September First
Harry grunted as he hopped up and down on the lid of his trunk.
"Why - won't - you - close?" he bit out with every bounce. The boy crouched atop the trunk in a manner reminiscent of a toad, legs fighting against the haphazard pile of clothes and school supplies underneath that refused to give that last inch.
He had no clue where all the space had gone. The trunk contained nearly the exact same contents as when he had left Diagon Alley, and there had been room to spare then. He had ignored the fearful, angry and disbelieving looks the Dursleys had been shooting him since that day, and fell upon his books like a man possessed. In the process his robes, stationary and potion supplies had ended up scattered around the room where they had lain right up until that day.
September first.
Perhaps he hadn't been as efficient in repacking it as he'd thought. With a grunt Harry leapt up and slammed into the lid with the crook of his arm and chest, copying one of the wrestling moves he and Dudley had seen on the telly. The lid finally shut and the latch clicked into place. Sighing with relief, Harry slid off the trunk and onto the floor. Leaning against it, he looked around his room for what would be the last time in a long time.
It didn't look like the room of someone moving out. Everything was in its usual place and would stay there; he was taking nothing with him from the Dursleys home. Nothing important, anyway. In packing, he had come to the bitter realization that there was absolutely nothing tying him to his relatives. Nothing that he wanted with him, nothing with any fond memories attached to it, nothing meaningful in any way.
In contrast, he'd had his wand for only a month and it was already more precious to him than anything he had ever owned.
He pulled it from his pants pocket and absently ran his fingers along it, reveling in the warmth and undercurrent of energy it invoked in his center. While nowhere near that life-changing first contact, it was a constant reminder that it wasn't all a dream. He could feel the magic; it was real, it was there and there were thousands of others like him.
Today was the day he became a proper member of the wizarding world.
His smile dipped slightly, as he recalled all that entailed. The wizarding world, for all its wonder, had its dark sides.
"Technically, Magical Britain is in a civil war."
Harry blinked, looking at the professor with an uncomprehending expression. War? Civil war? What?
"What?" He questioned out loud.
Professor Burbage gave him a level look and nodded. Harry's gaze flicked to Babbling, who looked equally serious, and then out the window to the street below. Not a second after the incident in the pub had occurred, Professor Burbage had forced them to abandon their food and bodily dragged Harry over to the bar. Tom had tossed them a key without a word being spoken and ushered them upstairs, worry wrinkling his face into a walnut.
Forestalling any questions Harry or Babbling (the girl seemed just as bewildered as he was) were going to ask, Professor Burbage had said they needed to have a discussion. The talk he had mentioned to Harry before.
They were at war.
'Except,' the boy thought as he gazed at the peaceful street below, 'they don't look like they're at war.'
"What do you mean 'technically'?"
Burbage shifted and cleared his throat. "Well, the dark lord I mentioned-"
"Voldemort?"
The professor and his assistant both flinched as if struck.
"Don't!" Babbling hissed furiously, her reaction startling Harry. "Don't say his name!"
Harry looked at her, shocked, before turning to the professor for an explanation. The man looked even graver than Babbling.
"The dark lord placed a taboo on his name sometime in the midst of the war. Whoever spoke it aloud attracted his attention, no matter where they were. Sometimes he would do nothing, other times either he or his followers would apparate to that person's location, torture and kill them, then put their body on display and disappear." He shook his head. "It was an incredibly difficult and complex magical feat, serving no other purpose than to spread fear and needless violence. The man was vile, Harry. To this day, people don't speak his name."
Harry stared agape at the man, wide-eyed and pale. His jaw worked up and down for a bit before he finally managed to force out words. "And he's still out there? He's still doing… that?" He glanced at the door as if it might burst open at any second.
Burbage hesitated for a second before shaking his head. "No. No, there hasn't been a case like that in eleven years." He hesitated further, then sighed and slumped in his chair. "It's one of the biggest mysteries in recent history: You-know-who just suddenly disappeared one day. All the attacks, the raids, the violence, stopped and everything fell silent. People panicked - thought he was gathering his forces for the last push he needed to take over the country."
"I remember my parents throwing things into suitcases," Babbling interjected, a faraway look in her eyes. "They were terrified; kept saying we needed to run."
The professor nodded and hummed in agreement. Harry stared aghast at them.
"But then nothing happened. The peace persisted and then we started hearing stories - that the dark lord's followers, the Death Eaters, were fleeing. That some had been found and caught in France, Spain, Greece, America and even China. That the Ministry was suddenly making arrests and eliminating their forces at an unbelievable rate." Burbage shrugged. "Turns out that the Death Eaters had no idea what happened to their leader either. Without him they fell apart; started fighting each other for remnants of his power, or else fleeing. They haven't caused trouble since."
There was a moment of silence as Harry digested it all. He rolled the knowledge around in his head, unsure what to do with it.
"Why are we still at war then?" he eventually asked the obvious question.
"Two reasons," Burbage replied, looking as if he had expected the question. "The first being that You-Know-Who's status and whereabouts are unknown. The man was so terrible and powerful that until his death is officially confirmed, the Ministry is unprepared to declare him a non-threat." He shrugged. "Almost everyone believes he is dead though. I do. Someone like that doesn't just stop unless they're made to."
"And the second reason?"
The Professor was more hesitant this time. "While the aurors - our military and police force - successfully captured or killed the majority of the Death Eaters, a decent portion of them were never identified." He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "Roughly thirty percent of the dark lord's followers are unaccounted for," the man finished softly.
Harry blinked. "What, they just didn't find them?"
"Ha!" Babbling, who had been mostly silent, barked out a bitter laugh. "Finding them wasn't the problem. Not being able to pin anything on them was the problem."
"The Death Eaters hid their identities," Professor Burbage hurried to explain. "Even from each other. It was rare to find someone that could name more than two or three others. They used magic and masks to hide who they were. As such, it became rather difficult to connect their crimes to their public egos."
"Even when people know who the guilty ones are, no one can do a damn thing because they have deep pockets or friends who do." Babbling shook her head scornfully. "It's disgusting."
"Bathsheda," the professor said, sighing. He sounded far less scolding than before, however. Actually, it looked like he agreed.
Harry sat there for a moment, eyes slowly widening as he realized something.
"Those men downstairs…"
Burbage winced and looked away, while a grim smile stretched across his assistant's face. "Yeah, they were some of those that were 'suspected' but never convicted." She traced a circle on her arm with her finger, just below her elbow. "If you were to roll up their sleeves you would probably find a scarred patch on their arms. That's where they carved the Dark Mark out of their skin. It was just about the only irrefutable proof of being a Death Eater, and the Ministry was on such a rampage that they chose to cut themselves up then be caught with it."
The professor was scowling now. "Bathsheda, that's enough!" he commanded, eyeing Harry's pale and horrified expression with regret. "I am sorry Mr Potter, that we have to tell you everything like this. Usually this would be a much shorter, more censored discussion we would have with your guardians present. However…"
Harry nodded. He couldn't see that conversation going down well with the Dursleys. It wasn't faring much better with him.
"Why were they so interested in me? Do you know?"
The man was silent.
"Professor?" Babbling asked with a frown.
The man heaved a sigh. A deep, regretful sigh. "This is not something I thought I would have to do today." He ran a hand over his face. "I thought you would have known already, but you obviously don't. I thought your guardians would have told you. They should have told you. Bloody hell, they didn't even tell you about your heritage."
"Professor?" Burbage got out of her seat, concern and surprise written all over her face as Burbage's composure slipped for the first time she had seen in a while. Harry sat as still as still as a statue, anxiety and confusion rising as he stared at the man.
Eventually Burbage looked up and stared Harry directly in the eyes. "Mr P - Harry. I am deeply sorry to tell you what I am about to. It is over ten years too late and from a relative stranger, but I would like to offer you my condolences."
Harry felt his heart plummet.
"Your parents perished at the hands of Voldemort. They were his last known victims."
Harry twirled the wand in between his fingers. That revelation had sent him into a daze for the rest of the day; the joy and wonder of the Wizarding World disappeared and was replaced by a cold fog that clouded his thoughts.
His parents had been killed? Killed? Someone had wanted them dead and killed them? Why? That didn't make sense. Hadn't they died in a car crash? No wait, that's what the Dursleys had told him. They weren't trustworthy. Killed?
If someone asked him to detail the journey back from Diagon Alley that day, he wouldn't have been able to tell them much beyond that the Knight Bus had been involved. Burbage and Babbling had dropped him off, said their goodbyes and left after handing him a ticket for the Hogwarts Express. Something about a magic train, but he hadn't really listened.
His aunt and uncle were waiting when he walked through the front door. They had stared at each other for a while before Harry spoke. "Did someone murder my parents?" he asked outright.
Petunia had paled and Vernon looked as if he'd been slapped. The man had sputtered for a bit, off balance and unsure of how to answer, before his wife spoke up. "Yes," she said, voice soft. She struggled with her next words for a bit, before finally whispering, "I'm sorry."
He had gone to his room and stayed there for nearly three days.
The first was spent staring at the ceiling, pacing around the room and properly processing the events of his birthday. Once everything was ordered and the numbness at the truth behind his parents death faded, he had found himself stricken with fury. Not hard enough to trigger another magical outburst, but the knowledge that his parents had been taken from him by another person's ill-will rather than a whimsy of fate struck true and deep. The anger hadn't fully left him since, settling somewhere deep inside him.
The second day he had decided to take a proper look at his school supplies. Starting with the thick information packet that came with the letter (the code of conduct had been discarded after a cursory glance) he had read about Hogwarts, its curriculum and some general information about the wizarding world. He noted with grim amusement that all the information on the 'At War' status of Magical Britain was confined to a single, fine-print footnote at the very back of the booklet.
From there he had plowed into his textbooks. The Defense Against the Dark Arts was a bit of a disappointment; it had a lot more theory than spells, with entire chapters dedicated to things such as situational awareness, recognising danger signs and how to escape high-risk circumstances. Its saving grace was that what spells it did contain looked wicked! Flipendo was especially enticing.
History of Magic, Transfiguration, Herbology and Preparatory Studies were all heavily theory based, so he didn't spend much time going through their textbooks. They were interesting for sure, but A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration used complicated terminology and concepts that weren't easily understood outside a classroom and with how thick A History of Magic was he thought it best read a few pages at a time.
The Standard Book of Spells, his charms textbook, was the absolute motherload in terms of practical magic. With virtually no theory, the book boasted thirty seven spells (Harry had counted) and detailed instructions on how to perform them. While the majority seemed quite mundane as far as spells went (he'd given the page-turning spell a flat look) they were still spells. He had read the book from cover to cover.
Then there was Magical Drafts and Potions. The textbook detailing the one practical subject that didn't require a wand. The one he could practice without the threat of expulsion. Well, he assumed so; he thought sacrificing the one warning he had to find out was worth it.
Probably.
That said, he remembered what Babbling had said about Potions in regard to 'Unnatural deformation and/or indefinite bestial transformation' and thoroughly read the instructions on preparing ingredients, the general effects each had in a potion and how to properly maintain his equipment. His eagerness barely held out long enough to ensure he understood those basic concepts, and in short order he was in the garage digging out the portable stove the Dursleys used when they went camping.
He had been slicing up bat spleen on one of his aunt's chopping boards when something had drawn his gaze upward. There, peeking through the crack of his bedroom door, was Dudley.
The two boys had stared at each other for a bit, each as surprised as the other, before Dudley broke the silence.
"What're you doing?" the boy mumbled.
Harry floundered for a bit, before shrugging. He knew Dudley had been told about his being a wizard and, honestly, there was no good explanation for why he was butchering internal organs in his room besides the truth.
"Making a potion that cures boils."
Dudley's eyes had flickered from him to the cauldron he had bubbling a meter away. He seemed uncertain for a few seconds, before hesitantly saying, "I won't tell Dad if you let me watch."
Harry had blinked, gaped, then frowned. Dudley wasn't the most delicate or careful of individuals; the mound of broken toys in his room could attest to that. Letting him near anything as delicate as he had read potions to be was asking for disaster.
Then again, if Vernon found out what he was doing…
"Fine, just don't touch anything."
The potion hadn't quite turned out in the fuschia-pink shade that the book displayed, but it wasn't far off either. Close enough that it was safe for use, according to the safety index at the back of the book.
"What are you going to do with the rest of it?" Dudley asked, holding the stoppered vial up to the sunlight. To his credit, the boy had sat quietly and been unobtrusive, only interrupting to ask the occasional question. Harry thought it was the most pleasant interaction he had ever shared with his cousin.
"Dunno'," he muttered, eyeing the full cauldron with twisted lips. It being his first magical project he was loath to simply throw it out, especially without seeing if it actually worked as it was meant to.
"Want to see if it works on pimples?" he asked, eyeing Dudley's face. His cousin had been hit with puberty a bit earlier than what was usual and spots had recently begun to appear on his cheeks and forehead.
Dudley shot him a glare at his broaching of what was a touchy subject, which softened as he considered the neon liquid in the vial he held.
To both Harry and Duley's glee, it had worked. As it wasn't quite perfect, Harry had added a neutral thickening agent (as near pure glycerin as he could find) per the book's recommendation and had Dudley wash his face with it instead of ingesting it. While the effects weren't quite as rapid or potent as described, Dudley's acne had faded considerably after a week of his magical skincare routine.
He had since perfected the potion (after two more attempts) and had then tried to make a magical herbicide. It was significantly less successful. The green-black sludge that had resulted stank to high heaven and sizzled when Dudley had tried to stir it with a spoon. ThatHarry had thrown out.
Turns out it might not have been as much of a failure as he had thought. Either that or the potion had killed Petunia's flower bed through sheer toxicity.
And so the month of August had passed, with Petunia leaving every room he entered, Vernon glaring at him whenever they entered eyesight of each other and Dudley watching as he studied the arcane. If there was one thing that made his new-found circumstances tolerable in the eyes of his uncle, it was that the calls from aggrieved neighbors had stopped coming in and he'd stopped having to send gifts of apology.
And now it was September first. Standing, Harry dragged his chest out into the hall and toward the front door, not giving the house he'd grown up in a second look. Vernon was waiting for him by the door, his arms folded and foot tapping impatiently. Harry huffed in bitter amusement; the man probably couldn't wait to be rid of him.
Dudley leant against the archway that led to the living room, across which Harry could see his Aunt Petunia busying herself in the kitchen. She looked up for a second, startled as she met his gaze, and hurriedly turned back to the stove.
"So…" Harry turned to his cousin as he began to mumble something. "Do you think you'll be back for Christmas?"
Harry blinked at him in surprise, caught completely off-guard by the question. "I… I don't know," he answered haltingly, before giving an awkward chuckle. "I'm not even sure wizards celebrate Christmas."
Dudley turned his gaze to the empty living room and nodded silently.
"But if they do, I'll definitely come back."
Harry wasn't sure where the words came from; they leapt from his mouth without thought. Truth be told he hadn't planned on seeing his relatives till the summer holidays next year. But now the promise was made and Dudley had a small smile on his face. Harry found himself smiling back.
The two nodded to each other and Harry carried on to where Vernon was waiting. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but the man's glare seemed to have softened somewhat.
The two walked out to the car without so much as glancing at each other. Harry struggled to haul his trunk into the boot while Vernon clambered into the driver's seat, the car rocking as he did so. After a few seconds of grunting and muffled cursing, he finally managed to shove the trunk into the car and slam the boot door shut. Dusting off his hands, he went to climb into the back seat.
"Harry!"
He paused, hand on the door handle. He watched, nonplussed, as Petunia hurried out the door toward him. He almost thought she was about to give him a hug, but she stopped abruptly a few feet away from him.
He would never admit to the traitorous disappointment that flashed through him.
His aunt didn't seem to know why she rushed out, or what to do with herself. She glanced about, fidgeting with her skirts and shuffling in place. Eventually, she met his gaze and after a moment of staring, seemed to find some resolve.
"Please, be careful," she muttered, looking into his eyes. Harry was shocked at the sadness he found there. "Magic…" Something seemed to catch in her throat. "Magic can be dangerous."
Inexplicably, he suddenly understood the emotion in her eyes as if it were his own and found a deep longing and feeling of regret well up inside him. A small gasp left him. He could see Dudley behind her peeking out the doorway curiously. His mind went back to the small exchange they had shared in the hallway.
Did his relatives… actually care about him?
Seeing Petunia looking at him expectantly, he nodded his assent, at a loss for how else to respond. She nodded back, a look of slight relief on her face, before turning and heading back into the cottage. Harry watched her go for a moment, before opening the car door and climbing in.
As they drove off, the boy found himself looking back at his home with a small smile on his face.
Maybe he wouldn't go as unmissed as he had thought.
Harry barely paused long enough to shut the door of his compartment before he was tearing into his trunk with a near-frantic energy. All the robes and socks and underwear that had given him so much trouble before came flying out again; he really should have packed his books in last.
Ah! There it was! Harry grabbed The Standard Book of Spells and started flipping pages at a rapid pace. He had long since marked the spells he first wanted to try, and quickly found the one at the top of his list.
Incendio.
Harry read the detailed chapter one last time; he had damn near memorized it at this point, but he ran through the wand motions and pronunciation again anyway. Then he took a deep breath, sat the book down and spoke.
"Incendio."
Nothing happened.
Harry blinked. Of all the outcomes he had imagined, from a great fireball to a measly gout of flame, a non-result had not been among them.
He tried again. Still nothing. Harry could feel the ghostly connection he had with his wand, but it was static. Nothing was happening. He was frowning now.
"Incendio! Incendio, damn it!"
He plopped down onto his seat and glared at his wand as if it had betrayed him. Grumbling, he picked up the book and ran through the instructions once more. It was to little avail. He kept trying, making slight adjustments to his pronunciation and motions each time, yet nothing changed. Five minutes later found Harry sitting and staring at his wand in silence, as one would a challenging puzzle.
He could feel his magic. It had been there ever since he'd touched his wand - longer than that. His whole life. Feeling it wasn't the problem; the problem was touching it. Using it. When he had tried back at the Leaky Cauldron it had slipped through his grasp, like he had tried to pick up oil.
And now, when he was actually trying to cast a spell, he couldn't feel it at all.
Harry mulled this over in his head, before frowning as something occurred to him: he hadn't been trying to feel his magic. Unlike that day in the Leaky Cauldron, he hadn't been reaching for the energy that lay within - he had just been waving a stick and saying a meaningless word, hoping something would happen.
He sat up straighter as he followed this train of thought. He had just assumed that performing the spell's motions would automatically cast the magic, but what if that wasn't the case? What if he actively had to provide the energy himself? Come to think of it, that could also explain why simply reaching for his magic hadn't worked either; he hadn't had a directive in mind when doing so. It was only when that burned man…
The boy sobered for a moment as he remembered the incident and the pure, unadulterated terror he had felt looking into the man's eyes, before he shook it off and refocused on the theory that was slowly forming in his mind.
Blindly grasping for his magic didn't work. Neither did giving powerless direction. But if he reached for his magic with purpose then…
Harry closed his eyes and began the motions of the spell again. As he did, his mouth formed the syllables of the incantation and he reached out to pull at the arcane energy that ran throughout him. This time, his grasp on it was as strong as steel.
"Incendio."
It was like sticking his finger into a wall socket. Everything connected, the circuit closed and power surged. Harry gasped and his eyes shot open - just in time to witness a plume of blue flames burst from the tip of his wand.
Harry froze as a wave of warm air washed over him, ruffling his hair and causing his cheeks to flush. He stared in awe as the flames slowly traveled upward in a swirling vortex for a foot or two before winking out of existence. A second or two passed in silence before the young wizard burst out into delighted laughter.
He did it! He had cast magic! He had controlled magic!
And he wanted to do it again.
Still riding a wave of adrenaline and ellation, Harry leapt from his seat and, waving his wand, cried out, "Incendio!"
The results were… a bit different this time. Unlike the previous tongues of flame that had languidly licked the air, a denser, brighter, hotter ball of blue fire rocketed from his wand with a sound like a growling rottweiler.
Harry's wand just so happened to finish its path pointed directly at the seat opposite him.
Coincidentally, this was where he had piled a few of his clothes in his search for his books.
With a flash of light and a dull bang, the fireball impacted the pile and exploded. In a proud display of pre-pubescence, Harry let out a shrill shriek and fell back onto his seat, arms waving madly in an attempt to ward off the smoldering undergarments that were now flying everywhere.
The conflagration was as short-lived as it was sudden. The light and roar produced by the flames faded in an instant, leaving nothing but a deafening stillness and the sickening smell of scorched leather. Harry slowly lowered his arms from his wide-eyed face and stared unfathomingly at the sizable circle of char that covered most of the seat opposite him.
All save the chatter on the platform outside was silent for a moment as several different reactions fought for dominance in his subconscious. Manic excitement emerged victorious in short order.
"Shitting-! Bloody wicked!" He didn't mean to say those particular words, and certainly not in that particular order, but it was all his overwhelmed mind would allow before he was overcome with laughter that any outside observer would only be able to describe as 'insane'.
Said laughter cut off abruptly as the door to his compartment slid open, accompanied by the sound of a human voice saying, "Excuse me, do you min-...?"
Frank Bryce, muggle-born and third-year Ravenclaw, thought he had gotten used to the strangeness of the Wizarding World. It had only been two years, yes, but there was no better environment in which to acclimatize to Magicals than Hogwarts. Hogwarts, where the architecture changed the way it made no sense on a daily schedule, ghosts roamed the halls and the furniture had a better-than-not chance of being sentient. The last time he had been surprised by something magical was when the dinosaur skull in the Defense classroom had laughed at a joke he made. That was the first week of his second year.
And still, despite all of Frank's immunizing experiences, the sight that lay before him still managed to catch him unawares. As his gaze panned from one side of the compartment to the other, he felt the incredulousness mount upon seeing each aspect of the scene that made it ridiculous.
First to hit was the smell in the air: simply awful. It was as if someone had tossed a pile of hair onto a campfire. The source of the smell was easy to spot - you'd have to be blind to miss the blackened, smoking scorch mark on the right-most seat. The leather was cracked and crumbling from the heat.
Once Frank had absorbed the main locus of this disaster of a compartment, the abject chaos of the rest of it came into focus. The open trunk in the middle with a mess spilling out of it, an open book laying face down on the floor, the smoldering clothes that were flung freaking everywhere- there was a pair of bloody underwear hanging above his head, for Merlin's sake!
Slowly, Frank's head lowered from the briefs dangling from the overhead luggage rack and felt his face settle into a perfect deadpan as he laid eyes on what was easily the strangest thing in the compartment.
A bespectacled eleven-year-old sporting a flushed, excited expression only a loon could wear and a half-burned sock laying across his mop of singed hair.
Frank stared for a second before inhaling deeply. He knew what he needed to do.
Giving the boy a polite nod, he turned, shut the compartment door, and left it to be somebody else's problem.
Harry had arrived nearly an hour before the Express was due to leave. Ten minutes had been spent admiring the platform and train, a frustrating twenty minutes had gone into figuring out his first spell and he had just spent another ten minutes cleaning up the resulting mess.
He fell back down onto his seat with a loud exhale and looked out the window. The platform had been nearly empty when he had arrived, but now it was alive and frantic, with parents harrying and being harried by their children and trolleys full of luggage and exotic pets zooming everywhere. The gentle murmur that had floated about the platform before was now a hubbub that could rival central London on a busy day.
Harry felt the floor vibrate as a group of children moved past his compartment. He had seen a few people peek in through the blinds since the first boy had come along. Much like him, they had spotted the massive scorch mark and decided to carry on.
This suited Harry just fine. It gave him the opportunity to practice more magic without interruptions. The burned seat had also given him a perfect excuse to try out the repairing charm.
But, purely because it might yield more damage with which to practice reparo with, he might as well play with fire some more.
Grinning, Harry fed his burgeoning pyromania with a swirl of his wand. "Incendio!"
For the next few minutes he played with the charm. The spell didn't always work; sometimes he would reach for his magic and just not be able to grab it. However, Harry grew more consistent the more he tried. Now, as machinery and metal slid and locked into place beneath his feet, Harry only failed in his attempts maybe once for every twenty.
The train began rolling forward slowly, Harry leaning into his inertia without diverting focus from the blue flames that flowered at the tip of his wand. He didn't let the departing whistle of the train or screamed farewells from the platform distract him from the sensations he could feel flowing between him and the spell.
After he had cast the charm a few times he started to notice what actually happened with his magic during the whole process. It was interesting, to say the least; unlike what he had first thought, he didn't siphon magic from his 'core' into the spell. Rather than dragging his magic into the wand, his 'core', that gathering of magic in his abdomen, pulsed. And that pulse traveled throughout his being, propagated by the magic that suffused his body.
The pulse faded out quickly, usually by the time it reached his skin, except where he held his wand. He could feel the pulse transfer to and through the wand and burst out the other end as heat and light. After a bit of focus and a lot of frustration, Harry managed to get the spell to induce multiple pulses at once, one after the other. It was a complicated task, like trying to consciously make his heart beat, but he did it after nearly half an hour of trying.
The result was a sustained blue flame that flickered at the end of his wand, like a candle light.
Harry grinned and fist pumped at his success, then scowled as the lapse in his concentration immediately brought a halt to the pulses and the flame cut off.
Sighing, he slumped into the backrest. He suddenly felt tired, as if he had just spent hours studying for an exam. His head lolled toward the window and he blinked as he saw miles and miles of uninterrupted greenery and gentle hills. Were they in the countryside already? Surely not. It hadn't even been an hour; no train moved that fast.
'Magic,' he reminded himself with a smile. Even with the mental and physical strain he was feeling right now, the urge to summon the Bluebell Flames perked up its head once more. It was amazing - that he could just concentrate a bit and produce something as powerful and primordial as fire.
And not just produce it. Control it. Harry had quickly recognised the blue fire for the stuff Professor Burbage had used in his demonstration, and remembered how the man had manipulated it to form shapes and creatures. Having just barely figured out the spell himself Harry had no idea how to exercise such fine control, but he was eager to find out.
Luckily, it didn't take more than five minutes for the slight pressure on his mind to alleviate enough for him to continue experimenting. With a wave and muttered incantation, he focused on maintaining the flickering blue light at his wand tip. From there he started messing with his core's pulse.
Harry wanted to see if he couldn't get the fire to hover in the air, independent from his wand. He could maintain and control it and he could project it outward, but he couldn't do both at the same time. He knew it was possible, thanks to the Muggle Studies professor, and he was never one to settle for mediocrity .
His first effort - making his core pulse faster - did not yield the desired result. Instead, the flame instantly grew brighter, hotter and firmer. In a mere second it resembled an unwavering, white-blue spear head that radiated a scorching heat. Harry quickly cut the spell off, sweating from both the heat and effort it took to produce it.
After recovering from his sudden expenditure of energy, he confirmed that, as he suspected, shortening the pulses had the opposite effect. The fire became darker and cooler, to the point where he could comfortably hold his finger in the flame. Harry played around with these new discoveries for a bit before ultimately exhausting their entertainment value and wondering what he should try next. It took him a few minutes, but a remembered science lesson on rainbows and light led to him trying to make the pulses longer.
He had seen what messing with the 'frequency' did, now what about the 'amplitude'?
In the first ten minutes, nothing, as it turned out. After much cursing, frustration and another break to relieve his mounting headache, Harry tried making each pulse… thicker… for lack of a better word, instead of changing the distance between each one. The result was a sudden flare-up of the fire, from a candle flame to a good sized torch.
Harry blinked at his sudden success and the blue fire immediately shrank to its previous size. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he tried to repeat the feat. It was easier now that he knew what to do, and after a few seconds the charm began to grow in size again.
'Ah,' Harry thought excitedly, 'so that's what happens.'
He grew even more excited as a thought occurred to him. If the 'amplitude' affected the spell's size, and 'frequency' its power, then if he…
Harry's grin faltered and he stopped just short of ramping up his core's pulse. He thought of the heat and power that his high-frequency Incendio produced. He mentally added it to the increased size of the flames. His eyes flicked over to regard the scorch mark on the seat opposite him.
The sum equaled something several times that magnitude.
After a moment, Harry cut off the spell. As tempting as it was, he was here to learn how to not cause unwilling destruction, and to that end, creating an inferno in a train compartment seemed counterproductive.
'Maybe it's time to stop playing with fire,' he thought reluctantly. He hadn't meant to go so in-depth on a single spell; there were so many others that he wanted to try and he only had…
Harry's eyebrows rose as he checked his watch. Yes, it had been a while, but surely not that long? Damn, he had really lost track of time.
'Oh well,' he thought, 'there's still a few hours.' The information packet he had been given had placed Hogwarts in the northern part of Scotland; even at the speed they were moving, it would be a while before they arrived.
He spent some time reading up on the repairing charm, and then some more time staring out the window watching the hills and occasional town pass by. He wondered if anyone could see them. Probably not. He shook his head at the thought that a bright red steam engine could just be made invisible to an entire country like that.
He couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts.
Just as he pulled out his wand to (finally) repair the burnt seat, the compartment door was pulled open.
"Excuse me, but have you seen - Oh!'
Harry's head whipped towards the intruder. Standing in the doorway was a girl with bushy brown hair and sparkling brown eyes. The latter feature was fixed firmly on his wand.
"Are you doing magic?"
"Uh…"
Harry had settled into his comfortable isolation on the train, so this sudden and blatant intrusion caught him off guard. He took a moment to analyze her. Unlike him, the girl had already changed into her Hogwarts robes. She was a fair bit smaller than he was, and with the slightly oversized teeth that her smile exposed, he was reminded a bit of Welma Horstein from secondary school.
The silence stretched for several seconds. His staring must have unnerved her, for her smile quickly faded and her form turned inward slightly. "Oh… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… um…." The girl dropped her gaze to the floor and started to squirm.
Harry grimaced, and then nearly kicked himself when she caught sight of it and shrunk into herself further.
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to stare! I just… wasn't expecting someone to come in."
She shook her head, still not looking up. "No, you're right. I just barged in; didn't even knock."
"It's okay, really." He just wished she would stop looking like a kicked puppy. Why was she reacting so strongly to his staring anyway? With how contrite she looked you would think he had scolded her.
There was a pause for a moment, before Harry gave himself a small shake and extended his hand with a smile. "In any case, nice to meet you. My name is Harry."
The girl finally looked up. Her doe-brown eyes practically sparkled as she gave him a nervous smile and shook his hand.
"Hermione Granger."
…He was reminded a lot of Welma Horstein from secondary school. Just about the only thing she was missing was the stutter.
"Well, Hermione Granger, what can I help you with?"
"Ah, right! I was wondering if- …" Hermione faltered as she caught sight of the massive scorch mark on the seat behind him. She sent him a questioning and alarmed look. Harry fought back a grin and tilted his head in mock confusion.
"Is everything okay?" He asked.
She cleared her throat and inclined her head to where he had previously incinerated a decent portion of his underwear. He frowned and raised an eyebrow, appearing for all the world oblivious to her subliminal message.
She looked at him, incredulous and uncertain. Her eyes flicked to the seat behind him with increasing urgency while he continued to stare at her with a dumb look on his face. After a second or two she opened her mouth. Harry thought she was about to ask outright, but then she seemed to change her mind.
"I was wondering if you've seen a toad," she asked slowly. "A boy named Neville has lost his." She was still sending the occasional glance at the scorched seat.
Harry was almost disappointed she had dropped the matter. "No, no toads here," he answered. Then he frowned. "Why a toad of all things? For a pet, I mean."
Hermione grabbed her elbow and shrugged uncertainly. "I didn't ask. I just said I would help him look."
Harry nodded in understanding. Suddenly it was awkward again; he had nothing to say in follow up, and neither did she, it seemed. Still, she didn't leave. She stayed, fidgeting and shooting glances at his face and wand.
Eventually, Harry clued in. "Did you want to see me do magic?" he asked slowly.
Hermione's eyes brightened, a smile appeared on her face and she nodded vigorously.
'Seriously, are they cousins or something?'
Harry cleared his throat. He hadn't planned on having an audience, but with how she was looking at him he didn't have the heart to say no. It wasn't as if he couldn't perform under pressure.
Still, he added a disclaimer. "It's the first time I'm trying this spell, so I might not get it right."
"What's the spell?"
"Reparo. It lets you-"
"I know what it does!" she interrupted excitedly, then winced and mumbled, "Sorry."
Harry chuckled. "It's fine." He tilted his head at her, a curious look in his eye. "Are your parents normal? Muggle, I mean."
"Why do people keep asking me that?" she muttered. "They are. Why?"
"It's just that none of the wizards I've met so far have gotten this excited about magic," he explained, shrugging. "You're the first person I've seen treat it like it's actually special."
Hermione scoffed. "How could you not? It's magic!"
Harry grinned, fully relating. "I know! It's amazing that I can just - reparo!" In the spur of the moment Harry pointed his wand at the seat and spoke the incantation. To his delight, he felt his core give a long, slow pulse and watched as the char slowly receded inward, giving way to untouched leather. The grin on his face widened as he remembered it to be the spell he had seen Olivander cast (multiple times) during his choosing.
The scorch mark was gone in a matter of seconds, leaving a pair of excited children to stare at it in awe. "That I can just do stuff like that!" Harry finished.
"Well done!" Hermione congratulated, clapping her hands a bit. She ignored his sudden acknowledgement of the scorch mark he had acted clueless about before, too excited at seeing magic performed. "That was your first time?"
Harry gave her a sweeping bow and smirked up at her through the lenses of his glasses. "Amazing, aren't I?"
"Humble too," she observed wryly. Harry could see her relaxing.
There was another short pause as Harry straightened, much less awkward this time.
"So… you're a muggleborn as well, I'm guessing?" Hermione asked.
"Uh, kind of, but not really," he said, shrugging. "My parents were both wizards, but they died when I was young. I only found out about magic last month."
"Oh," she blinked and some of her earlier anxiousness returned. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"About my parents? How would you?" Harry chuckled disarmingly. "It happened a long time ago. You don't have to feel bad about it."
Hermione smiled and nodded. She took a breath and seemed about to ask something, but hesitated a bit. Harry gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile and waited. After a beat she spoke.
"Is… is it alright if I come back here after I finish helping Neville?" she asked, a bit shyly. "It's better than just sitting alone in a compartment."
The way she softly muttered the last part under her breath made him unsure whether she was talking about him or herself, but his answer was the same regardless. He vigorously nodded his head. "Of course! It would be nice to have some company."
Her megawatt smile made a reappearance and she visibly brightened. "Thank you so much! Oh, can I bring Neville too? The poor boy seems a bit lonely."
Harry got the impression he was gossiping about a pot with a kettle, but chose not to mention it. "Sure," he said instead, shrugging. "The more, the merrier."
"Fantastic!" Harry swore he could see her eyes sparkle. "Then I'll -"
"You."
A new voice cut through their conversation like a knife, leaving silence in its wake. Hermione startled and whirled around to face the person who had spoken while Harry peered past her head of bushy hair. There, standing in the door, was a boy about their age, with two larger boys flanking him. Harry instantly recognised the speaker's slicked, platinum hair and delicate features as belonging to the boy he had met in Madam Malkin's. The Malfoy boy.
He was looking straight at Harry, a small sneer curling his upper lip at the corner. Harry hadn't thought anything of it last time, but seeing it again now made him wonder if it was a permanent fixture on his face.
His two friends' expressions were decidedly less offensive. They looked bored and disinterested; the taller one's eyes roamed lazily about his surroundings, while the other gazed off at something in the distance.
Harry raised his eyebrows at the blond boy. "Me?"
"Yes, you." Malfoy's eyes flickered to Hermione for a second, who didn't seem to know what to make of the sudden intrusion, before dismissing her and turning back to Harry. "We met in Diagon Alley. At Malkin's."
"I remember," Harry stated dryly. "Your dad seemed quite shocked to see me for some reason."
Malfoy grunted, seemingly annoyed at the reminder. "I've been looking for you."
"Well, you found me." Harry made sure to sound as disappointed as possible. "What's your name again?"
A flicker of indignation interrupted the boy's sneer. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." He said it as if rebuking Harry for not knowing. "And you are Harry Potter, correct?"
Harry nodded, making no attempt to shake hands. "This is Hermione Granger," he introduced, gesturing toward the silently observing girl. Said girl blinked at suddenly being involved, before smiling nervously at the blond boy.
"Nice to meet you," she greeted, holding out her hand for him to shake.
He didn't take it. Instead he stared at the proffered appendage as if someone had just offered him a pile of dirt. The silence quickly went from awkward to rude, and grew ruder as he dragged his gaze from her hand to the rest of her. From her face to her feet he laboriously looked the girl over, as if judging her worth. If the way his sneer grew bigger was any indication, he found her wanting for a lot.
Hermione quickly retracted her hand with a frown and red cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something, but Malfoy beat her to it.
"You're a mudblood, aren't you?"
Harry knew it immediately for what it was. He didn't recognise the word itself, but he recognised the way it was said. The way it was used. He knew from experience that people only used that poisonous tone when they were spewing the worst of slurs and curses.
More than that, he recognised the question. It was the same one that Stan Shunpike had asked him seconds after meeting him. The same one that Malfoy had asked him while they were being fitted. They had used different words, but the reason and intent behind their asking was identical.
This weasley prick had just called Hermione something awful.
And he had tried to call Harry the same thing.
"Get out," Harry commanded, voice sharp and cold.
Malfoy whipped his head toward him, looking surprised. "What?"
"Leave. Now!" he growled, glaring at the boy. "You don't get to walk into our compartment and start throwing around insults! Now get bloody-well lost!"
Malfoy's surprised expression persisted for a second, before he straightened imperiously and gave his nastiest sneer yet. His two flunkies showed their first signs of life and clenched their fists, each taking a small step forward. They were obviously doing their best to look intimidating.
And with their size, it was working.
No matter how much Harry tried to hide it, he flinched back slightly at the duo's hostile movements. He was no stranger to fights, which was how he knew that if one broke out now he would lose. He felt confident in taking on Malfoy, maybe, but at the same time as these two? They would beat him bloody.
Malfoy noticed the retreat, small as it was, and his sneer turned cocky.
"You can't tell me what to do! I'll do whatever - "
"He said get out, you little prick!"
Harry blinked and turned to look at Hermione. 'What?'
Malfoy looked similarly taken aback. "Wha-? What did you just call me?"
"A prick!" Hermione shouted without hesitation. "A greasy-haired, obnoxious little twit! Who the bloody hell do you think you are!?"
Harry stared open-mouthed at the girl. Gone was her timidness, gone was her nervous smile and gone was the sparkle in her eye. Replacing those earlier characteristics was a vicious snarl, thunderous glare and blazing red cheeks. She stood in a wide stance, a finger extending toward Malfoy from a tightly balled fist. Harry thought she might try and stab him with it, given the look she was shooting pinning him with.
She looked furious.
"Actually, no! I don't care! Just piss off!" Without further preamble, and paying the four boy's gobsmacked expressions no mind, she stalked forward and shoved Malfoy out into the corridor.
The boy stumbled, and would have fallen had his flunkies not caught him. Rage twisting his features, he pushed their hands of him and reached into his robes. Most likely for his wand.
"You'll pay for that, you dirty little- !"
"Incendio."
Without a second thought the incantation jumped to his lips and heat flooded the compartment. Hermione spun around in surprise, giving the three aggressors in the corridor an uninterrupted view of Harry through the doorway.
He stood there with a cold gaze and a solid blue flame burning at the end of his wand. It was thin and unwavering, like a blowtorch, and even though several meters separated him from the three boys, they could feel the heat it gave off. It was overcast outside, and the poor lighting lended to the spell's intimidation factor, bathing his face and clothes in a pale blue light.
The three froze. They no longer looked so sure of themselves.
Harry pounced at the sign of weakness. "You heard the lady. Piss off," he growled.
He desperately hoped they would; he was bluffing for all he was worth at the moment. They had been living with magic their entire lives; he had only known about it for a month. He didn't doubt that they already knew a few spells, whereas he only knew one. One that was quickly tiring him out, with how high a frequency he was feeding into it. If they decided to actually test his mettle, he doubted he would last long.
And so, he was relying on his not-insubstantial bullshitting ability. That and the hope that they were the idiots he thought they were.
A few tense seconds passed as Harry and Malfoy stared each other down. Sweat began to roll down Harry's nape and he felt his concentration begin to waver. He nearly sighed in relief when Malfoy stuffed his wand back into his pocket and stormed off down the carriage. The two larger boys shared a glance before rushing after him.
"This isn't over, Potter!" Malfoy shouted over his shoulder.
Harry released the spell with a soft sigh and wiped his forehead free of sweat.
"What was that!?" Hermione exclaimed, staring at him with wide eyes.
"The Incendio charm," he explained shortly. "What about you? What was that back there? You damn near bit his head off! I thought he was going to drop dead with the way you were glaring at him!"
And just like that her earlier demeanor returned. Her shoulders drooped, her gaze dropped and she shifted from foot to foot while wringing her hands anxiously. The fire she had displayed was snuffed out, leaving behind the mild and awkward manner she had first shown. The reversal was so sudden that it nearly gave Harry whiplash.
"I don't like it when people call me names," she muttered timidly, as if that explained everything.
Harry blinked owlishly at the possibly bipolar girl he had just befriended.
She… she reminded him less of Welma Horstein now.
AN: Well, there we go folks! Not entirely sure about this one; there are parts that I'm not entirely happy with, but at the same time can't think of a better way of writing. So ️ You guys can let me know what you think in a review. What could I have done better? What could I have done differently? I really appreciate constructive criticism, so let me know.
Now, to address some questions and comments I have received: Some people have pointed out that 8½ inches is pretty short for a wand, and have followed this up by saying short wands indicate poor personality traits in their owners. Honestly, I had no idea that this was the case. I'm an engineer (student). As you'll see throughout this story, I take a more scientific-minded approach to magic; I planned to have the length of a wand affect the 'resistance' it presents to certain Magicals' magic. Some see less resistance with shorter wands, others with longer wands. Since this is an AU story, I always planned for things to be different; not just in the plot but in the mechanics of things as well. So as far as I am concerned, this is canon now.
"I reject your reality, and substitute my own."
Adam Savage
Others have pointed out that Harry acts far more mature than an average eleven-year-old would. I'll admit, that's probably accurate. I do actually interact with kids on a semi-regular basis, and have some pretty intelligent conversations with them, but I think despite that I haven't quite nailed writing a prepubescent character yet. Oh well. Something to work on as I write.
So yeah, that's all I really have to say. I won't say when the next update on any of my stories will be, 'cause I always end up changing my plans, but I have a month long recess coming up. So right there is a lot of free time to spend writing.
Until that time, I bid you a farewell!
Cheers, guys!