An Incomplete Potter Collection ch Collection
Hedwig and Harry
Time Traveling Draco
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Story: [Speaking Salazar]
Summary: Salazar Slytherin separates the things omitted and rewritten from the true facts of history.
Cunning? Ambition? Well, not really, no.
Godric didn't want the ones who'd steal the righteous glory of others, Helga didn't want the ones who wouldn't work hard for the sake of others, and Rowena didn't want the ones who'd actually want to do anything with what they learned. I got the spares, so to speak.
Sure, we told them that they were just as chosen as the rest of the little buggers, we couldn't very well let the ambitious and sneaky believe that nobody else would have them. It would've gotten us into trouble, later.
I did my best to persuade them not to be evil little blighters, but getting them really drunk and making sure as many of them as possible got laid, could only do so much.
Still, those kids worshiped me, you know? Rowena forced them to think, Helga forced them to work, Godric forced them to be polite and humble. I forced them to get me booze after curfew. Not that I ever commented on five or six bottles of it disappearing from the stores when I only asked for one.
Why do you think my House is in the dungeons, huh? It's cause there's less direct sunlight, that's why. Bloody little shites couldn't take their liquor.
And yeah, I did build a Chamber, all to myself. Hell, I even put a basilisk in it to dissuade people from looking for it. Not to mention using a password nobody who ever knew me would even think of saying, in parseltongue.
Damn, but that Chamber was brilliant, of course, I suppose that I should've hidden the entrance better. But, then again, sometimes the best secrets are those hidden in plain sight. Nobody would think I'd actually put the entrance in the girls' bathroom on the second floor. I mean, that's where most of my House spent getting laid whenever the broom-closets were all taken!
So, why did I make it? What did I have to hide, if not the basilisk?
Simple, after a couple of years I started to realize just how much of my booze my students were stealing. So I put a bunch of it in the Chamber of Secret Spirits. Heh, nobody would find it all in there. Best to always keep a safe number locked away for a rainy day, you know?
Anyways, I did leave the school too. That's certainly true. Got into a fight with Godric about sleeping through my own lesson, getting the students so drunk that they slept through their lessons, and some general disagreement about me supposedly hiding away all my 'secrets' in a chamber guarded by a monster.
'Supposedly'. I'm a bit of a talkative drunk, but I tend to speak in riddles, so nobody really learns anything sensible, which is usually really good, but sometimes really, really bad. I mean, how could I actually justify putting a basilisk in the girls' bathroom, in order to hide and protect my booze?
Naturally, I did the only sensible thing. I slipped Godric a love potion and aimed him at my fellow Founders as a distraction, then I took off.
I ran into this random kid who was upset about something, I wasn't really listening since I could hear Helga roaring behind me, so I socked the kid in the face and threw him behind me in an attempt to slow the others down a little bit more. Then I ran even faster.
Godric chased after me for a while, after he was given the antidote, since he was still kind of upset about that. And I suppose the kid I socked in the face was a muggleborn. There's a little bit of truth in every story, don't get me wrong. But to call me ambitious and cunning would be a blatant lie.
That would be like saying that we didn't give Helga all the paperwork after assuring her that we'd all done twice as much on our own. Or that we didn't spike Rowena's drink every now and again, just to see if she'd get up on the table and strip, again. Or that we didn't distract Godric with sparkly things to keep him from going on about honor and glory, and what not. Or that they didn't get me drunk and told me that some really ugly, or very unsanitary, or just plain old person wanted me, I have more memories of waking up next to horrifyingly naked old people than I have of waking up without a hangover.
Not that I rarely got a hangover. I got hangovers lots of times, but every now and again, I wouldn't get one. And every now and again, one of those bastards wanted revenge and set me up with a female ogre.
Story: [Harry Quits]
Summary: When Harry is once again caught up in schemes, he leaves. Not Hogwarts, not Britain. He leaves Magic.
Harry stared in horror as a the fourth piece of paper was propelled from the cup.
This was somehow related to him, he knew it. Every time something truly weird happened, it was always related to him.
The students are getting petrified by an unknown source? Well, we don't have a clue how that happened, but let's blame the whole thing on Harry Potter, that sounds perfect.
A murderer breaks out from Azkaban? Let's put some Dementors around the school that we think is his target, they couldn't possibly fail to catch him a second time, despite lacking a jail to back them up, and that we haven't actually figured out how he managed to escape the first time. Oh, and did we mention that he's Harry Potter's innocent godfather, and only broke out in order to kill the traitor who caused his parents' deaths?
So, yeah. This was most certainly somehow related to him.
"Harry Potter." Came Dumbledore's somewhat reproachful voice.
And it was never Harry's fault.
He wasn't even sure why he always ended up as the one getting involved in these things. First year, okay, he searched out the Stone, if only so that Voldemort didn't come back to life and kill him, and he was the one who acted since nobody believed his warnings. Second year, he went down into the Chamber of Secrets and killed a basilisk to save the life of his best friend's sister, and found a young Voldemort, but only because nobody who might've been able to help actually listened to him. Third year, he just chased down this big dog that kidnapped his friend, and it turns out that it's his godfather.
So what the hell allowed Dumbledore to sound reproachful? Like this was somehow his fault? Like he'd just destroyed centuries of tradition on some childish whim?
Glancing around, it wasn't difficult to spot the glares from the Hufflepuff table, which, in all fairness, wasn't actually something he could fault them for. They'd gotten their chance in the spotlight, and now he has to come along forcing them back into obscurity.
Fact remained that it wasn't his fault, but they tended to be rather impulsive with their 'unfaltering loyalty'. They'd hailed him as a hero, same as everyone except Slytherin, during his first year. They'd turned on him in second year, same as everyone else, and then they'd hailed him as a hero by the end of it. The House of loyalty really wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. But, then again, perhaps they were more loyal to themselves than the rest of the school.
Ravenclaw was a mix of many expressions, most of them disapproving. Because they just immediately figured that he not only wanted to be part of something that would cause his fame to spiral even further out of control than it already had, but that he'd succeeded where the always resourceful Weasley twins had failed.
Slytherin looked hateful. So that was pretty much the same as always. Bloody gits.
Gryffindor table. Ouch. Ron's jealousy was back, and he was glaring. Hermione was looking just as reproachful as Dumbledore could ever hope to manage. And the Weasley twins looked a bit peeved, but perhaps slightly proud? Hard to tell, they were good at hiding their expressions after all their time as pranksters. Ginny was staring at him in awe, which was mildly disturbing actually. And Colin Creevey looked like he was trying not to pee himself, which was just as utterly horrifying as always.
So, not only are the teachers pissed at him for ruining the tournament. Not only are everyone in the Great Hall absolutely convinced that this is somehow his fault. But now he'll probably be forced to compete in a tournament with a horrifying death toll.
Damn it all to Dursleys. No!
He was not doing this. Not this year. This year things would be normal dammit! It would be normal, or he'd quit!
Quit. Yes, of course. Why hadn't he ever seen it before? He didn't have to go to Hogwarts. In fact, there were at least two other schools in the magical world. He could probably find one that was far away from here. A place where his innocent godfather wasn't thrown into hell on Earth for a decade without even a mockery of a trial.
Harry stared up at the teachers' table. They'd probably complain about this course of action he'd just decided on. But, well, one teacher tried to kill him – and died – one teacher tried to turn him into a vegetable – and became one himself – one made the utterly dry books on goblin wars actually sound exciting by comparison to his own description of them, and one spent most of his lessons insulting his parentage... Why did he want to stick around again? They'd have to have better teachers out there somewhere.
"No. Damn it all. No." Harry Potter got to his feet, glaring at the teachers' table, because from experience, this was probably that guy Moody's fault.
He wasn't sure why Moody would do such a thing, and he didn't really want to suspect him, since he was actually a good teacher. But all of his previous years had somehow involved his DADA teacher trying to kill him. Remus might not have been doing so on purpose, what with the being a werewolf and all, but he still kind of counted.
"I didn't join it. I don't even want to join it!" He spat out at them, making several people start whispering about him making a scene.
He really hated his fame. He loathed it with every fiber of his being, actually. But did anyone ever actually believe him when he said that? No, of course not. That would've made sense, and the Wizarding World couldn't very well make sense, could it? That'd just be absurd.
"Be that as it may, my boy." Came the headmaster's patronizing voice. "But putting your name in the Goblet of Fire counts as a magical contract. So, I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter."
"But I didn't put my name in it!" Harry glared, he'd heard of magical contracts, how they could rip the magic out of someone.
He didn't want to lose his magic. The mere thought of it was horrifying.
But he didn't want to compete, either. And as he stood there, judging which was actually worse, he came to a startling realization.
He'd be free. In the muggle world, nobody knew his name. Nobody would keep him at his relatives after it came to light that they'd been starving him, would they? That's why Hermione never believed him when he told her of it – she couldn't imagine that nobody would've acted against that.
He'd be free. Because why would Voldemort want to kill him? This worthless non-magical coward?
He'd be free.
"I quit." His voice echoed through the Great Hall with a fascinating finality. He was smiling, actually, a small, almost blissful smile. "I, Harry James Potter, hereby resign from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Then he turned around, making his way towards Gryffindor tower in order to pack his bags, as pandemonium erupted from all around.
"Harry, my boy." Dumbledore sounded oddly choked, as if someone was holding a knife to his throat. "Surely you can't mean that."
"Oh, but I can." Harry could admit that his voice had a slightly gleeful tone that really didn't make him sound old and wise, but he was okay with that. He was fourteen, he still had time to work on it. "I'd rather lose my magic than compete in a tournament that's probably some elaborate plan of Voldemort's to kill me." There was a unanimous gasp at the name. "I figure, at least this way, I won't be famous. And I won't be shipped off to the Dursleys when summer comes around." He did his very best to put in all of his revulsion at his relatives into that statement.
He giggled, wondering briefly if he was perhaps, just a tiny bit hysterical.
"Did you know that I made a Patronus through the memory of believing that I would actually be able to move out? It was a wonderful Patronus," he reflected longingly. "But then Fudge decided not to give my innocent godfather his trial, but to have him Kissed, instead. Because that way nobody would ever blame him for his wrongful imprisonment. And you wonder why I don't trust politicians." He shook his head mournfully at the idiocy of the world.
A lot of people were staring at him in something akin to horror, which was pretty much normal.
But if they were going to stare in horror regardless, he might as well give them one final push, right?
"See you, never." He hissed in all of his parselmouth glory, and then he turned on his heel, and left. Not caring for the horrified gasps, or the way that the Slytherin emblem was following him with its eyes, or the voices of those who were still trying to undo his decision.
Harry Potter was halfway to the tower before he suddenly realized that he could probably make a Patronus from this memory.
The thought actually made him smile a little.
Ron didn't try to stop him from leaving, but he did start on a rant about how he was making a scene, until Harry Silenced him. It was probably the best use he'd ever put that spell to, and that was including Silencing himself that one time so that nobody would hear his footsteps underneath his invisibility cloak.
Hermione began on her own rant about grades, and Harry cheerfully ignored her. Since he already knew that she'd have studied enough to actually be able to stop him from Silencing her.
The twins were looking worried, but hid it behind their cheers for the chaos he was spreading in his wake.
The members of the Quidditch team were extremely relieved that Oliver Wood wasn't around to cry his eyes out at the thought of losing Harry as Gryffindor's Seeker, but were sad to see him go nonetheless.
Ginny had apparently written home about resigning as well, and was looking at him with a mixture of longing, awe, frustration, anger, and barely veiled lust. Harry was very relieved that Percy was keeping her busy with his own tirade about the wonders of Hogwarts at the other end of the common room, as she was really creeping him out.
Colin was trying to capture this moment with as many pictures as were physically possible, making Harry sincerely hope that he wouldn't go blind from all the flashing.
The rest of Gryffindor kept away, not sure if they should be glaring at him for being a coward, rant about traditions, disapprove of him resigning, or just generally decide that he wasn't worth the trouble.
The only one who actually seemed to support his decision was Neville.
"I don't know what will happen if the Goblet decides you violated its decision, but take care Harry. You were always a good friend."
Harry actually felt tears stinging his eyes at that moment. Sure, he knew that Neville was a nice guy, but that Neville would think the same of him? That he would actually support him, just like that?
For the first time, Harry Potter, well and truly wished that he'd helped a certain boy on the train find his toad.
"Neville, I don't think I deserve that. But thanks." He grinned at him. "And I'll be fine. Worst thing that could happen is I lose my magic, and that just makes me a muggle. Much worse to be an idiot." He nodded pointedly in Ron's direction.
Sharing a laugh at the indignation of the Silenced Weasley, Harry said goodbye and stepped out of the portrait.
Only to run into the Hogwarts staff.
Snape looked caught between murderous rage and unholy glee. McGonagall looked disapproving. Flitwick looked like he didn't really see the point of any of them being there. Sprout looked worried, but supportive. Moody was glaring. Pomfrey looked a bit as if she wanted to give him a hug. And Dumbledore seemed caught between horrified frustration and pompous anger.
"Madam Pomfrey, I won't be needing that reserve bed this year. I hope that you won't fault me for it." He felt a small smile reach his lips as she wiped a tear from her eye, before smiling back at him.
"Try to keep safe."
He nodded, feeling a bit of nostalgia wash over him. She never would trust that he really was trying, and then she'd grumble about it the next time his attempts failed. But she wouldn't. Not anymore.
He completely ignored the headmaster and all his attempts to draw attention to himself, deciding instead to say goodbye to the teachers who'd actually been teaching him things.
Flitwick seemed amused by Dumbledore's inability to rein him in. Sprout was shooting glares at the headmaster's blatant attempts to get him to reconsider – probably due to her being fairly certain that he wouldn't have been trying so hard if one of her Hufflepuff's had been the one deciding to leave. McGonagall's lips were becoming a thinner line every time that the headmaster opened his mouth. And Snape was obviously moments away from snapping and hexing him.
So Harry was extremely polite, and completely ignored the old coot and the greasy git. Then he turned around and began his trek towards the Great Hall.
Once there, he was met with Slytherin's cheering, Hufflepuff's obvious conflict, and Ravenclaw's careful consideration.
Slytherin would no longer have the Boy-Who-Lived around to annoy them, and they were immensely pleased by it. Hufflepuff was feeling guilty about doubting him, disapproval of his quitting, and general curiosity about where he would go from here. And Ravenclaw was beginning to realize that they didn't need to go to Hogwarts in order to learn, and that there might be better choices, possibly without horrible teachers and without a curse placed on a very important teaching position.
Harry's march out of Hogwarts would be the source of legends. The day that the Boy-Who-Lived left the 'best school in England', would, after all, cause quite a bit of waves around the institution.
What could've gone so wrong that Harry Potter would leave Hogwarts? It must've been utterly horrible. Maybe a great scandal? Did he get thrown out? Why? Was it because he was a parselmouth? Had Harry Potter gone Dark?
The questions that would arise from it were endless, and some of them might actually end up denting the reputation of the ancient school.
Regardless, Harry soon found himself in Hogsmeade, quickly getting permission to use the Floo to get to Diagon Alley.
Just because he might lose his magic didn't mean that he would certainly lose his money. Best to check on that, first.
Summary: Something is weird with Harry's pumpkin juice. Awe at his brilliant deductions and not-at-all-crazy behavior.
Harry sipped distractedly on his pumpkin juice.
It'd been a long day. Snape was still a slimy git that was lacking in shampoo-usage, Draco was still an inbred idiot, Ron still ate with the table-manners of a mountain troll, and their new Potions professor was a kind of 'bad touches' variant of creepy.
Still better than Snape though, but considering that Gilderoy Lockhart could probably teach Potions better than Snape – even after his accidental memory erasure – that really wasn't saying much.
His juice tasted funny.
Frowning slightly at the odd taste, whilst trying to come up with a reason for it, Harry glanced around the room. It wouldn't do to have someone sneak something they'd bought from the twins into his pumpkin juice, he didn't feel like spending some time as a canary today.
Still, he didn't have feathers yet, nobody else seemed to have reacted oddly to their pumpkin juice, meaning that it was only his that tasted oddly, and Harry couldn't see anyone suspicious-looking within range.
Shrugging absently to himself, Harry took another sip of his funny-tasting pumpkin juice.
It tasted a bit like... weird. Whatever it was that had been added most certainly did not taste of pumpkins. It tasted more like something he'd find on Madam Pomfrey's shelves. Basically, it really tasted quite disgusting, only with a hint of something comfortably warm.
Obviously, someone had spiked his pumpkin juice with some manner of potion. The question was what kind of potion, for what reason, and who'd done so.
It didn't taste like anything else he'd personally tasted whilst in the care of the school nurse, so that erased quite a few variations of potions. It also didn't taste anything like polyjuice – for which he was grateful, as that would've completely ruined his pumpkin juice – or anything he could remember having forced down his throat in Snape's classes, which ruled out a lot more unpleasant concoctions.
Musing curiously at this new issue, Harry took another sip of his pumpkin juice.
Perhaps the smell would shed some light on this interesting conundrum?
Sniffing absently at his obviously tainted pumpkin juice, Harry came to the conclusion that it smelled a lot like pumpkin juice, with a hint of... fresh morning air? That was weird, he could've sworn he'd tasted old socks in there somewhere.
Staring suspiciously at the oddity that someone had tainted his pumpkin juice with, Harry finally let out a sigh.
"Hermione, can you explain to me how something can smell of 'fresh morning air' and taste like old socks?" He turned to the brightest witch of their generation.
"Wha-?" Hermione looked at him for a moment, clearly considering if she'd seen him hit his head on something whilst not truly paying attention.
"I'm trying to figure out what they poured in my pumpkin juice." He explained absently. "It tastes a bit like old socks, but smells like fresh morning air. How does that work? I thought smell and taste were supposed to be very closely linked?"
Hermione's mouth dropped open as she stared at him with mild horror. "Someone poisoned your pumpkin juice?"
"Poisoned is such a strong word..." Harry waved off her horror. "And it's not like any of Snape's poisons actually managed to give me more than a stomachache." He paused. "I wonder if that's why he was so insistent on getting the Defense position, you know, so that he wouldn't have to suffer through my immunity to his fantastic poison collection. It would explain a lot."
Hermione made a sound of frustrated despair. "Harry, please, focus. Potions are dangerous. Drinking potions that you don't know what they do is a Bad Idea."
"Well, I should certainly say so, I mean, it tastes like old socks. This is just cruelty to all fine tasters of pumpkin juice out there. If pumpkin juice isn't sacred, what is?" He begged his female friend for an answer.
"Harry. Shut. Up." She growled out in response, clearly not amused by his dramatics when she thought that he might be in serious danger. "What did you say it smelled like?"
"'Fresh morning air' and pumpkin juice." Harry shrugged, then took another sip of the odd liquid. "Tastes a bit like pumpkin juice, old socks, and burnt hair."
"Don't drink it!" Hermione yelled at him, snatching the goblet from his hand to inspect it for herself.
"Hermione, you know as well as I do that non-medical potions haven't worked on me since the end of second year." He paused. "I still say we should shove basilisk fangs into Neville's arm and heal them with basilisk tears, it would probably help him keep himself reasonably safe in Potions class."
"Not the time, Harry!" Hermione snapped back at him, sniffing the liquid. "This smells like... Luna?"
Harry paused at that, confused at why his pumpkin juice would smell like Luna. Especially since he felt he had a fairly good idea of what Luna smelled like, and that whilst it was most certainly a pleasant fragrance, it didn't have anything to do with fresh morning air.
Hermione looked as confused as he did, until understanding dawned with a kind of confusedly amused horror. "This is Amortentia. Someone slipped you a love potion, Harry."
Harry blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Huh. Well, there goes my instinctive urge to blame the twins." He shuddered slightly. "Even if they were guilty of it, I still don't think I could blame them for it... for mental reasons."
"Despite their strange sense of humor, I doubt they'd try to slip you love potions, Harry." Hermione pointed out distractedly.
"For my sake, Hermione, I hope you're right." He nodded solemnly, before suddenly pausing. "Wait, isn't Amortentia supposed to smell like what you love?" He asked the witch in front of him curiously, his lips twitching upwards in a distinctly gleeful way.
"Harry, my romantic interests are not to be discussed, are we clear?" She asked in a very accurate portrayal of McGonagall.
Harry nodded, a dazed look in his eyes. "No questions asked, none at all." He grinned smugly. "But I'll be remembering this conversation during the long lonely nights at the Dursleys."
"Harry James Potter! Someone slipped you a love potion! This isn't the time to be pondering threesomes!" Hermione growled at him.
Harry blinked. "I wasn't." He stated honestly. "But know that my door is always open should you ever need a third wheel."
Hermione paused. "Wait, you're not completely in love with whoever made the potion." She pointed out.
"Of course not." Harry huffed indignantly. "I can throw off the Imperius, I'm immune to all poisons and most harmful potions, and I'm in the midst of a very nice daydream containing two very pretty witches."
"Gah! I give up!" Hermione threw her hands up into the air, her frustration reaching the boiling point.
"Can I have my pumpkin juice back?" Harry asked curiously. "It tasted quite awful, really, but it'd be hypocritical of me not to drink it."
Hermione turned her narrowed eyes towards him. "Harry James Potter. We are going to have a Talk."
Gulping nervously at the capital 't' in Talk, Harry hoped that it would involve neither the 'friend speech', or the 'birds and the bees', figuring he ought to be fairly safe from the 'let's see other people' since they weren't dating in the first place.
By the time they arrived at an abandoned classroom, hidden enough that Hermione could yell at him without anyone overhearing, Luna had somehow decided to join them.
Since Harry wasn't arguing with Luna on principle – you could never tell if you won or lost, but it rarely felt like a win – and since Hermione was apparently distracted by Luna's fragrance, the Ravenclaw was happily included in the Talk.
Fortunately, the Talk wasn't so much a talk, as it was a 'God Yes Don't Stop!' kind of thing.
And that's why Amortentia is for wusses.
Story: [Hedwig and Harry]
Summary: Summer before Harry's Third year, Marge's dog hurts Hedwig. This doesn't happen without consequences however.
Hedwig was hurt. In pain. Dying. Dying, dying dying!
Cradling her broken form in his arms, Harry couldn't even hear the voices of his relatives.
The wall was red now. Dog splattered over its entire surface. Angry dog. Violent dog. Hurt Hedwig. Dead, dead dead!
He needed to save Hedwig, needed to make her better. But he didn't know any magic like that. He hadn't learned any magic for healing. He didn't even have his wand, locked away as it was underneath the stairs.
But Hedwig needed to live. She couldn't die. He couldn't let her die, die and leave him alone. Not alone. Never alone again. Never without Hedwig. He needed Hedwig.
There was something inside of him, raging, boiling, responding to his need. Responding to his desperation. Magic poured off him in waves as he focused on the broken form of his first friend.
Something moved towards him, tried to stop him from helping Hedwig. The something burned.
Hedwig wasn't safe here. She would be hurt again. They needed to get away. Away from here. Never to return. Never to look back. Away, away away!
Moody stared at the scene, his magical eye swirling madly over what had once been Number 4 Privet Drive.
Four dead, plus a dog. A badly burnt house. And no sign of the Boy-Who-Should-Have-Been-There.
"This is owl blood." He commented gruffly as he pointed to the brownish blot on the ground. He glanced towards the dog. "I guess that explains why the dog died."
"He was protecting his owl?" Amelia asked clinically, still upset over Dumbledore's attempts at keeping this quiet.
"Aye." He nodded. "And that crowbar the fatty is holding looks like its gone up against a wizarding shield."
"They attacked him?" She drew in a breath, suppressing the building rage at the thought of what could've happened to the Wizarding World's savior.
"The large fat one did. The small fat one was either trying to stop him by words, or egging him on. Hard to tell." He shrugged. "I'm guessing the thin woman was trying to comfort the dog's owner." He pointed towards a pair of crumbled forms close to the twisted shape of what had once been a dog.
"What about the house?" Amelia asked.
"Looks like overexposure to magic." He frowned. "Maybe the kid was trying to heal his owl, maybe he was just trying to get away. But..." He paused. "Maybe we should look a little closer. I think I see bars on that window."
"Bars?" Amelia spluttered. "Why would there be bars?"
"I don't know." Moody admitted. "But it might be related to why Potter's trunk is locked underneath the stairs. Along with his wand."
"They took his wand?" Amelia demanded with a sharp anger.
You didn't separate a wizard or witch from their wand, regardless of if they had a record of breaking the rules of performing magic during the summer. You didn't separate a wizard or witch from their wand unless the Ministry was planning on snapping it for crimes committed.
"Aye. And there's something..." Moody stopped. Fully stopped. And suddenly clouds seemed to pass over the sun and a chill appeared in the summer day. "The boy..." He growled out. "There's traces of a mattress in the cupboard under the stairs."
"A mattress?" Amelia tried to puzzle out her old friend's anger. "Are you telling me that... that the savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy-Who-Lived, grew up in a cupboard under the stairs?"
Moody turned around, both his eyes meeting hers. "Aye lass. That's what it looks like."
Harry stared in awe at Hedwig. She looked so pretty, white wisps of color trailing behind her feathers like an endlessly sweeping mist.
She was healed. She was safe. She was alive. She wasn't leaving him. She was staying.
The magic curled inside of him, vibrating in response to Hedwig's gentle hoots. She could feel it too, the boiling churning magic singing through his body, her body. They were connected, they shared it between them, and for every soft hoot, she sang for him, and for every trembling sob of relief, he sang for her.
It would've been bizarre, but Harry's broken mind had stopped caring. Hedwig was safe, Hedwig was with him, that was all that mattered. Safe and more beautiful than ever.
Pearly white feathers slicing silently through the air, a body that seemed at times more mist than flesh, and eyes that seemed to pierce your very soul.
Harry didn't know it yet, but one day, when she finally decided to mimic the shape of a human, he would think forever of her as an angel.
She had magic, but it was the magic of a witch and wizard, rather than belonging to the strict rules of magic for a creature. She was an owl, that had magic. Magic that she should never be in possession of.
A wizard or witch followed a certain kind of logic, no matter how absurd and twisted. They followed the rules of their society because they couldn't truly go against their absolute nature as humans.
An owl didn't have that problem, for an owl thought in the terms of owls, and that was not something that could ever be explained in mere words. That was why magical creatures magic was the fixed magic of their species. A basilisk's eyes might kill at first sight, but it could never breathe fire like a dragon, nor travel through the flames like a phoenix.
But a wizards magic was never truly fixed, not really. It was simply their minds proving unable to comprehend instinctively the magic that flowed through them. Hedwig didn't have that problem. Her magic was the free magic of a wizard. And her mind was the pure mind of an owl.
Therefore, perhaps it wasn't surprising, that on that day, the great Lord Voldemort felt a shiver go down his spine.
Story: [Time Traveling Draco]
Summary: Draco Malfoy wakes up one morning in a bed that isn't his own. He blames Harry.
"Piss off Harry." Draco grumbled into his blanket, not really being in the mood for fighting, or doing anything except sleeping actually.
"Umm, who's Harry?" Harry's voice asked curiously.
"Go die in a ditch Potter." Draco elaborated on his previous statement.
"Oi, what the hell did I do?" Potter asked indignantly.
Draco wondered briefly if Harry had been dropped on the head repeatedly as a child, it would certainly explain a lot of things. His recklessness, his idiocy, his apparent obliviousness towards all of his own actions... Or maybe it was just that he kept allowing that Weasel-person to think for him, everyone knew that poor people didn't have any sense.
Instead of attempting to explain to the idiot why he was angry at him, Draco made a rude gesture in the direction of the voice.
With Voldemort dead, Draco had grown... well, 'closer' didn't really feel right, but 'less distant' with the Potter heir. He owed him his life, and the life of his mother. He was forever in the idiot's debt, and so when the idiot approached him about things that all people should've known before they reached twelve, Draco had taken it upon himself to educate the idiot in the finer points in life, and politics.
Harry Potter was awful with politics. He had the clout to become the next Minister, if he actually knew what he was doing, but with the way he was going at it, he'd be lucky to remove a law that everyone already hated. He was that bad at politics. It was kind of sad, yet funny at the same time.
Still, none of this allowed the bloody idiot to wake him up in the morning without first sacrificing at least a pot filled with coffee to him. Possibly more.
"I kind of like him, can we keep him?" Another voice joined Harry's, this one sounded quite amused.
"Shut up Pads." Harry's voice growled, annoyed.
"But what is he doing here?" A third voice spoke up, this one sounded... neutrally curious, really.
"Maybe he's a burglar!" Came a whining voice that made Draco wish for his wand, just so that he could hex him down a few octaves.
"That makes no sense, Peter." The neutral voice rejected the idea.
"Either bring me coffee, or shut up before I find my wand." Draco mumbled angrily into the pillow.
"See! He's threatening us! Clearly a burglar!" The whining voice appeared once again.
Having spent four years in a sort-of-friendship with Harry Potter, Draco had long since learned a lot of things that people shouldn't be forced to learn. Harry had a hair-trigger for combat that made it fully possible that he might kill you by accidental instincts if you threw a curse at his back, meaning that anyone close to him was forced to pick up quite a bit on how to fight if they didn't want him to break their arms because you tried to wake him up.
Draco didn't like having his arms broken, and had gotten so good at surviving Harry's defensive mechanisms that he'd been called the official wake-Harry-up-person, which in turn forced him to become even better.
The whining voice that dared disturb his rest by being ungodly annoying felt his wrath in the shape of a multitude of quite unpleasant hexes sent in his direction.
A startled squeak was followed by the voice of a confounded goat, before the sound of a leg-locked body hit the floor.
Having proven his point, and gotten rid of that horrible whining voice, Draco snuggled deeper into the blankets. "Now, piss off Harry, I had a long night."
"Whoa, he turned Peter into a goat. That is awesome." The voice belonging to 'Pads' murmured in reverent awe.
Draco's instincts tickled at him that someone was aiming their wand at him. Most likely several someones. Probably not the voice called Pads though, since he sounded a bit too amazed by Draco's inherent awesomeness to think of cursing him for doing what came naturally to him.
"Who are you? Why are you here?" Harry's voice demanded in that cold way that he usually did when confronted with a battle-situation.
Draco decided then and there that Harry must've been dropped on his head repeatedly as a child, nobody could get that stupid just from having their friends rub off on them.
"I'm Merlin, and I'm trying to sleep." Because everyone knew that the only reason Draco wasn't actually Merlin was because his father had thought that dragons were cooler. That, and he'd been in the wrong generation, but that was such a minor detail that it shouldn't really count.
"Merlin? Seriously?" Pads sounded amused again, though it was still mixed up with a certain admiration.
"Where's my coffee Potter?" Draco growled into the pillow, knowing that Harry should know well enough that he didn't start pissing him off before he'd had his early morning coffee. And possibly his late morning coffee. And not just before it was time for his midday coffee, or his slightly after noon coffee, or any other of the sixteen different points in a day that he reserved for the glorious wonder that was coffee.
"Umm, maybe we should get him some coffee?" The neutral voice asked hesitantly, obviously being the sole voice of reason amongst them.
"I'll get it." Pads cheerfully bounced out of the room.
"How do you know my name?" Harry's voice demanded angrily.
"Did you get run over by a hippogriff recently?" Draco drawled sarcastically into the soft warmth to which he longed to return. "It's called introducing yourself. You should try it some time."
There was the short silence that Draco was certain was filled with Harry glaring daggers at him. "My name is James Potter."
Draco hummed sleepily, before stopping with a sudden jerk.
"No it isn't." He paused, he couldn't remember Harry ever trying to avoid using his own name, or avoid using it without also avoiding his surname, what with being the last Potter, doing so would've been quite silly.
"Yes it is!" Harry's voice spluttered angrily.
Draco took a slow breath as he attempted to avoid falling into childish squabbling – it was beneath him – and tried to make sense of his current situation.
He had been sleeping. Then he'd been woken up by someone who didn't know him and called himself James Potter.
Where had he gone to bed, anyways?
"Ginny's a tart." He tried, knowing that that particular insult would cause Harry to at least attempt to hex him a little.
"Who's Ginny?" Harry's voice asked in a confused manner.
Right, definitely not Harry then. That left... what exactly? The only James Potter that he knew of was the idiot's father, and he'd died twenty years ago, not to mention that this one sounded much too young to be that James. Unless time traveling or something was included.
Draco was just about to bark a laugh at how mindbogglingly silly the thought of time travel was when he remembered that Sirius Black had been called Padfoot, that Peter Pettigrew was supposed to have a very whiny voice, and that Remus Lupin was the voice of reason in a group called the Marauders.
Draco instead made a pained whimpering noise. "This can't be right, this is Harry's luck, things like this don't happen to normal people." He complained.
Draco glared at the four boys that stood in front of him. The boys that somehow looked his own age, which was very odd considering how he was in his mid-twenties. Not quite as odd as spontaneous time travel over a span of almost four decades, but still pretty damn odd.
He had been given coffee, so he was now willing enough to accept his wakefulness that he could confront the idiots in front of him.
Hell, he'd even reversed Pettigrew's goat-transformation. Never let it be said that Draco Malfoy couldn't pretend not to be an utter bastard for longer than two hours. He'd managed three, once, when he'd been too busy chugging coffee to truly interact with his surroundings.
Still, he appeared to have introduced himself as 'Merlin', so now he was stuck with that name, which wasn't really all that bad. Imagine being stuck with a name like 'Ronald', or 'Percival'... Actually, now that he thought about it, had their mother in fact been torturing them since the cradle? Poor sods.
Heh. Shouldn't have been born Weasels. Suckers.
Suppressing the need to smirk victoriously for being so much better than everyone else, Draco tried to think of what to do next.
He didn't know of any way that he might return to his own time, so he was most likely stuck here. If accidentally brushing into contact with the walking library that was Granger had taught him anything, time flowed in a multitude of options, and since his existence in this point of time hadn't been around last time this time had happened, Draco was guessing that even if he killed everyone in the room he wouldn't suddenly cease to exist by shattering the fabric of space and time.
Basically, he was most likely in a parallel universe, back in time, with a Dark Lord still running around making an ass of himself, and he was very unlikely to have any access to his Gringotts vault. Which meant that... dear Caffeinated Glory, he'd have to rely on charity.
Unable to repress the instinctive shiver of revulsion that coursed through him at that thought, Draco tried to focus on more pleasant things.
"Are you just going to stare, or are you going to explain to me where I am? Who you are? Why I'm here? And how I'm going to manage returning to where I was so that I may kill Harry very, very dead for letting his luck rub off on me?" Draco asked in a reasonable tone.
"Where did you come from?" Asked Remus Lupin.
"My bedroom." Draco sipped on his coffee, smug in the knowledge that he was at the very least annoying someone.
"You're in Hogwarts, I'm Sirius Black, that's Remus Lupin, this is James Potter, and that's Peter Pettigrew." Sirius gestured with a cheerful grin, still obviously amused by Draco's previous actions.
"Who is this Harry that you want to kill?" James asked warily, still not entirely comfortable about the Boy-Who-Showed-Up-In-Their-Dorm-And-Demanded-Coffee.
Draco could be hyphenated too! Hah! Take that Potter!
"Harry Potter." He admitted without hesitation. "Might possibly be a relative of yours, orphan, possessor of the kind of luck only a madman would put themselves in front of, and determined to a fault." He paused, thinking for a moment. "He was dumped on relatives who hated him, became famous without having anyone tell him how to use his fame, had to kill a teacher in self-defense when he was eleven, was poisoned and stabbed at twelve, got involved with Dementors at thirteen, faced a dragon at fourteen, led a rescue mission that failed at fifteen, had his mentor-figure killed in front of him at sixteen, and died once when he was seventeen."
Everyone gaped at him.
"It sounds horrible, and it really kind of is, but it should be noted that he actually managed to survive all that, which is really kind of impressive." Draco mused absently. "He really should've done something about his hair though... dreadful." He frowned in distaste. "I swear there was no difference from how he looked after waking up to how he looked when he went to bed. He wouldn't know style if it went up and smacked him over the head with a very heavy book."
"A very heavy book?" James asked with an obvious hesitation on his simile.
"His closest friend is a bibliophilic do-gooder with the Frizzy Hair of Doom." He shivered. "It's like they became friends solely due to their bad hairdos." He sighed before smirking. "On the plus side, she's got one hell of a right hook. And a fantastic way with the ladies." His smirk turned into a very distinct leer that had sent the Weasel off on a hexing-spree more than once.
Hermione and Ron's relationship had crashed and burned in one of the most spectacular real life dramas in recent history. There had been Ron sleeping with another witch, there had been Hermione being found in bed with the Patil twins, there had been Ron trying to claim that the marriage was still on, there had been Hermione that had snogged Luna Lovegood in public.
It was almost enough to distract the world from how Harry and Ginny's relationship had gone to hell once they'd both seen pictures of themselves mixed with his parents, and realized that Oedipus complexes weren't meant to be encouraged. They were still decent friends though.
All of this had led to Draco taking over as Harry's wake-up-er, which had sent off another scandal about how he was so often seen in the company of the Man-Who-Won during the early mornings. This scandal had been heavily encouraged by all the times that Draco had barely been awake himself, and had ended up stealing Harry's blanket, a mug of coffee, and kicked Harry out of his recently-claimed bed to sleep on the floor.
It had gotten so bad that the Daily Prophet had been forced to start reporting facts and shove all of the scandals into a separate newspaper.
Needless to say, the Daily Scandal – as it was so fondly nicknamed – quickly came to be regarded with a bucket of salt, which in turn meant that people learned not to take everything they read as facts whilst still allowing the Daily Prophet to reap massive profits.
It was the best of two worlds, no matter what Granger had to say about it.
Turns out that Hermione Granger was the luckiest girl to ever finish Hogwarts. Luna and the Patil twins being the more spectacular members of the harem she'd formed, there'd been rumors of several others attempting to make their way into it, and she'd been permanently banned from showing up at the Harpies' matches as everyone feared what her sexual aura would do to the popular idols. No girl was too straight for Granger. It had actually been claimed to be a law of magic, even if it didn't get a lot of supporters.
Sighing distractedly at the memory of Harry's birthday party, and the amount of girls that had showed up on Hermione's arms, Draco wondered if he should try to seduce her mother and keep her from being born, just to make sure that the rest of the Wizarding population wouldn't have to fight tooth and nail for the very few girls that didn't join her.
He quickly dismissed the thought, as that meant seducing a muggle, and whilst Draco could hardly be called racist by the people who knew him – he'd spent too much time admiring Hermione's way with girls to buy into the pureblood agenda – he did still have some standards.
Funnily enough, he'd managed to phrase those standards in such a way at one point, that Harry refused to change in the same room as him anymore. Saying something about not being comfortable being half-naked around him.
Draco had of course responded to such a obvious insult by stripping him of all clothes and dumping him in the middle of Diagon Alley, without a wand. He'd then claimed it'd been a 'lover's quarrel', and Harry had finally got in the game by forcing him to reclaim his precious coffee by visiting Gringotts dressed in drag.
They'd continued to prank each other on and off, and Harry had after almost three years finally stopped responding to Draco's attempts of waking him up with lethal force but rather whining, foul language, and hexing of his hair.
Draco blinked, realizing that he'd completely lost track of the conversation.
"So his closest friend is a girl, who likes other girls and books?" Remus asked hesitantly.
"Pretty much." Draco nodded. "She's supposedly very talented with her tongue. And I heard that she played the piano as a child. Turns out size doesn't matter so much when you have the talent of a sex god."
"That's..." Remus paused, staring dazedly into the distance. "Give me a moment."
James raised an eyebrow at his friend, looking distinctly confused, whilst Sirius seemed to be torn between demanding details, making fun of Remus, and dreaming his way off into a library filled with sexy girls with talented tongues.
Draco could relate.