Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.
Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar
Harry awoke on July 6th with a grin still plastered on his face. He had had an excellent dream, featuring all of the female Quidditch players at Hogwarts (Katie Bell was featured heavily), and—perhaps unsurprisingly—starring Annie Oshkosh, the beautiful daughter of his landlord, odd-job-assigner, and animagus teacher. He would have to step carefully around Morris, Harry thought, but Annie had seemed to be attracted to him, and he resolved not to let such a chance pass him by.
After sorting out his...situation, Harry got out of bed and showered. Gadsden wouldn't need to eat for another few days, and Hedwig would probably hang around until hunting later that night, so Harry was the only one of the three who needed to eat breakfast. As it was already 9 AM, he only had three hours to shovel down as much food as he could, since he would not be able to eat again until breakfast on the 8th, roughly two days away. Harry was not certain why the fasting was necessary (though Remus had mentioned something about the hunger helping him get in touch with his primal side), but he was not particularly worried, as the Dursleys had trained him quite well on how to deal with hunger, thirst, and discomfort in general.
Harry ended up eating breakfast with Annie, who staggered sleepily downstairs about a minute after him. Both teens heeded her father's advice, and ate far more than either would normally have for breakfast. Feeling over-full and bloated after breakfast, Harry and the Annie engaged in a bit of light conversation with Morris; by mutual unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the goodnight kiss (such as it was) in front of her father, though when he was distracted by a friend's greeting, Annie shot Harry a sultry smirk and a saucy wink. Harry just barely managed to hide his blush before Morris turned his attention back to the teens. Morris, of course, let the teens think they were being sneaky, though they were in fact being quite obvious to all of the adults (they had, after all, been teens once themselves). He decided to stay out of it—his daughter could take care of herself, and he had a good feeling about Harry.
Morris told Harry that they'd discuss some of the work he wanted done the day after the dark moon; Harry wouldn't be expected to get anything done until the weekend, once the fatigue of the ritual had largely passed and he had a bit of time to get acquainted with the town. Harry was grateful for the grace period; however, he did have something he wanted to ask.
"Sir," Harry began, before Morris cut in—"Remember, Harry, call me Morris"—"I noticed yesterday that you seemed to, well, notice my scar. You were the first person in America to have any sort of reaction to it. Why is that?"
"Ah, I was wondering when you would ask me about that," Morris replied, sitting back in his chair. "I promise I'll tell you, but it should wait until after the dark moon—I don't want to accidentally influence the outcome of the ritual by telling you prematurely." He must have seen Harry's look of consternation, because he quickly amended "It's nothing bad, though, so don't worry about it. You have my word, as soon as you describe your ritual dream to me, I'll be able to tell you. I won't know for sure until then, anyway."
Harry didn't notice, focused as he was on Morris, but Annie's eyes suddenly widened in a flash of dawning realization. As soon as Harry's attention left Morris, he gave his daughter a pointed look and a slight—but to Annie, quite clear in meaning—shake of the head. She nodded subtly, agreeing not to mention her thoughts to Harry.
"Well, if that's all," Morris said, standing up, "it's 10:30, so it's high time to start getting ready for the lunch rush. I guess you two aren't very hungry, so just remember not to eat anything past noon. If you're not hungry now, you won't get hungry by noon, not for real, anyway—don't let your mind trick you into thinking you need to eat something right under the wire. And Annie, try not to get Harry into too much trouble."
Rolling her eyes, Annie grabbed Harry's hand and dragged him out of the booth. "Let's go, green-eyes," she chirped happily. "Today, I'm gonna teach you how to drive a Jeep."
Harry sunk into the bath with a groan, and though back over the day's events. The Jeep had been a relic of the second world war (complete with tell-tale bullet holes), and though it still ran astonishingly well, the suspension felt like it had not been serviced since the little truck had been brought back from Berlin after the war. Annie had proved to be a surprisingly effective driving instructor, despite the fact that she should not have been allowed to drive in the first place (the minimum age for getting a driver's license was sixteen). Despite the bumpy ride, Annie's enthusiasm had carried the day, as she taught Harry to shove the truck across even the roughest off-road terrain. He certainly wasn't about to get a driver's license, but by the end of the day, he had learned enough to be able to drive in a pinch; Harry was glad, as it seemed like it would be a useful skill (especially in America, where transportation appeared to be completely dominated by the automobile—hadn't they ever heard of trains?).
Annie cleverly made sure to keep them out past the dinner rush, so that they wouldn't be tempted by the enticing scents of the Great White Bear Inn's deliciously greasy pub fare. Eventually, they had ended up walking along the treeline near the parked Jeep, talking about magic and school. Each thought the other was saying the most fascinating things (in retrospect, it occurred to Harry that this was surely a sign of mutual attraction, as though their not-so-subtle glances at each other all day long had not been enough of a clue). After the sun went down, with only Harry's wand and the headlights of the idling Jeep for light, the two decided it was best they head back to the inn, lest Morris get worried about them. Plus, they were both in need of a shower, as it had rained early that morning, and the Jeep was open-topped (thus, they were covered in mud).
Right before the teens went into the inn, Harry performed a few quick cleaning charms; that sort of household-type spell really was not his strong suit, but Annie was quite impressed, having feared that her purple tee-shirt had been stained beyond recovery. She gave him a quick kiss—little more than a peck, really—on the lips in appreciation for his efforts, and bounced inside, leaving Harry blushing stupidly before he got his head back on straight and followed in her wake.
Though the cleaning charm had removed the most offensive stains and clumps of dried mud, both teens were still quite filthy, and had immediately gone to their respective rooms to bathe. Now alone with his thoughts, Harry mused that Annie had now kissed him twice. Should he try kissing her? Should he wait for her to show more interest? He just didn't know. Part of him wanted to mirror-call Remus and Sirius, but he didn't want to deal with the inevitable—though clearly good-natured—teasing that would result from asking those two reprobates about girls. Sighing, he gave it up as a bad job, and decided that he would just play it by ear.
After his bath, Harry plunked down onto his bed, and took out a few charms and transfiguration texts that he had bought to supplement his school books. He figured that many of the "odd-jobs" with which Morris would task him would involve the repair of buildings and equipment, so he thought it would be a good idea to brush up on spells that would make his work easier.
It was later—around 10:30 PM—when there was a knock on his door. Harry opened it to see Annie standing in what was likely her sleepwear, or at least what she preferred to wear around her own rooms when it was warm out. His breath caught in his throat as he took in her appearance; she wore only a light blue tank-top and a pair of red short-shorts. Her clothes were quite form-fitting, and Harry, in his basketball shorts and tee-shirt, suddenly felt baggy and ridiculous.
Finding his voice (after what seemed to be an eternity), he invited her in, looking away from her swaying hips and desperately trying to think of anything calming, and even more desperately trying to forget that he had noticed that she didn't appear to be wearing a bra under her tank-top. Annie stood awkwardly in the center of his room, and after a beat, Harry realized that she probably felt nearly as self-conscious as he did. Finally, she broke the silence.
"What's up, invisible man?" she asked in a cheery, forced-casual voice.
Harry smiled gratefully as the tension broke, and they quickly melted back into the easy banter that they had managed all day. He explained that he was doing a bit of studying in anticipation of repair work, and then provided a few demonstrations of the color-changing charm (which he would use to "paint" things) and the reparo charm.
"What else can you do?" she asked, enjoying the demonstration, but she was clearly not that impressed with what were—though quite useful—admittedly on the level of parlor tricks.
Harry grinned, knowing exactly what to show her. "You'll like this," he said. "It's my favorite spell, and it saved me and my godfather from dementors this past school year."
He cast a quick silencing charm on the room, flourished his wand, and called out "Expecto patronum!"
The radiant silver-white stag circled the room, trailing motes of glittering light. Annie's eyes were wide with awe; Harry was more than a little pleased that he had managed to impress her. Once it was clear that there was no danger present, the stag walked to the teens, exuding a warm, hopeful aura. Harry reached out a hand, petting the stag on its flank, while it nuzzled Annie's outstretched fingers with its nose.
"Hey, Prongs," Harry said quietly. He kept the stag in the room for another minute or so, both teens just basking in its aura, before allowing it to dissipate. After that show, it was Annie's turn to struggle to find words, as she sat down heavily on the armchair.
"That was incredible, Harry," she whispered, her dark eyes shining with awe. "It felt so..." she trailed off, gesturing helplessly.
"Yeah, I know," Harry softly. "Everyone's patronus is different. Mine is a stag, like my dad's animagus form. He and my godfather became animagi at school because Remus was a werewolf, and they wanted to keep him company during the full moon. The gave each other nicknames, and his..."
"...was Prongs," Annie finished quietly. "I'm glad you showed me that, Harry."
"Me too," Harry replied, allowing the conversation to drift into a comfortable silence as the emotions brought to the surface by the patronus faded.
"I was feeling a bit worried about the ritual tomorrow," he said after a while. "Do you know what we have to do?"
"Yes; it isn't too difficult, but it will be tiring," she said, glad to be talking about something less emotional than the patronus. "Basically, my dad will teach us all a chant to sing, along with a simple dance. We do the dance around the fire outside the wigwam while chanting, then sit around the fire inside the wigwam, which has some special ingredients thrown into it. I don't know what exactly they are, but we'll basically end up having a sort of hallucination as we fall asleep. Our dreams will give us clues about our animal forms."
"I'm glad I'm doing it this way," Harry noted. "It took my dad and Sirius almost two years to manage the transformation, and it required hundreds of transfigurations and a lot of studying their animals. This way seems a lot simpler."
"It makes sense, when you think about it," Annie replied. "Animals don't study things, and they don't break things down into processes. If you're trying to merge with your animal, it is much easier to do it in a way that the animal is more comfortable with."
The conversation lulled into a silence again, and both teens seemed to be trying to look at anything other than each other. This, of course, failed almost immediately, and after each snuck in a few subtle glances, their eyes met, and both simultaneously burst into laughter. The tension drained again, and Annie got up to leave, preparing to say goodnight.
As she put her hand on the doorknob, Harry put his hand on hers, sending a warm thrill through both, and stopping her from opening the door. She turned to face him, cocking her eyebrow—the ball was clearly in his court.
"Wait," he said quietly. "I haven't said goodnight yet."
Before his Gryffindor courage (which somehow turned out to be much more useful in fighting basilisks and demons than for dealing with girls) ran out, Harry pressed his lips lightly against hers. Moments later, one of her hands had grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, while the other slid up to the back of his neck. Harry's hands ended up on her waist, which he felt was a safe place to put them.
"Goodnight," they sighed together as they pulled apart. Harry watched as she backed through the door, not taking their eyes off each other. The click of the door shutting snapped Harry out of his reverie, but it took a full minute before he moved from his spot by the door. He stumbled over to the armchair and sat down heavily, noting with pleasure that it still held some of Annie's warmth. After sitting and daydreaming a little more, he saw Gadsden slithering out from under the bed. Hedwig, he knew, was out hunting, but Gadsden might have distracted Annie's attention from him, and he was glad that Gadsden had stayed out of sight.
"Thanks for not interrupting, Gadsden," he hissed, running his hand through his hair. "Girls are difficult enough as it is."
"I am surprised that you did not mate with the female," Gadsden hissed back, clearly not fully understanding the nature of the interaction. "You both seem to be mature. Maybe she is preparing to lay an egg for you."
"Gadsden, at some point, you and I are going to have a very awkward conversation," Harry replied, amused at the snake's straightforward—and both socially and anatomically incorrect—ideas about human mating rituals. "But for right now, I'm going to bed. I've got a big day tomorrow."
Harry took off his glasses, swept his charms and transfiguration books off his bed, and climbed under the covers. Despite his fatigue, sleep would be a long time coming, as his mind was busy thinking about a dark-haired girl in a tank-top. Just before he finally fell asleep, he grinned in anticipation, knowing that whatever his conscious mind could cook up, it would have nothing on his actual dreams.
Author's Note
Pisces heiress Black asked an interesting question, the answer(s) to which will dominate my Author's Note for this chapter—specifically, whether Harry's fame was contained to Europe and Eurasia. Indeed it was, and for several reasons (all of which I have more or less made up for the purposes of plot- and world-building, but which I feel make sense, or at least enough sense for my fine readers to throw me some willing suspension of disbelief).
First, consider that Harry became famous for something poorly-understood and entirely uncorroborated that happened in 1981, and this was well before the internet (not that the British magical publications would be available online). Basically, Dumbledore (or somebody) claimed that Harry had survived the Killing Curse, and that was taken as the truth in Britain, without any investigation whatsoever; what's more, Dumbledore refused to produce the boy, so the world has only his word (the details of which must remain secret, for the Greater Good, of course) that Harry is even alive, or that Voldemort is even dead. We're only aware of two major periodicals in magical Britain (the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler), and they are both little better than tabloids—how often do people around the world read British tabloids?
Second, all the stories printed about Harry are little more than rank speculation at best, and libel at worst—America being a very litigious society, no paper (at least in the 1980's and 1990's, when journalism was considered a responsible and respectable profession) would risk a lawsuit by printing or syndicating such obviously unsubstantiated bullshit.
Third, in my story, American magical society is much more intermingled with non-magical society, which means that they're already keeping track of what's happening in the muggle world—the average American wizard isn't going to take the time to also find out the minor details of how some terrorist accidentally blew himself up.
Fourth, relations between the magical communities of America and Britain are frosty, at best (in stark contrast to the relations between America and Britain in general), due in no small part to the fact that the government of magical Britain is absurdly, blatantly corrupt. Americans generally believe that "people get the government they deserve"—thus, if the British magical community isn't going to fix its government, it must mean that they're okay with it, which means that the society in general is equally guilty. They certainly didn't deserve to win the war against Voldemort, and when they did by sheer luck, their whitewashing afterward was deplorable and extremely damaging to their society. As such, magical Americans took a dim view of the happenings across the pond.
Fifth (and somewhat in the same vein), the United States had—relatively recently, throughout Voldemort's decades-long rise to power—just gone through significant social change, finally (at least legally) granting equal rights to all of its citizens. Fresh from the civil rights movement, American politicians did not want their names associated with supporting either side (the obviously-bigoted Ministry of Magic or the genocidally-bigoted Death Eaters), so contact with the British magical community dropped significantly, as it became politically expedient to remain neutral on the issue.
Sixth (and finally), magical Britain was and is a very small community, compared to magical America. Considering the fact that America was busy with the Cold War at the time (with espionage, sabotage, and proxy-war-advising being done by wizards on both sides), the civil war in magical Britain was little more than small potatoes. The Americans simply figured that if Voldemort won, the British government (to which the Ministry of Magic reports, despite the rather "hands-off" approach) would be forced to request American aid, and American special forces wizards would simply assassinate Voldemort and everyone bearing his mark. If Voldemort lost, then it was a moot point. Terrible though Voldemort undoubtedly was, he wasn't leading armies and seriously upsetting the global balance of power the way Grindelwald had, so he simply was not really worthy of notice.
I should point out that I don't hate magical Britain, and it isn't my intent to portray magical America as some glittering paradise of political-correctness (if not tolerance), but it is difficult to take seriously the canon Ministry of Magic and British magical society in general, which Rowling basically portrays as a bunch of rabid sheep who only listen to the most recent and most outlandish bleating of the loudest and richest animal in the barn. In HPatLS, magical Britain is somewhat insular and intolerant ("the only thing worse than not being a pureblood is being a foreigner"), and lost a lot of international goodwill because of it, while magical America is roughly analogous to, well...America, and in the 90's, everyone loved America.