Chapter Text
As many probably know through overly-invasive news sources, Harry Potter was sent to live with his muggle relatives after the war heroes James and Lily Potter died. He was one-year old, a half-blood, and was reputed to have defeated the Dark Lord He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or Voldemort. Albus too-many-middle-names Dumbledore will call sending him there as a measure to protect him and keep him from being put into the limelight for the next ten years. As the majority of the Hogwarts staff know, Professor Minerva McGonagall chewed said Albus Dumbledore out for weeks after this decision, claiming the muggles were the worst kind of people, and that sending Harry there was no good. In all actuality, the woman was completely right, and if it weren't for the subsequent "childhood", many, many problems could have been avoided; on the other side of the coin, certain events would not have happened, making the situation all the worse. Maybe Harry would have grown up to be some dependent, reckless, angst-ridden child. Who knows? But, the farce of a childhood that was Harry Potter's did indeed happen, and not much could stop that. Thankfully, some could make it better at least.
At Number 4, Privet Drive, there lived a "normal" family of four. The mother stayed home and watched her child, the father went to work and paid bills, and the son went to school and was generally viewed as problematic, as children can be. The mother, Mrs. Petunia Dursley was a picture perfect woman, although her pictures weren't very pleasant to observe. She often gossiped with and about the neighbors, and was very lazy. The father, Mr. Vernon Dursley, was very quick-tempered, and loved to gobble anything that came across his gullet; his leisure activities often involved the couch, tellie, the nephew, or brandy. Sometimes, it was a combination of them. The son, Dudley Dursley, was a bully of a child, and often delighted in extracting lunch money from smaller children or tormenting them.
The nephew, Harry Potter, was a small boy, very much liked by his teachers who adored his quietness and love for learning. Little Harry was constantly reading in his free time, and was looking forward to when he was older and able to reach the higher shelves in the school library. Harry went to school of course, but also cooked, cleaned, and straightened up the Dursley house every weekend and afternoon. He had done so for as long as he remembered, and had long grown use to the routine. He of course knew the Dursleys were not his actual family, as his mother and father had died in a drunken car crash- according to Aunt Petunia. They took him in when they died, and it led from there. It was a dull life, with not much happening beyond a few incidents that were not mentioned for fear of beatings, and said horrendous beatings themselves. Uncle Vernon was usually the one delivering them with a belt or cane, unless Aunt Petunia had her frying pan at hand. Until the March of Harry's second year in school, it was practically boring for him. Until.
Harry could pinpoint exactly where everything went strange, and doubted he would ever forget it. After all, if that day had never happened, he would have been left in the dark water to swim for himself.
It was a pleasant Saturday in terms of weather, not a cloud could be seen; it wasn't too hot or too cold, a miracle in England. The pollen wasn't overbearing, and the plants were cheerfully swaying in the breeze. Truly, the wonders of Spring should never be ignored, especially when one is trying to weed a garden as Harry was. Harry, at his young age of 6, was currently pulling weed after weed out, trying to ignore the aches in his arms and dryness of his throat. Aunt Petunia had shoved him out here after making him cook breakfast (seven pancakes, five pieces of bacon, two big, fat sausages, and two pieces of toast for him), and had barked at him to finish by lunch. Right now, the sun was nearly in the middle of the sky, and he was near done, thankfully.
Harry was relieved, as the last time he hadn't finished on time, Uncle Vernon had gotten this- look- on his face, and Harry was barred from eating for the rest of the day. He supposed he should be angry at that, but it was far better than what could have happened. If you didn't finish your chores on time, you were punished. Sure, he was upset, but so were the pits of life. Harry was lucky he wasn't slapped around a bit. He was pretty sure it was because school had started again- teachers would notice if he had bruises on his arms or legs.
Chasing his thoughts away for the time-being with the easiness only children seem to have, Harry finished up his work and piled the last weed into the bucket beside him. It was hardly filled, with barely enough weeds to reach the top. His constant work paid off in some ways, at least. Setting that aside, he stood up and stretched a bit. He had been hunched over that garden for hours, and it made him sore like nothing else. But if it weren't for him, the garden would look less than the perfection it had been groomed to; and as much as Harry didn't like the work, the flowers were always very pretty. Sighing, he glanced towards the front door. Maybe if he went inside and asked as nice as he could, Aunt Petunia would give him something to eat and let him wash up before starting the rest of his work. If not, he could always swipe something when she wasn't looking and use the hose; he had done that before when she completely forgot he was out there... But before he had time to trudge into the house and ask, Aunt Petunia popped her head out herself. Peering around the yard, she quickly spotted Harry and gave him the usual horsey glare.
"Boy!" She hissed, "Get in here and wash yourself up! Mrs. Figg can't take you on account of her cats being sick, so you're coming with us to London!" Now, this in itself was one of the weirdest things to happen to Harry. Whenever the Dursleys had to go anywhere, they left him with Mrs. Figg, an old woman across the street with far too many cats, and a house that smelled of mildly-off cabbage. She would show him dozens of pictures of her cats and feed him mildly-off cake that he enjoyed anyway for the sake of sustenance. If she wasn't available, they left him with the neighbor Mr. Lawrence, a short man with a greying widow's peak, but after the police were seen at his house a week ago, no one went near him anymore.
So, with a fair amount of both trepidation and excitement, Harry went inside in preparation to go to London for the day.
After a ride composed of Dudley knocking Harry in the head, Harry wishing he could give Dudley an uppercut, and Vernon cursing and swearing at the other drivers on the road, they finally parked the car near some shops. Unlike Little Whinging, where everything was uniform and clear-cut, London seemed to twist and tangle into different shapes and colours, not bothering to conform. It delighted Harry to no end. Where they had situated themselves, there seemed to be a great many clothing shops, ranging from women's clothes and children's, to even what was a store for "maternity clothes", whatever those were.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see what looked like a bookstore, or maybe even an antique store. It looked old, much older than the buildings surrounding it, and was very out of place next to buildings like "Dory's Dressings". Even with the mix-and-match of London, it stood out, appearing to belong in an illustration of Victorian stores than on the street of modern London. It even seemed to shimmer a bit, with a sort of... a glow. It made him curious, but he had little time to ponder if it was a trick of his mind before Vernon tugged him by the shirt and shoved his fat, red face into his. He flinched, but knew nothing would happen in public; too many people to watch and whisper. Vernon's face was slowly turning a plum colour that reminded Harry of the ugly shirt his teacher had worn the other day. He guessed he missed Uncle Vernon saying something to him while he was looking around.
"Listen here, boy. You stay here, outside the store while we shop for new clothes for your Aunt, and do not move. If we find you somewhere else, I promise your last month will look like a picnic." Harry flinched, remembering the incident. In the middle of class, Ms. Carrie's wig had suddenly turned a bright blue. Although no one in class could figure out what happened and no one confessed to doing something, the Dursleys had insisted it was Harry's fault. His back still smarted at the memory. Uncle Vernon shook him suddenly, his face turning an even deeper shade of plum. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
Harry flinched again. "Yes, sir." He whispered. Vernon let go of his shirt, a faint sneer on his face, and walked- hobbled- into the nearest clothes store with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. He was almost sure he heard Dudley whining about being bored already as the door swung closed. Harry himself settled in for a long wait, knowing it could take hours with how his Aunt could be. The streets were crowded, but he managed to find a slight ledge on one of the store windows that he could perch on, and watched the various passersby.
One woman he saw was round, and seemed to have a warm air around herself. Her ginger hair stood out, and she was dragging what must have been her children across the street. They all looked wary of it, for some reason. Looking closer, Harry could see they had a strange glow as well, and he could even nearly make out- colours, of all things! I must be imagining it, he thought, or light-headed from not getting lunch. He watched as they finally reached the other side and hurried to the book-antique-store he noticed earlier. What were they getting, he wondered? Turning his attention away, he also spotted a man with curly, black hair stalking into a nearby cafe with a phone in his hands. No one bothered him as he watched from his makeshift seat.
He passed time in this fashion, watching the streets, seeing the people. Tall, short, dark, light, they all blended into the streets. Some had the imaginary glow Harry was steadfastly ignoring, while others were as dull as can be. Some were rushing, while others were taking their leisure when walking. But he always felt his eyes pulled back to that mysterious store. Questions popped into his head, some sensible and some as crazy as any 6-year old can make them. What did they sell? Why did the store look so old? Why did no one else go in but the red-heads? Was it invisible? Could only he and the family see it? The thought of going into the store himself and seeing what was in it passed his mind a few times, but he always banished the thought. As curious as he was, he knew it was a bad idea, even at his age.
So he watched the street some more, trying to name the different cars from what Uncle Vernon mentioned at dinner and what the other children in class jabbered excitedly about. He could see what he thought was a Hummer, if the description Laura had given was right. A police car. A handful of taxis. Even a Cadillac passed by at one point. By the point an Oldsmobile, Thunderbird, and SUV passed, he was again bored with the road and started staring at the sky.
People can only hold out so long when curious and even shorter when bored, Harry slowly concluded. All he could do was sit out here and watch people, and that admittedly was tedious after an hour. If he moved, he'd be punished, and if he tried to talk to someone, they'd start asking questions he couldn't answer. It was a dismal experience. Sure, the curly-haired man before had started to run down the street yelling a while ago, with some poor blond man with a cane following him, and that was exciting, but once they disappeared, it was back to sitting there. But that store, that was something interesting, something he could explore instead of just SITTING here... Maybe he could briefly, just briefly, pop in and see what they sold to satiate his curiosity and then rush back before the Dursleys noticed he had moved. Pop in, say hello to anyone who noticed, rush out. Awesome plan.
Biting his lip, Harry glanced back into the store. His cousin and Uncle were at the back, barely visible, near what might have been the changing rooms. From the pile next to his Uncle, Harry bet it'd be another hour or so before they even approached the cashier. Glancing between them and the bookstore-yet-maybe-not, Harry made his decision. Jumping up, he rushed over to the crosswalk, where the light was just turning red. The crowd of other people bustled around him; it intimidated him a bit, but he knew none of them would notice him. No one really did unless he came up to them.
In just two minutes, he was across the street and in front of the store. It was one of the biggest, most dangerous things he had done. He was thrilled over it- he just hoped Uncle Vernon never found out. Looking up at the store sign, he could squint and make out that it said "The Warlock's Athenaeum" in faded yellow letters. They seemed to empower him, make this all feel like it was truly real, truly happening. Drawing in a big breath, he pushed the door open, and stepped in.
He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting this at all. The store, for all purposes and appearances, looked like a tiny and desolate corner shop from the outside. On the inside, though, it was HUGE. The walls stretched back until he couldn't see them anymore, and the shelves lining them were like monoliths. Thick books, small books, glowing books, they all lined the shelves. And in between the shelves, Harry could see people walking and browsing. Some sat in between the shelves, some climbed up to grab something too high, some even- even seemed to float! But that was impossible! And there were tiny things, floating in the AIR- they had wings and faces and flitted around, and one even smacked into his cheek before whirling off in another direction. It was more than overwhelming, and he was starting to feel a bit dizzy.
It probably would have continued to be overwhelming (but unfortunately still dizzy) if it weren't for someone shoving him out of the doorway. "You are in the way." A light, cross voice said behind him- or to the side of him? He couldn't really tell after hurrying to the side. The voice was shortly followed by another, saying something in a foreign language with a scolding tone. Glancing to the side, he could see the person who -presumably- had shoved him. He had dark skin, with darker hair and eyes. He had that imaginary glow too, and if Harry squinted a little, like he did when he couldn't read something very well, he could see it was a faint bluish-purple. Behind him was a tall woman who must have been his mother, with curly hair tied into a loose ponytail on her head. When he squinted at her, she was a nice blue. They were both wearing strange clothes- sort of like bathrobes, except pimped out in every possible way. The boy looked him up and down, sneering and opened his mouth as if to say something before his mother(?) scolded him again. He sighed through his nose, before extending his hand to Harry with a glare.
"I apologise for shoving you. My name is Blaise Zabini." Harry stared at the hand, wondering what to say. He should probably give his name, but which one? The Dursleys just called him Boy or Freak, but the teachers at school usually called him Harry, or Mr. Potter. He personally preferred Harry, if only because it was less insulting. And the Dursleys always told him to keep shut of anything in the house.. Deciding to take the public route, he hesitantly took "Blaise Zabini"'s hand.
"I'm Harry Potter. I-it's alright, it's my fault anyways, I should have moved." He said, smiling depreciatively. Blaise seemed to have a double-take at that, and gaped at him. His mother whispered something that almost sounded like "Merlin"- but that doesn't make sense at all because who would say Merlin like he was God?- before ushering them further into the store so they didn't make the same mistake Harry did. She said something to Blaise again, and glanced at Harry - or more specifically, his head-, before going deeper into the store. As she guided them by the shoulders, Harry whipped his head to and fro, trying to catch titles of books. There was one called Runes of the Egyptians, and The Beedle and the Bard, and even one that he was fairly sure said Tae-Ha's Guide to South Korean Entities.
Blaise was staring at his head too, but he had much more of a reaction than his mother. His eyes looked like they were near about to bug out of his head, and his mouth was even open a bit! "If you are really Harry Potter, why are you dressed in muggle clothes?" Blaise asked, sneaking another glance down at Harry's hand-me-downs. What's a muggle? Harry wondered. Maybe it was a fashion line he didn't know that had all their clothes look like giant rags? Harry asked as much, and Blaise boggled at him some more. "You-you do not know what a muggle is?" He asked, astonished. When Harry shook his head, he stared even more at Harry, almost analysing him, or having some internal breakdown. Harry couldn't tell if it was one or the other, but it was sure making him nervous. Blaise's mother finally stopped pushing them about, dropping her hands from their shoulders. She bent down and muttered something in the other boy's ear, but he didn't care, or didn't hear. She gave out a sigh, and walked back the way they came, hands skimming the shelves. Harry watched her go.
But, when the darker boy was done with his strange staring, he huffed and grabbed Harry's attention back, asking, "Do you even know you are?" Confused, Harry shook his head once more and watched as Blaise Zabini made frustrated noises and threw his hands up over his answers. And then he explained it.
And that's how it all started.
It's short, but this is sorta my first shot at writing serious fanfiction, so I'm trying my best. ono Id also like to say that after editing this three times just to put in breaks, Im about to strangle something. Please review!