Meet Hedwig
I was just a month or two from my 18th Birthday when I wrote this. It's my first ff and I, like thousands before ask for mercy in reviews and support by favouriting. Anyway...
Somewhen
The Straw Hut in the middle of Nowhere
Sitting on a wooden chair, a boy is writing something in a Book. He scribbles away at a fast pace, his script still half scrawny, yet somewhat neat after years of practice. And thankfully, perfectly legible.
To the casual observer, if there indeed were one available, the boy would seem to be at peace. (He's actually in quite an agitated state.)
The casual observer would, if they were to ignore the very presence of the boy in the first place in the middle of nowhere, have found his appearance quite striking.
They would, when they described him later, tell the others. " 'Twas a well built lad. If I 'ad to guess, I'd place him 'round 16 to 18 years old. Dunno what 'e was doing there tho'. Height? I'd say a bit on the tall side. 6 feet, or a bit higher. Wiry tho' an' yet he 'ad some of them muscles, I saw."
"His Hair? 'twas a strange one. Ya see, he'd very messy hair. Complet'ly Black, 'cept for two Red strands. Blood-red, dat seem to hang there on his head, in a strange way. An' he had the two most beautiful Green eyes I've seen on a person. If I din' know better, I'd say they were glowing."
Casual observers are seldom silent in their judgement of people. They would almost always try to engage people in conversation. "What cha doin' here, lad?"
The boy would look up at them then. The Casual observer, had they not been casual and faced some hardship in life, would've then seen the eyes of the joy showing an excitement on seeing some human company.
Had they been even more observant, on account of even more hardship, they'd have seen that beneath the obvious happiness in the boy's smile and the warmth of his expression, they were seeing a human being rather tired of life.
Weary. Almost ready to end it. They would see the quill racing to complete a mission, the last mission, as the boy rushed through page after page, not pausing for a moment to look up.
"I am writing a book," the boy would've replied to the Observer's question. "A book on my life."
The Observer would've laughed at the boy. "An' who'll read it, here, in the middle of nowhere?"
"I promise you, my fellow human, the story of my life is the most devilishly complicated thing that I can think of. As for who'll read it? Well it is a story of the Dawn of an Empire, the fall of Hundreds of Governments and deaths of thousands due to the a few mistakes by a teenager. I don't want people to read it."
The Observer would've raised an eyebrow, trying their best not to roll their eyes. Truly speaking, other than his eyes which appeared very old, and the unique Lightning Bolt scar on his forehead,the boy didn't have as much as a cut on his skin. He was indeed a Green boy.
"And what happens innit? When does it even begin, your story?"
"That's a very good question, you know. If I tried, it could begin at many many points. The best beginning, however, I think, would be in the beginning November 1981CE. Exactly three days after an insane series of events lead to perceived attempt to harm my family."
"What family? Who're you again?"
"My name is Harry. Harry Potter. But over the course of the story, you'll find out that doesn't even begin to tell who I am."
The observer would've scoffed at the boy. "Oh yes? You're what 16? Wat the hell can you do in such a short span of life in the middle of our spars'ly habitated country?"
"Well I do know what you had for breakfast (roasted pigs), why you're fighting with your wife (you sleep a bit too much and are missing out on sex) and how you carry a long sharp knife in the back of your robe, to kill me if you want to."
The Observers mouth would've hanged open.
"I can also kill you in a millisecond before you can do anything, literally drive you mad faster than that, turn you into my true follower in thrice the time and skewer you faster than you can skewer your pigs. Gimme a minute and I'll turn you into a pig too."
There wouldn't be a hint of a lie in anything the boy said and the observer would've immediately believe him, not knowing why.
"I can do many many things, my fellow human, I have done many more, though if you really want to hear my story, just read along the manuscripts as I write them."
The boy would've opened his palm and a stick of wood would've rushed to him from where it sat on the table beside him. There were two other things on the table, the Casual observer would've noticed, a single thin and small rod of gold, less than half an inch thick and a strange circular silver instrument with moving needles on it, and a small hole in the middle.
A satchel hung by the wooden chair. The boy would've waved the stick and a comfortable padded chair would've appeared out of nowhere. The observer's eyes would've tried to touch his hairline.
"Sit down, Mr Human. And seriously, have some more sex. Your wife really looks like she needs it." The Casual observer would've thought to ask how the boy knew that and immediately discarded the notion.
"Now, the promised story. You see, I was dumped, when I was 15 months old, by a hundred year old man, on the doorstep of my Aunt's house, that day in middle of the night as November's first day ended..."
2nd November, 1981
Doorstep of No. 4, Privet Drive
That single basket had single-handedly destroyed all her day.
She had expected to have a perfectly normal Halloween with her perfect husband, Vernon, the hardworking drill manager at Grunnings (It was a wonder they'd even managed to stay afloat without him) and the Apple of her eye, Diddykins but her freak sister just had to get herself attacked along with her husband and leave the upbringing of her nephew to her.
(Petunia ignored the fact that it was November 2 and not, in fact, Halloween.)
The boy, she knew, had come into her perfect life to tear it apart with his freakishness. Petunia took one look at him and knew he was trouble. Green eyes, an unruly mop of hair, a constant remainder of Lily's husband's perfect face mixed with her sister's beauty.
And his eyes. They seemed to glow softly and change colour from the sea green of the ocean to the emerald green she associated with her freak sister. And in the middle of his forehead burning somewhat with an inexplicable energy of its own, a lightning bolt shaped scar.
He came in a basket covered with a baby blue blanket, clutching a letter in his hands. Petunia took an instant dislike to him. What fifteen year old, so soon after his parents leave him forever has eyes so full of life and dares to laugh when she opened the front door of her house and screamed at him.
Petunia had immediately picked up the basket (after making sure that no prying neighbors saw the baby, of course) and taken it inside to her living room, setting it down on the coffee table before anyone saw the strange baby.
She snatched the letter out of his hands, in an envelope of dated parchment, emblazoned with a telltale seal of a lion, a badger, an eagle and a snake, representative of the day her life went wrong, of the school that rejected her for not being a freak. It was addressed to her...
Dear Petunia,
I hope you're in good health and eating lots of those delicious gummy bears from the Surrey supermarket, like I will after I deliver this letter to you.
Anyway, it is with regret that I write to you of an attack on your beloved Lily and her husband James, on last day of October. They were both defeated decisively before your nephew came to the rescue.
He, through the sacrifice of a magical core, reflected a very powerful spell right back at its caster, the Dark Lady trying to kill your sister, killing her instantly. The loss of magic has led to Harry becoming a squib.
An extremely dangerous situation for the heir of an aristocratic family. (The dependency on magic in squibs is an easily exploitable weakness, as you'd probably know.)
Moreover, the followers of the Dark Lady are still at large and I must entrust his protection to you. I believe that your love for him shall shield him from dark forces out to hunt him and keep him safe. Remember that for his safety and yours he must always call No. 4 Privet Drive his home.
The future of our world (atleast part of it) is in your hands. Please forget whatever animosity you bear your sister and nurture your nephew to a happy life.
There is a chance, however, that he shows some signs of magic and receives his Hogwarts letter. In that event, I trust that you will immediately inform us of any such events. Otherwise, keep taking care of him and raise him as you'd raise your son.
You will, of course receive a compensation from the Potter vaults for raising him.
My deepest condolences and wishes for a prosperous life.
Albus Dumbledore,
Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
P.S. The garden was too boring so I conjured a goat for you to enjoy the company of. Marvellous creatures, Goats.
P.S. You might want to take a look at your hedges, Petunia. That goat appeared quite hungry.
So Lily had just left her boy in her care. Abandoned him. She would be cursed forever to damnation if she refused to take thd freak in. She could just throw him away. Dumbledore'll on her like a hungry vulture.
Then and there, she decided she won't have it. If the ungrateful freak was to live with her it would be by her rules. Perhaps God had given her a chance at redemption, to cleanse the freakishness of her nephew.
He would have to earn his right to live with her family or pay. The boy should at least show some gratitude towards her family and when old enough would help her in the housekeeping. It was the least...
Wait! Her thoughts came to an abrupt end when she took a glance at the basket. It was empty.
How long has she been lost in her thoughts? A minute? And the child was already missing. She looked around and found her living room was already empty. He wasn't behind Vernon's armchair, beside the Television, the three seater, or even under the dining table.
Panicking, Petunia called, "Oh Vernon!"
Her husband didn't come down the stairs before she had shouted his name for the fifth time. Dressed in blue and white pyjamas, his features set in an ever present frown, his stomach a foot ahead of him, gasping for air, her asked, "What is it, Tuny?"
As Petunia explained to him how there came to be a basket with a child in it, they began searching for him in earnest, before he came to harm foolishly or God forbid harmed her furniture.
Seven minutes later they found him, in the backyard running around on the grass, eyes sparkling. What surprised them the most was not how he must have rushed outside through a locked door, or the glittering Mist surrounding the boy. No it was the small bird, with a mostly silver plumage, and a white downside which seemed to burst into white flames appearing here and there around the child while he tried to get a hold of her.
While Vernon stood flabbergasted, Petunia demanded, "What do you think you're doing, Boy?"
And his eyes, which were earlier diligently trying to help his hands catch a hold of the bird, turned to look at her.
Petunia would look back at this moment, when he first looked at her with an intensity lacking in strict teachers, they were emerald green now, and for a second she had to remind herself, seeing the small smile on his face, that the fault was his for running away and not hers for scolding him. The bird had stopped flying and was now perched on the boy's index finger.
Still not looking away, the fifteen month old replied, curious, "Hav we met? I'm Haye Potta."
Vernon, finally out of his stupor, asked in baby in a daze, "Why the hell does your bird burn about, Boy?"
The bird looked at Vernon as if he was stupid and the boy said smiling, "This is Hedwig. Yes, she burns. So what, Whaley!"
And as Vernon's speech dissolved into a string of expletives and the child turned away to resume playing, as in the background she saw a goat running away with half of her rosebush stuck on its head (Dumbledore's goat), bleating all the way, Petunia knew her life would never be the same...
A/N: Reading suggestions: Read the tricky parts twice if you have to. (Especially when you're reading some of Harry's dialogues later on. That kid lies a LOT. Never trust Harry Potter.)
Due to the insane number of complications in the story and many interwoven plots, I was forced to choose precise, to the point narration to avoid boredom in Book 0.
This book is mainly a compilation of confrontations, physical, magical, mental, metaphysical, emotional, knowledge-based and even sexual.
The most important theme of the story is Adventure, unpredictable and uncontrollable, followed equally by Humor, Thrill (of mind games), Mystery and Romance (later on). I've liberally used the F-word (believe it or not but I prefer Fu*k to Sh*t, a better meaning and less offensive generally), though I generally believe in humanity so there's no 'bashing' except some for Humor's sake.
(Dumbledore, for example, can simply be made not to make the mistakes he made in canon. It brings needless negativity to do a mad humiliation of him and the stories where he's a hidden conquerer of Wizarding Britain completely opposes his character.
Besides, if you think about it, Dumbledore had to be slightly mad for there to be a HPatPS and not a 'Harry Potter studies magical theory for 7 years before that old wizard kills off his nemesis, in spirit form. (BTW, he gets O in Potions! Rejoice the revival of academics.)'
That would be boring and let's face it, canon Harry is not a prodigy in anything except DADA. You need some insane authority figures for the antagonists to pass off as turbans to surprise you, for Harry to need to enter the CoS, Sirius to be a surprise innocent, Barty to pass off as Moody (though that was extremely foolish; I mean doesn't Moody have a thousand security protocols? I support that only for the surprise factor. Few suspects the insane Police.) )
I've got a rough plot line of the whole story (about 600K-1M, 8 books) and I'd like to think I'm not protesting against tropes.
I'm stuffing them and (some parts of fanon and canon) into a rocket and blasting them into the sun to make something new and slightly (or more) insane. It goes without saying that this is my first story and I was just a 17 year old with a moderate typing speed when I began it in January.
I'm simply showing how madly someone can imagine fanfiction if they are bored enough, something I'm disappointed more people don't do.
Archaic Phoenix.
P.S.1 This wasn't meant to be a crack fic. It still became half of one, in part due to my mediocre (?) writing skills and frequent mood swings at a tense moment of my life (The origin of Ch 9 and 10).
P.S.2 Please read through these two chapters sometime (especially the Mist and the War Parts) if you want to read the story seriously. I thought of separation into different parts but its easy for the reader to review, almost a past summary, instead of finding it in daily conversation.
P.S.3 This is not meant to be a Harem/ Angst story. I'll try to justify the pairings. (No boy, however, kind-hearted or manipulative really deserves two girls at the same time, unless under drastic conditions, which my pairings may end up being.) And I really hate contracts. Remember, Harry has as much probablity of getting Millicent Bulstrode as he has of getting Daphne Greengrass. And that actually borders on Non-Consensual.
P.S.4 Sexual scenes will be present with warnings, as consensual as possible, relevent to plots and if possible, I'll present ways to go 'round them.
You protest? Sorry but I am a teenager and this is a teen book and my Harry Potter, if you're asking, is the amalgamation of 5, 15 and 25 year olds. I don't anticipate any sexual scene with other characters of [1991-98] until Book 3/4 atleast.
The Prologue to the prologue is a glimpse into the future and part of the setting story. I think its somewhere between books 6 and 7 (or 7 and 8 if you think Origin is Book 1). That lad's my dramatic irory creator.
This story doesn't end in Harry Potter ending up in nowhere with The 'Schrodinger's Cat' Casual observer.
Lastly, if you'd point out any Plot/ Grammatical errors that may creep in, I'd love it. And ask Questions too. Thanks.
(Forgive the rant, which I'll try to keep limited to momentous chapters alone. I didn't write this before I'd completed a book, so I should be entitled.)