Thanks for the reviews- there are some brilliantly mixed opinions... makes the lizard grin D
The only responses I really have time for are regarding questions raised about Harry himself... for instance, someone mentioned his arrogance- he is 'supposed to be intimidating but the image of an 11 yr old with a trench-coat, chain-smoking,' etc, despite that image not being intimidating in the slightest. How many children are half as tough, intimidating, clever or mature as they actually think they are? This is mostly a Harry's POV story, something I rarely do, so it'll be to Harry's point of view. If you disbelieve the image of a chain-smoking, ragged-clothed, earringed, lippy, violent, homeless and sociopathic eleven year old then this story isn't for you... and you've also obviously never spent a day in Lewisham.
Aha, speaking of which, please don't lecture an Englishman on believable language. I am English, and being English I have been made aware constantly since the 80s of the- ironic- Americanisation of our language. Yes, Brits say 'Bollocks' and 'Bloody', but not every Brit is Hugh Grant (thank all saints and martyrs). Most use Americanised slang (for the sake of arguement- I won't go into word origins at the moment), and the patterns of speech being realistic are something I pride myself on, as one who has studied languages. If you listen to a conversation between two such real characters, and transcribe it verbatim onto paper, you'd find it a lot more difficult to understand than my feeble translations. I apologise if you find the language of some of the characters rather coarse, but this is merely to create a more believable atmosphere. He may not be as rough as he thinks he is, but he's still pretty rough and so are some of the people he meets.
Enjoy and Peace, GL.
P.S. Please forgive me for Mar. It was pivotal to the plot.
Dumbledore gaped.
So many things ran through his head- where did he get a tattoo? How is it enchanted like that? Why was it so averse to the potion? How in the name of Merlin do I react to this?
What he said was, "Harry… I – I don't understand-"
"Tell me what you put in that drink," the boy demanded, seething.
"Nothing- there was nothing wro-"
"Don't lie to me."
Dumbledore said nothing. He was in shock.
Harry said no more either- he simply grabbed his clothes and-to Dumbledore's wordless surprise- wandlessy flicked them onto himself and mended the shirt with a sweep of his hand.
As Harry marched out, Dumbledore collapsed into his chair, wondering how Harry Potter could have wriggled so free of his grasp.
Harry got to his dormitory as the bell rang for dinner. Some of his peers said things to him but he ignored them, simply collapsing on his bed.
What the hell was he trying to drug me with? Or am I over-reacting- was there nothing in the cup?
But he trusted himself too much to believe that. His distinguished headmaster had been trying to drug him. With what, he couldn't even guess. A truth serum?
He opened the window with a bang, still furious, and swept his trunk up onto his bed. Opening it with the combination 1-2-3-4, his quickest and easiest, in which he kept his vitals, he lifted the lid, pulled out his multi-pack of cigarettes and extracted a 20-pack. He flicked the bottom, hands shaking, after ripping off the packaging.
Reclining into the window seat of the first-year dormitory Harry Potter lit his cigarette with the end of his wand, inhaled, and blew out, forcing himself to relax.
Then he noticed Ron.
The redhead was watching him warily from the doorway. Harry regarded him coldly.
"You know what this is?" he demanded suddenly, holding up the lit, lightly smoking fag.
Ron shook his head, eyes wide.
"This is the last legal connection I have to the streets of muggle London. To a world I thought it would be a good idea to leave behind."
Ron visibly gulped. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
"The – the deceit," Harry said, fighting for the words, "in this place, in the so-called school, is worse than most of the criminal rings of London."
"London?"
"For four years," Harry said, suddenly very, very tired. "Four fucking years."
"Why?"
"Because," Harry said through gritted teeth, "our beloved headmaster saw fit, in all his wisdom, to leave me on the doorstep of my darling relatives. I did what any kid in the situation would do. I ran the fuck out."
Harry had the overwhelming urge to cry. Or scream. He shook his head. Even homeless, he's never felt so lost.
"I wish I'd never been born with magic."
Ron gasped, saying, "How can you say that!?"
"How can I say that, Ron?" Harry laughed mirthlessly. "Because if I hadn't had magic, I would have been killed by my uncle. I wouldn't have healed. If I didn't have my magic, my 'Art', I wouldn't have been beaten by him in the first place. Who knows? Maybe if I hadn't had magic Voldemort wouldn't have come after me."
Ron gasped hugely. He seemed more terrified of Harry than he could ever remember.
After a few moments, Harry staring out the window, Ron, who he'd thought had gone, said, "But you killed him."
"No, Ron," Harry said, feeling wretched. "I'm not some incredible Hero. I didn't kill Voldemort, he killed himself. All I did – all I did was get a scar."
Ron stood there, looking as though he wanted to cry.
"I'm sorry – sorry I said all this, Ron," Harry said, feeling shamed suddenly, unused to apologies. "I – I'll be alright in a bit. I just – I just want to leave here. I miss what I know, and I don't know magic."
"You're like the best in the class, though," Ron said, genuinely confused, reminding Harry of how simple the boy was.
"I read. I remember. There's little else to do when you're..." he swallowed. He choked silently. On your own?
Harry began to cry then, body-wracking sobs, and didn't remember Ron leaving.
He awoke later the next day, having read with wandlight on through most of the night. He wondered if he was late for lessons, and found he didn't actually care.
Putting on his robes and filling the pockets with the things he'd need, he stood and stretched. He saw Neville still asleep in his bed and debated on whether he should wake him or not. He decided it wasn't his place, and strode out.
The common room was full of people- the first time Harry had seen it so- and they didn't look like they'd been out for lessons, or even breakfast, yet. Harry walked through the portrait hole and down the stairs, deep in thought, and eventually reached the Entrance Hall. The doors were open- he stared out into the grounds of the castle, fed up, seriously considering leaving.
Just walk out. Just leave.
He knew it was impractical and that at least with his belongings upstairs he couldn't, but it was a nice thought anyway. Any time I need to leave, they can't stop me.
He saw, down a long way onto the grounds, a black boy practising forms. He knew he wouldn't be joining Ali today.
"Harry," an old voice said behind him.
He turned to find Dumbledore standing there, majestic robes on him, looking mournful.
"Yes?" he answered, weary.
"I'd like to apologise. For – for trying to deceive you, last night. It was wrong."
Harry looked at him, his face like a statue. He didn't believe a single word. This guy must be desperate for something...
"Just so you know," Dumbledore continued. "It isn't just you. At the beginning and end of every year, every single student is given a potion. I can't tell you what it is, but it is for their own safety. You have my word that, it being past the first day of term, it is no longer in any of the drinks."
"Your word?" Harry asked, too tired to be properly amused.
"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Just in case you were going to miss breakfast as well as dinner."
Harry shook his head. As he brushed past Dumbledore, heading towards the stairs again, he said, "I've never had much of an appetite anyway."
The library didn't disappoint him at least.
It was filled with books, old and new, most of them huge and bound with leather. He had no doubt he could get them on every subject he liked in here, but didn't bother going past the potions section this morning. Double Potions was his first lesson of the day.
As he brushed up on rudimentary potions before the first class, ignoring his hunger pangs, he was aware of a few people nearby whispering. He didn't even want to know whether it was about him, and found himself wishing it wasn't.
When he looked up, a cow-eyed girl was whispering behind her hand to a friend, looking at him directly, and when their eyes met she jumped and scurried off.
Harry shook his head.
The bell went and he wandered down to the dungeons.
Every class he'd had so far had been silent at the beginning- they were just first years, and new to the classes and the teachers- but no silence had thus far been as uneasy as the one in the Potions classroom.
Snape, tall and dark with long robes that flowed up behind him as he walked, had let them in and a few people actually jumped as the door slammed behind him.
Harry rolled his eyes, sitting at a desk in the middle next to the dumpy kid, Neville. Aha, Harry thought as he stared at Neville. Ollivander's. That's where I know you from.
Professor Snape turned his dark eyes on the whole class, taking in everyone in turn but breezing over Harry as though he didn't exist. He leant over his register and began calling out the names in alphabetical order in a cold, precise voice. Everyone was present. He got to Harry's name.
"Ah yes," he said quietly. "Mr. Potter. Our new celebrity."
Harry frowned at him. He didn't say anything but something about this wizard made him uneasy… he also felt strangely as though he'd met him before somewhere…
Snape finished the register with no more remarks, though Harry caught Malfoy smirking over at him and returned his gaze with a face devoid of emotion. Malfoy eventually looked away.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making," Snape began. "Due to the lack of foolish wand-waving here, many of you will no doubt think this is not proper magic. I don't expect you to actually appreciate the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron, the delicate power of liquids as they creep through the human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to brew fame, bottle glory and even put a stopper in death. That is, if you aren't as big a group of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Pretentious twat, Harry thought. Hermione, sitting next to a Slytherin girl, was on the edge of her seat. Why do I have a bad feeling about this?
"Potter," Snape said suddenly. Harry looked up slowly.
"Yeah?"
"Yes sir."
Harry didn't say anything. Snape's eyes bulged, and he quickly said, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry considered. He was frowning to himself.
"A sleeping draught," he said, unsure.
Snape looked slightly surprised, but quickly hid it, saying, "The sleeping draught, Potter; The Draught of Living Death. Where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?"
Harry didn't know this one. Snape's looming aggression he found a distraction.
"No idea," he said with a shrug.
"Tut, tut – fame clearly isn't everything, is it, Potter?"
"I wouldn't know, Professor, but I'll bear that in mind for my next general knowledge test," Harry said shortly. "Ask me another one then."
Snape looked angrier- he'd gone paler than usual- and said through gritted teeth, "Wha - you - What's the difference, then, Potter, between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"
Harry laughed slightly to himself.
"They're the same plant, just different parts of the tree. That's easy."
"Easy, is it, Potter? So I suppose you think you're a know-it-all, now, hmm? Master Wizard Harry Potter, because the papers said so? Know everything to know about waving around your magic wand?"
Harry clenched his jaw, and said, "Even if I did, according to you my wand has nothing to do with Potions, so that's irrelevant. And yes, I did find that question simple, Professor Snape. Ask me another one."
"Impertinent little – five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter!"
Harry frowned, and said, "Alright. But I fail to see how my getting an answer right in your classroom should make me lose points. Doesn't that detriment your teaching methods? Not exactly a huge spur for people to answer you correctly, or pay you any attention at all, is it? Ask me another-"
"OUT," Snape's voice echoed in the stone classroom. There was an angry red splotch high on each cheekbone. Harry sighed- If looks could kill, he thought, I'd be slightly tickled.
Harry shrugged, and picked up his unopened bag. If this guy was going to make a fool out of himself like this, losing the respect of his class before he'd even started, there was no point being there anyway.
He neared the door, feeling eyes on the back of his head, when suddenly his mind clicked.
He turned at the door, saying, "A goat."
Snape stared at him, almost shaking with rage.
"What did you just say?"
"I said, 'A goat'. That's where the bezoar comes from: The innards of a goat. I just remembered."
He turned and left.
What a fucking cunt, Harry thought viciously as he was walking up towards the entrance hall. The further he got from the teacher the angrier he felt himself becoming.
He longed for the street. Already the castle was confining and uncomfortable- he wanted to sleep on a rooftop again. In the streets of London, Harry Potter would have killed Snape for being such a prick to him in there.
But then, he thought, on the streets of London I wouldn't have met him.
He couldn't help thinking Snape quite lucky for that fact.
In his spare two hours he decided to investigate some more of the castle, and to his delight, he found the passage up to one of the battlements. It wasn't the tallest but it was quite large and comfortable enough. He had a cigarette before going back indoors.
Cutting into his lunch hour, McGonagall held him back after Transfiguration to have a go at him about his conduct in Potions.
He told her very simply that he'd done nothing wrong.
He knew she was about to discipline him somehow and he wasn't in the mood, so he looked down at his feet and hunched his shoulders.
"It's just," he'd said, "I'm not exactly used to having teachers, and people having control over my life. I'm sorry, I guess, but it'll take me some time to adapt to."
He'd walked out without a single point being deducted. Why he cared about that, he didn't know- he'd just wanted to escape some shitty little detention.
After lunch came Defence against the Dark Arts. This class disappointed him immensely- it was taught by a total fuckwit. After all he'd read he'd expected to enjoy this class most- Dark Magic as a whole was totally fascinating to him. As were those who practised it. But Professor Quirrel, with his ridiculous stutter and out of place turban, was a bloody idiot. Harry felt he could have corrected him on his lecture on four separate points.
One of his fellow Gryffindor Housemates asked Quirrel about his turban, and the man made up some bollocks story about a zombie. It was all Harry could do not to walk out. He simply sketched eighteen to-scale Kata sword forms in a row across his work and didn't hand it in at the end.
There was something not quite right, Harry felt, about Professor Quirrel. He just – wasn't quite realistic. Even though nothing about this entire place is realistic, he thought dryly. But still- he couldn't put his finger on it, but it was as though he was just too much of a boob, almost as though he was putting it on - exaggerating it slightly – but why would he do that? Wouldn't the man want the respect of the class? Harry couldn't figure it out. The only thing he could think of was that Quirrel really didn't know a damn thing about his subject, so wanted to disguise this fact by making himself look like an insecure, stuttering fool. But why was the question.
Harry now sat on his bed in Gryffindor tower, practising basic charms into mid-air. He'd decided that even if he couldn't be the best at charms, he'd at least be on par with the rest of the class.
"Wingardium Leviosa," he said to his neighbour's pillow. He stumbled over the words and scowled as nothing happened. Fucking stupid sounding words.
He dropped his wand, deciding to try to focus his frustration to make something happen. He closed his eyes, let his irritation build into anger, slowly, like swimming deeper and deeper into the ocean, and then he outstretched his arms slowly and pictured the pillow in his mind's eye. Then he closed off all emotion before it overcame him.
Opening his real eyes he saw the pillow start to lift, twitching very slightly. It arose slowly, as though something at the same time was pushing it down again, and Harry fought to concentrate.
Then Dumbledore's face, with no warning or reason, popped into his head.
The pillow burst into flames.
"Oh – shit," Harry said, clearing his head of emotion as he doused the pillow and then attempted the charm of repairing it.
The repairing one actually worked, thank god, so he didn't have to hunt down spare linens for Ron's bed. He fixed everything and only a faint smell of singed cloth lingered. Harry put his wand back in his holster with a thought, tired and unhappy and beginning to feel the effects of not eating for a whole day.
Just as he was debating whether or not to conjure his own dinner right here in the room, just as he had been for years on the street, a black shape flew in the window.
"What the – Mar? Jesus, I thought you'd decided against it."
With everything happening he'd damn near forgotten about his pet raven… although it disappearing for two days had kind of rid him of any delusions about it being his pet.
The bird flew to his shoulder and perched upon it. Harry sighed and looked at it out of the corner of his eye.
"How are you, Mar?" Harry asked absently, obviously not expecting an answer from the bird.
Imagine his surprise when a croaky voice near his ear said, "Tired."
Dumbledore sat at his desk, fire smouldering in the corner, Fawkes slumbering in his perch, with a cup of hot tea untouched in front of him. He held a quill pen in his hand and looked at the sheet of paper in front of him.
'Potter' was its title.
On it he'd compiled every little detail he knew about the boy, about where he'd been, Harry's psychology and about what his subject teachers had told Dumbledore about him.
It came to half a page.
Minerva certainly thinks highly of him, he thought as he read it through again. And Severus is the opposite. But I could have prophesised that before he'd started his classes. Filius was disappointed with him but said he shows potential and thinks him, although not sociable, pleasant enough. Pomona sings his praises as though he were a member of her own house. Quirrel, in his usual way, barely even registered Harry was in his class.
He put the pen down and sat back, thinking to himself.
He hasn't been seen with a trunk- he didn't have one on the train- but he must have some storage somewhere upon him. He has a very, very foul mouth, but considering he apparently grew up on his own in central London that is easily explained. What had he been introduced to of had inflicted upon him whilst growing up? If he was really on his own, he could have any number of bad habits. How did he survive? How did he get his school things and gear and wand unless… unless someone introduced him to it all? He must have had a guardian somewhere. A guardian that introduced him to Diagon Alley. He can't be as advanced in some of his classes as he is unless he had some sort of training.
Which means he was using magic, he suddenly realised.
Dumbledore absently scratched his temple, a place recently wounded by a gunshot graze after the Mundungus Fletcher muggle-mob fiasco. He was tired and confused. But he might have just found a way to track young Mr. Potter… and whoever he'd been with…
His note to Gringotts had already been ignored, but this was different. Ollivander and himself had been acquaintances for a long time.
He jotted out a note to Mr. Ollivander regarding Harry's wand- the man had the memory of an elephant- and asking for any details that may assist him in his investigation.
When he'd sent Fawkes in a flash of fire to Ollivander's, he sat back, sipping his tea finally, trying to think of what else to write on his sheet of paper about Harry Potter.
Harry sat dumbly for a moment, not sure he was in his right mind.
"Mar, did – did you just talk?"
There was silence for only a second before the same croaky voice answered, "Yes."
Harry closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to get his head around this.
"Right. So – so you're a magic, talking raven then, I suppose."
"Yes," it said again.
Harry laughed out loud and felt the bird jump and ruffle its feathers in surprise.
"I've never read about this," Harry said after a moment. "Are there a lot of you?"
"All ravens able. Few taught."
"Why didn't you talk to me before? You presumably were taught a while ago- I had no idea you could."
"Now you know," it said in its strange, rough-yet-high-pitched squawk. "Only just to you. Not near other."
"So only in private?" Harry asked, coming to grips with this very slowly.
"Yes in private," it said.
"So," Harry said, realising, "When Mike said you carried messages, he didn't mean in letters, did he."
"No," the raven said. Did Harry detect a hint of pride? "Every word spoken. Good memory."
"That's – that is…" Harry said, but struggled to think of any word for it but fucking quality.
I think there may be parts about the life of a wizard that I really enjoy, he thought.
"So," Harry said, revelling in this novelty, "are there many ravens around belonging to people who are like you?"
"All ravens able. Few taught," it said again. "Not often. I talk with birds."
"And translate?" Harry asked incredulously.
"I may try."
Holy shit, he thought. He was envisioning some mass-expansive spy ring of birds around this castle when the door to the room opened.
"Hey, Harry- shit, what's that?" Seamus said.
Harry looked over- he'd had respect for Seamus in that he was one of the few people his age who could walk into a room and see him and not recoil, but simply greet him normally.
"This is Mar," Harry said, suddenly aware that his conversation with the bird would now be at an end in the presence of someone else. "My raven."
"Cool," Seamus said.
As Seamus went about his business, Harry watched him silently. That was the difference, he'd decided- Seamus said not a single word about ravens being against the school rules… he just said 'cool'. No questions, nothing.
"Cool indeed," Harry said to himself, standing up and turning to his bed.
After some investigation, he pulled out a few books, inspiration striking him to perform something- if he was able- that would be really cool. He also decided that, spending his time at Hogwarts, he'd need a hell of a lot more cigarettes than just 200.
"Mar," he whispered to the bird on his shoulder, "Can you ask Mike to send me some fags please? Tell him I'll pay him back. Unless you're too tired- it's not urgent-"
But the bird was off his shoulder in a second and had gone out into the night. Harry looked after it, surprised but feeling very pleased.
"Harry," Seamus said before he went out. "You know, mate, you really should eat something. You not coming to meals is drawing attention, eh."
Harry nodded at him.
As he sat on his bed, hunger forgotten, he opened his first book- Magic of the Mind by G.G. Kevins- to begin to plan his development.
Professor Dumbledore looked at the note from Mr. Ollivander, then at the note from the Ministry of Magic, with only one thought on his mind.
This makes no sense.
According to the Underage Magic office, Goshawk told him there had been none at all recorded in London for years that had remained untracked or unaccounted for. According to Ollivander Harry had only received his first wand just over a week ago. Alright, those concur, Dumbledore thought. So… how has he got advanced in magic?
Looking at the charts he'd requested be sent to him a few days ago, he saw that there was more magic than usual around central London in the past four years, but not enough to cause an investigation or enquiry. Even if there had been, they wouldn't have bothered, Dumbledore thought sourly.
But his mind kept flicking back to that mage that had bested him and Snape using the element of surprise at Fletchers house. What he'd seen there made no sense. The Ministry was supposed to have recorded every single magic user in England… they wouldn't let Dumbledore see those records, but still, he needed to know not only how Harry Potter had been practising spells (or how he'd become so talented without practising spells) but who that wizard had been.
Everything was confusion- nothing made any sense at all.
Is there a rogue warlock on the loose in London? He thought, more than a bit scared. Is it possible the same man took in Harry off the street and taught him everything? Why didn't I detect Harry lying to me, then?
Albus worked late into the night, coming no closer to any answers but drawing a hundred more questions.
Harry had a plan.
It was only in his head for the moment- it wasn't the sort of thing one wrote down- but he could recall every single detail of it. It wasn't really too complex to remember- a few basic details and fine points needed work, but otherwise he was set.
He'd start in the break between his last lesson of the next day, which ended at 4, and the beginning of his first Astronomy practical lesson. That gave him 6 hours.
He played over the details in his head again before settling down to sleep.
It was at 6am that he awoke the next morning. He was in a rather good mood, conjuring himself some breakfast without thinking while he was still in bed and eating it as he changed.
Mar was back. Harry thanked him, taking the two cheap 20-deck packets hung with string from his beak, and went down to the entrance hall not long afterwards as the bird went out to hunt.
Walking down the stairs in his robes, he looked out of the front doors and saw a black shape moving in the distance, down the hill. It was moving sharply and precisely, very quickly and then eventually went out of sight.
Smiling to himself, Harry went outside into the morning, rolling his shoulders.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading. Just so you know, Ravens are the most intelligent of all birds and research is being conducted to comprehend exactly how intelligent they are. I've done my reading up lol ;) they are actually, seriously, more capable of human speech than parrots. So if this Raven is magical, I'm so using my artistic license to make Mar talk. Sorry if you're averse to that. I promise it had something to do with the plot…
