Necessarius Silentium
Chapter One
Harry Potter sat glumly in the Connection Café, a Muggle coffee shop with computers in it. This strange seventeen-year old boy sipped his hot chocolate as he gazed down at the cage in his lap containing Hedwig, his snowy owl. She seemed to sense his mood, and was not at all chipper, even though it was night. He pushed a too-long lock of raven-colored hair behind his ear with his left hand, while the other stirred his spoon around his mug as he watched the marshmallows dissolve. His waiter came by a few minutes later, and when he said he didn't want anything else, the man laid the check on the table. Harry scrounged around his pockets in the vain hope that some Muggle money could be found there. He tugged nervously at his shirt collar, feeling the steam rising from his drink. He decided to wash his hands in the bathroom to see if any ideas would come to him in the mirror. Standing in front of the sink, letting the cold liquid wash over his soapy hands, his reflection declared nothing to him except that he looked as if he'd been in a train wreck. His pale face was covered in gashes and his glasses were broken in several places, the Scotch tape having finally given up years ago. His high cheekbones were littered with an odd assortment of cuts, bruises, and scrapes, and of course, the worst part of these lacerations were covered by his thinly-made, baggy shirt.
He tore himself away from his awful-looking visage and headed dispiritedly back to his table and the bill. He picked up his mug and was about to drain away the last of the drink, when he noticed a folded-over bill where the vessel had been. Unfolding it, he realized two things: 1)it was the exact amount of money he needed to pay the bill, and 2) a note was inside. He quickly snatched this and began looking over it.
It seems as if you need this. Never mind where or who it came from; just take it and count your blessings (and in the meantime, go visit a hospital. It looks like you need it).
Harry's lips twisted into a wry smile at the thought, calling his waiter as he did so and handing the man his money. He then stood up, took Hedwig's cage between his hand, grabbing his trunk with the other, and clumsily made his way to the door. He tripped on the hem in his long coat on the way out, slamming his head into the door. His glasses bent along his nose and he hastily put them into his pocket, hoping he'd be able to fix them later, before kneeing the door open (his hands were full) and standing out in the rain. Hedwig hooted, disgruntled, as the water dripped through the bars in her cage and wet her feathers. Moving away from the doorway, he removed his cloak and placed it upon the cage, his owl's cries ceasing. The water dripped on his head as he hurried along in the direction he deemed to be the way to Diagon Alley, although if you really want to know, he was going the wrong way. The rain and not being able to see made this anything but a fun, brisk walk, and Harry quickened his pace. He didn't realize he had hit upon a dead end until he was a few inches from a grimy brick wall. The mortar stuck out at odd angles and had been very sloppily done by what one could presume to be a drunk. Harry turned around slowly, bone-weary and thoroughly soaked, fully prepared to retrace his steps along the dark street. However, this did not come to pass, as he dimly saw a few glints of silver through his bad peripheral vision. The meaty men standing behind him were holding pocket knives less deadly than their own hands, and Harry would have laughed aloud if he'd had a mind to. One of the half-dozen thugs was holding his knife upside-down, readying to strike with the hilt. They watched as the boy calmly turned around, bright emerald eyes gleaming in the darkness. He went up to the one holding his knife wrong, hit him lightly in the hand so that he dropped the weapon into outstretched palms, and righted the blade. He showed this to the previous owner of the blade. "/This/ is how you hold it when you're about to strike," he explained, making a few swift jabbing motions in midair. "Here. Now /you/ try it." He threw the blade straight at the man, nodding as he caught it with pudgy hands. Harry's claps were not heard over the unearthly howling of the wind, but his 'company' got the idea as his voice floated over to them. "Very good, Dudley. You deserve a gold star." For the pudgy young man, although he was wearing black leather, a spiked collar, and a (polka-dotted.haha.) bandanna, he was still very much the Dudley Dursley he was familiar with. He looked down at the T-shirt stretched precariously over Dudley's enormous stomach with distaste, reading what was written on it. "Do you even know what a punk is?" Harry waited a moment before continuing. "Wait, you can't read, so.I guess you're not a prostitute. Too bad for you; I know someone who'd pay you about a pound.not that you'd need it, anyway. You're too fat already."
Dudley finally stopped being befuddled enough to give a great yell and charge toward his cousin, with full intentions of running him through with his pitiful weapon. Harry suddenly pointed toward Dudley with his index finger, and the blade clashed with his flesh, leaving a cut, but throwing the blonde against the wall and leaving him stunned. The boy with the raven-colored hair turned around, placed Hedwig's cage atop his head, and hoisted his trunk up behind him as he climbed over the wall, using the mortar for hand- and footholds. He listened to the furor emanating from below him, and suddenly heard a click. Hanging from the mortar by one hand (he was quite high up by now), he watched the scene. One of the gang members had pulled out a gun, and was aiming it at him. Even after everything he'd been through, he couldn't stand up to a gun. It wasn't like the Avada Kedavra; it wasn't as easily visible and was a lot faster. He watched as the man held the gun against his enormous arm and looked through the eyepiece to aim it, then quickly decided to get out of the way. He climbed faster and nicked his hand against the spiky surface of the mortar. Cursing, he looked back, to dimly see something small and black speeding toward him.
AN: Hahaha.CLIFFHANGER! Oh yes, and in case you hadn't noticed, this is an answer to Severitus' challenge. I know, everybody has at least one. Kinda like cans of spinach, ne? Oh, well then, maybe not. Read and review!
Chapter One
Harry Potter sat glumly in the Connection Café, a Muggle coffee shop with computers in it. This strange seventeen-year old boy sipped his hot chocolate as he gazed down at the cage in his lap containing Hedwig, his snowy owl. She seemed to sense his mood, and was not at all chipper, even though it was night. He pushed a too-long lock of raven-colored hair behind his ear with his left hand, while the other stirred his spoon around his mug as he watched the marshmallows dissolve. His waiter came by a few minutes later, and when he said he didn't want anything else, the man laid the check on the table. Harry scrounged around his pockets in the vain hope that some Muggle money could be found there. He tugged nervously at his shirt collar, feeling the steam rising from his drink. He decided to wash his hands in the bathroom to see if any ideas would come to him in the mirror. Standing in front of the sink, letting the cold liquid wash over his soapy hands, his reflection declared nothing to him except that he looked as if he'd been in a train wreck. His pale face was covered in gashes and his glasses were broken in several places, the Scotch tape having finally given up years ago. His high cheekbones were littered with an odd assortment of cuts, bruises, and scrapes, and of course, the worst part of these lacerations were covered by his thinly-made, baggy shirt.
He tore himself away from his awful-looking visage and headed dispiritedly back to his table and the bill. He picked up his mug and was about to drain away the last of the drink, when he noticed a folded-over bill where the vessel had been. Unfolding it, he realized two things: 1)it was the exact amount of money he needed to pay the bill, and 2) a note was inside. He quickly snatched this and began looking over it.
It seems as if you need this. Never mind where or who it came from; just take it and count your blessings (and in the meantime, go visit a hospital. It looks like you need it).
Harry's lips twisted into a wry smile at the thought, calling his waiter as he did so and handing the man his money. He then stood up, took Hedwig's cage between his hand, grabbing his trunk with the other, and clumsily made his way to the door. He tripped on the hem in his long coat on the way out, slamming his head into the door. His glasses bent along his nose and he hastily put them into his pocket, hoping he'd be able to fix them later, before kneeing the door open (his hands were full) and standing out in the rain. Hedwig hooted, disgruntled, as the water dripped through the bars in her cage and wet her feathers. Moving away from the doorway, he removed his cloak and placed it upon the cage, his owl's cries ceasing. The water dripped on his head as he hurried along in the direction he deemed to be the way to Diagon Alley, although if you really want to know, he was going the wrong way. The rain and not being able to see made this anything but a fun, brisk walk, and Harry quickened his pace. He didn't realize he had hit upon a dead end until he was a few inches from a grimy brick wall. The mortar stuck out at odd angles and had been very sloppily done by what one could presume to be a drunk. Harry turned around slowly, bone-weary and thoroughly soaked, fully prepared to retrace his steps along the dark street. However, this did not come to pass, as he dimly saw a few glints of silver through his bad peripheral vision. The meaty men standing behind him were holding pocket knives less deadly than their own hands, and Harry would have laughed aloud if he'd had a mind to. One of the half-dozen thugs was holding his knife upside-down, readying to strike with the hilt. They watched as the boy calmly turned around, bright emerald eyes gleaming in the darkness. He went up to the one holding his knife wrong, hit him lightly in the hand so that he dropped the weapon into outstretched palms, and righted the blade. He showed this to the previous owner of the blade. "/This/ is how you hold it when you're about to strike," he explained, making a few swift jabbing motions in midair. "Here. Now /you/ try it." He threw the blade straight at the man, nodding as he caught it with pudgy hands. Harry's claps were not heard over the unearthly howling of the wind, but his 'company' got the idea as his voice floated over to them. "Very good, Dudley. You deserve a gold star." For the pudgy young man, although he was wearing black leather, a spiked collar, and a (polka-dotted.haha.) bandanna, he was still very much the Dudley Dursley he was familiar with. He looked down at the T-shirt stretched precariously over Dudley's enormous stomach with distaste, reading what was written on it. "Do you even know what a punk is?" Harry waited a moment before continuing. "Wait, you can't read, so.I guess you're not a prostitute. Too bad for you; I know someone who'd pay you about a pound.not that you'd need it, anyway. You're too fat already."
Dudley finally stopped being befuddled enough to give a great yell and charge toward his cousin, with full intentions of running him through with his pitiful weapon. Harry suddenly pointed toward Dudley with his index finger, and the blade clashed with his flesh, leaving a cut, but throwing the blonde against the wall and leaving him stunned. The boy with the raven-colored hair turned around, placed Hedwig's cage atop his head, and hoisted his trunk up behind him as he climbed over the wall, using the mortar for hand- and footholds. He listened to the furor emanating from below him, and suddenly heard a click. Hanging from the mortar by one hand (he was quite high up by now), he watched the scene. One of the gang members had pulled out a gun, and was aiming it at him. Even after everything he'd been through, he couldn't stand up to a gun. It wasn't like the Avada Kedavra; it wasn't as easily visible and was a lot faster. He watched as the man held the gun against his enormous arm and looked through the eyepiece to aim it, then quickly decided to get out of the way. He climbed faster and nicked his hand against the spiky surface of the mortar. Cursing, he looked back, to dimly see something small and black speeding toward him.
AN: Hahaha.CLIFFHANGER! Oh yes, and in case you hadn't noticed, this is an answer to Severitus' challenge. I know, everybody has at least one. Kinda like cans of spinach, ne? Oh, well then, maybe not. Read and review!