Dark Prodigy

Chapter Fifteen: The HufflePuffs

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Dear Mr. Ollivander

The wand is working very well. I'm doing great in school with it. I was afraid I would have to pretend to be stupid and less intelligent than my peers in transfiguration, charms, and other wand work courses, but I got over that. I am enjoying this wand very much. It's working well for me, and is giving me amazing results so far.

The only problem I have with this wand is when I attempt advanced spellwork (from books I found in the restricted section at Hogwarts) the wand vibrates and chimes strangely. I know this is an experimental wand and has some kinks that still need to be worked out. I hope I don't have any more problems with this wand, but if I do I will let you know right away.

Yours,

Harry Potter.

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Dear Mr. Huggard,

I read in the Daily Prophet you are selling your entire library to the highest bidder. I have access to my trust fund and would like to work out a deal with you for your library. I know your mother was very much obsessed with the dark arts and had unique books about rituals, which I am interested in. I would like to offer you a thousand galleons for five of those books, which I will select personally. If this is acceptable, write me back.

Yours,

Harry Potter.

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Dear Mrs. Alphonso,

As a quidditch obsessed fan, I want to buy your newest spanish broom from your company. A little bird told me you have created a new model that goes twice as fast as the new Nimbus 2000. I have recently been offered the position of Chaser on the hufflepuff team, even though I am a first year. (Cedric Diggory was not pleased; the captain had gaurenteed the position to him but when the captain saw my talent, he simply couldn't resist saying no to me.) I know you need test subjects for your broom, and my fame will help market it when it comes out for sale to the general public.

Please write me back. I am willing to offer a significant amount of galleons for the broom if you so ask.

Yours,

Harry Potter.

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Dar Mr. Ollivander,

I'm afraid your offer is not acceptable. I need this wand for my daily spellwork and cannot send it back to you. The delay for you to mail me a new wand is simply unacceptable for me right now as a student of Hogwarts. I am currently getting personal training from Professor Flitwick in duelling and as such I require this wand very much.

I want to ask you if its possible to make me a personalized wand using my own hair as a core.

Yours,

Harry Potter.

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Dear Mr. Huggard,

I assure you I won't abuse your books in any way. I simply want to read it for instructional purposes only.

Yours,

Harry Potter.

P.S I attached the thousand galleons

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Dear Mrs. Alphonso,

Thank you so much for your experimental model of the broom "Potter Lightning." I especially like the name. If your product is of high quality and meets my needs I will be happy to endorse it for you.

Yours,

Harry Potter.

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"Harry are you ready for our first quidditch match?" asked Cedric in the Hufflepuff common room as they sat alone, doing homework. It was late at night, and Harry was finishing an essay for potions. Snape was a hard taskmaster and accepted only the best from Harry once he had found how talented he was at potions. Harry looked up at Cedric and asked, "Do you hate me for taking your position?"

"I used to but I got over it," Cedric said, staring out the window at the rainy sky. "I wish I had that position, I won't lie, but you are the best for the team and I just have to accept that."

"I'm ready, those Slytherins won't stand a chance against me."

"I heard how you took out half of the Slytherin house on the first day," Cedric said with a chuckle. "They're going to want revenge."

Harry grinned savagely, "Let them come Cedric, I'm perfectly capable of handling them."

"I know you are, Harry. You're talented, a genius they're saying. I think we're going to win the cup this year because of you. I mean, you're the top student." Cedric smiled, and then fingered his wand lightly as he attempted to transfigure his quill into a bunny.

"I have my problems too," Harry said quietly, staring into the fireplace. The fire roared and cackled merrily, lulling Harry into a hypnotic trance, almost.

"What problems?" Cedric asked. "I doubt you have anything to worry about. I mean, you're famous right. And you're the top student."

"Voldemort's not gone, Cedric," Harry said, looking deeply into his brown eyes as hard as he could. "Voldemort's going to return and he's going to come after me. Would you trade lives if you could with me?"

Cedric chuckled uncomfortably. "In a heart beat."

"What if he was back right now? Then?"

"Hell no, Harry, I wouldn't want to face the Dark Lord if he's going to come after me."

"Exactly, Cedric," Harry said. "His death eaters are still out there, still yearning for revenge. You don't want my life, Cedric, you don't want my war."

"Your war? There is no war," Cedric said. He nursed a cup of hot chocolate and brought it to his lips, drinking slowly. Rain pounded harder outside, a bolt of lightning shot in the air, creating a dangerous flash of light in the dim room. Thunder rolled overhead, and Harry stood up.

"Yes there is. I can feel it coming like the waves running to the shore. It's only a matter of time." Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. "It's only a matter of time," he whispered.

Then he pulled out his wand and pointed it at Cedric's quill. It instantly changed into a white snowy bunny.

"How did you do that, I've been trying for ages to get this spell right," Cedric exclaimed, but when he looked over, Harry had vanished. The portrait door shut with a bang indicating Harry was going out to sneak in the night.

Cedric wondered if Harry got more than four hours of sleep every night. Some how he thought even that number was an exaggeration. Death eaters and the Dark Lord, Cedric thought, what worrisome dreams Potter has in his head.

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The sky had cleared by the morning, and the sun was rising in the East. Harry ran, pounding his feet hard on the ground of the quidditch pitch. This was his fifth lap. He was getting warmed up for the game. Around him in the air, his team was flying and doing manuvers. They weren't very good, Harry had to say, not as good as the Slytherins. The snake house wanted revenge, they were out for blood. Harry knew right away that the Hufflepuffs had no chance against the Slytherins. It was all up to him to win for his team. He felt up to the challenge, his heart pounding, as he ran as fast as he could, sweat dripping from his eyebrows.

"Harry come here," said Jack, landing downward in front of Harry. Jack Morrison was the captain of the team, a muggle born seventh year who was excellent at what he did: seeker. "I want you to know, there's no need to feel nervous. I mean the Slytherins aren't so bad but you still have to watch out for them. They play unfair."

"I play unfair," Harry said with a grin, "I'm not worried at all. In fact, I'm actually excited."

Jack nodded and grinned back, "That's the spirit, Harry. Now get on your broom."

"Accio Potter Lightning!" Harry called, pointing to his broom which was on a Quidditch seat. It raced to him, and Harry jumped in mid air landing on the broom. He shot up as fast as a rocket at a brilliant speed, zooming between Haley and Alex, the two muggle born chasers. He was the third chaser.

He caught the quaffle which they were passing between them and dove to the keeper, shooting it in one of the hoops. The Keeper blocked it with ease. "You're going to have to do better than that, Potter," he said, laughing. Owen Cauldwell was fantastic as a Keeper, even better than Marcus Flint.

"Right," Harry said, zooming in the sky. He caught another quaffle, doubled back in a sharp U-turn, feinted like he was going to throw in the middle hoop, and instead shot downward in a Wronski feint. He then shot upward coming up right behind Owen and shot it in the left hoop. All this was done in three seconds.

Harry flew away, to the laughing cheers of the rest of the team.

"So this is the competition," Draco said, walking toward them from the ground, sneering. Harry landed in front of him. "Yes, Malfoy. Still nursing your bruises?"

Draco glared at him, "I just want to let you know, a personal message from Slytherin's captain." He handed Harry a folded parchment.

Harry opened it and read aloud, "Harry - for humiliating the Slytherins when you arrived at Hogwarts, we are going to give you and your Hufflepuff team the beating of a life time. Enjoy the pitch while you can."

Harry scoffed and said, "What are they going to do, run over me with brooms?"

Draco simply smirked and walked away. "What did he want," Jack said, "Anything important?"

Harry shook his head and looked at the sky. He thought he saw a flash of light from above but wasn't sure what it was. Then he saw a bird descend. His heart almost stopped as he recognized that figure. Renaud was here!

Renaud, the assassin, hired to kill Harry, was here in Hogwarts.

For the first time in two months, Harry felt scared.

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Quirrel remembered the first time he met Lord Voldemort in the cave in Albania. The night sky velveted overhead sparkling brilliant white dots. The stars shined overhead, and the air was cold frigid with steel smell from Russia coming in North. Communists with war machines-muggles all of them- were invading Albania and in the clash between two countries, one in which Wizards stay far away from, Voldemort hid from Dumbledore's order of the phoenix. The man in the grey cloak journeyed on the mountain, his staff hitting wet mud and half grown grass, white roses, little bushes on the hills. In the air an eagle swooped down in circles around Quirrel. He held out an arm, and his eagle perched, landing with a woosh of his wings.

Voldemort was around here somewhere, Quirrel had heard from ex-death eaters. Rumours, whispers in the wind from evil doers, bar goers and drunkard Knockturne Alley residents. Voldemort, the dark lord who had terrorized Britian with his repertoire of dark magic and ruthless ambition. An enigmatic figure hidden in the shadows, surrounded by fear clouds... this was something that first grabbed Quirrel, stirred his heart and soul.

"There is no good or evil," whispered the man in the dream. A bony figure of white skin and evil red eyes, looking deeply, looking hypnotically straight into Quirrel's soul. Incredible powers of legilimency opened up new worlds for Voldemort, his sword like intelligence piercing in every direction looking for the ones with weak hearts and troubled minds. Master of the universe, Voldemort floated in the astral worlds of mental desires, terrorizing everybody going to living the common life, yet suppressing his heart's desires, cries and lust for power. Quirrel fell victim to Voldemort's spider web, his field of darkness.

"Only power."

"And those too weak to seek it," answered Quirrel to the ghostly voice in the cave.

"Enter the darkness, my faithful servent," said the voice, beckoning Quirrel into the cave. A red crimson pair of eyes looked from the abyss of darkness and Quirrel looked back. Instantly a connection formed, and he felt as if a huge ocean of energy was sinking into him, like wine into a cup. He was filled with the raging energies of Lord Voldemort, a melodious music sounding in his ears, the thrum of dark magic filling the air with scents of rotting carcasses.

"Come to me, crawl to me, my little snake, a worm you are Quirrel. Worms betrayed me... Wormtail..."

"My lord, you lack strength, you seem sickly and weak. Let me help you."

"Give me your wand," said the Voice, and a thin wrinkled hand moved forward. It was the hand of a rotting corpse. "Don't be afraid of my form. A dead body is a much better host than a live animal, less fight to possess." Voldemort hissed a weak laugh, coughing. Yellow fluid sprang out of his sickly mouth and onto Quirrel's brown deer hide shoes.

"My lord, I live to serve," said Quirrel, handing over his wand to his master. "You want my left arm I presume?"

"Give me your soul," Voldemort said, pointing the wand at Quirrel's forearm. "Mosmorde!" A green light shot out, and cut into skin. Quirrel screamed, his eyes clenched shut in pain, and tears sprang out of his eyes. The green light formed a skull, from the skull slithered out a snake that hissed louder than Quirrel's screams. Rigid night air filled with screams, hollowing heart wrenching and soul destroying sounds crumpling away the last vestiges of innocence in Quirrel's mind.

Quirrel could think of nothing but the pain and after a while the pain receeded into small waves of tantalizing pulses that made him reel and shiver. His face was white and vomit dribbled down his lips. His eyes took on a sunken look, and the once vibrant glow that had flushed his face had forever dissapeared like the melting of a precious snowflake.

Voldemort glared deeply into Quirrel's eyes and pursued his newest follower's thoughts, dreams, heart's desires, and emotions, willing himself to see all he could to use Quirrel as best as able, manipulate him by invisible strings. Words were the way, the most powerful weapon he had available. "There is no good or evil..." whispered Voldemort as he stared down at his handiwork. The dark mark glowed a sickly green on Quirrel's left hand.

"Only power," whispered Quirrel, staring in fascination at the mark, "And those too weak to seek it."

"Thank me," Voldemort commanded.

"My lord, I am eternally grateful to be your faithful servent. Please accept my humble gratitude."

Voldemort sneered, and in a supercilious manner he waved his white wrinkled hand, beckoning him to begone. "Return tomorrow morning," he said in a wheezing voice, "For I am tired."

Quirrel bowed and said, "Thank you my lord. I seek only to serve and obey." He turned, left, his cloak billowing with the cold wind.

Voldemort smirked to himself as new hope filtered into what had once been hopeless, as new ambitions arose in a pool that had once been dead and rotting. He would return, he would survive, he would thrive! The next day he explained his thoughts and plans to Quirrel, and they plotted and waited.

Harry Potter was a key piece to their plan.

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Harry Potter woke up, scar bleeding, head hurting, and eyes feeling as if they had been pressed down by hot pokers. He almost screamed but held himself in check. "Come on Harry," said the team captain, "There's only an hour left for the game."

Harry got up and looked around the change rooms. "I was taking a nap," he said, "Didn't get much sleep last night."

Jack cast him a disapproving look. "Harry you know how much this game means to us," he said, "I told you to get a good night's sleep."

Harry shrugged, waving Jack's discontent away with a lazy hand as he stared hard at a spot on the wall. "Do you like dragons," he asked slowly.

"W-what?" Jack muttered, frowning in confusion.

"Dragons, do you like them?" Harry asked again. "I think I smell one."

"Harry, there aren't any dragons in Hogwarts," Jack said, "Now come on, let's go to the Hufflepuff common room. We're having a party."

"Before?"

"It's the hufflepuff tradition," explained Jack, "We always have a party one hour before the game. It's our way of celebrating, regardless if we win or lose."

Harry smiled, "I like that idea actually," he said.

Jack smirked in approval, "See, Hufflepuff is the right house for you after all." He looked around and whispered conspiratorially, "Between you and me, I'll let you in on a secret."

Harry leaned closer, two shining green eyes that seemed to leap out at Jack in an arrogant manner. Jack said quickly, "I found a charm we can use to speed up our brooms, and I checked with the regulations. It's legal."

"A charm? Which one?"

"I found it in one of the Hogwarts library books, an old archive of charms created by muggle borns throughout the ages. I bet you that the Slytherins will never have even heard of it."

Harry grinned, "Perfect," he said.

The walk to the common room occurred in silence, Harry lost in his own thoughts. He wondered why his scar was hurting him, he wondered why. The door to the common room opened, and the passageway that had tunnel like qualities was cold as a draft swept throughout the room. Hufflepuffs ate sweets and drank butterbeer, chattering amongst each other about the outcome of the game. Everyone was relaxing and having a good time. As they walked in, everyone started clapping and a huge cheer rang out throughout the crowd. Harry had never felt so... pleased with himself. It was a strange unique feeling he had never quite fully experienced.

He liked it, he liked mingling with his peers, he liked being normal for once. Today he wasn't Harry Potter, he was a chaser. He wasn't the boy-who-lived, he was simply a normal child. He laughed at their jokes and told some of his own that he had heard from Mr. White. He played a game of chess (he lost for some reason he couldn't fathom) against a seventh year and he bet a sack of sickles that he would score a hundred points. He drank some butterbeer, revelling in the warm luxerious butter taste as the liquid slid down his throat, sweet, tangy and thick. He had his share of cakes, pastries, pies. But the most fun thing he liked about the party was the warm acceptance that rang throughout the crowd. Perhaps Dumbledore had been right, perhaps Hufflepuff was the right house for him after all. Everyone was friendly here, untouched by war and dark magic, innocent and pure.

A chiming bell rang out from the clock above the fireplace, signalling it was time for everyone to head out to the Quidditch pitch.

Harry's heart sped up in nervousness, anticipation. Heat flowed from his belly. He was anxious and slightly unnerved. He had killed people in cold blood as a child and he never felt this way. Why was he nervous over a Quidditch game? There are going to be people watching me, he thought, and that's making me anxious, because I have a public image to keep up. Yet this answer didn't satisfy him, and deep inside he knew the real reason. He actually wanted to win. He wanted the Hufflepuffs to like him, to be friends with him, to love him and adore him. He was nervous out of pure egoism.

And as this answer rose to the forefront of his mind, it revealed a new facet in his existence that he never suspected was present. He was just like everyone else at that moment, and for all his prodigial ability, his uniqueness and his so called greatness, at that moment he was just an average joe hungering for approval.

He didn't like this feeling, yet he went out with determination and a grim smile, willing to win with all his heart.

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Cold November air blew his hair as Harry walked to the pitch, broom in hand, following his team mates.

They went to the middle of the pitch and shook hands with the Slytherins.