Harry James Potter looked out of his opulent apartment, and scrutinised the white sand beach presented by his 360° view offered by aforementioned apartment. Sirius joined him, and immediately threw himself into the black (surprise!) leather couch, sinking into its comforting enfolds with relish. Sirius turned his head and studied Harry, noting the moody expression, and the eyes that spoke volumes of emotions, seeming to swim and mix in the deep emerald colour. Sirius knew that boy was going to get all the ladies. Those killing curse green eyes would just melt the hearts of all witches, and even muggles! Of course, there were the muscles that no normal 11 year old could ever hope to possess, but Sirius wasn't focusing on that.
He chuckled quietly to himself upon reflection of that statement. They stayed like that, Harry looking at the beach while ignoring his godfather, and said godfather trying to interpret as to what his godson was looking at. He gave up, and moved to the kitchen, unable to spy any hot chicks on the beach, leaving Harry to think in peace. Once in the kitchen, he placed his forehead against the cool, white marble tabletop, and glanced over toward the coffee pot. He groaned, hauling himself up, and started making a coffee.
It was a good time for a mental debate, he decided. Of course, one does not usually associate debating with Sirius, or even mental capabilities, so to people that didn't know Sirius that well, it should've been quite a surprise if they saw the pensive expression marring his face. Although Harry's birthday had passed only a few days ago, Sirius had still not yet honoured an agreement he made with James and Lily, in case of their premature demise. The agreement entailed that Harry would be taught all branches of magic, before attending a magical school, started on advanced duelling and other useful magical things that are similar. Also in the agreement was for Sirius to blood-adopt Harry, and also teach Harry the heritage of the Potter's, Evans' and the Black's.
Sirius knew all 3 heritages, but it was this knowledge and the blood-adoption that held him back from fully completing the agreement. His magic constantly reminded him of this fact. The only reason that he had not lost his magic, is because the agreement stated "Coming-of-Age", which could be interpreted as turning 11, turning 17, or when his magical puberty started developing. Sirius would prefer to tell Harry about his heritage at the latest possible date, but the man knew it would hurt Harry if he found out the information, and it wasn't from him. He also wanted to delay the adoption, as he truly believed that it would only cause mass confusion for the public. Sirius smiled sadistically, thinking it may actually not be such a bad idea after all, that is, causing mass confusion amongst the wizarding public. Oh boy he could have fun with that.
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He returned, hours later, with a young man following him. Harry sprang from the chair, turning mid-air to face the intruder, and raised his unarmed right arm, his pointer finger directed at the man. Sirius guffawed. "Told you he has excellent reflexes," chucked Sirius to his counterpart. Harry took a moment to study the man.
He was of middling height, with piercing blue eyes, a much deeper blue than his dear godfather. His black hair was matted against his forehead, as if the fringe was supposed to cover the eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once, and healed without much care. The robes that the man was covered in informed Harry that it was indeed a magical being he was observing, rather than a muggle. Harry concluded that it was a face he was likely to forget and lose amongst a crowd of people.
The man was introduced as Geoff, who also took the time to study the green-eyed, black haired child, whose stare belied an entrancing intelligence and intensity. "But I did neglect to tell you about his abilities." Geoff smiled slowly, with surprise, and perhaps some apprehension as he saw that Harry had raised his arm without a wand, hinting to wandless abilities. Geoff's eyes narrowed, which went unnoticed by both Godfather and Godson.
Harry relaxed, letting his arm slowly go back to hanging loosely by his side. He started judging Geoff to be of little threat to himself at the moment, coming to the conclusion that he must be one of the tutors Sirius had mentioned Harry would be getting some sort of training from. Offering his hand to the man, Harry introduced himself. Geoff clenched his hand tightly, on the verge of being painful, and Harry felt a tug behind his navel, not unlike being gutted by a meat hook rapidly, the familiar feeling of a portkey being activated.
The combination of man and boy landed in a clearing, surrounded by a ring of trees, some distance away from the duo. It was almost like a circular pit, with the walls made of the leafy green trees, standing silently, judging the two human intruders. It was completely silent, with nary a rustle of the leaves in a very light breeze. Unbeknownst to the men, a rather large Grim appeared, then sat down in the shadows of the trees, after turning around and around, like dogs are wont to do when determining a comfortable napping arrangements. Its keen gaze captured both males, as it settled down to watch. Sirius, for that was who the Grim was, didn't have long for the show to start.
Once his immediate world stopped spinning, and his momentary dizziness overcome, Harry stepped on the man's right foot and pivoted on it, grinding his foot down, and kneed the man in the groin. The man keeled over in pain, letting out a guttural grunt of pain. At this point, the raven haired child was not scared, but incredibly suspicious of Geoff, as one would normally be after being abducted from your own home. Harry scrambled away from his attacker, turning slightly as he felt a spell drawing close to him, allowing for minimal movement, but enough to dodge the spell. He couldn't really explain how he felt the spell approaching, it was just something he became aware of, with his daily sparring practises with Sirius.
The slight turn took him out the way of a stunner, the red light flashing over Harry's shoulder. It was quickly followed by an impedimenta jinx, then a jelly legs jinx. Harry evaded both of the jets of light as they raced towards him. He almost snorted with derision at the spells that were being sent his way. 'Honestly,' he thought, 'does this guy even know who I am? Such simple spells are not going of affect me'. As if answering his internal monologue, the spell barrage increased.
Rolling to the side, he dodged a brown coloured spell, which he didn't recognise, and raised his right arm. Pointer finger extended towards his adversary, he let loose with 3 high powered stunners, then a protego shield to absorb some magical backlash. The shield was impressive to say the least. From Harry's perspective, it was like a blue glow, circular in shape that was created at the tip of the finger. For an adversary, it was a circular mirror, complete with reflection. Geoff reacted to the counter attack with astounding speed, raising his own shield, although looking surprised at the attack, and quickly recovered from the emotion. The first spell clanged into Geoff's silvery shield. Less impressive than Harry's, it still seemed enough to do the job, for most spells. It wobbled, but held. The second stunner was absorbed by the shield, which promptly exploded into magical shards of energy, not unlike pieces of glass, ripping into the ground as they were thrown clear of the combatants. The last stunner cleaved into the man, who collapsed into the ground with a muffled thump, muted only by the hard dirt. The Grim disapparated.
Harry stood from the crouch, and surveyed the man with some level of apprehension and contempt. Geoff had obviously underestimated Harry, or Harry had overestimated Geoff. He narrowed his eyes, and cast finite incantatem at the man's face. It peeled back, revealing a somewhat older, haggard looking face, lined with few wrinkles, and marred with some scars. One ran from his temple to his jaw bone. Lone grey hairs stood out in contracts to otherwise mousy brown hair, arranged in an unruly mop that was flattened against the forehead. The eyes were bared to see, but they were interesting in their own right. Even with the effects of the stunner, the man's eyes changed colours, changing from a golden, yellowy colour, to a deep intense brown. The face was semi familiar, but Harry could not put a name to it. He activated his portkey, grabbing 'Geoff", back to the apartment.
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Dumbledore paced his roomy office, in a deep funk, contemplating the universe. Well, his immediate universe anyway. The problem of Harry Potter's existence was his chief problem. The upheaval that it caused was limited to himself and McGonagall only. It was too dangerous to be told to, well, unsavoury people, not unlike Voldemort and his fanatical Death Eaters. He also could not be sure of exactly who was either a Death Eater, or at least, supporting and/or funding the movement itself. He had certainly pondered telling his pet spy and Death Eater, one Severus Snape, but could not bring himself to tell the man. 'No, better it just be limited to few people' mused Dumbledore.
Of course, this thinking got him absolutely nowhere in the bigger picture, but it was a paradox view. He really needed an agent in the field, who was able to search and find Harry, where ever he may be, but who was loyal to Dumbledore himself, but also could employ whatever measures take his own fancy. It certainly was a dilemma. The only problem, is of course, the prior discussion of limiting the people who knew of this. Doubt wormed its way into Dumbledore's head. What if Harry Potter really did survive? What of Neville Longbottom? Which is the real child of the prophecy? Should I expend more resources in tracking down Harry, or training Neville?
Albus dismissed the idea. Harry Potter is not the child of the prophecy, he decided. There is no evidence that he has been marked as the Dark Lord's equal, whereas Neville, most certainly had been. There. Problem solved. No need to track down the infuriating brat called Harry James Potter. A sneaking thought entered his mind. 'What of the elusive Sirius Orion Black?'
The ponderings of Albus Dumbledore were important, and he slowly sunk back into his deep funk.
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Years of service to his Lord certainly helped, decided Pettigrew. He knew the insides and outsides of every shady magical district in England, and it had taught him how to handle himself, or so he had thought.
Like every other time, Pettigrew had breezed on into the dingy, smelly and generally dirty pub of such a reputation that no "light" wizard would dare to visit, even when said wizard was dying of thirst. He had plonked himself down at the bar, ordered the night's special brew, paid and turned around in his barstool to watch the nightly entertainment.
It wasn't much. It was really the usual strippers, who looked pretty good, if Pettigrew admitted to himself, mixed with a single pole. To any single, sexually frustrated man, any female would look good, but that was beside the point. He snorted with derision. He was soon lost to his thoughts, while his eyes unconsciously roved over the occupants of the pub. It was the third time that his eyes roved over a particularly good-looking female customer, that he felt the atmosphere of the pub plummet.
It became positively dangerous, and felt like there was an electrical charge in the air that threatened to zap all the occupants, in such a way that they may not be able to sip their remaining drinks. Pettigrew angled his head slowly, surreptitiously, toward the door, expecting to have a glimpse of the character that changed the mood of the pub so quickly. He was to be disappointed though.
There was no striking figure by the door. The air felt frigid now, and the room was actually frozen. People were not moving, as if held in place by full body binds and stunners. He felt a knife nick his skin, just above his Adam's apple, and a wand poked into his back simultaneously. Never having envisioned this situation, his courage and bravado so prized by his Hogwarts house, evaporated. A stain appeared on the front of his pants, and started spreading, slowly but surely. He whimpered, a pitiful sound in the confinements of the now silent pub.
His attacker laughed, a tinkly, musical sound that one would normally associate with a happy-go-lucky person, who was quick to laugh. Pettigrew relaxed, thinking that the laugh was a true representation of his assailant. In this regard, he was quite wrong. The knife cut deeply into his neck, enough to injure, but not permanently maim, and blood welled across the cut and the blade. Pettigrew instinctively stiffened, making the knife spill more of his blood. The assailant snorted with disdain and indifferent amusement.
Pettigrew felt the knife being withdrawn from his neck, and a split second later he was spun around viciously. Pettigrew felt his eyes widen with shock and awe. In front of him, stood an amazing specimen of the opposite gender. Luscious black locks framed a fragile looking face, complete with slightly tilted nose, eyes of purest ice, full lips with a few freckles dotted here and there. Aristocratic face thrust into Pettigrew's face. Perfectly manicured hands gripped the hilt of the dagger as she levelled the knife, point first, at Pettigrew. Pettigrew had his eyes crossed, just trying to keep the knife in view. The woman opened her mouth and spoke "Master Pettigrew, how good to see you again."
Pettigrew shivered, and not from her message or tone, which was delivered with the warmth of day-old porridge, but because the temperature of the room plummeted even lower, which he didn't think it was even possible. He sensed the disdain the occupants of the room regarded him with. He ignored them in favour of giving his attention between the knife, and the wielder. He gulped nervously.
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Daphne Greengrass, Heiress to House Greengrass, finally decided she immensely disliked Australia, simply on the grounds that it was not England. She stared into the mirror again, cursing the warm weather, as it made her blonde hair slightly frizzy. Although not a vain girl, Daphne certainly prided herself upon her appearance, and she knew exactly her effect upon young men. Luscious eyelashes framed an icy blue pair of eyes, centred upon an aristocratic looking face, complete with upturned nose. Dangling hair completed the picture.
She sighed, regretting the decision her father had made several years ago, to leave England and its war behind. Especially to Australia. Her father just had to be completely and utterly unorthodox. His paranoia of being found leading him to choose the most secluded part of the world. According to her mother, Hermera, Australia was very backward compared to England, but preferred Australia.
She turned her mind away from that particular topic. She desperately wished to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but she, along with her family, was unsure whether she would even receive a letter of invitation, due to her father's aforementioned decision. Her thoughts strayed to her birthday, tomorrow. Yes, she was slightly nervous, but reigned in the emotions, as expected of a pure-blooded Heiress to a wealthy family. She, of course, was nervous about receiving and invitation to Hogwarts, which was delivered on attendees' birthdays. She couldn't wait.
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Voldemort winced spectacularly as a purple turban was wrapped around his head. Garlic permeated his pitiful olfactory senses. He hated the fact that he was stuck in the back of a useless wizard's head. No. Loathed would be a better word. He loathed the fact that he had to rely on a substandard wizard with little magical power to survive. He, the Dark Lord, who made the wizarding world fall to their knees. He, who had sacrificed much, to assured of immortality.
Look where that got him. Piggy-backing upon various animals, mostly snakes, until he found a lost wizard in the forests of Albania. It was so incredibly easy to seduce the young teacher into accepting the spirit of Lord Voldemort. Probably the easiest thing of the entire debacle, really. And therein lay the problem. It was too easy to trick the man, whose name Voldemort later learned was Quirinus Quirrell. Far too easy. Voldemort had never really thought about that, until the first time the man used magic.
They had apparated. Normally, under his own power, Voldemort would not have minded in the slightest. Then again, he had devoted years of learning about apparition. This, performed by the snivelling mass of flesh, was painful, and left Voldemort attempting to rid himself of the dizziness that had invaded his senses. He dreaded to think about international, or even long range, apparition. He sighed mentally.
Of course, being reaccepted into Hogwarts was child's play. He felt a sick pleasure in tricking the bumbling fool of a headmaster, into allowing his vessel to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. What a joke. He knew if Tom Riddle had applied for the post, he would've been turned down immediately. With having the vessel playing host the Voldemort, he had secured the spot. It was time to meet, and teach, the bane of his existence. Harry James Potter.