to identify, as they were always covered buy brown paper) and sit by himself by the swings.
One day, the boy received a visit…
It had not been more than three months since Harry Potter was dropped off at the doorstep of his relatives, the Dursleys. After the aurors had left, Vernon had first thrown a fit and 'explained the rules' to the boy. He was to do his chores as they gave them, stay quiet, not ask questions, and sleep in the cupboard.
At the mention of the word 'cupboard,' the boy had twitched, and Vernon saw the coldest, cruelest green eyes ever to discern this world… but only for a second. The boy's face returned to its passive, far away look, and he simply refused to sleep in the cupboard, and calmly demanded more reasonable terms for his being there.
He came up with the following: Harry demanded access to his mother's old schoolbooks, he got his own bedroom (he only cared if it had a bed, dresser, a source of light, and a bookshelf), and that the Dursleys left him the hell alone. In return, he would cook breakfast and clean the house, and he would leave the Dursleys alone, making himself scarce should any guests come over.
At first, Vernon had been infuriated to have a 'freak, demon-spawned' child talk back to him, and made it well known by bringing his fist back. 'The look,' as Vernon would later call it, retuned to Harry's face and the large man found himself on his back, tasting blood. At that point, Petunia spoke for Vernon and agreed.
The boy had kept his word, and proved to be unusually skilled in the culinary arts (when Petunia asked him where he learned to cook, he had snapped the stirring-spoon in his hand, and a gust of wind had nearly knocked Petunia off of her feet). The house was also kept reasonably clean, although Petunia would always complain about the tiniest things. Personally, Vernon thought she was being a germaphobe, and shared Harry's opinion that it was fine as it was, although he would never admit it.
Dudley, the spoiled pig that he was, had attempted to bully the boy; however Harry had always managed to leave the boy stumped or simply slipped away while Dudley went on about how Harry was a freak and should do as he said.
'The look' had never come upon his face again, and the boy remained cool and collected at all times.
0o0o0o0o0o0
Petunia Dursley was washing the dishes, while her husband was watching the news on his television. Their perfect, faultless son was upstairs watching his own television. The fourth child, Harry Potter, was ignored, although he was no doubt in one of three places: In his room, outside (he often frequented the park), or on the roof, as there was a window in his room that allowed him relatively easy access to the tiled surface.
In fact, that was exactly where the boy was: Hanging out on the roof by his window, reading a book. However, this was not your average book that could easily be found out in a random London bookstore. This book was a large, many paged tome by the name of A Guide to Magical Self Defense, by Artemis Brown. It was getting late, and the moon was an ivory crescent in the sky, giving a minimal amount of light down to the earth. The boy had a small flashlight tucked behind his ear, allowing a more appropriate amount of light to illuminate what he was reading.
He was oddly dressed, although given his situation it was not that surprising. His 'family' held no love for him, nor did he in return. He was clad in oversized, stitched up hand-me-downs that once belonged to his cousin, his pants held up only by a belt. Upon his face was a pair of broken glasses, mended by a strip of tape in the middle. His cousin had, several weeks ago, punched him in the face for being such a 'freak' and whatnot. Harry had responded in kind, planting his fist in Dudley's face. They had both been sent to the nurse with broken noses, and the two had received detention for two weeks.
People had been shocked that the shy, smaller child had responded to Dudley's attack so violently. They had all expected him to start crying, or run to a teacher. No, the thin, pale loner of the school had struck back with unexpected ferocity. Dudley had failed to pick on his little cousin ever again.
After that little incident, things had gone back to relative normalcy. Dudley continued to bully (with the exception of Harry, which caused him to be continuously followed by some of the smaller kids), teachers taught, and kids pointed and whispered about various things.
One day, however, everything changed…
The Dursleys and Potter were eating breakfast, which they former grudgingly admitted was very good, when there was a strange tapping sound at the window. It was an owl. Harry looked up, a satisfied smirk adorning his face, while his aunt and uncle snapped their heads up so fast that it was amazing that they hadn't given themselves whiplash.
"Dudley, go to your room," ordered Petunia. The large boy began to protest, but he was silence by a "DO AS I SAY YOUNG MAN!" Dudley was so frightened by the hostility in his mother's voice that he bounded up the stairs without argument.
There was an awkward silence as the owl at the window continued tapping its beak, a letter tied to its foot.
"It's here," Harry declared monotonously.
He stood and walked over to the window calmly. He unlatched the locks on the window, allowing the avian creature inside. It landed on the table, helping itself to some of Harry's water as the boy untied the letter from its foot. All the while, his aunt and uncle just sat, staring at the letter with pale and sweaty faces. Petunia drew herself away from the owl that had landed in front of her, and Harry began opening up the strange letter.
His hands felt the dry, heavy parchment as he unsealed the envelope, ripping the Hogwarts Seal in half. Inside of the envelope was another piece of parchment, which he unfolded. It read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Insert fancy wavy line here
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
A rare smile came upon Harry's face as he read the letter. His face then returned to its normal, passive form as he looked up at his relatives. "Uncle Vernon, can you take me into London tomorrow?" Both males knew that it was not a question. It was a demand.
"Fine, it's not out of the way…" grumbled Vernon, who returned to his meal after Harry had sent the owl away with his response. "Just know that I'm not paying for your rubbish."
Harry shrugged and cleared his plate of the scraps, opting to return to his room. He sat on his bed, his back to the wall. He looked at the letter again, plans forming in his mind. He was one step closer…
0o0o0o0o0o0
"Get in the car, boy. I'm not waiting for you," shouted Vernon from the bottom of the stairs. At his call, Harry calmly walked down the stairs, his face impassive as usual. "Alright, let's go, boy," grumbled Vernon as he and Harry headed for the car.
Vernon drove in silence, his face purple from the suppressed urge to yell at the boy. The boy, seemingly oblivious to his uncle's rage, continued to look over the supply list he had received.
UNIFORM:
Three sets of plain work robes (black)
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS:
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling ("Waffles…" murmured Harry.)
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection
OTHER EQUIPMENT:
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
"Boy, you better put that rubbish away… I don't want anyone to see you're freakish wa—"
"Stop here, that's the Leaky Cauldron," said Harry, oblivious to his uncle's ranting. The man began to go purple in the face, suppressing the urge to yell. "…were you saying something?"
"Just get out."
Harry shrugged and exited the car, not paying attention as his uncle drove off muttering angrily to himself. The boy looked up at the old, magically hidden bar and walked in. His nose was immediately assaulted by the stench of alcohol, the fumes from numerous pipes and other such things. Attempting to recall his last visit to Diagon Alley (which was nearly seven years ago), he sought out the brick wall that concealed the entrance to the wizarding shopping center.
"Excuse me, young man?" asked a bald, toothless man. "I'm Tom, the barkeeper. Are you trying to get into Diagon Alley?"
"Yes."
"Are your parents here?" asked Tom. Perhaps the child was a muggleborn?
"No."
Tomb blinked, his brow wrinkling in concern. "Where are they, child?"
"The Potter family cemetery, six feet underground in a large wooden box for two," said the boy, as if he were talking about the weather.
"Oh dear, I apologize, Mr. Potter. My condolences," said Tom.
"Wha…? Eh, whatever. Can you just open up the path for me?" asked Harry.
"Mr. Po—I mean, yes, of course," said Tom, confused by the young man's behavior. He seemed completely unaffected by the fact that his parent's were dead. Tom worried, as he had known James and Lily well. Part of him was furious that the boy had waved off his parents' deaths so easily, but on second thought, perhaps the boy was just trying to put it behind him.
Clearing his thoughts, Tom walked with Harry to the brick wall, tapping his wand on the bricks. When he finished, the bricks began to move and shuffle around, forming an archway. Beyond said archway was the bustling economic center of Magical Britain: Diagon Alley. Many witches and wizards prowled the streets, seeking deals and bargains as they shopped for school supplies, food, and other such things.
"Thanks," said Harry as he walked into Diagon Alley. Tom merely nodded and sealed the entrance once again before returning to the bar.
Harry attracted some queer looks as he walked through the wizarding alley in his oversized, hand-me-down muggle clothing. He seemed oblivious to it all, looking for the wizarding bank known as Gringotts. If he remembered correctly, it was a very large marble building…
"Oh, okay," said Harry, reading a sign at the entrance of the alley. It said, 'Gringotts is that way' with an arrow pointing at the building.
With his destination in sight, Harry made his way to the bank, weaving in-between the oncoming current of shoppers. As he walked, he heard several voices arguing over prices, brands, and other such things.
"Mommy, why does that boy have such weird clothes?" whispered a girl to her mother. Her mother, a portly red-headed woman scolded her daughter.
"Ginerva Weasley, it's rude to talk about people like that," she chided.
"Sorry…"
"Don't say sorry to me, Ginny, you should apologize to the bo—" the conversation continued, but Harry did not hear it as he entered the bank.
'Are my clothes really weird?' he thought to himself. He looked himself over, and resolved to get a new wardrobe. Now that he thought about it, moving around in his current state of dress was a major pain. The floppy clothing severely hampered his mobility, and the sheer size of it was heavy for his light frame.
"Excuse me," said a low, sneering voice. Harry looked up, seeing a goblin glaring at him. "May I help you, Mr.…?"
"Potter, and I'd like to access my vault," said Harry. He reached into his back-pocket and pulled out his vault key, which he had kept with him ever since… it had happened. His parents were somewhat liberal with how many of his assets he could control at his age. Then again, it wasn't like he could just waltz into Diagon Alley at any time he wanted, so there was really no worry.
The goblin held out his hand so that he could make sure the key was legitimate. Harry handed him the key, digging his pinky into his ear as the goblin examined it. Deeming it to be genuine, the goblin handed Harry back his key.
"Griphook!" shouted the goblin. "Take Mr. Potter to his vault."
"Yes sir," said the smaller, younger goblin. He turned to Harry and gestured towards one of the large doors. "Please come with me." Harry followed Griphook as he lead him to the large doors, and Harry saw two things: The largest man he had ever seen (although his Uncle Vernon easily rivaled him in terms of girth), and a cart. "Please get inside of the cart. We'll be doing both of your vaults. Sorry, but we need to pool carts because of all the people buying school supplies for this year of Hogwarts."
"O' course, I don' mind," said the large man. He saw Harry, and his eyes widened. "Harry? That you?"
Harry looked up at the giant of a man and tilted his head. "Have we met?" The man seemed familiar… kind of…
Griphook looked at Harry somewhat incredulously. How do you forget about a man that big?
Meanwhile, Harry continued to try and recall who the man was. The large man shifted awkwardly. "I'm Hagrid, knew yer parents." Harry tilted his head, looking at Hagrid.
"Oh, okay," he said after a few minutes.
Hagrid and Griphook sweat dropped.
'Weird kid… or maybe he's just slow…' thought Hagrid. As the three boarded the cart, however, Hagrid began to have second thoughts about the child being 'slow.' 'Then again, he managed to get all the way here… I don' think Dumbledore sent anyone ter take 'im here. 'Sides, he's James and Lily's kid. He's gotta be sharp.'
Hagrid's inner monologue was interrupted, however, by a wave of nausea caused by none other than the cart's rapid and vigorous movements as it darted through the many stone tunnels deep under Gringotts. After several moments (or hours, as it felt like for poor Hagrid), Griphook finally stopped at one of the vaults.
"Please hold this," requested Griphook, holding the lamp to Hagrid. The man took it while the goblin walked over to the vault door. It was tall and imposing, and oddly with no lock or any sort of outside mechanism. Griphook ran his finger down the center of the vault door, and a staccato of gears and switches was heard, reverberating throughout the chamber.
"Tell me, Mr. Potter, what do you think would happen if anyone other than me were to touch this door?" asked Griphook, waiting patiently as the vault door unlocked.
"…I'm guessing something cruel and probably resulting in a horrible death," said Harry, sounding bored.
"More or less," said Griphook. There was a loud clang as the vault door opened. Slowly, tediously, as if unveiling the very thing that held the universe together, the doors spread open. Torches lit within the vault, illuminating the interior to reveal…
…a little brown package.
"Lamp, please," said Griphook. He took the lamp from Hagrid, who hurried into the vault and pocketed the package. With the giant's business done, the three returned to the cart and moved onto their next stop: Harry's vault.
"Key please," asked Griphook, standing next to the vault. Harry handed it to him, and his eyes squinted as the vault door opened, revealing mounds of gold that shined and glittered in the torch light.
Hagrid looked at the gold in awe.
Griphook tapped his foot, waiting for this to be done with. He had other customers to tend to.
Harry… was Harry.
"…huh."
Seemingly oblivious, or simply indifferent, to his newfound apparent wealth, Harry grabbed a little bit of everything and dumped it into an old backpack that Dudley once owned. When he got a good amount, Harry lung the pack over his shoulder, it holding onto his slight frame on a single strap, and he returned the cart and took his key back from Griphook.
0o0o0o0o0o0
After he had gotten his gold, silver, and bronze money (he idly wondered why wizards didn't just switch to paper money… it was easier to carry), he looked around the alley. The nearest shop was the Madam Malkin's. His destination set, Harry proceeded towards the robes shop, intent on getting some decent clothing. Upon entering the shop, he found that only one worker was available, as all others were running about and attending to other customers.
"Hogwarts, dear?" asked one of the assistants. Harry nodded, and she waved him onto a stool. "Alright then, let's get your measurements."
With a wave of her wand, a strip of tape-measure began flying and looping around him, taking every measurement from his height to the width of his pinky-nail. Why it needed to know that, he had no idea. After taking sufficient measurements, the woman returned with a roll of black cloth, a needle, thread, and scissors. With a wave of her wand, the robes began taking shape on Harry.
"You're going to Hogwarts as well, I presume?" asked a voice. Harry looked over and saw a pale, white blonde haired boy on the stool across from him.
"Yes," said Harry.
"What house do you think you'll be in," asked the boy. "Oh, my apologies; I'm Draco Malfoy." The boy stood up straighter, and seemed to be waiting for something. Harry gave him a blank look. Draco stared at him incredulously. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, sounding affronted.
"No, not really," said Harry, blowing a lock of hair out of his face.
Malfoy's eyes bugged out of his head. "Well, I'll have you know that I am the heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy, one of the oldest pureblood families in Britain!"
"…"
"…"
"…oh, okay."
"Gah!"
Before Malfoy could renew his tirade, however, a tall, pale, and blonde woman walked into the shop. "Draco?" she asked. "Ah, there you are. Have you been fitted?"
"Yes ma'am, I just finished," said one of the employees. The woman, apparently Malfoy's mother, paid for the robes and hurriedly exited the shop with her son in tow. The younger Malfoy glared at Harry angrily, who ignored him and appeared to be more interested in the crow that had landed by the window, and had begun pecking at a dead mouse.
After the woman had finished with Harry's robes, he had spent a few extra minutes buying a few pairs of muggle jeans and t-shirts, mostly in black, red, and tan. He also bought a black cloak, which had been charmed so that it blended in perfectly for the shadows, and was the ultimate stealth tool when traveling at night. However, in the day, or in any illuminated area, it was useless.
"Why would you want to buy that?" asked the woman as he picked it out.
"I plan on giving Hogwarts hell," said Harry bluntly. The woman giggled, and sent him away.
With that accomplished (and after using the changing rooms to put on a pair of decent jeans and a black t-shirt), Harry moved onto the next shop: Flourish and Blotts. Upon entering the store, he immediately sought out his school books, before moving onto other books, such as Dueling: an Introduction by William Malone, How to Kick the Other Guy's Ass by David Norris, Not So Harmless Fun by Christopher Mays, and Curses, Shields, and Other Spells by Benjamin Davis. He had also grabbed a few books on Potions, such as Various Brews of Interesting Properties by Larry Snell, and Bubbly Stuff that Does Cool Shit by Vincent the Smart-ass.
Despite numerous difficulties (such as weight), Harry managed to get all of the books to the check-out counter. After paying for all of them, the shop-keeper was kind enough to put a feather-light charm on his backpack. He left the shop, but found himself having difficulty making his way to Ollivander's, as a large crowd had converged by the door.
"It's him!"
"The Boy Who Lived…"
"I shook his hand! I shook his hand!"
Standing on the tips of his toes, Harry managed to catch a glimpse of what all of the ruckus was about. It was a boy around his own age, dressed in freshly pressed and clean robes with brown hair cut neatly. He had just walked into the shop, his robes trailing behind him as he walked through the doors. Many people pressed their faces against the windows, trying to get another glimpse of the young boy.
Harry shrugged, knowing that the crowd would disperse eventually, and resolved to head towards the Apothecary. After spending about twenty minutes getting his potions supplies, he headed back out, and was satisfied that the crowd was gone. He entered the old shop, the bell ringing as he went through the door.
"Ah, hello Mr. Potter," said a voice. Harry turned around. A man, apparently Mr. Ollivander, stood in front of him. He seemed to be giving the boy a piercing look, and with a flick of his wand a roll of measuring tape began examining his various limbs and such. "Well, let's not waste time then. Which is your wand arm?"
"My right," said Harry as the tape measured the space between his nostrils.
"Ah, very good then." Mr. Ollivander began moving among the shelves taking out boxes and reading their labels. "Try this one; Eleven inches, dogwood, phoenix feather."
Harry gave it a wave, only to have it snatched away by the wandsmith.
"Thirteen inches, mahogany, unicorn tail hair." Mr. Ollivander handed him another wand, and consequently lost a chair as Harry waved it. "Evidently not the one."
Time passed, and hours went by as Harry received wands, only to either have them snatched away or cause destruction to Mr. Ollivander's property. However, the man showed continuous patience and failed to show any anger at the destruction. "Tricky customer, I see… you seem very unpopular with the wands. After all, it is they who choose the wizard, not vice-versa.
"Try this one, fourteen inches, phoenix feather, made from yew," said Ollivander. "A very capable wand; can excel in just about any subject. Unfortunately, such a wand was also the one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and thus has fallen out of style as of late."
The minute Harry's fingers touched the wand, he felt… right. It was a rush, and he felt a sensation rush through his body and into the wand, then back to him again. He waved it a little, causing crimson sparks and vapor to spread in front of him.
"I'd say that's the one! I think we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…" said Ollivander. Harry paid for the wand and exited the shop, not bothered at all by the fact that his wand was nearly identical to that of the most recent Dark Lord.
Ollivander stared at the boy as he headed for the Leaky Cauldron, rubbing his chin. "Indeed… we can expect great things from you… perhaps even greater than from the Boy Who Lived…"
0o0o0o0o0o0
Harry lay in his bed, twirling his wand in his hands. He had rented out a room at the Leaky Cauldron, knowing that his uncle would not be picking him up. The sun blazed against the horizon, giving the sky an orange hue. He had looked through his books in advance upon getting his room, and was very tempted to start practicing… but he knew that he'd get an owl from the Ministry faster than he could spit.
However… he had a plan.
After the sun had set, and the night had taken hold over the Alley, Harry covered himself in the cloak he had bought at Madam Malkin's.
AN: Yo. So yeah, I bet you guys noticed I failed to get Harry a pet… well, frankly, Harry doesn't want one. See you next chapter…
Crimson, Chapter Four: Adventures in Knockturn Alley!