A/N: Hello, people!
I don't own Harry Potter.
I have no beta.
ENJOY!
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*NOTE* I am participating in the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition this season! I am the Seeker for the Ballycastle Bats so once the challenges kick off, I may not be as responsive. Apologies.*NOTE*
He was famous. He was bloody famous for 'killing' the Dark Lord Voldemort. Harry hadn't killed anyone. In fact, he hadn't done anything that night. It was all Lily Potter who had done the saving. Her magic and sacrifice that had saved him.
Anyone who attempted to do him harm came to harm themselves. Dudley falling down the stairs, or that heart attack Vernon had after hitting Harry with the belt. It was a particularly powerful kind of magic.
The Killing Curse - as he learned the green curse was called - could not be blocked. No one ever said anything about rebounding it.
But he was still heralded as a hero but then left in the proverbial gutter. Dumbledore had a hand in this. Strange that he let these people practically worship the ground Harry walked on but do nothing to stop their beliefs. He did have plans for Harry and the boy was not planning on following through with them.
Aunt Petunia did not ask about his new trunk full of objects. She didn't care about anything. So the fact that he had everything he'd purchased inside the trunk, didn't matter to her in the least.
As for Diagon Alley, Harry planned to go back later, before the first of September. There were so many things he wanted. He had to study and get a feel for the wizarding populace and what they acted like as a whole. It was going to be a lot of work.
Judging from the books that had information on him - wherever they got their information from, he'd also love to meet the informants - Harry looked exactly like James Potter but with Lily's eyes. Harry most certainly didn't look like either of them. He looked like Harish, who apparently looked like whoever came before him. The appearance was passed down in reincarnations, just like souls.
Harry sighed. His hair was a dead giveaway to any paying attention that he was a Potter. Perhaps growing it out some would help tame it?
The boy stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at his reflection. He couldn't change his skin color or anything - he'd tried on numerous occasions but the magic wouldn't allow it - and neither his hair or eyes could change color or shade. But he could grow his hair out!
Aunt Petunia learned that shaving his hair off wasn't in her best interest because he'd grown it back over the course of a single night. She spent four hours on it until she finally realized it was pointless.
Harry scrunched his face up and forced his magic to do as his will bid it, making the mop of scruffy, black locks grow and thicken. Harry was faced with hair now reaching to the nape of his neck and curling out a bit at the ends.
With a comb, he brushed the hair into place and smiled as it stayed put. His fringe covered his brow quite well and the little hairs in the back curled up only a little bit. He wouldn't even need to use gel to keep it together and he could go about his life without worry. He liked it.
Hold on… one piece on the right side decided that it did not want to conform and was sticking out. A cowlick. He had a bloody cowlick.
With a shrug, he realized that it could indeed be worse. Harry resolved to worry about more important things.
Like the rest of his appearance. No glasses thankfully. James Potter had worn them by choice, because they were enchanted. Harry didn't want to wear any, but the thought of seeing through objects or even around corners could be cool. He was not getting those bland, circular frames that everybody and their brother wore, though. Hideously uncool.
Just because he didn't care for the fame didn't mean he couldn't care for his appearance. Now that he had the opportunity to look good he would do everything in his power to remain good looking.
Harry bought himself a snowy owl which he named Hedwig. She was beautiful and abnormally intelligent even for an owl.
He got the glasses just for emergencies. One could never be too careful. Also… he looked too much like his former incarnation and if he styled his hair different and wore the glasses, Dumbledore might not notice the similarities. He had met the former two incarnations after all so he could put two and two together if he tried hard enough.
Harry had slipped his school robe into his small bag where he also had a book and his wand situated. Petunia had dropped him off at King's Cross at ten fifty. Harry's ticket showed Platform 9 ¾ and while he had no memories to go with the experience, he did just follow behind a large group of redheads who were pushing trolleys like his own.
They all ran at the wall one at a time and once the mother had disappeared, Harry mimicked their actions, his stomach only jumping slightly in fear at the possibility of colliding with the wall. But he'd gone right through and he was certain that none of the muggles had noticed a thing.
The Hogwarts Express was a large, red, steam locomotive and it was beautiful. The paint glossy and the whistle clear. Harry wished he had a camera. Still, he only had a few minutes to get on board and so he wheeled his trolley toward the nearest worker and smiled, handing his ticket and trunk over with the assurances that everything would be handled upon reaching the school. Hedwig would be fine.
He found himself a singular compartment toward the back of the train, managing to slip in and out of focus and attain an empty space all to himself. He hoped it remained that way, but couldn't be sure it would.
Loosening his black tie, Harry pulled the book from his expanded bag and began reading up on potions. His glasses worked properly, letting him know that someone was walking by the compartment and had been curious enough to watch him from outside.
He ignored their presence, focusing on his reading in hopes that they'd go away. Eventually, she did.
The whistle blew loudly and Harry smiled, realizing that he was now going to Hogwarts and that he would have all this time to learn and come up with a strategy.
Harish's will said Tom was immortal. Tom was Voldemort. Voldemort was alive somehow. So… Harry was sure they'd cross paths again. Undefeated people usually did not take defeat very well and always came back for more. Harry just had to work to get the man to use his brain for a few seconds and give him a chance.
He'd need to patiently wait out the vision/memories and educate himself as quickly as possible because he knew that Dumbledore would be of no assistance in that area. He always had to look out for himself and this wasn't going to be any different.
The book was something he'd found in Harish's vault. Moste Potente Potions. It was apparently in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts but since it was his property and no one could go into the bag but himself, he was allowed to keep it. And it wasn't like he'd go blathering about it to anyone. He didn't know anyone well enough to relinquish his secrets!
Harry greedily took in the list of ingredients at the very back of the book as well as the small list - written in Harish's own hand even - of suppliers he could owl order from. He liked it. He liked it very much. He was looking forward to subscribing to every one of them.
The trolley witch was a nice, old woman who started visiting the students around lunchtime. Harry was one of her first stops and he was gobsmacked! All the sweets! He hadn't considered acquainting himself with any of the sweets and now that he wasn't at the Dursleys he could actually have some!
He took two of everything. It was high time he indulged himself in something nice and Harry was determined to try everything and find something to fawn over.
He liked the Pepper Imps, Ice Mice, Blood Pops, Pumpkin Pasties, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and Gillywater. The Every Flavor Beans got a laugh or two, but weren't something he'd willingly choose for himself ever again. Everything else was pretty simple as far as flavor, but he still ate them just because he could.
The door opened suddenly, startling the boy from his comparison of two beans that were the same color. There was a boy in the doorway, looking frazzled and ready to faint. "Have you seen a toad?" He asked, pudgy face scrunched up in resignation. He didn't expect that Harry had, he was just asking as his hope dictated he should.
"Sorry, no."
"I've lost him!" The boy wailed. "Gran's going to kill me!"
He ran off in a panic, leaving the compartment door wide open. Harry waved a hand, closing it carefully.
Not too long after that, he was introduced to a pair of red headed twins that he'd seen on the platform. 'Gred and Forge' Weasley explained to him that they were pranksters and that if he got targeted by anything, not to take it too seriously because they target everyone. They even had designs on filching a toilet seat from one of the girl's lavatories.
He liked them.
"What's your name again?" Forge asked.
"Harry Potter."
They stared for the better part of a minute, before shrugging. "Okay!"
He was actually surprised. Given what the books had said and what people whispered about him in darkened alleys and dingy pubs, he had expected to be nearly molested once people found out his name.
"If our little brother gets crazy, ignore him. He's a bit obsessed with… certain people," Gred said.
"And when our sister comes next year, she has an enormous obsession with you specifically, so be careful," Forge added seriously.
They stood. "We'll see you at the feast! Hope you get into Gryffindor!"
And all Harry could think, was that they would be good minions to have on his side rather than working against him. Perhaps Gryffindor would be best?
"Fred said we had to fight a troll!" one of the boys hissed. It was a redhead with the same hair color as the twins. Harry would assume that he was the one he'd been told to watch out for.
Beside him stood the boy who had lost his toad - miraculously managing to find it on the steps of the castle, surprisingly - and he had been twitching the entire time.
"Are you okay?" Harry decided to ask because he'd seen people faint from hyperventilation and this boy was getting really close to becoming comrades with the cold floor of the entrance hall.
"M-my Gran wants me to be in Gryffindor," he murmured, chin tucked into his chest, eyes facing the floor. "But I'm not brave."
"Where do you want to go?" Harry asked. He'd heard the boy mention his Gran twice now and he wasn't liking the sound of her.
"Hufflepuff. They're supposed to be nice."
"Then you go where you want, if she can't be happy for you, ignore her to the best of your abilities."
The boy's lip quivered, but he didn't get a chance to comment because the Deputy Headmistress had returned and had ordered them to follow her in a single file line.
The Great Hall was vast, with long tables piled with students all leaning around each other in order to get a good look at the little, first years. The boy beside him whimpered and Harry placed a calming hand on his back. It was the best he could do without drawing attention to them specifically.
A girl somewhere behind them commented on the ceiling, which was bewitched to mimic the night sky. What happened was the charm itself made the object in question semi transparent and then like a chameleon mimicked the very backdrop, which made it look like the sky was up there. That last part was written in Hogwarts: A History In the Making. Second Edition of Hogwarts: A History.
The Deputy Headmistress had them stand together at the edge of the small platform at the end of the hall. A large table sat perpendicular to the House tables, with dozens of teachers seated facing them, giving perfect viewpoint of the hall.
Harry's eyes landed on the prominent figures. Severus Snape - youngest Potions Master in British history - had been someone Harish knew very well. Harry had a few memories of Harish patting the man's back as he brewed potions. He'd have to watch out for that one, because he had keen eyes and would most likely notice a resemblance between Harish and Harry.
Next was Filius Flitwick, who was half-Goblin and a Dueling Master. Formidable power wrapped in a cute package.
Finally, was Dumbledore himself, though Harry skimmed over him. He didn't want to give the old man a chance to even peek into his guarded thoughts.
His scar twinged suddenly and Harry blinked in shock. That had never happened before. He resisted the urge to rub his brow, not wanting to draw more attention to himself, especially since Dumbledore was looking over the first years with a look of growing confusion on his face.
The more addled the man was, the better off Harry would be.
"Before we begin, the Headmaster would like to say a few words," McGonogall said in her heavily accented brogue.
The old coot stood from his throne - because that was what it was, a throne, just like Tom's had been - and smiled down at them, eyes twinkling in false happiness.
"First years will please note that the Dark Forest is forbidden to all students and that the third floor corridor on the right hand side, is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."
So what, it was okay if someone was suicidal? The boy beside Harry quivered once again.
Professor McGonagall held up a large scroll and stepped aside to reveal a wooden stool with a brown, ratty looking hat resting atop it.
The seam in the hat split open and fixed them with what looked to be a grin, but the wrinkles in the hat forming almost a face, made it more creepy than cool.
The mouth opened and the hat began to sing.
It talked. It sang. It could see inside his head. What if it gave him away?
The spike of fear in his gut made his nauseated and he had to fight to keep himself upright.
"When I call your name, you will sit down, I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your Houses."
And so the line went.
He found out that the boy he'd been standing next to was his old playmate, Neville Longbottom, who joined Gryffindor much to his apparent shock. Though he forgot to take the hat off and had to rush back to the professor to hand it over.
Harry waited patiently until his turn, where Professor McGonagall read off, "Potter, Harry." and the entire Hall burst into loud whispers of his name, with people craning their heads in hopes of seeing the famed Boy-Who-Lived.
Withholding a sigh and a roll of the eyes, Harry stepped forward, hearing the gasps of the first years. Yes, they had been standing beside him and never even knew it.
He ignored the whispers and the looks as he sat on the stool, the ratty hat placed over his head, blocking his view of everyone.
Oh, you are a difficult one, aren't you? So much talent. So much to do. So many plans to see through.
Slytherin would help you on your way to greatness, but would also ruin your plans. Ravenclaw would gain you too much suspicion and slow you plans down. Hufflepuff wouldn't be able to handle your scheming despite you being a good representation of the House.
Gryffindor it'll have to be, though I wish I didn't have to put you there. It'll be a struggle, boy. While I commend your plan, you won't enjoy yourself among the lions and the only ones whom you will like, won't even be true Gryffindors.
GRYFFINDOR!
Harry went to his table, the words of the Hat fresh in his mind.
His scar burned again.
This was going to be a pain.
A/N: Another is done!
-Harry's hair is just like Death the Kid's hair, without the stripes.
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CHECK ME OUT ON TUMBLR. HELLY-WATERMELONSMELLINFELLON. I FOLLOW BACK.