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Chapter Eight: In Which There's a Montage of Miscellaneous Time-Skips, Because the MC in Their Previous Incarnation as This Fic's Author is Quite Done With the Pre-Canon Arc
September 24th, 1988
Two people sat with their heads bowed over a table within a lively sitting room. One tapped their lips in contemplation every now and then, and the other fretted with the rings on her hands as she listened to the other speak.
"— says there's a surprise waiting for. . . . Hmm." Fingernails clicked slowly against a tabletop. Then the first finger moved rapidly in staccato: taptaptaptaptap. "Chk. I don't like how this token is laid like that next to the signifier. . . . Actually, madam, I must say: this spread is far more ominous than should be possible for your inquiry, given what you've told me."
"Ominous? Is something wrong?!"
"Well, I don't mean to alarm you, but I'm getting heavy indications that matters are not all what you've said they are. You see this cluster here? This is talking a serious upheaval within your domestic life involving . . . erm, pregnancy? An . . . an unfortuitous revelation of birth. This is either that someone has been unknowingly adopted and finding out in the worst way, or someone is going to give birth that really shouldn't be doing so. This really is out of place with the information you've given me, so I'm sorry to say that I'm not able to narrow it down more than that.
"Goodness me, things sort of spiral from that. too. See this part over here? This cluster suggests your business ventures take a hit as well from that. Paraphrasing, it's saying something to the effect of . . . like, 'this would have gone a lot better, but . . . but an outside force blocked the path of fortune.'
"Madam, clearly there are matters being kept from you. I really must suggest you start investigating at once, before you get the rug pulled out from under you."
"Oh, this is terrible! Is there anyway I can find out who or what specifically to look out for?!"
"Runes aren't the best for indicating people, unfortunately. However, if you'd like, I have my cards with me as well, so if you don't mind the inclusion of another medium —"
"No, no, I don't mind at all! Please, tell me what your cards have to say!"
A voice called out from across the room, "Here, Aunt Dahlia, are you really going to take up all of Vivi's time today? This is your third reading! Some of us want a turn, too, you know!"
"Mind you business, girl," snapped the aforementioned Aunt Dahlia, a matronly woman in her Sunday best. "I'm getting my answers, and that's that!" She turned back to the one sitting opposite of her at the coffee table. "Oh, you don't mind, do you, dear?" Her tone turned warm with this last sentence.
"Not at all, Madam," said the red-haired 'young woman', nose crinkling as she smiled. "I know it's exciting when you find a diviner that's actually accurate. It makes sense that you want to get the most out of it."
"Come now, come now, you really should call me Aunt Dahlia as well at this point. Goodness knows you know me better than my own family by now."
October 13th, 1988
A ray of afternoon sun broke through a clump of clouds and shone down on the playground of St. Grogory's Primary school. Children ran and shrieked freely across the yard dotted with fallen leaves. One particular group was playing Double Dutch under the shade of a tree.
Two little girls turned two skipping ropes simultaneously, singing to keep time, while another jumped in the middle. A crowd of other little girls stood around, waiting for their turns.
"A new song! A new song!" cried the next girl in line. "This one's not fun any longer!"
"Ugh, Lydia!" sighed one of the girls turning the ropes. "You've said that twice already today! There's only so many skipping-rope songs, you know!"
"There's got be one we haven't sung yet, though," Lydia whined.
"Oh, I've got a song," volunteered one of the watchers, sitting cross-legged at the trunk of the tree, raising a hand. "Here, Emma, let me take your spot. You can have my turn."
"Are you sure, Harry?" said, Hafsah, the little girl holding the other side of the ropes. "You're third after Lydia."
Harry batted the air as they got up and brushed off the back of their skirt and leggings.
"It's fine. I'm not really up to jumping any more anyway."
Harry took the handles from Emma, who stood back and bounced in place.
"Okay, I'll sing it, and you lot just pick it up as we go on the repeats, yeah? One . . . two . . . three."
The ropes started turning again.
"A boy gave me a flower,/ he pinned it in my hair,/ he gave to me a pretty ring/ and tried to kiss me there!/
"I gave him back his flower,/ I pulled it from my hair,/ I gave him back his silly ring/ and kicked his derrière!/
"'I do not want your flowers!/ Don't ever touch my hair!/ I do not want your silly rings!'/ I told him with a glare./
"'I've heard about your flowers,/ you give them everywhere!/ And if you try anything else,/ I'll push you down the stairs!/
"'A flight for being stupid,/ a flight for being dumb,/ a flight for being such a dunce/ who only shames your mum!/
"'A smack for being stupid,/ a punch for being dumb,/ a round of kicks, too, bang-bang-bang,/ I'll beat you like a drum!'"
December 20th, 1988
Within a stately two-storey house in a wealthy neighbourhood in London, two children sat on the carpeted floor of a child's bedroom upstairs. The room was filled with the latest and greatest toys and gadgets a child could want, and decorated very fashionably. Spread out on the floor surrounding the two was a backpack and the contents gutted from it.
"What are you drawing on me?" whined Justin to the frost-crusted window he was facing, fidgeting and shivering at the feel of the stick of chalk being used to trace lines on the back of his neck. "Isn't it supposed to be just three lines or something? That feels like more than six already!"
"Quit your bellyaching," Harry reprimanded, kneeling behind him. They flicked the back of his head. "I'm already halfway done. You want to test this out or not?"
"You promise I won't explode, right?"
"I've promised you like four-five times already! Ugh! That worst thing that'll happen is that nothing happens — quit your pussyfooting already."
Harry tucked the chalk back into its container. They rubbed their fingertips against their trousers to clean them, and then brought their hands up again to form a triangle around the rune they'd drawn on Justin's neck.
Wynn. The rune of harmony and blessings.
They cast their thoughts to the affection and indulgence of grandparents to their grandchildren, of people with a beloved pet, and incanted, "Delight be partaken of/ by one who knows few woes/ both of sores or of sorrows,/ and for oneself has preserved/ harvest, and revelry,/ and a town's reserves."
Warmth prickled their fingers.
"Is it supposed to be heating up like that?!"
"What? You'd prefer to have no physical indication that something's happening?"
Justin sputtered, wringing his hands.
"Heavens, live a little, won't you?" Harry sighed. "We're all born with the promise that we'll die — if you risk it every now and then, isn't that no big deal?"
"I don't wanna die!" Justin wailed.
"Oh, quit being such a big baby! This is just supposed to be a small adoration enchantment, for heavens' sake — what's it going to do? Get you too pampered? Oh, boo-hoo! Besides, you won't die from something as little as a failed rune enchantment even in a worst-case scenario! It's low witchery at most. A cantrip. Like I said before, the worst that can happen is that it fizzles before it even takes. Even for a Muggle it'd be low-risk."
Was Harry being too hard on the kid? Maybe — but they really had no patience for his whinging since he was the one that suggested it in the first place.
"There," they said, sitting back on their heels. "Done. And what a surprise — you didn't die!"
"Is it . . . is it working?" asked Justin, gingerly touching the spot where the rune was laid.
"Careful! It'll work only as long as the rune stays unbroken. No need to smear it right away." Harry got to their feet and pulled Justin up with them by the arm. "Any way, come on. Only one way to test it."
Arm-in-arm, they trotted out in search of Justin's mother.
February 14th, 1989
A classroom of children was bustling happily. Students were hard at work with their projects, chattering happily to one another and showing off their creations. Markers, crayons, glitter, and other art supplies were strewn atop the desks alongside construction paper in a variety of reds and pinks.
"Harry, Harry! Here, I nicked this extra one from Oliver! Shh, don't tell."
"Ooh, this one's so pretty! Who are you giving this to? Can I have it?"
"Hey! Get your own! She's making that one for me!"
"Hey, Harry, can you help me with my poem? I can't figure out how to get this to rhyme."
The most popular work-station was one the furthest from the teacher's desk, currently over-stuffed with children who really weren't supposed to be where they were. However, the teacher overlooked it for the time being in honour of the occasion.
"Just got yours done, Ellie," said Harry, holding up a finished valentine to show the girl sitting at the seat across. "I used purple glitter 'cos it's your favourite."
"Mine next, mine next!" whined a little girl with her brown curls in pigtails.
"Get in line, Lydia! Jeez! You haven't even finished one yourself yet!"
"I brought sweets to give out!"
"Everyone brought sweets to give out!"
This was not actually true, but even the most thoughtless of the lot didn't point it out. Since they had first started attending St Grogory's, they'd all come to know that Harry's guardians like Harry's cousin Dudley better and often left Harry without things so that Dudley could get double. Liking Harry as much as the children did, this made them more determined to favour Harry over Dudley in turn — not that they liked Dudley any in the first place; he was a pain even when he wasn't in the same class. And so not one of them dared to point out that Harry didn't have anything to give out on Valentine's Day but what was being made right there in the classroom.
"Hang on," said Harry carefully colouring a dove with a white crayon. They smiled at the girl who asked them to help her with her poem. "I'm almost done with this. Let me just finish this one for Mrs Simons first. . . ."
Eventually, it came time for everyone to go around and pass out the candy and cards they made. This was actually a somewhat nerve-wracking experience — those that disliked each other certainly didn't make cards for one another, and others just didn't receive some because the givers didn't care about preparing ones for those outside of their friend-group. Though their teacher encouraged them to be kind to everyone, that request wasn't actually followed through with by a number of them.
Harry gathered up their box of cards and sweets as the lunch bell rang. Every person they had given a card to had reciprocated with cards and sweets as well, so they were well bogged down in treats.
"Let's go claim the best swings before Jeanine and her idiots can hog them," said Allison, the girl that needed help with her poem, tugging on Harry's jumper.
"Sure, sure . . ." said Harry absent-mindedly, sorting her sweets. They let themselves be led amongst the rest of their class. "Ah — hang on. Did you see which way Dudley went?" they asked when they arrived at the playground. They stuffed gum and sour lollies into their cargo pockets as they looked around.
Allison wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"He's over at the fort like always, isn't he?"
"You go save me a swing first, then!" said Harry, trotting in the direction of the fort, holding their box securely to their chest. "I'll be right there in a bit!"
Harry found Dudley as expected, lording over the fort with his goons and stealing sweets from others. Harry stopped at the bottom of the wooden steps greeted the bullies cheerfully.
"Hey, Dudley!" Harry called up to their cousin. They held their box of remaining treats out and shook it. Chocolates and toffees rustled. "My class handed out a lot of your favourites, so I saved them for you. Do you want them now, or should I hold onto them for you for later?"
The baby seal-like child brightened at the sight of Harry in a way that was positively Pavlovian. The Dursleys really made this kid too easy to bribe.
April 15th, 1989
In a tidy neighbourhood within Little Whinging, there was a well-equipped park popular with all residents. In the middle were slides of differing heights, swings built for all ages, two sets of climbing frames, a trio of see-saws, and other such play equipment. A bit to the side had a basketball court and tetherball poles. Up on a small hill was a respectably-sized sandpit that doubled as a volley ball court. On the other side of the play equipment was a fenced-off tennis court surrounded by tall hedges to keep the area cool.
"Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,/ thy tribute wave deliver:/ more by thee my steps shall be,/for ever and for ever./"
If one were to take a stroll past the picnic tables on the other side of the swings, they would find a stretch of field used for football. Next to this field was a pond that formed from two creeks intersecting. Trees lined the side of the pond that faced the football field, and even taller and thicker trees came together to form a wooded area that followed a creek away from the park.
"Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,/ a rivulet then a river:/ Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,/ for ever and for ever./"
In the low-hanging boughs of a White Ash tree within aforementioned wooded area, Harry sat with one leg crossed under them, the other dangling. Resting their back against the trunk, they strummed their ukulele idly, mouthing words to themselves. Fangs-Glinting-in-the-Water's-Reflection and Spring-Dew-on-Grass were wound around the branch Harry was resting on and wound around Harry's forearm respectively, both enjoying the nice day away spent away from Number Four as well as St. Grogory's Primary.
"But here will sigh thine alder-tree,/ and here thine aspen shiver;/ and here by thee will hum the bee,/ for ever and for ever./"
Away from the main paths and playground, the child and two snakes were not visible even from the football field. The laughter and happy shrieks of park-goers sounded in the distance, as if the sounds were coming through a closed door. It was a peaceful setting for an afternoon after school.
"A thousand suns will stream on thee;/ a thousand moons will quiver;/ but not by thee my steps shall be,/ for ever and for ever."
These last words were accompanied off with softly ringing notes.
§Sing something we can understand, too, Overlord.§ Dewey said plaintively.
§That wasn't a song but words that rhymed,§ said Harry, lowering their instrument. §And too many of the songs I know don't translate well. If I sing in words you know, it still might not make sense.§
§The lure is like a song,§ said Fang, slithering so that his coils were closer together around the branch. §Those words were understandable.§
§The words to that one are very simple,§ explained Harry, stroking the end of Fang's tail. §They aren't meant to convey images through words, just be direct statements set to music.§
§There is nothing wrong with direct statements,§ said Dewey. §Give us a simple song like that.§
There really wasn't any way of explaining metaphors and poetry to snakes, Harry lamented. They just weren't capable of comprehending aesthetics.
Disney it was, then.
§When a cold wind comes calling,/ and the sky is clear and bright,/ misty mountains sing and beckon,/ lead me out into the light./ I will ride, I will fly,/ chase the wind and touch the sky,/
I will fly,/ chase the wind and touch the sky. . . ./§
The wind picked up with a low whoosh. The leaves were sent quivering, shaking the remains of the morning's rain down, dropping into the rivulets of the creek.
§That sound-maker is getting old,§ said Dewey eventually, moving to slither up Harry's dangling leg. §When will Overlord get a new one?§
§Sound-make—? Oh! You mean this?§ asked Harry, tapping their ukulele. §I've had it for a year or so, how is it old? I mean, I suppose I do need to change the strings soon. . . .§
§The wood is worn and cracked in places,§ Dewey pointed out. §The colour is not as vibrant.§
Harry noted the flaws with some dismay. It was as Dewey said. After such heavy use of it and the lack of proper carrying-case, the little ukulele really was more worn than it ought to be after such relatively short amount of time.
§I suppose I can get another one from the same place if they're still selling it there,§ Harry muttered. §It'll be a pain to get it tuned and warmed up properly again, though.§
§Can one of strange hatchling's human thralls from that other nest not get a better one?§ asked Fang. §They hold great means, do they not?§
§To get a good one would be a waste because I won't be able to conceal it,§ Harry explained. §This one is small even for its type. That's why it's not costly. If I were to get one that's more costly and of better quality, the chances are high it won't be able to be concealed in my bag.§
§Why must Overlord conceal it?§ asked Dewey. §The thralls always seem so happy when they see Overlord with it.§
§The ones I live with would be displeased. There is a very high chance they'll take it from me if they realise I have it, because they don't believe me to deserve good things.§
§Why not simply put them under the thrall as well, then?§
§There is a . . . weakness I suppose you could call it. A weakness to my method of enthralment: the one being enchanted cannot be made to do anything they themselves would reason to be disagreeable. And if they come with negative feelings towards me. . . . I coax reactions and feelings, but if someone hates me, there's no making them love me. The ones I live with intrinsically hate me enough that I can't really convince them of anything unless they would believe it would trouble me. There's no way to convince them a costly sound-maker would do anything but benefit me.§
§How can they hate Overlord yet trust Overlord to maintain their territory?§ asked Fang. §How can they allow Overlord into their nest if they hate Overlord?§
§They didn't accept me willingly. They were forced to do it by a bigger predator threatening them. Even now, they only tolerate me because they're under the impression that I'm defective since I've never displayed my abilities before them.§
§They should be honoured!§ Dewey hissed in displeasure. §A stronger predator deigns to live and protect the territory without ousting them — they benefit without needing to worry about fighting stronger enemies themselves! It's a great boon!§
§They consider me a threat they can't predict. A parasite they can't remove. They have no awe towards those with my powers, only anger for being different from them. They don't consider me a benefactor.§
§Then they are great fools,§ Fang decided. §Anyone with any sense could see the benefits strange Overlord provides.§
That was the great thing about snakes — they thought in food and safety and didn't care for much else. When they thought well of you, it was for straight-forward reasons that didn't have room to be refuted. What did they care for human emotion and aesthetics? Thinking in these terms, they were quite right in their conclusion.
§I won't stay here forever,§ Harry told the two, repositioning the ukulele in their arms. §When I reach eleven years of age, my kind will send for me to go and receive training until I am full grown. They will appreciate me unlike this current nest. When that time comes, I will only return during the summers until I reach seventeen years of age. After that, I will leave this place and never return.§
§Why stay now?§ asked Dewey. §Overlord is big and strong enough to leave this nest already — Overlord often wander to capture thralls and play with that other nest. Why stay even though this nest is not as pleasant?§
§The bigger predator that forced this nest to accept me would be displeased if I were to leave without his permission. And there are rules amongst humans that say younglings of my age are not to be left without an of-age guardian. To try to leave forever now would be to invite those bigger predators to come investigate, and my freedoms as they are now would likely be restricted even more.§
§The humans are strange,§ said Dewey, slithering up to Harry's upper arm. §Overlord clearly has no need for a guardian. Why restrict a serpent to their rules when Overlord merely mimics their appearance? What use are the rules of humans to a serpent?§
§They consider me human as well. By all definitions and qualifications determined by humanity, I am human.§
§What human speaks as serpents do?§ Fang derided. §Bah! Yield to the human's rules, then. Whatever is safest and easiest.§
§I have a long life ahead of me yet,§ said Harry, dread and awe pooling in their belly as they admitted this. They knew what was coming, but at the same time, it was barely a splotch of paint on the canvas of the timeline a wizard in this reality would live through. §My species easily lives beyond a century, and there are numerous accounts of multiple centuries. A handful of years here where I'd rather not be is no matter in the long run.§
If they made it through the canon events alive, there really would be a solid hundred of years they could anticipate. They would, potentially, live this life as Harry Potter longer than they did as [REDACTED]. Such a thought was actually terrifying.
"What will this day be like?/" Harry exhaled. "I wonder./" They pressed their cheek against the head of the ukulele. "What will my future be?/ I wonder./
"It could be so exciting,/ to be out in the world,/ to be free!/ My heart should be wildly rejoicing./" Harry pulled a face, chest shaking from an unvoiced huff of laughter. Yeah, no — that line didn't fit. "Oh, what's the matter with me?/ I've always longed for adventure,/" — nope — "to do the things I've never dared./ Now here I'm facing adventure/ Then why . . . am I . . . so scared?/
"Death and danger, seven years worth," they jeered to themselves. "What's so fearsome about that?"
Harry heaved a hearty sigh and tucked their instrument back into the backpack.
§We're going now,§ Harry told the snakes. §I need prepare the evening meal soon.§
The two slithered into the remaining space in Harry's bag obligingly. Harry watched as they took care to not trouble the ukulele.
Harry really did need to replace it soon.
"I will cross that bridge when I come to it," they said to themselves, climbing down the tree.
July 28th, 1989
The dread of time marching on was upon Harry once more when Kenneth invited them to go shopping for his Hogwarts supplies with his family. Harry agree of course — they weren't an idiot — but that didn't keep the anxiety of inevitability at bay.
It was actually Harry's first time meeting Mr and Mrs Towler, but they were just as wowed and enthusiastic about meeting Harry as Kenneth had been. Harry put on their best face and matched them in friendliness and cheer as thanks for bringing Harry along despite not actually really believing Kenneth before when he said that he knew Harry Potter.
As Harry had half-expected, being people of the wizarding community, the couple regarded Harry as . . . not exactly an adult, but certainly far more capable and able to take care of themselves than a child reasonably should be able to. The two talked to Harry and deferred to Harry as the four of them wandered Diagon Alley for the things on Kenneth's supply list, responding to Harry's metamorphmagery to disguise themselves with awe but not shock; it was apparent that rare talent even amongst wizards was considered something to be expected from the One Who Lived. Harry was treated more as a visiting ambassador than a younger friend of their child.
It was uncomfortable, as anticipated. It was also rather helpful in getting them to let Harry stay behind after they were done so that Harry could take care of their own business.
Kenneth, that sweet boy, gave Harry a tight hug and an early birthday present — a refillable leather notebook with a fancy lock and key — before he left with his parents. They were taking him back home for the end of the summer, so this was the last Harry would see of him until next summer.
And then it was just Harry.
They stood at the bottom of the steps of Gringotts where the Towlers left them, wearing long, straight, corn-silk blonde hair in a low ponytail, dark-brown eyes, and facial features reminiscent of the actress who played Draco Malfoy in A Very Potter Musical. They were wearing the looks they had decided on for a girl variation of yet another boy-hero whose series they had been in the fandom of; a reminder that they could have had it much worse — at least they hadn't transmigrated into the wizardless-yet-equally-life-threatening world of Alex Rider.
Staring up at the tall building they had seen many times in the films and during research for writing, Harry pushed down the jittery creature forever terrified of everything within their soul and walked calmly up and through the front doors.
Opulence and tall ceiling aside, it really was like any other bank. Well, the goblins were a bit more menacing in appearance than the bankers [REDACTED] had dealt with in Thailand . . . but they were basically the same as the bankers [REDACTED] had dealt with in Texas, so not a big difference there either.
Harry stepped up to a line and projected the aura that, yes, of course, they definitely were supposed to be there — totally normal child just on their innocuous, pre-school business here. The line moved fairly quickly, so they soon got to the banker's desk without having to fake confidence for too long.
"Hello, good afternoon," said Harry as pleasantly as they could. The podium/stand thingy the banker was sitting at was tall, so they had to tilt their head back some to meet eye-to-eye. In a non-carrying tone, they continued, "I was wondering if there was a way to . . . to, um, confirm ownership of a vault? You see, my parents died a while back, and . . . and I know they left me a vault, but I-I don't know where my key is. Um, Is there something I can do?"
The clerk loomed down from his seat. Features specific to his species aside, he actually looked quite a bit like [REDACTED]'s eldest uncle.
"No key?" he said, displeased. "For a beneficiary set to inherit through familial-relation, the only other option is the blood-letting used to test for claim to any vault in Gringotts. Are you certain you have claim to a vault in this branch?"
"Yes, sir," Harry answered with a firm nod. "Without a doubt."
"Very well." He quickly wrote something down. This was followed by the sound of a stamp. A slip of parchment was held out for Harry to grab. "Take this and show it to the clerk sitting at Desk Ten. He will lead you through the testing."
Harry thanked him and went as directed.
The pointy object the clerk at Desk Ten provided sent all of Harry's OH-HELL-NO senses into a tizzy, but the public nature of the setting kept them from whimpering. Gods, they hated sharp things. Still, they inhaled a steadying breath and—
Slash.
Harry wordlessly pressed to the sheet of parchment provided the pad of the thumb they'd dragged over the tip of the needle-thing. They then pressed the wounded appendage to their mouth and nursed the cut closed. They distracted themselves from the queasiness that came with the sight and smell of blood by pressing a foot against the opposite ankle and focusing on the sensation of that.
The bloody thumbprint feathered and danced. In short order, information filled the page.
"Very good," said the clerk, turning the page around to face him and glancing it over. "A new key will be provided for you, and any other key in circulation will be registered as defunct. Take a seat in the waiting area while your key is being prepared, Miss—"
The clerk stopped short mid-sentence upon seeing the name written there. He looked at Harry with sharp eyes, that gaze going to Harry's forehead that was covered with fringe. After a moment, he looked at the page before him again.
"I see," he murmured. "Young Wizard, please, wait here."
The clerk got up and walked away, but Harry only noticed peripherally. Their attention was on the page of parchment and the words thereon.
There was the account of the money, of course — and, good golly gosh, they hadn't been wrong before when they'd hypothesised they'd have plenty of wiggle room when it came to funds; "plenty of wiggle room" was something of an understatement — but what actually had their focus was the name there.
Harrington Vervain Potter.
A variation of 'Harry' they actually liked — and that was a surprise in itself; they were half-expecting the stereotypical 'Hadrian' — but . . . huh. Instead of James, it was Vervain. A 'v' name. A 'v' plant name, just like [REDACTED].
May 4th, 1990
"You must go . . . where I cannot/. . . . Pangur Bán, Pangur Bán/. . . . Naught be there to life but mist and fog. . . ."
Harry lied belly-down on the rug of Mrs Figg's sitting room, resting their chin in one palm, stroking the head of one of the woman's felines with the other. They idly kicked the air behind them as they crooned to the new little white-furred kitten.
"And we merely live/ . . . but for a while/. . . . Pangur Bán, Pangur Bán/. . . ."
It was a Friday afternoon after school, and Harry was at Mrs Figg's to stay for the weekend because the Dursley's were off on a small trip for one reason or another. Harry certainly didn't mind; a weekend without busking revenue aside, Mrs Figg let them do as they pleased around her home provided that they didn't harm the cats, and Harry certainly wasn't interested in that.
"The cats sure do like you," noted Mrs Figg as she returned from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits. She set the plate on her coffee table next to Harry. "Never see them so calm when you're not around."
Harry booped noses with the kitten and sat up properly, picking it up in one hand and cradling it to their chest.
"I like them quite a bit myself," said Harry, rocking the little animal like a baby. "Maybe they can feel that." They kissed the kitten between its ears and bounced and swayed as they sang, "Everybody wants to be a cat,/ because a cat's the only cat/ who knows where it's at./ Everybody's pickin' up on that feline beat/ 'cause everything else is obsolete!"
Mrs Figg laughed as she sat back down in her easy chair.
"You know the silliest songs, child!"
October 31st, 1990
Sitting cross-legged on their cot in the cupboard, Harry stirred from their dozing when they heard the telly finally cut off. They blinked in the darkness of the cupboard, averting their eyes from the light shining through the spaces between the frame and door.
The couch creaked. Footsteps across the floor. The click of lights being put out, and then thump, thump, thump, thump — heavy footsteps going up the stairs. Harry could feel the vibration of it. Dudley was finally going to bed after staying up late and gorging himself on Halloween candy.
Perfect darkness surrounded Harry.
With a little groping, they found the pull-chain for the light. A small tug illuminated the cupboard in warm light.
Harry bent and retrieved their backpack from underneath the cot. They quietly unzipped the main pocket and dug around, taking care not to accidentally pull in the strings of the little instrument in there. From the bottom, they pulled out the cloth pouch where they stored their runes.
Inside were tokens made of stones, wooden pieces, small shells, et cetera had been etched and painted with Futhorc, the system they'd always preferred to work with. Harry dipped their hand into the pouch, letting their fingers trace over the tokens.
It was Samhain. They didn't follow the practices of Celtic paganism, but it was still a good time for divination in connection to the deceased. What Harry had to decide, though, was if they wanted what insights the deceased might have for them.
Harry's feelings towards James and Lily Potter were not straight-forward in any way. There were their thoughts on the couple based on what they'd read and speculated, and there was also the uncertainty upon them from the two being their parents in this life. Did the two count as Harry's parents? Or rather, did Harry actually qualify as their child? Harry still hadn't been able to conclude if they'd been reborn directly as Harry Potter or if they'd usurped the position after some cosmic goof that resulted in the original Harry of this reality leaving the spot to them.
Harry didn't want to invoke the spirits of their ancestors and potentially discover that they really had taken over the body of some poor baby. They certainly didn't want to be confronted by that baby's parents if that actually was the case. Though it wasn't their intention, they wouldn't be able to bare facing James and Lily if it was so.
The two had sacrificed their lives for child. If Harry turned out to be a foreign soul. . . .
Well, the long and short of this was that Harry wasn't going to invoke their ancestors despite the time being ripe for it. Besides, the moon was in Aries, so it was also a good time to do a reading to consider future options to avoid jumping into things that shouldn't be rushed.
Harry ran their fingers through their runes more purposefully, mixing them around. They let their eyes unfocus and shifted their attention to the topic they wanted answers on.
"Hear me, spirits and Powers That Be,/" they mouthed, the hushed sound escaping them barely above a whisper, "guide my hand and eyes to see./ Let this casting be right sound,/ truths revealed; the hidden found./
"The lots are shifting to be cast./ Grant me ken of what may pass./
"Hear me, spirits and Powers That Be,/ guide my hand and eyes to see./ let these portends be read right./ Lend me aid with your insight./
"The lots are shifting to be cast./ Grant me ken of what may pass./
"When what's rising is revealed,/ when there's nothing more concealed,/ I'll remember this alone:/ nothing yet is set in stone./
"The lots are shifted to be placed./ With foresight may I be graced."
With a deep breath, they plucked up five runes into their left hand. On the exhale, they lightly tossed the tokens onto the cot before them.
Harry eyed the spread meticulously, noting the smallest tilt in angles, the minutest differences in distance in relation to how the runes were laid around each other.
Rad — Nyd — Peorth — Tyr — Ing. . . .
After a moment, Harry dropped their face into their hands and sighed in exasperation as quietly as they could.
In gist: a shift in lifestyle; obstacles that must be overcome; initiation of a path that must be walked; intrigue that must be set straight; potential for better or worse— The fates were taunting them! The runes had told of nothing they hadn't already known was coming!
June 3rd, 1991
Canon was upon them. They were out of time.
AN1: "A boy gave me a flower . . ." is clapping/jump-roping rhyme with the same tune as Miss Lucy Had a Baby. I don't recall if it was local to Texas or if I made it up back in elementary.
"Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea . . ." is A Farewell, a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
"When a cold wind comes calling . . ." is Touch the Sky from Brave.
"What will this day be like?" is I Have Confidence from The Sound of Music.
"You must go where I cannot . . ." is Aisling's Song (Pangur Bán) from Secret of Kells.
"Everybody wants to be a cat . . ." is from Aristocats.
AN2: I would just like to make it perfectly clear that the rune verses and the divination incantation are my own translation and creation, respectively, that I made for my own personal use within my practices. While I don't mind people using them for their own practices, I'm not okay with the divination incantation being used in writing anywhere else. I wrote it in fun verse so as to make it easier for myself to memorize and recite, but I'm not comfortable with the thought of other fic writers using it as a spell in their own writing, especially if they are not practicing occultists themselves.
