Savage
Chapter 9:
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to Ng'yehaer'llw'aetaght'litagehph', also known as J.K, the Rowling Chaos.
Harry had always been curious of humans. They fascinated him,
In a way, they were like all the other animals, yet they were different from all the others. On the one hand, they were like foxes or deer, hairy things, and as the deer, they could live in small groups, in which some bigger ones could frequently be seen with other, specific smaller ones; or as the foxes, they could live apart from one another.
On the other hand, they could be suspiciously similar to ants. Like them, they built those strange earth dwellings, although they made them out of the ground, contrary to the ants who made them inside the ground. They raised their own farm animals, just like how ants would breed aphids for their own use.
But they also could be like snakes, just as curious and as easily frightened. Even to this moment, he still thought back to the first time he had met some. At that time, he had fled as fast as he could when they had found him, but in the heat of the moment, he had barely registered the fact that they had fled in the opposite direction. And in matters of curiosity, his short time with the "wizards" – he had had trouble not calling them Bigheads at first – had proved his assumptions right.
Humans are curious, it is their very essence. About anything. And it was wonderful! Never before could he have imagined that the world was that big! He had spent six years in the forests, way more than most humans they had told him, and yet, he barely new as much about plants as the Pumpkin, or as much about animals as Scarface – he knew those weren't their real names, but they all had weird, unspeakable names, except Severus Snape. This one has a good name. Sssseverusss Ssssnape.
They all knew much, indeed, and Harry was satisfied to be taught. Of course, it wasn't always easy, especially with those "rule" things, they didn't always make sense, but he still tried to abide to them. It's not because he doesn't understand the logic behind the rules that there wasn't one, they'll explain later, that's all.
In the same way, he knew that they had all feared him at some point, even the Old Goat; after many years eating their sheep, he had learned the smell. But only Snape had been hostile, so he had waited, and their fear was gone. At first, he had simply assumed that none of them had feared him enough to be aggressive, which sounded perfectly reasonable. Then they had taught him about lies.
The idea was strange, at the very least. Not completely foreign, but strange enough. Not completely foreign, for he knew things that were close, close concepts. He knew hiding, he had done that a lot, like pretty much all living beings in the forest. The foremost example were reptiles and insects displaying colours of leaves and flower, or little mammals hiding in holes. In fact, humans were the only living beings that never hid, if you had asked him a few weeks ago.
He understood "deception", as they had taught him, to act in contradiction with your intentions, to let the other achieve them. To lure them into confidence. That he had used a lot, too. You can't be a decent hunter if you don't understand your prey, after all, and to snare a hare is far less exhausting than running after it.
But lies, he had several problems with the notion. The first was that lies were purely dependant on speech. His only partner, and occasional partners, in discussions had been the grass snake and other snakes, for years. And never in all this time had they told him a false information, intentionally, at least. As such, he probably would never have thought to do so by himself. Which made him feel a bit dumb, since it was quite an easy thing to do, all things considered. So easy that the Goat had probably lied about a few things when they first met.
The second problem was that lies, as easy as they were, were bad, they had told him. What the hell is that supposed to mean ?! They had tried to explain, especially Catwoman, but he just didn't understand. They had tried to explain that bad means something that hurts, except that lies don't hurt, so it's not so much that it actually hurts, but it might hurt. So he had asked if reading is bad, because it sometimes hurt his eyes, and they had told him that no, but in a way yes, and then gone in a very confused rambling about something called morality, and how you could use the same word to describe different things, and… at some point he had just stopped trying to understand and said "Yes, ma'am."
What he had understood was that you could qualify something as "bad" to describe an accident, or a natural event, if it hurt much. But The Bad, was when a willing agent hurt something on purpose with viciousness.
Guess what? He had absolutely no idea what viciousness was. According to the Half-Man, it was when you hurt something or someone unnecessarily, for your own pleasure.
The whole process had been so confused, unclear and tedious that, for once, Harry had accepted the incomplete definition and moved on to something actually interesting, and never thought about all this again.
Until this day, when he had met Goblins.
Although he didn't really understand the reason for the change, Harry was still satisfied that Snape's body had ceased to secrete this disagreeable smell of tension and hostility. Even if, truthfully, it would've been difficult not be satisfied about his day in general.
This place was fascinating enigma by itself, an endless, chaotic stream of life, activity, smells, colours, questions. In the one hand, it was the complete opposite of the forest, that would rather compare to a calm lake, sporadically disturbed by the eventual strike from this predator or the other. On the other hand, it was its exact mirror, full of lives and wonders, while you could find funny insects, colourful fruits and flowers, or majestic trees in the first, you'll find spectacular toys and furniture, flamboyant people and dominating buildings in the second.
And speaking of dominating buildings, they had reached the most imposing of all.
Gringotts Bank.
The building was made of a white, sturdy stone. Marble, he thought ? Stones were one of the things he would never have thought to learn anything interesting about, until he had come to Hogwarts.
As they had reached the top of the stairs, Snape looked him in the eyes and ordered: "Listen carefully, Potter. From now on, speak only when you are asked. Our hosts can be easily irritated." He paused for a second. "And even if you don't irritate them, they'll use anything you say against you, anyway."
Harry rarely showed his emotions on his face, at least not overly, but the statement made him raise an eyebrow. It sounded as if they were about to enter a nasty badger's den.
The impression somewhat was confirmed by a poem inscribed on the building's front door.
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn
Must pay most dearly in their turn
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
The denizens of the place certainly had very strong sense of property. Definitely some nasty possessive badgers. As he thought that, Harry lowered his eyes, finding a creature that, surprisingly enough, was just his height. The thing was clad in iron clothes – probably an armour, like Hogwarts statues, except that the statues were two times the creature's height.
Carried by his curiosity, Harry was about to ask "Are you an armoured badger ?" He caught himself just in time, thinking back on Snape's words: Don't speak unless you're talked to! This inner contradiction was a novelty in Harry's life, and for the second time this day, his face showed a strong emotion. Although, truthfully, he would have been incapable to define said emotion.
From the goblin's point of view, it was as if a very constipated human child had decided to take a shit right in front of him.
"Potter! We do not have all day!" The irritated voice of his professor – he'll have to get used to the term one day or another – calling for him stomped him out of his current dilemma.
Snape was already entering the building through a small door, carved into the bigger ones - Why make such big doors if you're not going to use them? City people are weird. Harry trotted behind his professor, catching up to him, passed through the door and-
Wow. Impressive.
While the façade was impressive, it wasn't quite straight, for some reason. The interior was the complete opposite. An gargantuan room supported by two series of columns on each side, more than five times Harry's height. Within each of the rows defined by the columns, a series of desks and alcoves, used to store various items and documents. Precisely three desks for one alcove, in a way that guaranteed a maximised efficiency. Whose efficiency? The Goblin's efficiency.
Hundreds and hundreds of little creatures running in all senses, carrying papers, pouches, gold, keys and whatever item was needed at any moment at any desk, but most impressively, doing so in the quietest manner possible, only sparsely exchanging a sound.
Snape walked to one of the desks, made of a beautifully polished and engraved wood, Harry following in tow, and delicately rang the little bell in front of it. Harry heard a sound, one of those that the goblins exchanged. He liked those sounds less and less.
"What do you want?!"
A head appeared above the desk. A very peculiar head. The day before, the professors had explained to him that Gringotts was run by goblins, a non-human species, of which Professor Flitwick's genealogy came from for half of it. As such, he thought that he would be meeting a happy of little, chirping and enthusiastic old men.
What he got was a bunch of grumpy old badgers who spoke with a pile of gravel stuck in the throat.
Snape looked unfazed by the clerk's rudeness, calmly presenting a key on the desk. "We want to extract gold from the Potter's vault." Immediately producing a letter from under his robes, he added. "And from another vault."
The clerk simply acknowledged the key, but took the letter in his hands, read it, then smiled. Harry wasn't used to smiles. To him, it meant a threat, but the professors had assured him that a human baring their teeth was a welcoming act – furthering Harry's conviction that humans were, in fact, quite the terrors of nature. The goblin's smile, however, was anything but welcoming. This smile was definitely a threat. Nothing that arbored such a dentition could be anything but a threat.
"Of course, Master Snape. Wait here a moment, we will fetch a driver for you."
The goblin clerk proceeded to produce as much guttural sounds as he could, which Harry thought was a senseless growl, whose only use was to make their wait as disagreeable as possible, until he understood that it was supposed to be a language.
"Griphook here we will take you to your vaults. Please follow him." The clerk indicated to them, being remotely polite for the first time of their interaction. Now that they were leaving.
The new goblin, Griphook, lead them to the end of the bank, through a guarded door, and inside a corridor. The corridor was a striking contrast to the main hall. While said hall was an immense, luminous and decorated room with a high roof, all made of noble woods and marble, they were now into a small corridor, lighted with only a torch, whose rocky walls sank into obscurity. It was purely and simply a cave.
Excepted that half of the cavernous corridor was hollowed, two long tubes of metal suspended in the air, coming from and going into both dark holes that surrounded the corridor.
As Harry approached one the tubes, curious about their use, the goblin exclaimed "Please stay on the dock! The wagon will arrive shortly!". The unexpected call stopped Harry just in time from extending his arm to the curious tube, as a screeching sound resonated through the cave, soon followed by the violent coming of a wagon, which would have probably broke his arm if he had touched the tube as intended.
Just behind him, Snape drawling, deep voice told "Would you cease being a foolish boy already and get into the cart."
Feeling sheepish, the boy entered the almost fatal cart.
It happened to be a terrible mistake.
The cart, wagon or whatever instrument of torture that thing was, went at the same speed it had arrived, as if the fact that people being on it had no importance whatsoever. Worse than that, it had brought the into the most spacious caverns Harry had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few living in the wilds. Funny, by the way, how such tiny creatures felt the need to build huge places. And so the cart went up and down, left and right, although always keeping their heads up. For all the good it did.
Honestly, Harry didn't mind being in unusual positions, gravitationally speaking, considering he sometimes slept in trees, hanging like a snake, head up or down didn't matter. The problem was that trees normally didn't move, at all, and certainly not at a speed high enough to break someone's neck!
Then the thought emerged in his mind: Goblins were born to be the most disagreeable creatures on this planet, they knew it and, most importantly, they revelled in the fact. They were the epitome of viciousness, as he was now certain of the word's meaning.
Slowly, he began to think that maybe, just maybe, he had made a terrible mistake by following the old goat and his companions. They had made him quit his world, a beautiful, safe and known wildlife, to throw him into a hellish madhouse of human necrophages and sadistic goblins.
Hopefully, it wouldn't get any worse.
"Vault 687. The vault key, please." Their goblin guide asked, turning to Snape, who gave it to him, pulling it out of hi black robes with his usual dramatical manners.
Without thanking him, the goblin took the key, inserted it inside the vault's door. Said door was, in appearance, a simple looking plate of black metal, unusual only by its size. As clicking and rotating sounds began to resonate from its hidden side, Harry heard Professor Snape whisper: "How strange…".
Then, the door opened. Before him, multiple small hills of shiny metal pieces were stacked inside the room. What a disappointment. All these efforts, all this self-control only to be rewarded with piles of metal. Nothing to eat or, his newfound pleasure, read. It was fantastic to read, as it consisted of learning things while basking in the sun, and the Professors still nourished him. No tool of any kind either, nor his new greatest enemy, clothing.
It was even more surprising, then, to hear Snape's drawling voice behind him: "What are you waiting for? Go ahead."
Even if he hadn't been spoken to, he wouldn't have been able to supress this one: "Go ahead? And do what? There'ss only metal in here, nothing even remotely useful."
Maybe he should've refrained from speaking even when spoken to, for, if he interpreted correctly the supressed cry of horror coming from behind him, he had offended the goblin.
"Nothing even remotely useful?" Snape drawled, "I know you aren't the most cultured of wizards, Potter, but surely, one of my colleagues must have taught the concept of economics."
Economics? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on why. Where had he heard the term? Think. Think. Oh, right, Miss Pumpkin! Between two lessons on plants and food, she tried to explain him something like that, about exchanging fruits or something. Honestly, he got bored quickly.
Faced with his lack of an answer, Snape sighed, and began lecturing him. "What you think about useless scraps of metal, Mr Potter, is nothing of the sort. Those pieces of metal can be exchanged for other things. Or should I say, anything, depending on the amount you possess. With this much, actually, you could probably buy thirty or so farmlands."
Harry perked up at that. Farms. He liked farms. Especially the cattle inside. "Are you saying people would give me food for this junk? And they wouldn't try to kill me afterwards? "
For the first time since they had entered the bank, Harry could see Snape face form a sneer. "Yes. That is what I am saying" he answered with an exasperated voice. Immediately after, he adopted a pensive expression. "Something bothers me, though."
He turned back to Griphook, who was still looking at Harry. At first, Griphook had looked at him as if he had grown two heads. Now he looked at him with a calculating expression, from which Snape drew him from by asking: "That is not the main Potter, is it?"
He looked back to Snape, which reminded his vicious goblin mind that, even if he was probably fantasizing about scamming a ten years old boy, there still was the problem of said boy being accompanied by a full-fledged wizard.
"No. Sir. This, vault 687, is only a trust vault opened by the late Lord Potter to the benefit of his heir, until his coming of age."
Lord's Potter carbon copy took the opportunity to join the conversation about his own assets. "What doess it mean? What's age is coming?"
"What it means, Mr Potter, is that this is only a small portion of your riches. But most importantly, that those riches might not consist of only gold. The traditional Potter vault surely shelters valuable artifacts gathered by your ancestors. Especially family wands and grimoires."
The last part obviously picked Harry's interest. "Why are we not there, then? It ssoundss way more interssting than this one."
"That is where the 'coming of age' part comes into play. You are not allowed access to the main vault until the end of your Hogwarts graduation."
Wonderful. Albeit he was satisfied of what he had been taught during the last month, and for all the easy meals, he hadn't expected of being asked to stay there for who knows how long to get access to something that he was still told was 'his'. The Old Goat's deal looked shadier by the second.
In the end, they had taken enough coins, as it was supposedly called, to cover his expenses for the next year, according to Snape.
After that, they went further into the caverns depth, to a vault number 713. Contrary to Harry's expectations, this one was empty, no gold, no books, no nothing, excepted a very small bag.
As he got curious about the whole affair, and was about to ask questions, he was suddenly stopped by a long cry of agony, coming from the depths of the bank. The strangest thing about it was the fact that, clearly, he had been the only one to hear it. Or rather, as far as he knew, it had elicited absolutely no reaction from his two companions. But, no matter how stoic or used to the thing you are, such a cry would at the very least make your head turn. It did, yet, made the snake react, tense up as it rested on his left arm.
So did Harry come to the only conclusion he could draw at this time: There was, deep down the hole formed by those caverns, something big, something reptilian, and something that suffered greatly. Then, it was meant to keep something, to be alien to the mammals, and, most importantly, it was meant to fear the goblins.
Half an hour later, they were inside one of the Alley's shop, a bookstore. It was like the Hogwarts Library, but with more people, a lot noisier, and each book had to be exchanged for coins. The hard part was that each coin apparently did something special, probably magical. Indeed, the first book he tried to get, he gave a brownish coin. The shopkeeper told him it was not enough, that it costed a sickle or whatever, so he gave another brown coin, and the shopkeeper got angry. But then, he gave him a yellow coin, and the shopkeeper immediately became nice and sweet. It was before Snape, who had been talking with a former student in a corner of the store, intervened and righted the wrongs. The shopkeeper gave him back his yellow coin, took a grey one, and Snape carefully supervised all the next purchases.
Harry took the opportunity, now that they were out of Gringotts and in a somewhat calm environment, to ask all the questions that had been bothering him during their visit.
"Sssir. Can ask a question?"
"You already did." Immediately, Snape grimaced at his own answer. Unbeknownst to Harry, he had cringed at the fact that he sounded like Dumbledore. "Yes, Potter, you can. Just make sure not to ask stupid questions."
The final answer had the boy wait a few seconds to think. "Why are the goblins sso disagreeable?" That sounded like a stupid question, so he reformulated. "I mean, their looks, their attitude, their voices. It seems as if everything about the goblinss iss made to be… dissspleasing. To have uss… I probably don't know enough wordss."
"Repulsive?" Offered the cynical teacher.
"Yess. Probably."
Contrary to popular belief, Severus Snape wasn't totally averse to teaching. He liked knowledge, and sharing it. However, he didn't like crowds, first, and he didn't like preconceived ideas and practices, second. He liked to be challenged, and he liked people that tried to understand the world, those who did not satisfied themselves with doing what they are told or scratching the surface. In other words, Severus Snape should have been a private tutor, and was a terrible Hogwarts teacher, who thought that writing three words on the class board was incentive enough for students to study and experiment.
Hence, he took to the game and willingly answered Harry's questions.
"Leaving their physical appearance aside for the moment, their behaviour is the result of their history. More precisely, of their common history with wizards." He marked a pause, to confirm that he had the boy's attention. "The goblins are indeed a very warlike race, they seek to conquer, to possess, and to keep jealously. Let me ask you a question, Potter, who do you think the gold in your pocket belongs to?"
Harry felt a bit taken aback, not expecting the question. "Ssss… I… I guesss it iss mine? At leasst, I am using it."
Snape smugly nodded at the answer, expecting it. "Of course you are using it, but who made it?"
"The goblinss, I'd ssay…"
"Indeed. You see, in goblin culture, an object, physical or not, does not belong to the one who possess it at a given time. Rather, it belongs to the one who made it, the one using it having only borrowed the thing."
Harry was about to reply, open his mouth, then closed it. It pleased Snape. One should keep one's mouth shut until they had something intelligent to say.
"It… Makesss ssenss, actually."
"Does it, now?" The reaction had picked Snape's interest.
"Well, when I lived in the foressst, I musst admit that I have not actually made anything. I've dug holesss, made simple trapss, sstole ssome cattle." Snape raised an eyebrow at the shameless confession. "It wasss a lot of effort, but in the end, the earth, the wood, the beastss, I've borrowed them all. It all comess from… Nature, I think we say? And, if I undersstood the Professor Pumpkin's lessssons," the raised eyebrows furrowed instantly, "Everything that diesss eventually comess back to nature, right?"
"I must say, it is an interesting view on the subject. Not many wizards would come to the same conclusion. The first reason being that, at the end of the day, we humans have no lesson in bellicosity to give to goblins. The second is that, while your analogy is valid in the current times, it was not always the case. While it can be, let's say, poetic, to think of the goblins as "close to nature", Nature gives and take. Goblins took, but they did not give. And when two warlike races want the same thing, and one of the two does not share, they fight."
"And they fought, indeed. For centuries. What you have seen today is not as much the true nature of the goblins, as it is their mask in front of wizards. The last goblin war was such a disaster for the goblin race that they were forced to relinquish what they had refused us until now, without any benefice, except for an uneasy peace. They despise us, but they cannot freely express it, thus they make us know however they can."
The explanation made sense, but still, it wasn't complete. It couldn't be.
"Alright, Sssir, but I still think there'ss more than that. When we were in front of the vault 713, I heard something. An agony. I think it was something reptilian, something big." Once again, Snape furrowed his brows, although, this time, it was out of concern and understanding. "And with thisss poem on the door. I can't help but think that there's something inherently sadissstic in them."
"They are desperate, and angry, Mr. Potter. People can do terrible things out of despair and anger." His eyes were lost in the vague as he told those last words. He quickly pulled himself together, though. "Do you have any last question, Potter?"
"Yess, Ssir."
"Then do pray tell."
"We've sset asside their biology for now, but I was wondering. Is it possible to create new species? And… Were goblins made drom badgers?"
Suddenly, Snape's face came down, near Harry's. It always looked serious, often spiteful, but now, it looked almost strained. "On this one, Mr Potter, I'll only give you a piece of advice. Be careful with your curiosity, unless you start the next goblin war."
Despite the ominous warning, Harry still thought he had seen the shadow of a smirk on Snape's face. On the other hand, he was shit at reading people's faces.
"And let me give a last piece of advice."
"Yess, Sssir?"
"Stop hissing so much. It quickly grows unbearable."
"Ye…" he began, stuttered, and ended, "…s, Sir."
"Now, we're almost finished. You only lack your wand, and your school robes."
Harry tensed up. "Robes, Sir? Aren't the ones I wear enough?" Which implicitly meant 'Please, I hate clothes, don't torture me.'
Unfortunately, Snape wasn't of the same opinion. "Yes, Potter, your robes. Given the amount of money you possess, and the amount you will possess, it is unbecoming that you wear such rags. I don't give it a month before it disintegrates on your own body."
'Oh, yes, please! Let them disintegrate.'
"However, your robes are only secondary. As I said, you still lack a wand. Meaning that you are not yet a wizard, and that there is no need for proper wizard clothes until you are a proper wizard."
Harry perked up at that. No clothes torture – not now, at least – and a wand. He'd been so curious about those, how in a single swish anything became possible. It was probably the biggest motivation he'd got from this magical world, so far. The ability to manipulate your environment with such ease, he couldn't even imagine how different his life in the forest would've been with this kind of tool.
"Of course, Sir. Where do we find a wand, then?"
As an answer, Harry only received a swing of Snape's hand, meaning to follow him, before the man turned back and walked. Intrigued, Harry followed without asking any question, ignoring the buzzing of the street's life around them, only focusing on the man before him. They walked for a few minutes, when Snape slowed down his pace. Without looking at Harry, he simply said: "Ollivander. Every single wand that is sold within the British Isles comes from his shop." He paused before adding "He is a… peculiar man, but a Master of his art. Be sure not to disrespect him."
Harry nodded stiffly at the warning, only to remember that Snape wasn't facing him, and probably didn't know he had nodded, so he immediately completed his nod with a "Yes, Sir."
"Good. Now follow me." And they entered the shop.
The place was cramped, to say the least. The front door faced a small space delimited by a counter, which was just enough to place two chairs in a corner. Yet, it seemed necessary, since the rest of the shop's space, behind the counter, was filled to the brim with small boxes, it barely had enough space for a single human being to move between them.
Though, this would still require a human being behind the corner. As Snape took one of the seats in the corner, Harry walked in the counter's direction. Almost immediately, he heard Snape sigh. Alerted, he amerced a movement, which accelerated when he heard a voice in his ear "I wondered when I would be seeing you, Mr…"
The man never got to end his sentence, for Harry's punch instinctively met the man's jaw.
The man in question was a tall, thin old man in burgundy wizard robes, now laying on his butt. Snape looked at the man, then at Harry, with the most unreadable expression he ever showed. He started to get up, when the man said "Oh my! I've been doing this prank for a century, and never before did I get caught. Now I wonder, Mr. Potter, if I am getting old, or if you are as extraordinary as everyone expects."
While the man was getting up, Harry's slightly panicked mind filled with questions. Who's this guy? Why was he behind me? How does he now my name? What's a prank?!
Ignoring the shocked states of his two customers, the man turned to Snape and asked "Dragon core, Hawthorn wood, 10 inches, is that right, Master Snape?"
Snape looked at the man, nodded, and answered "You are obviously right, as always, Mr. Ollivander." These two last words coming out of his mouth slowly and distinctly, his eyes fixed on Harry.
Well, crap. So much for being respectful. On the other hand, the man himself didn't seem to be bothered by the whole affair.
"Good, good. And you, Mr. Potter, while we still don't know your own wand, I still remember your parents coming to my shop. Your father's wand was 11 inches, mahogany wood, with a dragon heartstring core. Your mother's was 10 and a quarter inches, willow, with a phoenix core. What a wonderful witch she must have been."
Harry could notice a slight tensing of Snape's jaws at Ollivander's words. Curious, he asked "You knew my parents? How does their wand…" But before Harry could finish his question, Ollivander cut him off.
"Certainly, but let us not be carried away by the past. We're here for you, today. I'm intrigued at the type of wand that will choose you, Mr. Potter" And he disappeared in his back shop. Nice. Definitely not frustrating.
"I'm not very fond of the man, Sir."
"Yes. I have seen that, Potter."
"It was an accident, Sir."
"Of course."
Silence filled the room. It stretched for approximatively a minute.
Damn, it was so hard no to accentuate on the s sound. Completely unnatural. Still, he tried not anger Snape too much, the man seemed to have a fiery temper, and a propension to aggressivity, behind his calm demeanour.
When the silence began to stretch just long enough to be boring, Ollivander came back with multiples boxes. He put them on the counter, took a first wand out of them, and gave it to Harry, who took it.
The wand barely touched his fingers and exploded. Harry's eyes budged out a little "Sorry Sir, I didn't mean to…"
Ollivander wasn't even listening to him, simply mumbling "Not this one for sure." Took out another and held it out for Harry to take it. It went aflame.
The process continued for a moment, refining the selection criteria with each passing wand. The exploded one was made of dragon heartstring, the flaming one was a phoenix feather, but at least he had touched it. The unicorn hair ones simply flew out of Ollivander's hands even before Harry could touch it. The stiffer the wood, the more explosive the reactions, although even aspen was explosive enough despite its suppleness. In the end, they reached as status quo of sorts with a 12 inches, vine wood with a dragon heartstring core, very supple. Still, "That's not it." Indeed, that wasn't it. While the wand hadn't exploded or malfunctioned, it had simply done nothing. No reaction at all.
Ollivander, who was thoughtfully examining the wand, rose from his counter, mumbled "I wonder…" And once again, he disappeared in his back shop.
"Is it normal for the process to be this long, Sir?" Harry asked to Snape, who was observing the whole affair from his chair in the corner, alternating between boredom and interest.
"Sometimes, yes. Albeit I had never heard of wands being repulsed not only by a wizard's touch, but by a wizard's very aura. I don't know if you should feel proud, or insulted."
Harry opened his mouth to answer, a bit confused by his teacher's words, when the other madman reappeared in the corner of his eye, holding two boxes. The first was yet another wand box, the second, however, was larger. Ollivander once again put them on the counter, and gave the wand out of the first box to Harry, obviously excited by what would happen next.
Harry took the wand and… It happened. A weird feeling coursed through his body. Not a pleasing one.
It felt as if the wand was digging through his vein, looking for something that had been here, should've been here, but wasn't, for something else was in its place. Rapidly, the sensation went beyond mere discomfort, and became a slight pain which made Harry let go of the wand.
He could hear Ollivander, who had seen this last second of pain, speak in his direction. "Clearly not the right match. It is strange, though, very strange."
Despite having resolved himself to stop questioning the man to avoid any further frustration, Harry couldn't help himself and asked "What's strange, Sir?"
The man took a solemn look and exclaimed: "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. It so happens that the phoenix whose tailfeather resides in your wand gave another feather... just one other. It is curious that you suffered such a reaction from this wand when its brother gave you the scar you were famous for."
A scar? He remembered the professors being all flustered about a scar not being there when they had cut his hair. And he's famous for it? What…
"Now Mr. Potter, since none of the wands I had premade were good enough, could I ask you to take a look inside this box." Said Ollivander, while opening the second, larger box. "You will find different sorts of magical ingredients. Please pick one."
Harry looked inside the box, which was divided in small compartments, each keeping a small animal part. Bits of fur here, a claw there, or even bones. Ollivander had asked to pick one, but based on what ? He didn't even know what each of those things were, or to what use he should pick one.
After a few seconds of consideration, he simply went for a small claw-like thing. Immediately, Ollivander abandoned his solemn air to become the obsessed madman once again. "Ah, interesting! The Ashwinder fang it is, then." He took the fang from Harry's hands and told him "Come back in a few hours, and I guarantee you that you shall have a wand, Mr. Potter." And he went back to his back shop.
Once again, silence filled the entryway, until Snape broke it.
"Why can't anything be simple and easy when you are concerned, Potter?"
Since they had to wait for "a few hours", it couldn't be helped anymore, they had to go fetch Harry's clothes.
It was obvious that the boy hated clothes and, while he liked his body to be covered, Snape could relate in a way. Clothes could be an unnecessary bother, with this whole idea of fashion and such absurdities in which his former companions passionately delved into. It was also terribly easy to fall into ridicule in matters of clothing, a ridicule that the Headmaster so liked to be an example of.
He continued on his thoughts for a while, mindlessly walking to Madame Malkin's shop, Potter in tow, until said Potter interrupted the flow of his mind with a question.
"Sir, what was this scar Ollivander spoke about?"
He immediately stopped in his track, a bit dumbfounded by the question. "Have Minerva and the others told you nothing about all this?"
"I overheard them talk about something like that, but it didn't seem very important at the time. The subject never came back afterwards."
Shit. Sometimes, he despised the wizarding population as a whole. Those people seemed to have no clue whatsoever on what is pertinent or important. And now, because the other bunch of morons didn't do their job, he, the dark wizard, ex-follower of the Dark Lord, had to explain the last wizarding war Harry fucking Potter. Oh, the irony.
Moreover, the boy was anything but normal. He might now act as a polite individual, – because, obviously, having someone be polite is more important than having them understand their place in society, according to Minerva McGonagall – but Snape had seen inside his mind. There was a beast dwelling there. The boy was dangerous, probably more than any of them imagined, especially considering how he had grown until now, and how abnormality was underrated by wizarding people. Therefore, Severus Snape had no intention of being reminded as the man who would be responsible for the rise of the next Dark Lord.
"I see…" He sighed. He hated his job. "Do you know what purebloods are ?"
"No, Sir."
And so began the long retelling of the dreadful events of the last wizarding war. The blood status question, the isolationist's side rise, the Dark Lord's rise, the skirmishes, the full-blown battles. The difficult questions.
"Excuse me, Sir, but you keep saying "the Dark Lord". I'm not sure about what the 'Dark' part is supposed to mean here, but I know that 'Lord' is not an actual name, it is a title. So, what was his true name?"
Damned children with their damned questions. He wasn't afraid of the name, at least, not in the way the other British simpletons were. A name was a name, it was absurd to fear a name. What he feared, however, was the man behind the name. And the man was still alive.
Many of his former colleagues weren't so sure about the fact, they interpreted the signs they got as mere echoes of what once was. Well, the sane ones, at least, the others never thought He had ever died. Not that they could've done anything about it from behind the walls of Azkaban.
However, most of them were also quite superstitious, and none of them had spoke the name. He had, though, and what happened through his arm had confirmed any doubts that remained. He was still here. Alive or not.
If give the choice, he would have never spoke the name again, but the boy needed to know. Still, they were right in the middle of Diagon Alley. In other words, the epicentre of the British superstitious morons.
He grabbed Potter by the arm and lead him to a side alley, where they could discuss these matters more freely. The boy certainly seemed confused by the apparently sudden and outlandish decision.
"Wh… Hey, sorry Sir, but why did you take me here?"
"Listen carefully now, Mr Potter. You must understand that what we are discussing right now is still a very… sensitive subject. Many people died at the time, but that's almost secondary, almost a detail. To speak about the deaths wouldn't, couldn't, convey to you the sheer terror that dominated the country then. Because that was the whole point of the war: Terror. The man that I have referred to as the Dark Lord lived for one goal only, which was to be feared." He took a pause to assess Potter's reaction. The boy's reactions were difficult to read, as he rarely showed any facial cues of his emotions. Still, it was easy to tell when he was interested, as he currently was.
"To this effect, the Dark Lord experimented many things, and this also probably started as an experiment, although, in the end, it became his essence to masses. For this man managed to transform his very name into terror. A terror so deep and irrational that, even now, almost nobody dare speak the name. They panic, they lose all composure. As such, you can probably imagine what could've happened if I had said it earlier, while we were in the crowded alley?"
It was a rhetorical question, but the boy still answered it. "I… guess, Sir? Maybe?"
Not a very satisfactory answer, but it would do.
"Anyway. The man name's was Voldemort." The last word was pronounced in a whisper, which ended in a sort of cut breath, cut by the pain coming from his arm.
"Voldemort?" Harry repeated in disbelief. "Sorry Sir, but I don't find it fearsome at all."
"Of course you don't, but you are a special case there. On many accounts."
The boy raised an eyebrow, something he didn't do often.
"What do you mean Sir?" He apparently had spoken before thinking, for, after a second, added "Does it have anything to do with this scar business?"
"It has indeed. The war had openly started in 1970, when the small gang known as the Knights of Walpurgis became the full-fledged guerilla fighters known as the Death Eaters. From this point onwards, it had continued for ten years, always increasing in intensity. Yet, it was clear that the war wouldn't continue for another ten years. The Dark Lord was winning. Until the night of Halloween of 1981."
Potter stopped him, asking for a precision. "Excuse-me, Sir, if I recall, Halloween is the day between Summer and Fall, is that right? At the end of… September?"
Snape's sneer came back full force for a second. He didn't like being interrupted, at all. He would let it pass this time.
"Yes, that's right. You'd better remember such dates, magic can almost be felt in the air then. Which certainly contributed to the night's events, by the way. Now, don't interrupt me so rudely, it is unbecoming and irritating." He cleared his voice, preparing himself to recount the events of The Night.
"The night of the 1st October 1981, the Dark Lord had decided to go on a hunt. He rarely did so, at this point, since he had an entire army to do his biding for him, but when he did, it always meant that a disaster would unleash upon the world. This night, however, he wouldn't commit mass murder, or such atrocities, this night he would go alone, for a single target. You."
This time, the boy's eyebrows raised, and his eyes widened. Not unexpected, although from Snape's point of view, it was still the easy part to retell.
"Do not ask me why, for I cannot say, but he came for you this night. Obviously, you weren't alone. Your parents were there. Your father died first." Good riddance. Although he wouldn't say it out loud. Not now, at least. "Then… Then he killed your mother." Despite his many years of training as a Master Occlumens, his voice almost imperceptibly cracked on the last syllable. Hopefully, Potter wouldn't notice. "On what followed, we can only speculate the why and the how, but here are the facts: You lived, and He died. The problem, you see, is that, beyond the fact that the Dark Lord was killed by a mere toddler, the Dark Lord was majorly known for his mastery and prolific use of a spell known as the Killing Curse. This curse, as the name implies, is made to kill, with the specificity that no protection, no enchantment, decoy can stop it. If it touches you, you die."
He marked a pause to let the implications sink in the boy's mind, then went on, the narration made even more intense by the suspense carried through his drawling voice.
"Yet you live. When you were found, you seemed perfectly unscathed, except for a single scar on your forehead, a scar that looked like a thunderbolt, or, as the more scholarly gifted noted, like a rune. Thus came the story of the boy who, by means unknown, not only killed the Dark Lord, but also survived the killing curse. From this point onward, you were known, and still are known, as the Boy-Who-Lived. As for your scar… I guess the superstitious fools that are wizarding folks will have to do without it. The conclusion to the whole affair being that every child, if not the world, at least in western Europe, know your name, especially here, in the British Isles, where you are a living legend."
His throat began to be soar after so much speaking. No wonder he was usually as silent as possible, it was such a bother to speak for so long. How Lucius could do it for hours in front of the Wizengammot was quite the feat.
"Do you have any other questions, Potter?"
The boy gazed into nothing for a moment, until he pulled himself together, looked at his teacher: "Yes, Sir, I have two."
"Go on then, ask."
"While I'll certainly take a moment to register all those information, there's something I don't understand. I how did I end up in the forest? I don't really recall anything before that, and I'm still not sure I'm human. Were my parents like me? Did I get lost after Voldemort's attack?"
The casual use of the name made Snape shudder slightly. "No, your parents weren't like you. You definitely are a unique case. As for how you ended up in the forest, I don't know. You were with your mother's family, and you disappeared one day." Let's let it at this. He had heavy doubts about the Dursley's innocence, but he would never be able to confirm it anyway.
"That's… not very helpful. My other question is, which side of the war were you on, Sir?"
Damned children and their damned questions.
The terrible discussion had finally ended, with hopefully no tragic mistake on Snape's side. Anything else on the matter would be discussed with the Headmaster, for, as much as he could a pushover sometimes, the man's apparent naivete only matched his own analytical mind.
Thus had they continued their way to Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. As they were about to enter, Snape stopped dead in his tracks, his hand coming to Harry's torso to stop him too.
A few meters away from them, a young blond boy was coming out of the shop, where a tall man, just as blond as the boy, was waiting for him.
It was trouble. Lucius Malfoy was a hard to fool man, and an avid politician, while Harry here was a wild child barely accustomed to his new world. The precautions Severus had taken not to fuck everything up, earlier, would be for nothing if the two of them met.
Snape took Harry by the arm, had the two of them take a few step back, and instructed in a low voice: "I need you to obey to me, Potter, and we don't have time for questions or explanations. I'll keep your suitcase," He lifted the aforementioned suitcase up. It was a bottomless suitcase they had purchased it earlier, since Snape refused to be overloaded with Harry's supplies like a muggle. "and you will go first. Inside the shop, ask for five school robes and two casual wizarding robes. Understood?"
The boy simply nodded and left for the shop. When he was past Lucius, who hadn't even thrown a look at him, Severus took a step forward to greet his old friend and his godson.
"Good afternoon, Lucius."
His deep, drawling voice couldn't be mistaken with anyone else's, and both Malfoys immediately turned on their heels, any discussion between them cut short by his arrival.
"Uncle Severus!" Was the first joyful exclamation, punished by a slight, innocuous tap on Draco's head with his cane.
Lucius tutted "Draco, please act in a dignified way, especially in public."
The boy took a sheepish look for a second, albeit, the next second, his back was straight and his head straight.
"Sorry Father, it was undignified of me."
Lucius didn't look at his son, his eyes fixed on Severus. Doing so, even if his son turned to look at his face, the boy would only see the serious face of his father, while, in truth, the other side of said face showed a discreet, although proud, wry smile.
Severus hoped that the act was due to the outdoors context, that the man showed his proud smiles to his son, once in a while. Otherwise, it would blow over at some point, and his own years of teaching the brat at Hogwarts would be… long.
"How are you Severus?" Lucius eyes quickly went on the suitcase, then back on Severus's face. "Are you here for business? One could think you are going on a trip, with this bottomless suitcase in hand. If they didn't know that Hogwarts' school year starts in less than a week."
"I am well, Lucius. And you are right, I'm here for business, but I not preparing for a trip. I am accompanying a new student through the alley to gather his school supplies."
As it could've been expected, Lucius raised a surprised eyebrow. "Are you, indeed? Forgive me, Severus, but I certainly didn't expect this."
A playful smirk drew itself on Severus's lips, as he answered: "Lucius, I will be teaching your son in a few days. Are you implying that I am not a good caretaker?"
The answer elicited a small laugh from his friend. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm implying. Although I'm even more astonished by the fact that they would choose you. Don't they usually reserve the task the muggle-loving bunch, like McGonagall?"
Knowing perfectly well where the conversation was headed, Severus wasted no time in defusing what was to come.
"Usually, yes. But the child I'm accompanying isn't a muggleborn, he's a half-blood orphan from the war."
The magical words, no pun intended, had the expected effect. It was subtle, but Severus knew his old friend well enough to know when he lost interest in something. And no better way for him to lose interest than to mention half-bloods.
Purebloods interested him, for obvious reasons, and an orphan pureblood would've interested him even more, since it might have meant a way to get more political power. Muggleborns interested him too, in a way, since it always was a good start for passionate rants. Half-bloods, however, were of no particular interest to him. If purebloods were meant to rule, then they needed a class to rule over and, sometimes, elevate. No more, no less.
"I see, how tragic." He never could've said that in a flatter tone. He still continued the conversation, to be polite. "Then, where do you think this young ward of yours will be sorted?"
The question took Severus by surprise. The truth was that, paradoxically enough given his status as a professor, he hadn't even thought about Potter's sorting. Probably because, until this day, he had simply assumed the boy would be sorted into Gryffindor. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't so sure anymore.
The boy could be somewhat impulsive, bordering boldness, but never quite so, nor even rash. In other words, not your standard Gryffindor material. Rather, his impulsiveness came from his curiosity. That he was. Would he be a Ravenclaw then? What about his ambition or cleverness? Severus' reflex had been to dismiss those qualities, given the boy's social skills. But cleverness isn't only about manners and politics, and Potter had proved to be an excellent escapist during the last month.
As Severus was about to quickly review Harry's Hufflepuff qualities, a shriek of horror resonated from inside Malkin's shop.
Always the stoic aristocrat, Lucius allowed himself a sarcastic remark: "Dear Merlin! I hope your ward survived the banshee scream."
Severus rather hoped the shopkeeper had survived her encounter with the barely civilized monster usually known as "the Boy-Who-Lived". His deadpan expression and lack of reaction to Lucius' joke caught the latter off guard.
"I see… I don't know what's happening here, Severus, and I won't take more of your time today. Only know that if I ever learn that Dumbledore has decided to give asylum to a werewolf or any sort of similar abomination, there will be consequences." While the princely man formulated his threat, shrieks of horror continued to sporadically punctuate his words, accompanied by noises of struggle. "Good day, Severus." Another small, "Good day, uncle Severus.", coming from his side.
Severus nodded, "Good day, Lucius. Good day, Draco." Then rushed inside the shop.
Immediately, he saw a sobbing witch in working robes, curled up in foetal position, screaming in panic here and there. He raised his head a bit, turning it to look at the rest of the room, at another screaming witch. She ran and spun around in total chaos, hitting the mannequins as they went through her frantic run. At some point, he recognized the madwoman to be Madam Malkin, and diagnosed the source of her madness as a grass snake firmly hooked on her hand.
This diagnostic made no sense, however. Any properly trained wizard or witch could easily dispose of a mere snake. No, the source of the general panic probably came from the fact that, in the eye of the storm, stood a dishevelled Harry Potter, his shinning green eyes devoid of glamoured goggles, who was spitting parseltongue orders to his snake. This particular scene certainly explained the occasional "You-Know-Who! You-Know-Who's back!" coming from the sobbing witch's mouth.
Logic wanted that Severus Snape should've been utterly dismayed by the sight. Furious against the boy for being such a nuisance. Appalled by his true nature. Anxious for what he could become. And yet, Severus could only smile. A little smile, admittedly, but a victorious one. A vengeful one.
Here was the supposedly champion of light, sowing chaos and acting like an apprentice Dark Lord, and all he could think was: "Take that, James Potter."
Hi people!
Once again, it took long enough to make this chapter. Honestly, it's mostly because I find this part of the story a bit tedious to write. We're not in Hogwarts, telling the interesting adventures, the plot and the twists. Yet, it's still an important part of the story, and I only hope that, apart for the time it took to write, the writing in itself doesn't suffer from the difficulty I had to find inspiration.
I think next chapters will go smoother, since we're going into the juicy parts, and I've got a lot more ideas for those.
By the way, you might notice that English isn't my first language, one of the many reasons for this fanfic's existence is being a training for me. Never hesitate to point it out if you notice awkward syntax, know the reason and how to correct it. Just know that "That's shit" isn't very useful. However, I don't mind if you do like that guy who said it's a "shit story", but actually explained why. If you want to criticize, do as harshly as you want, but at least do it fully.
Now, I'd like to answer to tikisix's review, which will be long (a long answer for a long review) and might not really interest all of you.
First of all, I didn't intend to be insulting in anyway against autistic people. The first reason being that I'm on the spectrum too, and not particularly into masochism or shooting at allies. Still, there seems to have been a misunderstanding.
I think this misunderstanding comes from the fact that I said that Dumbledore ignores "emotional factors in his plans". By saying that, I don't say he doesn't feel emotions like a (magical) robot. I say he doesn't always know what to do with other people's emotions, and what causes them. So, I still maintain the idea that the guy's actions can be seen as autistic.
And I insist on that. Can be seen. He is obviously not so in cannon, nor is he a sociopath in cannon. But I decided to interpret his actions as such and have my slightly autistic Dumbledore, just like other authors decided to have their sociopath Dumbledore. I remind that the inability to make clear plans is a DSM-V criteria of ASPD (the acronym for sociopathy's true clinical name). Not very Dumbledore-like, yet some people decided to paint him as such.
That being said, I don't say that Dumbledore isn't emotional. Quite the contrary. As I listed his mistakes, many of them, especially the very important ones, are caused, and/or result in emotional behaviour.
He deeply loves Grindelwald, and as deeply regrets his sister's death. And, as I pointed out before, he tries to redeem himself by strictly following a very strict set of rules. Which is something a lot of autistic people do to cope with their environment, follow strict binary rules. In Dumbledore's case, his sense of Good/Evil, Light/Dark.
He then essentializes Tom Riddle as Evil and treat him as such from the beginning to the end. Even denying him the ability to love, which is a bit dubious, considering that love doesn't exist as a singular phenomenon, and philosophers still fuck their own brain trying to define it. But I digress.
And the other examples I gave (the Dursleys, Cedric's death, avoid his eyes, occlumency with Snape) can be interpreted as a lack of Theory of Mind. In other words, it can be interpreted as a dysfunction of emotional empathy, that he generally compensates with a cognitive empathy. Generally it works, but sometimes it fails catastrophically.
Also, he does have a very strong with an animal, being Fawkes. And he is sometimes socially awkward. The cannon wants us to believe it's intentional. I choose to believe he simply does as I do: He takes the first comfortable clothes that comes under his hand when he wakes up.
Anyway, tikisix, I hope that I could reassure you a bit on this point. It wasn't meant to be insulting, and any exaggeration was purely intended, and will be purely intended, as a comical effect.