Chapter III: Let The Games Begin
Harry awoke with a gasp, clutching the soft white sheets around him. His mind was awhirl with emotions, thoughts, and memories of his recent conversation with Namshiel. For a moment, he was frightened- had it all been a dream?
"I am here, my son," came Namshiel's deep voice from somewhere to his right. Harry turned his head to the side, and saw Namshiel there, standing at his shoulder.
"Did that work?" Harry asked worriedly, heart fluttering like a bird. Can you teach me magic now?"
Namshiel chuckled and ruffled Harry's hair. "Most certainly, my host. Look at your left hand."
Harry looked down at his appendage, and immediately screamed. His hand wasn't the same as it had been the night before. Where there had been smooth, unblemished flesh there was now an odd, raised, circular scar. What was worse was that Harry fancied that he could almost feel something moving under the scar.
Mr. Namshiel hurriedly shushed him. "It is of no concern, dear child. This is merely the physical manifestation of our partnership – my Coin, embedded within your flesh. This way, you never need worry about losing it, or having it taken from you."
Harry stopped hollering after Namshiel's reassurances, but he continued hyperventilating.
"You didn't tell me that this would happen!" he accused crossly. He was fairly sure that he would have thought twice about letting someone stick bits of metal in his body!
"If it is the scar that so upsets you, I can remove it," Namshiel offered, extending a hand.
Well, now that Harry thought about it, the scar was rather interesting. But still, he didn't like having a foreign object in his body.
"The scar isn't the problem!" he said snappishly, pulling his arm back. "What if the coin, I don't know, infects me or something? Did you wash it?"
Namshiel arched an imperious eyebrow, making Harry feel rather dense.
"Harry," he began, speaking very slowly and clearly, "believe me when I say that neither infection – nor sickness, for that matter- shall ever bother you again. You are now beyond the mortal ken. Bacteria and viruses do not grow on my coin, in any case. My essence resides within it, and I am very particular about the company I keep."
"Alright," Harry said, poking the raised skin. He'd made his choice, and if he couldn't trust Namshiel, then who was he to trust?
"For now, simply relax. You are in the care of my most trusted friend, excepting yourself. As you will find out shortly, there are benefits apart from the magical involved with becoming my host. I do believe that I hear Jeeves approaching," Namshiel said, and vanished without ceremony. There was a rap at the door.
"Uh—come in," Harry called loudly. He wasn't sure if that was what he was supposed to do. After all, this wasn't his home. He supposed that was both a good and a bad thing.
The heavy door swung open, and an impeccably dressed man of middle age entered, bearing a covered tray.
"Good morning, sir," the man greeted him cheerfully, moving across the carpeted floors as silently as a cat, seeming to almost float across the room.
"And a good morning to you, Mr., um, Jeeves."
Jeeves froze for a second, and then scrutinized Harry intensely, which made him feel uncomfortable. He was a naturally retiring child.
"Curious. Most curious indeed," Harry could've sworn he heard him mutter.
"Pardon me?" asked Harry, mildly offended. Was Mr. Jeeves talking about his hand? He didn't know how the older man might have seen it, but he thought it possible.
"It's nothing, sir. Merely a small cough I've developed. Are you wanting your breakfast now, Mr. Potter, or later?"
"Uh, now, thank you," Harry decided, just as his stomach growled loudly. He really was hungry, and that was saying something The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, exactly, but he'd never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. He'd often had to wait until it was convenient for them to let him out of the cupboard and feed him, which sometimes took a great deal of time. He was accustomed to hunger.
Harry blushed, but Jeeves merely smiled indulgently, removed the silver cover from the platter, and set it on a table.
"Don't worry yourself about it, sir. We'll have you fat and sleek in no time, a true hog of Epicurus' herd."
Harry drooled at the delicious smells wafting from the tray, and could barely stop himself from digging in with his hands when Jeeves set the tray on his lap and removed the silver cover.
"There you are, sir. A full English breakfast. Should you desire more, you need only ring for me," Jeeves informed Harry as he bowed and excused himself.
"'Fank you," Harry replied, voice muffled by a mouthful of fried tomatoes, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the man's obeisance. Was he bowing to Mr. Namshiel in his head, perhaps?
He nearly choked on a rasher of crisp bacon when Namshiel appeared in front of him.
The man looked him up and down, a faint frown on his face, tapping his fingers against his chin.
"I think that one of the first matters to hand, my child, is to teach you proper manners. No," he pronounced, holding up a hand as Harry sputtered and choked a reply, "it is quite necessary. It may very well be that you have never before had occasion to use proper manners, and therefore no reason to learn them. That is no longer the case."
Harry didn't agree. The only thing that had changed about his world was magic. Manners bought up memories of Aunt Petunia, and her nagging.
"I don't need to learn manners. I'm not going to use them. All I want to learn is magic."
"This is not negotiable," Namshiel declared firmly, shaking his head. "This is not the forgiving, comfortable world of mortals, my host. Etiquette in the magical world is deadlier than any spell or sword. If you refuse to learn, you will die, regardless of your magical power."
Harry swallowed hard.
Maybe, just maybe, manners might be worth learning, he thought to himself.
"Mr. Jeeves shall teach you of such things. When you are finished, I shall begin your instruction in the basic principles of magic, and magical history," Namshiel concluded, vanishing again.
Harry gobbled down the rest of the scrumptious breakfast.
As Harry Potter slaked his thirst and satisfied his hunger, Namshiel quietly observed from the back of his mindscape. Occasionally, the boy would make a sudden movement, and the Fallen would mentally tense. Nothing ever came of those movements, and so Namshiel eventually concluded that there was nothing left to worry about, though he was still greatly alarmed when Harry choked on a bit of food and began coughing violently.
"It would appear," he murmured contentedly to himself, "that my gamble was largely successful."
Namshiel was no smith, but he knew of the basics of the art. A sword had to be heated, beaten into shape, and the cooled and sharpened. Otherwise, it would bend and give in battle, chip and shatter.
The boy was innocent and righteous, true enough, but Namshiel attributed that partially to inexperience. Children, in his experience, were often capable of more thoughtless and violent acts than the average adult. The only difference was that they were unable to enforce their will upon the world with as much force. Now that he could put that power at Harry's fingertips, the boy would fall. When he did, Namshiel would break him to his will.
He was still unsure as to his actual ability to subsume the boy's consciousness and take over his body, his normal modus operandi. Something odd had happened when he entered Harry's mind, some foreign magic had resisted him, materializing itself as a massive granite wall.
He had overcome it, of course- as if any mortal magic could resist one of the Fallen!
The more troubling thing was that the magic had not been completely familiar to him. Elements of it reminded him greatly of sympathetic magic (or blood magic) and yet other parts of wards and lastly – he sneered in disgust- of faith.
He hypothesized that this spell had been responsible for Potter's resistance to the Killing Curse, given the Healer's story. The combination would indeed have been an extraordinarily potent shield, though it would doubtlessly have expended a great deal of its initial power in reflecting the curse. Namshiel also supposed that it was likewise responsible for suppressing the lingering malign magic attached to his Coin. It was possible that it might have raised difficulties concerning full possession in the future, but that was irrelevant. No, what irked him the most was the lingering taint of dark magic surrounding the blood ward. Blood magic was not inherently dark, but there was something about the ward he could not place . . .
Namshiel shook his head, dispelling an odd musky smell that reminded him strongly of Saluriel, and moved his hand over the table once again, Banishing the tea set and creating an ornate black-and-green chessboard.
Namshiel picked up one piece, savoring the illusory feeling of the cool marble beneath his wrinkled fingers, and moved the green pawn forwards.
Pawns were interesting, he reflected. No game could be won without them, and he was playing the longest game.
"Alea iacta est," Namshiel gloated. "Let the game begin anew."
"Does Mr. Jeeves own this home?" Harry asked the shade of Namshiel as he brushed his teeth.
"No, he does not. Mr. Jeeves is my butler."
Harry colored and put his toothbrush down. "Oh. I'd just thought he was a gentleman or something, just from his clothes."
"No, I'm afraid not. There are slight signs that should inform you, once you know your etiquette. Oh," he added, smiling, "and by-the-by, this is not a house. Unless I am much mistaken, I believe we are at the Langham, in London."
"Whoa," Harry breathed, remembering his drowsy conversation with Mr. Archleone the night before. "Mr. Archleone said you were staying at a hotel, but he didn't say it was such a posh one!"
"Mr. Archleone? Ah, you must mean Nicodemus."
"Is he a butler too?" Harry enquired. He liked Mr. Archleone; he'd seemed very friendly, if not as kind and fatherly as Namshiel. "Or he is your friend? Will I see him again soon?"
Namshiel's voice took on a slight icy cast when he replied. "Nicodemus is a business associate, of sorts. I wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, but I do see him rather regularly. He is, loosely speaking, my superior. Never, ever, offer him insult or cross him in any way. Do you understand?"
"Why?" Harry badgered. "He seemed like such a nice man."
"Do you understand me Harry Potter!?" Namshiel boomed, looming over him. In the room, the fire flared and shadows crept up the wall, reminding Harry of his recent experience in the Garden.
"Yes, Mr. Namshiel," Harry said, recoiling slightly from the dark figure in front of him. He didn't understand why Mr. Namshiel was so angry!
"In any event, Mr. Potter," Mr. Namshiel told him, voice growing kinder, as the room returned to normal, "it is time to learn some magic, no?"
Harry's eyes lit up and he nodded violently, excited. Namshiel's lips twitched in amusement, but he guided Harry to the main room, where he began to speak in his soothing voice.
"Magic," he pronounced gravely, "is the force of Creation. It is the cause of all that has ever been, all that ever shall be in this plane, and is the most powerful force to exist."
Harry listened attentively, his eyes wide. He hadn't realised magic was so powerful, so important!
"Think of it as energy as much as power and belief," Namshiel continued. "For a price, it allows you to alter reality on a fundamental level. This is, however, where general magic splits into several paths: faith, fundamental, true, and wand-based magic. For your purposes, you ever need only concern yourself with the last two, and for now, the last one in particular. You are a natural wand-wizard. The ability to use wand- magic is a hereditary trait passed down from a person's ancestors, which allows witches and wizards to practise witchcraft and wizardry."
Harry didn't really understand that at all, and he told Mr. Namshiel so, and the older man sighed.
"You are very young, Mr. Potter. At this early stage, a practical lesson be in order, but I shall expect you to learn more of the theory at a later date. For now, we shall settle for a bit of wandless magic. Now, repeat after me: Accio."
"Accio!" Harry exclaimed loudly, concentrating until he was red in the face and his eyes bugged out. To his disappointment, nothing happened.
"Accio," Namshiel commanded smoothly, casually flipping his hand at a nearby chair, which immediately leapt forward several feet.
"Accio!" Harry hollered again, trying to mimic Namshiel's gestures, but to no result. He scrunched his face up in disappointment.
"Why isn't it working for me?" Harry pouted, thrusting his bottom lip forward. It worked just fine for Namshiel, and it looked easy as well! It wasn't fair!"
"It takes practice, and a solid grounding in magical theory, my dear child. First principles, my host. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing ask: what is it in itself? What is its nature?"
Harry stared at Namshiel. He thought he could feel his brains oozing out his ears. Namshiel noticed this, and heaved a great sigh.
"Or, in the case of some young boys, merely lots and lots of practice."
"Please take a seat, Mr. Potter," Jeeves smiled warmly at him. "I've taken the liberty of serving dinner, as per those instructions of Mr. Namshiel's that you relayed to me earlier. I do hope it is acceptable to you."
"Perfectly," Harry acquiesced, happily sitting down at the table. He was of a less-than-average height, and so had some difficulties in managing the utensils at the tall table. Eventually, he discovered that grasping them as though he intended to suffocate them worked quite well, even if he was forced to harpoon his dinner like a whaler of old.
This was his first time, however, dining with Jeeves, and the butler immediately corrected him on the use of his utensils.
"The spoon and fork are not generally used over-hand, but under, in polite society," Jeeves remarked rather wryly. "Nor is your knife the weapon with which you intend to skewer a wild boar."
Harry blushed crimson (it happened a rather lot, these days, he realised), but the good humor in which Jeeves obviously intended the remark prevented any tantrums, crying, or other untoward behavior.
"Why do I have to learn about manners and etiquette and stuff, Mr. Jeeves?" asked Harry, switching his grip on his utensils. "Mr. Namshiel said that sometimes people even died if they didn't know about it!"
"That's very true," Mr. Jeeves said solemnly, looking him in the eye. "Wars have been started over breaches of etiquette in the supernatural world, you know. One very recent one is still ongoing, I believe."
"How did it start?" asked Harry, his mouth full. He wondered if perhaps the instigator had used his utensils wrong too. But why on earth would someone start a war over that?
Etiquette is more than table manners, dear host, Harry could hear Namshiel whisper to him, breaking his long silence.
"It's a rather long story," Jeeves told him, gesturing for him to wipe his mouth. "Are you quite sure you want to hear it?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Harry chanted until Jeeves relented and began to weave the story for him.
"You see, Mr. Potter, there once was a very silly wizard who accepted an invitation to a masquerade ball, hosted by some acquaintances of mine. However, an acquaintance (of the female persuasion) of his also wished to attend and that presented a problem, for . . ."
"Again," Namshiel demanded, no mercy in his voice.
"But I don't want to!" Harry protested, bored out of his mind. "This has got to be the most useless spell ever! Nothing is even happening!"
"Perhaps," Namshiel commented testily, "if you put more effort into understanding the magic and theory behind the Summoning Charm, you might have better results at wandless casting."
"Not the books again," Harry grumbled, dramatically throwing a hand over his eyes. Even trying to cast useless spells was better than boring old books. Nathaniel and Jeeves were both sticklers for books, especially if they contained absolutely no pictures and printed in minute script in double columns on every page.
But it's better than the Dursleys, his conscience reminded him. Loads better.
"Knowledge is power, my dear child, and knowledge of the arcane is the highest order thereof," Namshiel began, only for Harry to bury his head under a cushion on the nearby sofa.
The Fallen began to knead his illusory brow. He could feel a headache coming on, despite his complete and utter lack of a physical head. He was not accustomed to working with hosts, let alone young ones.
"Then again," he permitted, "I suppose that I might show you a small feat of greater magic."
Harry jerked his head out from under the cushion. Greater magic?! That sounded promising, and significantly more exciting.
"Greater magic? Is that like what I've been learning?"
Namshiel shook his venerable head.
"No, Mr. Potter. First off, it is debatable as to whether you have actually learned any magic. Secondly, the magic that I have been attempting to teach you is mere wand-magic. Greater magic, true magic, is significantly more powerful than wand-magic. The two are as different as night and day. You are a natural-born wand-wizard, my boy, but have no natural talents in true magic."
Harry's shoulders slumped.
"It is the case," Namshiel went on, "however, that you were fortunate enough to take up a certain silver Coin. It is within my abilities to allow you to develop true magic, to grant you the same power a trueborn wizard would wield. But all power has its price."
"What price?" demanded Harry suspiciously. He rather suspected another lesson magical theory was waiting in the wings, and he wanted to avoid it. He found such lessons to be detrimental to his health and sanity.
"Discipline," Namshiel explained. "It is an absolute necessity. The power wielded by wand-wizards is insignificant next to the power of a trueborn wizard, let alone one drawing upon my power. Until I can be sure that you can wield such might properly, apply it carefully, and have abandoned the naïve notions of childhood, I will not teach you."
Namshiel's eyes glittered.
"But perhaps a taste of that power is in order, to whet your appetite . . .," he drawled, whirling to extend a hand towards one of the walls in the dreamscape.
"Fuego," he hissed madly, "pyrofuego!"
Now it was Harry's eyes that glittered, reflecting the firelight as he watched with an open mouth.
At that moment, he promised himself that he would learn this true magic, whatever the cost. This, this was power, of the kind normal people could only dream of. If he knew it, he'd never be bullied again, never be forced into the cupboard again. Then he would be the one in control, the one with the friends and expensive toys.
And Namshiel would teach it to him.
It was a very different Harry Potter who was staring into the fireplace an indeterminate amount of time later. It was a quiet thing, the difference, and not one of the physical kind. Harry looked almost the same, save for one thing.
Save for his eyes.
Those eyes, once as green as freshly pickled toads, now seemed to glow faintly with a sickly green light. It was a subtle thing, hardly noticeable save in the darkest of moonless night.
He was happy, though, living with Jeeves and Namshiel, in some posh manor that Jeeves had contrived to rent. Under Jeeves' instruction, he had picked up many of the finer points of etiquette. As a matter of fact, he found it a curiously compelling subject. It made him feel rather upper-class, even like nobility, to show off the manners he had learned.
The fact that he would most probably die if he made a misstep in that area also heavily encouraged him to adhere to it as though it were a law of physics.
Under Namshiel's guidance, he learnt more of the secret world of magic. But he also learnt some small measure of discipline – the old man would brook neither disobedience nor disrespect.
Again, came Namshiel's voice in his head.
Harry sucked in a deep breath, and then carefully reached out a hand, extending his will,
"Accio," he murmured, drawing his hand in as though he were grabbing something. Across the room, a gilded candlestick shuddered, and then reluctantly began to move towards Harry's hand at a slow pace. Only a few inches from its destination, however, it stuttered in its movement and fell to the ground.
"See?" Harry said proudly, hoisting the object aloft. "It's perfect!"
Hardly, he heard Namshiel sniff disparagingly. You have proved able to cast only one wandless spell in all the months I have been teaching you. Only one wand-spell of any type, I might add. Still, it was not . . . badly done.
Harry scowled. He didn't like being reminded of his constant failures with wandless magic. It lowered his self-esteem, which the workers at school had always told the children was A Very Bad Thing.
Then again, that had never really seemed to apply to him. His self-esteem was plenty low from living with the Dursleys, Dudley in particular.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered petulantly, pulling a face. "Why can't I have a wand, anyhow?"
"We've been over this," Namshiel reminded him, suddenly materializing. "It is not yet time for you to enter the wizarding world, and wands can only be purchased there. In any case, your aptitude for true magic more than makes up for your inadequacies., in the area of wand-magic. I must admit to being rather surprised. I would have thought the opposite to be true."
Harry puffed out his chest slightly. See? He didn't need to learn wand-magic after all!
"Perhaps your time at a magical school will improve your abilities in that respect. I hardly consider myself a master of wand-magic. I'm sure that your teachers there are more qualified than myself."
"School?" Harry queried, trying to divine what Namshiel had in mind. He didn't remember ever talking about any magical school, really. He'd just assumed Namshiel would continue to tutor him. Truth be told, he hadn't even though much about other wizards. Namshiel had taught him everything about them that he thought Harry needed to know, and that was that.
"Yes, Mr. Potter, school. It is customary for British wizards to attend one Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, if I'm not mistaken."
"Sounds silly," Harry commented after a moment's consideration. Truly, it sounded as though someone who had only a passing grasp of the English language had a few pints too many and then decided to go about naming farmyard animals. Or, perhaps, naming Dursleys.
"The name of the school is hardly relevant," Namshiel stated, apparently miffed. "You are expected to attend that school, and so you shall. You cannot afford to act remotely abnormal."
"Why not?"
"Three reasons," Namshiel began, counting them off on his fingers. "Firstly, there is my existence. I have many enemies, Harry. You cannot let it be known that I have been teaching you, for they would surely seek revenge on me by harming you. Even your friends might turn against you if they learned about me. They would not understand our bond, how I love you like my own son."
Harry tried to stop his eyes from watering at the sad tone of the old man's voice. It ripped at his heart, to think that anyone might try to hurt him or Namshiel simply because they did not understand them. Namshiel, who had shown him so many wondrous things, and been more affectionate towards him than his own flesh and blood. He angrily dashed at his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper.
"Secondly," Namshiel continued, affecting to not notice Harry's tears (for which Harry was grateful), "the wand-wizards of Britain (and probably all wand wizards, come to think of it) know nothing of trueborn wizardry. If you let it slip that you possess the powers of a trueborn, I cannot say what might occur. Thirdly, I have reason to believe that you also have enemies amongst the wizarding community."
Harry was shocked. "Me?" he protested incredulously, wet eyes forgotten. He hadn't even known of the existence of magic before Namshiel bonded to him. "But I don't know anyone magical!"
"I rather suspect it has less to do with you personally," Nathaniel mused, "than the circumstances surrounding the admittedly mysterious demise of your parents."
There was an uncomfortable silence as Harry processed that bit of information.
"Did you know my parents? Did they really die in a car crash?"
Namshiel sighed.
"Harry, I have not meddled in the affairs of wand-wizards in centuries. I'm afraid I didn't know your parents. As to the manner of their deaths, I confess that I am ignorant. All I know is that they were listed in the registry as having died of natural causes, not in an automobile accident. If I knew anything more, I would have informed you immediately."
"Oh," Harry said in a small voice. He'd hoped Namshiel, who seemed to know everything, could tell him more.
"In any case," Namshiel said sternly, jerking Harry out of his gloomy thoughts, "you cannot possibly receive anyone here. To keep up appearances, no-one must ever know that you left the Dursleys."
"Oh, no!" Harry retorted vehemently, shaking his head, dark curls bouncing. Absolutely not! Of all places, he least wanted to visit, Number Four Privet Drive was at the top.
"Oh, yes," Namshiel parried. "Why do you fear to return there, my child? They cannot touch you now. You are, for all purposes, a young god amongst insects. With my aid, you will find life there more than tolerable. How does a spot of revenge sound?"
"Revenge?" Harry asked. "How do you mean?"
"Young Dudley looks almost like a porker," Nathaniel pointed out, amusement dancing in his eyes. "And all porkers have curly tails. We can't have a porker without a curly tail, now, can we?"
Harry smiled wickedly.
Uncle Vernon was busy watching the news from his big armchair, as he did every evening. He was slouched there, eyes barely open as he attempted to conserve as much brainpower as possible. Had anyone else seen him, they might have concluded that someone had poured a heaping serving of gravy into his clothes and let it form a skin.
He was interrupted most rudely when he heard the rumble of an engine just outside his home. He did his level best to ignore it, as he was a tolerant man, but the sound kept on going. Perhaps the vehicle was simply sitting there, idling?
After a dozen or so minutes of constant annoyance, Vernon heaved himself out of his armchair, switched off the telly, and opened the door to see what was going on and tell off the driver. He stopped in his tracks when he caught his first glimpse of the white Rolls-Royce. Vernon often judged men by what cars they drove, and he was speechless at the sight.
He nearly went into some sort of fit when none other than his ungrateful little nephew hopped out of the car, smearing his grubby little fingers on the handle.
"Boy!" Uncle Vernon boomed. "What in blazes are you doing back here, and in such a car!?"
Harry looked at the blustering, red man. He felt rather like he imagined matadors did when confronted by a snorting bull. An immensely overweight, clumsy, and admittedly dull bull, but a bull nonetheless.
Remember, came Namshiel's soothing voice. Remember your lessons, my beloved son. This man holds no power over you. Play him, like a puppet on a string, a fish on a line. You need only repeat what I say. . .
He smiled as the silky words wormed their way through his brain.
"And it is so nice to see you again too, Uncle Vernon," he remarked sarcastically, trying to imitate Namshiel's aristocratic mien and wintery voice as best he could (but not quite getting there. His prepubescent voice wasn't nearly authoritative enough). "Surely you didn't forget that I was only supposed to stay with Lord Nathaniel for a few months? It's been nearly eight months, now."
Uncle Vernon started at Harry's tone and abnormally sophisticated sentences. He narrowed his piggy little eyes at his nephew.
"What have you done?" he hissed. "You'd better not have lost me my investment, boy!"
"On the contrary," Harry responded blandly, repeating what Namshiel was whispering to him, "I have secured it. Mr. Namshiel was most pleased by my behavior, and sent along someone to see the deal through."
Then the driver's side door opened and closed, and Jeeves stepped out onto the lawn of Privet Drive. As always, Jeeves was dressed impeccably, an exuded an aura of propriety and control. Namshiel had been confident that Jeeves could deal with Uncle Vernon, and Harry believed him. His trust was soon validated.
"Mr. Dursley," Jeeves put in, voice oozing charm and authority, "I think we should talk about this inside. It's hardly fitting to discuss important matters on the lawn, like some common rabble."
"Of course, of course," Vernon simpered, his arrogant manner becoming obsequious. He led the others inside, bowing and scraping before Jeeves, to Harry's disgust. To take his mind off of the revolting sight, he began pondering all the ways in which he could now use magic to make Dudley's life miserable.
Was that wrong? Harry certainly didn't think so. Turnabout was fair play, and Dudley had had it coming for a long, long times.
Might I give him a tail yet? he mentally inquired of Namshiel. He received a curt denial in response and then proceeded to trail after Jeeves, stung.
They passed through Aunt Petunia's immaculate entryway, and went straight into the sitting room. Harry did his best to make himself inconspicuous while Jeeves sat down across from Uncle Vernon.
"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia called from the other room. "What are you doing?"
"Business!" his uncle responded. "The boy is back, along with someone from Sir Nathaniel!"
"Lord Nathaniel," Jeeves corrected him as Aunt Petunia hurried into the room with a hastily constructed tray of refreshments.
"Mr. Archleone told me he was a Sir!" Uncle Vernon sputtered in amazement. He looked a rather lot like a video of an elephant seal Harry had seen on the television. So much so, in fact, that Harry was forced to cover his mouth so they wouldn't see him smiling.
In the back of his mind, he fancied he heard a faint sigh of exasperation.
"It's a relatively recent development," Jeeves said delicately. "It is entirely possible that Mr. Archleone was unaware of the title."
"A Lord, doing business with me," Uncle Vernon whispered. "Who would have thought it? In any case, sir, how can I help you?"
"Well, Mr. Dursley, fortunately for you, Lord Nathaniel was most taken with the boy. Reminds him of his deceased son, and he dotes upon your nephew like he was his own child."
Vernon's mouth fell open as he looked at Harry, who smirked at him.
"Harry didn't do anything odd, or behave like a juvenile delinquent?"
Jeeves shook his head. "On the contrary, sir; he conducted himself like a perfect gentleman. I was most impressed by such behavior, given his tender age."
"I'm warning you," Uncle Vernon blustered. "He's tricked you. I don't know how he's managed to trick you, but I know he has. The boy is a good-for-nothing, a truant, a – a—blighter!"
Jeeves held up a large hand, halting Uncle Vernon's mad rant.
"Lord Nathaniel," he chided softly, "does not share your pessimistic appraisal of the child. He believes him to have unmatched potential. Moreover, should you ever meet with him, I would refrain from saying such things in his presence, seeing as Harry reminds him of his beloved son. The good man has a short temper."
Uncle Vernon was quiet, but he glared at Harry, who had been standing in the corner. At first Harry shrunk back, but then the soothing whispers started up again in the back of his mind and he glared right back. He'd had quite enough of being bullied by Uncle Vernon, thank you very much.
"But young Mr. Potter is not why I am here, at least not primarily" Mr. Jeeves lied, dragging Uncle Vernon's gaze away from Harry. "I am here to tell you that at young Mr. Potter's urging, Lord Nathaniel had decided to go about investing in Grunnings, with some conditions."
"Well then, let's have them!" exclaimed Uncle Vernon, but Mr. Jeeves was momentarily prevented from replying by the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.
"Boy," Vernon began, but then caught himself. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.
"Ah, Harry, would you mind getting the mail?"
"Of course not, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied pleasantly, and went off to get the mail. He was glad to get away from Uncle Vernon's forced politeness. He knew his uncle wouldn't be half so kind if Mr. Jeeves weren't there, and suspected Uncle Vernon might try to lock him in the cupboard after Jeeves left.
Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who appeared to be vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and - a letter for Harry.
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. This had to be it, for no one else, save perhaps Jeeves, would have written to him. He had no friends, no other relatives - he didn't belong to the library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back, and he had been gone for months. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive,
Little Whinging,
Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling with excitement, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.
It is here. It has come. I can sense the magic. Bring the letter unto your guardian, and all shall be revealed.
"The mail, Uncle Vernon," Harry reported, presenting the mail to him during a lull in the conversation for a tea break. Vernon grabbed the letters and hurriedly thumbed through them, Dudley looking over his shoulder. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.
"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk."
"Da!" Dudley gasped, tugging at the final item. "Look, this letter is addressed to Harry!"
"Who'd be writing to him?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.
"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped, Mr. Jeeves altogether forgotten.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment, it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.
"Vernon! Oh, my goodness - Vernon! Whatever will we do?"
"Ignore it," he said finally. "Yes, that it. We'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer. . . Yes, that's best. . . we won't do anything. . ."
"But-"
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"
"Unfortunately, Mr. Dursley," Jeeves boomed, voice growing unusually deep and harsh as he rose up and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, "that's no longer your decision."
There was complete and utter silence in the room.
"No longer my decision?" Vernon scoffed. "Pah! What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say," Jeeves returned. "Lord Nathaniel sees an opportunity in sending the child to Hogwarts. It would be most unwise to oppose him."
"That name!" gasped Aunt Petunia. "How do you know that name?"
"Please, madam," Jeeves said, "surely you did not think you were the only so-called 'Muggles' to be aware of the magical community? In the highest echelons of our government and society, you will find those who know all about magic and wizards."
Uncle Vernon turned an alarming shade of purple. Harry thought he now looked like an eggplant.
Hmm, steamed eggplant. Now there was an idea, Harry thought. Then he realized what he had just contemplated doing, and shoved it to the back of his mind in horror.
"By Jove!" Vernon roared. "It's a conspiracy!"
"Yes, I suppose it is a conspiracy of sorts," Jeeves allowed blandly. "But do not seek to meddle in the affairs of wizards, Mr. Dursley, or of the magical world at large. Far older and more dangerous things than wizards exist, and if you delve too deeply you shall inevitably cross one. But that is neither here nor there. For now, you shall be sending your son to Hogwarts."
"I most certainly will not! How dare you, sir, to speak to me like that in my own house!"
"That's enough, Uncle Vernon," Harry commanded, finally entering the debate. "Why are you so dead-set against my learning magic?"
"Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured - and your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion - asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end-"
"My parents? "Harry whispered, his anger growing. "The parents you told me died in a car crash? That you've always insisted were good-for-nothing bums?"
"They were!" Aunt Petunia shrieked suddenly. "And you will be too! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school-and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"
She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.
"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal - and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"
"Yeah," Dudley parroted, obviously unaware of what was going on, but unwilling to miss an opportunity to insult Harry, "and then we got stuck with you, freak!"
Harry was angry right then, so intensely angry that he felt as though he might catch flame. They had insulted his parents, and in doing so, him! He, who was so far above them as to be unreachable! He couldn't let this insult pass!
He knew only one release, one way to stop the murderous rage that was burning up within him, one way to repay the Dursleys for their insults, and that was magic.
"You could always give him a tail," Namshiel whispered in his ear, "but that's not what you want right now, is it? Something more . . . substantial . . . is in order. You may not know the words, but you have the Will."
Fire, perhaps? Would Dudley burn like a tallow candle, thrashing madly as the fire consumed him? Would he smell like cooking bacon? Or maybe lightning, to see the spasms as the muscles tore themselves apart, as he was wracked with convulsions?
He had already unconsciously gathered the necessary raw power about him, leashed it to his will, when the enormity of what he was about to do stuck him, and he changed his intention mid-thought
"Hexus!" Harry snapped, channeling the raging magic into the first and weakest Namshiel had taught him.
Sparks flew all about as the magic hit the power lines situated throughout the Dursley home, knocking out the lights, burning out the radios and television, and generally wreaking havoc. But the magic was powerful, fueled by negative emotions, and perhaps something darker.
The entirety of Number 4 Privet Drive went dark, the only illumination provided by the setting sun.
Harry breathed deep of the sulfur-scented air as he directed his gaze towards the cowering Dursleys. Petunia and Vernon were frozen on the settee, which Dudley had somehow contrived to squeeze behind. Petunia's tea dropped from her nerveless hands, soiling the spotless rug.
Namshiel appeared in the corner of his vision, and sighed disappointedly before disappearing.
"I believe I had said something about maintaining control, Harry. That was not control or focused retribution. That was wanton, purposeless destruction. Tut, tut."
Harry didn't respond, too shocked by his burst of murderous rage. He'd been about to kill Dudley, for Heaven's sakes!
You are becoming hysterical, Harry. Calm down. I assure you that your actions were entirely justified, and I support them.
Justified? Harry mentally shrieked, hands shaking uncontrollably. I might have killed Dudley! How on earth is that justified?
You were justified, my host, Jeeves said, his calm voice cutting through Harry's panic, because you are my host. Nothing came of your actions. By virtue of my sponsorship alone, may not all things you do be justified? May your wrongs not be forgiven? Moreover, would that not have been justice, however extreme, for the hurts he inflicted upon you?
What? That isn't right! What if-if I had actually hurt him?
In that case, I rather imagine the world would have been in your debt.
Jeeves gently pushed the stunned child back down onto his seat, and then turned to loom over the petrified Dursleys.
"I believe that young Harry has just proven my point, about not meddling with wizards," he remarked dryly. "And he is young, untrained. You would more than likely see a repeat incident if he did not receive proper training."
"A repeat incident?" whispered a pale Uncle Vernon. "A repeat incident? The damned boy just about destroyed our house!"
"I'm sure that Lord Nathaniel would be more than happy to compensate you," Jeeves offered, smoothly glossing over the shorter man's protests.
Vernon continued to complain.
"Twice over."
Vernon snapped his mouth shut, and then looked over to Petunia.
"Petunia, dearest? Is what this man says about wizards true?"
"I-I couldn't say for certain," Petunia said, cowed by what she had just seen, "but I believe so. Lily also had some incidents when she was a child. I think they said something of the sort to Mother and Father."
Vernon appeared to think this over hard with his tiny brain.
"I'm not paying for some crackpot old fool to teach that piker magic tricks!" he roared when he made up his mind.
Jeeves didn't bat an eye. "And here, I think, we come to the crux of the problem. Why exactly, Mr. Dursley, do you so loathe magic?"
"It's unnatural, loathsome! It leads to nothing but sloth and-"
"You are listing qualities which you dislike about it, Mr. Dursley. None of those are sufficient reason to so loathe it."
"The people who practice it are odd, and unfit for decent society. They live on unemployment and ride brooms, for Chrissake! Just look at James Potter!" Vernon glowered.
"I suppose that is a reasonable assumption to make," Jeeves allowed. "True, many wizards and witches of the more common variety are people that one ought not be seen in public with. And it is not altogether unreasonable to assume that they have no money. That is, however, a great error, and one that I feel you need to be corrected on."
"What d'you mean?"
"Pound-for-pound, Mr. Dursley, the average wizard is wealthier than the average Muggle-"
"Hate that bloody word," Vernon growled from behind clenched teeth.
"-normal person, then. The economy is so well-off that it is actually still based entirely upon the gold standard. Expensive luxuries can be conjured up in the blink of an eye. Many of the wealthier families have extensive faults, filled with hereditary treasure."
"He was telling the truth, then," Vernon gasped, seemingly amazed. Harry didn't ever remember seeing him in such a state before, with his chubby mouth hanging open, and his piggy eyes wide. "That bastard was telling the truth!"
"I do not know to whom you refer, sir, but most probably. What is of the utmost concern to you, however, is how you might profit by it. I'm rather alarmed that a man of such sharp business acumen as you are reputed to be had not already thought of it."
"How, exactly?" Uncle Vernon asked quickly, an avaricious gleam in his eyes. "Exploiting their gold standard currency, perhaps."
"I'm afraid that wouldn't be a very good idea, Mr. Dursley. The coinage is heavily enchanted, and its secrets zealously guarded by vicious creatures. No, I was referring to the use of magic to better the Grunnings company as a whole."
Vernon was stumped. "How would that work?"
"You make drills, do you not? I thought so. Then imagine this: using dross metal to create your drills. Normally, of course, such a drill would never pass inspection. But have a wizard cast a weak Unbreakable charm on the drills, so that it will fade away after some use. The savings on that alone would be astronomical. It would be far more difficult, but a proficient enough wizard might create the drill bits out of rock or dirt. There are some issues involving the integration of technology with magic, but I believe it would work on something as simple as drills. Even if that were not the case, my lord knows several persons who have been working upon reconciling the two."
A gobsmacked Uncle Vernon was heavily salivating a Jeeves continued.
"But the benefits needn't end there. An enhanced lifespan for you and your family, infallible medicines, and perhaps even physical alterations. Important contacts, even as prominent as members of the royal family. The possibilities are limitless. You need only stretch out your hand and seize the opportunity. Harry Potter could forge that crucial link between yourself and the wizards, if you would only set aside your prejudice and stand with Lord Namshiel and his associates."
Note: Readers may expect a Rating change around the end of First Year. However, this is not, and will never be, a fiction centered around romance.