This will probably be the last update in a little while amidst my relocation. I'm sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger, but what kind of bastard would I be if I didn't? Not a very good one. This will be my last for a while because I don't have time today to edit another chapter too.
To all who reviewed, thank you.
I'm trying to maintain a foreign writing style, a plot structure unlike anything I've ever written in a genre I'm not comfortable with, and at the same time maintain a balance that I think fanfiction should have- the knife-edge of realistic characterisation, reaction and occurence balanced with a sequence of events that concurs with canon.
Why am I doing this? Everyone writes for their own reasons and I have many, the simplest being that it's an excercise in literature that I want to explore. It's also the sort of story I personally would enjoy reading- mostly- and I appreciate it isn't for everyone.
There has been a fairly negative reaction to the 'smoking-angle'. I live in London now and although I travel a lot and will soon be leaving, I also lived in London just a few years after this story is set. To those who dislike it, I don't see why I should justify it but I've been 'advised' to. I am a smoker. I get through between 10 and 40 a day, depending on the circumstances. I have smoked since I was ten. Does this make me less of a person? Does it make me retarded? I wasn't aware it did, but apparently there's some insecurity about reading a character who smokes when they're young.
To those who have these insecurities... grow the fuck up. Seriously. Stop whining in PMs (and a few in reviews) about Harry Potter being a smoker. I can't understand the logic in it being alright to write about Harry fucking Snape in the arse in some people's stories, but in mine I get an earful because he smokes? Are people not aware of how many people on this planet do smoke, or do drugs, or drink excessively? Why is there such a taboo on this realistic aspect of my story? I'm simply confused. I think it's immature when you could be criticising my awkward writing style, my racist character, the murder content, the blood and gore, the gradual descent into a really disgusting anti-hero, and so on... when you could criticise any of that, you go for 'smoking is evil.'
If you don't like it, you're more than welcome to not read it. But I smoke, and so does Unforgiven's Harry Potter. If I raise offense in some way, I say grow up, because honestly there's more serious shit going on than that. All I ask is that people stop talking about it. This is the character, he's had a damn hard life, he will continue to, and when you are that age, in London, in those circumstances, the chances are you'll end up a smoker.
Although to a lesser extent, I fucking did.
Please, put the 'constructive' element into critiscism unless it isn't on this site. If it isn't, bitch all you like.
And I do have to chuckle about one thing- I was considering, when I began this story, making Harry a smack addict. Fortunately for people who are offended by that sort of thing it didn't go with my intended plot.
Sigh sorry for the rant. To everyone else, I hope you're enjoying the story... peace, I'll see you soon. G.L.
"M – mr. P – p – Potter!"
Harry raised his eyes slowly.
"P – please try to concentrate. I know i – it's the last day of term b – but there are still m – m – more important things to b – be learnt!"
Harry frowned before flashing an indulgent smile at Professor Quirrel. Had he been paying attention he'd have noticed his Defence teacher was slightly more absent on that last day than he usually was from his wits. The stutter sounded almost practised.
As it was, Harry was planning… he had no time for frivolities with retarded teachers. Not at this stage.
He scratched the runes on his right arm subconsciously as he copied more notes from 'Goblin Banking 101' and 'Why Wizards Prefer Gringotts' onto parchment.
The thing is, he considered privately, if they catch this Taye bastard trying to rob the place there'll probably be some sort of witch-hunt, maybe an Inquisition from the Ministry as to how safe people's funds are after the attempted robbery on the first day of term combined with this.
From what he'd read, an Inquisition into Gringotts- which British ministers had been threatening for decades- would lead to the next Goblin Rebellion. Harry didn't care for Goblins, and he cared even less for Wizards… he couldn't be certain whether a Rebellion would destroy any chances he had of getting his money or whether it would help him cover his tracks.
He rubbed his eyes, hard, thinking, I hate Politics. I want my money, I want a flat in London, and I want to live the rest of my life in some semblance of luxury.
Hermione looked over and tsked loudly at what he was doing. He contemplated spitting on her hair, a smile forming on his face, before slamming her textbook- hard- on her fingers as she held the page open with just a blink of his eyes.
Tut at me, will you, you stupid bitch? After I saved your life?
She went to the hospital wing and Harry spread himself out on the bench, glad of more space, opening 'Modern Magical Economics and Financing a Hidden World' on the surface too.
He didn't look up when Quirrel walked past a few minutes later, he merely continued with what he was doing and, using one hand, slid his finished assignment over towards the teacher.
His books were disguised as defence textbooks- Quirrel would only see him doing extra-credit work.
Quirrel moved on. So did Harry.
"High… high hedges. Hedges. 'High Hedges'… that's fucking useful, isn't it?"
He stared at his Latin translation of 'Altusaepes', a search of which had returned no results at all, and sighed in grief.
High Hedges, he thought in wonder and frustration. So, a barrier of some kind. I'd gathered that. To… to stop people going somewhere? Literally or figuratively? To… block something? Su Li said it couldn't be natural magic…
Thinking of Su Li he wondered if the Ravenclaw was having any more luck than him- in none of his huge collection of books was there a single reference to the potion name he'd told her and she hadn't known anything off-hand, but had promised to research it for him.
I'm beginning to think you made that up, Harry thought to himself, frowning. Altusaepes… does that sound like something Dumbledore would, with his extraordinary sense of humour, decide to deliberately let slip?
He knew the answer and was infuriated with himself for it. He lifted a hand to the rune meaning 'Dragonfly' on his lower-arm and pinched it, trying to elicit some damned response from it.
I didn't want to adapt to this place in the way of being Blindly Manipulated like every other little lamb here, he screamed in his head.
He left the books on the library table, swinging his school cloak on, irritable and unduly apprehensive as he returned to his lunch hour on the last day of term.
The Christmas Holidays were finally there.
It felt that, to Harry, he'd been at Hogwarts School for far longer than just three and a half months. It seemed that, as much as he resented the place, the people and how it was run, he somehow belonged there. He'd become a student of Hogwarts a lot faster than he'd have liked to.
Let me consider, he thought, moving towards the great hall. I hate Dumbledore for being so… so… I don't even know! He's just fucking infuriating. He's negligent and he all but stole from me. There- I hate him for that. I hate him for allowing bastards like Ali in as students and for letting that fucker Snape actually teach here. I hate the cold, confining walls of this shit hole.
He also hated the fact that he felt safe in Hogwarts with vehemence. 'This is my fortress' Godric Gryffindor had famously written. 'And it shall always remain safe for all those welcome within.'
Somehow I doubt he accounted for the tenacity of London's dirtiest dealers, Harry thought. Mike's parting warning rang in his head.
He sat down at Gryffindor table, glaring at the head of the school as the man blithely and ignorantly ate his food. The large platters surrounding him filled with food and the pitcher to his right with Pumpkin juice.
He took a swig from his hip flask, the contents being just water, before beginning to pile his plate.
All he could put his mind on during his meagre meal were two things- a short term longing for some nicotine and a longer term wish to be back in London for good.
The sooner the better, he thought, in both cases. The longest he'd ever stayed in one place since his liberation was in this castle.
He finished up, looking up to the head table to see that Dumbledore had already left. He was tempted to disobey Dumbledore's direct instruction to not leave for the Holidays by fire… he was simply in that sort of mood… but he knew that the longer he stayed in the old man's 'demure and simple' column the longer he'd be able to work an escape after the Gringotts heist.
Not long now, Harry thought excitedly.
He ran through things in his head again- the entire operation was stored safely in there, any notes he made being burnt after he'd memorised them. The books he'd lifted from Obscuras and the other places had served many useful purposes- some of them helped him organise his mind, remembering details and plans for longer and also protecting them in case anyone had the ability and knowledge to look into his mind, and other books had granted him detailed information on the famous bank.
Thinking of the Knockturn end of the alley he remembered that he's have to stay on rooftops, the old-fashioned way, when he went back to London. He didn't want to intrude too much on the man's time was what he'd told him but secretly he had no idea how long he could bear to be in another person's immediate company, under house-arrest. Nothing personal to the man himself. And he'd made reservations at the place he'd stayed in summer before he realised he'd told Dumbledore he'd be staying in an inn… with the man's influence and 'wisdom' he'd blatantly be able to find him very easily if he did.
He put his knife and fork down, staring at the bewitched ceiling of the Great Hall as he rose.
Not long at all.
He didn't care enough to notice Malfoy, on the other side of the room, staring venomously at his back.
The rest of his last day- Thursday 12th December- was taken up by a single lesson of Transfiguration and a double of Herbology. Harry couldn't imagine an easier end to the term.
He was still top of Transfiguration, much to Hermione's dismay, successfully turning his wood into paper and back again after just a few minutes of McGonagall's demonstration. Hermione had only managed the first half of the transformation and her favourite teacher, McGonagall, had put it down to her recovering fingers.
As for Herbology- he still worked hard and Sprout had nothing against him, so he got along fine.
Perched on the roof on the last night of term, reading the second volume of Mädrigard's Runic Engraving by moonlight, researching from basic instruction runes to animal versions and even so far as engraving the runic version of an ancient hero's name onto oneself, he stared South for a moment, stubbing out a cigarette on the stone tiles.
With the research I could do into ancient figures of influence, the possibilities are endless- I could shadow a portion of old wizards' powers by carving their rune onto myself with some sort of their personal mark.
He considered, and snorted, thinking, In a way, Voldemort already did that when he killed himself accidentally ten years ago… engraved a permanent rune onto my fucking forehead with his own wand. I wonder if I could get Dumbledore to do the same..?
He grinned at the mental image of Dumbledore angry enough to fail at cursing him. How much of a push would it take? He lowered his eyes to the barely-illuminated book once more.
…this is the basic principle of channelling a splinter of a person's spirit through runic and arithmantic magic. These are closely related with Blood Magic, the forgotten Arte de Sanguis, which can allow you to draw strength, energy and power from a particular person when they are near via a sample of their blood, a rune of their name on you and some sort of your personal effect upon them. However this is all I will say upon that particular matter. Some examples of Magical 'Heroes' include, obviously, Merlin, although his rune has long been lost, and…
Harry looked up, thinking, What the fuck? 'Blood magic'? And since when has this pretentious bastard of an author not gone into laborious detail over something obscure… why has he not explained more on this? 'Arte de Sanguis'… that sounds terribly inviting…
On the subject of Dumbledore Harry began to imagine a situation where he - although it didn't sound very appetising when out-of-context - carved a 'Dumbledore' rune upon himself and had a sample of the Headmaster's blood. He would gain a little of the man's energy, strength and power every time he went near him…
But it can't be that simple. I'll have to do more research into it when I get to London… there will be a book somewhere. 'Forgotten art' my arse.
His mental 'To-do' list was getting longer.
Yawning, he shut the book and began to head towards the doorway again, a glance at the moon telling him it was Friday 13th and the day the train would leave… in just a few hours he'd be returning to London.
Time for a few hours of shut-eye before going… going Home?
Finally, he thought, settling into a compartment on his own, away from the endless fussing of every other student returning to their homes over Christmas. Why can't you put your shit on the train and just get on? Why make such a row over it?
His trunk was in his pocket. His gun was holstered under his cloak. His dagger was strapped to his ankle under the loose jeans he was wearing. His amulet was around his neck and the tattoo- currently on his chest- almost quivered with anticipation.
All of his books, powder, keys, clothes and vitals were each inside one of the trunk's 24 compartments. One of them contained a barely-diminished pile of gold from vault 1188.
London, here I come, he thought.
With a glance out of the window he closed the compartment door and pulled out his trunk. Opening it on a seat with the 3 – 2 – 1 – 4 combination, he reached into his expanding library and pulled out 'Cogitative Progression – Leglimency for the Apt', one of the Obscuras books, and closed everything back up.
Just as he sat down, as though in parody of the first train ride, his compartment door opened and Hermione stood there. An older Gryffindor walked past behind her, deep in conversation with a girl following about the injustice of the Quidditch game there had been in November, and to avoid his feverously gesturing hands Hermione moved into the compartment. She closed the door behind her.
"Hello, Harry."
He looked at her blankly, before nodding at her.
"Are you going on Holiday for Christmas?" she asked as she sat down.
He bit down many of the things he'd have liked to say, instead opting to simply shake his head.
"No? Oh…"
He knew he was supposed to ask her where she was going. He couldn't actually care any less than he did, and he knew that if things went well at Gringotts he might never see her again.
So what's the harm?
"You?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes," she said, smiling, glad he'd asked. "I'm going back to see my parents and then we're going to France. I think you met my mum before? In Diagon Alley? Well, anyway, they're both dentists. They'll be so fascinated to hear all about Hogwarts!"
Harry vaguely noticed the train was moving. He was staring at his book, regretting opening his mouth.
"Of course… of course I won't tell them some things, obviously."
…and it has been said that if the Body is a man's temple then the Mind is the God he prays to, but I personally believe that the Man represents a more primal, Militant entity, for example; 'The Body is the Army as the Mind is a Fortress', and so on…
He flicked past the introduction.
"I've wanted to say for – for quite a while now. Just that I'm sorry – sorry about telling the teachers you were fighting with that boy. It was silly, really," she laughed nervously. "My father does muggle karate- I should have recognised it."
Stop talking, for fuck's sake, he thought amid a mental conversation with his raven.
When Harry didn't say anything she took a deep breath and said, "You – you remember on Halloween, Harry?"
His eyes flicked up.
"What?"
She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide at the sudden attention, before saying, "I don't suppose you heard anything, if you were at the feast, except that there was a - a troll inside the castle."
He looked back at his book, saying, "I heard there was, yeah. Between that and the whole teacher-window incident, it makes you wonder about the security of the place."
"Oh – oh, no, Harry- Hogwarts is one of the safest places in the country…"
"And I'm sure that under capable hands it would be a fine institution."
There was a moment of silence. Harry's eyes moved across the page quickly while he conferred with Mar about the raven's arrangements over the Christmas.
"You're… you're not coming back, are you? In the new year?"
"What gives you that idea?" he asked slowly, careful not to react.
"I just - you seem like you're leaving. I saw you staring at the castle before we got in the carriages…"
"Don't," Harry said, still looking at the same word on the page, "Don't you have – I don't know, friends… or something? To go and sit with?"
There was no speaking for a while after that, until finally Harry looked up with a frustrated sigh to see Hermione staring resolutely at her folded hands in her lap.
"Well?" he asked.
"The reason I wasn't in the – in the Great Hall, on Halloween… was because Ron and some of the others were mean about me earlier in the day. And I heard them. They said I didn't – that I didn't have any friends, and they were right, Harry. I know you don't like me, but-"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Harry said loudly, slamming his book closed and making her jump, staring at him in horror. "What the fuck actually happens in that head of yours? What's the point in having a brain so fucking big if you're skin's too thin to hold it all in?"
She stood up, looking like she was on the verge of tears, saying, "I have to-"
"No, damn it, Hermione! That's exactly what I'm talking about! Sit down!"
She went for the door and Harry locked it with a wave of his hand.
She spun to face him, staring, a mixture of confused emotions in her wide eyes.
"Sit the fuck down, Hermione. Now. I want to say something to you that you really need to hear."
She complied, sitting by the door, slowly, still staring at him.
"Seriously, listen. Now, I'll try not to rant," he said, reigning in his irritation until it merely simmered. "But you need to do some growing up. Soon. When you've seen half of the shit I have - when you've lived in the gutter and been treated like vermin by everyone you meet for four years – then you can cry to me about how you don't have any friends, and how nobody likes you, and how hard everything is."
It was snowing outside.
Harry held up his fingers, saying, "When you've come this close to being murdered by some cheap, ratty cunt who simply wants to have some fun while he's bored, been stuffed into a boot and left for dead, been cursed by strangers and when you've let yourself get close to only a few fucking people only to have them die on you, then you can get upset."
He spread his arms, stopping himself before he went too far, saying, "Why do you look so upset now? What is it I've said that's affected you like that, eh? Rationally? Am I not making sense at all? You – you just need to start putting things into context. Think about things in a real life situation- you're fucking smart, for Christ's sake, use your head more. Stop thinking so academically. In that bathroom with the troll I could think of about forty spells you could have used against it, and you're more than capable to have, but you haven't learnt them because it's 'school' - that and everything else I've seen at that fucking place is enough for me to have stopped treating it like an institution, whereas you haven't learnt how to defend yourself because it was 'obviously a one-off'. It wasn't! It obviously wasn't, it's happened to you now as well as me and as well as loads of other so-called students, because Dumbledore does not hold his reigns as tight as you think.
"The difference," he continued, quieter, "is that I don't believe in that bollocks- there are no one-offs. It will happen again, as you'll see in the rest of the year. That's the difference- that from the first thing that happened to me, in a dentist's office fucking years ago, I decided to take control and stop shit happening. Or, at least, be ready for it when it does. But instead of thickening your own skin or anything, one thing happens, 'oh shit that's terrible, well, let's go back to daily life' is your reaction, instead of learning new things to counter all this crap."
He sat down. He didn't realise he'd got up. She wasn't looking at him. He stared at the grey skies outside the train for a moment.
"It doesn't matter what the fuck people say about you- the whole thing is you have to earn people's respect and you do that by acting maturely- not in a know-it-all way but in a calm, simple, 'I don't give a shit' way- and dealing with things as they come, and learning from the shit that happens. Fuck everyone who calls you names or upsets you- including me. Forget about them- they aren't worth shit. Rise above them. If someone offends you badly, you fuck them over… in your way that might be grassing someone up, or duelling them or something. I don't know."
He let it sink in. He was tired of talking- he picked up his book from the floor and unlocked the door with a wave of his hand.
"It was you in the bathroom, wasn't it?" she asked, but before Harry could respond the door opened abruptly.
The trolley lady peered in, looking concerned.
"Is everything alright, my dears? I heard a raised voice…"
"Yes, we're both fine and no, we don't want anything. Thank you," Harry said, regretting not silencing the door too. How many fucking people heard that?
Hermione stood up with a small, distracted smile at the trolley-lady, who smiled back in a worried way and moved along the corridor.
Before Hermione could leave, however, Harry saw a sequence of people he really didn't want to see.
Ali Sumesqi walked slowly past the door, smiling his feral grin at Harry, teeth bared. Harry's hand reached for his gun but before he could pull it out the boy had passed on… as though I'm supposed to believe you were just passing?
Next in line were Malfoy and his surviving goon. Harry rolled his eyes and took his hand off the gun.
"Potter," Malfoy said, being less wise than Ali was and marching in. Hermione sat down under his glare. "And the Mudblood. How sweet… trouble in paradise?"
"If you're blunt senses can't even detect that this is really bad timing on your part, kid, then there's no hope for you at all," Harry said, meeting his eyes.
"I've got something for you," Malfoy said, grinning like an idiot. "Merry Christmas!"
With that parting line he dropped something into Harry's lap and darted out, slamming the train door.
Harry held it up with a snort- it was a bag of Dungbombs and the smell was starting to spread.
I'll kill him because he insults me, he repeated in his head. That's about it.
Hermione was completely pale and ashen-faced, and she stumbled out of the compartment with a few glass cuts in her exposed skin, her arms outstretched and her eyes wide and horrified.
A few people ran towards the door- the sight of a student covered in blood confirmed some fears they'd had when they'd heard the almighty crash that had resounded from the compartment after the shouting.
Malfoy and his companion weren't laughing. They stared in horror, wondering what was happening.
The trolley lady put her wand in the air and shot a silver thread of thought at the driver, before bustling over to Hermione with cries of woe and attempts at comfort.
A fourth year in the next one along peered into where Hermione had come out from- it was completely clear except for shards of glass covering the floor and seats and the wind roaring in through the huge smashed hole in the window.
The whispers started up along the train- they varied in detail and fact.
Malfoy was wondering where in the name of Merlin Harry Potter went- they were ordinary Dungbombs, he'd been sure.
"What happened dear? What on earth happened?" the trolley lady repeatedly asked the shocked Hermione, who merely shook her head.
A few compartments along, Ali Sumesqi sat back, alone, smiling to himself.
Harry opened his eyes and the world was grey. His entire body was freezing cold.
He became conscious of the fact that he was covered in blood, lying in the snow, in a lot of pain and staring at the grey sky… whereas a few seconds ago he'd been on the train back to London.
He raised his head and saw, standing by his feet, a very tall blonde man in billowing robes.
He grinned and Harry saw a flash of fang.
"You smell delicious," the man said, licking his lips.