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WALK AWAY:
ROGUE NERD
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Chapter 1
The Discovery
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"Bad news, Vernon, Mrs Figg's broken a leg. She can't take
him.." Petunia Dursley jerked her head in Harry's direction.
"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd
be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change
and maybe even have a go on Dudley's computer. ... ... ... ..)
- Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, by J.K. Rowling
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TWO YEARS EARLIER...
On Dudley Dursley's ninth birthday, his mother pinched his cousin's ear and commanded he move her son's old presents into the second bedroom to make room for the new. She had no idea that her humiliating demand would change wizarding history.
Harry winced enviously as he lugged abandoned and broken gifts he would love to have received himself: a cracked cosmic ray gun that used to flash red and green when it still had a trigger; a working build-it kit including an electric motor and gears; a sad, black-and-white, fourteen-inch TV replaced that day by a twenty-one inch colour; an archery set without its suction cups; a bent pogo stick with a crushed spring; a complete Pullman car luxury train set boasting points, signals, and a locomotive that whistled!
The little boy sighed as he carried the last forgotten gift across the landing, resisted the temptation to throw it onto the growing pile of broken and discarded playthings, then placed it carefully down on the bed. Where to put it in a room already full? Would it squeeze sideways into the gap next to the wardrobe? He evaluated the size of the long pack. Had this thing even been removed from its shiny box? He turned it face up and scoffed at the picture: a toy typewriter keyboard? For Dudley? Really?
Harry opened it up and studied the booklet that came with it. A Commodore 64 computer! Intrigued, he spent the next hour learning how it worked. A colour TV was recommended but he had to make do with the small mono. Harry didn't care – he was utterly captivated with the empowering condition:
IF A = B THEN PRINT C!
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For the next year, Harry became quite possessive of the computer that Dudley had abandoned unused, and found every conceivable way to keep his new activity from the Dursleys. He visited the local library to extend his knowledge and was delighted to find he could book time on a PC that was installed for users. There was also an extensive range of business books about computers too, as well as letter-writing, grammar, improved articulation and telephone manner – all the abilities he'd need to become professional in addition to programming skills. However, he did make one fortuitous mistake of loaning a book about logic instead of logical operators. It was an interesting read and caused him to think in new, different ways.
He now perceived that it had never been 'logical' to keep on with the same old wishy-washy, passive attitude as he had until now. With this new objective in life, he became more assertive. When Dudley used him as a punchbag he held back less, struck out more. He took a beating anyway so why not hurt Dudley a bit in the process and not suffer so many hits himself?
As he grew older, he became more resistive of his aunt's and uncle's demands – and even made a demand of his own one Saturday afternoon once his cousin Dudley was out of the house:
"Could you lend me ten pounds please, Uncle Vernon?"
Vernon Dursley almost choked on his third glass of wine. "No! No! No! What would a freak like you do with ten pounds?"
"I want to buy Dudley something really special for his tenth birthday, something that would help his future in almost any career: a PC."
"A what?"
"It's a computer. Secondhand would do. I could polish off the scratches and make it look good as new."
Petunia shrieked, "Dudley is NOT getting something so shabby for any birthday, let alone his tenth."
"But all the posh kids are getting PCs next Christmas! I thought Dudley could be ahead of everyone else. And when he leaves school and goes into business, he'll be well prepared for the new technology. I bet Grunnings will need to buy PCs in the next few years. Uncle Vernon would be able to advise the managers which to buy and how to use them effectively."
Vernon's ears pricked up. He dabbed at the wine stain on his shirt and looked meaningfully at his wife. "Already on the little tyke's birthday list, isn't it, Pet?" Harry thought he saw him wink.
"What? Oh, uumm... of course it is!" cried Petunia. Did you think we'd not already considered buying our son the best for his tenth? The very idea!"
Harry feigned a look of heartbroken despondency, but smirked to himself as he turned away. He knew his uncle and aunt would only want a brand new computer for their precious Dinky Diddums, and that Big D would ignore it as soon as he discovered it was no fun whatsoever.
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By autumn that year, Harry had persuaded Dudley to accept thirty silver tenpence coins in exchange for his near-forgotten PC, and was soon progressing his skills and knowledge of computer programming very nicely. By Christmas he'd written his own variant of Pac-man – named Cap-man because of its peaked head – and was striving to improve it. His mind was now made up: Harry Potter was determined to become a computer programmer and the best video game developer of all time. There was a purpose to his life that had been completely absent before.
"Aunt Petunia," Harry began tentatively at lunch one day in March. "I don't think my grades are good enough to be accepted by Stonewall High. Does that mean I'll be stuffed in Guildford Tech this autumn? They seem to sweep up all the leftovers like me. They don't even have a proper uniform. But they do make sure students end up with a trade. I'll probably end up working long hours stacking shelves in a warehouse or picking fruit," he added, mournfully eyeing the neatly cut ham sandwiches in the centre of the table over his now empty plate. "At least I'd be able to pay you for my keep, otherwise I'd be lounging about on the dole."
Dudley smirked and grabbed all the remaining sandwiches for himself. "Loser!" he hissed.
"You will NOT be lounging about, I promise you that!" cried Petunia. "I'll speak to your uncle this evening and we'll make certain you're booked into Guildford Technical College well in advance. You will knuckle down and work hard so there's a job at the end of it, you hear me?"
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," sighed Harry, secretly rubbing his hands with glee under the table. He knew he'd won once he'd played his money and misery cards.
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By April, Harry was marketing his little video game in the classified ads and receiving plenty of cheques in the mail which Vernon eagerly seized. "About time you paid your way, boy!" Harry didn't mind too much; his uncle could scarcely stop him openly using the computer if it was making a profit, and he himself was given ten percent which helped pay for floppy disks, jiffy bags, and postage stamps.
Although still sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry was using the desk area in the spare bedroom as his 'office' and learning the fundamentals of running a little business. He was already developing an expansive game using interactive text in story form he called Viking Pirate Treasure. There was a big demand for text adventures and he considered his was more realistic and exciting than any of them. It would surely be a big seller!
There was a growing acceptance by the Dursleys that one day he might make something of himself after all.
"I think we finally beat the freakishness out of the boy," said Vernon one evening as he sat his fat arse down to watch Gardening Club on the TV.
"Cruel to be kind," nodded Petunia, reaching for another chocolate mint. "He'll thank us one day."
"Oh, look! I love digging over the heavy clay and mulching it, don't you, Pet?"
"Yes, I could watch it for hours."
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Thriving on his success, Harry had become more assertive by mid-May. He'd learned that by standing his ground he'd achieved a certain stature. He didn't have to give way to unreasonable orders. The Dursleys couldn't throw him out of the house or they'd have done so by now. By learning how far he could push them, Harry was able to improve his prospects.
"Twenty percent," he demanded of his uncle, "and my own bank account. It's only fair. I do all the work and pay the business expenses."
There was enough profit now being made that they'd soon have to consider keeping accounts for tax purposes, so Vernon eventually agreed to give Harry seventeen percent.
Harry nodded grudgingly – though he would have accepted fifteen. For him this was a learning experience rather than a means of making big money: that could wait for the future. He looked up thoughtfully from the latest PC World; someone had invented a much more efficient method of linking to and viewing documents over something called a network, and an executable program might be available to the public as early as August for use on the biggest network of all: the internet! If that became popular there was a fortune to be made!
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By July, Harry had accumulated enough funds to buy a printer. No more writing out letters by hand:
Dear Mr Clayton,
You are inserting the disk upside down. Make sure the label is
on top and Dungeon Dudgeon Disaster will work fine.
Yours sincerely,
Harry Potter (aka Dak Deathwish)
Shatter Shock Software Studios
PS The bonus manacles will only be sent to the first player who completes the game and sends me the true name of the desolate maiden guarded by the black dragon of doom. (hint: it must be the true name and not the virtuous maiden and not the nearly-black dragon. Good luck!)
He licked and sealed the envelope and threw it into his out-tray with a sigh before reaching for the next order in his in-tray:
Dear Mr Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of–
"–What the fork and spoon is this?" He stared at the letter which appeared to be junk mail for magicians' tricks and apparatus. "Must have got my name from the classifieds," he muttered before screwing it up and slinging it into the trash. He'd already been accepted by Guildford Tech and couldn't wait for September to start classwork.
"Oy, Dudders! When did you last empty my waste basket?" he shouted at the open door. "Time's money, you know, and no five pee for you this week if you don't keep up!"
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By the end of the month, Harry had published Viking Pirate Treasure and there was a flood of orders: over twenty in one day! He was so delighted he almost forgot his birthday. Eleven years old! He stared at the calendar on and off all morning. His aunt and uncle had bought him a pair of socks: a new pair! There was a misprint of the diamond pattern on one of them, but who cared when you're an eleven-year-old entrepreneur who might be rich one day!
The doorbell rang.
While Aunt Petunia went to answer it, Harry sneakily helped himself to half a cup of milk from the fridge. He could wash the cup and put it with the other cups on the drainer before she noticed; the boy was good at timing things like that. Harry looked at the calendar over the fridge. Washday was ringed in blue and the Dursleys' annual club night was outlined with a red square. There was no indication it was his birthday today so he took the marker pen from where it was wedged at the end of the shelf and–
"–Ready, Mr Potter?"
Harry spun round, guiltily wiping milk off his lips but missing the tip of his nose. He stared at a strangely dressed old woman whose stern expression conveyed authority. He frowned to show his puzzlement.
"I know you personally received your Hogwarts letter, Mr Potter, otherwise you'd have been sent reminders."
"Hogwarts? You're from that magicians' thing?" Harry shook his head. "You've actually come here personally?" He spotted his aunt over the shoulder of the newcomer. "Aunt Petunia? What's going on? Why'd you let her in?"
The strange visitor cut in, "Mr Potter, did you even read the letter? You are to attend Hogwarts School in September, and I'm here to–"
"–WHAT? No I'm not! I'm already set for Guildford Tech. I never signed up for your tricks school."
"Tricks? Mr Potter, I assure you that Hogwarts is a serious place of learning, and Lily and James put you down for Hogwarts when you were born."
"Who? Listen, you can un-put me down because I'm definitely going to Guildford Tech. They have their own computer department. I doubt Hogwarts has even got a science lab, right?"
"Hogwarts teaches magic, Mr Potter, and you would do well to–"
"–That freaky, unnatural trick stuff? Auntie, tell her to go. I don't want anything to do with it. Sounds like a cult. Call the police."
The visitor flourished a wand. A chair came into view from nowhere and she sat down on it at the kitchen table. With another flick, Harry gaped as what appeared to be a glass of water appeared on the table, but there was no glass, only water. The woman sipped from it, set it back down again, and said, "Clearly you have not been kept informed, Mr Potter. Wipe that milk off your nose and I will explain."
Harry absently rubbed his face with one hand while prodding the short column of water with the other. The tip of his finger penetrated and came away wet.
"Mr Potter, there is a world of magic to which you belong. These are not tricks but useful abilities to help in everyday activities and much more serious matters. You need to learn how to control your magic, and Hogwarts will teach you."
Harry passed the entire flat of his hand through the water, but it remained where it was. "That's all very well, but I have plans of my own. You can't just turn up and expect me to abandon my business career and my computer studies. I'm curious, yes, but I'm still going to Guildford Tech." He glared at the intruder. "Who do you think you are, telling me what I've got to do?"
"My Name is Professor McGonagall, and I am deputy headmistress of Hogwarts. Although Hogwarts is not mandatory for everyone, the Ministry would never allow you, as the boy who lived, to remain in the Muggle world."
"That's all mumbo-jumbo to me. Listen, I don't know what you're trying to sell, but I don't want to hear anymore. Goodbye. I have work to do." And he headed to the door.
But Aunt Petunia blocked his way. She appeared to be struggling to tell him something. "Harry..." – Harry gasped. His aunt never used his real name – "they'll make you go," she said softly.
"What? You knew about this?"
"They'll use their... their freakiness to make you do what they want. You'll be a prisoner there, just as they made you a prisoner here. You were forced upon us. They gave us no choice."
"So that's why you've always resented having me here!" Anger began to show in Harry's face. "And now they turn up out of the blue ten years later expecting to kidnap me? Then I'll fight them! There must be laws against this sort of thing. I'll fight dirty if that's what it takes. I'm not giving up my dream to satisfy theirs!"
McGonagall sighed. "This is not helpful."
"For you, maybe," sneered Harry. "I suppose you're used to messing up people's lives. You'll find I won't give in easily. If you drag me off to this Hogwarts, you'll regret it. I'm not interested in freak magic stuff. I have my own life to live."
"Very well, Mr Potter, I'll speak to the Headmaster, but do not expect any change in the situation."
"YOU TOO!" yelled Harry, and he stomped off upstairs.
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Early next morning, Harry scraped burnt toast into the sink with a sharp kitchen knife, wishing he were allowed butter to help mask the taste. Through the kitchen window a movement caught his eye, and it wasn't the milkman: a tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the back garden path. The boy's hand jerked in astonishment and dropped the knife. And the toast.
The door knocked itself – at least that's how it seemed to Harry, for the visitor had not yet reached it.
At the table, Uncle Vernon rustled his newspaper irritably. "Who the blazes is calling this early in the morning!"
The door opened on its own. There at the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose and he was wearing a long black travelling cloak and a pointed hat.
"Good morning. You must be Mr Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?"
Vernon Dursley, who was wearing a puce dressing-gown, was staring at the visitor's attire as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.
"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I would be arriving," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times."
He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the backdoor behind him.
"It is many a year since my last visit," said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. "I must say, your agapanthuses are flourishing."
Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon – the vein pulsing in his uncle's temple was reaching danger point – but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.
"None of us knew you were coming!" stormed Harry, picking the knife and his toast up from the floor. "Who are you and what do you want?" He rubbed the toast on his sleeve to remove the grime and inspected it closely.
"I am Professor Dumbledore and the first thing I want is to heal that cut on your hand." He did so, pointing a wand somewhat like McGonagall had, but all the way from the doorstep to Harry at the sink.
"It was just a scratch!" growled Harry. "Let me guess, you've come to kidnap me, right?"
"Kidnap? Not at all. I am here to escort you to collect all the items you will need for when you start at Hogwarts."
"Good, then you've had a wasted journey because I'm not going to Hogwarts. Let me spell it out, I'm more interested in microcomputers than magic which is why I have applied to and been accepted by Guildford Tech."
"Ah, I did foresee this little snag, and no matter. I've had a word with the headmaster of Guildford Technical College and he has agreed to free you from that inconvenience."
"WHAT! How could you! You have no right to–"
"–ah, but a magical guardian does have the right to correct the mistakes of his ward."
"Guardian? You must be joking! A guardian is someone who looks after a kid, cares for them and makes sure they're happy. You, a total stranger, turn up after ten years and pretend to be my guardian? You've done nothing in all this time to help me." His teeth snapped off a piece of toast which he crunched noisily.
"That is where you are wrong, Harry. I put you in a place of safety where you would receive the loving kindness of your relatives and shelter in their home."
Harry snorted toast crumbs in disbelief. "It's hard to believe you are responsible for an entire school full of children. I pity them."
"I do not claim perfection," said Dumbledore, "but I do believe I am the right person for the job. Now, shall we?"
Harry's jacket came flapping in from the front hall.
"Let us suppose that I stay right here, what then?" said Harry sulkily.
"Well..."
Harry felt himself pulled forward suddenly towards Dumbledore. Everything went black; he was being pressed very hard from all directions; gone was the warm kitchen with its smell of toast and fried bacon; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull, and then–
–He gulped great lungfuls of cool morning air and opened his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a few seconds before he realised that Privet Drive had vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in a cobbled street lined with antiquated shops.
"Welcome, Harry Potter, to Diagon Alley."
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Harry tried to push away feelings of giddiness and nausea. His eyes darted back and forth. He could see no tech shops here nor any newsagents where he might buy a computer magazine. There was a curious absence of exhaust fumes, but there were other pungent fragrances he could not identify. "We're not in Kansas anymore," he muttered, but Dumbledore didn't seem to hear for the cries of tinkers, the crash of traders bringing out wares to their shop fronts, the shouts of children, and the clatter and ringing of metalware: cauldrons, ladles, weighing scales, telescopes, and devices that Harry could not identify, especially since they had no electrical cables.
He was being steered along by the Headmaster towards a large white building which Harry soon discovered was a bank being run by goblins. This was difficult for him to accept, but one thing was common and he already knew it very well: money was important everywhere. He told himself to shove his feelings deep down and deal with what mattered: business!
"Key," said the teller.
Dumbledore offered up a tiny golden key.
"I already have a bank account here?" Harry asked the goblin, completely ignoring Dumbledore.
"Your family vault, sir."
"I'd like a full statement please and a transfer order."
"Very good, sir."
"Harry, this is not essential," said Dumbledore. "We are only here to–"
"–Thank you," said Harry, accepting the parchments which had been conjured out of thin air by the teller. He gulped at the amount shown, quickly scribbled down an amount and his Muggle account details then pushed the papers back before Dumbledore could intervene. "What's the exchange rate?"
"Five pounds sterling per Galleon."
Harry gulped again. And again. He was still gulping when the vault was opened and he saw the reality in gold heaps. Dumbledore protested but was ignored as Harry scooped up almost five hundred Galleons. "Could I have a bag please?" he asked the goblin.
"Harry, you have far more than you need to–"
"–What's in this chest?" Harry was already prising it open. There were documents, books, and a few personal items. "Make that a big bag, please."
"Expandable, feather-charmed, and magically protected, sir, and you can ask it for more as needed."
Dumbledore scowled. "That will not be necess–"
"–Thank you."
"Harry I must insist that–"
–but the Headmaster found he was unable to remove the bag strap from Harry's shoulder. The gongs of an alarm echoed from somewhere outside the open door.
"You'll need the vault owner's permission to take a Gringotts bag, thief," snarled the goblin, drawing his short sword. "Any further attempt will cause pain and summon security. Using magic won't help you outside this bank either, because it would be tantamount to stealing from the bank itself! Be careful you don't start a war, vile miscreant!"
Harry was already out of the vault and Dumbledore had to hurry before the goblin locked him in. "Oh look! Smoke and fire down there!" cried Harry.
Dumbledore peered down the steeply sloping track and sighed. "Dragons, Harry. The lower levels are guarded by them." He didn't notice that Harry's distraction had enabled the boy to accept his vault key back from the goblin and secure it in his new unstealable bag.
Back outside in the street, the Headmaster could barely keep up with his charge. Harry was dashing back and forth rejecting shop after shop as of no interest. He felt greatly empowered by the huge wealth now at his disposal. Perhaps it had gone to his head because he was suffering a rush of audacity.
"You'll need a cauldron, Harry. In here..."
"What for?" Harry felt himself pulled inside a shop full of children.
"Brewing potions."
"Seriously? Wizards make their own drugs? I can buy them in at least two of the shops we've passed."
Dumbledore groaned. "Potions class is mandatory."
"I'm not buying anything until I'm certain I'll need it." Harry became aware that there was a girl about his own age staring at him. A lot of people had been doing that, but she was the only person he'd seen in the alley who was wearing an ordinary tee-shirt and joggers. Her thick bushy hair bounced and swirled as she turned quickly away when their eyes met.
"You do not have any choice," said the old man Harry now regarded as his jailer. Dumbledore asked for a cauldron, ladle, and all the other equipment needed for the class. "Here you are, Harry, put these–" He looked around to see where the boy had got to.
"–Are you going to Hogwarts too?" Harry asked the girl. "Everything's strange here; you're the only one who looks normal. Are those your parents?" He pointed at a bemused couple who he now saw also wore familiar clothes. His face fell as he spotted McGonagall behind them. She didn't look like she'd noticed him yet.
"Yes," said the girl. "It's exciting isn't it? I only heard about magic a couple of weeks ago. Have you bought your books yet? I've not had a chance to read anything apart from the introductory guide of course."
"The what?"
"Muggles' Introduction to Magic. I can't believe you're not a Muggle-born wearing those scruff– those jeans!" she giggled. "We'll all be wearing robes soon of course. Any idea what house you'd like to be in? We're just deciding on brass scales. And we'll get our new wands today! Can you imagine? Where are you going next?"
"Well, I had been hoping to buy a... well, it's called a modem, but I can see there won't be any shops here that–"
"–Oh, Daddy, Daddy! What was that modem we've got to network with the surgery?" She lurched off a few steps in the direction of her father, almost bumping a chubby, fair-haired boy in robes who began apologising to her.
Harry stared and stared. Here was this amazingly normal girl. And she'd got a modem!
He felt himself sucked outside by some invisible force. "This way, Harry."
"But–"
–And so the morning went, with Harry dragging his feet more and more sullenly, until he found himself in Ollivander's. By then he'd had enough.
"Ah yes," said Mr Ollivander. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." He moved closer. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. The man had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.
"And that's where" – Mr Ollivander had touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger – Harry yelled and jabbed Ollivander's nose really hard – Ollivander released a shrill cry and backed off, the side of his nose red and smarting where Harry's fingernail had stabbed and scraped it.
Harry roared, "Are all wizards as rude as you, Dumbledore, and McGonagall? What's wrong with you people? Forget the wand. I won't be using magic so I don't need one."
Dumbledore sighed. "You MUST have a wand, Harry."
"Oh, must I? You might have noticed I've not bought anything at all – you did. So buy a wand if you must, but it won't be used."
"Proceed with the selection, Garrick," said Dumbledore.
"Well, now – Mr Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. Ollivander moved more cautiously now. Harry was pleased to see his left eye was watering and there was a nasal twang to his voice.
"Which is your wand arm?"
Harry held up the middle finger of his left hand.
"He's right-handed, Garrick," said Dumbledore, rather impatiently.
While Ollivander muttered about wand cores and flitted around the shelves, taking down boxes, the tape measure began chasing Harry around the shop. Only when Dumbledore covertly froze him in place did the tape succeed in sizing up Harry before collapsing in a heap on the floor.
"Right then, Mr Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."
"No."
"Sorry?"
"Which part of N and O don't you understand?"
Dumbledore flicked his own wand and the beechwood wand flew into Harry's hand. And there it stayed. Harry refused to budge. He did wonder why Dumbledore didn't force his arm to wave the wand about. Perhaps wands wouldn't work that way unless the holder did it voluntarily.
A chair stood in the corner of the shop and Dumbledore went and sat on it. "We cannot leave this shop unless you have a wand, Harry."
Harry growled angrily. "Fine! Have it your way – but do you plan to use magical violence and blackmail on me all the way through Hogwarts like you did all morning? Because it's just not going to work, is it? Perhaps you'll hire a thug to do your dirty work. But I'll fight them every way I can. You don't care about me and the life I want, and I certainly don't care about you and the magical life you're trying to force on me."
"Harry, there are things you don't yet underst–"
"–And what you don't understand is that while I'm wasting time here, the first web browser will become available this month but it won't run on my computer and so I have to struggle by with a DOS net browser and Usenet and email and wait for another web browser that will work on Windows 3 and this could be REALLY REALLY big not only for my business but for the REAL world but you haven't a clue what I'm talking about do you – you and your stupid magic tricks. You're utterly oblivious of events far bigger than anything in your own tiny community, and far bigger than anything your little brain can even conceive. I will NEVER give it up! Fight me all you like but you won't win anything but heartache I promise you that."
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By afternoon, the sulking boy had a wand of holly, but as soon as Dumbledore had returned him to the Dursleys and departed, Harry chopped it into tiny pieces and threw on the compost heap. "No freakin' magic for me!"
He went back indoors, determined to undo the injustice that Dumbledore had caused him:
"Can you phone Guildford Tech, Uncle Vernon. Tell them it was a mistake. Tell them a lunatic freak pretending to be my guardian but with no credentials at all told them wrong. I don't want anything to do with magic, but you've got to help me."
Vernon Dursley's eyes gleamed; he was on his feet heading for the phone when Petunia said, "It won't do any good, Harry. Those... those people will come for you and make you attend their school. There's no way round it."
Harry humphed for a while, but finally sagged down onto a chair. "Then I'll fight them on their own ground. I'll do everything I can to make them all as miserable as they've made me. I'll... I'll need to get another PC and network it with the one upstairs to handle the business remotely while I'm at Hogwarts until I can find a way to get away from them."
"A computer? Electricity won't work where's there's... that much freakishness concentrated. Your mother's wristwatch–"
"–WHAT! There's always a way! I'll find a way!" He stormed off his chair, pacing back and forth, thinking furiously. In his bottomless bag he had many strange artifacts from his vault; perhaps one of them might help. If not... "Can one of you take me back to Diagon Alley one day this week? There's a shop that sells curios with all kinds of strange things in the window display. Maybe there's one to shield out magic? Dumbledore wouldn't let me go in the shop. He wouldn't let me do anything! I have to find a way to walk away from magic!"
Vernon and Petunia shared looks with each other. If they now had one thing in common with Harry it was a loathing of magic being forced upon them. Harry could see in their expressions he'd won.
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
This short, four-chapter novella is finished and I'll be uploading a chapter roughly once a week or ten days, so you won't have long to wait.
All my Walkaway stories deal only with Harry avoiding being controlled and manipulated. Once free, they don't deal much with the aftermath so the endings might seem abrupt. Sorry about that but adding such material won't really fit the theme – any more than Harry's life after Hogwarts was relevant to the original JKR story plot. Each Walkway fic is independent so don't need to be read in sequence.
Still working on my other current fics so at least one of those should be close to ready to follow on from this one.
Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
- Hippothestrowl
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