~An Emerald amongst a Sea of Stone~
Chapter Two
Harry stabbed the sole piece of bacon which occupied his otherwise empty plate with a fork. If the Dursleys had paid him any mind, they would have seen the contained rage swirling behind his brilliantly green irises.
His glance, not for the first time this morning, wandered over towards the cream-coloured clock which hung above the kitchen door, in company of the perfectly white walls of the house.
7.50, it showed. Ten more minutes.
His eyes trailed downwards and settled on his relatives once again. They briefly shut and he allowed a deep breath to escape his nose.
His body felt like a gun, threatening to go off at any moment and his mind was the safety. Good that his willpower had always been a strong suit…
Ten more minutes, he repeated inside his head.
Still… he would have loved to forsake it all.
He had never been a violent person. Perhaps it was because he'd never really had any strength to back up any of his darker desires. Today though… he felt like there'd be sufficient force to his punches.
But he wouldn't try. For his own future's sake, he would keep the promise he'd made to Professor Flitwick. Perhaps when the time is right, I can get my retribution. For now, there were more important things in the picture.
Magic.
The mere thought of this… wonderful, magical power sent his mind into a sense of tingling excitement he had never felt before. His tricks had been such an essential part of his life for so long now… And they had been magic without a wand.
For Harry, changing the colour of an object as little as a toy had been difficult, but shifting the appearance of an entire carpet? With how effortlessly the Professor had willed it to morph, it was all but clear to Harry that a wand would only increase his capabilities.
I wonder if people even do magic without their wands?
He could imagine they would, at least for the smaller, easier feats of magic. The truth remained to be seen, but he would hopefully find out soon enough.
As Professor Flitwick had rightly suggested, there were millions of questions lingering in his mind.
From what the man's comments and explanations suggested, and Harry had been able to read inbetween the lines, wizardkind seemed to be organised in a secret society of some sort.
He spoke of a collective. We.
Did they have their own administration, he wondered. Diagon Alley, the place Professor Flitwick had told him of, sounded like a shopping street in the fullest sense. Of course there was also a hospital, if he had interpreted the man's words about… that night correctly.
Another thing that lay on his mind was the conclusion that there had to be some kind of reason for why wizardkind lived in secrecy. Instinctively, he would have assumed that a society of beings capable of wielding supernatural forces would have easily been able to oppress all others below them.
He really couldn't quite wait to find the answers to all of his questions, yet… nothing of it compared to his impatience to finally see his mother.
Compared to being told that magic was real, the mere thought that his mother was… alive was…. There were no words capable of describing what he felt.
Anger had been part of it, but that emotion had been directed at his aunt and these Death-Eaters. What he was supposed to think about his mother, he still didn't know.
She had protected him, just like his father. That much was certain. And he felt grateful for it.
But at the same time… he couldn't help that little bit of doubt that he knew was wholly unjustified creeping into the back of his mind.
I wish she'd been strong enough to resist that curse.
It felt wrong just thinking it - like he was trying to blame her for something she'd had no control over.
Professor Flitwick had said it himself - half an hour of the worst torture known to man. What would suggest anyone had a chance to come out of that unscathed?
There is no cure that has been discovered, the Professor's words echoed inside his mind. I'm sorry.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a cure at all, did it? Perhaps the torture curse was a rather recent invention - though it hadn't sounded like it. Maybe people had simply taken the wrong approach - not tried hard enough.
He inwardly shook his head. He knew too little about this new, mysterious world that had just been presented to himself. But he would find out.
His eyes flickered towards the clock above the doorway once more.
7.55. Five minutes. How quickly the time goes.
He chose that moment to speak up. His voice was even, entirely innocent. He didn't allow any of the sinister desires that still lurked in the back of his mind to bleed from his mouth.
'I'm leaving,' he said simply. He got up from his chair.
For a moment he thought no one had paid him any mind - which wouldn't have been too much of a surprise - but then, Vernon coughed, and turned around from the conversation with his wife.
'What did you say, boy?' the walrus, as Harry had taken to calling him, asked. The man's moustache moved at the growl that escaped the puffy lips below.
Harry allowed a thin smile that could have been mistaken for a grimace to appear on his lips. 'I'm leaving,' he repeated in the same nonchalant tone as before.
Vernon let out a bark of laughter. 'Hah, you're leaving, boy, are you? And where are you going?'
Harry could tell his uncle hadn't expected a serious answer. He gave one nevertheless.
'London,' he answered, keeping his cool.
Another laugh. 'And what will a freak like you do in London?'
Harry pretended to ponder the question. 'I was told I'd maybe find some… kinship there.'
He knew the Dursleys - or at least Petunia and Vernon - feared magic to an extent. It seemed rather obvious, now that he knew of his heritage. Their erratic behaviour after his incidents had never really stemmed from anger. Rather, it had been the fear he would one day find out about the nature of these incidents that had made them try to set him straight.
'What did you just say?' Aunt Petunia asked in a whisper. She tried to disguise the shock in her voice as danger, but Harry merely gave her an inconsiderate glance.
'I said that I'd be going to London. I received an offer to join a boarding school come the end of summer and I accepted. I'll be departing in a few.'
His answer didn't elicit a single response from the Dursleys. Dudley's eyes morphed into small, confused marbles, and his aunt and uncle… They simply stared at him, seemingly not knowing whether to be angry or afraid.
The sight made a smile slip onto Harry's lips. 'Little Whinging was always too small for someone like me.'
Silence. His eyes flickered towards the time again. 7.57. Three minutes.
'When?' Petunia asked, pale.
Harry stretched his limbs and allowed a long yawn to escape his open mouth. 'Yesterday. When you were out at the Restaurant,' he answered. 'Professor Flitwick extends his dearest regards.'
'You- You will-'
'Be on my way to London in two minutes,' he finished for her. 'The Professor is picking me up at eight sharp. And you will do nothing to stop me from leaving.'
He could see Vernon's face slowly but surely turn an infamous purple, but before the man could raise his fist, Harry uttered a threat of his own.
'You should be glad the Professor promised I could finally leave this place behind for good - that I'd never have to come back, if I didn't want to. Otherwise…' he said in a whisper. 'I would have made sure that there was nothing to return to, myself.'
His eyes focussed on Petunia, and he allowed a fraction of the malevolence he held in his chest to drip into his gaze.
'That you have never even told me my mother was alive…' he said with a breathless laugh. 'I cannot find words for how miserable and torturing an existence I wish you. Were it not for my future, I would have torn you apart with my bare hands.'
The bell rang.
'Good riddance.'
~§~
'This is it?' Harry asked, as they stopped in front of a large, antique building that looked just like any other.
They were in downtown London, a few streets away from the alley Professor Flitwick had apparated them to. They had spoken little on the way here, but he had already learned something new - what the feat of teleportation was called in this new world.
The Professor nodded at the question. 'Yes. Diagon Alley, the shopping street where we are going later, did not have a building large enough to accommodate for all of the necessary facilities. For a brief time, it was considered to build the hospital underground - like our ministry - but in the end, someone got hold of a building in the area, and it was decided that it would do.'
So there is a ministry, Harry noted for later.
'How long has it been here?' he asked.
'Over four hundred years,' Flitwick answered. 'It was founded by Mungo Bonham, a British healer, in the early 1600's and has ever since only grown in both numbers and experience. The personnel's knowledge is unmatched in the majority of Europe.'
So it's rather unlikely they don't know what they're doing.
'Wow,' Harry said, acting impressed. He frowned. 'If I may ask though, how exactly will we get inside? I don't see an entrance anywhere,' he pointed out.
The only thing in sight was an empty storefront above which hung a rotten, wooden sign that read Purge and Dowse, Ltd. There were a couple of undressed mannequins standing behind the glass, and the door to the side was barricaded. This place was clearly abandoned.
Or at least people are supposed to think so…
The Professor gave Harry a warm smile. 'To enter St. Mungo's, one must simply step through the storefront of this shop. It is a magical gateway of sorts. You will encounter a similar pathway when you board the train to Hogwarts later this summer.'
'Interesting.'
A curt nod came from the man, as his features twisted into a grimace. 'Shall we?' he asked.
Harry nodded.
Together, they stepped through the storefront, the raven-haired teenager almost laughing at the tingling sensation that tickled his skin. It was much more pleasant than apparition, he found, though seeing the colours of the world blend together in one wild mix certainly messed with one's head.
As they emerged from the other side, he pushed down the wave of nausea that rose inside of him, and allowed his gaze to pass through the lobby which they had arrived in.
A large chandelier hung under the ceiling, glowing in a comforting, goldish hue. The walls were painted in a familiar creme-beige, and neat, wooden chairs stood to his left and right, with a wide range of people sitting both on, and… in front of them?
Most of the people lying on the ground seemed to be in some kind of pain. Perhaps this place doubled as both a visitor's entrance and an emergency room waiting area.
Finally, his eyes landed on a large sign in the middle of the room. Our Welcome Witch will be happy to assist you, it read. An arrow on the sign pointed towards their right, where a small reception was set up at the side of the hall.
Behind the counter, stood a rather unenthusiastically-looking woman. She had brown hair, and wore white robes and a small hat.
The sign of a wand crossed over a bone was on her chest.
The logo of St. Mungo's, Harry suspected.
He followed Professor Flitwick, as the small man made his way over towards the witch. A bright smile appeared on the man's face, even though Harry could tell it was faked.
'Good morning,' he greeted. 'We are here to visit a patient in the Permanent Spell Damage Ward.'
The woman - witch, he supposed - looked up from the counter, and shot them a bored glance.
'Names?' she asked absentmindedly.
'Filius Flitwick, and-'
'Harry Potter,' Harry answered for himself. 'Here to see my mother.'
That made the witch look up from her current occupation. She gave him a long glance, looking up and down, before nodding to herself.
'Harry Potter and Filius Flitwick, here to visit Lily Jasmine Potter,' she said to herself, as she wrote down their names. 'You know where to go, I assume?' she asked Flitwick.
The Professor nodded. 'I do.'
'Every and all objects of magical nature will have to be confiscated before entering the ward.'
Flitwick handed her his wand. She put it in one of the countless drawers behind her back. Harry wasn't so sure Flitwick would ever see the stick of wood again.
'Enjoy your stay,' she wished.
Without a word, Harry and the Professor moved away from the counter and towards the large, wooden door, the sign of which read 'Main Staircase.' They stepped through.
'Fourth floor,' Flitwick said quietly. 'Janus Thickey Ward for permanent spell damage.' He paused. 'If you ever want to visit her on your own,' he added. The smile on his lips was a pained one.
'Thank you,' Harry responded.
The knot in his throat made it hard to speak. They headed up the staircase, Harry surprised by the Professor's rather brisk movement, and made their way into the fourth floor corridor. Flitwick gestured for Harry to follow him, and they walked right for a while, until stopping in front of a plain, brown door that looked just like any of the others in the hallway.
'Personnel won't come in until ten,' Flitwick told him. 'She's usually asleep. I assume you'd like to be alone.'
Harry nodded.
The Professor smiled again. 'I'll wait here. Take however long you need.'
Thank you.
He felt his cold hand wrap tightly around the golden handle, and with a deep breath, he pushed the door open.
Immediately, a floral scent entered his nose. Directly on the wall to his left, stood a small drawer with a vase of flowers on top. Right behind it was a hospital bed, freshly made with white, linen sheets.
Under them, laid a woman with thick, full, auburn-red hair and a beautiful face. Harry almost couldn't believe his eyes.
She looks nothing like in the pictures I stole from the attic.
Swallowing heavily, and ignoring the cold clump of ice in his chest, he carefully stepped forward. His mother's chest rose, slowly but reliably. He didn't know what to say.
What is there to say? Supposedly she can't even understand me.
Flitwick's words echoed in his ears once more. Some would consider it a fate worse than death.
Did he? Harry had grown up thinking both of his parents were dead. His father was, and while he hadn't known him - hadn't known his dad, he still felt respect for the man. James Potter was dead, but remembered fondly and mourned after.
Lily on the other hand? She was stuck here, in an otherwise rather empty wing of St. Mungo's, waiting for… what, exactly?
What good was there to being alive when you couldn't do anything? When you weren't even aware that time was passing around you, and the world slowly left you behind in its wake?
To Harry, the answer was simple. There was none.
If the healers of St. Mungo had truly given up on finding a cure for his mother's condition, which was what he had to assume, it would have been kinder to just help her to pass in her sleep.
There was only one reason why she was currently still alive. People's selfish desires to not let go. And to Harry, that wasn't a valid reason. Not in his book.
She gave her all to protect me. And now she's forced to waste away in this wing without a purpose. And no one is helping.
Even Professor Flitwick seemed to have accepted that there was no way to better Lily Potter's state, and was content with simply visiting his once beloved student.
Harry wouldn't be. He knew that, even from the little of truth he had been told of his mother. He couldn't accept that there was no solution. Because if there was no hope…
A tear, warm and salty, poured down his cheek. I could as well just kill you on the spot. But that wasn't an option.
'I'll make it right,' he whispered, finally breaking the silence he'd kept for what had felt like an eternity. 'I'll heal you.'
He didn't know how, when, or why, but he would. To him it didn't matter if the most renovated healers of the country had tried and failed. It didn't matter that he had no idea how this world of magic even worked in its most rudimentary basics.
He wouldn't stop trying until he had exploited any and all trails there were to cure his mother, even if he had to conquer the world.
'I love you, Mom,' he whispered.
It was the first time he'd spoken those words. He had never believed Petunia's lies - had refused to. Back when he was young, he would secretly hope that his parents weren't gone and that they would come to save him from the Dursleys one day.
In those days he had loved his parents too - in a way, at least. But now… now he actually had a chance of finally being loved back.
It seems we're all a bit selfish, after all, he thought with more quiet tears streaming down his face. But maybe a little bit of selfishness isn't so bad.
Because revenge, after all, was a form of selfishness as well. And even though it hadn't been Harry who'd been tortured into insanity that night, it would be him to seek retribution.
Not just for his mother, but for himself. For the future that could've been. For his father and twelve years of misery at Privet Drive.
'I'll be great. For you. And for me.'
He may have been twelve, but the promise he made had been one for eternity, of that he was certain.
~§~
'Everything alright, Harry?' Professor Flitwick asked.
They were wandering through the streets of London, on their way to Charing Cross, where apparently the entrance to Diagon Alley was located.
It had been Harry who had suggested they walk. He had rarely ever gotten to see the city, and it would give him an opportunity to chat with the wizened Professor, and ask some more questions.
Books will only explain so much, after all.
Flitwick, naturally, had cheerfully accepted his suggestion. Now that they had run out of immediate things to talk about though, Harry's gaze was trained on the ground, the boy deep in thought.
Was everything alright? It was a loaded question. In the literal sense, he would have answered it with an obvious no. But despite the circumstances, things could have been worse.
He put on a smile and glanced up at the Professor.
'I think so. It was nice… to see my mother.' He hadn't spoken a word about her ever since exiting that room. 'When can I visit her again?'
The Professor smiled back. 'Well, after we manage to get you a room in the Leaky Cauldron, you will be able to see her every day, if you like. Even if during the school year things will not be that easy, I'm afraid.' He grimaced, explaining further. 'Students are only allowed to leave the faculties during a few select times during the year, including Samhain and Yule, what would be Halloween and Christmas to you. Assuming you will want to stay in the castle, I'd be glad to take you to visit her during these times.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'It's nothing, Harry,' Flitwick waved him off. 'Now… Do you have any more questions you would like to ask? I'm sure there is still plenty of curiosity left in you.'
Harry nodded slowly. 'I suppose there is...' He paused, considering whether to ask the question he had in mind or not. 'Perhaps you cannot answer me, but why did I have to live with the Dursleys for the last twelve years?' he asked.
The Professor drew a sharp breath. The answer is probably as bad as I though then. Not that I expected anything else…
Of course he could have just been given to Petunia because she had been his closest available blood-relative alive at the time, but somehow that didn't seem likely.
Flitwick had been visibly angry about his residency at Privet Drive. So it was rather easy to assume that there was someone for the Professor to be angry at. The man's reaction just now had only confirmed his suspicion.
'It is a fair question,' Flitwick acknowledged quietly. 'But one I would like to answer in a different setting if possible.'
Harry frowned, but allowed the Professor to finish.
'It's not that I don't want to answer you, Harry, but there are so many things tying into your fate - so many questions even I don't even know the answers to, that I think this matter would best be discussed over a chilled mug of Butterbeer. We can sit down once we arrive in the Cauldron, if you'd like, and I would be glad to tell you all I know.'
'Of course, Professor,' Harry gave a grateful nod. 'I'm sorry if I overstepped.'
Flitwick shook his head. 'No, Harry, you very much have a right to know. I just wish…' he trailed off.
'That you weren't the one having to tell me,' Harry finished, giving the Professor a sincere smile. 'Whatever you tell me, Professor, I won't hold it against you. I promise.'
That seemed to ease the man a bit. 'Thank you, Harry.' His eyes sought out something in the distance.
'Just another question, Professor,' Harry said suddenly. Flitwick looked at him. 'What exactly is a Butterbeer? I do not think Hogwarts will condone the intoxication of a minor.'
For some reason, the question elicited a mirthful laugh from the Professor's lips.
~§~
Harry stepped through the pitch black door in front of him. The sight was… magical. Dancing teacups, floating spoons, self-cleaning brooms, and all sorts of other wondrous things caught his eye. Without them, it would've been just another regular, old pub. But with them…
If even the most casual of magic users is capable of this with a wand, where even lie the limits? he wondered.
As the clock would suggest, the pub was still rather empty at this time of the day. His eyes trailed over towards the counter, where an older, slightly pudgy gentleman with calloused hands was cleaning a mug.
'Filius!' the man called out, as the Professor stepped inside. 'It's good to see you.'
Flitwick grinned. 'And you, Tom. Could you spare us a moment of your time?' he asked.
The man laughed. 'Course, Filius. Who's your escort today? Another Muggleborn, I suspect?' the man gave Harry a glance.
Harry put on a smile. 'Harry Potter, nice to meet you, sir,' he offered.
Tom's eyes widened. 'Blimey. You look just like James… Well, nice to meet you, Harry - I'm Tom, none o' that sir business. So, Filius, how can I help ya?'
'Well…' Flitwick began. 'We were wondering if you had a room for the rest of the summer. Harry here unfortunately can't return to his previous home, and I thought you might be able to accommodate him until he has to leave for Hogwarts in a few weeks,' he explained.
Tom nodded seriously. 'But of course, Filius. Just bring the money later. 30 Galleons. I'll have the room ready by tonight.'
The Professor smiled, and Harry gave the bartender a thankful nod.
'Thank you, Tom.'
Tom waved them off. 'Ah, not for that. Anything else I can help you with?'
Flitwick nodded, his usually rather squeaky voice evening. 'Pour us two mugs of Butterbeer, if you would.' The Professor laid four silver coins onto the counter.
'Sickles,' he explained to Harry. 'One of the three types of coins that are used as currency in our world.' Flitwick took the two mugs of foamed up beverage from the counter, and gave Tom a quick nod. 'Come.'
They sat down in a far corner of the pub, where - hopefully - no one could overhear them. Judging by the Professor's long face, Harry was in for one more hell of a conversation. The raven-haired boy took a sip of his drink, wiping the foam on his lips.
Creamy and sweet. Tastes nothing like it looks. I like it.
'Thank you for the drink, sir,' Harry smiled with only a half-hearted cheer.
Flitwick chuckled. 'Not for that, Harry. Now… where to begin?' he muttered.
Harry brought the cold mug to his lips once more. At the beginning, preferably.
'How about the war?' he suggested. 'You've told me about that man trying to revolutionise the country.'
French style from what I understand.
'What was the deal with him? How did he even get into a position of power over these… Death-Eaters? Is he still alive?'
The Professor blinked. It seemed like he hadn't expected the question. Hopefully I haven't put him off.
'Well… it is a place to start, I suppose, if a dark one,' Flitwick agreed tiredly, his left hand softly prattling on the desk. 'But in the end, everything about this is rather grim.'
He paused.
'The Dark Lord, as we call him, seemingly emerged out of nothing during the early seventies. His championed ideologies were radical, and violent, but nevertheless he quickly began to catch footing.'
'Why?' Harry asked.
The Professor sighed. 'During the Great War - the muggles call it World War Two, I believe - Wizarding Britain was already in a difficult spot. The ideologies of Grindelwald, the wizard working with Adolf Hitler, had all but split the country in half on most matters. Some agreed with him. Some didn't. The falling out inside of our society was always inevitable,' Flitwick began.
'So when the war ended… the political state of the country was most volatile. You must know Harry, in our world, there is such a thing as the purity of one's blood. The system differentiates between three types of people. Purebloods, Halfbloods, and Muggleborns.'
Flitwick grimaced.
'In which of those categories a person falls, is solely dependent on the lineage they origin from. A pureblood is a person, all of whose grandparents are magical. A half-blood is a person that does not fulfil these requirements, but possesses at least one magical parent. And a Muggleborn is someone that is… born of muggles, non-magical folk.' Flitwick explained.
'There is no scientific evidence to suggest that any of these parameters influence your magical talent, or intelligence. But nevertheless, some people like to believe so anyway. More than you might think, in fact.'
Harry leaned forward. 'This Dark Lord being one of them, I assume.'
To his surprise, the Professor shook his head. 'That, I am not so sure of. The Great War had polarised our society on the issue of blood purity more than ever before, and this man… he capitalised on it, no doubt. But if you want my opinion… I think it was a decision of convenience. His objective wasn't to change society… but to gain power. And championing the milieu of filthy rich blood purists? It would give him that.'
'What about these Death Eaters then? Were they purists that flocked to the man?'
Flitwick nodded. 'Largely. Of course there were also some other minorities, like werewolves, which were so unhappy with the ministry that they found joining the Dark Lord a better option than continuing on with their life in what to them felt like oppression. Eventually, the movement grew so powerful that things escalated into a full-blown civil war.'
His gaze darkened.
'I have lived through both the Great, and the civil war, as we called it. And let me tell you, the second one… it was so much worse. Fear, distrust, and death were commonplace. The Dark Lord knew how to manipulate the populace of Wizarding Britain - knew how to make them crumble from the inside. No one felt safe from anyone. For nearly five years, the country was at the verge of drowning in darkness.'
The Professor paused.
'Of course there were people that stood against the Dark Lord and his followers. The ministry with its force of Aurors and Hit-Wizards, and many other individuals chose to stand against the tyranny and terrorsim of the purists - your parents… being some of those people.'
Harry's eyes flickered.
'But despite all we tried to stop this man… the truth was, that we were losing. The summer of 1981, the war seemed all but over. The Dark Lord had infiltrated the ministry, people had succumbed to their fear, and the only safe haven in the country that remained was Hogwarts. But then… something wondrous happened.'
'During an attack at Longbottom Manor, the ancestral home of an old family which stood against the purists, the Dark Lord was vanquished. And without its head… the Death-Eaters lost power. This is why Halloween is celebrated in Magical Britain to this day. It was the day the Dark Lord died and a new era of prosperity began,' Flitwick finished.
The Professor looked at him, as if to ask if Harry had any more questions. He did, of course. He understood the Professor needed to keep things compact - he would certainly read up on the issue himself in the future - but some necessary questions still remained unanswered.
'But how did the Dark Lord just… die? I thought he was one of the most powerful people in the country at the time,' he questioned.
Flitwick nodded. 'He was,' he agreed. 'And to this day we are still not quite sure what exactly it was that caused his downfall. There are assumptions of course. You see, that night at Longbottom Manor, the Dark Lord tried to kill the family's babe - Neville - but when he raised his wand to murder the child, the curse emerging from it was reflected, and took the Dark Lord down with it.'
'So people think this kid - Neville, is responsible?'
The Professor nodded. 'Most do. Neville Longbottom is regarded as one of the largest celebrities of our world for this exact same reason - vanquishing the Dark Lord. But how or why things came to pass this way, no one can guess.'
Sounds a bit ridiculous, really. Glorifying someone over a feat they 'achieved' when they were a year old or something. I never claimed people weren't ridiculous though.
Harry paused the thought.
Halloween 1981. That's… the same day, isn't it? The day my father died. The day my rightful future was robbed from me.
'Halloween…' he whispered. 'That's the same day my parents were attacked, isn't it?' he asked.
It explains why no help arrived until it was too late. People must have been busy fighting against the Dark Lord. For some reason, Harry felt a clump of ice tighten deep inside his chest. Anger. But he knew it was unjustified. The Longbottoms aren't responsible.
The Professor nodded, a heavy sigh spilling from his lips. 'It was. Some of the Dark Lord's favoured were chosen to attack your family that night. It was a diversion raid for the one spearheaded by the Dark Lord at Longbottom Manor.'
But no one came anyway… Not until it was too late.
Harry was quiet, hiding his thoughts behind a curtain of brilliantly green emeralds that ground into the table. Professor Flitwick eyed him sadly, trying to gift a comforting smile. Neither of them spoke for a minute.
'How did I end up with Petunia then?' he asked, finally breaking the silence.
The smile slid right off the Professor's face. 'That is something I cannot be sure of either.' He paused. 'I know that in case something ever happened to you, your parents had two… contingencies in place. Your godfather Sirius, and your godmother Alice. Unfortunately, they both died that Halloween night while trying to defend Longbottom Manor.'
Harry looked up from the table. How many people did die that night?
'It is safe to assume that your guardianship was passed onto Alice's husband, Frank, after her death. Frank is the current Lord Longbottom, and the father of Neville,' Flitwick continued.
'Why am I not living with him, then?' Harry asked, feeling irritation rise in his chest.
'That…' the Professor sighed. 'I cannot answer. Frank was in a very bad state after losing his friends and wife that night. Adding onto that, his son had just been pronounced the saviour of the Wizarding World. I'd assume he didn't trust himself to even take care of Neville, let alone you.'
Oh, a cold, sinister voice commented inside Harry's head. The teenager didn't show as much as a mere twitch of his eye. So he didn't care enough…
'And he placed me with the Dursleys,' Harry said, deathly quiet. 'With Petunia, since she was my last remaining blood-relative outside of Lily. I think I understand, sir.'
It was hard to keep the anger out of his voice. The Professor seemed to notice. A pained expression came over Flitwick's face.
'Harry-'
The boy shook his head. 'It's quite alright, Professor. I understand why he did it. It must've been a lot… losing his wife.'
I lost both of my parents that night. But that didn't matter to him, did it? He could have easily placed me with another wizarding family. I'm sure there was someone who would have taken me. Perhaps even an orphanage. But instead, this man condemned me to twelve years of cream-coloured hell.
'Harry, I'm not sure of the exact circumstances surrounding your placement with Petunia, but I can offer to speak with Frank, if you want. I-'
'I appreciate it, Professor. But no thanks,' Harry shook his head. 'We can't change the past.' He paused. 'Shall we collect my supplies now?' he asked with an insincere cheer.
Professor Flitwick's lips thinned. 'Of course, Harry.'
~§~
'Ever since their invention, wands have been revered as an indispensable tool for witches and wizards alike, allowing them to harness the full power of their magic. A matching wand acts as a focused channel, harmonising and amplifying latent magical energy within a person, enabling them to reach their full potential.
Before the advent of wands, various attempts were made to create similar magical foci, such as staffs, but none could replicate, let alone surpass, the efficiency of the modern wand. The average witch and wizard rarely spends a day without their conduit due to its essential role in their magical endeavours. However, there is an exception to this rule when it comes to young magical individuals.
It is widely advised against providing young children with the power that a wand bestows, as doing so can weaken their connection with their own magic in a detrimental manner. The implications of this issue raise more questions than answers, but an exploration of the topic is necessary.
In general, a witch or wizard's magic matures with age, with both the magical abilities and the individual growing more powerful, competent, and confident in their bond over time. This growth is particularly accelerated during the formative years, typically between the ages of three to twelve. Introducing an external focus, such as a wand, to this bond can hinder or even completely halt a child's magical maturation.
Thus, the International Confederation of Wizards' Research Committee has established a minimum age requirement of thirteen for wand acquisition. This allows young witches and wizards the necessary time to develop their magic independently before integrating the wand into their practice.
However, it is well known that the absence of a wand does not prevent one from utilising their magic. There are notable individuals who possess the rare gift of wandless magic, and among them, children are particularly remarkable in their spontaneous display of power.
Accidental Magic, a phenomenon categorised as a subset of wandless magic, is commonly observed in young witches and wizards. It occurs when a young or untrained magical individual unconsciously and unintentionally manifests their magical abilities. Strong emotions or desires often serve as triggers for these impromptu displays of power.
It is important to note that the vast majority of trained adults, with the exception of the most powerful and talented individuals, are incapable of performing wandless or accidental magic. This further underscores the significance and rarity of such abilities.
However, it is crucial to distinguish between the natural occurrence of accidental magic in children and the dangers that can arise from the suppression or neglect of a young magical individual's abilities. If left untrained and without proper guidance, a child who possesses magical potential but lacks the opportunity to develop their skills with a wand can face severe consequences.
One such consequence is the formation of an Obscurus, a dark and uncontrollable magical parasite born from the suppression of magical abilities. These Obscurials-'
'Good book, Harry?' Professor Flitwick's voice suddenly protruded Harry's lecture.
The boy in question looked up from the tome in his hand, right into the eyes of the smiling Professor. He nodded.
He was rather spent after the countless hours of shopping they'd already done today, and had been quite happy when the Professor had suggested a short break in the bookshop. Still… he could always finish the book later, he supposed.
'I've already taken the liberty to ask for a first-year set downstairs.' His eyes glode downwards, eyeing at the shopping basket which stood next to Harry. It was filled to the brim with books. 'I'll assume this one will join the others?' he asked amusedly.
Harry gave a reserved nod and stood up from the bench he'd been sitting on. He placed the book into the basket with a smile. My arse bloody hurts.
'Thank you, Professor. Shall we head downstairs then?'
Flitwick nodded. 'After you, Harry.'
Student and teacher strode down the staircase, and not before long, Harry placed the basket with his purchases on the counter. He reached into the high-quality enchanted dragon leather bag he'd acquired at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment a few hours ago.
The eyes of the woman behind the counter widened at the sheer amount of tomes in front of her. She stacked a set of first-year books next to Harry's basket.
'I like to read,' Harry offered dryly.
The woman snorted. 'I'm sure you do.' She paused, counting and the books on the table. 'That'll be… twelve galleons and seven sickles.'
Three hundred quid. Harry blinked. But it's not like money's an issue anymore. He pulled forth the pouch which he'd received at Gringotts and allowed the right amount of money to clatter onto the counter.
It's quite handy - just having to think about the number. Still… paying by muggle card is probably more efficient.
Slowly but surely, all of the books on the counter vanished into Harry's bag. Good thing I bought the one with the extra-large book compartment. He really hadn't saved on his purchases today.
He called a short goodbye, as the Professor and him moved to exit the store. Flourish & Blotts was a place he would return to. That, he was rather sure of.
'Only your wand left then…' Professor Flitwick murmured as they strode down the shop's doorstep. 'Let us pay Mr. Ollivander a visit.'
Harry sunk back into thought at the Professor's words. My wand…
He was a bit… anxious to see how wands would react to him. From what he'd been able to understand from the book on magical theory he'd read just now, children his age weren't supposed to consciously wield their magic at all.
Had he stunted his magical growth by doing so? That didn't seem right… According to the book, it was rather rare that wizards or witches older than thirteen ever harnessed guided, wandless magic. Perhaps he was just one of those exceptionally gifted individuals?
I promised I'd be great, didn't I?
All he could do was see and wait, he supposed. He followed the Professor, as he led them just a couple hundred yards away from the bookstore, and finally came to a halt in front of a large, crooked, green building.
The shop had two store windows, with one sun-bleached, black door parting them in the middle. Behind the glass, Harry could make out an unruly tower of boxes, and a few pieces of leather.
'The matching of a wand is a deeply personal affair,' Professor Flitwick told him. 'Go inside. Mr. Ollivander will be expecting you.'
Harry frowned, but decided to follow the Professor's advice, stepping over the creaking doorstep, and entering the shop. The loud ring of a bell echoed in his ears as he stepped through the door, but as he stood still for a few seconds, waiting for something else to happen, the tone faded.
Mr. Ollivander was nowhere to be seen. Harry allowed his eyes to wander a bit.
Just like he had seen from the storefront, long, black boxes were spread all over the place, some piled up in high stacks, others thrown onto the ground in an unruly pile, and most neatly kept in the shelves that filled the walls of the entire room.
For a store with that much glass in the front, it was rather dark, Harry thought. Has a mysterious atmosphere to it…
'Mr. Potter,' a voice startled him. 'I'm glad to welcome you to my shop. In search of a wand, I assume?'
'Yes, sir,' Harry answered evenly, not allowing any of the man's creepiness get to him.
The wandmaker smiled. 'I still remember the day I sold both of your parents their wands. James Potter. Mahogany, eleven inches with the tail-feather of a particularly prideful Hippogriff. Excellent for transfiguration.' He paused. 'And Lily… Willow, ten and a quarter inches. A swishy wand, quite handy for charmswork if I remember correctly, with the core of a Unicorn Hair. Two exceptional wands. I wonder… What will yours be?' he murmured.
Mr. Ollivander searched through a handful of boxes, before pulling one forward from the shelf and placing it onto the counter. His delicate, long fingers opened the cover.
'Twelve and a third inches. Yew. A quite rigid wand, containing the spike of an exceptionally vicious Graphorn. I made it recently. after receiving the core as a gift from a friend participating in a hunt. A most unyielding fellow. Go on, give it a wave.'
Harry took the wand out of the casket. He slashed it, and promptly burned a small hole into the box he had taken it from. He quickly placed it back on the counter.
'Perhaps not,' he told Ollivander.
The man nodded - more to himself than Harry, it felt like. 'I wonder…' his eyes snapped up. 'You have had a… difficult childhood, haven't you Mr. Potter? But you always kept in the background. You were never quite proactive, were you?'
Harry's eyes flared. The man shook his head.
'I meant no offence, Mr. Potter. No one will ever learn of anything shared between us here. It is important for the choice of your wand.'
Slowly, Harry nodded. But how did he know?
Ollivander rummaged through another shelf of black wand-boxes, seemingly searching for something really specific. A few seconds later, another casket laid in front of Harry. It was a lot dustier than the last had been. Probably an older wand.
As if the man could read Harry's thoughts, Ollivander nodded. 'One of my first creations. It has a sibling which I handed a child similar to you quite some time ago. The one I sold was made of Yew. Thirteen and a half inches with the feather of a rather cheerful phoenix. It was a wand capable of… great things. Perhaps its brother will suit you. 'He opened the box. 'Holly, eleven inches, nice and supple.'
Harry frowned. Great things? Perhaps this one was it. He clasped his hand around the handle - and sure enough, he felt the barest, comforting warmth in his palm. He gave it a wave….
But nothing happened. He had to stop himself from scowling at the stick… that much build-up for nothing? He placed the wand back in the casket.
'Definitely not… I had thought…' Ollivander paused. 'Ah, of course. This one…' The man vanished into the back of the shop.
Harry stared at the Holly and Yew wands still lying on the counter. What if there isn't a wand for me in this shop? He snorted at the thought. As if… there's thousands of them in here. It took Ollivander quite some time to return.
When he eventually did, it was a brown box he carried in his hands. It was similarly dusty to the last one. Maybe third time's the charm?
'One of a kind,' Ollivander said brightly, sliding the lid open. He exposed a dark, nearly black piece of wood, adorned by neat ornaments. 'Ebony, twelve inches,' he explained. 'It was the last wand my father made before he retired. The core was a gift as well, from Newt Scamander, in fact. The feather of a male Occamy from Pakistan - a creature as beautiful as it is dangerous. They are called feathered serpents for a reason.'
Tentatively, Harry reached for the wand…
A burning, passionate warmth seeped into his palm. He closed his eyes, giving it a wave.
Harry opened them at the sound of Ollivander's soft, quiet gasp.
Shimmering, deeply purple and glistening, dark green lights snaked into an artistic yet chaotic pattern in front of him. It was a sight of beauty - this soothing glow in the gloomy darkness of the shop… almost like the auroras he'd seen on TV once.
He smiled. 'This is the one.'
Ollivander nodded vigorously. 'Oh it definitely is, Mr. Potter,' he whispered. 'A singularly unique wand… for what I suspect is a singularly unique wizard. With this wand, Mr. Potter, if you only want it enough - the world… will lay at your feet. It was an honour to witness the stepping stones of such a deep bond between wand and wizard,' the man said sincerely. 'Nourish it, and you might just be capable of things considered impossible.'
Like curing my mother… A sole tear slid down his cheek.
'Thank, you sir,' Harry said. 'What do I owe you for it?' he asked.
Ollivander smiled. 'All of Ollivander's wands cost seven galleons, Mr Potter. No more, no less. It was a pleasure.'
Harry nodded, letting seven golden coins fall onto the counter. 'It was,' he smiled. 'Bye, Mr. Ollivander.'
'Bye, Mr Potter.'
Harry left the shop, the smile still in place.
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Hello dear readers,
done with Chapter Two. I feel like I was rather quick all things considered. It's a little less than 8k words, but I managed to cover quite a lot of ground.
It's a very loaded Chapter, but I wanted to escape the trap of waiting too long until actually heading to Hogwarts. I feel like I still did a pretty good shop of showcasing Harry's reaction to this world he's been thrust into.
Also, let me know what you thought about the Lily scene in the reviews. Those were some of the most difficult paragraphs I ever wrote. Hopefully I did them well.
My offer for additional betas to join this project still stands, so if you're interested, click on the Discord link in my profile, and send me a message.
And as always, big thanks to all of you for reading, following, favoriting and reviewing.
I'll see you in the reviews, on Discord, or in the next Chapter. Hopefully you enjoyed it.
Adios,
Redd
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