Chapter 3: Hogwarts at Last
First order of business after having lunch in Skullsnatchers was authorizing payment to Cheatham & Roben, whose namesakes looked almost giddy holding the final bank draft of G*42,849 plus S'8 and K^1 to their name. Their hourly fees would be, as agreed, half their usual rate of two Galleons, eleven Sickles, and Harry graciously evened it up to G*1 plus S'6.
Second order of business was a thorough healer inspection. As Greengrass had said, "Who knows what sort of vermin does the runt carries with him." Harry was sitting in a plush leather recliner, enjoying the way Peter the Rat dodged out of the way of an enchanted scalpel he'd found in Healer Kevorkian's office.
"Good afternoon everyone, I apologize for my tardiness, there were some ... complications ... with my former patient. He died!" the healer announced with a laugh and Harry began to have a bad feeling about the crazy-looking man.
"Now, Mr Powder, let's get you out of those hideous rags, shall we?" the healer said, butchering his newly found name and waving his deep-red wand. A twirl of it and a funny word later, Harry was as naked as the day he was born.
"Watch it! Freakin' perv, where's me clothes?!"
"Awww... Hush now, Mr Pewter, all I need is to examine you inside and out."
Unbidden images of the old crazy fart sticking his wand in places he'd rather not imagine assaulted Harry, but he sagged in relief, while still keeping his hands over his privates, when Healer Kevorkian kept mumbling and waving while a floating quill wrote things on parchment. The Hadrians had thoughtfully turned to face out the window, Roben holding the rat by the tail and Cheatham counting some Galleons from a small velvet pouch.
"Who would you consider patient and powerful enough..."
"...to teach our rebellious client?" Roben finished the question for Cheatham.
"Mr Greengrass for culture and politics, undoubtedly. Binns for reading and writing, as well as history and broom flight..."
"...and Madam Thicknesse could be spared a few hours work for teaching him transfiguration and basic charms. She'd be delighted, I'm sure."
Cheatham agreed, looking back at the naked savage swatting Healer Kevorkian's hands away from him. He tried hard to hate the boy because of his Potter heritage, but all things considered the whelp was such a disgrace by himself that he couldn't really add to his misery. In any event, Hadrian Cheatham had already honoured his family by taking a large sum of Potter treasure, and would continue to profit from Harry Potter for as long as he remained a client of his.
"I will seek Herr Schwarzherz for fencing, duelling magic and his initiation into the Dark Arts," the larger wizard finally said.
Sighing, the smaller Hadrian agreed reluctantly. "I shall teach him mathematics and introduce some arithmancy, but you've always been better at potions."
"True."
"It will be an interesting month."
"Touch me again 'n I'll choke you to death with me own hands!" the still naked boy yelled.
"Calm down Mr Plover, it's just a probity probe..."
"Fuckin' wanker!"
"Yes, an interesting month indeed," Cheatham concurred.
Wormtail was a wreck. What had started as a glimpse of freedom had quickly turned out to be one disaster after another. First he met Harry Potter and eventually caused him to return to the magical world; then he lost his Master's wand to the same Harry Potter and the unworthy whelp snapped it in two! And to make things worse, without thinking he'd confirmed Harry Potter's godfather was jailed in Azkaban under false charges.
If all the previous events weren't enough, the boy had taken to torture him all day long, knowing Peter couldn't show himself freely among wizards.
He was now resting on Harry's shoulder, walking back to the house in Knockturn Alley that those twice be damned Hadrians had provided. That was another mistake he'd made, leading Harry to Cheatham and Roben's office, who instead of killing the child wanted to milk him out of every Knut he has.
"They didn't count on his foul mouth and stubbornness," Peter mused, remembering the way Harry carried himself while Onionsupple redacted the contracts that actually bound the handlers to their newest client.
Peter did take some satisfaction at the embarrassing and sometimes painful examinations the healer put Harry through, but he along with Healer Kevorkian and the Hadrians were left scratching their heads at the triple magical emissions James' little runt had. The boy was a freak of nature, although he suspected what the freakishness was due to the way the Dark Lord's wand core reacted to him.
It didn't take a genius to see that a boy who survived the killing course must have some phoenix attributes in him. How and why were the relevant questions now.
Knowing he was going to be locked inside that cold metallic box as soon as they entered the house, Peter enjoyed the breeze on his whiskers, thinking hard about the mysterious ways of magic. One way or another he seemed bound to walk a convoluted path around Potter and his ilk.
Resentment and jealousy had driven a wedge between him and the Marauders. He'd had lots of fun with them, Peter was also smart enough to use them for improving his schoolwork, as well as enjoy some benefits from the sway his friends had with the girls. But the Pettigrews were a young, third generation pureblood family, nowhere as alluring or as ancient as the Blacks and Potters, which was one of the reasons he couldn't understand Sirius and James' refusal to acknowledge the Dark Lord and his glory. Why couldn't they see the wonders of a pure society in a world where wizards no longer had to hide? Why hadn't they craved the power Peter felt when he took another's life for the first time?
It was their attitude that caused him to betray his friends; if they wouldn't acknowledge Lord Voldemort and his power, they'd be crushed by it. And now Harry was doing the same, ridiculing his Master's name and associating with blood-traitors who couldn't ever understand the honour of bearing the Dark Mark. It made him unique, it gave him power and protection. It put fear in the hearts of the unworthy.
"Farm animals," Peter snorted silently. "I'll show them how to scream and die like a farm animal!"
If there was something he'd learned in his last months of life as a Marauder, it was how to be inconspicuous and how to divert attention to someone else. He still got a laugh at the suspicion the half-breed Lupin had been subjected to at the time, "Moony got what he deserved anyway, no werewolf should be allowed free reign among wizards, let alone a wand" Peter complained.
Soon they reached for the concealed doorway into the Hadrians' chosen safe-house and he was left alone with the little psychopath. Hoping Harry wouldn't start playing with any of the three wands he'd gathered after visiting the grave-robber, he made to jump of the boy's shoulder but thought better of it and, glancing up, silently asked for permission.
"Geroff me before you shit all over me clothes, you damn rat!"
Wormtail jumped and landed on the gleaming mahogany dinner table, quickly pulling his pink tail away from Harry's dagger as he stabbed the wooden surface.
"Your life's in me hands, rat-face, 'n I'll be askin' you this one time only. Did you kill me family yourself?"
Easing out of his rat form, Peter the wizard sat on the edge of the table with his legs dangling over the edge, watching the dagger out of the corner of his eyes. Unfortunately that wasn't the only weapon the little psycho had at his disposal, because Cheatham had reluctantly allowed him to keep the three wands, promising to visit the dead grave-robber's establishment once a new owner settled in to inquire about the origin of his other two wands.
"No. I told you my Lord and Master did it."
Nodding absently, Harry plucked the black dagger from the table and asked another question. "Gimme one o' them magic oaths to always say the truth, 'n then tell me what you know 'bout that."
"Or else what, Potter? Do you think I'll--"
Whatever rants Peter wanted to shout were cut short by a fist to his nose. Who knew such a small fist could pack a mighty punch?
"Bloo'y 'ell, my nofe! You b'oke my nofe!"
"Quit your whinin', it's only a bit o' blood..." said Harry, kicking himself for loosing his cool. "Just pinch your fuckin' nose with your chubby fingers, bloody bastard!"
"Epifkey!" Peter moaned between his hands.
"You wanna drink some whiskey?"
"Epifkey! Caft the fpell wid a wand!"
Watching the rat-man point at the wands in his pocket and wave a hand over his face, Harry understood Peter's intent and waved a finger side to side. "Fuck no! I'm not gonna help you 'til you swear a magic oath to me," he insisted and punched his battered nose again to drive the point across.
"I fwear on my life an' magic to anfwer Hawy Potte' wid the trudh to any of hif queftionf!" yelled Peter while a shining glow encapsulated his body. "Now wafe da bloo'y wand!"
"You sure? That goblin thing got its head blown up when I waved me wand..."
Because of the oath, Peter tried to say yes, but all that came out of his mouth was "not weally, but I can't be feen by a bloo'y healer, can I?" Harry shrugged and pulled the shortest stick, rehearsed the word and pointed it at the mangled and bloodied nose.
"Epifkey!" he shouted, feeling a slight prickle along his right arm, all the way down to the fingers holding the wand.
The result was ... less than perfect. Cartilage and bone knitted together with an unsettling sound, but the resulting nose came out extremely off-centre and rather crooked, with its tip a pink colour typical of laboratory mice.
"The incantation is Episkey, with an S!" whined Peter as he cleaned his face with a sleeve.
"Sod off, I did me best!" Harry said, laughing at the weird way the nose came up. "Now I'll ask you again, stinkin' rat, did you kill me parents?"
"No."
"Who did?"
"The Dark Lord."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Where you there?"
"Yes, I've told you I was there!"
Harry paused and scratched his butt before pacing in front of Peter, never taking his eyes out of the man. "You gonna kill me as soon as you can?"
"Nnn-- N-- Yes, damn it, yes!"
Laughing, the boy sat on a chair and pointed one of his wands at the disfigured man. "I love this magic shite, you can't lie to me now!"
"Cocky little bastard," mumbled Peter.
"Tell me rat-face. Why shouldn't I rat you to them Hadrians?"
"Because I'm the one who helped you find Diagon Alley! You actually owe me, you bloody brat!"
Snorting, Harry waved Peter off. "What were you doin' at me parents' house when they died?"
"I-- I was-- My Lord needed me for the secret. I was the Secret Keeper for the location of your home."
Tilting his head, the young interrogator demanded an explanation. Spurred by his oath, Peter had to answer with the truth and he told what a Fidelius Charm and what the role of the Secret Keeper were, as well as how he saw Lord Voldemort going in, but his Master never left the Potters' hiding place.
"Then what?"
"There was this big explosion that threw me back a dozen yards and I lost my wand, than I ran into the house but found ... no signs of life. That's when I picked the wand you snapped! I thought you were dead too, Twitch, but then I heard about Dumbledore finding you alive and the rest you know..."
"If I snuffed Lord What's-His-Name back then, wouldn't you forget about killin' me while I sleep?"
Peter flinched and squeaked. "No, he'd know and he'd kill me instantly for not trying..."
"So he ain't dead, huh?" Harry asked, coming to the only logical conclusion that would justify Peter's fear.
"This is the Dark Mark," the man said and pulled his sleeve up. "It's pale and quiet now, but if my Master was truly dead, I believe it'd be gone, Twitch."
"Huh... That's what Greengrass was talkin' about. You know, branded farm animals?"
"He doesn't understand the power of the Mark!"
"Chill out, I'm not tellin' you off. But I dunno, I'd never be this Lord's slave like you are," Harry said sincerely, looking at the skull with a snake on its mouth. He found it oddly similar to the door at Skullsnatchers, except the club's emblem had a wand and a dagger instead of the snake.
"I'm a bit outta my league here. I mean those wizards in the club are the big sharks, ain't them? So I'd hate to be a stooge to 'em, same as I'll never be a puppet under Cheatham's soddin' fat fingers. I want you to teach me all about your Master 'n tell me the names o' your old pals, so I know who I'm dealin' with."
"Why, what's in it for me?"
With a shrug, Harry flipped his dagger on his hand. "You get to live."
Two weeks later, halfway until September the First, Harry was a walking corpse. "Inferi," he reminded himself, the rudimentary knowledge of the Dark Arts floating somewhere amidst the correct way of eating a bloody boiled firecrab and the difficulties of fractional math.
"You look terrible, Twitch."
"Thanks..." he said and flipped the wizard his middle finger.
"You know I hate your guts, don't you?" Peter asked as he was wont to almost every other day.
"Aye, you've made it perfectly clear. Now shut up 'n go munch on some cheese..."
Peter turned into Wormtail and, sure enough, raced towards a mouth-watering block of fresh cheddar on the end of the table. He'd come to a mutual stand-off against Harry: both wanted the other dead, but either had enough reasons to keep the other alive.
Many things surprised Peter regarding Twitch, as Harry preferred to be called, the latest of which was his reply when he brought Sirius Black's issue to the table. After he'd asked the boy what his plans were regarding his godfather now that he knew of his innocence, Harry had shrugged and said "I don't give a rat's arse. Or as Mr Greengrass would say, his situation is inconsequential to me."
Yes, the boy was a Muggle animal in wizard's clothing all right.
Harry had ended up buying the heavily warded and fortified flat in Knockturn Alley along with Waxball, and the Hadrians had purchased a more efficient elf from the Flint family, ripping them off in the process. The negotiations for the property had lasted almost a full week because Harry was under intense schooling, nine hours every day except Sundays, and wrangling both price and conditions had become almost an amusement for him.
In the end, he paid a hefty nineteen thousand Galleons and kept all the furniture, plus Waxball the obese creature, but relinquished the extensive library and all valuable decorations.
Having a house-elf and his own place to live allowed him to keep Peter the Rat a secured prisoner. He couldn't leave by conventional means, nor could he use magical forms of travel, and he was confined to a suite all night, while the elf was ordered by its owner Harry to protect him with its life if necessary, as well as to report everything Peter did.
Unlocking the main door by tapping it with a wand and whispering the day's password, Harry opened and closed it behind him quickly, always looking at the ground in search of a chubby white rat trying to escape. Satisfied after Waxball informed him that "wizard Pet-Is-Grilled is being insideses," he waited for the locks and magical wards to take hold before walking down the alley and into Cheatham & Roben for his evening lessons.
An overexcited Julius Binns waited for him with another pile of history books and Harry sat, as usual, as far away from him as possible. The middle-aged wizard's father was a teacher at Hogwarts, but unlike him, the present Binns had no Ministry restrictions on what to disclose and what should remain forever hidden, and completed the intertwined history of Muggles and wizards alike.
A whooshing sound indicated an active Floo connection and Harry looked up to see Greengrass walking up to them, cutting and lighting a cigar with his wand and sitting in the chair opposite him. He was wearing his monocle and a green buccaneer hat this time. "With your permission, Mr Potter, I will be joining your last universal history overview. I trust you will find recent events to be ... interesting."
Three-quarters of an hour later, Harry had been lightly instructed on the first half of twentieth century history, a basic knowledge that would be enough to make him understand the world he lived in, and with some effort could be the basis for a cultured education, along with the myriad of other subjects the famous young wizard was studying.
"So this Greatwall dark wizard wanted to rule all Muggles here and in the continent, managed to create an army of pureblood fanatics around his cause, and it took one wizard to finish him off? That's ridiculous!"
"Grindelwald, dear," Binns corrected with a sigh.
"As ridiculous as a year and a half old wizard surviving the Killing Curse and banishing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a decade ago?" challenged Greengrass before pausing to enjoy his cigar.
Harry had no reply to that, and Binns took the chance to continue with recent historic events. It took another half hour to go over the rise and fall of You-Know-Who, its consequences and the current state of Magical Britain. Old pureblood wizards and witches still waved the flag of supremacy while the rest looked up to Albus Dumbledore as their champion and sole defender.
"Does having a Muggle-born mother make me inferior, Mr Greengrass?" Harry asked bluntly.
"You must realize, Mr Potter, that contrary to most fanatics' beliefs, blood has nothing to do with being a proper wizard. A gentleman wizard can be born to Muggle parentage and be much better bred than a pureblooded magical scion when the latter is unable to carry a civil conversation or understand the very nature of wizarding prowess."
Harry had been instructed on the meanings of pureblood, mixed blood and Muggleborn, and the tacit superiority of the first over the rest, a concept preached by old families and supported by discriminatory laws. Magical law also dealt with the inferior sentient races and half-breed magicals, limiting their rights and keeping then bound to their proper ranking in society. He was keenly aware of the older man's dislike for the followers of Lord Voldemort, who was the symbol of pureblooded supremacy, but Greengrass' answer still made him narrow his eyes at the wizard questioningly.
"Yes, Mr Potter. Quite opposite to what you were taught in the past two weeks, is it not?" the wizard said and enjoyed another puff of his cigar. "It is not my duty to tell you what to think, yet I pride myself on empowering you to choose by yourself and achieve the oath you pledged in our first meeting."
To become the best wizard he could be, to overcome his parents weakness, and to achieve the power expected of him.
As Harry was reaffirming the first real goals he ever had in life beyond surviving the day, the ailment that gave him the name Twitch made an unwelcome appearance. His eyes rolled back and his body began to shake, loosing his sitting position and falling to the floor in a twitching heap, while Binns looked scared and Greengrass calmly asked Madame Thicknesse to call Healer Kevorkian.
"Stupefy," incanted the aristocratic wizard, hitting Harry on the chest with a spell that made him relax and fall into a deep unconsciousness. "This, is actually quite disturbing."
It was almost midnight of August the twenty-fourth and this was his first outing into the Muggle world since he'd followed Peter's directions into Diagon Alley. Harry shook his head, recovering from side-along Apparition and walked towards a concealed entrance to the Tower of London behind the Honourable Horatio Greengrass Earl of Northgrowanfeld, a peerage most wizards ignored and an additional title to his Lordship as a Wizengamot member and his seat in the secretive Octagon of the Winds.
On his right walked Sir Hadrian Cheatham whose hereditary knighthood had been dubiously purchased from a Muggle knight in Ireland four generations ago, and Hadrian Roben who owned no titles but was next in line for Head of the Official Gobstones Club in the Ministry for Magic.
"Can I read the declaration from parchment?" asked Harry, afraid to forget the exact recitations.
"I foresee no problems with that action," replied Greengrass. "Do remember to draw your preferred wand, however."
"In you go, young sir. And good luck!" Roben exclaimed.
Harry crossed the threshold of an invisible portal and landed in a dark, unkempt room with high ceilings, cracked wood panelling and moth-eaten tapestries. "Huh, so much for a royal setting," he thought, and cast a lumos spell to better see the other end of the room, where a large throne stood, covered in spider webs.
He was about to recite his declaration when movement caught his eye from the left. "Hello?" he called, thankful for the charmed scratch- and dust-free spectacles that kept the hanging webs from sticking to them. They didn't keep the silk from gluing to the rest of his face, though.
Spitting and cursing the blasted spiders and their mothers to hell and back, he approached the wall and illuminated a peeling painting. A magical painting, judging by the way the painted clock on the wall was actually ticking.
After he illuminated both ends of the wall and saw no further movement, Harry turned and went back to the centre of the room, produced a roll of parchment, lifted his wand and began to read.
By your leave in absence, I boldly approach you that I may claim the Ducal of Druidmoor as is my birthright by blood, my desire by choice and my honour to bear in my name. Semper Iustus, so mote it be.
By your leave in absence, I boldly approach you that I may serve under the mantle of Knight of Scruffgoat, the Red Knight, as is my birthright by blood, my desire by choice and my honour to wear on my shoulders. Semper Fidelis, so mote it be.
By your leave in absence, I boldly approach you that I may join the Noble Houses as is my birthright by the blood of Potter, which is my honour to have in my veins. Semper Nobilis, so mote it be.
After he finished the recitations, Harry looked around expecting something, anything to happen. The room was still dark and dirty, the tapestries still full of holes. "Bugger, that's a real turn-off..." he complained and left from whence he came, ignoring the old woman that appeared in the magical portrait.
"Congratulations your grace!" Greengrass said and bowed slightly. "From now on you should strive more fiercely to honour these titles, for they are more than a crest, a sword and a ring. Use their power well to serve your intent in full."
"Thank you Lord Greengrass," answered Harry, wiping spider webs from his ears with an index finger.
Another Apparition later and he was back in Knockturn Alley, said goodbye to the elder wizards and crossed the concealing wards to the main door of his flat. A quick call to Waxball later he was informed that Peter the Rat was locked inside his suite and Harry tapped the eye-shaped knocker, muttered the password and entered.
He wondered why the Ministry for Magic had abolished the acknowledgement of peerage and knighthood, and at the same time found it strange that he had to claim his place as Head of Family Potter inside the Muggle building, when he was already wearing the ring that was stored at Gringotts since the first of the month. The official reason was because of the Statute of Secrecy, but he was sure there was more than that.
"One more week," he grumbled and opened a book on Charms while pulling his phoenix feather quill and parchment to write down a new list of incantations before falling asleep.
Four days later Harry was headed for Diagon Alley. He wanted to make a splash after his public announcement at Hogwarts, make himself stand-out in the crowd and become instantly recognizable while, at the same time, distancing himself from the ridiculous title of Boy-Who-Lived. For that purpose he ordered his school cloaks fitted with his ducal coronet and family crest, made sure to request the goblins find the Red Knight sword inside his cluttered vault and refused to have a simple fat pigeon for a pet.
Eeylops Emporium had owls galore, dozens of yodelling cats and caged slimy toads croaking about. Fortunately for him, they also had more exclusive charmed mail carriers and exotic familiars, and soon found himself face to face with a spotted black on white falcon with dark, almost black eyes with a half-eaten ferret hanging from its beak, blood dripping in steady droplets from it.
"That's a gyrfalcon, young sir. Takes a strong will ter keep 'em it does," the owner explained. "Hauls parcels too, and this 'un flies long distance at high speeds."
After a quick negotiation he paid an even twenty-two Galleons with a free book on falcons and hawks, as well as a free gold tag with his name. The bird had shown immediate respect for Harry, and Harry enjoyed the feeling of sharing an emotion with another living being other than pity, fear, hatred or contempt.
Caesar would become a friend; a feathery, vicious, carnivorous friend.
Required textbooks and a proper trunk were his next purchases, and after ordering a seven-compartment expanded black one with secure latches and a self-shrinking charm, he headed to Gringotts for one last trip to his vault for Galleons and Muggle pounds before boarding the Hogwarts Express in three days time.
A couple hundred yards up Diagon Alley, an old wandmaker looked nervous and agitated. The one customer he truly needed to see hadn't visited his shop all month, and September the First was just around the corner. Ollivander sighed and swirled his glass of Ogden's Finest while looking out the window, wondering what might have happened to James and Lily's son.
The morning of September the First found Harry in a fight of words and swords with Peter. Truth be told, only the boy was armed and kept clawing his sword around the old wizard who was cowering against a corner of the kitchen.
"Fuckin' sack of shite, you're coming with me in one piece or in loads of smaller bits, I don't really care!" Harry yelled, swinging his Red Knight sword again and chipping the floor tiles between Peter's legs, inches away from his manhood.
"I swear I'll stay here, Twitch! You've got the elf to watch me!"
Harry growled and sheathed the sword with a practised flourish, then began to pace the kitchen while glaring at the animagus. "No, you're coming with me... Damn it Pettigrew, you know that effin' place better than anyone alive! Don't you wanna go back?"
"No, I don't," replied Peter, still held by the foolish magical oath he'd voiced a month ago that made him always answer the truth to Harry's questions.
"You afraid someone's gonna recognize you?"
"Yes."
Straddling a chair and clicking his fingers for Waxball to bring him a cold butterbeer, Harry continued his questions. "Who's gonna recognize you as a rat? I understand if they saw your ugly face, but in your animal form?"
"I don't-- I d-- Damn it, Severus Snape would, all right? He saw me turn a couple of times."
"Huh... You did name Snape as one of your old chums. He's a marked animal, and if he saw you it'd be a problem for me... How the hell did a Death Eater get to be Potions Professor at Hogwarts, anyway?" asked the boy to himself, but Peter was compelled to answer nonetheless.
"Probably named the rest of us true followers of the Dark Lord and begged for mercy, renouncing the glory of my Master."
No, Harry had learnt much in the past four weeks, and his already streetwise mind coupled with what he now knew of magic understood that it would take a monumental event to change a branded fanatic's allegiance, because a willing Death eater would never betray his Master in exchange for his or her life. Either that, or Dumbledore was a fool.
"Look, I don't have time for this. Just turn into a rat and I'll leave enough food here while the elf takes care of you," he said looking defeated.
Peter smirked and silently laughed at winning a hand over the Potter brat, before shrinking into Wormtail and waddling towards the cheese on the table. He was still congratulating himself and formulating an escape plan when a sudden spell flew his way.
"Petrificus totalus," Harry cast and then pulled his dagger, swinging it down on the rat's tail, a quarter of an inch from the body. Picking the severed pink tail and tossing it into the magical trash can, he grabbed the bleeding rat and called for his house-elf. "Waxball! Get me some brown and black hair dye, we've got a hamster to make!"
Fifteen minutes later a calico hamster stood on the middle of the kitchen table where there once was a white mouse. Harry picked Peter up and rolled him inside a towel cloth, which he dumped into his trunk before making a final check of his belongings. With a tap of his wand the trunk shrunk and a fresh Hogwarts first year walked out of his flat and into Knockturn Alley, his hood up to avoid recognition before the time was right, and from any unsavoury types as well.
Caesar the gyrfalcon was already circling the sky over London, ready to follow Harry's route to Hogwarts in the Scottish Highlands. It was a quarter to ten and he stopped by the Hadrians to say goodbye, where he was hugged by an uncharacteristically emotional Madame Thicknesse, which he found creepy as hell and quickly disentangled himself from her.
Harry then shook hands with the wizards, reminding them to owl him any relevant news and to expect new requests from him, at the agreed hourly rate of a Galleon six Sickles, before extending his greetings to the assorted warlocks, gentlemen wizards and lady witches that made the month of August a one of a kind experience for him.
After leaving the shadowed, smelly alley and walking in front of the bank, he removed his travelling cloak and revealed his barely Muggle-styled clothes, appropriate for the summer and aptly coloured to blend in with the magic-ignorant populace. He let his shoulder-length hair fall loose around his face, hiding his trademark scar, and crossed The Leaky Cauldron to find a taxi and head towards King's Cross.
He paid the fare and stood in front of the station, checked the time and found he still had twenty-five minutes to board the train. The station was crowded and still he began spotting magical families everywhere, because they stuck up like sore thumbs among the Muggles. A few were able to go into platform nine and three-quarters without much fuss, others looked like they were itching to draw their wands and hex the inferior humans to oblivion, and a few looked around in awe at the vending machines and the departure and arrival notice boards.
A monocled wizard wearing a black top hat approached him from the right, Harry recognized Greengrass at once and tipped an imaginary hat of his own while the man did the same with his very real one. Next to him stood a younger wizard wearing a two-piece grey suit and a witch in a dark blue dress and matching hat with satin flowers and feathers on top.
"Your grace the Duke of Druidmoor, may I present you my grandson Alexander Greengrass and his wife Marie-Helene, and my great-granddaughters Daphne and Astoria."
"Pleased to meet you," replied Harry, knowing that the old bastard was testing him by introducing his family in such a formal way. "Lord Greengrass, I congratulate you for such a wonderful family. Dare I presume that Miss Greengrass is of Hogwarts age?"
"Indeed, Daphne is a first-year, same as your grace."
Harry looked up at the tall girl, who returned a cold and indifferent look at him. A quick talk about the Sorting Ceremony and a few formal pleasantries later, the Greengrass family vanished into the magical wall but Horatio Greengrass held Harry behind. "You did well, Mr Potter. Please remember, however, that Daphne is my great-granddaughter, you so much as look at her the wrong way and I will make you sorry you survived You-Know-Who."
Gulping, Harry nodded stiffly and proceeded to cross into the platform where the Hogwarts Express waited for its eleven o'clock departure. He walked the train and began to observe the young pupils, Hufflepuffs of all ages were loud and friendly, greeting people from all houses. Slytherins seemed to rally together but were subdued even among themselves, sharing a few words and stiff greetings, while Ravenclaws walked proud but looked tired, as if they had studied all summer long; in fact many had open books in their hands. The Gryffindors screamed at each other and kept laughing, they also banded together in tight packs.
He saw several boys and girls of his own age, some looked scared to death while others strutted up and down the train as if trying to impress someone. "If you're trying so hard, it's because you've got nothing to impress anyone with," thought Harry. Finding a lavatory to change his clothes, he expanded his trunk and put on his casual robes and school cloak, pulled his black hair back and held it in a pony tail, and went out in search of a compartment.
It was time to begin killing the stupid image of The-Boy-Who-Lived.
His first opportunity came soon, for after walking the length of two cars the wave of gossip had bounced up and down the moving train, whispers of the great Harry Potter being on board the Express running rampant. "Arseholes, they've got power to shape the world and waste it worshipping Voldemort, Dumbledore and good old me," he mumbled under his breath.
As he was about to walk into the third car, a red-haired boy out of breath beat him to the sliding door and jumped back, looking at him up and down before fixing his gaze on Harry's forehead. "It's you! I've been looking all over the bloody train! Wow, you really are Harry Potter... Can I touch your scar?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your scar, can I touch it?"
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr..."
"I'm Ron," the boy said and extended a hand. Although Harry failed to grab it and shake, the boy continued to speak. "What's that fancy cloak, acromantula silk? Wicked! And why d'you have those girly pictures on it?"
"Mr Ron, please stand aside," Harry asked, tired of the fan-boy standing on his way.
"What d'you mean?" the red-head asked, clearly confused.
Harry drew one of his wands and, placing it lightly on the boy's chest, tried to push him away. "I wish to stop wasting time with you, now move!"
"Bloody hell! Who d'you think you are Potter?"
"I am Lord Harry Potter, Duke of Druidmoor, the Red Knight and Head of House Potter! Now stand aside, little boy, before you insult me any further," he declared to an already congregated audience of two dozen witches and wizards from both ends of the train.
The group parted to let him walk through and he congratulated himself on pulling the aristocratic act off while smiling at the excited murmurs and pointed fingers. He almost laughed at a blond boy who said he was going to ask his father to order new cloaks with his family crest on them. Poor boy didn't realize that only the Head of the Family has the right to wear the crest, and unless his father was a ghost, the boy had no title.
He sat inside a vacant compartment and kept the door open while he read a magazine. A lot of boys and even some girls came to introduce themselves properly and greet this unknown Harry Potter who took exception to bad manners, didn't like people gawking at his scar and had more titles than the mighty Albus Dumbledore according to the rumour mill.
Hours later the train began to slow down and the Prefects announced their arrival at Hogsmeade Station in fifteen minutes, prompting everyone to collect their belongings and dress accordingly. He folded his magazine and prepared to disembark, stepping on the platform to hear a booming voice calling for first years.
Harry refused to follow and instead boarded one of the carriages pulled by strange winged black horses along with a trio of older Gryffindors. They had told him that as a first-year he was supposed to take a boat across the lake but simply answered he didn't want to.
"But you're supposed to go in the boats!"
"Why?" he asked, enjoying the shocked look on their faces.
"Well... Er... Because... Hmmm..."
"See? It doesn't matter, and I don't want to. I'm going with you," Harry stated, pulling his magazine from an inside pocket and reading again.
The carriage dropped them on the steps of the castle and he observed the enormous building for a moment, before shrugging and walking inside, following everyone else into the Great Hall. He looked for a place to sit but only saw the four House tables and a table for the staff, and since he hadn't been sorted yet, he couldn't just sit somewhere and state a preference when he really didn't have one.
A fair brunette wearing the badge that identified her as Head Girl approached him and crouched. "Are you a first year?"
He nodded affirmatively and the girl motioned for him to follow her back through the closed Great hall doors, and he was faced with around forty girls and boys waiting to be sorted.
"Here he is, Professor McGonagall. He was already inside."
"Thank you Miss Marbles, now we're complete. Young man, step in line with the others please," the old witch commanded, leaving no room for discussion.
The doors opened and there was a three-legged stool right in front of the Headmaster's Chair, in broad view of all the House Tables, where an old hat sat. Harry had insisted, threatened and even whined but no one would tell him how he was supposed to be sorted in Hogwarts, so this was all going to be a surprise.
After the first name was called, alphabetically by family name, he understood that the hat was the sorter, and he kept paying attention to the names he recognized from the information he'd gathered via Peter Pettigrew and the ever dubious Hadrians.
Not soon enough, Potter, Harry was called forth. He walked at a sedated pace, allowing his cloak to billow with every step and ignoring the stares from the Staff Table. When he reached the stool, he picked the hat, sat down and placed it on his head.
"A great mind addled my misfortune... Yes, and powerful too," the hat spoke. "There's a great sense of purpose, a will to triumph and change the world, which can only lead to... Slytherin!" screamed the hat, and Harry removed the garment to find an astonished, absolutely silent Great Hall looking at him.
Behind him, however, Head of Slytherin and Potions Professor Severus Snape sprayed pumpkin juice all over the staff table, before expressing himself most sincerely. "What the fuck?!"
Notes:
1.- The exchange rate will be 50 Pounds to a Galleon in this
story. That's around 100 U.S. Dollars for 1 Galleon.
2.- I hope
the evolution of Harry's language and behaviour is believable. He
struggles to speak better as the month passes, and will only fall
back to his more vulgar ways when threatened or angry.
3.- All
titles and peerage are made up, and the recitations inside the London
Tower are for fairness in rule, faithfulness and nobility
respectively.
