-4-
"I never went this far before," Harry said, looking around the unfamiliar path they were walking uneasily. It was getting dark earlier these days, and colder too. Harry wrapped the robe Al had given to him tightly around his body, to shield it from the biting wind that grew harsher the closer they got to the clearing that was their destination.
"We need to get past the protection, and fast," Al said frowning down at his pocket watch. "The owls always arrive at 6 pm sharp."
The owls. For as long as Harry had been here, Al had given him the impression that he lived completely isolated from the outside world, but this morning he'd suddenly started talking about owls that apparently delivered letters and goods from acquaintances four times a year on a clearing about one and a half hours away from Al's hut.
Al had actually wanted Harry to stay behind, but Harry would have none of it. Owls delivering letters and packages? Harry doubted Al was telling the truth but wanted to come along just in case anyway.
After living with Al for about three months, Harry couldn't dismiss the existence of magic as completely as he once had. Maybe, just maybe, he really was a wizard. Harry shook his head. He had to stop daydreaming all the time. Yes, his life with Al was unreal – he went hunting for his own food with a bow and arrow, for god's sake – but he shouldn't lose sight of the reality of his situation.
"Here we are," Al said as they stepped out of the woods and into the clearing.
Harry looked around with big eyes. It was beautiful. The sky was of a dark blue, tinted with orange and pink, and the sinking sun was bathing the meadow and surrounding trees in a warm glow.
Hoo, hoo.
Harry craned his neck to search the sky. That really sounded just like he imagined owls to sound.
Hoo, hoo.
A dark shadow, no, two dark shadows descended from a treetop nearby. Fascinated Harry watched as they approached Al, who held out his left arm for one of the owls to land.
The other circled around Al until the old man gestured at Harry. Immediately the owl turned to Harry, as if it understood Al, and landed on the arm Harry reluctantly held out for it.
Its talons were sharp and digging into Harry's skin painfully, yet not quite cutting it. Cautiously Harry raised his free hand and touched its dark brown feathers. They were just as soft as they looked.
Real post owls. Harry could hardly believe it.
"You're beautiful," Harry murmured. When the owl reacted to his words by fluffing up its feathers proudly, he added: "And intelligent too."
Frighteningly intelligent, even. Harry had never heard of owls that reacted to humans like this. Were they simply well trained or was it magic?
When Harry tried to reach for the package the owl carried, it turned around sharply and bit him.
"Ouch! Al, it bit me!"
Al didn't pay him any mind. He was reading the letters the first owl had carried, his wild grey eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
Harry eyed his owl distrustfully. It was sitting on his arm dead still now, but following every movement of his hand with its wide, yellow eyes, undoubtedly readying itself for another attack.
It seemed to take ages until Al had finished reading all three letters he'd received, penned a reply, and sent the first owl off with it. By the time Al turned towards them, the muscles in Harry's arm burned like fire.
"Now we come to the pleasant part," the old man said and freed the second owl of its burden. As soon as the package was in Al's hands, the bird took off into the night sky.
"Come Harry. We'll open it back home."
After living with the Dursleys for nearly his whole life, watching Dudley unwrap dozens of presents at every opportunity while he was left empty-handed, hearing that word uttered so casually meant more to Harry than he had known. Definitely also more than Al could know.
"What's inside?" Harry asked, jumping up and down excitedly as they made their way back.
"You'll see." Al smiled mysteriously.
Back at home, Al put the package onto the table and handed Harry one of the sharper kitchen knives to cut the package open.
Harry goggled. From the outside, the cardboard box was no bigger than a very thick book and not particularly heavy, but from the inside, it was big enough for aunt Petunia's microwave and then some. It was filled to the brim with different candies, books, bottles of drinks Harry had never heard before, pasties, sausages, and stuff he couldn't even identify.
"Catch," Al said and threw Harry a small package.
Chocolate Frog was written on it in big, loopy letters, and Harry's mouth filled with water - finally, something that wasn't a vegetable, meat, or Al's bread.
He ripped the box open and let out a cry of surprise when his treat jumped out of his hand and onto the floor.
Al laughed. "Haven't had them in a while, I take it?"
"Never," Harry breathed as he watched the frog crawl over the wooden floor.
There was no other explanation for this anymore. Magic was real.
Harry's head spun, he felt dizzy.
"Never?"
Only when he heard Al repeat his answer incredulously did Harry realize that he was behaving all wrong. He'd been pretending to know about magic, reacting like this must be looking very suspicious.
"Yeah," Harry said. "The people I lived with, they didn't allow me to eat any sweets."
That much was true, at least.
Al hummed and gave another chocolate frog to Harry. He never commented on the things Harry told him about his past, but his expressions often suggested that he didn't think much of the Dursleys.
This time, Harry was more careful. He cupped his hand over the box and caught the frog when it jumped. Its tiny legs wriggled as he put them into his mouth and tickled his palate in a funny way. The chocolate tasted delicious, far better than anything he'd ever managed to steal from his cousin.
"Take a look at the card inside the box," Al said. "Chocolate frogs always come with the card of a famous witch or wizard. I had an almost complete set when I was a child, there were only two or three cards missing when…" Al stopped abruptly. "Well, not matter."
Harry was about to ask Al to elaborate - the old man didn't often talk about his past - when he caught a glimpse of the card inside the chocolate frog box and completely forgot his previous train of thought.
The picture was moving.
It showed a woman with fiery red hair. She wore night blue robes and was scowling fiercely at him.
"I got Morgan le Fay," Harry read from the card.
"Ah yes, she's quite common. But a good start for your collections nevertheless. She was a very talented witch."
"The card says she was an Animagus," Harry continued.
"Yes, yes. Could turn into a bird. My grandfather used to tell me stories about her and Merlin every time he came to visit."
By now, Harry thought, he really shouldn't be surprised anymore. If magic was real then why not Merlin and Morgan le Fay too?
"I think I'll go to sleep," Harry said. He had so much to think about, he didn't even know where to start.
"Already? Well, g'night. We have to talk tomorrow, by the way. I'll have to leave for two or three days and I can't take you with me. Business."
Harry was too overwhelmed by events of the day to feel much of anything when Al dropped this last bomb on him. Going by the way Al talked about the outside world – or the muggle world, more specifically – Harry had always thought that Al didn't leave the woods at all.
In the end it was just another thing he'd been wrong about. Interesting but hardly comparable to the discovery that magic was real. He'd like to see the look on Aunt Petunia's face now.
Harry fell asleep with a soft, contented smile on his lips.
.
Rain was pouring down the windowpane, dancing on the glass ceiling of the living room in a maddening whirlwind of uneven steps. A violin, floating two meters above ground, its strings played by invisible hands, was fighting for dominance over the endless beat of raindrops.
Gentle notes complementing the wild rhythm of nature gave way to sounds so raucous, so loud, the bow threatened to splinter in its effort to reach a new crescendo - would have splintered if not for the magic dwelling within.
Pipe smoke mingled with the music, took on new forms with each change of rhythm telling stories of beauty and transience. Its outer tendrils formed nimble-fingered claws that grabbed for the velvet red curtains framing the high windows, as if in an attempt to prolong its existence, anchor itself in reality, not knowing that all it would leave behind was a lingering smell, slowly fading away in the light of the day.
A clock somewhere nearby struck ten, and when the sound of the last stroke died, a man, who had up until now been lying on a heavy leather sofa situated in the middle of the room, sat up and put his naked feet on the warm wooden floor.
His muscles were tense, every motion controlled as he put on his socks and heavy boots, this behavior very at odds with his usual bearing. But then again, this was no usual night, not by a long shot. This was one of eight nights a year that stood out, where he was a different kind of person leading a different kind of life.
On a table nearby lay two knives, one long and thin, one short and double-edged. He reached for the long knife first and scoffed as his fingers brushed against the polished tabletop made of mahogany wood.
Pretentious - but not uncommon, not in this life he led eight nights a year.
He cut through the empty space in front of him with a flowing movement and watched the light dance on the edges of the sharp blade. Next, he threw it up into the air. He stood uncaringly as it sped back to the ground, knifepoint at the front. Then, just before it could touch the ground and damage the undoubtedly expensive wooden floor, he stretched out his hand.
"Back."
And the charmed knife followed his command without hesitation.
When the last syllable left his mouth, the knife stopped, hovered mid-air for a split second, and then rushed back into his hand. The handle fit perfectly into his palm, as if it belonged there, and maybe it did.
He repeated the procedure with the second knife, then, finally satisfied, both disappeared in between the layers of his clothing.
He left his abode, crossed the busy street right in front of the house, and disappeared into a narrow alley. Soon he was nothing but a shadow, his black clothes melting into the darkness of the night, his heavy boots charmed to be as quiet as a cat on the hunt.
.
Harry opened the kitchen window to let in the fresh air and felt his mood sink even further. It was only early in the afternoon, but the sky was dark with rainclouds, the sun nowhere to be seen. It had been raining non-stop for the last two days, and without Al to keep him company Harry was terribly, unbelievably bored. He could hardly wait for Al to return. Thankfully he'd be back in the evening.
Al had allowed him to read one of the new books from the package they'd received a few days ago. It was called Wandering with Werewolves and told the story of how the author, a wizard called Gilderoy Lockhart, had saved a village from werewolves. Real, shape-shifting werewolves that howled to the moon once a month and ate other wizards and muggles.
Harry loved the book, he soaked up all the information it provided eagerly, enjoyed how the author described other wizards' and witches' clothing style – even though he belittled it most of the time – and their daily life and leisure activities.
Lockhart mentioned Ministry officials and a Ministry of Magic, a sport called Quidditch played on flying brooms, he talked about Galleons – a special currency wizards used –, greedy goblins, centaurs, and unicorns.
With every page Harry turned, his longing to see this world with his own eyes grew stronger. He wanted to have a wand, to learn the locking spell Lockhart used to get into the house of the werewolf and tripping jinx that allowed him to slow the monster down.
"Cold, so cold…"
A quiet voice startled Harry out of his musing. He looked around in confusion.
"Cold and wet, so cold…"
There it was again! It was definitely coming from outside. Harry leaned out of the window as far as he could without losing his balance but didn't see anybody. Weird.
He looked out of all the windows in the small hut – minus the one in Al's bedroom, which was locked – but still didn't see anyone.
"Heat, need heat…"
The voice sounded weaker this time. Harry pushed down the uneasy feeling that spread in his belly, opened the front door, and stepped out into the rain.
"Blood so cold, so cold…"
Harry followed the sound of the voice; it was coming from somewhere close by, somewhere beneath him. Harry crouched down on the rain-soaked ground and looked around.
"Where are you?" Harry asked because even though he would swear that he was right next to the voice, he still couldn't see anybody.
"Cold…"
"Yes, I know," Harry said, "but I can't help you if you don't tell me where you are!"
"Cold... heat…"
The voice seemed to be coming from under a pile of wood that was situated next to the door. Cursing loudly, Harry lay down on the floor and crawled closer to get a better view.
"Hello?" He said as he peeked under the pile of wood feeling more than a little silly.
"Cold!" The voice answered and moments later a small snake appeared. "You help?"
It took Harry a moment to realize that it was indeed the snake that was talking, and another few seconds to get over the shock.
Well… jumping chocolate frogs, moving pictures and now speaking snakes. No need to freak out, just another day in this new crazy life of his.
"You won't bite me, will you?" Harry asked just to make sure.
"You bring heat. I won't bite."
Hesitantly – he hadn't forgotten the biting owl yet – Harry offered his arm to the snake. "Crawl on my arm, I'll take you inside. It's warm there."
With the snake wrapped around his forearm, Harry went back inside. He put it on the floor near the stove where it was the warmest, and then immediately took off his wet and muddy clothes. He took a seat next to the snake, after this little adventure he too craved the warmth of the fire.
The snake didn't look magical at all. No special colouring, no wings, just a plain, boring snake. Apart from the whole speaking thing, of course.
"Where are you from?" Harry said.
The snake flickered its tail in the direction of the door. Right.
"Do you know Al?" Harry asked next. When the snake didn't answer Harry elaborated. "The old man who lives here, I mean?" The snake shook its head.
After they sat in silence for a while – and wasn't it weird that you could sit in anything but silence with a snake? – Harry asked his next question: "What do you eat?"
The snake opened its eyes again and blinked at Harry. "Mice are lovely. And chicks, fluffy chicks, they are more lovely. They are very good." Apparently, food was a good topic.
"Oh. I eat rabbits," Harry said, trying to keep the conversation going.
"Rabbits are a heavy meal," the snake said, and Harry thought it sounded a tiny bit impressed.
When Al came home in the evening, Harry was still sitting by the oven, still only clothed in shorts. Al looked tired. His robes were wet from the rain and his boots were too dirty to make out their original colour.
"Al! You're back. Look what I found!" Harry scrambled to his feet, grabbed Al's arm, and tugged him towards the oven.
"A snake? Why did you bring it inside?" Al asked and looked at Harry in confusion.
"Not just any snake, Al," Harry said, "a speaking snake! We've been talking all afternoon. He told me he likes to eat baby birds; can you believe it? So gross. "
"He told you?" Al repeated and looked down at Harry questioningly. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." Why was Al acting so weird? A person who knew of the existence of hopping cauldrons and singing quills should be used to talking snakes, shouldn't they?
"Can you show me?" There was a soft tremor in Al's voice, confusing Harry further.
"Sure," he said nevertheless and turned back to the snake.
"Hey, wake up." Harry nudged the snake carefully. "I want to introduce you to Al."
A loud gasp made Harry turn around. Al was staring at him. Staring as though he'd never seen Harry before.
"Everything alright?" Harry hated how timid his voice sounded, but he couldn't hide how much Al's reaction was freaking him out. It was just a talking snake, for god's sake!
"Harry Potter," Al said his name slowly and stared at Harry's face with an unnatural concentration. He looked as if he was trying to solve a complicated puzzle.
"What's your mother's maiden name?" Al said out of the blue.
His mother's maiden name? Maybe he should be worrying about Al's mental health… Maybe something happened to him while he was away…
"Your mother's maiden name, do you know it?" Al asked insistently and grabbed Harry's shoulder.
"N-no," Harry said. Aunt Petunia had never mentioned either the name of his grandparents or her own maiden name. "I don't. My parents have been dead for a long time. I don't know much about them."
Al was pacing through the kitchen in agitation. "And her first name?"
"Lily."
"Lily. Lily. Nickname or given name?"
"Her real name, I think."
Al continued walking up and down the room murmuring his mother's name, and Harry started to feel a bit scared.
"You smell salty," a voice commented from the ground, and Harry saw that the snake had raised his head and was watching him.
"What?"
At the sound of Harry's voice, Al stopped pacing.
"You're parselmouth, Harry."
"I'm what?"
"A parselmouth! Didn't those people you lived with teach you anything? You're snake speaker!"
Harry looked down at the snake, then back at Al. "A snake speaker? But he's speaking English!"
"No, no, it's not! You're speaking parseltongue, the tongue of snakes." Al's cheeks were flushed; he was talking so fast he was nearly stumbling over the words. "I have no clue what it's saying, and don't understand you when you're talking to it either! A real parselmouth, I can't believe it. I thought they died out."
"Died out?"
"Yes, it's hereditary. Only one family was known for this talent."
"That's why you wanted to know my mother's maiden name?"
"Of course. She must have been a descendant of Slytherin."
Al went to the shelf and poured himself a generous glass of Firewhisky. The first time Harry had seen Al drink whisky – right after they'd finished unpacking the package – he'd been afraid that Al might turn into another Vernon Dursley when he was drunk. Thankfully Al said he only drank the whisky because he liked the taste, and hardly ever enough to get drunk.
He sat down and stared at Harry some more.
"How old are you?"
"Eleven."
"Eleven?" Al sounded disbelieving.
"What?" Harry snapped. He knew he was small for his age, no need to rub it in.
"I thought you were nine, ten at most. Eleven is the age wizards usually start their magical education."
"You mean I'm old enough for a wand? A real wand?"
Al laughed. "Yes, I think you are."
Harry felt so excited it was hard for him to stand still. He wanted to go and buy a wand right now, and then he wanted to learn how to fly and fight werewolves and pet unicorns and…
"Where do I get a wand? Can we go tomorrow?"
Al seemed to hesitate for a moment; his smile disappeared. "Usually young wizards buy them at Ollivanders in wizarding London, but… I don't go there. Ever."
Ever? Then how was he supposed to get his wand? Harry's heart sank to his stomach. He had no idea where exactly he was or how to get to London, let alone the wizarding part of London.
"So, no wand?" Harry tried to sound less heartbroken than he felt, but he was not sure he succeeded. He didn't want to make Al feel bad about this, the old man had done so much for him already.
Al looked at him and the snake to his feet for what seemed like an eternity; then he stood and left the room.
Harry stared after him. Tears were welling up in his eyes but he rubbed them away angrily. He refused to cry like a baby. He would simply get a wand later when he was old enough to go to London by himself. Yes, he'd just wait a bit.
The kitchen door opened and Al stepped back into the room, carrying a narrow box. When Al sat it on the table in front of them, Harry saw that it was covered with a thick coat of dust.
"That," Al said, looking at Harry solemnly, "was my grandfather's wand. He entrusted it to me, and now I'm entrusting it to you. It might not be an ideal fit, but I'm sure you'll do this wand proud for as long as you'll use it."
"Your grandfather's wand?" Harry wasn't sure he should accept this. If he had something that belonged to his parents, he didn't know if he could give it away like this.
"It would've made my grandfather proud to know that a parselmouth, a descendent of Salazar himself, was using his wand," Al said with finality.
Harry held his breath as Al opened the box, barely daring to believe that this was really happening. The wand inside was beautiful, made of dark wood, lying on a velvet cushion.
Harry reached his hand out slowly. His fingers tingled where they touched the wood and the wand trembled before it calmed down and allowed Harry to pick it up. Sparks of gold and blue were flying from its tip and for a moment Harry thought he could feel a soft breeze.
Al smiled. "Yes, we can definitely work with this."
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