Thanks for all the reviews, it makes me so happy to see that this story is being received rather well!
PaC, I wish you had an actual account with , I would love to have replied to your review in a pm. Thanks for your input, that's what we mean when we say we want constructive criticism. I can't thank you enough for reading through the first two chapters and telling me what you think.
Wizmage, yes Harry is a creature(of sorts), or at the very least not human. It really depends on your definition of what a 'creature' entails, but considering the fact that Goblins are considered creatures simply because they are different, and so are Veela, it follows in my mind that Harry would be as well simply for being what he is. As for what he is, that's got to wait. I'm not entirely sure when I'm going to reveal that, but considering his House, it may not be long before his friends figure out that something is not quite right with him and find a way to force him to be honest with them, even if it is only with them.
NnJaD34D, don't worry, L/O skills are not ubiquitous amongst the Purebloods. Harry knows what they are, but cannot use them yet if ever, as he is eleven. He knows what they are because he lives with the Delacours, and I don't agree that just because you are mated to a Veela that automatically makes you immune to their allure. I find it far more likely that Alain learned to focus his mind and block out the allure because he is married to a Veela and works in the government, so can't afford to be a drooling idiot all the time.
Now, minor retcon, courtesy of some assistance from NnJaD34D, Harry's wand wood is going to be oak. I have already gone and changed the segment in chapter 1 where his wand is made, so don't worry about there being conflicting information. The reason for the retcon is because when I was researching woods, madrone was a wood for knowledge and intuition, and I couldn't find another more 'normal' wood that fit that description. My reviewer went and found one that fit decently well, and so I am changing it to be less unusual, as both they and myself dislike the overplayed cliche of Harry's non-canon wand being created from all sorts of exotic, never-before-heard-of materials.
Oh, and one more thing. There will not be any Ancient Arts lost to time, or combining of species-specific magic/enchanting with wizarding runes to make machines work, or anything like that. What there will be is the racial magic of Harry's people, something that is far more subtle than big blasts of power or anything like that.
September 2, 1991
The morning sun is painfully bright to Albus, moreso than usual as he did not manage to sleep at all during the night. The reason for his ill comfort is a simple one, and easily given name and form to. Harry Potter is... wrong. There is something about him that is not as it should be, and Albus cannot place a finger on it. Pondering the Child of Prophecy once more also brings to the forefront of his thoughts a conversation he had with the Hat the evening before, wherein he asked what the Thinking Cap could tell him about the child. The words that followed both set his mind at ease and disturbed him greatly.
"I know what you are most worried about Albus, I can hear it niggling at your nerves. The Potter boy is not an Occlumens, not in the slightest, his gift is of an entirely different nature. The issue you are running afoul of is simply one that requires you to come at it from another direction, a different way of looking at things. You know that I cannot tell you exactly what your issue is, but I am sure that in time you shall figure it out. Suffice it to say, once you have your answer, it shall reshape the way in which you look at the world."
Albus is pleased in remembering that there is not some preternatural skill in the Mind Arts to be found in Harry, something that he is sure the young Slytherin is much to young to be concerned with. It is concerning that the Hat could not tell him more, but that is the way of it and the Headmaster is aware of the need to learn such things on one's own. The quality of the knowledge is greatly enhanced in the finding, as is the value of the answer you find, a notion that he does his best to pass on to the students under his charge. That thought places a smile on his aged face, twinkling blue eyes crinkling in fondness for the joys of his position. Perhaps it is high time he had a student present who could remind him of the very things he has sought to teach generations during his tenure as an educator. It would not do to dwell on the past and rest on laurels after all, and one is never too old to learn new things.
'Thank you Harry. You have reminded me of why I do this, simply by being here. I look forward to seeing how else you may shape the world.'
What is most bothersome however is that Harry is so much different from his expectations. While the Hat has allayed his fears of his mind, to an extent at least, there are other things that concern him. His sorting is not so important, though his easy interactions with some of his new house do at least bear observation. No, it is the physical aspects that worry Albus, his eyes in particular. Where the night of his parents' death they were a lambent emerald green, now they are a blue of the palest and coldest persuasion, bringing to mind clear and flawless ice rather than perfect gemstones. Add to that the somewhat sharper features than you would expect in a boy of eleven, and there seems to be something about the boy that defies all reason.
'Harry my lad, what has happened to you?'
Perhaps it would be best to see what occurs over the next few days, and then summon him for a meeting to get a better measure of him. Yes, that is what he should do. In fact, that is what he will do, and having come to this determination, Albus stands from his comfy chair and strides from his chambers with a stately and aged grace.
Harry shifts slightly as he remains bent over his desk, reading the words as they appear on the page of his journal with a smile. Every morning for the last week, he has woken up to this ritual, reading Fleur's report on the previous day and telling her anything that seems important in his turn. Today is no different.
Good morning Harry, I hope you slept well. I have been here a week, and not being able to wake you up like I do when we are at home is breaking my heart a little more every day, but just being able to converse with you in this way helps fix that a bit. I still miss you horribly, but at least we have this, no?
Yesterday I know was your sorting, so today will be your first full day of classes. I don't actually have all that much to say this morning, but I want to hear all about what happened yesterday, who you met and what you thought and what you saw and... everything! I don't have classes for another hour, and since I am told that your classes start at the same time, that means you have an hour to tell me all of it, and then an hour to eat before you have to go to your own classes. So start spilling it out Blizzard!
With no desire to withhold anything from her, Harry grins and begins to write in the French that he is more comfortable with than English now, having written only the one language for the last three years.
As you wish, Snapdragon. It all started at the platform, of course. Your sister was throwing her usual histrionics, and it was adorable, but it was Eveline who surprised me. There was something in the way she spoke that told me she feels more than a little distraught that I am not at home any longer. Also, she took it upon herself to make it quite clear that if you were not sequestered away in that over-sized mansion in... wherever Beauxbatons is, you would have been on that platform giving me a send off, and she suggested perhaps you would have been more than a little passionate in doing so. Personally, I have no idea what she was thinking of.
I stepped onto the train and was prepared to find a quiet cabin to hide away in, but instead found myself standing in an entirely quiet car! Imagine my surprise when I found it to be in shades of green and silver, along with housing some of the very same heirs that Alain told me I might encounter. You know, thinking of them in terms of names and businesses hardly did them justice I found.
For one, Daphne Greengrass is no ice queen, just an incredibly reserved and intelligent girl who has been so unlucky as to only ever have the one friend. That friend is Tracey Davis, coincidentally, heir to the Davis concern and such, but a singularly witty and mischievous little sprite. Both are every bit as brilliant as you are, though not as terribly breathtaking in personage. However, not every meeting was as friendly or entertaining as theirs.
I was unfortunate enough to have a run-in with the Malfoy scion at the same time, and in under thirty seconds he had managed to wear out his rather reluctant welcome. In one arrogant monologue, he managed to convey a contempt for anyone not named Malfoy, a disgust of anyone or anything he deems less than perfectly proper and likely human, and an arrogance distasteful in those of much higher station and much greater importance. In short, he is a perfectly slimy little git, and I am ashamed that he and I share a house.
I also had the great pleasure to meet Neville Longbottom. I didn't want to say anything, just in case it scared him off, but meeting my godbrother was... well I wouldn't say perfect as he has the confidence of wilty flowers, but it was still nice. And yes, I see him as my godbrother, because that is what he would have been if I really were the son of the house of Potter. Shut it, Snap.
Anyway, others I recognized were the Patil twins, the youngest son of Weasley, Amelia Bones' niece, and of course Blaise was present as well, as much as he ever is. Quiet and watchful, just as expected. He was a little more vocal at dinner though, so not everyone believes he is mute like little Gabby did.
Anyway, Slytherin like we thought I'd be, and I have to say that I like our common room, though the password is rather snooty. The common room though is rather like a Hobbit-hole, all cozy architecture and dark polished woods. We even have a round door! I feel it's probably better than being in the Ravenclaw tower or the Gryffindor tower. Hufflepuff, as I understand it, is down by the kitchens though, so I think they might have the best positioning in terms of meals. Late night snack runs as well, I suppose.
And speaking of meals, I really should go to breakfast. I'll write you later, Fleur.
Harry breathes a slight sigh as he sets his quill aside, wishing that instead of writing it out for her, he could say it all to her face, if only so that he could see the light dancing in her eyes and the shape of her smile. These last three years have shown him what true happiness is, and yet there is still so much he has to learn. What is this desire to be near her? Why is it that the world only seems to be right when she smiles, or when she laughs? And more importantly, what is that look in her eyes that seems equal parts happiness and fear?
In her dorm room nearly two thousand kilometers away, a fourteen year old part-Veela is laying curled up in her bed with a senseless grin on her face, reading as the boy she will only admit to herself she has feelings for writes about his first day in the world of Hogwarts. Of course, it never hurts when he calls her Snapdragon, having been immensely proud when he came up with a nickname that "captured her fiery personality and the beauty of her person." She is sure that he didn't realize at the time the simple enormity of the compliment he was paying her, after all he was only ten at the time and couldn't have been expected to understand how those words would play with her thirteen year old heart.
That he teases her now and then seems normal, considering that is what they do. To read then that her mother was suggesting she would have done more than give him a hug and a farewell... Fleur's face begins to heat up as her thoughts devolve into scenes out of stolen romance books her roommates have snuck into the school. In her mind, she is standing on the platform, arms around the dark-haired boy and reveling in the slight chill of his skin. The first whistle sounds to signal five minutes to departure, so she looks up to say goodbye only to find that he is closer than she expected and her lips brush against his. The world stops in that moment, the tingle of his breath sending shivers all over, and then she slips her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer and engaging his lips in their first real kiss.
The Veela's face is brilliantly scarlet and her mixture of embarassment, mortification, and desire is causing the air around her to shimmer with heat as her temperature slips higher and higher, her journal all but forgotten for the moment. It is with great difficulty that she reins in her wild imaginings and teenage hormones to continue reading her 'report'. To then read the first two people mentioned were both female, intelligent, and witty almost sends them soaring again, though for different reasons. Though he says they aren't as beautiful as she is, she is well aware that she could be considered inhumanly attractive, so most girls would be less so than she. A twisting, unreasoning feeling settles in her heart for a few brief moments, tinging the world in hues of pink and scarlet before she can root it out.
'Was that jealousy? I... I've never been jealous of anyone else before. And why should I be, I am beautiful, I am strong, I am Veela. I have a wonderful family, and I have made a friend of Harry Potter where no one else even tried before me. Jealousy is ridiculous for me. So why did I feel it then, when he mentioned those harlots, vicious backstabbing little harpies that want to get their talons into what is mine, ugly pig-faced... oh my.'
Her face red for an entirely different reason now, though the mortification is still there, Fleur reads on. Though he says nothing of substance about the Malfoy boy, he still manages to make it perfectly clear that he is a vile little boy whom he shall not be extending overtures of friendship towards. That he is forced to share a house with him is intriguing, though perhaps not unexpected if what they have heard about the Malfoy line holds true and he was placed in Slytherin.
The meeting with the Longbottom boy, Neville apparently, gives her a faint smile. 'Confidence of wilty flowers' does little to recommend him, but if Harry thinks it is worth his time then so be it. Perhaps he can bring the boy out of that mindset and get him to buck up a bit? If there is anything her Harry can do, it is inspire people. She giggles lightly and is slowly returning to her happy place as she observes his neat handwriting, the product of her mother sitting with him for hours and encouraging him to continue practicing until it was perfect. It is the way he curves the 's' in 'Snapdragon' that really tugs at her heart and makes her smile...
The brief listing of others who could be considered noteworthy shows the end of his patience for politics and agendas, especially since immediately after he begins describing the common room of Slytherin. His love of Tolkien's work shows once more when he compares the dungeon rooms to a Hobbit hole, turning a rather depressing thought into a homey and warm image. That he prefers it to being in a tower doesn't surprise her, since he does not have much love of being stacked up like a house of cards, and it is just another piece of normalcy that she has been missing.
Her fingers stroke the page as he signs off, lingering over the flowing strokes of the quill that spell out her name. With so much care in those five letters, it is the most beautiful spelling of her name she has ever seen. That he only writes her true name once a day makes it more precious to her than anything else, and she treasures each and every one. With one last long sigh, she shuts the journal and sets it on her bedside table, making sure to set her binding charm over it just in case, and hurries off to her first class, bag sliding over her shoulder as she snags it in stride.
It is with some trepidation that Harry steps into his first official Charms lesson. It isn't so much that he is nervous to learn magic, nor is it that he is wary of the teacher, but instead that he is leery of the fame that is attached to his name and how people have been reacting to it since he stepped foot in the school. Everywhere he goes, whispers follow him, and with his ears he is able to pick out the basic gist of it all. Most seem fixated on his identity, but there are those in all three of the other houses that look at him with a mix of fear, mistrust, and even open hatred.
To then see upon his entrance into the classroom a frantically waving pudgy brown-haired boy with a loony grin on his face sets him at once at ease and more on edge. He smiles easily as he glides across the floor to Neville, Daphne at his shoulder and Tracey not far behind, ignoring the glares from some and the quiet sniff from the dark-haired diva walking with him. A quick glance over his shoulder even alerts him that perhaps not all Slytherins buy into the rivalry with Gryffindor, as Tracey is pointedly staring anywhere but at the scarlet and gold wearing boy, a pink hue on her cheeks.
"Good morning Neville, and please forgive Greengrass her pride, she is paying too much attention to the rumors that you are little more than a lucky squib." He notes the look of shame in his godbrother's eyes, and with a clap on the shoulder he leans closer and speaks only to him, "Neville, you are the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom, two of the best Aurors the British Ministry ever had. From what Monsieur Delacour has found in reports of the attack, you were in the room with them when it happened. That is a terrible thing to happen to anyone, but for both of us to be with our parents when they were attacked, it is a miracle we are not too afraid to use magic."
In Neville's hands is a well-worn wand, about ten inches of white pine. The feeling of purity that Harry can sense makes him think of unicorns, so he assumes that the core is the tail hair of that magnificent breed. However, he can sense that the wand is reluctant with Neville, as though it does not trust him. "Nev, that is not your wand, is it? Whose was it?"
With shame, the brunette looks down and answers softly, " My dad's. Gran reckons that I'll do 'im proud if I use his wand, but it doesn't like me. I-it fights me, even to just channel a little bit of magic, you know, to prove I have any. I-I've gotten a couple sparks, but..."
Harry squeezes his shoulder gently and pulls out his own wand, eleven inches of oak carved in reliefs of snow and ice. With a wave, white snow seems to fall around them, melting before it touches anything and drawing a few gasps from those assembled, including a hidden half-goblin. "Nothing like that, hm? I think you should write your gran, remind her that wands choose their bearer, and your Da's didn't choose you. If you think it will help, tell her about what I just did with my own wand, make it sound like everyone with a properly matched wand can do that." With a grin, he looks the Gryffindor in the eye and says, "Make sure she can see how much you want to be able to make your parents proud, and I'm sure she'll relent and take you soon to get your own. I mean, it probably won't be immediate, but perhaps over the Christmas holidays, no?"
A moment later, a sly and vaguely amused voice rings out, "Longbottom, ten points to Gryffindor for reaching across House lines. Potter, ten points to Slytherin for encouraging a fellow student, regardless of House." Both boys look to the head of the class to see a tiny man with a rather large dark mustache and a well-groomed mop to match standing on a desk. With all of the attention in the room shifting to him, he opens his mouth to speak, sharp fangs glinting in the morning light, "I am the Charms professor, Filius Flitwick. As I'm sure you all know, we have Harry Potter in this class. I can guess that he would like to be treated as anyone else would be, so allow that, and I suggest most of you follow his example. Reach across the House divide, make friends. The more open you are, the easier the magic we learn in this class will be. Now, let's put names to those faces!"
With a clap of his hands, Professor Flitwick begins to call role, making small tick marks next to the names of those who are already doing as he suggested and moving to sit next to someone of a different house. Of particular interest to him is that Greengrass and Davis have apparently allowed a Muggleborn to join them, miss Hermione Granger almost immediately being absorbed into conversation with the green-eyed girl. Not everyone is taking the advice to heart, most obvious among them the Malfoy boy and his two cohorts Crabbe and Goyle. For some it seems to be fear, as is the case with Brown, Patil, and to some extent Weasley, and for others it is simply inconvenience, as seems to be the case with Zabini and Nott. In any case, it is a promising start and already Longbottom looks a little more confident, just by having Potter with him and talking to him.
The other classes had nothing of much importance happen, though again a Slytherin and a Gryffindor were given points for cooperation in the course of classwork, though this time it was Davis and Granger, an amused Daphne watching from the side with a faint smile on her lips as her friend is called out and rewarded in front of the class by the Gryffindor Head of House.
When Friday rolls around, there is an anticipation in the air again, a nervous vibe that runs through the Slytherin and Gryffindor contingents. Today is the their first Potions class, and the general image of the Slytherin Head of House is a swooping bat who is known in every other House to play favorites. Add to that his general dislike and strong grudge against Gryffindor, and there is a powder keg set to blow in the dungeons, waiting for the slightest spark.
Malfoy chooses to act for the first time since the Welcoming Feast while standing outside of the Potions classroom, trusting in his godfather to protect him from any repercussions that his lackeys cannot handle. "Hey Longbottom, better be careful! I hear Potions can be difficult for real witches and wizards, I hate to think what will happen with a squib like you!" A few guffaws come from Crabbe and Goyle, a faint snicker from Pansy, but no one else is laughing. Almost as one, the Slytherin first years step away from Draco and leave him standing there with the two thickest boys he could have found still standing behind him, while in front of him is a Harry Potter that he has not yet seen.
Harry is glaring at him with such venom that he could swear there was snow drifting in his eyes, and frost is visibly riming the floor around the taller dark haired boy. In his anger, his slight French accent is stronger and more pronounced, though his words are as understandable as ever. "I would be more careful what you say, Meester Malfoy. You never know 'oo will take offense, n'est-ce pas? Zat is my godbrother you are speaking to, and I do not appreciate your crude and rude comments. Take zem back."
The door to the classroom opens silently and Severus Snape stands in the doorway, watching and waiting for an opportunity to punish the spawn of Potter, though not in such a way as will require him to take points from his own house. His godson's next words are almost enough to make him bury his head in his hands however, as he has been listening to the entire exchange. "Oh yeah, and what are you going to do if I don't then? What can you do, Scarhead?"
If he wasn't paying attention, Severus would have sworn that the hallway simply froze on its own, but he'd been watching Potter and in that moment his eyes went white from corner to corner and his skin paled further till it was a faint blue for two, maybe three heartbeats. The rush of frost that covered the floor, walls, and part of the ceiling, speak to a strength and control that he would not have willingly believed anyone born to the name Potter would bear. The words accompanying that rush of wild magic are what are truly cold, however.
"If you do not take back your words and apologize to my godbrother, then I will see to it personally that not only does our 'Ead of 'Ouse know of your petty bullying, whether 'e bears a grudge against Gryffindor or not, but I will also find a way to give you frostbite in a most uncomfortable place and ensure that even Madame Pomfrey will 'ave difficulty reversing it. 'Ave I made myself clear, Malfoy?" Before his godson can shove his foot down his throat and bring about a condition that he himself is having very little difficulty believing would come to pass, Severus speaks in his sibilant voice, "Potter, I would watch my tongue were I you. You never know whom could be listening." Turning to the blonde grinning triumphantly, he speaks again, "Mister Malfoy, you will apologize to Longbottom, as galling as it is, and then you shall be serving detention with me. Tonight, eight o'clock, do not be late."
Having nothing further to say, he sweeps into the classroom and leaves the door open, obviously expecting to be followed inside. As the students take their seats, a look of surprise can be found on the professor's face. Daphne is sharing workspace with Hermione Granger, Tracey is sitting and gossiping with Parvati Patil, Longbottom and Potter are of course seated together, and the rest of the class barring a very conspicuous few are also pairing up across the divide. Needing a moment to shake off the odd creeping sensation he is getting, Snape calls role and takes note of who answers to which name, also judging them by their work station setup and eagerness. A few surprise him, like the Granger girl whom he had heard was a dreadful know-it-all, and yet appears no more interested in being recognized than most others. Potter of course receives the most scrutiny, but he barely blinks and does nothing to preen when his name is called.
Still wishing to bring him down a peg and humiliate him as his father did Snape so many times, the bitter man calls out, "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Those unnerving blue eyes stare at him in silence for a moment, during which he sees Granger's hand twitch before Greengrass snatches it to keep it still. Thinking he has won, he is about to deride him and ask another 'easier' question when, "You would get a sleeping potion so powerful they call it the Draught of Living Death. However, I get the impression you have a bitter regret that followed someone important to you to the grave, no?"
'Too smart and well read for your own good, Potter. You weren't supposed to catch that, even if you did get the potion correct.' With a snarl, Severus asks again, "Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?" Not even a moment's hesitation this time before that calm voice replies, "Stomach of a goat." There is no exposition on what a bezoar does, no lording of greater knowledge this time, no needling of him, further proving that the brat is too smart for his own good. Severus had planned to ask a truly simple question about monk's hood and wolfsbane, but not now. Now his desire to humiliate the spawn of Potter who is, in his mind, showing him up is too great and he pulls a question from third year.
"Potter, for what potion are fairy wings used for?" For a moment, the temperature in the dungeon classroom plummets and there seem to be whispering voices from all around, then it is if nothing happened. Potter's glare is icy, but not overly so and certainly nothing similar to what he witnessed in the hallway. His voice quiet and measured, the boy even manages to answer his final question, reminding him rather much of Lily when he knew her. "Fairy wings are used in the first step of both the Girding Potion and the Beautification Potion. The Girding Potion increases the imbiber's endurance, and as you are well aware Professor is a third year potion in every curriculum in Europe. The Beautification Potion is used to enhance the imbiber's attractiveness, and was pioneered for mainstream use in the early to mid nineteenth century. It is not taught in the curriculum of any school under NEWT level."
There is a bitter, foul taste on his tongue after he has to swallow his pride, but Severus has to admit that perhaps, just perhaps, Potter is less his father's son and closer to his mother, as he seems to have her temper, her intelligence, and even her wit. The fact that his eyes are blue is unfortunate, but it lessens his resemblance to his wretched father as well, so it isn't entirely a bad thing. Perhaps, for one year at least, he should observe the boy and judge him on his own. Though he is yet unaware of it, Severus is already allowing for House pride to color his perceptions a little and softening towards the boy. Now as his first real test, can he keep Longbottom from being a threat to himself and everyone else in the class?