章 1085: 3
Chapter 3: Summer of Wonder
Summers at Privet Drive were always the same, as were the autumns, winters and springs. Not that Petunia Dursley was complaining, of course – the stable life she'd been living suited her just fine, thank you very much! That summer so far had seemed to be continuing this tradition.
Dudley had finished his school year, though he barely passed the exams. But she couldn't blame him for that! The poor boy had been complaining about his headache for a week before the exams! Unfortunately no medicine Petunia gave him could quell his pain. It was good that the migraines finally went away by themselves by the beginning of holidays.
Vernon was proud of his son of course: but he was becoming more and more agitated, as the date when their nephew would return grew nearer. Frankly, Petunia was worried about her husband. Whilst he was an upstanding citizen, when it came to his nephew he became unreasonable. Certainly, she held no love for the no-good freak, but his escape a year ago showed that he had friends and what's more– that his freaky friends were ready to go to certain lengths to help him! So in the evening before the feared day, she decided to talk to Vernon.
After Dudley went to sleep, Petunia told Vernon, who was currently glaring at the calendar like it was his mortal enemy:
"We need to talk about the boy."
He grunted and glanced at her shrewdly. "What about the freak?"
She sighed and told him about her reservations about the boy and his friends.
"Ha!" He snorted with contempt. "I'm not afraid of a bunch of snot-nosed freaks. They can't do anything to me – they're forbidden from using their freakishness during the holidays."
"True," she conceded, "but what would you call that monstrosity of a car of theirs?" Petunia parried. "And even if they aren't able to hurt us, then maybe they can call an adult, who this time will not only give Duddikins a pig tail, but turn him into pig completely!"
That thought gave Vernon pause. After considering it, he grumbled: "Fine. As long as the freak does nothing and keeps out of my sight I will keep away from him."
"That will be reasonable," was the reply. She turned to leave the kitchen when she remembered something that made her blood chill.
"Vernon, but what about Marge? She said she'll visit us, and who knows what will happen if she annoys the freak!"
Vernon grunted, unamused by the very thought. "I'll think of something."
Next day, Hogwarts Express, somewhere in the middle of Scotland
The trip to London was eventless, the traditional visit from Malfoy notwithstanding. Insults were exchanged, threats were made, the ponce left. All in all, it went as usual. Well, other than Harry hexing him out of the car with a slightly underpowered Depulso to the crotch. The expression on Malfoy's face was priceless. After Draco's rather ungraceful exit (there might have been some hopping involved) there were no more distractions.
Ron planned the summer and ate chocolate frogs in quantities that would make anyone not familiar with him to double-take.
Hermione planned the summer around her homework and pestered both boys about their own essays.
Harry quietly dreaded the summer and did everything he could to steer off the topic – unsuccessfully.
Finally, the ride was over.
He stepped from the train and inhaled deeply. That was a mistake he immediately regretted, as he started coughing. There was something rather pleasant about the smell Hogwarts Express' engine emitted, but Harry wouldn't recommend breathing too deeply in its immediate vicinity. After he regained control of his lungs, he exchanged warm goodbyes with Hermione, Ron and everyone who was still friendly to him during the "Heir of Slytherin" phase. Sadly, it was a rather short list. In fact, it only consisted of his dorm-mates, the Gryffindor Quidditch team and the two Ravenclaws Hermione roped as her study partners. After that was over with, Harry had no choice but to head towards the Muggle section of the station.
Harry exited platform 9¾ and scanned the crowd; it only took a couple of seconds to spot the Dursleys. It wasn't hard. Even Aunt Petunia, who was a fairly unnoticeable person in comparison to Uncle Vernon or Dudley, stuck out like a sore thumb with her pinched facial expression. The reason for the nearly palpable distaste was standing near the rich-looking couple who could only be the Grangers. Mrs. Weasley, in her worn dress, was talking to them a mile a minute and rather loudly. Mr. Weasley was standing right next to her, listening to the conversation with rapt interest and visibly holding himself from starting to question the Muggle couple. Harry smiled in wry amusement. No doubt Aunt Petunia heard the conversation and was seething that obviously successful and normal people are willingly associating with the so-called freaks. The disgust on her face was almost worth the fallout that he would no doubt experience when she took her anger out on him. He rolled his eyes and strolled towards the Dursleys.
"Uncle, Aunt, Dudley. I'm here," he greeted them. Aunt Petunia blinked at the formality.
"Nephew," she answered. Uncle Vernon simply grunted, turned and walked away without saying a word. Dudley was also silent through the short exchange. Harry shrugged and followed Vernon.
With little difficulty he loaded his trunk and Hedwig's cage in the car (Harry let the snowy owl fly to Privet Drive on her own). He sat on the backseat and stared out of the window whilst his uncle drove the shiny vehicle. The car was obviously new and Vernon obviously delighted at driving it at the maximum speed he dared.
When Harry felt his stomach was in a state of civil unrest, he first thought that he had a motion sickness. But he was a Seeker – sharp twists, turns and rolls on high speed never before made him sick. It was after a couple of seconds of introspection that he realised that it was the stench of Dursleys that was causing problems. The sweat, the breath and a myriad of other odours permeated the car, causing an understandable reaction from the only person who was unused to it. The poor boy barely made it to Privet Drive without emptying his stomach on the pristine leather seats. After the car stopped, Harry wobbled out of the backdoor as fast as he could and just stood there for a while, trying with all his might to stop his breakfast from re-introducing itself to the world. After the urge to eject his digestive system stilled a bit, he turned toward the car and grabbed his belongings. Thankfully the Dursleys had already entered the house without attempting to confiscate his trunk. Harry blinked in surprise and struggled to his room.
It was later that evening, that he realized their new strategy – ignoring him as much as they could, other than giving out general chores like gardening.. That suited Harry just fine – live and let live was a wonderful way of life. Especially so considering the most probable alternative.
The only minus was that he was critically bored. Talking to Hedwig was a reprieve, of course – his beautiful owl always gave him the impression that she understood everything he said – but it could only occupy so much time. He'd done his homework – to his (exaggerated) chagrin and Hermione's glee, which they expressed in their letters. Despite the neutral behaviour of his relatives Harry was longing for the moment when he would be able to return to the Wizarding World again.
It seemed his silent prayers were heard. On the morning of sixth day of Le Comte de Monte-Potter's imprisonment in Durzkaban, Uncle Vernon called him downstairs. He mentally sighed and came down, expecting the relative peace come to an end. His uncle was standing near the kitchen door and frowning. Thankfully for Harry's ears Vernon's face was only a slight shade of red - a three at most on the Vernon-Richter Scale.
"Boy!"
"Yes, uncle?" he asked politely, schooling his features into a mask of polite interest.
"My sister Marge is coming in a week. She will not suffer your presence."
"What do you mean, sir?" Harry asked, his insides twisting. Were they going to imprison him in his room and take away his things again? If so, he was out of here- and screw Dumbledore and his bloody opinions!
"Exactly that, boy. You will leave us the day before she comes – go live with your freak friends or something, I don't care."
Harry nodded, brainstorming the ways he could milk this situation for all it's worth. After a moment, Harry had an idea. He carefully began:
"Uncle, unfortunately my friends' house is full as it is – they have guests from Egypt," he couldn't just let them know about Weasleys' absence and waste a valuable blackmail tool, now could he? "But I know of a place that will suit me just fine. For visiting, I will need your written permission to go there."
Vernon glared at him in suspicion.
"Why do you need it?"
"The place is a village near my school, populated exclusively by my kind. Students up from the third year are allowed there with the permission from their guardians."
Uncle Vernon nodded absently, scratched his back and grunted.
"Alright. Fine, I'll sign it."
Harry nodded politely and went back to his room. Only when he closed the door behind him did he allow his lips to curve into a wicked smile.
Ah, Sorting Hat. Slytherin, you say?
A Week Later, Durzkaban
Harry gathered his things and smiled, mentally chanting:I'm gonna leave the Dursleys! I'm gonna leave the Dursleys! Yay! Catchy, isn't it? Of course it is!With a bright grin on his face, he turned to Hedwig, who had just returned from her hunt.
"You ready to leave?"
She hooted and bobbed her head up and down. The boy laughed and fondly petted her. She preened under the affection.
"Who's my girl?" he cooed. "Who's the smartest and prettiest owl in the whole world?" Hedwig rolled her eyes at her master's antics and gently nipped his finger. He stood up from the desk and stretched his back. It seemed to him in that moment that nothing could spoil his good spirits. Of course, Fate decided to ever so gently remind him not to tempt her even in his thoughts.
As Harry descended down to the first floor, his trunk in right hand, Hedwig's cage in the left, he heard a truly unholy sound.
Ripper's bark.
Ripper was Marge's dog, and unfortunately the bulldog shared its owner's rather unpleasant personality. More than once during the times of Harry's crappy childhood he needed a tree sanctuary from the bulldog's jaws.
If Ripper was there, it meant that Marge was in the vicinity as well. She was expected the next day, but that was probably the exact reason she came today. She was just obnoxious like that.
The boy crept – very, very quietly – to the doors to the kitchen and listened. Ripper's barks clearly were echoed from the kitchen, as well as Aunt Petunia's high-pitched voice, periodically interrupted by the lower, but just as annoying barking of Aunt Marge. Ripper was undoubtedly the most likely subject of their argument. Harry smiled and, after verifying that the outside was clear of hostiles, made to leave the house.
Suddenly, Ripper's barks turned high-pitched. Harry froze for a moment. The barks were so much closer than before. He stopped and cursed mentally. The thrice-damned dog smelled me!
"What is it, Rippie?" Marge's voice came through the door. Harry shook himself out of his stupor and opened the front door - fully intending to make a break for it.
"Boy!"
So much for an unnoticeable escape! He sighed and turned to the side, glaring at the large woman's posterior with undisguised contempt.
"Yes, Aunt Marge?"
"Where are you going?" she demanded, pulling back Ripper, who was nearly frothing at the sight of its favourite chew toy. Suddenly, Harry felt an undeniable impulse to push her buttons. Already on-edge from the sudden appearance of the miserable excuse for a human being that was Marge, he obeyed this urge without a second's thought.
"Somewhere else. There's a village near the elite school I attend," he emphasized the word 'elite'. She blinked, looking suddenly bewildered.
"St. Brutus?"
"No, the one my parent's enrolled me in," he said with a snort.
"Your parents were useless drunks, layabouts and vagabonds! They wouldn't have the money to pay for a good institution, if any at all!" she snarled. Harry noticed Aunt Petunia's pale face behind her and gave a mocking laugh.
"Hah! My mother was a brilliant student that could have any job she wanted, and my father was rich! In my trust fund I have more money than you will ever see in your life! And the Family Vault…" he smirked. "Well. Picture Aladdin's cave," he leant forwards, his eyes gleaming. "Then quadruple it," Harry's grin was positively feral as he sniffed the air theatrically, channelling his inner Malfoy. "Now, I must be off. The stench of jealousy in here is positively choking me."
He was turning to the door when Ripper finally escaped Marge's hands, which were shaking in fury. The little hell-spawn of a mutt immediately ran towards him, barking like mad and with spit flying everywhere in the vicinity. Then it jumped– surprisingly high considering its short legs.
Harry didn't think. He just reacted.
A single spinning kick was all it took.
The damn dog flew away from him with a high-pitched whine that was almost covered by the shrieks both women produced. The shrieks, in their turn, were interrupted by a loud crash which was made by Ripper torpedoing one of Aunt Petunia's most prised vases. Of course, it was just as ugly as it was expensive. Wincing at the renewed screeches, he shrugged and with a muttered "Always wanted to do that," left the house, closing the door with a loud bang.
He strolled down the street, heading to the park, where he could safely summon the Knight Bus without anyone noticing. Ron mentioned that it was a rather safe and cheap mode of transportation when he asked about a way to get to the Leaky Cauldron. Of course, Harry could go to London as a Muggle or use the Floo in the local post office, but he didn't want to sit in a Muggle bus with a trunk, and he hated Floo with a passion despite only using it twice, so the Knight Bus it was.
Unfortunately, there was a company of seven kids a couple of years older than him hanging around, so he had to find another place to summon the Bus. On the other hand, he didn't particularly felt like walking, so he just sat on the nearby swings, gazing at nothing in particular heavy in thought.
It was already past twelve when the teens that were in the park earlier had left. He stood up and stretched, picking up his trunk and determinately walking to the road. Upon reaching the road and concluding that no one was in sight Harry held out his wand arm and immediately jumped away when a purple monstrosity masquerading as a bus appeared right in front of him with a nasty screeching of brakes. He calmed his rapid breathing- carefully taking his hand away from his heart and lifted his trunk, which he'd dropped in his fright. He stepped towards the open door.
Hopefully, this will be better than the Floo, he thought.
10 minutes later
"'Safe mode of transportation', my arse! I'll pick Floo over the Fright Bus any day!" Harry groaned. He was standing near the Leaky Cauldron on wobbly feet. He felt the bruise forming on his brow – a result of Ernie-the-Blind-Speed-Freak's driving was a radical disagreement between the seat in front of Harry and his head.
Once his capability to know his left from his right and up from down was restored, Harry entered the dingy pub. It was nearly empty – besides Tom, the toothless and bald owner, a couple of shady figures in the background and three witches quietly conversing on the table by the wall, there was no one there. The boy walked to Tom, who was almost reverently polishing an antique-looking glass.
"Do you have a spare room?"
"Of course – an attic room is empty right now, if you want it?" Tom answered in a monotone without so much as looking up.
"I'll take it. How much until the end of the summer?" Harry asked, taking his moneybag from the trunk.
"Until the end of the summer, you say?" Tom finally looked up and couldn't help but double take at the sight of his scar. Harry held himself from rolling his eyes and waited for an answer.
"Huh… from you, my boy, it will be five galleons– daily breakfast included," Tom replied after a pause. The boy slightly lifted his eyebrow, but didn't ask.He probably will get a free advertisement out of it.
"Very well. Here you go; five galleons. Now, where to?"
Tom took the coins and walked to the staircase, gesturing for Harry to follow. The room that was showed to him was obviously old– the furniture looked positively ancient – but it was in relatively good condition, and Harry honestly thought old-fashioned rooms to be cosier, although maybe it was just his love for Hogwarts talking. Tom left after telling to call him if anything else was needed, and Harry proceeded to make himself comfortable.
Later in the day, he wandered down to Diagon Alley, deciding that a visit to Gringotts was in order before going to the shops.
After withdrawing a moderate amount of money he asked the goblin accompanying him, Sharpshard, about an accounting of his belongings. As much as he enjoyed telling Marge about his so-called Aladdin's cave, he honestly had no idea what he had in his accounts. The goblin shrugged indifferently and told him to ask a teller, which he did. Upon hearing this request the teller stared at him for a moment and inquired:
"Did you not get your monthly financial statement?"
Then it was Harry's turn to stare. "I'm supposed to be receiving financial statements?" he asked flatly.
The teller frowned – a scary sight. "Yes, all the owners of a Gringotts' vault receive monthly updates on the status of their holdings. If you did not receive our owls, then something is truly amiss."
"Indeed," Harry frowned as well. Not as scary as a goblin frown, mind you, but it wasn't intended to be. The teller – the plaque on his table read 'Hookslash' – drummed on the desk with his claws and stood up.
"Mister Potter, I will make the needed inquires. If you would return here tomorrow, I will have the answer to this mystery. Gringotts prides itself on the fairness to all of its customers and I will see that this pride will not be revealed as a delusion."
Harry nodded and after wishing the teller a good day (at which he scowled and didn't answer – strange, that) and left the bank.
He wandered down the Alley, not knowing for sure what to do. One thing was certain – the Alley was a place filled to the brim with magic, and he could and probably would spend all the remaining five-plus-change weeks exploring it (and the numerous side alleys) and not even make a dent! So after a moment of consideration and glancing around in childish wonder of the "where shall I go first?" sort, Harry decided to randomly choose three to four shops a day and search for anything interesting inside. He grinned widely and looked at "Chutter's Charmed Chests".
Life was definitely interesting.
The next day, Gringotts
"Mister Potter. I have good news, bad news and news that may be either good or bad," Hookslash announced as he dropped a large pile of documents on his desk with a loud "thud". Harry scratched his head and sighed.
"Start with the bad."
The Goblin grinned. If his frown was scary, his grin was downright terrifying. Harry briefly wondered if goblin teeth are naturally shark-like or if they actually sharpened them to that razor sharp point.
"Bad news it is. Though the Potter family vaults are as filled with gold, jewels and other assorted heirlooms as they were before, the lands and other properties that once were owned by your family have either been sold or, as is the case with the Potter family manor, in a state of extreme disrepair."
The boy did a double-take. He, of course, has already deduced that his family was fairly well off, judging by the amount in his trust vault (the fact that he even had a 'trust vault' was a rather big clue in itself), but a manor? Lands?
"Pardon me," he said slowly, rubbing his forehead. "You said... lands?"
The goblin grimaced. "They were mostly sold in the time of war – our records indicate that the money raised was redirected to the Dumbledore vault. My guess would be that they were used to fund the war - particularly the Order of the Phoenix." Answering the unspoken query, he clarified: "The Order was the Dumbledore's vigilante group. Supposedly it was strictly need-to-know. Naturally, everyone knew."
Harry nodded slowly, his mind working furiously as he comprehended the information.
"And the good news?"
Hookslash nodded at the stack of paper he had brought.
"The investments your parents and grandparents dabbled in have paid off nicely. In the past decade your liquid assets have grown nearly by thirty percent."
Harry smiled slightly.
"Actually, you don't have to take my word for it– here is your financial statements. And that leads me to the next piece of news."
The boy took the offered document and looked at it. Well knock me over with a feather! That is a lot of gold. He shook his head, silently blessing his ancestors for the gift they have given him. A cough distracted him from his musings and he glanced at Hookslash a bit bashfully.
"The explanation for the glaring absence of any correspondence from Gringotts you have reported has a very simple, and obvious in hindsight, explanation," the goblin paused while Harry gave him his best "come on and tell me" glare. "Your magical guardian requested that your financial statements are to be redirected to him until you either are of age or have requested it yourself."
"My… guardian? I have a guardian?" He frowned. Just who in the name of Merlin could be responsible for me and leave me in the hands of the Dursleys? Wait a minute.
"Albus Dumbledore," Hookslash muttered in a rather irritated tone, confirming his guess. Harry sighed and leaned back in the chair. After a moment of silence he asked:
"What, exactly, is a 'magical guardian'?"
The goblin observed him with a bored expression. Well, at least he wasn't grinning. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
"When a Muggle-raised child enters the magical world, a guardian is assigned to him or her. Usually, it is the headmaster of their school, though that is not a universal rule. The magical guardian has all the responsibilities and privileges as the Muggle one, although they are valid only when it comes to the magical world."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"So he asked the mail to be redirected… probably for the best," the boy conceded, imagining Uncle Vernon's face if he learned that his freak of a nephew had a crap-load of gold. He probably would have tried to take it. Oh, wait... Harry had told them about it just that morning. Though to take advantage of it, Vernon would have to go to the Freakishness Central, which was unlikely to happen. "What happens now?"
"Now, if you give your permission, we will proceed to send the statements to you directly," Hookslash scrawled a note on a parchment near him.
"Granted. May I ask who else aside of me can withdraw money from my vaults?"
"Albus Dumbledore and whoever you give your key to," was the answer. The boy goggled at that.
"Wait, what? So basically if you have someone's key you can waltz into this bank and grab all the gold from that particular vault?"
"Yes and no. For most of the accounts it is true, however, some of the older families pay some additional fees for extra security,"okay, colour me interested. He thought.It would be ridiculously easy to steal the key from me and then...
Choosing to drop the subject just for now, Harry lifted the parchment he was given.
"Now, judging by this, I have a lot of gold. What are my options for increasing this amount further?" he asked. The Goblin's eyes started to almost sparkle with greed and his grin looked positively predatory.
"Well, you can invest, of course."
Two hours later, Harry left Gringotts nursing the king of all migraines. The amount of economical technobabble he was subjected to was staggering. In truth he wanted nothing more right now than lie down and sleep. But before that he needed something. He had the weight of a giant fortune dropped on him and somehow he was supposed to make it grow.
"I need to read a freaking manual," he groused.
So instead of going to his cosy room in the Leaky Cauldron and shutting down for an unspecified length of time, the twelve-year-old went to Flourish and Blott's. Spotting a bored girl at the till he immediately put her to task to find any and all books on the subject of the wizarding economy.
She wasn't very amused to say the least. Until she spotted the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, that is. After that, she pretty much ransacked the whole shop trying to appease him. The result of her fervour was a rather scary pile of tomes. After discarding the half that wasn't relevant or up-to-date he was left with tree books. "Wizarding Economy, 1987 edition", a leather-bound book "Aurum potestas est" ("Gold is power" in Latin) the author of which had the misfortune of being named Artemis, though clearly was a guy, and "To Sell or Not To Sell" which was, ironically enough, written in rather archaic English despite being written in 1958. It was unnecessary to say that the browsing of these books didn't help his headache at all.
So when Harry finally entered his room, he barely made it to the bed, dropping the bag with the books on the way from the door to his destination. The bone-tired teen fell onto the bed and groaned partly from the migraine, partly from the sweet feeling that only comes to you when you meet your bed after a truly exhausting day. In ten seconds Harry was snoozing and watching dreams about shark-teethed books and Ripper wearing ridiculous robes and half-moon glasses.
The next five days could only be described by one word: learning. Harry read and read and memorized until he could no longer understand what the hell he was staring at. Then he would take a break, go visit some shops, annoy their owners with unrelenting torrent of questions about some or other item on the display, and then go back to learning. By the end of these five days, when he had finally read and understood all the books he'd bought he was a proud wearer of two delightful rings under his eyes that were a truly amazing sky-blue colour. But for him, it was worth it.
When Harry visited Gringotts again, he could understand most of what Hookslash was telling him and rarely became lost in the middle of a description of some thing or another. In the end they reached an agreement. As Harry had didn't have an agent before, obviously, Hookslash recommended another goblin named Tearshape. Sometimes I wonder about goblin names, Harry thought wryly. Unfortunately the gold in Potter family vault by the law wasn't available to him until he was fourteen, so for now he had to make do with the contents of his trust vault, which while sizeable, was a rather limited part of his inheritance. So the only thing he could do for another year was twiddle his thumbs and make plans for future investments. Immediately after leaving Gringotts that day the boy bought a subscription to "Magical Markets", the weekly wizarding financial magazine.
After that, he decided that the question of money-making has taken enough time from this summer and went to his room to write a few letters to coordinate a Diagon Alley date with Ron and Hermione. However, before he reached his room he noticed a most unexpected visitor standing right in front of his door.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said, feeling uncomfortably close to flabbergasted. The only times he'd seen the esteemed Headmaster was in the Great Hall, in his office or – once – in the Hospital wing. To see him in the Leaky Cauldron was… a bit surreal. Subconsciously Harry thought Dumbledore never left the castle, although of course he knew it to be false. The twinkling in the Headmaster's eyes clearly showed that he was enjoying Harry's surprise. As unbalanced as the boy was with the sudden appearance of the old warlock, he found himself blurting out:
"How you make your eyes twinkle like that?"
He cringed immediately at the sheer stupidity of what he said and quietly added "sir". Fortunately, it seemed that Dumbledore was very much amused by this.
"Ah, young Harry, all men tend to become rather eccentric with age…"
Glancing at the professor's robes, the boy briefly wondered if they lose any kind of taste in clothes as well – today they were brightly pink with green stripes here and there.
"… and wizards even more so. Many people wish to have a signature – something that distinguishes them from others. But sometimes a signature is supplied naturally by a person's magic. Your untamed hair, for example – exactly like your father's – is your signature supplied by your magic. The twinkling of my eyes is created by my magic reacting to my mood."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
"Hermione's hair is like that too – the more stressed she is, the bushier it becomes," he responded thoughtfully.
"Precisely."
"I wonder if Snape's billowing cloak can be explained like that…" he trailed off.Maybe he doesn't want to look like a bat, but his magic makes him similar to it nevertheless? A truly amusing thought, that, I will certainly write about in my letter to Ron.He grinned cheekily at the very thought of Ron's undoubtedly humorous reply.
"Professor Snape, Harry. And I've never thought about that. I will have to ask him." Dumbledore grinned boyishly, knocking years off his expression as he did.
Harry shook off his thoughts and stared at the older man. "Why are you here, sir?"
The jovial expression on the Headmaster's face dimmed a bit. "Ah, that would be a bit of a long talk, my boy. May I come in?"
He nodded – a bit guiltily, – and fumbled in his pockets for the key. After finding it, he opened the door and entered the room. Professor Dumbledore conjured a rather large overstuffed chair and sat in it. Harry watched - rather mystified by the whole show.
"So what do you need to talk to me about, sir?"
Dumbledore sighed and took off his spectacles. "Tell me Harry, have you heard of Sirius Black?"
Harry nodded. How could he not? Every Daily Prophet since he got there had the deranged man's photo on the front page, and his escape was all that everybody in the Alley talked about.
"We have suspicions that he will try to come after you, Harry."
The boy frowned and his brain engaged at 100%."What's his motive, sir?"
Dumbledore cleaned his glasses and put them back on. "You defeated his master. According to the intelligence we have received, you are Black's main target."
Harry leant back a bit. The man spent more than a decade in Azkaban – and from what Hagrid had told him about the place, it was almost a guarantee that Black was mad.
"Who is he, actually?"
Dumbledore's face became grave. "Sirius Black was a student at the same time as your parents. You must understand Harry, that the times were dark, we knew not who to trust - family members became our greatest enemies and our greatest enemies became our greatest allies," he sighed. "Sirius was – is - one of my greatest failings as a Headmaster. The people that served Voldemort - people like young Sirius - my students - I failed them. Just as I failed young Tom Riddle."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Sir," he muttered. "You are evading the question."
The old Headmaster shifted in his seat.
"Professor, you know me," Harry pleaded. "I will find out the answers sooner or later. Why not give me the information now?"
The Professor looked at Harry in his trademark Dumble-Look – benevolent, twinkling, yet piercing to the soul. After a couple of seconds of scrutiny he must have found what he was looking for. In a slow and serious tone he told the boy everything. Harry listened with rapt attention, memorizing and analysing the information. When Dumbledore finally stopped, Harry abruptly stood up and began to pace.
"So, basically, I have a maniac on my tail who didn't hesitate to sell his best friends to Voldemort, spent twelve years in a mind-shattering prison and now obviously the only goal in his mind is to make me suffer for something that was most likely my mother's doing," Harry stopped pacing. "What do you think I should do, sir?"
The Headmaster coughed delicately. "I'm sorry Harry but you can't stay here. Unfortunately, the Weasleys haven't yet returned from Egypt, so the Burrow is out of question. Hogwarts, unfortunately, is not currently habitable – we are resetting the wards, and even the house-elves are out of the castle for at least the next week. So for the duration of this stalemate we have only a few options."
He paused, obviously waiting for the boy to ask the obvious question. Harry idly thought that old men obviously developed a taste for drama as well. "And they are, sir?"
"The first option is for you to live with a member of faculty."
Harry briefly wondered how it would be to live with Professor McGonagall. The mental picture was... weird. Then to his mind came Snape (the cloak slowly moving a-la wings) and he visibly shuddered.
"The second option would be for you to live with people who I personally trust, but are completely unfamiliar to you," Dumbledore said. Harry raised his eyebrow. He didn't even mention going back to Dursleys. Odd, but welcome.
"What would be your recommendation, sir?"
"Professor McGonagall would be ideal. She volunteered along with professors Sprout and Flitwick, but Filius is occupied with the wards and Pomona doesn't know you very well."
The teen nodded, resigned.
"Very well, sir. Hopefully, it will not be as weird as I think it will be."
The Headmaster chuckled. "Your father James was her favourite student and young Lily was not far behind. I believe that you will find the experience not nearly as awkward as you fear."
"I hope so, sir."
An hour spent buying the school supplies (Professor Dumbledore, of course, insisted that it had to be done now, so that Harry wouldn't have to make a target of himself later) the boy was side-along Apparated to Professor McGonagall's house nearby Aberdeen.
The moment he had firm earth under his feet again he wobbled and bent over, trembling and shivering. The only reason he didn't throw up was that his throat was clenched too much for it to be possible. The professor lightly patted his shoulder. Harry silently promised himself that he'd create a far smoother and gentler travelling method than those he'd experienced so far. Currently, it seemed to him that all of the modern magical transportation was invented by a brilliant, but slightly sadistic guy with an extremely weak vestibular apparatus, who wished to make all the wizardkind suffer as he did.
"The First Apparition is always the hardest, and Side-Along Apparition is twice as bad, especially for the underage," Dumbledore said comfortingly. "It gets better with time."
Harry shuddered again, inhaled and exhaled, trying hard to keep his intestines from leaving him through mouth. "That was the most god-awful sensation I have ever felt, barring outright injuries, though I think I would prefer anything short of broken bones to Apparition. It's official, they ratified it in Parliament – I hate magical transport."
Dumbledore chuckled as Harry came around. He gestured for the young teen to follow him. The boy obeyed, dragging his school trunk behind him. After a short walk they stopped before a yellow fence that shimmered and vanished as they approached it, revealing the house behind it.
It was… neat. With three floors, a little tower, and a well-kept garden it gave the overall impression of being very homely. A window on the second floor was lit.
Professor Dumbledore almost glided to the door and knocked twice. After a minute, the door swung open, revealing Minerva McGonagall.
"Albus, Mr. Potter," she smiled. "Good evening"
"Evening, Professor," Harry returned with a slightly uneasy grin.
"Hello, Minerva. I've filled Harry in on current situation and he agreed to live here until the start of the school year."
Harry's Head of House nodded and beckoned him inside.
The house was just as cosy on the inside as it seemed to be on the outside. Harry would never associate that word with anything connected to McGonagall, but admittedly he didn't know her that well. He didn't know her at all, really.
After a short talk with the Headmaster, McGonagall closed the door and turned to the raven-haired youth.
"Well, first things first – let me show you the room you will be occupying."
He nodded and followed her. She showed him to a nice room with brown furniture and walls that were painted green – a combination that Harry found quite relaxing. After depositing his things he turned to her, glancing for a moment at a bunch of nearly translucent bubbles on a nearby table that signified a Notice-Me-Not charm.
"So, professor, how is it going to work?"
She pressed her lips into a tight line.
"The schedule will be similar to Hogwarts – breakfast at eight o'clock, lunch at one o'clock and dinner at seven. You are free to do anything within reason – my library is at your disposal, just don't eat while reading."
Harry grimaced. He did that very rarely – Madam Pince was extremely fierce to those poor souls who ate while reading, so he could indulge in that habit only on those times when he both a) persuaded Hermione to share a book or b) had a snack saved from dinner. It didn't happen very often, mostly because of the difficulty of pulling off the option a).
Seeing the grimace McGonagall smiled slightly in her tight-lipped fashion and added:
"Also, seeing as I've got nearly all my paperwork for the coming school year done, I believe that your Transfiguration needs some work. Your father was a natural, and your mother was extraordinary as well, and I believe that with a right push you will be able to surpass them."
Well damn. More work. Ah, well, I don't have anything to do anyway. At the very least there won't be any blasted essays…
I hope.
The idea to take Harry in for the rest of the holidays came to Minerva during one of the regular Head of House meetings, when Albus, with a heavy sigh, let it slip that young Potter was in need of a sanctuary to live in due to him leaving the Dursleys' house while Black was on the loose. This statement caused quite predictable reactions – Severus sneered and said something derogatory about childish temper tantrums (quite hypocritical of him, she noted silently), Filius grew pensive, Pomona started worrying and she had looked at Albus questioningly. He never just said something. Albus always had a reason. Pomona immediately volunteered to take Harry in until school started – the thought of any student not having a home caused her Hufflepuff roots to flair in agitation.
To Minerva's great surprise, Filius followed suit. Before she knew it she had volunteered as well, pointing out that Harry was one of her lions and therefore it was her business to care for him. After all James and the elder Potters' were the closest things she had to family after her fiancée died during the Grindelwald war, despite the trouble Charlus had after the war finished. She glanced at Albus and barely withheld a groan – judging by his twinkling eyes, it was exactly what he wanted. Predicting Pomona's reaction couldn't be hard, and it was a matter of moments before McGonagall's territorial instincts engaged. The Animagus transformation tended to bring the animal instincts a bit closer to the surface – such was the price of being able to transform into an animal at will.
"Albus, you need to abandon your manipulative tendencies," she said evenly. The damn twinkle went full force.
"Manipulative tendencies?" the man said in a superb imitation of an outraged tone that did not fool Minerva one bit, "Nonsense, my dear!"
And so it was that Minerva waited for Albus to bring Harry to her house. Honestly speaking, it didn't seem to her to be a bad idea – she never was particularly close to him, despite her deep friendship with his parents, bless their souls. He seemed to respect her and kept his distance, and she did nothing to change the status quo.
Minerva was brought out from her reverie by the double knock that Albus always used. She hurriedly bustled to the door, and after a second of composing herself, she opened it. Albus stood there on the front step, in the newest of his eye-watering robes, every bit a benevolent, quirky mentor. Harry stood on his left, unconsciously fiddling with his trunk's handle, visibly uncomfortable.
"Albus, Mr. Potter," she said with a smile. "Good evening."
Harry gave a slight smile – more Lily than James, – and greeted her as well.
"Hello, Minerva. I've filled Harry in on current situation and he agreed to live here until the start of the school year."
She nodded and gestured Harry to come inside. After he vanished from view, she asked Albus:
"Where was he until now?"
He gave a hearty chuckle. "The Leaky Cauldron – he rented a room. It seems that he is much smarter than I realized."
She nodded. "It is a shame that he never truly applies himself – he could be such a prodigy."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was with mischievous look in his eyes. "Perhaps it would be prudent to show him that he has such a potential and through this give him the motivation he needs."
This time she didn't withhold her groan. "Albus, do you know just how much work I have? I physically don't have the time for tutoring!"
Albus just waved his hand. "Most of your 'work' is mine to do anyway. You simply took to doing it so that I have more time for Wizengamot and ICW. However, this summer there aren't any pressing matters that require my attention. Harry, however, is critical. His escapade in the Chamber and its aftermath tell me that this tutoring may bear fruit. He did choose Arithmancy, Care and Ancient Runes, after all. That means either Miss Granger pressed him to it or he decided to do so himself, and something tells me that it's more of the latter. The boy is quite stubborn and wouldn't budge if he truly chose something else."
She sighed, knowing that she had no choice in the matter. On the other hand, she wouldn't call tutoring the son of James and Lily (a smart boy all-in-all) a terrible chore. "Very well, Albus. I'll try."
"I ask for nothing more. Goodnight, Minerva."
"Same to you, Albus."
She closed the door and gathered her thoughts. Minerva shook her head and headed to the living room, where Harry stood, looking around with a rather puzzled expression on his face.
"Well, first things first – let me show you the room you will be occupying."
He nodded and followed her to the guest room on the second floor. The last time it was occupied was three days before, when an old friend of Minerva's, Emily Brightsight, stayed over for a couple of days. She was a genius potion maker and an adept spell creator. Both of them shared the dorm room back in their Hogwarts years and still were in constant contact. Entering the room, Minerva noticed a half-empty bottle of scotch left on the table from the last evening of Emily's visit and quickly threw a Notice-Me-Not charm on it. Fortunately, Harry didn't notice this manoeuvre and walked into the room right after she sheathed her wand. He looked around appreciatively and put his trunk near the bed. After that he turned to his Professor and asked:
"So, Professor, how is it going to work?"
She paused in thought and after deciding to stick with the familiar regime answered, "Our schedule will be similar to Hogwarts – breakfast at eight o'clock, lunch at one o'clock and dinner at seven. You are free to do anything within reason – my library is at your disposal, just don't eat while reading."
He grimaced and she couldn't help but smile slightly. That habit was always the unmistakable mark of any person who loves books. It seemed that Harry did, in fact, love reading. Well, time to drop the bombshell.
"Also, seeing as I've got nearly all my work for the coming school year done, I believe that your Transfiguration needs some work. Your father was a natural, and your mother was extraordinary as well, and I hope that with a right push you will be able to surpass them."
Another wince, but overall he seemed willing to learn. Minerva was beginning to look forward to this particular venture.
The next day
The next morning McGonagall received the first shock from living with Harry Potter. At 7.45 she walked down the stairs and heard the sounds of two people arguing. As she reached the first floor, she realized that the voices came from the kitchen. The only two people in the house besides her were Harry and Floppy – the house elf. What could they be arguing about? The elderly professor crept to the door (smiling slightly at the irony of her sneaking up at the son of a Marauder) and listened.
"Floppy has been serving Miss Minnie for ten years now, and young Harry Potter shouldn't put his nose where it isn't needed!"
Minerva was shocked– she'd never heard Floppy speaking with such anger.
"I'm sorry, did I touch a nerve?" she heard Harry reply in a sarcastic tone. "I won't trust any elf to prepare food for me, and that's final!"
"The kitchen is mine, young Harry Potter! You should sit down and allow me to cook for you!"
"Not bloody likely!" he spat.
What happened to Harry that made him distrust the elves? The house-elves were gentle and polite creatures that wouldn't – couldn't – harm a fly!After putting on her best "stern teacher" façade, she entered the room. Harry stood near the table, his arms crossed and his face determined. He was glaring at the small figure of Floppy. Floppy, on the other hand, stood near the sink, her small hands on her hips, was glaring at him with just as much vehemence. Hearing the door open, they both stared at Minerva.
"What is happening here?"
They returned to glaring at each other.
"Mr. Potter! Explain yourself!"
Visibly tensing, he answered. "Due to some recent misadventures of mine I'm currently unable to trust the elves and I wanted to cook my breakfast myself. Your elf here disagreed."
"Young Harry Potter has no business going into the kitchen! It's Floppy's job!" the little elf protested.
The professor counted to ten and said:
"Floppy, if Mr. Potter wants to, he can cook for himself. Mr. Potter, for your information, the food in Hogwarts is prepared by house elves..."
"WHAT?"
"Mind your tone, Mr. Potter!" she said sharply. He winced and answered in an apologetic tone.
"I'm sorry, it's just a shock."
Minerva gazed at him thoughtfully. "What makes you so distrustful of the elves?"
He laughed sarcastically, reminding her of Snape, of all people. "You can't trust the elves, professor. Every bloody elf I've met so far and was borderline insane!" He didn't bother to mention that it was only one elf. Dobby was unhinged enough to make him suspect the whole race, and the elf before him didn't alleviate his suspicions in the slightest. "They can and will cause you any kind of trouble if they believe it to be in your best interest – even if it benefits you in a very roundabout way. Example from the top of my head: if Floppy here thought that you are working too hard and need to stay at home for a while, she could very well slip a diarrhoea inducing potion or whatever she'd think of in your tea and have no qualms about doing it whatsoever."
She glanced at Floppy for a second. He… has a point. A well thought out, logical point, even though it is rather paranoid of him.
"I wouldn't! I wouldn't do it, Missy!" Floppy cried in distress.
She sighed mentally. Outwardly, she came to a decision. "Enough of this nonsense. Mr. Potter, you may cook for yourself, but don't argue with Floppy and stop this attitude. Floppy, you will let Mr. Potter do as he wishes."
Floppy peeped at her sadly and turned to continue cooking. Harry, however, stood unmoving with a disturbed face.
"Mr. Potter?"
He blinked at her and then coughed awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I kind of was over the line there. Don't know what came over me," he rubbed his hair sheepishly. "I did have a bad experience with a house elf, but I should not have blamed the faults of one on his entire species. I… I'm sorry, Floppy."
Floppy blinked at him, and after understanding his sincerity, grinned at him. "Young Harry Potter does not need to say sorry. Floppy is not sad about this."
"Nevertheless, I'm sorry… And no, it doesn't mean that I won't cook for myself," he added after a moment of thought. Floppy's ears, perked up after Harry's apology, sagged again.
Fifteen minutes later, they sat at the table, eating a classic British breakfast– and Harry's creation looked as good as Floppy's to the latter's surprise and silent disappointment. Five minutes were spent silently eating. After they both ate their fill, Floppy took the dishes (Harry shot her a suspicious look as she did), and McGonagall beckoned Harry to follow her outside for the first lesson – she really didn't want to clean the room when some transformation or other went wrong. And she knew for certain it would. Once they were outside, she turned to him and smiled. For some reason, he squirmed.
"So far, you have shown yourself to be lazy, and unwilling to put any effort but the bare minimum in as a student," she said briskly, smirking at Harry's resigned expression. "However your choices for new courses prove that you aren't nearly as lazy as I thought. So now, per Headmaster's decision and permission, I will tutor you so you will satisfy my expectations – and they are high indeed. Both your father and your mother, Mr. Potter, were absolute prodigies when it came to the art of Transfiguration. I'm sure, that given time, James could have been as good as Professor Dumbledore. I would expect that you will be even better than your father."
At this moment, something flashed in Harry's eyes and he nodded with a look of determination. Minerva thought then that maybe – just maybe – he'd deliver.
Time would tell.
"Professor, what about the Trace? Won't I get in trouble for casting magic outside of Hogwarts?"
Carefully keeping her face blank, she answered:
"No, Mr. Potter, I have already cleared in out with the Ministry. During our lessons, you are exempt from the restriction."
Judging by Harry's face, he bought it. As the Head Deputy, Minerva did have a lot of practice of feeding bullshit to the Board of Governors, so misleading a student occasionally wasn't difficult.
The promised lessons turned out to be a godsend for the young man. Harry had always had trouble with Transfiguration, completing his school work only with Hermione's help. His best subjects were Defence and Charms – being relatively easy for him to learn as they were. Point the wand, say the words, apply some power, and presto.
When it came to Transfiguration, however, he always had some kind of block to it. After two years of having to work hard just to achieve some mediocre results, he had already resigned himself to never reaching any noticeable progress on the subject.
But now, everything had changed.
On the first day of lessons, when the professor asked him to transfigure a bug into a pot he got it right at his fourth attempt, and it had something translucent on its sides that resembled wings.
Professor McGonagall hummed thoughtfully as she looked at the results of his transfiguration. "Now, Mr. Potter, tell me, what did you just do," McGonagall's eyes were rather dispassionate, which, coupled with her strict demeanour, made for a rather intimidating sight.
"I... said the incantation while visualising the bug into changing," Harry answered.
"'Visualising the bug into changing'?" McGonagall was staring at him intently. Harry nodded. "Explain."
"W... well, at our first lesson you told us that visualisation was the key to any Transfiguration, and so..." he trailed off.
"No, explain how you visualise," the professor prompted.
"Well, I will the bug to transform, to change its size, material and form."
"Wait. Do you mean that you just mentally tell the insect to obey and change its shape?"
"Uhm, yes. Was I not supposed to?"
The professor stared at him for a moment, and then groaned quietly.
"And I was wondering where James' talent went to," she muttered. "No, Mr. Potter, that is not what 'visualisation' means."
"Oh."
"Oh, indeed. Why hasn't Miss Granger corrected you?"
"She told me I was doing everything right when I told her I was visualising. She was quite befuddled," Harry said, his brow slightly creased as he remembered Hermione's expression.
"Ah, never you mind. Now, what I really meant was that you have to imagine the process of Transfiguration, view in your mind the changes that the object undergoes with as much detail as possible."
Harry listened to this explanation with a frown, and then glanced at the disfigured pot, already reverting to its original form.
"The problem that the majority of the students have is their lack of active imagination. Most people's minds are not suited for this, and they can visualise with only bare needed detail, having to compensate with the theoretical knowledge. However, there are some prodigies who have the gift to do it with astounding precision and speed. Dumbledore is one. Your father was one. Your mother came close, but she always preferred Charms."
Harry lifted his wand and, following the new advice, tried to visualise. He imagined the bug, deforming, losing its colour, growing in size, then freezing in the shape of a pot. He pronounced the incantation carefully, not allowing the image to flee.
The pot had bug legs.
Harry frowned severely and Finite-d it, then tried again. This time, the pot was uniform grey, without any unneeded protrusions or limbs.
"Good. Now, seeing as you have got so far with a huge handicap, let us see what you will be able to do without," she Accio-d a large stack of books. "It's a long list..."
Harry gulped.
What followed was a three-hour-long marathon of Transfiguration, which was the most draining subject when it came to actual spell-casting. McGonagall was relentless, not letting up until he managed to perform every spell twice as fast as he could before. It was gruelling. By the end of the lesson, Harry was exhausted to the level when the slightest amount of magic caused his right arm to burn (not literally, thank Merlin) and he had a tremendous headache. But despite that, he was very, very satisfied with his performance – finally, the hardest subject he has ever had was much, much easier to him! McGonagall was as close to giddy as she could be (the boy was slightly flabbergasted at her behaviour) and after asking her elf to tend to Harry she left by Floo – no doubt, to brag about his sudden breakthrough. The young man found that he didn't care much.
The elf, though… he conceded his loss in the morning argument, but he still watched Floppy like a hawk.
You can't trust the elves.
The next few weeks were as exciting to Harry as his first day being a guest in McGonagall's house – he cooked for himself, ignoring the low mutterings coming from Floppy, ate with his Head of House, learned from her for a couple of hours (by 'learned', I mean – practised Transfiguration of increasing complexity – on speed), ate lunch, read the tomes she assigned for him to read, ate dinner and went to sleep. The lessons featured more and more complicated pieces of transfiguration each day, but McGonagall drew the line at the organic-to-organic transformations and self-transfiguration. She said that he had learnt enough of advanced material, and that he should concentrate on the other branches of transfiguration so they would become second nature. As a compromise, she taught him the basics of Conjuration – granted, he couldn't do much, only something on a very small scale, as the power requirements of the art were rather high. He also found that Conjuration just couldn't be done without an incantation unless you were a Master of Dumbledore's calibre, which made sense, but nevertheless was kind of disappointing.
As time went by, McGonagall grew less formal towards him and by the end of the holidays she even called Harry by his first name a couple of times. Each time she would slightly grimace, as if silently berating herself for improper conduct. The boy would smile at her brightly and her grimace would vanish. He hoped that in time she would relax more with him in an informal setting despite her famous objectiveness that bordered on aloofness with her students. Her calling him by his name felt very weird, but it signified a better relationship between them, which was all kinds of useful. He briefly entertained a thought of having a teacher who would favour him. Before his mental eye appeared Draco Malfoy with a superior smirk on his face and a sneering Snape behind him. He shook his head and smiled sadly – even if McGonagall became his friend (which was a rather surreal mental picture despite how less standoffish she was with him now), she would never do a fifth of what Snape does. Oh, well. An ally like the Deputy Headmistress is invaluable despite her morals.
He was surprised most pleasantly when she organised a dinner for him on his birthday, though they were not visited by anyone else for some sort of security reasons. Harry disagreed with that, but still enjoyed the evening.
The last dinner on the 31st of August was spent in a rather high-spirited mood. Professor McGonagall explained to him the principle of unsustainable transformation – the reason behind Gamp's Laws – while gesticulating with her fork in the air. Harry knew that she was as passionate about her subject as she was about Quidditch – and boy she was a fan of the sport! And now that she forgot to be formal… Frankly, the situation would seem nearly impossible to him a month ago. Now, he simply listened to her with rapt attention while watching the moving fork just in case it wandered too close to his eye.
"…so the instability eventually disrupts the magic, morphing the object back with exponential speed. Because of that, if you, for example, conjured food and ate it, it would fade into nothingness while still in your body, which could cause some trouble to your digestive system. If, Merlin forbid, a wizard transfigured the food from something – a stone, for instance – the stone would be reassembled from the half-digested bits and revert to its original size." Minerva slashed the air with her fork for emphasis. Harry nodded, wincing at the imagined picture. The law had to be founded on some actual experience. Poor sods.
"Water, however, can be conjured indefinitely by a couple of spells I'll teach you in your NEWT level classes. Usual charms like Aguamenti, Agua Erupto and even Aqua Fluctus conjure water for a time period that depends on the magical energy the caster uses to cast the spell. Aqua Inundantia, however, conjures water permanently, but obviously takes a lot of power to cast and sustain."
She paused for a couple of seconds, allowing him to swallow a couple of pieces of meat pie without him risking missing something vital in her explanation. With a slightly wistful expression she reminisced about one of the battles she'd witnessed during the war.
"I remember Albus fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and using this spell... You-Know-Who had created a giant Manticore from flames – which is particle Transfiguration, a ridiculously complicated branch – and Albus countered it with Agua Fluctus. That duel was a breath-taking sight– Albus transfiguring, conjuring, and animating like a man possessed, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named throwing around powerful direct spells – fire whips, chunks of flesh from Albus` constructs turned into projectiles, streams of Dark Magic. Everyone on that battlefield just stopped fighting and watched with amazement and awe. Yes…" she grew silent for a moment. "Despite his darkness, or in spite of his darkness – You-Know-Who was a powerful wizard, talented wizard. It is no wonder then that so many still fear to speak his name. I included."
He processed the information and changed the subject quickly. "How would one go about using Transfiguration in duel?"
"Oh, transfiguring objects around into predators, changing the surroundings to suit you, transfiguring material shields, conjuring weapons, using constructs – the latter two usually require animation charms, while the usage of the organic transformations is complimented by compulsions. There are great many ways to implement Transfiguration in a fight, and a true master of it is a fearsome opponent. The living examples are Albus and, to a lesser extent, me. Filius is also known for his love of transfiguring his surroundings."
He nodded slowly. McGonagall shook off her reverie and looked at him with a bit of worry in her eyes. "Harry? Why do you ask?"
She didn't even wince at her use of the first name. Harry mentally cheered, ignoring the weirdness of his normally strict teacher calling him by his first name.
"Last time I've checked, I have a homicidal psychopath after my head. Ah, correction, I have two. Voldemort counts as well, we shouldn't disregard him just because he lacks a body," he ignored her wince. "I have to learn how to defend myself. Chances are that Black won't be caught, and so he may very well visit me. I have to be ready," Harry glared at his plate. "I will be ready. I will survive."
Very far away, in the wilderness on the continent
The wraith was floating aimlessly through a clearing of two thousand-year-old oaks. It was plotting. It was waiting. It was surviving despite the constant unimaginable pain that comes from being less than a ghost. A snake – just a common variety, almost no poison and no magic - caught the wraith's attention. It positioned itself to lash out and take possession of the snake's body. Possession granted a brief respite from the agony.
Suddenly, just a moment before the wrath could take full possession of the snake's body, it felt an eerily familiar presence close by. A presence that could only be another part of him – a missing part…. If his instincts were right (and they were very rarely wrong) this could be what it had been waiting for.
The wraith stilled.
Waiting…
Watching…
The stinging sensation of the presence of another part of it caused the feeling of unease to increase as another wraith-like figure, this one far more pronounced, flew out of the bushes. Before the first shade could react, the second collided with it. A piercing scream filled the air as a silent explosion felled every small tree in a seven-meter radius. An eerie red glow set the forest alight for a few seconds before it changed, becoming silver. The light dimmed and vanished, showing the wraith for what it had become. It seemed far more focused and much more pronounced and solid than both of the parts that created it. It slowly turned North-West, where Scotland was, and rasped one word in an echoing voice:
"Interesting…"
Author's note
So, here is the first real chapter. If you wonder why the Dursleys and Dumbledore changed their plans, don't – I just thought that a summer with Aunt Marge and in Diagon Alley sounded boring to write, so I went and wrote something else. I first thought about sending Harry to Tonks – but figured it would be illogical with Sirius being a relative of theirs and the real chance of him making a visit to Cousin Andy.
About Harry's inheritance: Many fics depict Harry as a magical analogue of Billie Gates, only without the window-making company. I call that bullshit. Harry is rich, he has a mansion (admittedly, at this point it is nowhere near habitable), a title of Lord and a vote in Wizengamot. However he is far from the richest person around. That title goes to Lucius Malfoy and the rest of the pureblood families.
The elves – they and Harry's distrust to them in particular will be a running gag for a while. I thought of this while writing and it seemed like a nice enough idea.
SleeperAwakes out.
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