Chapter 3: - Brand New Old World (1/3)
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"I will be out the whole day."
After speaking, Harry looks up from the fork he dangles just above his emptied plate to Vernon and Petunia, whom he for once joined at the table. Without Dudley present, he won't be caught dead in the same room as Harry.
"You'll have me out of your hair then."
Precisely a day ago, the day the letter arrived, Harry had not wanted to take any risks and let Petunia and Vernon see it. On one hand, they may not acknowledge his existence at all anymore but on the other hand, to this day he is vary of letting them once again catch sight of an old drawing of his.
Which is why a minute later had found him in the safety of his own room, pulling the envelope out from where he had tucked it under his shirt. At the addressing, he did a double take. Then felt naive for hoping that it would all make sense once he opened it.
It wasn't until after half an hour that he had been able to put the letter and everything else the envelope contained down.
It explained everything.
Magic, there he had it, Mrs. Figgs must have meant this and she was right, it made sense.
It also raised countless questions.
Out there, there are people like him. They have to be numerous, why else would they need an entire school? Are they living together in a magic community? If so, where? Why didn't he know until now? Why is he not there with them? Why did they contact him just now, after excluding him for almost eleven years?
Problems after problems, questions after questions but logically only one was important at the moment: How would he respond?
Composing a letter of his own had been a feat in and on itself, not only because who even writes letters anymore? After way too many ripped and balled up sheets from his paper block with various attempts at formulating a response scribbled on them, Harry had decided to not try avoid stating the obvious; He knew next to nothing about magic, let alone a society built around it.
In the end, Harry found that his response did read quite soundly, all things considered. He described his obliviousness. Stated some of what he'd done with his unrefined methods of just pushing his magic to work all these years. Asked about their (his) people, about the society, is he even right in assuming there is one?
(Didn't describe his inner workings and asked if that's normal.)
And if he came across as snippy at points (when asking about how come he was kept in the dark all this time), well, his letter didn't take years to arrive.
Thus, the first hard part was done. Onto the second, namely the problem with sending his response.
Harry didn't have the remotest idea on what 'we await your owl' meant and after thinking trough every last option, which didn't take long, there were very few, he shrugged and up and decided to go at it the most obvious way. Respond per mail.
He hid the letters under the loose floorboard he discovered all these years ago upon inspecting his then-new room closer and set out to buy what was needed.
At that point Harry was sure that Petunia purposefully did not bring up the topic of the disappearing money from her purse, there was simply no way that Dudley inherited his astounding ignorance from that side of the family. He shrugged it off. As long as he had what he needed to buy a stamp and an envelope.
Though on the way to and from the post office he couldn't suppress the wrenching of doubt in his gut. His logical mind tried soothing it, telling him that he wasn't offered any other feasible way of responding (owl, what even?), so how else was he supposed to send a letter, and be it an unconventional one, but by mail? However, anxiety isn't one to be chased away by logic.
Finally, whatever doubts Harry had had about his venture were eradicated once he put the stamp on the now closed and addressed envelope containing his answer.
Holding it he had noticed how it grew to be unreasonably warm. Looking it over, a fleck of colour that hadn't originally been present caught his eye. It was the stamp. Fascinated, Harry observed how yellow bled from its corner, moving over its generic picture of a rose, covering all the red before more colours sprouted and formed. Then Harry held a letter with an H insignia surrounded by an eagle, a lion, a badger and a snake on its stamp.
He grinned. Silly him, there'd been no reason to doubt himself.
He immediately went to throw his envelope in, unknowingly using the same mailbox a little girl had frequented decades ago, sending her own letters, asking why she wouldn't be accepted into her little sister's magical school.
The response was delivered swiftly and along with it the answer to what 'we await your owl' meant. It found Harry just as he reached his safe space, the old playground, suddenly eager to run trough what feats he achieved once again.
And as owls are soundless flyers, he had no warning. When a sudden weight settled on his shoulder and several sharp points dug trough his shirt's fabric, Harry froze. Moved slowly to look, while high alert emptied his mind so he could focus on what he now knew to be magic in his chest, ready to call upon it. To act. When his eyes met big brown ones, quite expressive ones at that, he relaxed and he could've sworn that the large owl sitting on his shoulder threw an amused look his way.
In its beak it carried a letter, akin to the first one, and when it tilted its head forward, offering it to him, the sunlight falling trough the treetops above highlighted a familiar insignia on the wax seal.
Harry took it and the owl flew off, landing in a tree branch. He broke open the seal and kept fiddling with it, while reading the answer from Albus Dumbledore.
Harry, my dear boy,
I am so very sorry to hear that no one has done anything to inform you of your true nature, though, I have to say that I am very glad to hear that you have taken to getting to learn about this side of yourself on your own accord. You were completely right to assume that there is a whole, functioning magical society, a world even, of witches, wizards and even mythical creatures, one hidden from the non-magical world as you know it.
Once again, I cannot express how unfortunate it is that you never have gotten to know about it all, up until around the date of your eleventh birthday and the period of time around which every witch and wizard with magic capabilities receives their Hogwarts acceptance letter.
At that point, the notion that his eleventh birthday was indeed soon, Harry shortly paused. He had never understood why everyone else made a big deal of birthdays -with him that certainly wasn't the case - so he pushed that aside and continued reading.
There is more to learn about our wizarding world, as we call it, than can be compressed into a single letter, which is why I come at you with a way for you to catch up on what you have unrightfully missed out: My esteemed colleague, Professor Minerva McGonagall, has offered herself and she shall be the one to answer all of your questions and introduce and guide you trough one of London's most vital magic locations, Diagon Alley. There you will also have the opportunity to buy everything needed for the start of your year at Hogwarts. On a side note, you needn't worry about money because your parents have left behind the Potter Family Vault, containing more than enough assets to get you by. You will be introduced to that by Professor McGonagall too. For that matter, please respond with a time, any that you see fit, starting tomorrow until the first of August at the latest, and a location for where you want to meet up with her.
On a not so unrelated side note, the way you reached out to us via our alternate mailroute is admirable. Surprisingly few people not in the know receiving a letter from Hogwarts think of getting back at us in the most obvious non-magical way. However, this time around you can give the note with your response to the owl that delivered this very letter to you. It will know exactly where to take it.
We await your response with anticipation, as we too are eager to introduce you to our wizarding world.
Yours most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Dumbledore made a solid first impression, though Harry couldn't shake the feeling off that he was also verypeeved, mildly put, about his being left in the dark about this wizarding world. Something Harry wholeheartedly agreed with. The letter also had done a great lot to settle down the storm of questions raging trough him, with how it explained some absolute basics and also gave him an opportunity to learn more.
Speaking of which, Harry really urged to respond immediately.
He looked up at the grey shape among green leaves and the owl blinked back.
"You will wait for me here, yes? I've just gotta go fetch a response."
And he knew that it understood him.
For one second he thought about slowing down his erratic racing to his room, reigning in his excitement and considering how he would formulate another adequate response, all fancily. He left that thought at the entrance door. Waste of energy and patience. They owed him answers and would give them to him regardless of how hurried his response was:
Your fast reply means a lot, Professor Dumbledore
Dear Professor McGonagall, I am very grateful for your offer and I would like to meet up with you tomorrow, at the entrance of Privet Park, at 14 o'clock.
Harry Potter
Snatching the paper from his block and stuffing it into an envelope, Harry ran back.
The owl hadn't moved, still sitting on the same tree branch and preening itself. Once Harry stopped his full sprint and just stood there panting and sweating, the envelope fast in his grip, it perked up and flew down to meet him. A little awkwardly he held out the envelope and the owl took it into its beak.
Harry watched the grey spot disappear. The next day couldn't come fast enough.
Which leads to the current situation.
It's twelve o'clock, the next day, two hours are left until Harry's scheduled to meet with Professor McGonagall and his announcement is met with silence by the Dursleys. Harry just stands up and moves to leave the kitchen after putting his plate into the dishwasher. Throwing a glance back, he catches the looks from Petunia and Vernon. He may or may not have imagined the unfathomable glint in their eyes.
Whatever, it's not like they care about his whereabouts anymore.
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At quarter past thirteen, Harry is out of the house, his backpack on him. A washed out grey thing that still serves its purpose well despite its age. It's empty.
Harry doesn't know what this day will bring but he has an inkling that he will need something he can carry a few items in. That letter did say that he has money, after all...
Once at the park, his watch tells him that he is too early for his meetup with Professor McGonagall, but that is no problem. He has something else to do.
His backpack is empty because just his Hogwarts letter hardly counts. Though the paper makes up for its lack of physical substance by singlehandedly throwing off his life how it has been up until now, unsparingly putting into perspective just how limitedhe was.
The playground looks like Harry left it the day before and the years before that, old, forgotten.
The wooden chips that cover the ground. He levitated them, could hold up around five of them at once, twenty when he pushed himself all out.
The white graffitis. They once were purple, red, orange, blue and many more.
The section of the slide that glints in the sunlight, the one area that doesn't look aged beyond use, though it used to.
The pole that is bent to form a spiral. It took weeks.
The playtower that collapsed in on itself after the wooden and partially metal stakes were severed at several weak points in a single motion, which strained him to the point his power (magic) left him for a while after.
Everything else.
Harry feels a grin that is not a happy one pull on the corners of his mouth. How primitive will all this look in just a few hours when he will get to see Diagon Alley?
Though maybe he shouldn't look down on this place, it served him so well. It stands though, it's time to leave the child's play behind. There is the real deal to be learned out there. He turns around and leaves this place forever.
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Delicate feline paws don't make a sound as they tread their silent way trough rows of bushes and a cat watches a lone figure sit down on a bench.
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It's a wonder there even is a free bench for him to sit on, here, not far from the park entrance, on a sunny summer vacation day. Though, looking around at all the other empty benches around him and the glaring lack of other human activity all around, Harry more than suspects that this is no coincidence.
He checks his watch. Yup, it's time soon. Speaking of, what will an actual witch look like-
A soft wooden thumpechoes and Harry turns around to see a tabby cat that just jumped on the other side of the bench.
Yellow and green slowly blink a greeting. And what a peculiar pattern it is that surrounds yellow, in a way mirroring the round glasses that frame green.
Harry gingerly reaches out a hand to hold in front of the cat for it to take his scent in, letting it decide if it wants to be pet by him. The cat briefly sniffs once before retracting its head with backward-facing ears. They rotate back around when it continues pinning him down with its attentive gaze.
Does he smell like food or something? Either way he has none, so he looks away and ignores it. Then the feeling of being scrutinised increases tenfold and he looks back at the cat.
It blinks slowly again and he tilts his head at it for a moment before he shrugs and turns away again.
Just before Harry can check his watch one final time, because it really should be about time by now, the bench's wooden planks shift under him as if something heavy is settling down on the other end and an unknown voice speaks up:
"I think it is about time for me to introduce myself, Mr. Potter."
Next to him, a stern-looking woman meets his gaze. This time around the spectacles are not an illusion of fur patterns.
"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall."
Harry eases the buildup of energy away, he can relax.
"Can everyone transform into a cat?"
McGonagall didn't expect this reaction to be the first one. Neither did Harry, even if it are histhoughts that he blurted out. This isn't a letter procured in an exited haste anymore, this is the one person who he will have to rely on for this major thing today. He really should watch what he says and how and when he says it.
"Also, I'm Harry. Potter. Nice to finallymeet you."
What was he just telling himself? He catches the raised eyebrow she couldn't suppress. Way to make a first impression in person. Idiot.
Wait, didn't he already do that before andhe's so glad he didn't pet her-
"No, not everyone can transform into a cat. Nor another animal, for that matter-" why does that disappoint him this much "-It is a very difficult branch of magic and very few witches and wizards ever master it. Besides that, there are numerous other aspects to magic to be learned."
Harry sobers up as the countless questions that are waiting to be answered push trough.
"Speaking of which", his tone is serious now, "where are we heading? This wizarding world, Du-Professor Dumbledore said it's hidden, how do we get there?"
In lieu of an answer, McGonagall inclines her head, smiling a little. She stands up and Harry follows suit, eagerly awaiting her answer.
"There is one very important thing that you must know beforehand, Mr Potter." Her smile is gone and she looks sterner that even at the beginning. "No one must know about us. We have stayed hidden for several centuries now and it would be an absolute catastrophe if the nonmagical folk were to learn about magic existing. I have already cast a spell on this area that keeps unwanted witnesses from entering by making them turn around, following the sudden urge to go somewhere else."
At that, Harry looks around. Of course nothing looks out of place except for the emptiness, but the fact that magic, like his very own, can do something unseen, on a psychologicallevel astounds him. What elsecan magic do?
"I will now cast a spell", McGonagall continues.
Harry watches her every move.
Though McGonagall knows Lily's eyes to have been bright with the thirst of knowledge, she doesn't recall them being quite as, well, bright.
"Seeing as we will be moving trough the city to get to Diagon Alley, we will be surrounded by nonmagical people. The spell I will cast on us is a certain muggle-repelling charm that will prevent them from listening in.
"Mr Potter, I am sure you have a lot of questions", she finishes off in a softer tone.
Harry just watches on.
McGonagall makes an unusual movement with her wrist, flicking it inwards and then back while stretching her fingers out and a thin wooden stick slides into her hand. She-
"Wait."
McGonagall blinks, surprised. But Harry's eyes are not on her, they are on her wand.
"Do that again."
His tone-
Harry blinks too, one, two times and now his gaze meets hers.
"I'm sorry, can you please do it again? Your move with the stick?"
His tone. It isn't a harsh command anymore but politely pleading. He knows that talking to someone like Professor McGonagall like that won't get him anywhere. Harry should not have spoken like that in the first place, but the sudden urge had pushed him. He needsto see her do this again.
McGonagall frowns.
"It's called a wand, Mr. Potter. For now I forgive you your slip-up but be assured, we don't tolerate addressing Hogwarts Professors in such a manner."
Harry lowers his head but looks back up again when she goes to show him the move again.
Holding her hand up, so that her upper arm is in a vertical position, she lets go of the wand. It back falls into her sleeve and once again McGonagall smoothly draws it.
(It's painful to watch. How long until he will wield his own blade again, if at all?)
McGonagall, practiced duelist that she is, had no need to look away from Harry during her little demonstration. Therefore she registers everything: How his eyes glaze over, a stark contrast to how bright they usually are, and how his entire expression shifts into something faraway.
And is that sadness pulling at the edges?
Immediately the next second Harry is himself again and after he blinks away the momentary confusion, his eyes quickly dart to the left, the right and back to McGonagall's wand again.
What hope he has that McGonagall didn't notice is whisked away by her drawn eyebrows and the concern in her voice:
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." At least Harry's tone is convincing. Even if McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, knows when someone won't say otherwise. For now, she turns away.
Harry watches as she says a string of words in a foreign language, though still with a noticeable English accent that makes yet another part of him he didn't know existed cringe.
"Why do you use a wand to cast a spell and what did you just say?"
The way to to the Leaky Cauldron is very long but just barely enough for Professor McGonagall to sufficiently answer all of Harry's most urgent questions.
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"-to muggles it looks like an old, withered ruin surrounded by warning signs."
"What's a muggle? Sounds like a name I'd give to a booger."
McGonagall is unimpressed to the fullest and her expression perfectly conveys as much. Harry doesn't break eye contact.
(Turns out Professor Dumbledore had avoided certain magical terms when writing Harry back, as to not dump too much potentially confusing information on the then completely uninformed boy at once.)
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"I'm not sure I want to say 'muggle', though."
"Why is that?"
"Aren't wizards just muggles but with magic instead of science and technology? From what you told me, it seems that wizards use magic like normal people use technology to get around. So why should one be put down with a term like that when they're-"
('Equally as worthless')
"...technically the same?"
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When he learns that he won't be allowed an own broom until he's a second year, he isn't disappointed. He'll get his hands on one either way.
(He is this close to flying and nobody will take that from him)
(...But will he ever get to use his own wings again?)
Something taints Harry's good disposition after he learned that he will still take flight classes in first year.
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They get off the bus and, after thoroughly letting him in on the Leaky Cauldron's importance, McGonagall leads the way there. Presumably. Checking his surroundings, Harry doesn't see anything even remotely resembling a pub in this abandoned, though surprisingly clean, back alley. He starts wondering but McGonagall is quick to explain the situation.
"Mr. Potter, there is one more thing that you must know", McGonagall starts off and Harry looks up at her. Her tone is different, more emotional than factual, like it has been up until now.
She stops walking and casts him a look. She needs to inform him and though these are not ideal circumstances, there could be way worse ways for Harry to learn about his history.
"I want to tell you here, where we are unwatched. But before that..."
She slips her wand into her hand and Harry's impatience to also get a wand holster like her that'll enable him to do this trick once he has a wand bubbles up again. He watches McGonagall cast another series of privacy spells and wards and allows himself to state the obvious.
"We're not around the Leaky Cauldron, are we."
She conjures two straight-backed wooden chairs and he takes his place, his backpack still on. She does too.
"No", McGonagall answers, while retracting her wand, a movement closely observed.
"It is important for you to learn of what truly happened to your parents and it is best for you to do so before we enter the wizarding world."
She sees him stiffen, she doesn't see why. McGonagall doesn't know better than to assume that he is preparing himself for the sad conversation that will follow.
Behind his steady façade, Harry is fuming. Of course the Dursleys would lie to him about why he even ended up with them in the first place, of coursethey wouldn't tell him why he had to endure all their shit.
"Please continue" is all he brings out.
Taking it slow, as to not unnecessarily upset him any further, Professor McGonagall tells Harry his and his parents' true story, how he got his scar and how he came to live with his relatives. He never once looks away from her and McGonagall comes to realise that he is in to way saddened or upset. These are not emotions fit to describe the look in his eyes. He just takes everything in wordlessly.
Until, after she is done, he speaks up:
"What's his name?"
McGonagall just heaves a sigh.
"It's not a good question to ask."
"He gave himself a name", Harry goes on, unwavering. "He threw his old self away and I want to know what he became instead. If you could tell me his name."
"But you must never say it out loud, have you understood me?"
She takes his silence as a yes.
"His name was Voldemort."
(''Flight from death'')
(What do they think they are, to give themselves such titles)
Eventually, Harry just nods. He then straightens up and his expression grows more cheerful.
"Is that all? Can we go on?"
McGonagall is at a loss for words, she can't help but stare at him.
"I must say, you are taking this differently from what I expected."
Taken by surprise, Harry lets out an "oh" and although his cheerfulness retreats a little, he still has an eager air about him. He can't wait to finally get to know the wizarding world and dwelling upon nonexistent feelings for his parents, whom he never met after his first year, is not something he is up to do.
"The thing is", Harry says, and he knows what he wants to say next and the exact words come out but there's a foreign tinge to them that is not quite fully Harry- "How can I mourn the loss of someone I never knew?"
(Exactly)
(He thought he knew his brethren, he thought he could trust his fellow archangels, he shouldn't have, so why should he mourn their loss-)
His words carry no ill intent - they are too quiet to be heard by anyone else -, that is why the simple truth hits so hard. McGonagall turns away, pressing her eyes shut.
That James' and Lily's son never got to know and love them as the wonderful people they were-
She needs a moment to take a deep breath, now isn't the time-
Ignoring the burning sensation in her eyes, McGonagall faces Harry again and talks in a tone that is once more purely that of a teacher; Lecturing, strictly informative, with the emotions held at bay.
"No, this is not all, one last thing is left. You, Harry Potter, are famous in our world."
McGonagall watches as the last bit of cheerfulness abruptly falls away from him. She makes a mental note of that.
"You are the one who, although unconsciously, defeated the darkest wizard who ever existed and, on top of that, you are the first person in recorded, centuries-old history who survived the killing curse. You are featured in books and regularly talked about. Every last witch and wizard knows you for your name, your deed and your lighting scar."
Yes, his cheerfulness is gone, and something else has taken its stead. Harry's mouth is drawn in a thin line and his eyebrows furrow. With his pupils constricted, his gaze appears even more piercing.
Just when Harry thought he would be normal, he had a place to fit in...
Letting out a long breath he held, Harry slumps down with his eyes closed and his elbows on his knees. Along with his posture his expression relaxes, but not before letting out a dry laugh.
Of course, he just can't seem to be able to live an ordinary life. Eh, might as well take what he's got.
And with that, Harry stands up.
"If that's all, I'm ready. We can go."
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This is more like it, Harry thinks, while inspecting the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. They really are standing in front of what looks to be a pub, not in some remote alley.
This is not like it, Harry thinks while comparing the actual inside to the mental image he's made. It's dark and kind of stuffy in here, slightly unsettling. True, the Leaky Cauldron does look as grubby on the outside too, but that could have been due to the circumstances of it having to be hidden, with magic one surely could... liven this place up a little.
McGonagall keeps going for the bar. She throws a look back and doesn't repress he tiny smile when she sees Harry standing a little back, taking everything in with wide eyes. Her smile vanishes when she notices how the other patrons' chatter dies down.
Maybe Harry notices the several stares directed at him, because he quickly snaps out of it and scurries to her side at the bar.
"Professor McGonagall", Tom the bartender greets warmly, putting away a wipe he'd been using. "What an honour, it's been a few months now. On Hogwarts business, I presume?"
McGonagall nods, answering "Hello, Tom. And Yes. On that matter, have you seen Hagrid pass this way?"
"He came by. In fact, you missed him by a few minutes."
While they are talking, Harry freezes. Without any reason to be seen around. But something is up, of that he is sure, although he can't tell why he knows. His breath picks up just a little and he tries to inconspicuously look around.
The way some of the patrons have abandoned their discussions to outright stare at him is not the source of his discomfort, nor is it the poorly lit and narrow room (he doesn't do well in enclosed, dark spaces).
Something feels wrong. It lingers in the air, faint but more than enough for Harry to pick up on. And that is all he can tell, though he doesn't understand why.
"...bless my soul, is that Harry Potter?"
"Tom-"
What little fragments of conversation still go on fall silent.
The old bartender hurries out from behind the bar, rushing toward Harry and seizing his hand, tears in his eyes.
"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."
A spell is broken and the scraping of chairs announces every other patron who stands up and hurries to greet Harry.
"Mr. Potter, what an honour", a woman - no, a witch -says, vigorously shaking his hand.
"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last", this time the witch speaking is of an higher age.
"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud", a bulky wizard exclaims.
McGonagall did good to tell him of his status, though in hindsight Harry has the feeling it was more of a warning.
"Always wanted to shake your hand - I'm all of a flutter."
"How long have we awaited this day, my family and I are in your debt, Mr. Potter."
"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."
They are just so many and they all are looking at him, he doesn't know them so they shouldn't be this close, and he can't catch up on shaking all these hands offered to him, acknowledging all the shoulder pats and there is this feeling still putting him on edge but at least it is not dark and silent here although the space seems to grow smaller-
"I have to interrupt", McGonagall's voice, laden with a teachers stern authority, calms the masses and they slow down, "Mr. Potter and I must move on."
A few wayward hands are still shaken and a few more curt words are exchanged on top of that, but it no longer is as crowded and the anxiety Harry built up has dissipated completely by the time they get a move on. It may also have to do with the fact that once they've stepped out of the pub's room, the lingering feeling has turned down in intensity.
He huffs out a breath, smiling weakly. "Thank you."
McGonagall nods. "You're welcome."
But as they both look forward again, Harry has little reason left to smile.
Today he went from being the outcasted misfit to a figure of hope, widely adored, idolised even. Still... He is everything except normal and he doesn't know how to feel about that.
But with a clearer idea of what awaits him, he is ready to go on and discover what the wizarding world has to offer.
He steps though the archway that has opened in the small courtyard's back wall.
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McGonagall, who is leading the way, keeps a slower pace than usual. Even so, Harry trails several feet back, enthralled by seemingly everything, from the shops, their flashy and obviously magical merchandise displayed in the windows, minor details about their exterior, to the people around them.
At least they don't stop to stare at Harry. More looks is the last thing he needs right now.
Still, McGonagall keeps a watchful eye on their surroundings. But even if she didn't, it would have been an impossible feat to miss the massive silhouette parting its way trough the masses. Which is why Harry is torn away from observing Potage's Cauldron Shop.
"Hello, Hagrid", McGonagall greets the mountain of a man, who has stopped in front of her and is looking down. "Are you just coming from Gringotts?"
"Greetings, Professor. Yeh, I'm on m'way back. Ya kno', with everything."
"That's excellent." McGonagall feels a presence by her side. "We are just on our way there too."
Hagrid processes the 'we' and as he looks further down, his unasked question is answered. Under his shifting beard a beaming smile takes over.
"Gallopin' Gorgons, Harry, is tha' really you?"
A little unsure Harry tilts his head. This man knows him, but in a different way than his admirers back at the Cauldron.
A pat on his shoulders that almost brings him to his knees later and Hagrid continues.
"My, how you've grown. Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," the giant says. "Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh've got yer mum's eyes."
Harry kind of appreciates the gruff friendliness, though he is at a loss for words. Until, finally-
"Who are you?"
"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."
He holds out an enormous hand and shakes Harry's whole arm.
"But... how do you know me? 'Sides the thing with my name and scar, I mean?"
"Yeh don' kno'...? T'was me who brought you teh yer-"
At this point McGonagall intercepts.
"Hagrid, if I may. You see, we are in a bit of a... special situation. It's also why I am here with Harry today, though I might have to let you in on it at another time."
Before Hagrid, subtlety not being enough one of his traits, can push the matter, Harry is McGonagall's saving grace. While, true, the people around them going about their own business pay them no mind, Hagrid's outburst upon learning about Harry's situation with his relatives here and now would have attracted a lot of unwanted attention.
Instead, Harry seizes the following pause as an opportunity to ask a question:
"Could I take a look at that?"
With a "hm?" Hagrid follows Harry's eyes to the Daily Prophethe's tucked under his elbow. The paper is almost completely covered by his massive arm but the bit that states the name gives Harry enough to piece together that this is a magic newspaper and his curiosity is piqued.
"There ya go. I'm through with it, it's all yours."
"What? No, I can't accept-"
"O' course yeh can. There ya go. And speaking o' which, I've got somethin' else for yeh. Your birthday is real soon, right?"
Harry, still tightly holding the Daily Prophet, looks up at Hagrid with an incredulous expression. McGonagall decides to stay out of this.
Except for when she throws Hagrid a sidelong glance at his mention of his cat allergy.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Harry has stopped thanking Hagrid profusely the moment his eyes landed on the white feathers behind the bars. Since then he's been silent.
Now out of the shop, he wordlessly opens up the snowy owl's cage. She raises her head from under her wing upon hearing the sound of metal scraping on metal and blinks at Harry with sleepy eyes. Yet there is intelligence behind them.
"Come out. You don't need to stay in there."
A few moments pass, during which Harry is scrutinized by today's second yellow gaze. Then the owl hops out onto his shoulder, nibbling on his ear softly before shifting positions onto the handle of his backpack. Harry doesn't see her but he feels her setting down, rustling her wings.
He goes and puts the cage away, in a dark corner between two shops. Hagrid and McGonagall, standing side by side, look at him as he returns.
"Thank you, Hagrid."
And this time he doesn't say it as the only response he has for being confronted with the surreal idea that someone bought him a gift.
Hagrid's black eyes twinkle with joy as he smiles down at Harry once more.
"Yeh don' need ta thank me at all."
Then he wraps Harry in a hug that disturbs the owl and that is tight enough to press his glasses against his eyelids, which leaves a murky stain in his field of vision. While Harry takes off his glasses to wipe them clean with his shirt's hem, he misses the urgent look McGonagall throws Hagrid's way.
"Now, 'm terribly sorry but I've got ter go", Hagrid says. "Got some business teh take care of. T'was wonderful, meeting ya again. See ya around an' don't miss yer train, ya hear me?"
Harry chuckles as he waves Hagrid back, his entire body aching from that bone-crushing hug. The owl is audibly fluttering back onto her makeshift backpack-porch, the fact that she can even be heard testimony to her disgruntlement.
On the way to Gringotts again, he pulls out the Prophet from under his arm (his arm doesn't even cover quarter of it) and asks McGonagall a burning question about the headline:
"It says 'othermagics' here. Are there several types of magic?"
McGonagall takes the paper from him and looks at the front headline:
After Five Years: 'Study Of Othermagics' Finally Returns To Hogwarts' Curriculum
And under that, a secondary headline states:
Professor Jaeger, experienced in dealing with othermagical creatures, is to come to Hogwarts and teach all years about the dangers of involvement with so-called 'muggle magic'.
"Also, what is the 'Study Of Othermagics'? And what do they mean by 'muggle-magic'?"
McGonagall gives Harry the paper back. He is listening very closely to what she says next.
"I will have to go far back with the explanation. You see, the magic we can wield branches. We have developed numerous magical fields, from Potions over Transfiguration to Runes and countless more. But it always remains that it is 'our', so to speak, magic. Even magical creatures fundamentally share the same magic like us, although the ways they utilise or manifest it can wildly differ from ours. You follow?"
Harry nods.
"Now, othermagic, or alternate magic if you will, exists and we are aware of it. In our society, the terms 'alternate magic' and 'othermagic' are widely known but very rarely talked about because, and you were right in your assumption, Mr. Potter, alternate magic is indeed a completely different breed of magic from what we are accustomed to. And we prefer to avoid these instances of so-called 'othermagic' at all costs, for they are oftentimes lethal and we know exceedingly little about them.
"However, what we do know, is that even so, we can separate othermagic into two cathegories: Cast othermagic and othermagic that makes up othermagical creatures. Cast othermagic can simply be classified as magical feats completed by entities neither witch, wizard nor magical creature. It is even more obscure than the Dark Arts, with so few instances of it known to us that some dismiss it as nonexistent."
McGonagall pauses and carefully puts her next words together.
"But it is the othermagical creatures that are the truly dangerous ones, because if you were to encounter one, you would have no magical means at all to defend yourself. More on that soon. Of what we know, such creatures are highly aggressive and, contrary to the magical creatures that we are familiar with, many othermagical ones can easily disguise themselves as perfectly inconspicuous humans and then let their true nature show when they are about to kill.
"As stated previously, our creatures, while they can be just as lethal, still are part of our world. They still carry, at their core, the same magic as us. Othermagical creatures don't and whatever foreign power it is that makes them up, it doesn't mix well at all with normal magic. Magic repels othermagic and vice versa. And the symptoms of this adverse reaction are always the same, as reported without fail by every witch and wizard lucky enough to have survived an encounter with an othermagical creature: They grow weak, but only magicwise, to the point where they are not at all capable of casting a spell or using their magic any other way, although they can still move and speak freely. The same goes for the creature, it is said to slow down and grow weaker. But it usually is at a physical advantage, be it due to fangs, claws or built and, as the witch or wizard is rendered fully defenceless without their magic, it can still attack and kill."
Harry doesn't look green, only intrigued, so McGonagall continues, because this is one grim reality every witch and wizard needs to know about.
"Just as with ours, othermagical creatures are of many different species. We know of othermagical werewolves, vampires and others, some of which also have magical counterparts. But if you compare two creatures of the same name, though one magical and one othermagical, you would immediately see that they differ in many ways. Othermagical creatures have certain physical and fatal weaknesses unique to them, that their magical counterparts don't have, and during an encounter with one it can be lifesaving to know about them.
"And this is where our 'Study Of Othermagics' becomes important. You are taught how to fend off othermagical creatures, should you ever encounter one. Though, as this headline states, we haven't found someone to teach it in the last five years because qualified teachers are hard to come by. The keyword for the reason being specifically 'muggle magic'. It's another name some used to describe alternate or othermagic, stemming from the fact that it is more probable to find in areas not populated by us and our magic but by muggles.
"You now know that our magic and theirs is repellent, which is why othermagical creatures prefer to attack muggles and avoid us, just like we avoid them. It seemingly is as detrimental for them to grow weak as it is for us. And because we also have no means at all to trace them, we are also unable to obliviate their muggle victims - delete their memories, that is. There are relatively few othermagical creatures, few enough that knowledge about their actual existence isn't common among muggles at all. Even so, there are groups of muggles aware about them and even hunting and killing them for a living. It took quite the history between our society and their groups to reach the consensus that no good is done by us obliviating them, so these creature-hunting muggles are the only ones worldwide that know of our society's existence. They and a select few muggle government officials, but that's something taught in the elective Muggle Studies course. And it is those few hunting muggles we always are after to offer a teaching position to, because they have much deeper knowledge about how to survive an encounter with an othermagical creature without using magical means."
Harry needs a minute to process everything.
Finally, he rather states than asks:
"And Professor Jaeger is one such nonmagical. One who hunts and knows about them and us."
A pained look crosses McGonagall's face.
"Indeed. But to be frank, I fear that we will not get to offer the 'Study Of Othermagics' this year either."
"Why not?"
"We have not heard back from Professor Jaeger in a few weeks by now and, what with the live he leads, that may not be a good sign."
The rest of the way to Gringotts they walk in silence.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
With everything that he has seen, heard and learned since then, it surprises Harry himself that he immediately recognises the bad feeling from back at the Leaky Cauldron.
Only it is so much worse this time around, harder to grasp yet so much more intense. Harry throws a look over his shoulder, to Gringotts' underground tunnels they are leaving behind just now.
(Something is wrong)
Luckily for him, McGonagall mistakes his tensing posture and deep, strained breathing for him fighting cart-sickness.
She doesn't mistake the deeply alarmed looks of the Goblins, however, as they ignore the indignant wizardfolk's shouts while they have them magically checked then thrown out of Gringotts altogether.
So in a way all his initial gawking did pay off, he memorized the street's layout that way Harry muses, after assuring McGonagall that he knows the way back to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasionsalone.
Because Professor McGonagall stays back at Gringotts to, in her words, ensure something. (Now without her watchful presence keeping nosey people away, Harry quickly learns to arrange his bangs in a way that they cover his scar.)
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Harry finds these robes kind of ridiculous but then again, he is the one standing out with his regular clothes. Nonetheless, he's thankful that he is the only one around, save for the witch pinning up his robes.
Then Madam Malkins brings another boy in and starts fitting him up as well.
It occurs to Harry that this is the closest he's come to another magical kid his age and he is just contemplating whether or not to say something, when the pale boy speaks up:
"Hello. Hogwarts too?"
That settles it then.
"Yup."
He wants to add something to make a bit of conversation and perhaps paint himself a picture of what someone his age but magical is like but the boy is more adversed at making conversation. Though in his own way.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," says the boy in a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?"
Lucky Harry, he just hasto meet wizarding Dudley on his first day, hasn't he.
"No."
"Hah, ever even sat and flew on one? Play Quidditch at all?"
"No," Harry says again purposefully not providing the slightly snobbish boy with a clarification and not seeing the appeal in Quidditch, as briefly explained to him by McGonagall on the way, either. (She had worn a strangely sad look upon hearing his thoughts about Quidditch.) (But why bind himself to rules, and be they a silly game's, when he will finally be up in the air and free?)
"I do - Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"
"I don't have any idea but if I have to bet, it's gonna be one of the already existing ones."
Harry smirks at him, maybe the guy has humour.
"You would make a great Ravenclaw like that, always ready with some smartypants answer."
Dry as he is, he's picked up on it, if his less drawling tone is any indication. Not exactly wizarding Dudley then.
"What about your house?"
"I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"What's wrong with Hufflepuff? Their qualities are important to have as well."
(His family could certainly use some loyalty)
The boy just raises an eyebrow. Harry goes on.
"'Sides, it does sound kind of illogical to go into one specific house just because the family did."
"You obviously have not seen me before, have you. I am Draco Malfoy."
Draco Malfoy is looking at him, obviously expecting a reaction Harry can't come up with.
After moments of blank staring, Harry settles for a simple "I heard that."
"But nothing more, if your reaction is anything to go by. Where'd you grow up to not have heard that name, with muggles? Is your name also some unimportant, dirty muggle import?"
They were just starting to get on nicely. Does he have to throw everything out of the window? Harry could play the I'm-a-bigger-fish-game. But he doesn't. It'll be fun to watch it play out in due time anyway.
Draco watches the other go silent and assumes his questions hit home. Too bad, he presumes, the green-eyed boy could have been someone actually interesting to associate with, hadn't he been some muggleborn noname.
Malfoy turns away to look out the window, chin raised and mouth drawn in a tight line.
Harry huffs and looks away too.
"Alright, you do you then."
Harry's robes are ready first. Malfoy looks over as he goes over to where his backpack with accompanying owl is leaning against the wall and holds out his arm for her to fly onto.
Silver eyes watch on as Harry maneuvers around with the owl perked on his elbow, stuffing his wizarding robes into his muggle backpack.
Malfoy sneers.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
"Is everything alright at Gringotts?"
"It is not my place to answer that, Mr. Potter, although be assured that you have nothing to fear."
"But something is up."
That Harry states that as a fact rather than an answer takes McGonagall aback.
"How can you be so sure of that?"
"I have a feeling that I know isn't false. You don't need to ask because even I don't know, let's just say it's a gut feeling. Also, and I don't mean to offend you, Professor, but you seem a little... shaken up."
It is barely noticeable, the only telling signs being the way her eyes oftentimes scan their surroundings, even more intensely than until now, and the guarded way she holds her shoulders.
"Mr. Potter, you are more observant than I initially took you for, that I must give you. But let me assure you once again that you needn't worry because matters are being taken care of and you are not concerned. Now, we do have a list of required items to buy. You have your robes already? Good-"
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
This morning, Harry assumed that only the backpack would be sufficient. Dragged down by the weight of his bursting full backpack and the cauldron in which he stores everything else that doesn't fit, Harry doesn't think it's funny. Until McGonagall puts a weightlifting charm on everything. Now he can laugh.
They have bought everything on the list (McGonagall's mental one, not the paper list, she knows the required materials for first years by heart). Everything that is left is the wand.
Spotting and heading to the wand shop, Harry's feelings are a little mixed. He has grown to love the familiarity of the magic pulse he felt when practicing his magic all these years, although he now remembers it with a bitter taste, after McGonagall explained to him that that 'pulse' is actually his magic struggling to surface and manifest.
He needs a wand to amplify his magic, so he can cast easier, faster and more efficient. But he will miss his little second pulse, the sign for him that he is doing what kept him safe and gave him an edge.
Made him happy.
They enter Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC in Diagon Alley. Harry looks around, eager to take in everything. A second passes before he jerks to look back at one certain spot again. Harry's gaze has just swept over the old man without noticing him, he just fits in so well with his surroundings.
The man then steps forward from his spot between two shelves at the back.
"Good afternoon", his soft voice fills out the room and McGonagall, seemingly not having noticed him prior, turns around, almost too quick for the eye to follow, and faces him. The arm with the wand holster under the sleeve is angled.
"Ah, Minerva McGonagall, nine and a half inches, fir wood and dragon heartstring, stiff. How are you faring?"
"Still as formidable as the day I bought it, Ollivander", McGonagall recovers smoothly.
Ollivander then shifts his focus to Harry.
"Ah yes", he says. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter."
How does he know? Harry has his scar carefully covered by his bangs.
"You have your mother's eyes." Oh. "It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."
Ollivander goes into detail about the wands he sold to his father and even Voldemort.
And Harry can't help but wonder just how old this man is.
"Let us begin here, shall we. Mr. Potter, which is your wand arm?"
"Wh- oh. I kind of use them both?"
"Well, well, that's not unheard of. Now then, hold out whichever hand you like."
Harry gives his left and with that, it begins.
Wand after wand after another wand he tries, feeling more foolish by the minute. On some spindly chair a mountain of tried wands keeps reaching new heights. Harry tries wands of many cores, woods, lengths and strengths but with each wand he touches he just doesn't feel like it fits him.
Until, finally, with the glee he has built up during all of Harry's rejections, Ollivander exclaims:
"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
The way he says that lifts Harry's hopes.
However this wand is no match either.
And so it goes on, with Ollivander now adapting a determined undertone. Whatever leads the wandmaker is following, this time they have something to do with the wand cores, as Harry gets to specifically try his way trough wands with certain cores, all the while listening to Ollivander explain the core properties.
"Dragon heartstrings make fierce wands and are likely to form a strong bond with their wielder, though that also means that they can change loyalty."
Then,
"Wands of a phoenix feather are capable of great ranges of magic. But such cores are rare and many have complained that these wands sometimes act on their own accord."
And then,
"Unicorn hair makes for sensible wands, able to accomplish marvellous feats if treated right."
None match. Then Ollivander goes into the back to get one more wand and oddly enough he doesn't say beforehand of what core it will be.
He hands him one more wand. Though Harry has caught sight of several longer wands around the shop, the ones he has tried up until now have been of average length. This one is one of the longer ones, if not the longest, several inches over all the others up until now.
He takes it.
"Applewood tends to not be used as a wand material very often. Owners of such wands, however, are said to be long-lived and of great personal charm."
But Harry doesn't hear Ollivander talking. He is too overwhelmed and not by sparks flying and gleaming or the wand demonstrating some other fantastical feat proving its newly formed bond because nothing of the sort happened - it already belonged.
This wand is his.
(It will not change loyalty, it belongs to its wielder alone. It will not act on its own accord for it is not in any way sentient, it being an extension of its wielder. And an uncountable amount of time being used against the most vile and dark things in existence before laying forgotten for millennia in Hell have proven its durability. It will always function how it has to, no matter how right it is treated or not)
The wood feels slightly cool under his touch. Harry examines the wand's simple design, how it is not carved or polished but it still gleams and how its even wood steadily grows narrow toward the tip. It's slim, almost delicate looking, but he knows it won't break.
"This one's mine."
"Are you sure?", Ollivander inquires.
"Yes," Harry answers immediately, gripping his wand tightly, a smile finding its way onto his face. "This wand is mine." And he doesn't want to let go of it.
Ollivander hums.
"Ah yes, applewood, 16 and a half inches, extraordinarily long and unyielding."
He pauses shortly.
"And unicorn hair at its core."
Harry happily pays for it and they leave.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky but Harry has just one more thing left to buy.
"Professor McGonagall?"
"Yes?"
"Where exactly did you get your wand holster from? I need one too, I'd prefer to be able to draw and sheathe my wand like you do."
"That may look easy but make no mistake, it takes a great amount of practice and patience. It may take you well over a few months to get the hang of it. Longer to do it without a second thought."
"Hm. I guess I'll have something to do for the remainder of summer vacation then."
Turns out Harry's new wand is too long for a regular strap-on wand holster that reaches over the underarm, so he has to get the more expensive (and compact) version with an integrated extension charm. Good thing he has money now.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Had Harry learned earlier that the Leaky Cauldron also rents out rooms, Professor McGonagall wouldn't have had to accompany him back to their original meeting point at Privet Park's entrance. As it is, it is already dark by the time they arrive. Contrary to their way towards the Cauldron this midday, the way back is spent in silence.
Harry is exhausted and he has a lot to think about. But he could not be happier, he realises as he plays around with the holster containing his wand. It is made of leather and the extension charm enables it to be of a shorter size than others. In fact, it looks a lot like a leather cuff. Too bad he can't try working with it on the subway, the privacy spells McGonagall put in place again aside.
They reach the park's entrance gate and to Harry it seems like another lifetime when he sat there close by on a bench, waiting and wondering what would await him. From here on, he will go alone. It's time to bid Professor McGonagall goodbye for a month.
Harry sighs and looks up at McGonagall, smiling a little, he is too tired for much more.
"Thank you very much. For everything."
"You don't need to thank me at all, Mr. Potter. I expect you on the first of September. Until then be very careful with your wand and other magical possessions and don't let them fall into muggle hands."
"I won't. Goodbye, Professor."
When Harry turns to look back, he catches sight of a grey tabby cat's tail disappearing in the shadows.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
He can finally tell what it is about that bad feeling he had at the Cauldron and at Gringotts, that made it indescribable. It simply wasn't physical, even though his reactions to it were.
But the twist in his gut upon entering number four's front door and finding both Petunia and Vernon waiting for him sure as anything is physical.
And Harry just stands there, with his owl, the full backpack and cauldron.
They look more than ever before like strangers, rather than Harry's relatives. He has never seen these looks on their faces until now.
Petunia looks at Harry with an expression akin to the one she wears when out to observe every last triviality concerning every last neighbour. But this time she lacks the (however questionable) liveliness she does that with, so what is left is a calculating stare not unlike Harry's own.
Vernon's face is a mask, an ugly, poorly composed one. Cracks in his expressionless facade are his twitching eyelid, a bulging vein on his forehead and the working muscles in his jaw.
Long seconds pass. Through the open door behind Harry crickets can be heard but safe for them it is silent. Petunia and Vernon are just standing there, Vernon's broad frame blocking the stairs leading up to the floor on which Harry's room is.
Air circulation eventually slams the door shut, it may as well have locked Harry up and thrown away the key.
"You got that letter."
Harry forgets how to function after registering Petunia's words. W-what? She can't possibly be talking about-
"What letter?"
Harry goes for genuine confusion in his tone but it shifts into wariness midway as he watches her gaze at his owl and magical luggage with an unsettling recognition lighting her eyes.
"The letter. The one that every witch and wizard gets around the time of their eleventh birthday, the one that accepts them into Hogw- that school."
Many reactions storm his mind, one of them is the bolt that cuts trough them all, bright and clear and furious.
Petunia knows. All this time, she knew.
Something in Harry grows very cold and very still and very sharp, suddenly this is the same night he confronted them to get his own room all over again.
Letting out a breath that echoes like a hiss, he turns to snap at Vernon.
"Stop looking at me like that or do you want a repeat from a few years ago? What do you think happens when enough power to force a jaw closed shut is instead focused on the eyeballs?"
Vernon's mask is gone and an expression of rage that is so thoroughly him replaces it, albeit tainted by fear.
"We let you live in our house and this is what you do with that, you ungrateful little bas-"
It is in his hand in an instant. Harry points his wand directly at Vernon's heart, all the while daring him with one look alone. The large man several times his weight has stopped dead in his tracks the second he laid eyes on the long piece of wood that catches and plays with the light in a way it shouldn't.
"Go on. Finish that sentence."
Narrowed green eyes find wide pale ones, as Harry looks at Petunia while continuing.
"Or don't, for all I bloody care. Because I've had enough. Get out of my way."
Harry almost wishes for Vernon not to comply, while he launches towards his direction, wand held out in front of him. The thought of impaling him is a satisfying one. As it is, Vernon stumbles aside and the way up the stairs is free for Harry to storm up.
Apparently the owl lost her grip on his backpack, because he turns around to see her white shape flying up after hearing shouting of "THIS BLASTED OWL!" coming from downstairs. He stops running after tearing open the door to his room. Harry holds out his elbow for the owl who comes sailing up to him and the second she lands, he slams his door shut.
As many clothes as possible, toothbrush and paste, pencilcase and the Hogwarts acceptance letter from under the floorboard - it all gets stuffed into the string bag Harry used to carry his clothes for PE around in. He throws it over his shoulder, picks up the cauldron, and goes to leave, wand still outheld.
Harry is almost out of his room when he remembers that the space under the floorboard has one last dark crevice that still contains something.
Thus he goes back to grab the old paper. One side doesn't sport crayon drawings, so the faint scar-like marks from where the paper was once mended are visible there.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
The few people still underway this late on the subway are too tired to stare at the boy with the owl on his backpack, the stick in his hand and the cauldron full with oddly shaped packages next to him. Good, because Harry too is tired to give a damn.
Along with his mood, his luggage grows heavier by the minute, because McGonagall's weightlifting charm begins to grow weak.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
"My my, Mr. Potter, aren't you a tad too young to be out this late? Did something happen?"
"Tom, I have money and I need a room. That's all you need to know."
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Even curled up in the surprisingly soft bed in one of the Cauldron's guest rooms, Harry would not sleep peacefully tonight.
The dreams are of times bygone but not of the good ones.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
After Amara was sealed away, they thought that was it. With the Darkness gone, Creation would flourish.
But then Eve brought the monsters into being.
Eve, like all other leviathans, had been corrupted by Amara, turned from God's Light and transformed into something dark that would devour everything that was Created of light. But then again, Eve was different from other leviathans. Be it a different she was Created with or be it something that awakened within her upon being touched by Amara, in the end it did not matter.
She birthed the Alphas and Amara's Darkness was within them and their kinds too, though be it to a lesser extent.
Amara's Darkness may be but a shadow in the monster's selves, yet they still harboured a certain thirst for destruction. And with the Darkness that had evolved into their own type of power within them, the monsters had an edge over everything else that lived on Earth at that point. Where everything else was natural, they were above it, supernatural.
God could have ordered His archangels to wipe them off the face of the Earth, but He didn't. He saw potential and decided to let them live, though He couldn't have them endanger His greatest achievement. Instead, He instructed His archangels to do something else.
They planted the roots for magic. By the power of their Grace, the archangels laid the foundation for what was to evolve into magic and they kept their watch on it, as they and their Garrisons had overseen the birth and death of many a galaxy before, they were to assure that it would grow, evolve and remain powerful enough to keep Eve's offsprings at bay.
The supernatural originates from Amara, The Darkness. Magic originates from God, The Light. And as opposites, Light and Dark are bound to repel each other.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
'Samael-'
'I don't need anything from you. Go.'
'I won't. Raphael is right. The Mark has been affecting you lately.'
'And just what makes you say that?'
'You are not yourself. You distance yourself from all of us but a select few and what it is that you say about the humans-'
'Silence, Gabriel! The lot of you, are you actually that ignorant? To not be able to admit that I am fully myself after I don't mindlessly follow every last one of Parent's rules?'
'We are only concerned.'
'Cut it. I shouldn't be the subject of your concern, Earth should. You don't see it yet, but some of our younger already siblings do. I do. Humanity will be the downfall of it all. Look how they already are attempting to twist the flora and fauna, even the energies we ourselves planted...
"...On Parent's command, of course. And now Parent keeps us from interfering, wiping them out, has us going against our own nature. Aren't you Their Messenger? How do you, Gabriel, not noticethat They are going down Their own path, that They are starting to disregard our kin? How long until They will discard or degrade us and how many of us will remain compliant? I hope for all our sakes that you too will see what is right in front of you soon.'
'...Oh, Samael. There is so much you don't see.'
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'WHAT I DID WAS FOR THE BEST, SEE FOR YOURSELVES WHAT HUMANS REALLY ARE!'
Their wings move but they're useless against-
'YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS, MICHAEL'
The Host is silent. Too fast are they Falling for even them to perceive what is around them.
There only exists the pain that runs through their entire being.
'MICHAEL!'
Through Hell they are dragged, still by the force of their Parent's word and Michaels obeying to it.
There is nothing left within the them to fight. Broken wings loose their original pure white light as Hell takes hold and turns them an abhorrent new shade.
Light is their Parent, Creating. Light are their siblings. Light is Heaven, where they belong. Light is them.
'PARENT!
There is no light here.
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