Harry Potter is the property of a rather upstanding and dashing lady by the name of Joanne Rowling, who gave us all permission to play in her sandbox.

I own nothing, save a keyboard and a mind full of ideas.

Enjoy 3

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What is magic?

What a fascinating question. Small surprise that you ask such a thing, innocent young man that you are.

In my long existence, I have come to realize that it is not the philosopher who asks the wisest questions, nor the hermit, nor the druid, nay, not even the emperor, though such beings are oft surrounded by intelligent advisors who think themselves wise; fools, seeking to shape the world that has shaped them.

Tis children who look at the world and wonder, and in wondering, ask the questions that must be asked; ha, please forgive this old lizard for rambling. I shall answer your question in brief.

Look about you, child, and tell me what you see.

Mountains? Yes, they are very tall, aren't they? Do you see the trees, growing on their knees and shins, or the grand eagles that nest upon their chests and shoulders?

No? You see no knees or shins or chests or shoulders, only stone? Tis perhaps not too late, then, for you to understand. Patience, child. Be as the mountain, and listen.

Do you hear the wind, blowing warm tidings from the west? Do you hear the grass about us, singing for the coming rain? Hahaha, of course you don't! And just because there is no cloud in the sky does not mean t'will not shower tonight or tomorrow!

But you hear none of this, because you're not listening. Oh, verily, you hear the world about you, but you're not listening to it.

In the same way, to understand magic, you must first learn to listen to magic. You wish to learn how? Well, a hint I have for you, and a warning.

Firstly, your advice: magic is alive, in the same way you are and, yet, not. It waits for those with the talent to shape it, and will leap to your will should your cause be just. Listen for it, learn from it, respect its power, and your path will become clearer.

But if this is the path you truly wish to walk, then, child, I caution you: it is a difficult path, harder than the ease you would find in civilization, for though such a path leads to wonders great and glorious, there is darkness in the world, brought here by the blackest of deeds, seeking to ensnare the unwary and corrupt them to wicked purpose.

So if you walk the true path of magic, child, then take heed; for there is darkness in the world, worse than even the Dark Lords of old, who, before their end, learnt the bitterest lesson:

If you listen for the darkness, know that the darkness listens for you.

-Introduction to The Magic of Nature, by Jardine Gwinnett, Berlin Publishers LTD, 1912
BOOK RESTRICTED UNDER I.C.W. ARTICLE 17, CLAUSE 2b
GENEVA CONVENTION OF 1956

The answer to a question posed to
Persephone, The Fangs of Winter, Last of the High Dragons
by a ten-year-old Gellert Grindelwald
Austria
June 1893

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James Stormcaller and The Walnut Court

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Chapter 1:
The Boy Who Speaks to Trees

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As a nine-year-old Harry Potter watched his Uncle Vernon drive out of the nature preserve's parking lot, he realized that he'd just been abandoned.

It wasn't too surprising to the black-haired boy; after all, his relatives didn't much like him. Harry, as he got older and learned about the world around him, didn't much understand why they didn't like him; he was well behaved, did all his chores in an efficient manner, and got good grades in school (not that he liked school much, as his teachers would yell at him for doodling during maths, but he wanted to do well there, as he had a thirst for knowledge that was only matched by his hunger for a good adventure).

Last year, though, he found out why they called him 'freak' sometimes: he had a Power in him.

Harry didn't know what else to call it after discovering it, running from his cousin's gang of bullies and, suddenly, he squeezed himself through the eye of a needle and was on top of the school! His Uncle had been furious, but Harry was used to his Uncle being mad at him; there were more important things to think about at the time, anyway.

Such as the fact that he'd teleported just by wanting to be safe!

So Harry Potter did what he usually did when he had a question that needed answering: he went to the library.

His school's library was smaller than the one near his relative's house, but he'd found books on history there, ones that were better than the heavy, unhelpful book his teacher had given him, and it was easier to access than the bigger library. The stories in those books were more detailed than the one in his class textbook, so, Harry thought, they might have a book about people who used Power.

But there was nothing in the History section about people using Power! Just a bunch of vague stories about burning witches and claims that 'magic isn't real'. Or bad. But Harry wasn't using magic, he was using Power, so he didn't have to worry about getting burned for being a witch.

There weren't any books at his school that talked about his Power, though he did learn a lot about surviving in the wild. Useful stuff, that. Harry started gathering things he found lying around outside, in case he needed to make something; he kept them in a tattered canvas backpack he found in the public park.

Nice looking rocks, feathers, sturdy branches, string and wire (he found those most often, next to loose buttons), even animal bones! All of it went into the bag; the book he'd read on survival said that anything he found could be useful in a dire situation, and Harry took that lesson to heart.

Hiding his loot from his relatives wasn't hard, because Harry could be sneaky if he wanted to be; just like his teleport was his Power saying 'safety', Harry found a few weeks later that if he really concentrated on being 'unseen', no one would notice him. He started going 'unseen' more often, slipping off to the Surrey Public Library after school, searching for a clue to the source of his Power, or scavenging the neighborhood for useful items before garbage day.

Then, three months before he watched his Uncle drive away, Harry had a breakthrough.

He found out about Shamanism.

Talking to the Earth? To spirits? Turning into animals, or even smoke?! That sounded like what Harry was looking for!

Harry spent the whole summer learning how to become a shaman: first, he meditated to find what the books called 'his center', but that was just another word for Power, Harry figured. That part was easy; Harry was good at clearing his mind of distractions from living in his cupboard under the stairs.

When he found his Power, Harry nearly cried out in surprise! At first, his Power seemed to be a large ball of flame, like the Sun; but when he touched it, it jumped!

It also cleaned all the dirt from inside his cupboard, probably because Harry had been thinking about cleaning his relative's house to help himself focus.

Harry spent the next few weeks getting a good feel for his Power, not wanting to make a mistake and burn the house down; his Uncle probably wouldn't understand if Harry said it was an accident.

He stumbled into the next step on the Shaman path when Harry tried listening to his Power near a copse of trees in the local park. After a few minutes of meditating, Harry could hear someone grumbling to themselves; focusing his Power on listening to the voice, Harry could suddenly hear it clearly; it sounded like a grumpy old man, and it was coming from the oak tree he was leaning against!

'Silly bloody squirrels, get out of my branches! Out, I say! Stealing my acorns and chewing at my bark, chattering about nothing all night and day! Ruddy fancy rats, you are! Out!'

Harry blinked as the tree went on grumbling about the chittering squirrels in its branches; it seemed rather cranky, for a tree. But what did Harry know about being a tree?

To wit, he went over to a smaller, nice looking beech, and, placing a hand on its trunk, asked, "Excuse me, and I don't mean to bother you, but I have a few questions."

Unfortunately, this tree was no nicer than the oak, 'Eww! Away with you, greasy meat-thing! Stop touching me! It's already hard enough to breathe with all of you making a mess!'

After that, Harry decided not to try talking to trees in the city. They didn't seem to like human beings very much. Instead, he started on the next part of the Shaman path: crafting his staff and spirit-rattle.

This part was harder: he needed things that were not only personal, but that channeled his Power well. Harry also had to hide his work from his Aunt and Uncle, as they'd probably say he was being 'freakish' and punish him.

The staff was actually pretty easy to hide: Harry found he could make things shrink or grow by gripping his Power and thinking 'smaller' or 'bigger', so he kept his staff (a five-foot-long piece of driftwood with a gnarled head) in a pocket of his hand-me-down trousers, just in case he found a new piece of ribbon or a feather that would go well with it. But Harry had to be careful to think 'stop' at the right time, or the item would keep growing until it was the size of a house, or shrinking into nothing!

Harry had to start over once, after shrinking his first staff to the size of a dust speck!

One thing that was special to Harry went on top of the staff: a green and black banded stone the size of his fist that he'd traded a squirrel (as they were much better behaved than the trees in the park, if prone to rambling about nothing for minutes at a time!) four hazelnuts for. Reading up on it in a book about rocks told him the rock was called malachite; another book about the spiritual meaning of gemstones told him the rough green rock was good for healing and transformation, and protected travelers!

So Harry tied it to the gnarled head of his staff with a strip of faded purple velvet he'd pulled off a broken chair left on the curb; Harry reasoned that the velvet had once supported others and made them comfortable, so maybe it would help the malachite feel at home, too!

According to the books he'd read (Harry had started reading fiction, as it made more sense than the Life or Times articles on Shamanism, especially the works of Tolkien, where he'd learnt Quenya and how to respect nature from Elves, Ents, Hobbits and Bombadil), his "wizard's staff" would allow him a better connection to the Powers of Nature: wind, earth, water and fire.

Around his birthday, a week before Harry found himself sighing sadly in the parking lot near the Forest of Dean, he found himself hesitantly completing his spirit-rattle.

The books on Shamans said that they were simple things, a piece of bone with a bunch of things that made noise attached. Harry saw the real problem right away, though: most of the rattle was made of dead animal parts.

Good thing Harry wasn't squeamish. He also cleaned the parts he found lying about with the hose or basement sink, so his relatives wouldn't make a fuss about the smell.

The two most important parts needed to be a hollow bone filled with small stones and nuts-in-the-shell, and something close to his heart; again, from what Harry read of Shamans, adding a personal piece of his life would amplify the rattle's aura and allow Harry to commune with the final Power of Nature, Spirits.

When he was seven, he'd been given a charm bracelet from a girl in his class for Valentine's Day; she was lonely too, and didn't have many friends because she sounded like a chipmunk when she talked, and her bushy hair hadn't helped. But she'd made friends with Harry over their shared love of books, and in the two weeks his cousin had allowed it, they'd dreamt up adventures together, based on western dime-novels like Indiana Jones and King Solomon's Mines.

He was James, a rough-and-tumble explorer out for adventure with his trusty dragon-hide whip, and she was Jean, an expert on ancient history who tried to keep her good friend out of trouble, to mixed success!

It was fun…until Dudley bullied her. Then Harry got beaten up for defending Jean (he'd forgotten her real name, but it started with an 'H'); and then she'd gotten transferred to a different school for smart kids. But James kept the bracelet. He'd given Jean a round, glittering stone after they'd been friends for a week, a prize from an adventure during a class field trip to South Downs National Park; the book on stones said it was called gneiss, and the spirit book said it helped with calming the mind in rough times.

Harry hoped Jean still had the stone as he attached the bracelet she gave him to the rattle, right next to the owl skull that was the head of the rattle; he'd added feathers, a string holding beads and buttons, and some furs from discarded coats. Smiling to himself in his cupboard, Harry felt the deer rib handle grow a bit warmer to the touch. Now, he just needed to call a spirit!

That night, two days before Harry's Uncle drove him away from Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry went out into the backyard, cleared his mind, and shook his rattle once.

And immediately stopped, as his Power had shaken like an earthquake! Something told Harry that shaking the rattle here was a very bad idea!

So Harry shrank the rattle down, wrapped it in a napkin for safety, and put it in his backpack; he'd have to try shaking the rattle in a forest, or somewhere better connected to nature, Harry figured as he drifted off to sleep.

The next day, he was woken to the sounds of his relatives screaming! Looking out the slit in his cupboard, Harry was surprised to find the house filled with animals!

Rabbits and chipmunks and squirrels and field-mice and raccoons! Even a skunk or two had moved in while Harry had slept!

"BOY! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME?!" Harry also hadn't ever heard his Uncle so mad before.

Convincing the animals to leave was as easy as saying 'exterminator' in their presence, but the mess they'd left had his Aunt bursting into tears. Harry tried explaining that it was a mistake, but his Uncle was really mad and didn't listen. Harry spent the day in his cupboard, keeping quiet as hired professional cleaners undid the mess and his relatives spent the day at an amusement park.

Then, the next morning, his Uncle had opened the cupboard and told him to grab whatever Harry didn't want thrown away. Harry grabbed his pack, his threadbare blanket, a baseball cap (Harry didn't like people looking at his scar) and his knight figures; the mattress was too stiff for Harry to easily move, so it stayed behind.

Two hours later, Harry was standing under cloudy skies at the entrance to the Forest of Dean, watching his Uncle drive off, his last sneering words echoing in his ears, 'If you want to do freakish things with nature, then you'll be right at home here!'

Sighing sadly, Harry realized he'd really messed up this time; his Uncle had even left him a suitcase, obviously second-hand, no doubt filled with the barest essentials. He probably wasn't coming back.

Shaking off the sadness at being abandoned, figuring he should try making the most of this situation, Harry opened the suitcase to check its contents: a battered steel flask for water, a jar of peanut butter (thankfully full), a new loaf of sliced wheat bread, two apples, an electric lantern with replacement batteries, and a small sleeping bag (also second-hand, if the dirt stains were any indication).

'Good thing I took that pocket knife off Dudley,' thought Harry as he closed the suitcase and pulled off his backpack, 'Vernon didn't even give me any rope. What's an adventure without rope?'

Resolving to make some, Harry pulled out his staff and, making sure no one was around to see, unshrunk it and laid it down carefully. His spirit-rattle was next, secured in a belt loop in his oversized trousers.

Now, for his backpack items: all three balls of thread (green yarn, hemp twine, and good nylon cord), his stones (mostly interesting plain stones that sparkled or shimmered in the light, with two raw amethysts, a mother-of-pearl shell, petrified twig, a small coinpurse half-full with rough pink quartz pieces, and a flat piece of obsidian the size of his palm) all wrapped in a piece of denim, a butterfly knife Dudley threw away after getting bored with it, along with his cousin's broken air rifle, a brass compass and sailor's spyglass (the things people throw away!), two sets of clean, if somewhat worn, clothing, and a few library books on Shamanism, British wildlife and geology, wilderness survival, and his copy of Tolkien's Silmarillion (found at the thrift store near the library, and who puts a first edition Tolkien in the bargain bin?!), which he was learning Quenya from.

Why learn a fictional language? Well, Harry had read that a big part of being a Shaman was singing to nature, and Finrod had battled Sauron with songs, as had Luthien against Morgoth, and Orpheus in Greek mythology had sung his way through the Underworld, and the Valar had made so much with only music! So Harry resolved to learn the language that shaped the world! He hoped it would work.

Gathering up his backpack and battered suitcase, Harry gripped his staff and looked at the forest around him.

It reminded the young Shaman-in-training of South Downs, except wilder; he could barely hear the sounds of people anymore with all the birds chirping around him and the trees sighing in the warm summer breeze. Smiling to himself at the peacefulness of this place, Harry ignored the footpath and began walking north into the trees, stretching his Power and listening for any conversations the trees might be having.

He wasn't disappointed. After only a moment, he picked up a quiet conversation between a sweet chestnut and an ancient-looking ash.

'I say, lad,' the ash commented, 'The North Wind brings such strange tidings these days!'

'Hmm, too right, old sport,' agreed the chestnut as Harry began approaching the two, 'To think that airy fairy had such a temper, all this time!'

'Bah, serves those catfish right, if you ask me! Especially after that poor fawn went to wade in the shallows and got bit on the leg by those nuisances! Good riddance, I say!' harrumphed the ash before apparently noticing Harry walking into the chestnut's shade, 'But what's this, now! Lad, you've got a human taking a stroll in your shadow.'

"Good morning, sirs," greeted Harry politely, causing both trees to gasp in surprise, "May I say, you're both looking fine today."

'Ha, indeed little one!' barked the chestnut in good humor, 'Better than the copse across the way, too close to the road to hear the Winds, them!'

'Hush up over there!' called a nearby larch, 'I'm trying to listen to news from the boar farm! Some scandal involving the owner's daughter and the miller's apprentice is underway!'

'You and your gossip, it's a wonder you still have branches with all the listening you do!' another chestnut tsk'ed breezily to much laughter from their neighbors and a sophisticated snort from the larch.

Harry laughed with them; these trees were much better behaved than the ones near Privet Drive! Maybe they could help him on his path, "I was wondering, actually, if any of you know of a place that would be good for me to listen."

'Oh, is that all?' chuckled the ash good-naturedly, 'Just reach out with your branches-'

'Oi, geezer,' huffed a distinguished-looking beech, 'Humans don't have branches, they have things called hands. See how this one grips their walking stick?'

'So that's what those are called…Forgive me,' the ash apologized, 'but they certainly look like branches,' the tree's leaves shuddered as it did the equivalent of clearing its throat, 'Well…For you humans, there's a good spot a ways north from here where the trees are older-'

'Oh, but take care laddie!' the first chestnut warned, 'There's fairies up that way, and they don't take kindly to humans snooping about like boarhounds.'

Harry blinked in surprise as the other trees made various noises of agreement. He didn't know fairies were real, and said so, adding, "Surely you're not mistaking them for dragonflies or finches, good sirs?"

The beech answered Harry, 'Ah, you must've come from the mundane world. Well, boy who talks to trees, you'll do well to remember that all myths have some truth to them, no matter how fantastic,' the other trees around Harry gave hums and grunts of agreement, branches creaking and leaves fluttering in the warm West Wind.

'After all,' the ash added with humor in its tone, 'Are you not speaking to the forest? Verily, in all my many summers I've not heard of such a thing occurring!' amidst more hums of agreement, it went on in a curious tone, 'What manner of human are you, then, who speaks with the forest?'

Normally, Harry would have given his name, and almost did; but he remembered that he was on an adventure, to discover the ways of the Shaman in nature! Plus, he was leaving his old life of misery and disappointment behind, Dursleys, bullies, drunk parents who died and all!

So, he'd need a new name…well, James was his adventuring fallback, but his last name? Then, inspiration struck! His scar looked like a lightning bolt, so…

"I'm James Stormcaller, Shaman-in-training," he replied with a grin, giving a little bow of respect, "It's nice to meet you all."

The ash chuckled, as did many of the other trees, 'Haha! Well met, Stormcaller!' 'Don't be bringing any typhoons around, now!' 'Aye! No need, with the warm front coming through tomorrow!'

James laughed with them; these really were nice trees. But the sun was getting higher into the sky, so he bid the trees farewell fondly, "I'll head north then, and watch out for fairies. Thank you all, may you never rot!"

This was apparently the right thing to say, as the trees rattled their branches happily in the wind and the larch commented, 'Oh, so polite!' The ash bid him farewell as well, 'And may your feet never fail you, young one! If you go north, seek out the circle of stones; that's a good place to listen, or so we, the Forest of Dean, hear.'

Bidding farewell once more, James walked away north in high spirits, listening for trees that sounded older and keeping a weather eye out for stone circles. With each step and tap of his staff, he felt the comforting warmth of the forest watching out for him.

'The forest for the trees…I think I understand, now,' James mused as he walked in the green-lit shade, the clouds parting to let in the sun, much to the joy of all the nature around him.

The boy lost sight of the paths quickly, vanishing into the deep shadows of the Forest of Dean.

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A/N:

The plot-bunny of doom strikes again!

I came up with this idea while at work, much like my other two stories. This one though…it might be a little bit longer. Like, multiple stories longer. On the other hand, chapters for this will be shorter.

Therefore, please check my profile for the update rotation!

Tell me what ya think! I'll see you all next chapter!

~Baked