Harry Potter and the Scabbard of Excalibur [AU]

[Birdsie]

Harry Potter and the Scabbard of Excalibur

It was a dark and comfortless night on the first of November. The clock conscientiously neared the destined mark of midnight but was still a good near-hour off.

It was cold outside, almost freezing, but it wasn't the temperature that made this night so odd and unbearable. The foremost cause was this unexplained feeling in the air as if some crucial mechanism had a dire malfunction earlier in the evening and hadn't yet been fixed, filling the very atmosphere with indescribably thick sobriety and agitation; it proved enough that most people couldn't fall asleep for some unclear reason, and yet the entire neighborhood was deadly quiet; not so much as the hum of a passing car or the squeaking of a mouse. Almost, one could imagine that outside, something vastly beyond measure had happened. It was very much the kind of night that would be dreadful for a midnight walk or a friendly neighborhood visit.

As such, when someone rapped their knuckles loudly upon the doors of the Dursley household in the suburbs of Little Whinging, the inhabitants felt considerably surprised by this turn of events.

At first, Vernon Dursley was more than content to simply leave matters there and let the irritating guest's hope wilt into ashes, so that they may abandon the doorstep of his abode - who'd even pester good hard-working people at this ungodly hour? - but unexpectedly, instead of abating, the rapping turned into rapid knocking, and seconds later, the rapid knocking turned into a cacophony of focused and intensified banging so deafeningly insistent it shook the entire house and he feared the unknown visitor may throw the door entirely off its hinges. As such, he shouted an expletive, and then, somewhat louder, he shouted he'd be right down, which terminated the noise, at least momentarily.

A half-minute to dress, a few seconds to look himself over in the mirror and make sure he was at least modestly presentable, and he walked downstairs to open the door.

"Ruddy barking mad..." Vernon muttered to himself as he walked, and then, moments later opened the door at last.

"Good evening," said the man in the center, "May we come in, Mr. Vernon Dursley?"

There were five people on Vernon's porch and front yard. The one who spoke was an old man, with a length of bleached hair and a vast shimmer-white beard stretching down almost to his belt. He was dressed in a conical hat and long robe of luxuriant blue silk, both of them spotted with yellow moons and five-point stars which appeared to ripple and sway on the cloth.

He was, in the fewest words possible, dressed like a wizard from a storybook.

As Vernon cast his gaze at the other guests, he realized they, too, were incredibly odd.

There was a woman a bit older than him, but not as much as the speaking wizard-senior, in a witch's hat and dark robe, brandishing a look of particularly unconcealed distaste with which she actively disfavored him. Next to her stood a thick, burly man over three meters tall with an unkempt, wild mane of black hair, almost seamlessly conjoined with a bushy beard going down to his navel, dressed in a thick leather trenchcoat and red woolen shirt, both fitted for his gigantic size. He, in turn, was looking back and around rather than focusing on Vernon, attention constantly on his surroundings, and on the others standing behind them.

And then, a bit further away, standing next to a motorcycle parked on the street with its engine on, a pair of fairly nondescript men - one blonde, one brunette - in slightly more practical outfits; shirts and trousers, dark work boots like something that he himself might wear to work. One of them gently held a sleeping baby in his arms.

"I-" Vernon blinked the last spots of sleep out of his eyes, incrementally - gradually - coming to comprehension. "I beg your pardon? What is this?"

"Forgive me," said the old man, and then smiled merrily. "I am Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and these are Professors McGonagall and Hagrid. Don't worry about the ones further behind, they can wait for our departure. Now, may we please come into your house at this time, Mr. Dursley? We have urgent business to talk about."

As seconds passed, questions sprung to mind, one after another, each one slower to come and increasingly unclear. Why would an entire contingent of professors come to his house, at midnight, dressed in the robes of wizards, one of them staggeringly tall? And how did they get here, if their vehicle was one motorcycle? Vernon noticed this inherent strangeness, though with difficulty that bewildered and frustrated something instinctual and deep within him like he was actively repulsed by even the consideration of such things. He was going to ask these questions out loud, but he was robbed of his attempt when Professor Dumbledore spoke first.

"Ah, Mr. Dursley," Professor Dumbledore stepped gently forward, and raised Vernon's attention back to himself, "I should mention, and stress this as much as I can - Mr. Dursley, it is absolutely pivotal that you allow us indoors before we speak of anything. So I will ask you once more, very politely, would you very much please allow us to enter your home?"

There was something mesmerizing about that question.

In the end, the man's exceeding politeness had won him over and, unable to resist his sudden and unexpected desire to welcome these unknown strangers into his house, Vernon stepped to the side and indicated the living room door, "Of course. Make yourselves at home, err, Professors. May I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you," said Dumbledore, still smiling, as he stepped in and took an initial glance at the entryway. He seemed very happy for some reason. "I'm happy to tell you that we shall not bother you for long, Mr. Dursley. No longer than fifteen minutes, in fact. May you please call down your wife, Petunia? I believe she'd like to hear what I have to say."

And so, a minute and a half later, after calling down his wife, everyone was seated comfortably in the living room, excluding the giant Professor Hagrid who seemed content to stand beyond the reaches of the doorframe and peer at the furniture around the room. His wife, Petunia, seemed rather discomforted by her sudden awakening, and even more by the appearance of the guests.

"Ms. Dursley, it pains me greatly to inform you that at this time, yesterday, your sister, Lily Potter passed away," said Professor Dumbledore somberly.

His wife's face was a cold mask, one so gravelly etched that even Vernon had difficulty saying how much the news troubled her. Maybe it didn't trouble her - he recalled, from a few conversations, that Petunia did not care much for her sister, but Vernon didn't believe his Petunia to be so utterly callous that she wouldn't feel even a glimmer of sadness. He stayed quiet.

"She did," said Petunia, in a slow voice, and then said something that surprised Vernon; "I felt it happen, I think."

Dumbledore nodded. "That's quite ordinary in an event like that."

A moment of silence, somber and tense; the former, more than the latter.

"How?"

"It was a murder," said Professor McGonagall to that, accent faintly Scottish; she interrupted as Petunia was about to ask another question, "And I am sorry, Ms. Dursley, but before you ask, we cannot reveal more at this time. It's a matter of national, perhaps international security."

At that, Vernon quirked his eyebrows and felt like these people were jokesters. He realized, in retrospect, what a tremendous act of questionable logic it was to invite these robed people into his house, but before he could speak, once more, Dumbledore was faster - these people had a tendency to beat you to the punch.

"I am happy to say their infant son, Harry, survived the incident," Dumbledore said. "I believe you have a son of your own. Dudley, yes?"

At that, Petunia stiffened. "You can't-"

"Please, hear me out," Dumbledore raised a hand, and at that, she stopped. "Mr. Dursley, Ms. Dursley, as I am sure it's apparently obvious to at least one of you, I am a wizard."

"Right. Of course, Professor. Of course. And I am the rightly crowned King of England," said Vernon, with a hint of absurd humor - an improper answer, disrespectful and childish, but in the heat of the moment, he felt mocked and disrespected, so the response came almost by second nature. "Shall we have tea and crumpets together?"

At that, Dumbledore merely chuckled. "Very well." And with an elaborate flourish of the hand, he made a porcelain set appear; a teapot, teacups, stirrers, saucers, a milk jug, a creamer jug along with a sugar pitcher, and an entire bowl stuffed with a dazzling array of crumpets.

All that Vernon could do in response was dumbly stare at the display of blatant magic, and, slowly, remove the crown that appeared on top of his head. It was made from actual polished gold, smooth yet thick; he could see his own clear reflection on its side. It was inset with shining rubies and pale sapphires; amber cuts, aureolin topazes, glimmering emeralds, and pellucid diamonds; a crown so unimaginably rich that if he wore it and crossed the border to France, its mere presence would sink the national economy under the sudden weight of inflation within moments.

"Do you believe me now, Mr. Dursley?" Dumbledore asked, making the teaset and crown disappear with a wave of the hand. Vernon's heart trembled at the disappearance of the crown, which had briefly captivated him as utterly as a bright scintillating light captures the attention of a fly. "I know your wife did initially. The Potters were magical, after all."

"You- You knew about this?" Vernon turned to regard his wife, but she was stone-faced, resolutely staring at the wizard.

"What do you want from us?" she asked.

"Allow me to explain," Dumbledore continued, removing his hat. "I have an excellent opportunity for you, as a family. In short, I wish for you to adopt the young Harry Potter into your family, and to treat him no worse than you would a child of your own. If you would do this for me, there is much I can do for you. I have acquired special dispensation to break our usual rules in these regards."

Maybe it was the dead of midnight, and maybe the man on the other side of the table was a complete freak, but Vernon could at least hear the freak out to the end, that he may better laugh at him in the end. And besides, he remembered the bright, uplifting, joyous feeling of holding that crown in his hands...

"As an example, it wouldn't be a significant issue for me to procure access to the most elite schooling for your son. I am more than able to ensure his attendance and graduation in a place such as Harvard or Oxford. By age twenty, he could have a doctorate in any scientific discipline he desired, and he would find it neither strenuous nor difficult to accomplish this."

"I-" Vernon was about to call the man on bullshit, but then he remembered the teacup display, the crown - he was speaking to a wizard, a man of the supernatural world. And he was, apparently, not merely a casual practitioner, but an outright Professor in his paranormal vocation. So who was to say that he wouldn't be able to do exactly what he promised to do?

It seemed like his brief stutter was taken as a questioning call. Dumbledore briefly ruminated.

"You? Well, for you, Mr. Dursley, we might ensure something like absolute career success. It'd be unproblematic to acquire a larger company for you to own personally, one much bigger and more economically successful and broad than the one you currently work at. Or, if you so prefer, to help you ascend up the ladder even further, up to the level of executive regional director or higher. Indeed, I suppose there are many things that we could do for your family, and the price is very simple indeed. I would personally ensure there are no significant issues in your harboring of young Harry. And in return, our society will provide almost anything you ask for, within... considerable reason. All you'd have to do is ensure that he grows to be a proper young man - a task that, for a family like your own, should not be a major issue, I trust?"

At that question, Vernon and Petunia Dursley had to take a momentary recess, asking their guests to please wait outside. Their discussion lasted five minutes, and though both of them agreed they disliked magic on principle, this opportunity had too much attached - for them, but also for their little boy in particular.

On that night, the Dursleys made a deal with the devil.

---

And now, young Potter, select your fate.

Blessings

Any one (1) of these, but no more than that, and no less, excepting a situation where you have taken on the appropriate burdens.

[ ] Heir of Slytherin
*Allows you to speak in Parseltongue, the language of serpents and other such creatures, including politicians.
*Makes your blood considerably more powerful ritualistically and alchemically. A single spoonful, ingested by a Muggle, has effects similar to LSD and horse tranquilizers. Its effects can be modified.
*Makes you a novice natural Legilimens, allowing for the use of that discipline without the use of a wand. If you wish to develop this skill past its most basic levels, you'll need much effort.
*An inherent aptitude for the noble art of dueling and battle magic, especially magus a magus.
*A House Blessing, mutually exclusive with the other House Blessings.

[ ] Champion of Gryffindor
*Although wizards are, by default, absurdly durable, you are thrice more durable than an average adult wizard, and recover in a fifth of the time from even debilitating wounds.
*A considerably unnatural level of resistance to magic; high (80%) resistance to spells with intangible effects like Petrificus Totalus, modest (20%) resistance against effects with tangible effects like Stupefy, applied externally, after your natural and accumulated resistance. Resistance doesn't affect effects that are beneficial (someone slowing your fall down the stairs, healing, etc.)
*An inherent aptitude for the martial art of fencing and swordsmanship, as well as physical self-reinforcement.
*Allows you to Apparate through the Hogwarts wards, as well as to issue commands to its defensive mechanisms and spatial motors on the same level as the Headmaster.
*A House Blessing, mutually exclusive with the other House Blessings.

[ ] Sage of Ravenclaw
*An immaculate memory, virtually eidetic, allowing you for perfect, non-confusing, and near-instantaneous recall of almost everything that's happened since you were around three years old. Its sheer depth astounds and scares even you; if your cognition wasn't as smooth as it was, it'd be easy to get lost in the immensity of your own recall. Immune to Memory Charms of all kinds.
*Makes you considerably better (100% increase) at developing your own spells or modifying spells you know.
*Become ever-wise to the twisting floor plans and halls of Hogwarts, including its most secret passages, except for the Chamber of Secrets, whose domain lies in the hand of Slytherin alone.
*Makes you into a natural Seer and diviner.
*A House Blessing, mutually exclusive with the other House Blessings.

[ ] Lord of Hufflepuff
*All initiated Hufflepuffs are filled with an instinctive sense of deference towards you. If you happen to become a Hufflepuff yourself, this effect will be further intensified by several steps.
*Never feel especially bothered by having to work more; no rolls for burn-out, and working harder does not cost additional Will. You are simply assumed to always be doing your best to advance.
*Allows you to conjure the Patronus simply by feeling good about yourself. And in time, you may begin to study the secrets of what ancient tomes call the "Infinite Patronus..."
*At night, when you sleep, you can still hear the screams in your dreams. It is very fortunate that you cannot remember your dreams.
*A House Blessing, mutually exclusive with the other House Blessings.

[ ] Boy-Who-Lived
*Although you were famous before in the wizarding community, now you are an incredible celebrity; a minor form of messianic savior for the magical people of Britain who recognize your name, and something of a curious phenomenon to Muggleborn or fellow children who heard your story.
*It lends considerable weight to your actions and words from the perspective of certain people. Surely, whoever opposes the Boy-Who-Lived is also opposing conventional wisdom? However, some people will merely see this as a reason to go further...
*Become completely unaffected by the Three Unforgivable Curses - foolish attempts are reflected at double (or more) power back on their caster. If someone threatens to cast the Cruciatus on you, simply laugh and tell them to go ahead.

[ ] An Equal In Truth
*Although the reason for this is presently unclear, the scar on your forehead emanates incredible power. +.25 Gnosis for every chapter, raised up to .5 Gnosis on occassion.
*Increases your Magical Power. At the moment you enter Hogwarts, you'll command the raw capacity of a determined and hard-working 2nd-Year student, allowing you to learn spells, potions, and other items on that level without significant issue aside from theoretical knowledge.
*Altogether, over time, your Magical Power grows considerably faster; by the time you're in your 5th Year, you'll actually have the raw magical power of a Hogwarts graduate.
*Requires Mark of the Equal.

[ ] A Child Prodigy
*Arrogance is often the result of upbringing or nature, and in your case, it's more the latter than the former (accuse the Dursleys of whatever you wish, but they did their best; sometimes, the best simply isn't enough.)
*Your growth in ordinary Skills is highly increased (300%).
*Your growth in Magical Skills is considerably increased (150%).
*Requires Heroic Flaw: Arrogance.

[ ] Trismegistus
*Makes you Thrice-Great.
*After you enter Hogwarts, you'll be allowed to select up to three subjects, topics, or areas in which you shall excel to a point of surpassing every peer, and scraping against the ceiling of your own teacher's skill level. All of your attainments in this domain or field shall be incredibly swift and groundbreaking.
*As an example, if you select Broom Flying, you might become the Seeker in your first year, or if you select Potions, you might yet brew something that your teacher won't be able to insult...

Curses

You do not have to pick any of these. However, for every Curse, there is a Blessing - gain an extra of the latter for each of the former you pick up. Every Curse also carries its own, unique Additional Boon, independent of the Blessings above. None of the curses, except the Apocryphal Curse, will actually reveal the effects of their Additional Boons to you, however. If you desire to play a Harry Potter whose existence is as close to canonicity as possible, then select every Curse.

Beware, the descriptions of these afflictions may be somewhat deceiving and innocuous on first blush...

[ ] Mark of the Equal - A scar on your forehead, like a seared brand in the shape of the lightning bolt, emblazoned upon your skin. It always seems too fresh, as if the wound had been dealt merely yesterday rather than years ago. It's like something is aggravating it. And occasionally, it aches, with a terrible, sharp intensity that prompts you to hiss.

Also makes you very recognizable. The scar may be concealed using esoteric means such as Polyjuice Potion. There may be other demerits to selecting this option than the ones mentioned here.

[ ] Impaired Eyesight - A defect in the eyes, sadly incurable except for the most potent alchemical remedies and potions... but maybe you can live with it, for now.

A strong malus to any task which requires visual acuity or precision when you do not have proper corrective glasses. It may also require a couple of visits to the oculist, but given how richly they are being rewarded for taking care of you, the Dursleys won't mind taking a few hours out of their day to do this for you.

[ ] Heroic Flaw: Arrogance - Just like your father, eh, Potter?

A relatively simple flaw, at its core. Even as a young boy, you lack the critical temperance and humility that you should - whether it manifests as conviction and stubbornness, or heroic anger at perceived injustice, or simply a complete absence of any conception that other people's opinions have weight, you are almost intolerably arrogant.

Although it's without a doubt - fated - that you shall become an arrogant little boy, the nature of your arrogance is highly dependent on your actions as well as the contents of your childhood misadventures. It's possible to get rid of this flaw with relative ease, simply by acquiring refinement and wisdom over the years, or in more brutal cases, by being harshly defeated or humiliated.

[ ] Apocryphal Curse - May you live in interesting times.

A hero must face great adversity in order to earn his role - as such, a hero's life is interesting by definition, with the frequent occurrence of vastly improbable events which force them to dig deep and discover whether they are truly worthy of everything that makes them. The challenges this presents will never be beyond your ability to overcome.

Additional Boon - However, the tremendous life of a Hero is filled with fortune and misfortune both, not only a constant string of the latter, so for every three unfortunate events that afflict you, you are ensured to also experience a minimum of one positive event to match them, at the very least. A specialized effort may skew this ratio further in your favor over time.

---

Special Rule: Gnosis

As thread users participate in active discussion and produce content that the Quest Master deems interesting or amusing, the thread will accumulate Gnosis, a form of pseudo-monetary abstraction which can be expended to gain various rewards. As an example, a 25-Gnosis reward might be something like the possibility to research a Philosopher's Stone; a more likely 7-Gnosis reward might be the mastery of a specific spell to a degree rarely attainable by most wizards; a simple 2-Gnosis reward could be the ability and willingness to study for an important exam in spite of not having slept for the entire previous night due to dubious adventuring in the Forbidden Forest.

However, every direct use of the true name of You-Know-Who will remove some portion of this useful resource, including uses made in earnest wisecrack or tomfoolery, including the twisting of the forbidden name into comedic versions, or concealing it under thick layers of linguistic translation or cipher. This forceful annihilation of Gnosis may be revoked if the player makes an honest apology to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and promises to never use his name again, for they are unworthy of doing so. There cannot be any sarcasm in this apology and it must be performed with uttermost seriousness and sincere regret for having used the name in so blatant and frivolous a manner. Using the Dark Lord's abandoned name is forbidden with even harsher penalties. And furthermore, all uses of His acceptable epithets (see this paragraph,) must be capitalized, bolded, and written out using the color gray, otherwise, your post will not qualify to receive any Gnosis or Gnosis Modifier.

 

[Birdsie]

Robin Hood's Barn

Harry didn't remember much of his early childhood, and maybe that was normal. As far as memories go, vaguely, he could recall that when he was about three years old, he and his cousin had been taken to an amusement park, where they had some fun. Harry recalled the sweet, sticky taste of cotton candy dissolving on his tongue. He didn't actually recall the attractions themselves, nor could he verifiably state what he actually did, but he was sure that he'd had a great time, and that was enough. Sometimes, when prompted, Uncle Vernon would reminisce about that day, mentioning how unbearably hot it had been, and Harry's vague recollection would concur with his statement.

A few weeks or months after their visit to the amusement park - a while later, maybe half a year, but not a full year - he remembered as some distant family or friends visited them. They'd only been in their house for maybe an hour, having tea with them, and sometimes asking Harry how he was doing, to which the boy cheerfully replied, "a-okay!" It was only a couple of men with beards and long hair about his uncle's age, dressed in funny outfits that flowed to the floor kind of like a bathrobe, but not meant for bathing. A wizard's robe, he'd thought back then, and nowadays he still concurred with himself on that statement, especially given what he learned sometime later on.

And then, a while after that visit, the sharpness of his recall abruptly rose, and he could remember individual memories from a period of several years.

All the various times he'd been playing around in the park, or helping Aunt Petunia cook dinner - she called him a fine little helper, which he liked - or doing his coloring books.

However, maybe the most noteworthy among his early memories were the... strange events... that sometimes happened when Harry focused and spaced out, or when he felt particularly happy or unhappy about something.

Once, when Harry didn't want to eat his peas and baby carrots, but Aunt Petunia insisted on feeding him, he made them into candies while they were in his mouth, and then they were delicious. One time, he'd set his uncle's pants on fire by accident when he was refused dessert for being a little impolite with the old granny across the street - for which he apologized upon learning his mistake. After that unpleasant event, he made sure to always include the proper term of address before the names of everyone older than him that he spoke to, such as mister or miss.

Another time, when playing in the sandbox with his cousin, he was unhappy that Dudley's sandcastle was bigger than his, so he made a wind pick up and collapse the castle into a misshapen mound and made Dudley cry, and that made Harry cry because he hadn't actually meant to destroy his cousin's castle, and that made Uncle Vernon run out of the house to see what happened in fear they were hurt, and his concern only made both of them cry even more.

At one point, when he was seven years old, he'd made his uncle's new Chevrolet Impala float up several yards into the air and then drop in such a way that it flipped over, which was seen by over half the neighborhood given that Uncle Vernon had invited them specifically to boast. Oddly, not a single person had mentioned the incident since then.

However, it prompted what Harry nowadays referred to mentally as 'the talk.'

"Harry, you're a wizard."

"Uhm. I am?"

"Yes," Uncle Vernon said, eyes sagging with tiredness. "And, while I think we both understand that, boy, I have to ask you - please - try not to destroy any future cars with your magic. I know it can be difficult growing up, and I know we're hardly the perfect guardians, but I'm doing my best. Please, Harry."

"A-okay, uncle!"

A few mornings after the Chevrolet incident, he'd woken up from sleep, only to find the words, 'DUMBLEDORE SHALL DIE AND BLEED FOR A THOUSAND YEARS,' carved into the walls of his bedroom. That one had upset Uncle Vernon very much.

Although he was smart for his age, spending more of his time than most children in solitude and consideration, Harry was pretty sure the vast majority of his thoughtful reclusion started after that - after discovering that he was a wizard. It was maybe a little wide-eyed of him, naive, but for some time, Harry believed that maybe he could practice and learn how to channel that magic. And that resulted in the Beautifying-Light-of-Which-We-Do-Not-Speak-Ever Incident, wherein every single person, child, and animal in Little Whinging, including himself and his family, needed to have their memories thoroughly scrubbed.

Afterward, the head wizard in charge, Mister Just Auror Shacklebolt, told him not to try magic on his own again, and that he'd be learning how to use magic at the magic school soon enough, so there was no reason to be impatient and to 'meme tick' people. Whatever that meant.

But anyway, Harry was pretty excited, because soon enough, he'd be the greatest wizard to have ever lived.

---

As of right now, you are eight-and-a-half (8½) years old and possess .2 points of Gnosis. And in spite of what you might believe, surviving to this age and having this tiny a measure of the world is not that impressive. How about you come back to me when you're ten-and-a-half and have ten points of Gnosis, and then we'll talk?

But, let's put that aside and discuss matters of your development.

Firstly, do you hear the voice speaking to you at night, or when you're lost in thought?

[ ] Yes
[ ] Maybe
[ ] No (Lie)

Hm, that's fascinating. What does it say?

[ ] The Past - Sometimes, when you're lying in bed and trying to sleep, a voice that isn't your own mentions events that you don't remember happening; events that you don't have any right to remember, and sometimes, when it speaks, it's accompanied by images. It tells and shows you many things: a magic castle, men in masks, an oath made in blood and signed with blood, and it tells you of this terrible aching feeling in its chest, like some part of its heart must've been excavated and locked away in a box.

[ ] The Present - Sometimes, even during the day, the voice might pipe up on your present circumstances with a clipping comment of moderate insight. At other times, you see flashes - visions - through eyes that aren't your own, and aren't really eyes. It always confuses you greatly, and sometimes it scares you.

[ ] The Future - It's often said the future holds many things. Whoever the voice belongs to, that person cannot determine the future, but like anyone, they can make a determination based on knowledge: this is called a guess. And sometimes, the voice shall guess what might befall you.

[ ] Many Things - It's not merely the disembodied voice itself speaking to you, but an incomplete shard of the person behind it, with a fragmentary consciousness and memory to drive it. There is no reason to fear, young Potter - this fragment is relatively tame, inoffensive, remembers very little, doesn't mean nor is it capable of doing you any harm, and it doesn't have much of its own will, having fused more to your own over time. However, what it does have is that raw, untamed instinct and experience, skill and the determination to see you succeed, as it seems to view you in a favorable light. It speaks to you, not unlike an ethereal and ghastly companion, a serpent on the captain's shoulder, whispering advice and making cutting observations about the environment. Its use could be immense...

[ ] There Are No Voices - Such a fervent wish to insist on something that isn't true! I admire your ability to persist in denial, young Potter. Even in spite of your extremely young age, such an ability to remain ignorant is something prodigious. This, indeed, might be called an "achievement in magic." Requires: No (Lie).

*Apparently, you don't hear any voices. +++++Sanity (?)
*I disagree, but delusion is your birthright.
*+.1 Gnosis.

Secondly, every young man ought to have some kind of hobby. What are yours? Select anywhere from one to three.

[ ] Chess - An eloquent game. When he's got a free minute, Uncle Vernon is more than happy to oblige you; he wins about three out of five times because he's really good.
[ ] Making Lots of Friends - As many as you can, and lots and lots and lots of friends! There are sixteen kids you know in your neighborhood alone.
[ ] Wrestling Anyone You Can - Most often, it's Dudley, because he shares this hobby with you, but sometimes it's other people, and one time it was a stray dog...
[ ] Books, Books, Books - Most kids hate reading, but you love reading! Especially the books that have pictures in them.
[ ] Tabletop Games & Tabletop Game Accessories - After looking at the cover of Advanced D&D, the one with the red demon on it, something primal awoke deep in you.
[ ] Causing Unspeakable Mayhem & Fixing It - It kind of speaks for itself. Most often, it's by sheer accident, and other times it's pranks-gone-wrong.
[ ] Eating Brioche & Making People Eat Brioche - It's a pretty great pastry for the customary British afternoon tea, so how can you not spread its glory?
[ ] Watching Silly TV Shows & Doing So With Your Family - Most of all, you think you enjoy Dr. Who and the Twilight Zone, but most of all you enjoy their presence.
[ ] Write-in - An eight-and-a-half-year-old can have many respectable hobbies! Are there any others you can think of?

Lastly - and some would say most importantly - who's your favorite family member? This option has crucial importance, make sure that your selection is nothing less than absolutely correct!

[ ] Your Dear Uncle, Mister Vernon Dursley - He once took you to work and it was pretty boring, but he showed you how a stapler works and that's neat. +++Vernon.
[ ] Your Dear Aunt, Missus Petunia Dursley - She reads storybooks to put you to bed whenever you like, so she's gotta be the best. +++Petunia.
[ ] Your Awesome Cousin, Mistah "DD" Dudley Dursley - He's great like that. +++Dudley.
[ ] The Mirror - Sometimes, you stare into the mirror for too long. +++Yourself (?)
[ ] All of Them - How can you even think about picking one person when your whole family's great?! +Vernon, +Petunia, +Dudley.

 

[Birdsie]

Company of Heaven

Although young Harry was a stern devotee - a paladin, some might be tempted to say - of weather on the balmy and sunny side, not finding himself a huge fan of the inclement downpours that were such a classic staple of the British Isles, March 25th happened to be unbearable.

Above, the freshly-risen sun, the colors of blazing orange and gold, was a crisp molten arbiter, its rays shining on the innocent grasses, streets, and fields of Little Whinging like harsh lances of stratified heat. A barely perceptible blur danced in the distant air, a buzz-fly smear of wavering translucent distortion produced by the heat, forcing Harry to frequently adjust his glasses, only to keep seeing it and realize it was not the fault of his impairment. His shoes were thin-soled trainers, and so, whenever he walked for even a couple of moments on concrete or pavement, he could feel the stinging bite of the heated tarmac underneath like a persistent and cruelly territorial snake nipping on his soles. As he was preparing to leave for work, Uncle Vernon had to vent his car for several minutes because the seats were so hot they made him sing when he sat down.

And maybe worst of all, in this environment, there was no wind to cool one down. As the sun gradually ascended towards its destined apex, the shadows once protecting Harry and his friends only grew thinner and shorter, and eventually, the whole group of children dispersed.

Except for Harry who made the mistake of staying behind on the playground. And now, he was here alone, the rusty squeaking metal chains of the swingset and the steel bars of the various playground toys heated to a degree where even momentary contact was dangerous.

March 25th happened to be, indeed, very unbearable.

As Harry was lying down in a tree's decreasing shade - a sure prophet of his doom - and on the border of utter delirium, he peered outside the playground, to the local streets of the suburb, and gave himself to a child's imagination.

Within his rich imagination, the cars lined up on the streets were melting into colorful glossy pools and flowing into the sewer. Their old neighbor, wearing a straw hat, mowing his grass, and wiping his forehead, briefly stopped to glance at the patio umbrella, that had developed sentience to ask him for lemonade.

This is unbearable, said a voice in his imagination, one that he'd imagined. Hey, Harry. Do me a favor and find a water hydrant. If you do nothing but focus magical energy in an object, nine times out of ten, it will explode. We could do that to a water hydrant, and then we could use the water to cool down.

"Ugh." Harry turned to lie on his belly, shoving his nose under his arms and whimpering briefly.

"Oi. You're still here?" Above him, Dudley smiled, standing akimbo, then frowned at his cousin's lack of a response. "You're right botched, ain't ya, Harry?"

"Makes you wish for autumn, this weather..." Harry mumbled into his sleeve.

"Mom told me to find you," Dudley said. "Are you coming?"

"It's too hot, I don't want to leave," Harry muttered.

A low growl of annoyance came from Dudley's throat as he lowered himself and tugged insistently on both of Harry's shoulders, attempting to pick him up by peeling him away from the ground like a sticker or wet towel. "Oi, come on! Get up!"

"Leave me be, Dud..." Harry moaned softly.

"Come ooon! Mom'll be cross wi' the both of us!"

After a brief struggle, Dudley finally realized that for all his strength, the hopes of peeling his cousin away from his shadowy haunt were dwindling, and his frown deepened momentarily. He let go all of a sudden, which caused Harry to smack back into the ground like a springboard. "Ow."

At last surrendering, Dudley chose to sit down next to his cousin, calmly observing the world around them.

"It's not like you," he said.

"Hm?"

"To be so mopey," Dudley clarified, and Harry glanced to see his frown was deeper than usual. A bit of a hypocrite, since his expression also looked mopey, like he couldn't fully accept that revelation. "I mean, you always come up with these wild ideas, and, and you're so active and stuff, I dunno where you get the energy. Usually, you're the..."

At once, Dudley hesitated, biting his tongue.

"Say it."

"Crazy one."

At that, Harry attempted a straight punch for the shoulder, which Dudley countered by turning it aside, and then attempting a light jab of his own. An epic duel ensued, in which Harry at first held the advantage, only to find himself switching to defense as soon as Dudley realized that he could simply step outside of Harry's striking range - as Harry was unwilling to leave his shaded paradise for any reason whatsoever. And so, Dudley was triumphant in the end, as he started to retreat into the realm of sunlight and came back only when Harry's guard was lowered, or when he'd fixed his positioning to better land strikes around the tree.

After a couple of seconds, Harry fled into the sun as well, on the opposite side. He felt the harsh, withering glare of the sun at once, on his back, face, and hair, like being doused with a bucket of exceptionally acrimonious acid. "Alright, alright, I give. Let's go home."

Neither of them wanted to stay in this horrific sun for too long, and swiftly began their journey across the streets. Although Harry and Dudley were quick in their step and did their best to stick to what little patches of shadow they could find along the way, the walk remained almost intolerably torturous.

After crossing several streets, maybe halfway home, Dudley said, "Hey..."

"Hm?"

"You know I didn't mean that, like, in a bad way, right?" Dudley asked. "I didn't mean to say you're crazy like you're some cuckoo lunatic, Harry. You're crazy in, like, a fun way. Barmy and mischievous - dad said. Like, remember that one time we did that chalk and door thing to the math teacher? That was fun, aye?"

"He was an arse," Harry ruminated.

"Oi, don't swear," Dudley bumped his shoulder into Harry's own, chastising him, halfheartedly. "But yeah, he was."

They made a short pause there, in their conversation, as they passed by a small neighborhood store, with several people talking to each other outside - Dudley and Harry greeted them shortly while passing by, particularly Mrs. Figgs who stared at them with peculiar interest, as she often did.

"I mean... I know you have all these powers," Dudley said, half-whispering. "And, uh, that you can't talk about 'em, but like, mom said that your mom couldn't talk about her own either, and I can, y'know, read between the lines, and I know you're not supposed to-"

Harry laughed. "Come, are you scared that I'll leave you behind or something, Dud?"

Under normal circumstances, Dudley would've punched him in the shoulder or replied that he wasn't scared of anything, but for once, he surprised Harry when he simply looked forward and stared squarely.

"Oh, come now," Harry sighed, still amused, "We might be cousins, but we'll always be friends. I mean, we're basically brothers, aren't we? I dunno what Aunt Petunia and my mom had a falling out for, maybe they didn't like magic or something, but I don't want us to be like them, alright? Adults are dumb anyway. They like to talk down to us because they think we can't think, but that's not true. So they're stupid and that's that. And even if I go to some distant boarding school or whatever, or I have to go away for other reasons, I'll always come to visit, alright? And it's not like it'll happen tomorrow, uncle told me I've got to be patient."

A shoulder punch did come, then - but it was a tender thing. It somehow meant far more than a hug would've in that moment. Harry punched back in a similar manner.

How adorable.

--

As a reminder, Harry Potter's hobbies involve the creation and resolution of mayhem - or, as you would say, 'mischievous' pranks - as well as watching TV shows of many stripes, together with his family. And, as you've seen, he gets along pretty great with Dudders. And he might be hearing a voice that isn't his own.

Now, let's delve more into Harry Potter's childhood, but only in broad strokes - we'd hate to spend our entire existence in the Muggle world, wouldn't we? His ninth birthday is approaching - a child must be eleven to be admitted into Hogwarts, so that's a bit over two whole years of living here ahead of you, as he'll enter Hogwarts in September 1991.

Make a selection of up to five notable events that befell young Harry in the time leading up to his tenth birthday in July 1990. One and a half years - or eighteen months - of various shenanigans!

[ ] A New Bike - As part of a family-wide fitness goal, Vernon picked up a set of bicycles. After a few rough starts, Harry and Dudley finally manage to get going, and exploring the neighborhood became a much more common occurrence from then on.

[ ] Hundred-Step Hopscotch - In a bout of creativity, Harry decided to use some chalk and extend that boring old hopscotch game to one hundred squares and draw in various obstacles along the way. This sparked attempts at seeing who could hop the sequence the very fastest - and quite a bit of competition.

[ ] Skweek! - At one point in the day, Aunt Petunia screamed. Harry and Dudley ran downstairs only to find her standing up on a stool, while a decently-sized rat scampered around on the kitchen floor while nibbling on a piece of cheese. And then, Harry spoke to it and made it go away - discovering he could talk to rodents and critters.

[ ] Enchanted Comic Book - Dudley received a particularly interesting comic book for his tenth birthday, which he allowed Harry to borrow. However, the comic book suddenly became problematic when the shock of a plot twist caused Harry to accidentally bring the supervillain to life... in the form of his figurine, that Dudley also had.

[ ] Angry Rottweiler - Harry and Dudley attempted to prank their neighbor by throwing toilet paper all over his house, but something must've gone wrong because out of nowhere came a terrifying dog that chased them away. Although it didn't bite either of them, Harry now has a few permanent claw marks on his ankle!

[ ] Dark Poltergeist - Upon one dreary and rainy night in late October, Harry woke up near midnight and went downstairs to have a glass of water for his parched throat. However, there, floating in the living room and staring blankly in the mirror, was a phantom in a black tattered cloak, with glowing red eyes. It disappeared upon seeing him.

[ ] Arthurian Mythos - At school, Harry, Dudley, and their friends learn about the Knights of the Round Table. As they're playing around in break time, their friend group decides to become the Knights of the Cardboard Table, with Dudley as King Arthur and Harry as his faithful wizard friend, Merlin.

[ ] Laundry Thieves - At some point, Harry gets falsely accused by Aunt Petunia of making the laundry disappear whenever she hangs it. A few days later, it turns out a bunch of the local boys was going around stealing people's laundry as a prank! Aunt Petunia apologized to Harry for her mistake and baked him a delicious apple pie.

[ ] Odd Visitor - In late August, a man with flowing blonde hair visits the family. He introduces himself simply as Lucas Maluuf, who recently moved into the neighborhood, and spends some time drinking tea with the family, sometimes watching what Harry is doing. After that, he leaves, and oddly, none of them ever see him again.

[ ] Magical Cold - One fateful night, Uncle Vernon invites a potential business partner to come over for dinner. However, Harry comes down with a nasty cold; whenever he coughs, something unexpected and magical happens. Harry and the Dursleys attempt to hide the magic to the best of their ability. In the morning, Harry receives a cure.

[ ] Write-in - Make note: It is heavily preferable to select one of the misadventures listed above, but you may propose some of your own, subject to QM veto. The number of write-in adventures should not exceed the number of the options above.

 

[Birdsie]

Adventures of Young Harry Potter

As young Harry grew older, he experienced a plethora of events; misadventures, and stories of peril.

Maybe the most notable was the thing he'd seen in late October.

As October went, it was a quiet and unassuming night; a soft pitter-patter of rain canvassing the neighborhood outside the windows, the moon shining as a descending crescent, like a flaxen pendant. Outside the windows, there wasn't even a whoosh of cars passing by at modest speeds or the familiar watery claps of footsteps in puddles or muddy sidewalks, as people returned home or departed to parts unknown.

It was almost cozy, in a certain way, like the entire world had succumbed to the fogs of sleep and decided to have a restful night together.

And yet... it was also dreary, unmistakably.

A somber, tenebrous shroud hung over the world, entering the body in every breath, thick and cloying, like a smoky glue for the brain's synapses, slowing every thought to render one's cognition almost dreamlike. It made every thought blur and stick together with its previous and following thoughts, like molasses flowing out of a thin pipe.

After spending a few dreamless hours in perturbation, sweating under his covers, Harry decided to rise and get a drink of water. As he wandered downstairs, the Dursley house was deathly silent, even the midnight phantoms that usually haunted the halls in his imagination having disappeared.

There was a real phantom in their place.

Harry stopped as he was about to enter the kitchen. About five, maybe ten steps away from him, there was a tattered cloak with a raised hood floating in the middle of the air. It did not have any legs or feet that he could see, nor arms. It was like a flying raincoat, almost, but made from old cloth. It was frayed, ripped at the edges.

A subtle lean to the right, to observe it from another angle, revealing a pair of glowing red eyes, like distant star-specks, floating where they might've been if the cloak's hood also had a head underneath. They weren't focused on him, but rather, on the mirror in front of it.

It didn't have a face, but he could tell its expression, he realized - a desperate, heavy longing, almost like heartache. A desire to go back to something.

As he was occupied reading its expression, it turned and saw him. Harry froze.

They stared at each other for a moment - boy and tattered cloak. A moment later, its eyes closed, and then the cloak disappeared as well.

And his heart started to beat again, from where it had frozen in the fear of that thing's eyes.

However, not all of Harry's adventures were terrifying like the one with the phantom and the mirror. Alongside the bad experiences, he also had quite a few good ones and quite a few that left him more confused than feeling in any particular way.

Several days after October, a man had come to the Dursley household, calling himself Lucas Maluuf.

An odd surname to be sure, and his appearance was so regal, the Dursleys were almost certain he was a foreigner.

He'd explained, on their doorstep, that he recently purchased a house nearby and would be moving in shortly. As Mr. Maluuf was new to the neighborhood, he wished to acquaint himself with his upcoming neighbors-to-be, and, seeing no harm in that, Aunt Petunia invited him in to enjoy some afternoon tea with them.

He was, according to Vernon, a man of good learning and stature, a respectable individual - a statement elicited by Mr. Maluuf's cane, as Harry's uncle believed that anyone who carried a cane was sophisticated. Harry wasn't so sure, but definitely, Mr. Maluuf had done nothing to impose - he had calmly sipped his tea and commented on its exquisite taste, had a few bites of the fruitcake Aunt Petunia treated him to, and exchanged polite small talk and chatter with the Dursleys.

Sometimes, he would gaze at Harry, and in that gaze, Harry would sense a hawklike curiosity, a kind of insightful understanding, and inexplicable mental magnetism, that made him strongly believe Mr. Maluuf could be a wizard or magician like Harry was, but Harry knew it'd be impolite to broach that subject openly, so he didn't.

A few moments after the proper time for visitation had ended, as per British custom, Mr. Maluuf swiftly glanced at the clock, said, "Oh, dear, look at the time," and departed with respectable goodbyes and expressions of gratitude for inviting him in, as well as a few assurances that he'd enjoyed himself tremendously.

In November, as temperatures decreased, the weather swinging from autumn's ruddy embrace into winter's ice-taloned grasp, Harry came down with an inexplicable and paranormal cold, wherein, every time he coughed, something unexpected and magical in nature would happen.

Among other things, his coughs made the wine bottles in the kitchen float in the air and spill their contents to the floor in a pentagram, caused every drawer and window in the house to open and close multiple times, created an unexpected whirlwind in the center of the living room, and turned Uncle Vernon's watch into solid gold - a thing, Vernon later said, that he might've appreciated had the watch also not fused its clasps and become irremovable as a result. He was forced to go to an expert to have it taken off on the following morning. At one point, Harry also caused Aunt Petunia's favorite vase to detonate - a feat that she didn't entirely forgive him for until Christmas.

On average, none of this would have been particularly problematic for the Dursleys. They dealt with Harry's magical outbursts on a regular basis, and while any incident of particular scale, so anomalous it made even the normal magic seem ordinary in comparison, would be followed by Harry getting chewed out, they managed.

However, as Harry caught this sickness and started to maniest its effects, there were important guests in the house - business partners that Uncle Vernon had invited over for dinner to discuss the course of his company. As such, the entire family had to work in order to conceal the effects of Harry's magic on the house, and Vernon's partners left suspecting something, but not entirely sure what occurred. On the morning after, a wizard introducing himself as Mr. Thaddeus Arraney arrived, from the Ministry of Magic, and gave Harry a bottle of yellowish liquid, telling him to drink it - it was an cure for his disease, its effects almost instantaneous.

And naturally, there was the rat incident, wherein Harry spoke to a sizable rodent accosting Aunt Petunia in the kitchen.

"Food, food, food," squeaked the rat, like a mantra.

"Um. Food?"

"I need food, want food," said the rat. It stopped chewing on the slice of cheese it had stolen, and visibly turned its body towards Harry, rising slightly in order to better address him. Aunt Petunia and Dudley both watched this happen with faces cast into shock, switching between staring at Harry and the rat. "Winter's coming. Need food."

"Uh. I don't think you'll find any good food here. Maybe check with the neighbors?" Harry proposed awkwardly, and then clarified, "They, um, live next to us."

"Food? Food at neighbors... Okay, I find food there."

And so, it had scampered off.

"Oh!" Petunia breathed, heaving, "Oh, goodness, Harry, you can-"

"You can talk to rats?!" Dudley boomed. "That's wicked awesome, cuz!"

"Oh goodness, I think I'm about to faint."

---

And now, select up to five (5) more events that happen in between the ones that already occurred, and Harry's arrival at Hogwarts.

[ ] Another Night, Another Wraith - After a certain point, the dark tattered cloak-wraith starts to make regular appearances, whenever the Dursleys are sound asleep or simply not around. After nights of close encounters, Harry becomes accustomed to its horrific presence and uses a water gun stocked with holy water to make it bugger off.

[ ] A New Bike - As part of a family-wide fitness goal, Vernon picked up a set of bicycles. After a few rough starts, Harry and Dudley finally manage to get going, and exploring the neighborhood became a much more common occurrence from then on.

[ ] Hundred-Step Hopscotch - In a bout of creativity, Harry decided to use some chalk and extend that boring old hopscotch game to one hundred squares and draw in various obstacles along the way. This sparked attempts at seeing who could hop the sequence the very fastest - and quite a bit of competition.

[ ] Favorite New Movie - After countless months of searching through VHS tapes, going repeatedly to the cinema with the entire Dursley family, and even borrowing movies from the neighbors, Harry finally manages it and finds the movie that he's been waiting for - the perfect movie.

[ ] Enchanted Comic Book - Dudley received a particularly interesting comic book for his tenth birthday, which he allowed Harry to borrow. However, the comic book suddenly became problematic when the shock of a plot twist caused Harry to accidentally bring the supervillain to life... in the form of his figurine, that Dudley also had.

[ ] Angry Rottweiler - Harry and Dudley attempted to prank their neighbor by throwing toilet paper all over his house, but something must've gone wrong because out of nowhere came a terrifying dog that chased them away. Although it didn't bite either of them, Harry now has a few permanent claw marks on his ankle!

[ ] Awesome Vacation - As his company begins to rake in tens of thousands of dollars, Vernon, seeking to get more in touch with higher society life, takes the entire family out for a lavish vacation in London, including a trip to the shopping center, theater and cinema. However, something odd happens in the Natural History Museum...

[ ] For Every King, A Camlann - At one point during the summer, the Knights of the Cardboard Table assemble once again, but one of Dudley's buddies challenges him for the title of king, and a huge battle breaks out to decide who will be king...

[ ] Laundry Thieves - At some point, Harry gets falsely accused by Aunt Petunia of making the laundry disappear whenever she hangs it. A few days later, it turns out a bunch of the local boys was going around stealing people's laundry as a prank! Aunt Petunia apologized to Harry for her mistake and baked him a delicious apple pie.

[ ] Attempted Kidnapping! - A number of men in dark cloaks and skull masks sneak into the Dursley house at night and wake Harry up from sleep, ordering him to come with them. Before he can fully process what's going on, a number of men in dark blue robes appear and a fight breaks out! [Action Update]

[ ] Write-in - Make note: It is heavily preferable to select one of the misadventures listed above, but you may propose some of your own, subject to QM veto. The number of write-in adventures should not exceed the number of the options above.

Any other interactions you'd like to perform in the meantime? Select up to 3.

[ ] Aunt Petunia - Attempt to help Aunt Petunia in the kitchen. ++Petunia.
[ ] Uncle Vernon - Maybe go to 'bring your nephew to work' day? ++Vernon.
[ ] Dudley Dursley - Bond even further with your stout yet powerful cousin. ++++Dudley.
[ ] Mrs. Figgs (?) - Maybe get to know that old lady next to your house better? Go pester her. + (?) Figgs.
[ ] Local Rats - At last, attain the root of your destiny as the Rat Whisperer. ++Rats
[ ] Inner Voice - Attempt to befriend that imagined voice you sometimes delude yourself that you have. +++++???, ???

 

[Birdsie]

Altogether, the months of his childhood passed by in a frenzied blur for young Harry Potter, indistinct from one another in their greatness - he'd later recall a vacation which saw the Dursleys visiting the Natural History Museum. As they were perusing the various collections of ancient artworks, painted vases, paleontological and mineral collections, ancient insects, and petrified eggs, Harry wandered off from the family to approach the large skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex standing in the middle of the large hall they were in when the inner voice - the one he kept imagining when everything was silent and he was alone - spoke as if roused from a deep sleep at the sight.

I remember learning about this, oddly enough - in my personal research hours, that is... Did you know that dinosaurs and chickens share much of their deoxyribonucleic acid? That is, their DNA, the code by which all living things are made. Alligators are also quite related to them, but the most relevant part of this fact is that the cry of a Tyrannosaurus would be capable of slaying a Basilisk, and that's odd because a Basilisk is genetically a chicken that hatched with the soul of a toad, and yet somehow appears as a snake or - some would argue - dinosaur. And spiders come into this somehow, because Basilisks hate them. It's odd how natural history works out, isn't it?

"Huh?" He'd never done so before - not often, at least, and never with any commitment - but Harry found himself too intrigued and decided to engage the voice, "What are you talking about? What's even a Basilisk?" And why was its name capitalized, when the voice spoke of it, somehow conferring upon Harry the correct grammatical syntax?

It's a huge snake with the power to make anything that looks into its eyes into stone.

"Like a Gorgon?"

Sure. Actually, the Basilisk even originates in the same place - ancient Greece. I never thought about this, but I'm convinced now that the Greeks are actively releasing new magical weaponry to turn the rest of the world into stone and use our petrified selves as statues in their gardens. We should conquer them before it's too late.

"Huh?"

However, the inner voice didn't answer to his confusion. It attempted to, but Harry could feel its own confusion as its cognition untangled, memories scattered to the sands of a nebulous void, as some portions of its knowledge were lost due to being overtaxed.

Who even am I, and why am I in your head, Harry Potter?

"Oi, that's pretty dynamite," Dudley said, approaching Harry with Aunt Petunia in tow. She looked at Harry for a moment, crouched, and whispered into his ear - chastising him for wandering off. After a few seconds, Uncle Vernon, too, arrived - he was slightly thinner than a year before, his mustache and hair well-combed.

"A Tyrannosaurus Rex, that's Latin for... Tyrant King?" Uncle Vernon questioned, mumbling to himself.

"Whoa, since when d'you know Latin, dad?"

"I've been taking courses," Vernon answered his son with a smug expression.

Harry answered his voice. I don't know. Why are you in my head? And who are you? I never thought you're real, but... apparently you know a lot of things about a lot of things. Are you magical? A spell that I cast by accident when I was very little?

I doubt that a spell of any kind, especially one that conjures up a voice that speaks to you, would last for years. Unless you've been unconsciously maintaining me, and isn't that terrifying to contemplate - that one moment of errant distraction or emotional turbulence on your part might be the end of my life... such as it is.

Harry harrumphed. What's wrong with your life? Look at mine, I'm ten and I have to live with my cousin, uncle, and aunt!

And I have to live in your head, and I don't even know who I am, said the inner voice. Oh, Harry, I think I know what's happening.

"Let's go check out those pterodactyls!" Dudley said, before jogging away. A cross expression eating away at her face, Aunt Petunia gently trotted after him, careful not to let her dress snag on anything.

And what's that? Harry asked, looking at his uncle from the side.

I think I have amnosia.

---

And so they determined that Harry's inner voice had amnesia - or, as it kept calling the condition, amnosia. Since Harry was nice and wanted his inner voice to feel welcome, he went to great lengths to alter his lifestyle for its benefit, so it wouldn't feel so bad and so it'd start talking to him more often. As an example, sometimes it'd say something, and Harry would parrot those words out loud to communicate its desires, but since the voice could sometimes be impolite or say things archaically, Harry was forced to come up with instant translations into modern speech on the spot, which made the sentences he spoke rather stilted and somewhat harrowing to listen to.

He started to unconsciously think of his own body as 'theirs,' when he could, but this caused him to change pronouns in the middle of conversation, sometimes, which greatly disturbed random listeners and sometimes caused the Dursleys to blink.

Altogether, one such conversation went as such:

"Hey, Uncle Vernon, we demand- we wish for sustenance- food in the form of breakfast cereals. Deliver this immediately."

At that, Petunia had said, "Vernon, I think we should get a priest."

"Nonsense," Vernon had replied, clasping a friendly hand around Harry's shoulder, "Harry is ten-years-old, now, Petunia. It's that stage in a boy's life where he - or they, here and now - must find their identity. Isn't that right, Harry?"

Petunia wasn't convinced, looking and watching as Harry levitated spoons in a ring around his hand and stared at Vernon with deep perturbation.

Although the voice shared most of Harry's memories in life, it also had a set of its own memories that it couldn't recall save in moments of dire exigence or unexpected nostalgic recall, long-forgotten details coming to life when properly roused or stimulated, much like nerveless skin rubbed to the point of regaining some measure of feeling. And in the coming weeks, they attempted a number of things to make the voice recall its previous life - singing songs, doing research on sciencey things, and even an attempt at electroshock therapy that left Aunt Petunia gasping and slapping the fork out of their hand.

As time went on, the voice kept overdrawing on Harry's politeness, making him go to increasingly remoter lengths to achieve some kind of semblance of recall. After the Dursleys had a quiet conversation in the entryway about having Harry institutionalized, or 'calling in the wizards,' they decided to slow down their attempts to a more manageable pace. At one point, when Harry was outside in the playground on yet another hot summer day, this led to something of an argument between them.

And then, spoke the voice - in a slow, annoyed hush. Will you listen to me for once? I already told you, the Chinese meditation idea simply wasn't going to go anywhere.

I've been listening to you my whole life, Harry thought, So I'm gonna go with no on that one.

You've been hearing me for your whole life, it said, affecting something that resembled spite, but you never, not once, really listened to me. And what a huge mistake! We could've avoided so much pain, misery, suffering, and stupidity if you'd listened for just once to what I'm saying, instead of mindlessly aping and repeating my words to your Monopoly entrepreneur of an uncle! I told you the fork and outlet thing was a bad idea, but you insisted on it like some kind of complete nincompoop. It's a good thing that Petunia Dursley saved your worthless life, I would not have the strength, nor will, nor willingness to persist after that on my own. No, you know what? I don't have the energy to argue this. I subsist only on your mental waste, a thin figment of what I once was, but you treat me this way, boy? I refuse to believe in you. I refuse to cooperate any further. May your life forever be accursed with inordinate peril, I want no part of it.

Harry leaned back, sighing. I'm not even convinced you're real, why am I talking to myself?

...That's it. Do you really desire evidence? So be it. Do you see that stick, lying over there, five feet to your right? Go pick it up. Go pick it UP. Harry snapped at the sudden volume of his own thoughts. I will teach you, then, to cast a Levitation Charm. Pick up the damn stick, boy.

Harry moved, slowly, testingly. He picked up the stick, and as he did, the voice kept going, It's a common misconception that a wand requires a magical core. This is blatantly untrue. Wizards do not require wands to cast magic in the first place. It's much like a fat man relying on a horse to get him everywhere. However, in the right hands, sufficiently puissant, even a common stick may become a minor tool of channeling, and you are powerful enough indeed. Raise the wand.

Harry did, breathing in. What was he doing?

Now, move it in a circle and then tap a point in the middle of the circle, and then sweep your wrist to the right. As you do so, loudly declare, "Abracadabra," and you will become able to move any discrete object within your direct line of sight, no matter how voluminous or heavy. You shall become able to fling around entire buildings or uproot vast forests like a god of invisible psychokinetic vigor - a power unseen in this entire world for millennia because people - wizards and witches - no longer believe in such magic.

"You're not lying, are you?" Harry asked, a little doubtful, but also very hopeful this might work.

I am not. Do it.

Harry followed the voice's instructions to the letter. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, calming down the slight shakiness in his wrist. His wand's tip moved in precise and smooth shapes and ended in a sweep to the right. "Abracadabra!"

Nothing happened. No feeling, no tingle. He attempted to uproot the nearby tree with a thought, but couldn't.

Worth it, said the voice with a dying breath, so deprived of the mental energy it seemed to subsist on, it fell into something that Harry felt must have been similar to a deep sleep, before its presence dissipated.

"Blast it!" Harry tossed the wand.

Aside from Harry's anger and ignorance, as well as a few random things, one type of event that prompted the voice to speak more often were the appearances of what they'd dubbed, 'the Pottergeist,' together because it seemed to exclusively wish to haunt Harry himself. It was the dark tattered cloak-wraith he'd seen that one time in October, and it had started to make regular and unwelcome appearances, whenever the Dursleys were sound asleep or simply not around.

After several consecutive nights of close encounters with the Pottergeist, Harry became accustomed to its horrific presence and started using a water gun stocked with holy water to make it bugger off; a tactic of modest effectiveness, but one that provoked the inner voice to react with something resembling ignominy.

A reaction like this made Harry believe the Pottergeist must've been somehow related to his inner voice, so given that the Pottergeist was named after its Harry Potter-seeking properties, they both decided the inner voice's own name should be the counterpart - Geist.

Another event of small note was Harry's numerous attempts at controlling the local rodent population. By skillfully mapping out Little Whinging on a piece of paper, enlisting the aid of Dudley in figuring out their town's configuration, and with Geist's advice on how to best accomplish such a thing, Harry managed to convert all of the rats and mice in Little Whinging into his personal friends and spies - informing them of the kind of stuff he liked to know, and having them come to him when they found something interesting, whereupon Harry would pay them with cheese. He developed a personal relationship with three of the most productive among the rats, something almost like a friendship between boy and animal, naming them Squeaky, Squipper, and Snippy.

As the summer approached its middle point, the Knights of the Cardboard Table reconvened together for yet more adventures - but in an unexpected event, one of Dudley and Harry's mutual friends, Noah, challenged him to a duel for kingship. All the knights stood back in abeyance to behold this immense event - a martial challenge should never go unmet, not among boys, being the most pervasive opinion - except for Harry and Noah's second, Oliver, who helped their friends strap on their suits of cardboard armor. As Harry handed Dudley his sword and helmet, he smiled tightly. "Good luck."

Dudley smiled back and nodded. "I'll be fine. This'll be over in thirty seconds."

Something tells me it won't, thought Geist.

And so they fought each other, King Dursley against would-be King Davies, a claimant to the throne and pretender to the good title of king, or so Harry believed.

They met in the middle of a ring made by the knights, toy sword of wood against toy sword of wood. At first, the knights observed the duel as it happened with honorable conduct, attack to meet parry; parry against twist, and twist versus counter; a dance and play all in one.

However, as Noah started to grow increasingly frustrated by Dudley's skillful resistance, his attacks became more brutal, with redoubled strength behind every blow; skillful yet mindless, the instinct of a beast on the attack, as he groaned and moved forward in unhesitating martial advance, blade swinging in wide carving arcs, risking to disarm Dudley should he even think of meeting the parry in a halfhearted attempt, and forcing him to dodge. And yet, the strikes came, chasing after him; powerful blows, until Dudley could no longer evade and was struck successfully if narrowly; a glancing blow, cardboard plating shearing away to reveal Dudley's shirt underneath.

"Stop that," Dudley growled, rapidly backpedaling to say that.

"Make me," Noah replied. He raised his own blade, pointed it like an accusatory finger, "You are not my king any longer, and not fit to be so. You are weak, Dudley. Always have been."

And the honor of their duel dissolved, as Dudley was forced to meet the strength of Noah's attack with his own power, beginning a brutal two-sided assault of mindless lashing-out, as both of the boys penetrated their respective suits of armor, delivering painful bruises on one another.

The duel eventually developed into a brawl between the Knights of the Cardboard Table when the people watching the duel started to voice their opinions - some agreed with Noah's earlier words and believed that King Dursley's yoke was too light, his kingship too harmonious and boring, and many argued they needed to start a war for economic reasons, which Noah would be able to deliver and successfully carry out with his brilliant mind for strategy, which Dudley also lacked, being a mere figurine on the throne. The split between the Cardboard Knights was roughly half-to-half, but the fighting was brutal, as knights fell over upon receiving killing wounds.

"Stop! Guys, stop fighting!" Harry called out, the only among the knights to not have a sword.

"Cram it, Potter," said a traitor knight, "You are not even a real knight - not one of us. Just yet another of King Dursley's mindless puppets."

And he was right, too; Harry was too petrified to fight on either side, unable to find the courage to face his own friends in combat - a friend turned into an enemy wasn't something he'd ever contemplated before. The depth of betrayal made his eyes sting, even though it was mere play.

"Guys, stop fighting!" But no one did, no one even heard or listened to him - and for a moment, Harry understood what Geist had meant earlier.

At that feeling of betrayal, something darker in his chest rose - something inside Geist as much as himself.

I have a way to resolve this conflict, said Geist, a way that might not work, that might backfire, but a way nonetheless.

If you can find a way to stop this, then do it! We have to find a way.

Or make one.

At last, it was Harry who ended the conflict, raising up his wizard's staff - a long branch of wood he'd found - and slammed its butt against the earth with such strength the earth briefly shook, which stopped the fighters immediately, all of them - even the 'dead' ones - looking at him in confusion and slight worry.

And then, Harry did what came naturally, and announced, in a loud, imperious, and booming voice, "No. I shall be king."

After what he did, the knights doubted their ability to resist meaningfully, to fight and overcome him. Noah came first with open contempt, snarling, "You, Merlin?"

Merlin, as opposed to Potter, he noted, which meant that Noah still thought they were playing - or maybe lapsed into using that name naturally. No matter.

"Yes. Because I am wiser and more powerful than any of you," Harry replied with feigned arrogance, a look of blatant disinterest etched on his face, eyebrows barely lifted up from his green eyes. "I am wiser than Arthur and more powerful than you, Mordred; I've more temperance than fair Lancelot and I am greater than Gawain. All save Galahad are lesser than me, but he is not here." The fact that he'd left for summer vacation, Harry decided to keep unmentioned.

"Hmph," Noah scoffed, still doubtful.

At the same time, Dudley vacillated between dropping his sword and swearing fealty and continuing the fight. Although Arthur was friends with Merlin, he'd never bowed to the wizard before, never acknowledged his superiority in these respects, even though he knew, deep down, they were true.

It was simply that Merlin had always supported Arthur, rather than the other way around - for who is Arthur without Merlin? A man of virtue, maybe, and an exemplary, right-thinking king, but still a mere man in the end, powerless to prevent a conflict such as this one.

"And though I care little for your kingdoms and petty squabbles, it bleeds my heart to see them burned to ruin, and your families to ash," Merlin continued. He moved down from the hill that he'd set himself upon. "As such, I will control this kingdom from now on - I will reserve all legislative, executive, and judiciary functions to myself and those I appoint. I furthermore demand all of the Lords of Camelot to bow to me and my peers, those who command magick, so that we may better lead you. We'll craft a false history for those to come to believe, and weave an enchantment to make magick protect its own secrets. And there shall be peace, whether you like it or not."

"I..." Arthur stepped forward, crown gleaming in the dusken light, even in the ashes and fires of warfare. It was unstained by neither blood nor grime, even though no enchantments protected it from such. "I must take issue with that, Merlin. It'd make us all subjects to you, and our descendants. There'd be no way to form resistance or have our own independence from you - we'd be slaves to you, and I do not condone such. And it's not as if your kind do not have conflicts of their own. As the High King of Britain, in the name of my peers, I refuse your tyranny."

"So be it."

And so began a three-way conflict, between the Rebels, the Loyalists, and the Wizards, to see who might control the British Isles. Although Arthur was indeed wise and learned in the ways of battle, and Mordred had ferocity and ruthlessness, Merlin was the Prince of Enchanters and commanded power from beyond this world.

As the last supplies from the groves of the original Wand Wood in Rome were exhausted and sent to Britain to support the war on the side of the Wizards, the power and inventiveness of their kind rising to a deadly level seen never before - with magickal spells that could bewitch the mind, and deal excruciating pain, and kill with a simple flick of the wand - did Arthur understand, at last, the folly of his decisions in his life, and the foolishness of those under him, and the blindness of his own reign. They'd always been doomed, consigned to failure and an eternity of service under the serpent that was Merlin. They simply never knew it, until right now.

So goes in the sayings of Merlin, He-Who-Was-First: in Britain magic began in caves and under stars, among standing stones and in forest hearts. Kings bent to the words of the magicians; magicians did not ply tricks for kings.

After several years, the deadly war finally neared its conclusion, the Rebels and Loyalists once more collapsed into a single faction, under Arthur - for Mordred fell in the Battle of Camlann - and they fought against the wizards. Although the wizards were outnumbered almost ten to one, they had powers that mere humans could not wield, and so, kept making a slow advance to the lower lands of Britain. Many times now, Lancelot had urged Arthur they should flee to Avalon using the Prydwen, that surviving in the fairy world where even the wizards could not reach was their only hope, but Arthur wasn't sure, and chose to stay, at least for now.

As the final battle approached, Arthur was far older, in his fifties, his once shining beard having become gray and then matte white, his hair falling out steadily. He was around the age where a man would die normally without the help of wizardly magics - however, given that Merlin no longer supported him, his months were counted.

At least, they would've been, were it not for his sword, Excalibur, and its scabbard. And even if they fled to Avalon, Arthur knew that he had to forsake any notion of immortality and leave them behind, somewhere the wizards could never find them.

And so he rode, with only a small party of retainers to accompany him. Arthur rode into the far northern lands, beyond Leicester and Lincoln, beyond Joyous Garde, beyond Roestoc and Nohaut, beyond the sentry wall and Lothian, and into the lands of the Scots, and even further beyond, to places where the genesis of the world was fresh yet, soil undecided on whether it'd be fertile or infertile, the winds undecided on whether they'd be harsh or welcoming, the sun confused as to its supposed brightness.

A land unformed, still wild and untamed, its people free; centaurs galloping in the forests, trolls dwelling in the darkened caves, wild hatchling spiders as large as men prowling in the woods, giant men and women traveling in nomadic tribes and milking furry elephants to make cheese.

Arthur fought many of them and made it past countless challenges before he emerged on a clearing where a number of hogs fed on the available cuds. Some kind of disease had afflicted the hogs, as warts sprung out over their skin. A shame - for they seemed a good breed, otherwise.

At the mere thought of doing this, his heart shook with pain, but Arthur unsheathed Excalibur. Its protective magics were one of the things keeping the kingdom afloat, preventing Merlin and his kind from unleashing the fullest portion of their might; but Arthur had already sent the missive, told Lancelot to board the Prydwen and come for him, so they might escape to Avalon. Maybe Britain was lost, but their people weren't, not yet - not all of them, at least. Arthur would come back in the future.

Although he was not a wizard, could not use the form of magic that wizards could use, he was able to call upon some amount of power as the sovereign of Britain, as its promised king, who'd taken Excalibur from the Stone that Merlin placed it in; the blade had some of the magic that was left behind by those who came before.

"I, High King Arthur Pendragon, order you, Blade of Hard Cleft, Caledfwlch, Excalibur - my companion. May you ever protect yourself, as magic protects itself, and elude the grasp of the wizards - of Merlin and his ilk, and his bloodline entire. May you ever run away from them, and find one who is worthy, at some time long from now. Anyone shall do, so long as they are worthy, my sword. And then, maybe sometime in the future, I shall see you once more."

And like that, he cast Excalibur back into the lake.

And then, seconds later, he did the same to its scabbard, named after the island of Avalon it had come from. Avalon was the last thing protecting Arthur from death, giving him some last measure of health, and as he cast it away, he could feel his age catching up to him within moments.

A dread certainty filled him, then - a primordial sensation like some deep instinct, informing him that he'd be dead within days or weeks unless he reached Avalon. If the Prydwen arrived before Merlin, he'd be saved.

A flash of thunder, like a momentary beating of the drums, as Merlin Apparated behind him.

So maybe he wouldn't be saved.

"A foolish mistake, old friend, to cast away the sword that protected you."

Arthur turned around to behold him. Merlin had been an adult when Arthur was a child, many years his senior, and even now, decades later, he was older still, than Arthur who was already an old man himself. Merlin's long raggedy beard reached down almost to his feet, and though he'd killed thousands of people, he was smiling as he'd always done, eyes glittering with effervescence as if the war had never happened - as if they were still friends, seeing one another once more after a long vacation.

A book floated in front of Merlin. Its cover was blue leather adorned with a sapphire, pages as black as night; a clockwork grimoire linked to a silver chain. Its script lit up, the corners of letters like blue stars. A cuneiform of glowing blue splattered across the pages. As he raised it, the constellations spilled out into the surrounding air, spreading across, almost like fireflies, filling the air with magic so thick and acerbic that its simple presence burned at Arthur's tongue and nostrils whenever he breathed in.

"An interesting land you've found here, I must say," Merlin commented, looking away at the hogs. "Maybe I'll lead my students here after I am done, establish a presence here. Show them its beauty and splendor. A good way to celebrate peace among the British people, don't you think?"

"I am sure Rowena would love it," Arthur commented politely.

"She's always been one for exploring nature and its possibilities," Merlin agreed candidly with an eager nod.

A frank and simple conversation, as if they'd never gone to war against one another.

"I will kill you now," Merlin said, in simple and pleasant tones.

"I appreciate your candor. But know, Merlin, that I enter the grave spitting upon thee."

"You are not spitting," Merlin noted absently.

"A king should have more decorum. However, that does not stop others from spitting," Arthur said.

A look of arrogance entered Merlin's features, similar to the one he bore when making his pronouncement. "Goodbye, old friend. I shall rule from now on."

"And yet, I don't think you'll do a good job of it," Dudley said, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. They were going back home. At some point, Harry must have blanked out and started thinking about something else. "I mean, it'll be hard to hold 'em together. Oi, Harry, you listening to me?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. I kind of spaced out. Being, uh, the ruler is just a lot."

"Ha, you're telling me?"

---

Harry trusts Dudley with his secrets, but Geist doesn't - he believes that a Muggle knowing about magic could be dangerous, and as such, Dudley, already being dangerous, should not be made even more threatening.

[ ] Tell Dudley - Yo, that's wicked! +Dudley.
[ ] Hold Back - A wise choice. +Geist.

As this might have some bearing on the outcome of the kidnapping event, I'll hold back on that one for now.

 

[Birdsie]

The Death Eater Incident

"A vision?"

Harry and Dudley were sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched together.

At Geist's despotic insistence, Harry locked every window and thoroughly checked for any possible listening enchantments in the bedroom, which, apparently involved shaking every piece of furniture vigorously. Also, they closed the curtains and made sure that no one from the outside could peek in.

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding.

He explained the contents of what he saw - the strange fuzziness around reality as he was suddenly the actual Merlin, and Dudley was the actual King Arthur, and the stuff he saw after that. Maybe under most circumstances, Dudley would've been excited to hear all this, but Harry's grave expression killed the mood somewhat.

As he made the explanation, Geist infrequently prodded him to look at various dark recesses and corners in the room, in search of 'apple-rated bugs' though Harry didn't understand what spiders or mosquitoes eating apples might've had to do with them maintaining privacy. As soon as Harry thought that, Geist recoiled within his psyche as if slapped with a shoe and taught him the difference between apple-ration and Apparation; the former was, apparently, nonsense, and the latter was magical teleportation.

After Harry asked why they don't simply call it magical teleportation, Geist went silent. Although, somehow, that silence carried the foreboding note of disappointment.

"So," Dudley summarized, "Excalibur's som'where in a lake in Scotland?"

"Yeah," Harry replied.

After a moment to deeply consider, Dudley came up with a solution to their problem of not-having-the-sword-of-Excalibur.

"We should probably go to Scotland. And, uh, fish it out."

"I don't think that's how, um, logistics work," Harry replied curtly.

"Oh."

"Yeah, I don't think we'd be able to survive out there on our own," Harry said matter-of-factly. "We'd need money, uh - pounds for, uh, lodging, and maybe some bus tickets and food and stuff. And fishing rods, if we were gonna ever fish Excalibur out of the lake. I, uhm, think that'd cost too much."

Astute. Although, I have to wonder... what manner of bait does one use to catch the attention of a relic sword? Mythical nuggets of silver, perhaps?

"Oh, yeah, right."

No. Hold on, too dense for a normal hook. Magical lithium then, perhaps?

"Although I'm not sure that'll be a problem. I think the wizard school I'll be going to might be close by."

Or you may enchant the hook.

An hour of discussing potential ideas about how to extricate Excalibur from the lake in Scotland went on before Harry and Dudley both got very bored and exhausted every possible vector for the subject. Also, as much as they might theorize doing such, it was deeply unrealistic to consider doing anything of the sort in even a partially serious way.

Once their musings were over, Dudley and Harry went downstairs to have sausages and mash dinner with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, following which the entire family watched television together. Around seven episodes of Automan later, Petunia chased them off to their rooms and ordered them to sleep.

Around three in the morning, it happened.

Harry woke up to some rustling and footsteps, down the stairs, in the entryway and living room. A momentary, restful thought, coming from a brain still largely asleep, made him think maybe the Pottergeist was making one of its customary appearances, or maybe someone had gotten up to get a glass of water, but as he strained his ears, he caught more boots moving simultaneously than should've been possible; voices whispering in low tones that he did not recognize, all of them slowly moving up the stairs.

After a moment of doing nothing but listening, he sat up in his bed and reached for his glasses on the nightstand, putting them on. Another hand reached out to turn on the night lamp, filling his room with a soft glow.

Someone outside quietly said, "In here, I think."

At the sound of that voice, something deep and primal awoke in Geist, who suddenly leaped into Harry's awareness with the ferocity of a lion.

Harry, you have to run! Run NOW!

Run to where?

ANYWHERE! OUT THE WINDOW! NOW!

Harry didn't think he'd ever, in their shared life, heard Geist sounding so utterly serious and urgent. As if he were on the verge of succumbing to a terrible poison that afflicted its victim with wracking pains and needed a cure to be applied within literal seconds or else he would suffer a terrible death.

At once, Harry snapped up from his bed and moved for the window. However, before he could...

"Open Sesame," said the voice on the other side. Harry's bedroom door lit up with an orange glow at its edges. It exploded outwards with a burst of smoke, shredded into pieces and wooden shards, the largest as big as Harry's hand, the smallest as tiny as fingernails. A few of them whipped across Harry's skin and left scratches in it.

"Idiot," said a woman, though Harry couldn't see her very well; only as a silhouette underlit by the wall fixtures in the hallway behind her. However, she wore a splendid black dress going down almost to her ankles, as well as a mask in the style of a skull covering her upper face, from brow to mouth. "Use the Unlocking Charm."

"There was no reason for magic use in the first place," said another voice, beyond where Harry could see. "The door was open, you see."

"Ah," said the person who'd cast the spell - the first voice that Harry caught earlier - a young man, relatively, in his middle twenties. He also wore a skull mask, though his clothing was limited to a gentleman's finery, including a white cravat. "I'm sorry about that. I'll be more careful next time."

"Lumos," said the woman, as she stepped into the room. A long piece of wood - a wand? - hummed softly in her hand, before its tip lit up with a pale aurora of soft moon-like glow, luminous enough to reach almost to where Harry stood against the back wall of his room. Her sharp eyes caught him immediately. "Ah, there you are, boy."

Ah, dung. That's Bellatrix.

"I believe you'll be coming with us." She lowered her wand and reached out with one hand. "Come, we have a wizard adventure waiting for you."

Don't trust her. She has social anxiety. People with social anxiety don't know what they're talking about.

"Y-You have social anxiety, Ms. Bellatrix," Harry blurted out.

At those words, the woman, apparently called Bellatrix, blinked at him once, in a very exaggerated manner. "I beg your pardon, young man?"

However, young Harry was too frozen in place to respond, in equal parts due to the sharp stinging sensation in his wrists and forearms caused by the cuts, tinged with a deep pulsating pain that seemed to match his rapid heartbeat, as well as the mortification factor of knowing there were magical strangers in his house. And not only ordinary, garden-variety strangers, but apparently - kidnappers, who had no qualms about blowing up doors, and whom even Geist seemed to vaguely fear.

Harry, carefully repeat what I am about to say, and we might survive.

And Harry did. "I- Sorry, I meant to say that I have social anxiety. I don't want to go anywhere."

A moment of thought later, the woman's eyebrow creased in deep thought - a suspecting kind of thought. "How did you know who I am, Harry Potter?"

Yet, before Geist could even begin to continue the conversation, there was a half-dozen cracks in the air, so deafeningly loud that Harry thought he'd lost his hearing for a fraction of a second, as a number of people appeared from nowhere in Harry's room - men and women dressed in dark blue robes, wands outstretched towards Bellatrix. One of them stepped back carefully, one arm extended back to keep Harry equally in place and to push him further into the corner of the room, seemingly for his own protection.

All of the next events happened in deathly fast snapshots; several actions per second from every individual in the room, stacking and overlapping in so dizzying a manner that Harry would later critically misremember details as if he were delirious at the time.

Half the men in blue robes said, "Stupefy," in rough unison, and cast their wands forward in a jabbing motion, connecting red jets of energy with a sudden disk of translucent force that Bellatrix made in front of herself using a gesture while stepping back to produce more distance. As soon as their attack - lasting a quarter of a second - ended, she whipped her wand forward in a frenzied cutting motion and made a vertical gouge in the room; concrete, mortar, brick, and splintered wood flying into the air like a cloud of dark smoke but also hurting several people, including the man standing in front of Harry, whose throat was dissevered by a flying piece of cement and promptly sprayed out a gory cascade of blood.

It was the first time that Harry saw blood in that quantity - in something that wasn't a papercut or a nosebleed - and so, the majority of his senses focused on the falling man and the deep red color now staining his once-azure collar, but Harry remained tangentially and peripherally aware of the other events in the room.

At the same time as this all happened, the young man who'd remained behind Bellatrix yelled out, "Aurors! Avada Kedavra!" and in doing so, launched a bolt of sickeningly green light from his wand at one of the Aurors, who, in response, rapidly twirled his wand down at the floor like he was swirling a ribbon in the air, and caused a number of floorboards to stiffly spring up in front of him as a makeshift shield, the green light washing over them and dissolving into dancing, furious sparks. The Auror lowered the shield and replied with an identical spell, but without the incantation, making the man in the skull mask who'd cast it fall over unconscious when it blasted into him.

Another second passed, spells and energies and lights flying around the room, some of them punctuated by flourishes of the wands or loud proclamations.

"Impedimenta!"

"Confringo!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The wizards continued to fight, and as it continued, as seconds passed - two seconds, and then three, and then four - Harry felt increasingly more helpless, watching them casually throw around powers that he'd have been hard-pressed to access during moments of extreme emotion, throwing his room's furniture into the path of spells that could not be easily blocked using magical shields, or dodged, and in doing so, causing explosions that tossed masses of burning or charred debris everywhere.

A masked man's wand spat a misty spray of effervescent lime acid that burned the cloak of one of the Aurors. In one spot, an explosive blast someone had made left a deep hole in the floor, wide enough that an uncautious person might've stepped into it and fallen down to the floor below.

As the battle started to move closer to the doorway being the chokepoint, one of the Aurors knelt next to the Auror whose throat had been cut. Although he looked to be awake, he was bleeding deeply, and his chest moved up and down, as if unable to breathe. "Vulnera Sanentur."

"Damn it. Get Potter out of here!" one of the Aurors snapped.

"Never! He's not yours to have!" replied Bellatrix with a ferocious dark look on her face, "Bombarda!"

Her next spell didn't include a flying bolt of energy, so much as a translucent distortion in the air that caused the Aurors to brace, as there was no time to prepare; no time to duck or leap away or hide behind cover.

It caused an entire side of the house to blow away in a rain of bricks and torn concrete, wooden beams clattering down in a cascade - an avalanche - and causing a whole section of the roof to collapse on top of half of the Aurors in the room. An Auror who remained standing stepped closer in Harry's direction and made an almighty motion, using her entire upper body in concert, moving from left to right like a wave, to throw away what must've been at least several people's weight in the rubble that was about to fall down on him. However, the momentary distraction proved to be her ultimate undoing, as another of the men in the skull masks then cast a spell that manifested as a fiery stream - more red than orange, and more red than white, burning ferociously like an evil blowtorch or flare - that slammed into her and sent her down to the yard.

"All of them," Bellatrix muttered heavily, one hand clutching at her side as she grit her teeth - a spell of some kind struck her in the left side of the ribcage earlier, from what Harry remembered. "How's... How's Borgin?"

"Dead," said the other man in the skull mask. "Killing Curse. His father will be furious."

"That... idiot," Bellatrix muttered again; straining her voice, out of breath as she said it, though Harry couldn't see her expression, because, for a brief moment, her head dipped so low in the pain that her long black hair covered most of her face. "He escalated, so the Aurors... damn it... Damn it," she said.

"Harry Potter," said the man in the mask, stepping forward, and Harry tensed at his approach, eyes widening. "Calm down. We-"

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Bellatrix growled, eyes fixed to the floor, with a mad look in her eyes. "How did the damn Aurors know?"

"I don't know."

"Harry!?" Aunt Petunia yelled outside, footsteps approaching. A second later, Uncle Vernon echoed her call.

"Die, Death Eaters... Bombarda..." Harry could hear a whisper from down below; the Auror who'd fallen down, wand raised up at the second floor of the house. Bellatrix and her companion only reacted moments later, erecting a shield to protect themselves and Harry up where they stood. "...Maxima..."

Harry stood blankly through the events. He'd barely been able to follow the happenings with his thoughts, let alone act. Altogether, he was emotionally stuck at that moment he'd seen the man shielding him get his throat severed by flying shrapnel, and the events which kept piling on with every second only added more to process - the understanding that the green sparks killed instead of incapacitating being one of them. It was hard for him to understand, at first, given there was no blood.

As the aftermath reared its ugly head, the Death Eaters having disappeared, and a new platoon of Aurors arrived, he was discovered sitting alone in the rubble.

He mumbled words, repeating the incantations the wizards used in a soft whisper, as if they might protect him, tears flowing down his cheeks. And in those words, there was some venom, some darkness, although the Aurors on scene attributed that quality in his voice to shellshock more than anything.

---

All of the Dursley family is dead.

[ ] Rest In Peace

[ ] Beg On Your Knees - If you are willing to pay the price, there is yet hope for young Dudley Dursley. By destiny's resolution, he is to die within a Muggle hospital or on the way there, in but a few minutes from now, but the Chooser of the Slain is more than willing to tip destiny's scales in your favor. And by the Chooser's decision, a single Auror within the ranks will find enough pity to abuse his powers, contrary to the law, in order to heal your cousin to a state which resembles survival. Enough to tip the scales.

However, the prices of denying Death his obols are steep - he demands nothing less than sacrifice of equal or greater value. As such, you will now pay a regular tribute - 100% of the Gnosis you earn from your Blessing, "An Equal in Truth" will be conveyed into Death's coffers.

None of your other family members can be saved. A sad pity, but Death is unwilling to budge on this. "Actions have consequences," too, is a primordial maxim.

After the event, who spoke to Harry (and his cousin, should he have survived by some miracle?)

[ ] Mr. Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt - A man that Harry is already familiar with, having met him during the incident that we do not speak about. He's a relatively affable man, with a nice smile, and shows understanding and sympathy for Harry's plight. He moves Harry to a wizarding orphanage in the interim for finding him better accommodations. (If Dudley is alive, he will reluctantly attempt to split the boys into separate orphanages and won't hear any of your bullshit, though.)

[ ] Headmaster Albus Dumbledore - An old man with a thick fluffy beard, that Harry doesn't remember meeting before, although Mr. Dumbledore claims they'd met once, when Harry was too young to remember him. He tentatively offers Harry (and Dudley) a place to stay at his brother's until they can together figure out more permanent accommodations; Dumbledore knows more than a few people who'd be willing to take the boys in.

 

[Birdsie]

All Away

Harry Potter wasn't sure how long he'd sat in the rubble and dust, muttering incantations to himself interspersed with hacking coughs. It could've been minutes or hours, as his mind was lost in an abyss of time; every moment infinite yet no more or less distinct from any other. His weary eyes danced over the familiar elements of broken furniture once in assembly, causing him to stop from his ceaseless incantation for moments at a time to cry more, sobbing uncontrollably while Geist in his mind spoke words that the part of Harry's brain usually responsible for translating them from pure intent into British English was too tired to convey.

At one point he'd stood up, clenched his fists, and lashed out with his foot, kicking at the standing remnant of a wall in futility, before falling over from sheer vertigo and landing on top of the broken kitchen table. And there, clutching the miraculously still-attached table legs, as if for support, he kept crying and chanting spells.

And such was the state the Auror team recovered him in.

A young woman in somber black robes had taken Harry up, away from the collapsed and overturned table, and gently led him away from the rubble of Privet Drive 4, as if prompting him to leave it behind. He felt disgusted and horrified at the idea, but his feet moved on their own, without conscious input.

They made a stop outside, at the sidewalk, where men in robes had stopped the flow of traffic, including police cars and ambulances. There was something of a stand-off now, bobbies yelling and making orders at the Aurors who refused to budge. The Auror woman brought Harry in front of a man with the facial features and grace of a lion, a mane of tawny hair with gray streaks, wearing a brown trenchcoat and wielding a gnarled staff of oaken wood. A grim look adorned his face as he looked emptily at the collapsed Dursley house. He introduced himself, but Harry didn't listen and didn't hear his name, and noticing this, the man said something to the woman, and she led him away.

And then he sat, on the back edge of a horse-drawn carriage that seemed to have no horses, and he observed the scene unfold. All of the events of the night started to blur together incomprehensibly in his mind, as if someone had bleached a sharp line of the portrait and then rubbed it so raw the sharpness dissolved into a smear covering half the painting - the moment where several bodies were wheeled out on gurneys no more distinct in his mind than when he'd seen an Auror fall over with his throat split. He felt stuck. Like someone had pressed a button in his brain so hard that something gave in, and now the button was stuck and couldn't be unpressed.

As the scene developed, a squad of Obliviators wiping away the memories of the Muggles as he'd seen them do some time ago, a team of consultants forming a plausible explanation for the incident, Harry received a warm blanket from someone and was later asked if he needed anything - to eat or to drink. He'd simply said no.

All of it was blurred, indistinct, smoky - an impressionist's painting of a memory. And there was something twisted about it, something off.

Everything changed, at least partially, when he arrived - maybe an hour into the incident, once the investigation and clean-up efforts were long underway, maybe even nearing their zenith. He was a gaunt and thin man, maybe as tall as Aunt Petunia had been, and he was very old, judging by the shining moonsilver of his splendid hair and thick beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing light blue robes, a white cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. As he walked through the scene, the atmosphere changed palpably, and Harry found himself running in his direction before he even knew who the man was, to cry into his stomach.

"Oh Harry," said Albus Dumbledore. "I'm so sorry."

Nothing else was said, at least, not until Harry was done crying. At that point, Mr. Dumbledore had introduced himself and offered Harry to sit down with him, so they could talk and figure out what happened. Slowly, in between stops, pauses, and sobs, Harry recounted the night's events in a shaky puzzle of images, and though he kept pouring the events out of himself as fast as he could, Dumbledore had told him multiple times to slow down, take his time; to reassure him that it was horrible and wretched, what had happened, and that he didn't need to hurry anywhere, that they could take their time.

As sedate as the old man's appearance was, these words, too, blurred into the night's events, with Harry's brain too exhausted to even begin processing them. Almost respectfully, Geist had kept silent for the rest of the night, though Harry could feel his lingering presence in his mind.

An hour into his somber appearance, as the scene was being cleaned up - the police and ambulances long gone, only a small team of Aurors left on the scene, and the only major undertaking they had to take care of was to transport Harry somewhere else for the night and obliviate the neighbors - Dumbledore offered Harry to stay at his brother's house for a couple of nights until they could figure out better accommodations for him. Dumbledore promised Harry that he would have input over what happened next, that there was no reason to be afraid for now - the shadows were gone.

Are you there? Harry asked, his mind feeling like the cold strum of a cordless guitar.

I am, Geist said, You haven't been listening or even hearing. I understand. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.

Not your fault, Harry thought at him, putting the issue aside, even as he felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, You- You have memories of being a wizard, right? Scattered memories, but you recognized that Bellatrix woman.

A note of hesitation appeared in Geist's response, but he did respond, Ye-es.

I- Should I go with Dumbledore? To his brother's place?

A moment of thought, as Geist considered the question in depth. I don't think we have any other choice. I don't want to give you biased advice, Harry, so here's what I'll say about him for now: Dumbledore, as far as I know, isn't a threat to you. If he trusts someone, I think we can trust them as well.

A heavy silence ruled the street that Harry was on - Privet Drive. As the night continued, the commotion of familiar neighbors and people coming out to see began to wane and then finally die down, Obliviators and Aurors cleansing away the memories of bystanders. As Harry was about to vocalize his decision, Geist interrupted him.

Harry, wait.

Yeah? he asked tiredly.

Do- Do you trust me?

Harry didn't have to think long about it. Yes. You're- You're a pain, but you're my friend, too.

What he didn't, actively, think was that Geist was probably one of his only friends left, aside from rats and friends that he'd shared with Dudley. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to face the latter group, not without his cousin.

I need you to speak some words for me, in a specific way, and channeling specific emotions. I know it'll seem weird, and arbitrary. It's-

I'll do it. What words?

"I hate this," Harry said, quoting Geist - prompting Dumbledore to look over with concern - voice dipping low, "I can't bear it. Why? Why did this happen, Mr. Dumbledore?"

The old wizard's features softened into a deep remorse as he listened.

"Harry..." And then, Geist spoke - no longer as a basis for Harry to quote, but in unison with Dumbledore, as if equally predicting and testing the man, "Muggles die when wizards fight. It's the saddest and most horrible truth of the world we live in, something that I learned myself, and not without consequences. I pray for a day when this is no longer the case; when our kind can be responsible enough with our powers that it does not result in the loss of people who are innocent, and I hope that day is soon."

So it's you, Albus. Let's go, Harry.

Upon receiving his assent, Dumbledore took Harry by the arm and made them both Apparate.

---

As per his promise, Harry would have input on who he'd live with from now on.

[ ] Sirius Black

According to Dumbledore, Sirius Black is your godfather, and the person your parents designated as your guardian should they ever die. However, after their death, he became depressed and inconsolable; a terrible drunkard, and not in the state to take care of a child; he begged Dumbledore to find someone who'd be able to take better care of you. As the years passed, Sirius cleaned up his act, slowly, and even became a professor, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, now teaching the subject for over five years as its most stable paragon and educator. Hogwarts is the magic school that you're supposed to be going to in the future.

As such, there is a minor logistical issue, in the fact that he won't be able to personally attend to you for most of the remaining year until the summer arrives, but his House Elf should be able to care for you in the meantime, at least in the departments of meals and laundry.

Geist Opinion: "By himself, I think Black is trustworthy and reliable. Although I must say his choice of profession betrays what I can only rightfully call refined anti-wisdom. I suppose he was feeling suicidal after what happened to your parents."

If you'd prefer someone who can take care of you until the summer, however, Dumbledore is aware of several magical families that'd be willing to take you in. And you had to admit, the prospect of meeting a family of people who could do the same things as you sounded like a good distraction from what happened.

[ ] The Weasley Family

A large wizarding family, popular in most social circles, Dumbledore trusts in their kindness and the inner mother of Molly Weasley, knowing her to be a person that can take good care of you. He'd be more than happy to introduce you to them and knows they'd be more than happy to have you as a guest until the end of the summer.

Geist Opinion: "I think Molly's fine, but I never liked the father, and I can't remember why. Did he bully me in school or something?"

[ ] The Diggory Family

Amos Diggory is one of the Ministry of Magic's most reliable workmen - according to Dumbledore, he is fair, kind, and has expressed an eagerness to meet you in the past (a fact which confused you, but with Dumbledore promising to explain later,) so Dumbledore is confident that he'd be a reliable caretaker.

Geist Opinion: "Amos is fine, I think. Also, the longer I think about it, the more I realize that every person of import I ever met now works for the Ministry of Magic, and isn't that a chilling thought?"

[ ] The Longbottom Family

A family of Aurors, and they have a son your age, whom Dumbledore states with confidence has similar interests to you, and thinks you could become good friends. Although something in you aches at the thought, his offer seems to be genuine. Also, apparently, you already met Alice Longbottom - she was the one to help you out of the rubble.

Geist Opinion: "Ugh. If I ever get any physical money, I will pay you to pick someone else."

[ ] The Lovegood Family

A very jovial sort, or so says Dumbledore. However, the moment their name was brought up, Geist began screaming loudly in your head and only stopped after five seconds, upon realizing there wasn't actually a Lovegood in the room.

Geist Opinion: "Anything but these people, Harry. I'm pretty sure the husband snorts chalk dust. Why is this even an option? Dumbledore must have rocks in his head!"

 

[Birdsie]

A Brand New World

"Ugh," Harry vocalized his desire to throw up when the spatial compression of everything - including his stomach - ended.

"Oh, I believe that's the University of London," Dumbledore remarked, as calmly and easily as a man remarking upon the surprising cleanliness of the English weather.

At that, Harry chanced a bold, daring look outside of the moving vehicle. As soon as his eyes caught the blur of movement beyond the window, they darted away and his face contorted painfully as his throat seized from nausea. It appeared that he was slowly getting better, though.

Don't look, he told himself. Keep moving. Keep focused.

It seemed, however, the simple mention of a university roused Geist to awaken.

Ah, but the University of London has an incredible and rich history, Harry. Its founding is mired in religious persecution of non-Anglican students, and the fight to receive some kind of recognition from the royalty. After you graduate from Hogwarts, you should consider visiting here. There's a service I know of that can manufacture reliable Muggle undergraduate degrees, and it's completely legal to use in the wizarding world. It wouldn't be much effort to come here for a few lectures, learn something new and useful, Geist advised, though his voice was suppressed under stacks of Harry's pernicious thought, as the Knight Bus slowed down from 'impossible' to merely 'incredibly fast.'

Headmaster Dumbledore wished for Harry to acquaint himself with the many useful wizarding methods of transportation. As Dumbledore said that, he'd promptly added they might be especially useful for someone like Harry, with a look that hinted at some kind of hidden double meaning, but one that neither Harry nor Geist caught.

At last, however, the illustrious Knight Bus finally braked next to the sidewalk and deposited them outside, dear luggage included. Harry was about to pick up his things and carry them to the doorstep when Dumbledore raised a hand.

"Allow me, Harry," the Headmaster said. He looked around carefully to make sure no one was looking and slipped his wand out. "Perfusorius."

Both of Harry's luggage cases thumped in reaction with a swirl of orange motes, before sagging down a little. When Harry picked them up, he found that his items now weighed maybe a bit less than a quarter of their usual. It was fascinating to feel the contents of the cases moving around when he shook the cases.

"Um," his voice hitched, "Is this going to wear off?"

"Maybe in half an hour or so," Dumbledore confirmed, and they moved on.

He and Headmaster Dumbledore approached 12 Grimmauld Place. As they ascended up the cold stone steps to the porch, Harry looked at the wrought iron bars to the side, with heavy jutting spikes, and couldn't help but think this place must've been very old.

At least mid-17th century, Geist butted in, Although I'd suppose it was renovated around the turn of the millennium. I'd be able to make a better guess if we saw indoors.

Headmaster Dumbledore knocked steadily on the door. A second later, the door swung open on its hinges and revealed the entryway of the house. A long hall of somber yet natural verdant colors and dark wooden panels with hanging chandeliers of bottle-glass green. A number of metal fixtures were hung on the walls, with heatless candles resting within them and providing soft illumination. A carpet was draped over the floor, not a speck of dust visible on it, or for that matter, anywhere else on the floor. It had the atmosphere of a place that was still frequently lived and well-maintained in spite of its age.

Actually, I wish to rectify my statements - both of them. It's an 18th-century house and was last properly renovated around the end of the Second World War.

As Harry stepped inside, alongside Headmaster Dumbledore, they were soon met by a man; one rather unlike anything Harry had ever seen before.

A man dressed in a bespoke, immaculately-pressed butler's suit with pristine velvet gloves on his hands. He had a chiseled and intricately muscular physique, with considerable biceps and prominent pectorals. He was much taller than anyone Harry had ever seen before, the top of his head dancing under the hanging chandeliers in the hall. His shiny blonde hair was tied into a modest bun, and his scruffy beard was combed, revealing long and spiky ears, as well as a polite smile.

"Allow me, young Master," the man said. He made a simple, dismissive gesture, and Harry's luggage gently floated out of his hands. A secondary, more commanding gesture sent the luggage flying upstairs in an orderly fashion.

The man turned his full attention to them. "I am Kreacher, House Elf and proud servant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. May I take your coats, sirs, and offer you some afternoon tea? I believe you came right on time for that."

I know what you're thinking, but that's not actually velvet on them, Geist commented, referring to the elf's gloves, It's actually sparrowsilk.

Why do you know so much about what domestic servants wear?

"Ah, no, thank you," the Headmaster said. "Although I am here on official duty in my role as Chief Warlock, I also have a duty towards the children of Hogwarts, as well as its professors. I should return."

I don't know that much about domestic servants. I never had any myself. However, I do know much about textile crafts.

At that, Kreacher nodded. "Understood."

As the conversation turned in his direction, Harry stopped his mental argument with Geist and addressed Kreacher, "I, uh, yeah, I'd love some tea, I think. But shouldn't I unpack my things first, though? I- uh-"

"Oh, please, Master Harry, do not concern yourself over such trivialities as unpacking," Kreacher chuckled with deep amusement, "I am here to serve you in those menial regards so that you do not have to trouble yourself. I shall handle your meals, laundry, as well as any other tasks for which you need me. Ah, which reminds me, Master Sirius dispatched an early allowance for you to spend - shall we discuss the state of your personal funds and estate over your afternoon tea? I expect I should be able to prepare the full report while it's brewing, Master Harry. Are you sure that you don't wish to stay over for just a minute, sire?"

"No. Thank you, Kreacher, but I am in dire need to attend to my other business. However, I should at least say my goodbyes to young Harry," Headmaster Dumbledore said, turning to face him. Harry looked at the Headmaster with a slight smile, appreciating what the man had done for him. "I must return to my work now. Harry, I know it will be difficult for you. The death of a family... I can understand that. I can sympathize with it, and it's a terrible thing. I shall do my best to find those involved and ensure they receive their just desserts. I can assure you of that. And, on a brighter note, I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts in this upcoming year. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to write any letters to my office - I will be sure to read them personally. I believe Kreacher will be able to help you with that?"

"And more than happy to, sire," Kreacher replied, smile widening a note.

"Then, I depart." Dumbledore stopped for a moment, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder in a supportive manner. After sharing a smile with Harry, he stepped outside. "Have good day, Harry. And you, Kreacher."

"And you, sire."

"You too, Mr. Dumbledore."

---

Although it may not be exactly what Harry desired or wished for in life, he was now the personal ward of his godfather, Sirius Black, a Hogwarts professor and, apparently, a good friend of his birth parents. A few weeks remained until summer when he'd actually get to meet Sirius in person. And until such a time that Sirius arrived, Harry was under the care of his House Elf, Kreacher. (An odd and rather mean name for an elf, Harry thinks, though Geist remarks it's typical for wizards to name them like that.)

What shall Harry do until Sirius returns? A total of two (2) actions may be selected to devote your time towards.

[ ] Study About Magic - There are plenty of books on various magical topics scattered around Grimmauld Place, and Geist helpfully offers to supplement anything that Harry reads with useful commentary. Not much about spellcasting itself, but Harry does find a couple of potions recipes he is excited to try out, as well as many books on history.

[ ] Travel the Wizarding World - Harry received an impressive monthly allowance of two-hundred Galleons from Sirius (around 1,000 UK pounds,) to spend on whatever he desired. However, if he'd like to buy Muggle items, he must first convert this currency into Muggle pounds. As such, Kreacher shows him to Diagon Alley and Gringotts.

[ ] Interact with Kreacher - When Headmaster Dumbledore mentioned a House Elf, Harry somehow failed to understand he meant an elf that was also a house servant. Harry never met a magical creature of any kind before, especially not an elf: pester Kreacher to learn what his daily life is like. (++Kreacher?)

[ ] Write-in.

 

[Birdsie]

A Study in Cyan

"Good morning, Master Harry!" announced Kreacher, entering the room with a bright smile.

Harry shuffled under the covers of his comfortable three-piece bedding, frowning and mumbling something incoherent about having five more minutes, but Kreacher continued his duty, stepping further into the room and expounding as if Harry were already fully alert.

"I have prepared a classic English breakfast and a generous dollop of puddings for your perusal. I realize that ordinarily such would be reserved for tea, but I thought you may enjoy it as a treat for brightening your mood." And, like a snap, realization. "Master Harry?"

"Mphmhmrhph," Harry said into his pillow eloquently.

Kreacher frowned deeply, the crease of his frown reaching across his cheeks in an expression that was halfway between sodden distaste and ancillary pity. He pulled up his sleeves and clicked his fingers to push aside the draperies, sending lances of sunlight into Harry's unexpecting face.

Kreacher opened his mouth to resume speaking, but stopped at once, as Harry turned over to the other side in response to the sudden influx of photonic unpleasantness resting on his face - and now, on the back of his head.

"It's eight, Master Harry!" Kreacher shouted. "About time to wake up! Goodness me. Must I really?"

He approached the bed with the footsteps of a confident sergeant about to roll one of his men into a burrito and throw him out the door but hesitated modestly in realization he was dealing with a child, before - carefully - pinching the edge of the bedsheet and, much like one might rip off a band-aid, yanking it off in a full motion. However, the boy who'd rested underneath simply kept lying there with his eyes closed, face contorting into an unconscious grimace as the comfort of his sheet no longer availed him.

"I cannot fathom this," Kreacher squeaked emptily, stepping back with sudden vertigo. "How can someone maintain slumber under such bothersome assault?! What have those Aurors and Muggles done to your sleep cycle?! Master Harry?!"

"Ugh," Harry turned slightly, face digging into the cushion, "Uh-huh. Mphfghm."

Kreacher sighed. "I'll be downstairs to serve your breakfast. Please, be reasonably early." He moved for the door and stopped. "Oh, and don't hesitate to call if you need help in dressing yourself. Master Sirius used to need help with that..."

"Mhm."

Kreacher sighed once more - the sound a candle being extinguished - and moved downstairs.

"I'm exhausted," Harry muttered.

No wonder. Staying up late reading books has a tendency to do that.

"Shhh. Shut up."

But you know what? I think Kreacher's probably right. You're rather lazy, aren't you, Harry?

"I'm not lazy, I'm just tired, really."

Are you taking the piss?

Harry began to tire and grow weary of Geist's antics. He started to repeat the one phrase his mouth was able to enunciate without overstressing his brain to the point where sleep would no longer be possible, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up-"

Oh, he's throwing a wobbly.

"-shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up-"

Little Potty throwing a wobbly? A wobbly-dobbly?

"-shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up-"

A wobbly-dobbly gobbly-mobbly shobbly-nobbly?

"-shut up, shut up, shut up, shut uuup! Ugh. There's no way I'm going back to sleep."

I win, boy. Get up, the perfect storm has already passed! We have magic and potions to illegally study! All glory to Gnargoobler the Great!

"I don't even know who that is," Harry mumbled, as he pushed himself off the bed.

As foretold, it was classic English for breakfast; a spread of gently simmering fried eggs, sausages cooked to perfect brown and cut in ridges along the middle, fat crispy bacon slices rich and tender in flavor, a selection of sun-dried tomatoes and mushrooms, and hot, buttered toast. Although Kreacher prepared this much, as soon as Harry started digging in, the House Elf was fast to also serve a mixed green salad with sour cream, a basket of fresh garlic bread, and a side platter of fish and chips with several condiments served in floating saucers that poured their contents out wherever he indicated, which kind of bedazzled Harry. And naturally, there were several puddings to choose from.

As Harry finished up his plate - his seconds, in fact - Kreacher looked on with satisfaction. When Harry indicated he was done, Kreacher used his magical powers to levitate the plates over to be cleaned. A spurt of water poured from the faucet in the kitchen, though Harry couldn't see from where he sat. "I hope that breakfast was to your liking, sir?"

"Very much so!" Harry said with a smile. His smile fell. "Kreacher, I meant to ask you something."

Oh, this ought to be something.

"Yes, sir?"

"Why are you called Kreacher?"

Silence.

Harry, you don't ask a House Elf why they're called something.

"It's a portmanteau, sir," Kreacher explained, his face and voice betraying not a mote of disappointment or sadness, but rather, a very clinical and clipped tone, "A most clever crossing between the words creature and screecher."

"Yes, I gathered that," Harry said, leaning forward with a mix of intrigue and disquiet. "But I don't understand why. Why would someone give you such a mean name? I would never call a person something like that."

"It's..." Kreacher stopped, breathed in, and spoke, "It's tradition - wizard custom - to name House Elves in such a fashion."

"Why?" Harry cocked his head. "Don't you want a name that isn't an insult?"

Whoa. Whoa-whoa-whoa, Harry, you can't just-

"It's not my place-" Kreacher stopped himself, breathed in, and looked at Harry with something that resembled weariness. As if, knowing the boy only for a couple of days, he'd already started to become accustomed to his questions. "May I remark on something, sir?"

"Sure."

"You remind me very much of your father," Kreacher stated brusquely, a single eyebrow raised up, lips quirked in a disjointed half-smile. "When we first met, he'd asked me a very similar question. In wizarding society, it's custom for House Elves to receive ugly, demeaning, or monstrous names, in order to remind us that we are creatures lesser than wizards, to remind us where our place is. I understand it may be cruel by your modern sensibilities, but I have learned to live with it, as must every other House Elf if they are to serve our masters properly."

Harry disliked most of what Kreacher said, rather intensely. If Dudley were here, he wouldn't stand for something like this. "Is there any way to free a House Elf?"

"No," Kreacher said blankly, "Nor would I particularly wish to stop serving. Nothing awaits me beyond this life."

"Not even if, like, I gave you a sock?"

"Master Harry, that's probably the silliest thing I've ever heard. How would I be able to do laundry if that were the case? And besides, please do not give me any household items with the intent of freeing me from my lofty status as your House Elf. I'd have nothing to do, and nowhere to go."

"You could stay here," Harry proposed. "And, uh, keep doing what you're doing, if you like it."

"Then what would be the point?"

"Uh," Harry paused. "Because you're a slave. You don't get paid, and have no way to leave."

"Master Harry, I do, in fact, get paid a generous sum, the majority of which I spend on household cleaning items and domestic products," Kreacher disputed, "And I would not want to leave my service behind. I appreciate the sentiment, but as I said, there is nothing else I could do in life. I would appreciate a little goodwill from you when I say that I do not suffer in my role. It would be much wiser to externalize your desire to be helpful and look for House Elves who may be experiencing actual abuse. Although, frankly, maybe you should leave such endeavors for when you are an adult. It's a noble thing to believe in, sir, but not something for a fine young man to get himself involved in."

Harry frowned, but accepted this. He unseated himself and moved for the stairs. "I'm gonna go upstairs and read some books. Call me down for tea."

"Of course, sir."

---

"Hmm." The so-called Black family library was tremendous in size. It was something that Harry might've expected in an actual library, with several long shelves stacked in elegant rows and filled to the brim with tomes and books, some of them ancient, and a few claiming to be from times as recent as the 1970s. "What should I read?"

Anything but history.

"What's so bad about history?" Harry frowned.

As time passes by, I recall more and more of my old life. I can tell you with a bone-deep certainty that history is a terrible subject. I have studied it more than any wizard to have ever lived, in hopes that I would find something helpful, but I can tell you that with every finding, I only found myself growing exponentially more disappointed.

"Pfft. Yeah, what's so disappointing about history?"

The Wizengamot - the wizard government - essentially forbade the goblins from having wands. And so there was a Goblin Rebellion, which the wizards won handily. And do you know what the wizards decided in the wake of this?

Harry's mind raced to produce a guess. "Uh, probably something terrible like goblin genocide?"

No. They decided the goblins should own all banks, work at them, and run the economy for us.

Harry was speechless.

Let that fucking sink in.

Harry mumbled, disbelieving, "I think it already kind of did."

And you know, I studied this subject extensively, I asked people about this. No matter who you ask, there'll be some excuse for it. 'Ah, but you see, it simply made sense given political pressure from A or B,' or, 'A number of factors unrelated to the Goblin Rebellion and persecution led to this, young man,' or, 'Why are you racist towards goblinkind?' All of those responses are irritating. But me? I can tell you the actual reason because I personally broke into the Department of Mysteries in my mid-twenties, and, among the various things I discovered and did down there, I managed to track down the preserved memories of the Minister at the time. Do you want to know the actual reason he gave them the banks? The deciding factor behind the Wizengamot's decision at the time? The truth which lies at the core, no matter how they attempt to obscure it?

A part of Harry's mind was stuck on the, 'broke into the Department of Mysteries,' bit, which sounded distinctly illegal and dubious, but he was curious. "Yeah?"

They were fucking bored with running the economy. It was too much of a bother for them. They wanted someone else to handle it, so they could spend more of their august time sentencing criminals of dubious guilt to Azkaban or deciding whether or not to steal a Muggle train and repurpose it into Hogwarts transportation for shits and giggles.

"I, uh, what?"

And then, Geist threw off the handle and went on a rant, but Harry didn't understand half of what he was referring to, and kind of tuned him out.

Yep. And you know, as I studied history, I discovered the reason why, and it was the biggest disappointment of any I made while studying history. Our magic? The waving of a wand to produce wondrous effects? Putting firewood and snail mucus into a cauldron and cooking it to make a potion that heals wounds? The reason it's so stupidly simple, easy enough for a ten-year-old to learn, but theoretically complex enough for an old man to master? The reason it's so arbitrary and seems to make no sense upon closer scrutiny? It's because it was originally a goddamn children's toy the Atlanteans made. The reason Gamp's law exists - the reason why magic can be used to make stainless steel and ingots of pure gold, but can't be used to make food - is because someone's mother over six-thousand years ago didn't want her kid eating too much candy before dinner.

Here's what I discovered from my studies of history, Harry: Wizards? Wizards are goddamn manchildren. And the reason for them being manchildren is specifically because their magic is a goddamn toy, which they never stop playing with. They have no sense of right and wrong; no sense of up and down, nothing that can be described as conventional wisdom or even pattern recognition. They are spiteful, racist, irrational bastards, because mentally and emotionally they never significantly advance past the age at which they enter Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or Durmstrang or wherever. Because we've been raised by Muggles, for you or me, morality is good and evil, with some gray space in between to indicate situations where it's hard to tell, but for wizards, morality is beans and your favorite Quidditch team.

Hey, Harry, what'd happen if we took a chicken's egg, enchanted it, and made a toad sit on it? Normally, you'd reply, 'I don't know, and I'm not interested in finding out,' but a fucking wizard? A wizard is going to keep trying until what hatches is a snake bigger than a house that kills you upon making eye contact.

It's an insane world. A world of people who never grew up. It's gotten marginally better and slightly less insane ever since the first major influx of Muggleborn wizards in the late 1920s, and then slightly better after I rose to power. There are people here nowadays whose inner motivations and demeanor actually make a lick of sense, and even the most egregious offenders of this infantilism have gotten better, but the disease is still here, and we must fight it, or it- it- hey, are you even paying attention?

At some point during Geist's ramblings, Harry picked up a book on the History of Hogwarts and started reading. He was already on the third page.

Fine. Be that way, then, Harry. Don't listen to me. Don't heed my warnings. You'll regret it when someone kills your favorite owl and turns its corpse into a hat simply because their wand let them do so with a few sweeps of the wrist.

Harry flipped to the next page, yawning. "I think you're being kind of irrational and excessive."

Hmph.

---

As the next chapter approaches, you'll meet your caretaker, Sirius Black. However, until then, you should decide what your attitude is regarding certain things.

First, how do you go about Kreacher's situation?

[ ] He's Fine - Although Harry continues on believing that giving House Elves names like Kreacher is abusive, he'll concur with Kreacher's words on the subject matter for now.

[ ] Help Him - Alternatively, Harry may become an early, avid supporter of House Elf rights. Also, he'll think up a name for Kreacher that isn't completely terrible and use it in conversation. "Kreacher was your slave name. You are now Johnny Buddha."

And second, what should you focus on studying? Pick one.

[ ] History of Magic - Maybe Geist dislikes the subject, but what does he know? As you've found out from Hogwarts: A History, there is much to learn both about the school itself and the wider wizarding world. Geist made a compelling argument about wizards being childish, but all-in-all, you think his theories are far-fetched and silly.

[ ] Magic Theory - A lot of the gritty stuff that lies at the center of magical casting. Study how the movements of a wand and the pronunciation of Latin words affect the results of a given spell, as well as how spells and other magics correspond.

[ ] Potion-Making - There are scattered recipes for Stinchcombe's formula, Pepperup Potion, the Antidote for Common Poisons, the Sagacity Elixir, Boil-Bursting Unction, the Greater Extract of Rue, All-Binding Glue, and the Essence of Oils in the library, and most of these can be made without a wand. Maybe Harry ought to try them out?

 

[Birdsie]

Orthodoxy

Alright, so we're learning magic theory?

"Mhm," Harry hummed.

Ahead of Harry, sprawled messily on the table of the library, was a number of useful - or so he assumed - tomes in that subject. Among them, the largest and most impressive by page count was Magical Theory and Orthodoxy by Bathsheba Lupushawl, over four hundred pages long. A thick walnut that Harry was hoping that he might save for last.

That's probably my second least favorite subject.

"All subjects are your second least favorite, aren't they?"

Geist chose not to dignify that superficial bait with any kind of response. As his mental companion chose not to bother him, remaining in the background of his thoughts and perusing Harry's own surface cognition, Harry got to reading with the zeal and keen hunger for knowledge that matched the greatest nerds and geeks he'd seen in his television shows. He flipped across the pages of the books, scanning them and committing their introductory sections to memory, and finally selecting the book that seemed to be the most friendly towards complete newbies on the subject. As soon as he was done with that forty-five-page book, he moved onto a thicker and more advanced tome, and by the time he'd dug halfway into that one, it was evening and he needed to go to sleep.

He continued the magical studies on the following morning, as soon as he ate breakfast, and made a number of fascinating findings. Maybe Geist's half-cocked musings had some kind of texture to them? A lot of the stuff he discovered seemed to match.

"So," Harry concluded, as he closed an intermediate tome, having worked through its contents. "All European wizards use incantations in Latin?"

Pseudo-Latin, Geist corrected, A lot of their Latin is simply wrong. Because wizards are manchildren and can't put in the effort.

"Right. Whatever. So did modern wizardry originate in Rome?"

If you're referring to the most pernicious wizarding culture that remains seated at the core of our world - much like a tapeworm remains seated at the core of a sickened man's intestines - then, yes, most of that is from Rome. However, it evolved over time.

As Harry's curiosity was now stoked, especially in relation to the vision of the Arthurian times he'd seen, he decided to research that particular topic and find out more. However, for now, he chose to focus on the particulars of theory - especially how simple intent guided the formulaic equations and guiding principles of the incantation and the motion signals of the wand in order to produce a spell. He could use this later when he was an adult to make spells of his own, or so Geist had claimed, and spell creation was the path towards awesome versatility and immediate power; an ability to resolve any issue he encountered, with sufficient time and training.

Several days and nights passed by, some of them spent on practice rather than theory - putting what he'd learned into reality - until Harry finally managed to learn the right movements of the wrist to cast what the book had called a non-verbal, wandless Levitation Charm, making the book itself float in the air in accordance with his will.

Even Geist had been surprised by him managing it, saying, I'm pretty sure I never saw a ten-year-old capable of casting at-will Levitation Charms. That's an actual first. If you keep this up for another seven years, you'll probably conquer the world eventually. Congrats, kid.

And so, Harry learned to cast several other spells throughout the last week of June in a similar manner. However, as June ended, his guardian came back home. He stepped down to the ground floor as soon as he heard the door opening, curious what his godfather looked like. He could hear Kreacher's voice from the stairs.

"Master Sirius, welcome home. Allow me to take your coat and suitcase," Kreacher greeted at the entryway. "I'm happy to say that dinner will be ready soon, in more than five minutes. Shall I fetch Master Harry?"

"Already here," Harry said, stepping down the stairs and rounding the corner.

Harry's godfather was a darkly handsome gentleman with fair skin and medium black hair, almost as tall as Kreacher, but more on the gaunt side of well-built. He carried an air of casual elegance that matched his longcoat and the suit underneath in many ways. He smiled when he saw Harry.

"Hello there, Harry."

Harry wasn't sure how to reply. He blinked, adjusted his glasses, and cleared his throat. "Hello."

"It's been a while since we've seen each other," Sirius remarked, as he came up closer. "Since you've been a toddler, in fact. I'm sorry that I didn't visit you. I realize it's no excuse, but these last few years..." Sirius shook his head.

Ask him if he's a dog person. I want to see his face when you do.

"It's alright," Harry said.

"I heard about what happened to the Dursleys. I never had a chance to meet them. I heard that Professor Dumbledore is working on finding the people responsible for that entire mess," Sirius remarked, as they stepped together into the dining room. "I'm... sorry."

"It's alright," Harry repeated himself, and cleared his throat, realizing it was dry. "So, uh, dinner?"

"Ah, right," Kreacher realized, "Allow me to bring out the appetizers..."

Over the next week, Harry slowed down his studies in magic, in favor of getting to know his guardian a little better. It seemed that Sirius was a quiet person; mild in attitude, a man of a few words; but Geist kept supplying topic ideas and advice on how to approach the older, detached man in conversation without seeming too awkward or needy, and it ended up working out more than fine. As their first Wednesday together approached, Harry and Sirius were comfortable enough with each other to speak on casual terms, performing idle chit-chat and even laughing together at minor anecdotes or jokes. A few of their conversations initiated Harry to the more magical side of the world, the culture of wizarding Britain and the casual day-to-day life of such people.

As Harry opened himself up, he found that he could mention his past life with the Dursleys more casually without feeling an emptiness in his stomach that he associated with their absence. He still missed them, of course, and whenever he thought about his cousin, Dudley, the idea of not seeing him again hurt deeply, like a knife to the chest or a snake knotting itself in his stomach and biting from the inside, but it was now a pain that he could bear, and even call upon without suffering. However, it was also a solemn reminder of what he'd lost. On Friday, Harry requested to visit their grave, and Sirius complied, going to the cemetery alongside Harry via simple Muggle cab service. Sirius waited outside the cemetery out of respect - keeping Harry securely within sight range, but staying at the edge of earshot - as Harry went to pay his respects.

"I'm sorry," he apologized to the shared family grave in front of him, kneeling. "I'm sorry that... that..."

How could he even apologize? How could he encapsulate what he felt?

"I'm sorry that..." I am who I am. That I'm magical and that some people wanted to hurt me, and that you were hurt because of me. I'm sorry that you loved me, and that I loved you. I'm sorry that you had to be the family of someone dangerous like me. If magic hadn't been so dangerous, they wouldn't have gotten hurt.

After a long, tense silence, Geist was the one to speak.

I don't think you have to blame yourself. It wasn't your fault.

Then whose?

Sometimes, no one is at fault. Sometimes, the world is simply wrong.

"Harry," Sirius' voice reached them, "Is everything alright?"

Harry looked down at his watch. It was small and rather expensive, with a silver finish. It was a gift from Uncle Vernon; 'to never miss an important appointment,' he'd said, and told Harry not to wear it except for special and formal occasions. They'd been at the grave for almost half an hour.

"I'm sorry that we couldn't have had a better life," Harry said, and then, slowly, he stood up and walked.

---

Harry's making some deep explorations into his guilt. Who's actually at fault for the Dursleys' death, however? What did Harry learn from his traumatic experience?

[ ] The World Is Wrong - Maybe Geist is right. Maybe sometimes there is no one person to actually blame, but rather, the world itself is at fault? Although Harry no less misses the Dursleys, he accepts their passing more elegantly than with more options. Makes Harry more practical, rational, determined, and pragmatic.

[ ] All My Fault - If Harry could have simply not been magical, then his existence wouldn't have been a bother for the Dursleys, and would presumably not have led to his family's demise. As such, Harry blames himself and seeks to become someone better. Makes Harry more aloof, perceptive, forgiving, and self-sufficient.

[ ] All Their Fault - It's not Harry's fault, and it was definitely not a random circumstance. There are people at fault, who've made conscious decisions that led to the tragic incident. Muggles get hurt when wizards fight? Then wizards are at fault: the Death Eaters and the Aurors. Makes Harry more spiteful, decisive, hard-willed, and unforgiving.

*The objectively correct conclusion.

Also, what other aspects of magical theory did Harry learn? Select three (3) to learn. Aside from the Levitation Charm, Harry's also learned to cast the Drying Spell, Softening Charm, and Unlocking Spell in a both wandless and non-verbal manner reliably. And of course, he's learned a bunch of theory that allowed him to learn such things.

[ ] Fire-Making Charm - A wandless, non-verbal invocation of the Fire-Making Charm. An astonishing achievement at your age.

[ ] Basic Spell Modification - Allows Harry to tweak the spells he casts in minor ways, even on the fly, but much better with practice. As an example, the Fire-Making Charm can be made to produce a point-contact spark that ignites a candle from across a room, rather than a directed gust of flames. Although spells exist to do the former, this allows Harry to achieve the effects of multiple spells by using a single Charm or Transfiguration as the basis and modifying it to fit the results he wishes to achieve.

[ ] Magical Language - Apparently, Harry's ability to speak with rats has been called, Skweek, Pipskweek, and Squeekspeech in history, and there's more to it than simply talking to small rodents, like mice and rats. It can enable communication with many species of mammalian animals. Harry broadens his horizons.

[ ] Enchantment - A doctrine of magic oriented with imbuing material objects with special magical properties which persist over time without the aid of the caster. A very common enchantment is one that allows a broom or similar object to fly and carry someone aloft.

[ ] Ancient Runes - Ancient Runes is one of the higher topics studied at Hogwarts and requires some knowledge of other subjects, but Ancient Runes Made Easy by Laurenzoo seems to have some promise. Apparently, Geist likes this subject a lot and considers it worthy of sinking time into.

[ ] Astrology - Advanced divination subject, practiced via observation of the movements of celestial objects. Although its use is limited for now, Harry took efforts towards memorizing the core aspects and correspondences between certain stars and planets in the solar system, and their effects on magic back on Earth.