AN: The songs Harry sings this chapter are 1) The Maiden & The Selkie by Heather Dale, 2) Stolen Child by Loreena McKennitt, and 3) Davy Jones by Fialeja
Also — important note at the bottom, please read.
Chapter Six: Taking Risks
Being an unrepentant scaredy-cat, Harry typically wasn't one for feats of physical prowess. Or, perhaps, 'scaredy-cat' wasn't the right word for it . . . they weren't one to attempt anything unfamiliar should it in any way appear daunting or tiring. They were slothful — there! That was a bit closer! They were slothful and rarely showed any initiative for things with outcomes that weren't guaranteed to be to their liking, especially when it came to things they had to physically do.
They were trying to overcome that, though.
On this particular occasion — around half a month off from their eighth birthday now — Harry was attempting to psyche themselves up to try a cartwheel.
Yes, yes — unimportant, pointless in the grand scheme of things, and not benefiting in any way to their goals — but, dammit, they were never physically fit enough to do childish things like this last time, and they wanted to play at being the stereotypical athletic 'cool kid' for a bit — a jock-type Mary-Sue, if you would. Granted, it didn't fit their present archetype, but maybe if they developed an eclectic set of 'quirky' characteristics, they could run about as a Manic Pixie Dream Girl later. And if they made friends with Luna right away, the two of them could be a pair of Cloudcuckoolanders!
But they digressed.
Anyway — cartwheels! Gymnastics in general! Harry wasn't planning on anything truly remarkable in the long run, but they figured they'd cross it off the list of life experiences.
"Is this safe?"
Harry looked up from where they were stretched out on the grass in a front split, a feat they were still revelling in.
Kenneth sat cross-legged on the bench behind them, his hands clutching at his shins.
The two of them were outside in the back of the library, a grassy lawn with trees and benches where visitors would sit and read when the weather was nice. There was no one else around that day, though it was a really nice sunny day for a change, so Harry figured it was as good a time as any to loll about on the grass.
"Of course!" said Harry, reaching forward with relish to touch their toes and touch their forehead to their knee. They were so flexible now! "Other people do it all the time!"
" Professionals do it all the time," said Kenneth in a tiny voice. "And it looks scary as can be. . . ."
This boy was the same flavour of Gryffindor as Neville, Harry thought as they rolled and shifted into a straddle split. They flopped forward and rested on their elbows with their chin in their cupped hands.
"Professionals have to start somewhere," Harry pointed out, turning their head to peer back at him with one eye. "And loads of kids our ages and younger learn to do this kind of stuff, no problem. Come on, Ken, it'll be fun! Surely you've wanted to do cartwheels before?"
Harry had borrowed a manual from the library on tumbling and gymnastics and now waved it in the air for emphasis.
If there was one thing to commend Kenneth on, though, it was his stubbornness; despite still being in the throes of hero-worship, he would not be coaxed. Harry eventually left off and resolved to just do it by themselves.
They stood and cast their arms wide open, as if embracing the sky.
"I beg the ears of those who reign/," they exhaled under their breath, "over this skill I would attain./ If, in Your grace, Ye deign to hark,/ pray, lend Your blessing of this art."
If Kenneth had anything to say about that or if he even heard it at all, Harry headed off any comment by putting their palms on the ground and pressing up into a handstand. They shifted half of the muscle strength of their legs into their arms and giddily did vertical push-ups.
Honestly, impending catastrophic trauma aside, this existence was the most comfortable and freed they'd ever been physically. Maybe it was just for now, but still ! They almost wanted to join a sports team!
. . . erm, yeah, no, maybe not.
"Ooh, ooh, check this out!" Harry chirped, grinning upside-down at the gawking Kenneth. They kicked their left leg forward so that it was parallel with the ground and pulled their right leg back as far as they could, bending the knee so that the tip of their shoe touched the back of their head.
After a pause, they shifted their strength into one arm to keep themselves up while they used the other to pull the leg behind them even further. Harry recalled that this pose was called the Scorpion — the leg behind and pulled up part, at least.
"How are you doing that?!" Kenneth shrilled. "You said you borrowed that book just today!"
Harry released their foot and pulled their legs back into themselves. With a roll, they were on their belly in the grass again, feet kicking idly in the air behind them.
"Ye~eah — and I did," they said. "Because I'm not . . . creatively imaginative with things I'm uneducated in," they continued, explaining. "I do what I'm already familiar with, with little to no variation — y'know, just . . . just reconstructing pre-existing concepts into new use and all that. It's hardly noteworthy in the long run to do the same few tricks over and over, though; there's only so many ways I can slap together the bits and pieces of what little I do know. So I have to continue pursuing knowledge within this field of study. If I'm to . . . to, erm . . . correctly. . .? Er, if I'm to . . . to be perfectly candid when I assert that I have any degree of competence."
Kenneth's nose crinkled as he snickered.
"No question of what House you're going to be in when you get to Hogwarts," he said, tilting back to rest against the bench-back. "You talk all fancy and grown-up with all those big words — I'll be surprised if they don't chuck you straight into Ravenclaw in the first ten seconds."
Harry snorted.
"Sounding pretentious in speech is hardly a sign of being suited for the House that favours intelligence."
"What's . . . 'pretentious' mean?"
"'Pretentious'; P-R-E- . . . T-E-N- . . . T-I-O-U-S. An adjective that means making claim to or creating an appearance of distinction. A pretentious person tries to make themselves look impressive, like that old berk that's always bragging to the librarians about all the classic literature he reads — he's bloody pretentious as hell. I used the word 'pretentious' to describe how I talk because loads of pretentious people will use pseudo-intellectual words when they talk not because they truly think the words are necessary to communicate their thoughts as accurately as possible, but because they think it makes them sound smart."
"Well, I don't always know the words you use," said Kenneth after a pause, "but I don't remember you ever using them just to use them. You always make sure you're saying exactly what you mean to say exactly as you mean it. So you're definitely just smart — not pretentious at all."
Wow, okay, who told this kid how to reach into the heart of a nerd and soothe the kicked animal there with words of straight-forward validation? He's been in this story for what? Like, a quarter of a chapter or something? (It couldn't be much more than that, this was still post-prologue/pre-story, and nothing of actual note had happened yet.) A quarter of a chapter of Harry's take on this story-line, and he was already Harry's favourite person.
Harry never did manage to convince Kenneth to roll around in the grass with them that day, but that was fine considering Harry was due back at the Dursleys early because of a business dinner they had to prepare. Actually, they ended up not managing to convince Kenneth at all the rest of the break. On the bright side, though! They now had a new hobby to occupy them.
Summer eventually ended, Kenneth leaving with it.
Harry was surprised to discover how much they ended up missing Kenneth as primary school started up again. Yeah, he was presently their favourite person, but it was odd to feel the buds of actual attachment forming for a person they knew was fictional.
Or not so fictional — they were living this life now, so it was obviously a reality. Fiction, reality; truth, fabrication . . . nothing was real, and yet everything painfully was . Harry really couldn't put themselves in the mindset that the others around them were real people when they first experienced aforementioned others as nothing more than ink on paper, and yet every miniscule reaction of their new body brought every response they had to the world around them into sharp, visceral relief. It felt like a VR game that they could never log out of, like they'd been forcefully strapped into one of those dream-gaming helmets from ½ Prince and then shoved into Second Life with it's 99% realism.
Unremitting background existentialism aside, Harry did appreciate that little pleasures felt more intense as well. It probably had much to do with the change-up in their brain chemistry. For better or worse Harry Potter felt joy keenly — to the same degree that [REDACTED] had been mainly insensate to anything but frustration.
And so they indulged. Harry chased any healthy high they could get their hands on — books; music; games; food.
They still didn't get that last one as much as they really would have wanted to (their gluttony had followed them from that last life), but they were surprised by how little they were truly bothered by it. Like actually physically bothered by it. Snacks they rustled up for themselves aside, the Dursley really didn't feed them enough, and one feeling they'd hated the most before was hunger. However, it seemed that their body . . . didn't crave? They knew craving very well — it was kind of worrying that they weren't experiencing it as they would have thought they would considering their poor diet. Had this body been conditioned to not feel hunger already at this young age? They didn't know if they should be grateful or concerned.
One thing's for certain, their lack of appetite was a boon when they were out in London busking. Harry barely wanted to take even a short water break and was loath to part with a single pence, so the fact that they could forgo a lunch break and thus not have to part with any money was a relief.
On that particular day, Harry had once again donned the appearance they'd mentally dubbed their 'bard persona', their fiery princess curls in two long braids and a thick fringe. They'd decided to age-up to go as a full-grown adult that day, so the clothes that sat baggily before their morph now were rather short and tight — their oversized t-shirt and cargo trousers were now a crop top and Capris. Now, they weren't a fan of showing skin, but the amount of organic attention it gained made drawing attention with their compulsion even easier.
"Once a fair and handsome seal-lord lay his foot upon the sand/ for to woo the fisher's daughter and to claim her marriage hand./ 'I have come in from the ocean, I have come in from the sea,/ and I'll not go to the waves, love, lest ye come along with me .'/"
As Harry sang, they paid special attention to push more coercion into key words. They liked this song in particular not just for the melody and story, but because it was just loaded with useful buzzwords. Just that first time they added it to their set, a good dozen people had stayed to watch them from mid-morning to late afternoon; that had been a profitable Saturday.
"'Lord, long have I loved thee as a selkie on the foam./ I would gladly go and wed thee and be lady of thy home,/ but I cannot go into the ocean, I cannot go into the sea,/ I would drown beneath the waves, love, if I went along with thee./"
This location was a new spot for them, and it was turning out to be a gold mine — just a single look directly into one of these people's eyes would immediately prompt them to drop some cash. So suggestible! Harry didn't too frequently, though, both because that could incur suspicion over time and also because direct eye-contact made their hair stand on end.
"'Lady, long have I loved thee! I would have thee for my wife!/ I shall stay upon thy shore land though it robs me of my life./ I'll never go back to the ocean, never go back to the sea,/ I shall stay one night beside thee though it be the death of me.'/"
Like that first time, there were a number of people and groups who lingered instead of passing through. Harry tried to aim the focus of their compulsion on those that didn't look like they were in a hurry, but it wasn't rare that someone who clearly had places to be would get snagged and remain. There were a small handful of those sort presently.
"— they've gone to her grandmother's little cottage by the sea/ to inquire how the maiden could be wed to her selkie,/ for the seal-lord's watery kingdom would surely rob her of her breath,/ but to stay on land past midnight, that would surely be —"
There were some right misers amongst the crowd, too, who managed to begrudge Harry even a single pence despite how long they stayed and how thoroughly Harry compelled them. Paired with the poor saps who were likely running doubly late now because of their susceptibility, Harry was ready to get rid of them.
"— just before the stroke of midnight, they have made it back to sea,/ and she's donned that magic seal-coat and has become a maid selkie! Now they've gone into the ocean, hand in hand into the sea;/ She has gone along, a fair seal-bride for her selkie!"
Harry gently released them by moving onto a less binding song; this came with the price that others might also shake off their fascination and move on as well before giving anything, but Harry broke out in a cold sweat if they were convinced they were inconveniencing an innocent stranger.
"Where dips the rocky highland/ of Sleuth Wood in the lake,/" sang Harry, plucking strings carefully, "there lies a leafy island/ where flapping herons wake/" — one person went so far as to shake their head as they came out of the enthralment — "the drowsy water-rats./ There we've hid our faery vats/ full of berries/ and of reddest stolen cherries./"
The spendthrifts with places to be checked their watches and rushed off. Some who had come to the area to window-shop dropped donations and wandered off. Hearteningly, more came along and a good number still lingered longer — which was as gratifying as it was understandable; compulsion aside, this body really did come with a fantastic, versatile voice.
As the hours passed, Harry steadily became bolder — as they were wont to do. They ventured out from the little nook they'd started in and engaged the crowd more. They weren't a dancer, but they threw in a few artful steps and spins when the mood was right. They got really great reactions when they worked in a backflip or side aerial without a pause. They crouched and sang directly to children during fun songs, and they sent playful looks to unattached adults during love ballads. It was nerve-wracking work for an introvert who'd been demiromantic at best previously and currently still lacked the hormones to know one way or another in this life, but wearing a face that wasn't their own made it bearable.
Late afternoon came upon them once more. If they were to make it back to Privet Drive without drawing suspicion, they'd have to leave soon after this last song.
"Cruel and cold like winds on the sea./ Will you ever return to me?/" Harry crooned. They didn't exactly cultivate a regular crowd, and that was on purpose, but if it ever happened that people came across them again around the city, they wanted those people already primed to be taken with them. "Years on years I'll wait to go by./ My love will never die."
And who knows? If Harry ever really did get a job in the performing arts, it certainly wouldn't hurt to have some potential fans already hooked.
"And that's my time, everyone!" Harry called, clapping twice and bowing. The crowd slowly came out of their subtle stupors. Harry smiled and laughed at the sounds of protest. "I know, I know," they said, "but that's really it for me today. Thank you for listening! You've been a lovely audience."
The crowd slowly dispersed as Harry packed their ukulele back into their backpack and knocked back the last of their water. They shouldered the bag and stretched and were already turned towards the direction of the side alley where they could securely morph back when their elbow was grabbed.
"Hang on a bit, love," said a masculine voice ingratiatingly. "What's your hurry?"
Harry pushed down a grimace.
"I need to catch my bus," they said, turning to look at the offender with a relaxed smile. "Got another thing going on tonight, so I can't afford to miss it."
It was one of those smarmy douchebag types, the sort that were fairly well-off and thought they could sweet-talk women by flashing their 'wealth and status'. It might be Harry's complete dismissal of all persons presumptuous, but he looked rather like every other stuck-up trust-fund baby they'd encountered before.
"Ah, don't worry about that — I can give you a ride if you need one," he blew off their words, hand on their elbow moving up to their bicep. "Listen, I just wanted to tell you that your little performance was really something, and —"
Once he got started, the guy wouldn't stop. He barely let Harry get a word in edgewise either. The longer he went on, the more irritated Harry became.
Okay, so, the bus Harry intended to take was the Knight Bus, and it didn't actually have a time limit, but Harry did have something of a curfew. If they didn't get back in time, not only would they gain suspicion about what they'd been doing that day, but they'd end up having to sleep in the bushes beside the house because the Dursley would not be letting them back in until the morning — it'd happened before.
"I'm really sorry," Harry cut into the guy's rambling, "but I really do have to go now. I really can't be late."
"No worries, darling," said the condescending arsehole, trying to wrap an arm around Harry's shoulder. "Didn't I tell you I'd give you a ride? Much better than some smelly bus, I can't tell you that."
Right, that was it.
"Oh, I really couldn't," said Harry, locking eyes with him. They poured a whammy of compulsion into their words. " I wouldn't want to inconvenience someone so generous in their praise of me."
Before their eyes, the guy's eyes glazed over, the adoration in their expression went from the light and covetous it had been before to stark and overwhelming.
"I-it w-w-would be my greatest pleasure to help you in any way I can," he breathed, all but drooling.
What if Harry's idea of help was for him to drown himself in the Thames? Harry thought to themselves, the ruthless, reptilian part of their brain flaring for a second. The smile they gave the man belied the coldness of their regard for him.
"Now that I think of it," said Harry slowly, effecting an uncertain expression, "Maybe you could help me. You see, I'm saving up to travel during my gap-year, so I really want to save every little bit I can. I'd really appreciate it if you could cover my bus fare."
The guy laughed dopily.
"That's it? No, no! Such a goddess of music and beauty deserves far more than just some pocket change! Here," — he took out his wallet and revealed a thick row of bills — "get yourself something nice on me."
He pulled out the entire stack of bills and pushed it into Harry's free hand.
Harry's eyes gleamed. There had to be at least five or six hundred pounds, more than they made within three whole Saturdays even with their magic.
A wicked impulse came upon them as they looked up at the jerk under their spell. Surely someone who casually carried around hundreds of pounds would have more at the ready in their bank account? It would be such a small matter to get him to take them to an ATM. . . .
But, no. Questionable morality of it aside, asking so much all at once could break the guy out from enthralment. Harry's compulsion was not mind-control and certainly not the Imperius Curse; it prodded people into what Harry wanted them to feel and made them more uninhibited to go along with Harry's bidding, but it couldn't actually make a person do something they'd find objectionable.
"Oh, wow," they breathed. They looked up and gave the guy their best smile. With a giggle, they dripped honey into his ears. "You're so kind! Oh, my, I don't think I've ever met someone so selfless before. I'm really honoured. Are you sure this is alright . . . ? "
"Yes, yes . . ." he said, grinning like a loon at Harry. "Just this much is nothing. My family runs a profitable business, so it's not a big deal. I can treat you right, darling."
Harry's smile felt pasted on. Their upper lip twitched. Godsdamned rich people. . . .
Having had quite enough of him, Harry coaxed him into going on his way. It took a peck on the cheek and a promise to return to that location next Saturday, but the guy finally undug his heels and released Harry's arm.
Surreptitiously counting the money the arsehole gifted them as they walked, Harry wondered if this was what having a sugar daddy was like.
AN: Go to my Tumblr (high-pot-in-noose) to find my post on the new update schedule for this fic as well as others, and to find out how you can view advanced chapter updates.
