I need to extend this one, I know. but I wanted to share what I had... in which Harry Potter, as an abused child, romances as orphans, especially unhappy orphans often do about his parents and comes to a surprising conclusion based on what he knows.
Qapla, Harry Potter
When Harry Potter was 9 he was permitted out of his cupboard to wait on Dudley when he was watching TV. And Dudley loved StarTrek.
He never got any of the moral messages, of course, but he liked any fighting there might be.
Harry caught a good bit of what was on, and came to a remarkable conclusion.
Plainly there was a reason for keeping him in a cupboard and treating him badly; he was plainly a Klingon warrior who was being tested for his fitness to enter the Academy.
He read every piece of fiction he could about Star Trek Klingons, and even came across the Role Playing Game, 'Federation and Empire' in the secondhand bookshop he frequented when he could. He saved up the coins he found down the side of the sofa and in the pockets of Vernon's trousers when he did the laundry, once being lucky enough to retrieve a fiver, to buy 'The Klingon Dictionary' so he could learn his native language.
The roleplaying game explained why the first Klingons humanity had met did not have the cranial decorations; 'fusions' had been made to deal with other races. Plainly he was in a testing situation because he was an improper fusion, and the scar showed where some noble cranial ridges. Or perhaps he was a half-breed, and the scar was the remnant of having the tell-tale ridge removed to hide his noble birth. That could explain a lot. And naturally his uncle and aunt represented the human part of his heritance, and considered a pure-bred Klingon to be a freak.
It was when he had been thrown into his cupboard hard enough to knock his head and become a little delirious when Harry broke through the binding on his core in his desire to be normal.
That Harry's idea of normal was as a normal Klingon was unfortunate for the soul splinter, since the half-delirious transfiguration forced it out as he grew cranial ridges, and made his hair grow flat, straight, long and lustrous.
Petunia had hysterics.
Harry, once the delirium had passed, realised that it would present a danger to himself and his noble Klingon family to show his true appearance at school, and managed to control his hair, since he was plainly a psionic, to brush half of it forward over his scar, and reduced it to collar length. Psionics were rare, perhaps he was part Vulcan as well. That could be another reason he had been isolated. His eyesight improved dramatically as well. So, he had passed one rite of passage and had been rewarded for it.
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It is not unusual for orphans denied knowledge of their background to make up fantastic stories about their parents, and to imagine noble relatives, jealous kidnappers, royal intrigues and so on. To imagine noble Klingon parents might have been a fantasy which faded with the patent lack of evidence for the same, had not the released core allowed Harry access to his metamorphagus powers. This, to Harry, was living proof of his heritance, and in light of the horror and fear shown by his very human aunt, that was confirmation. He was banned from Dudley's TV suppers thereafter, plainly an attempt to rob him of his heritance. This was something Kharyk, as he now called himself, must put up with for now. Until he came into his full power. Revenge, he knew from his cultural self-education, was a dish best tasted cold. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.
"Qajunpaq, Kharyk," he promised himself. He chose that over 'toDuj' the more standard word for courage, as it implied the fire of a volcano, and he must see himself as quiescent like a volcano, a quiet mountain of implacability ready to erupt when the time was right. In the meantime he must study Shakespeare, as one of his race's greatest artists. Naturally, the texts would be better in the original Klingon, but one could not have everything, and doubtless there had been some linguistic drift since Shakespeare's time, in Klingon as in English.
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The school visit to the Tower of London was mandatory, and if his packed lunch consisted of one piece of dry bread and a rather elderly apple, a young Klingon does not complain, and learns to deal with discomfort. And to live off the land. Harry was a skilled pickpocket and good at legerdemain in order to supplement his meagre diet. He found raw bacon less unpalatable than raw sausages, as readily snagged snacks from the shop when accompanying Petunia to carry things for her, plainly a training exercise in foraging. Then he discovered European sausages like pepperoni and knew he had got it right. Peppered herring seemed suitable too; food should bite back.
He had some salami to go with his dry bread, which had been all he had been able to score when Petunia shopped for something nice for Diddykins to take.
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Harry enjoyed the Tower. The weapons were educational, even if not, obviously, as good as a Bat'leth. He was in a bit of a dream as they were herded across London by tube back towards Waterloo Station.
To be fair to the teachers, herding forty or more ten-year-olds on the tube is a nightmare, even when not including a young Klingon with dreams of greatness. Dudley Dursley was causing enough trouble boasting that his dad would build him a rack in the cellar to put the Freak on. That was one disturbed boy, thought the parent-escort, no wonder his cousin, the scrawny one, whose name no-body could remember, was a trouble-maker, the Dursleys had plainly mistreated the scrawny one enough to behave badly. But it was no good reporting it, because Vernon plainly had the judiciary in his pocket.
Hence, when Harry followed someone he was convinced was a Ferengi, nobody noticed.
The pub the Ferengi went into was sleazy, but then, so were Ferengi, so that was no problem. But the chap went through to the back and tapped some random bricks. A doorway opened and the Ferengi stepped through.
Harry tapped the same bricks, and nothing happened.
He considered.
If he was about to violate Ferengi space, they did appreciate cunning. So he channelled his psionics as he tapped the bricks. That worked, and he followed into a world which seemed to be fresh out of the middle ages.
Some kind of portal or wormhole no doubt.
Harry managed to catch sight of the Ferengi, and followed him to the big marble building. It was guarded by warriors with big axes similar to a Lochaber axe. Harry knew his weapons.
He bowed. Perhaps they were Klingon-Ferengi fusions; and safer to stick to Galanglic.
"May your profits flow as readily as the blood of your enemies," he said, politely, hoping to have got the balance of trade and war correct.
The goblin guards of Gringotts snapped to attention.
"May your own profits leave your foes drowning in anguish at your feet," said one of them. He silently detached himself from guard duty and followed Harry into the bank.
This attention saw Harry being seen immediately by a senior goblin. The guard spoke in his own language, and Harry was glad he had not used Klingon, as this language was clearly different, and not like any Ferengi he had heard spoken before.
"And what may I do for the young warrior?" asked the goblin senior teller.
Harry bowed again, keeping his eyes on the face of the ferengi.
"May your gold be enough to crush your foes," he said. "I am living under the name of Harry Potter at the moment, with relatives who are not pleased about my... heritage. And I can see that you are also hidden here, and I hoped that you might help me to know more about my heritance."
"Harry Potter!" the goblin's ears went up but he managed to keep it a whisper. "You have several vaults with us here, though of course you will only be able to access your trust vault until you are seventeen... do you have a key?"
"No, sir," said Harry, who knew well enough that a warrior who guarded one's wealth was worthy of respect. "I don't have anything of my own."
"Come into my office, and tell me all about it," said the goblin. "My name's Rognat."
Twenty minutes later, as Harry happily ate snacks and drank tea, the goblin was less bemused than some of his fellows might have been, since he was the goblin Harry had been following, who did a lot of transactions in the muggle world, and was fairly au fait with such things as Star Trek.
"There's a lot you need to know, young warrior," he said, wisely deciding not to try to remove all of Harry's illusions. "And one thing is that the name given to your powers here is 'magic' and those who can do it are concealed from the general populace. You will, in due course, go to the school for Human witches and wizards, Hogwarts, which your parents attended."
Harry bounced.
"Am I being trained for Imperial Intelligence?" he asked.
"I... don't have any information on that," said Rognat. "I don't think they'll consider your claim to be a Klingon important though; but they will make you attend. But I can issue you with a new key, if you will do a blood test, and make sure nothing else is taken from your vault."
"Yes, please," said Harry.
"And perhaps it would be as well to behave as if you were human, and hide your warrior nature," suggested Rognat. "I wish we could take you from those freaks of humans and rear you here, but you see, your... powers... destroyed a warlord when you were a baby, after he killed your parents, and it means that when you are old enough to go to Hogwarts, every other witch and wizard will want a part of you."
"I want to train with you," said Harry, wistfully.
"I tell you what, young one," said Rognat, "I'll take you to buy a shrinking trunk with basic living compartments in it, and some books to help you understand the wizards."
"And a book about your society and language?" Harry bounced again.
"Certainly; they call us 'goblins' and are rude enough to call our tongue 'gobbledegook,'" said Rognat.
"Well, I want to learn more," said Harry. "I... I hope I will be given a warrior name one day, I secretly call myself 'Kharyk' but of course I must defer to my elders over what I am named."
Soon he found himself the possessor of a vault key, and his vault paid for a shrinking trunk which shrank, opened and closed by the application of a drop of blood, something no Klingon warrior shrank from. It had a clothes section, a library section, and a somewhat Spartan living section consisting of a living cum sleeping room with something akin to a futon, a tiny bathroom, and something little more than an alcove with a preserving cabinet and a multistove. As he could order via Gringotts through the preserving cabinet, to be delivered by magic, Harry referred to it as the 'replicator.' In the living room was a training dummy and a number of weapons.
Rognat was looking forward to the mayhem a young Klingon might wreak in the Wizarding world.
He promised Harry a Bat'leth for his eleventh birthday.
Harry also had an emergency portkey to Gringotts, and his heir ring, hidden.
"Now we need to catch up with the place you should have been and pretend you were there all along," said Rognat, sniggering. "Oh, my warrior, we shall have some fun."
Harry was amenable to that, and sniggered when the teachers were milling about delivering the rest of the children to their fond parents at Little Whingeing station, and begging the railway police for help, since nobody was quite sure when Harry had gone missing. He stuck his head out of the window and fell from the carriage door as the train was about to go on.
"You left me behind on the train!" he said to the teacher. "You didn't want to take me home, did Uncle Vernon pay you to leave me on the train?"
As this was in front of the railway police it was a very embarrassing moment, and there were questions about why Vernon Dursley would want his nephew left on the train. Petunia had hysterics.
Harry was thrown into his cupboard without food, and told he might expect to be there over the weekend.
Harry did not care. He expanded his trunk, climbed down, and sampled some of the Goblin delicacies he had asked for in addition to the other food. They were plainly Ferengi-Klingon fusions. He sighed happily, and went to bed, the simple futon far more comfortable than the thin cot mattress he was used to. And tomorrow he would be undisturbed to work out with his robot partner, and start to read all the books.
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By the time Harry's letter from Hogwarts came, Harry was able to use his uncle's bulk against him. A year and a half's training with a dummy, a high protein diet, and the implacable belief in his own destiny had wrought wonders. Dudley had stopped playing 'Harry Hunting' when Harry had comprehensively beaten up all four of his gang. Harry had been bleeding badly, and had a broken arm, and had made sure to run away from the gang who hurt a lot, but were not seriously physically damaged, the moment the police care hove in sight. Harry had been taken to the hospital for the broken arm and Dudley had spent the night in a juvenile detention centre before the mysterious forces had made the charges against Dudley go away, and Harry was returned to his supposed home and shoved in his cupboard.
It was, he vowed, the last time Vernon would shove him, and taking the letter from his uncle was sweet.
Vernon, who relied on his bulk to physically intimidate, was not used to being physically intimidated.
"My letter," said Harry, firmly. "And don't try to push me around ever again, you tub of lard; I'm harder than you."
"You can't get away with it!" howled Vernon.
"Why not, uncle?" said Harry. "You got away with beating me up for ten years. Now I'm going to beat you up when you displease me. Might makes right. I'm harder than you are and you trained me to have a higher pain threshold than you do. You really want to test how high your pain threshold is? Shall I burn you the way you burned me when I was still learning to cook? Shall I twist your arm? Shall I stomp on your hand? I got myself some heavy duty work boots last time I snuck out. They have steel toecaps. Fancy me introducing your ribs to them?"
Vernon found it incomprehensible. Petunia stood petrified. Dudley made the mistake of trying to pull Harry off his father, and went flying across the room.
But Petunia could see it was a legitimate martial arts throw, not magic.
"Harry," she said, "Please let your uncle get up. We won't trouble you when you are home for the summer holidays if you don't trouble us."
"Sounds fair," said Harry. "Right; I'm going to stay in Diagon Alley until September, and I will send an owl from the post office there to let the freaks know I'm going to their freak school."
"Why do you call them freaks?" asked Petunia.
"Because they are," said Harry. "Playing games with real power. But I will show them that trying to manipulate one of my birth and heritance is a sorry mistake. I understand that you did what you had to do as my trainers. But now, I am the master."
Petunia, who had some idea what a trained wizard could do, wondered if the brat would get his; or whether Wizarding Britain was about to reap a Harry-shaped whirlwind.
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Part 2
Harry had been to Diagon Alley several times since his first visit, having stolen enough from Vernon for the train. He knew that the Houses in Hogwarts were divided into Romulan, Klingon, Federation and Vulcan, otherwise known as Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, to hide their true nature. And that Gryffindor had fallen below the ideal of honourable warriors who might yet be every bit as sneaky as any damned Romulan. Harry had worked through the first three years of the core curriculum because if he was to re-establish the reputation of his house, he needed to be ahead and free of distractions. He had also discovered that there was enough overlap with arithmancy and mathematics that to be a model mathematics student would get him further; and as his trunk was made with runes, studying runes was a no-brainer. His library compartment was respectably stocked, and included the complete works of Shakespeare and a number of Star Trek novels... uh, history books. He arrived without ado, sent an owl, adding a blistering comment that if he had not stumbled on the freak world already he would have been completely at a loss what to do with that instruction.
He went to see Rognat, who duly presented him with a Bat'leth. Harry was delighted. He tapped the runes to shrink it so he could keep it on him.
"You might be able to use it or any weapon as a focus for spells, young warrior," said Rognat. "But it would be as well to get a wand as well."
"I carved a stick to look like the things the freaks carry," said Harry, shrugging indifferently. "I channel through my finger well enough."
"What a delightful boy you are," said Rognat. He headbutted Harry, who headbutted him back affectionately. Harry went to get some gold from his vault, and set about getting formal uniform gowns, and a couple of gowns for best, just because. The robes for best were based on Klingon over-robes, and he presented drawings to Madam Malkin and left her to interpret them.
He had already converted cash to muggle money to outfit himself; being able to hide it in his trunk, he had no need to worry about it being taken away from him. This included his heavy boots, and he added black jeans, black dress trousers, black dress shirts, black tees, short and long sleeved, and then he found the up-market motorcycle shop.
The many-buckled boots would do for best. Leather trousers were a must. And some of the quilted and padded jackets could be modified to make perfectly adequate light leather armour.
Harry was happy. Finally he could dress as befitted a Klingon lordling.
He put the grey acromantula silk over-robe on over his leather clothing, and nobody could really say he looked like a muggle. And any muggle in the street assumed he was into cosplay and ignored him.
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The bushy haired girl at the station stared at him. They were the only two there so early.
"You're dressed like a Klingon!" she gasped.
Harry smiled at her, glanced around, and moved the hair he had persuaded to grow forward over his cranial projections.
"As you see," he said. "Would you like to be my minion?"
"Did you have surgery? Why would your parents permit that? Why do you want to be a Klingon?"
"No, they are dead, and I am a Klingon. My head grew that way."
Hermione gasped.
"But... but Klingons are..."
"Klingons are hidden from those psionic humans who are given the sop of having it called magic. But those of us in the know have the aid of the Ferengi-Klingon fusions of Gringotts."
Hermione made a strangled noise.
There were surprising and disturbing similarities between Ferengi and Goblins.
"What... what is your name?" she asked.
"I am going by the child name of Harry. Harry Potter," he said. "And you?"
"Hermione Granger," said Hermione, faintly. None of the books mentioning Harry Potter said that he was a Klingon.
"Ah, 'A Winter's Tale.' Better in the original," said Harry.
An hour or so later when he explained how he had been 'trained' and Hermione was ready to weep. This poor boy, hero to the wizarding world was an abuse victim and had dealt with his abuse by becoming a Klingon, doubtless with accidental magic, to account for his harsh upbringing.
Well, if he needed her to be a Klingon with him, she would do so.
And when she learned that he had been left on the doorstep by Albus Dumbledore, her hero-worship of that wizard broke entirely.
For the first time in her life, Hermione questioned authority.
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The noisy red-haired family made Harry wince. The boy about their own age pushed into the carriage.
"Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full," he said.
"Yes," said Harry.
"Cheers," said the red-head, plonking himself down.
"I meant, yes, I mind you sitting here," said Harry. "You have not introduced yourself, and act as if you were somehow entitled to act as you please. I suppose you will be some kind of pure bred... wizard... who considers a few generations of privileged education makes you better than others, purely for birth without the backup of recent deeds. Cite me some of your family deeds and perhaps I will change my mind."
Ron Weasley's ears went red.
"You need not think I am like Malfoy!" he said. "Well, I was looking for Harry Potter."
"I am known as Harry Potter," said Harry.
"You are? Can I see the scar?" said Ron, reaching out to move Harry's hair.
In a trice he was swung round, in a half-nelson, and was being marched out of the carriage. Harry used his power to sling the redhead's trunk after him.
"And stay out, you rude, entitled little snot!" said Harry.
It was a defining moment for Ron, who would never have thought that his behaviour was at all like that of Malfoy.
"You did magic! And wandlessly!" said Hermione, bouncing in her seat.
"Oh, a little telekinesis is not difficult," said Harry. "I haven't bothered with one of their wands, which has too many tracking devices built into it. I can perform any of its supposed functions with pure mind control. I'll teach you, if you are to be my minion,"
"Thank you," said Hermione, meekly. She had expected to be well ahead of her fellows, but the casual and controlled throwing of a trunk by pure magic had subdued her somewhat.
"It is also important for us to remain within the etiquette of the freaks," said Harry. "As far as I can determine, they consider magic a replacement for all things, including physical exercise. A good Klingon uses any and all resources which are to hand. I will teach you to take care of yourself, and we will run daily. I got my first Bat'leth from Rognat, who runs my account," he added, and he was also bouncing.
"I've done some fencing, and I do keep fit," volunteered Hermione. "I've never used a Bat'leth, however."
"Well, we can learn together," said Harry. "Did you read this book?" he took his trunk from his pocket, enlarged it, and opened to the library, calling for the book on etiquette.
"Oh my!" said Hermione, salivating.
"I have living quarters in there as well," said Harry. "And a training dummy. It is not sentient," he added. "The replicator is useful, too. My guardians are not always knowledgeable about how much starving is a motivation, and how much becomes a problem to the growing body. I've been brewing nutrient potions to supplement my diet and regimen."
Hermione almost broke.
The door opened to reveal a blond, pointy-faced boy with a pair of gorillas.
"Is it true that you are Harry Potter, and that you sent the blood-traitor out? My name's Malfoy – Draco Malfoy." He held out a hand. "I can help you realise who are the right sort."
Harry rose.
"I am known as Harry Potter," he said, taking the other boy's hand. "I found the red-head's assumption of superiority for no other reason than his blood to be offensive. You are the scion of a pure blood family, but your father's deeds are... equivocal. I will decide whether I consider you a suitable minion or ally when I see your own deeds."
"Minion?" spluttered Draco.
"Why not? I plan to demonstrate that I am worthy to attract followers," said Harry. "I have a familial revenge to accomplish. If your father is wise, he will change sides and follow me. I will seek out and destroy the last remnants of the Dark Lord and his followers, and I will take his bitch, Bella Black into my harem as my consort to assume headship of his house by the rite of bIreqtal. And if your father does not capitulate, I will do the same with your mother and you will become my son. I have read about Lucius Malfoy, and I have studied the Imperius curse and it does not work the way he claimed. Be warned, you are on my side or you are an enemy."
"Wait till my father hears about this!" spluttered Draco.
"I rely on you to inform him of my offer," said Harry. "You may go." He gestured and the blond boy and his bodyguards were pushed forcibly out of the carriage, and the door shut.
Malfoy was soon scrawling a note to his father to be sent by owl the moment he might do so, that Harry Potter was doing powerful wordless and wandless magic and that it might be time to reconsider alliances.