VI. Shock of Culture

🙞 4 January 1990 | Carmarthenshire, Wales 🙜

With a snap of displaced air, Harry Apparated inside Aldrik's cottage. The walls of the grocery store he had used during the night shot into the distance, replaced seconds after by the old stone walls of his teacher's house.

A soothing feeling welcomed him, the Anti-Apparition Wards allowing his entrance. It had been months since his arrangement with Aldrik had started, and he already was spades more knowledgeable than he was then.

For one, he now knew the proper terms for his spells. He had learned of his heritage - for once in his life, he understood his place in the world. He belonged, contrary to what his 'family' used to say.

Of course, ignorance sometimes was bliss. With the new knowledge, so did new problems arise.

First - and perhaps most concerning - was the severe illegality of what he had been doing for the past few months. Even though Aldrik knew almost close to nothing about Britain's wizarding community, isolated from the world as he was, he still comprehended how the wizard laws usually worked.

Needless to say but Harry shouldn't be Apparating all over Britain. Without the proper procedure, he could get spotted by CCTV cameras and passers-by, which was a grave crime according to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Not to mention, he was underaged, to begin with, and shouldn't even be doing magic.

In hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise that he hadn't succeeded in his initial plan to set up a base.

After all, all it would take to track him down - in that case - would be to narrow his location to where he most often Apparated from, meaning, in other words, his supposed base.

As he constantly changed places, no one could track him down. It wasn't possible to determine the destination of an Apparition, only its source, which left the authorities with nothing but an empty location - one he would never return to.

In theory, he would gain formal education when he was eleven. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it was called. But that was still one year and a half away in the future. He couldn't wait that long, even though Aldrik had warned him he was limited to wandless magic for the time being.

It wasn't an easy task to acquire a wand without going through the proper legal channels. Even Aldrik himself, a wizard who dabbled with Necromancy - an illegal practice in most countries - would have difficulty buying it in the black market.

But that was fine with Harry. He had never used a wand before, and he had done just fine.

Still, it did come with its downsides. Most noteworthy, for Harry, would be the time it took to master spells. According to Aldrik, wands had been essential in pushing wizard kind ahead of their magical counterparts in the past. It was why goblins - he still couldn't believe they existed - felt so wronged about being banned from using or creating wands.

Spell-Crafting became smoother, faster, and safer with wands. And the time it took to fully educate a child shortened in spades.

Unfortunately, concerning wandless magic, Aldrik had no pointers for Harry. Most wizards didn't, as wands had become almost symbiotic to wizards and witches. Both came together like they were a package deal.

Still, as always, Harry did not let that discourage him.

He closed his eyes, focusing. At once, his skin prickled, magic looming in the air. He pictured a clear pond, its water crystalline and cool to the touch. It shined inside his mind, waiting for his command. He, of course, obliged.

Immediately, he envisioned the clean water coursing through his body and clothes. His magic mimicked the sensation of the cold water embracing his body, slowly enveloping him.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and then eyed a mirror in the corner of the room. His clothes were pearly white, mud cleaned off, and his body was just as tidy.

'Scourgify' was the spell's name. It took the entire month of both October and November to replicate it without a wand, but he eventually succeeded.

His teeth almost shined back as he smiled at the mirror's reflection.

"Gör..." Aldrik's voice sounded from another room, "Endlich- come here."

Harry stopped looking at himself in the mirror, already anticipating the day.

'Are we doing more potions?!' He thought, almost jumping on the tip of his toes.

He loved creating potions. Potion-Making was a work of art, delicate and full of finesse. Even though Aldrik blamed it on Harry's creative imagination, he could swear he felt the magic dancing as they concocted potions.

It swirled in the mixtures, sizzling with more power with every ingredient thrown into the cauldron. It was a dazzling process, one almost as fascinating as Spell-Craft.

He turned around the corner, almost gliding towards the room with cauldrons. Arriving there, however, Aldrik dismissed his hopes almost as effectively as the man created Inferi.

"No potions today."

Harry deflated like a balloon.

"You will go to Diagon Alley." He said instead, making Harry's mood swing 180 degrees yet again.

If there was one rule that Aldrik emphasised time and time again, it was that of not going to places crowded with Majs. Harry was yet a child and shouldn't go to such a place without an adult.

It seemed, however, that Aldrik finally trusted Harry enough to take care of himself amidst other wizards. Either that, or he had somehow run out of supplies.

"Take this money. Acromantula venom, five vials; Aconite, two handfuls; Neem oil, two vials. It is 35 galleons total, any more, and it's robbery. Use the rest of the money," the man droned, keeping it short as he usually did.

It didn't matter why Aldrik suddenly entrusted him with that task, however. Harry wouldn't complain either way.

He was gone the next second, Apparating to a rooftop in Bristol. Arriving there, though, he didn't waste even one second more, disappearing to yet another rooftop in Central London. Not even a fleeting headache hit him, his body and mind well-accustomed to the process by that point.

A wide smile featured on his face, Omen as placid in expression as ever perched on his left shoulder. Shyly, a scar on his forehead could be almost seen from underneath his black, tangled hair.

"To Diagon Alley."

🙞 🙞 🙜 🙜

A pinprick of worry wormed its way inside his heart. As much as he wanted to ignore it, he couldn't help it.

'Is there something on my face?' Harry thought, confused by the few stares he received from other people.

While the crowd of wizards wasn't openly gawking at him, a few people seemed to almost be startled by his appearance. They squinted their eyes as if trying to determine if what they saw was truly there or if it was an illusion.

Not to mention the blatant incredulity Tom - the owner of the bar which gave entrance to Diagon Alley - displayed. The man looked as if he was in sheer disbelief.

Regardless, Harry quickened his pace down Diagon Alley. Having spent the money he received from Aldrik on what the man had asked for - after no short time trying to find the Apothecary - Harry wanted to be on his merry way as quickly as possible, else those strange people got any funny ideas.

Of course, before leaving, he would first visit the library he'd seen earlier. Books were a strong motivator, after all - magical ones even more. A bell jingled as soon as he set a foot inside Flourish and Botts, warning the owner of his entrance. The owner, however, paid it no mind.

'Better that way,' Harry thought, eyeing the various books in wonder.

'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,' by Newt Scamander.

'Advanced Potion-Making,' by Libatius Borage.

'A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration,' by Emeric Switch.

The list went on and on, books littering the floor. Bookshelves were used for all their worth - as many books as possible were squeezed inside. Literal stacks of heavy tomes piled on the corners of the shop, the smell of parchment and inkwell drifting off into the air.

He almost shed a tear at that sight. For a bookworm like Harry, it was beautiful. No mere words could describe it. His eyes jumped from one title to another, wondering how many he could buy with the remaining money.

'A History of Magic,' by Bathilda Bagshot.

'Book of Spells,' by Miranda Goshawk.

'Harry James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived,' by Edward Inkwood-

He blinked, slowly turning around. His smile remained frozen, unresponsive. Uncomprehension flashed in his eyes, and he re-read the book's title again.

It remained the same as before. Harry blinked, a simple thought appearing in the crevices of his mind - 'What the fuck?' He couldn't help but curse for the first time.

He walked out of the shop, the book still in hand, rucksack on his back. He didn't even notice as the library's owner shouted at him as he exited Flourish and Botts without paying.

Eyes roaming the rooftops, he screamed, a bit louder than he'd intended, "Omen!"

Perhaps it was the creeping anxiety.

People started Apparating all around Diagon Alley, surrounding the library. His anxiety turned into brief panic. The thought he had only increased in volume, 'What. the. fuck.'

A crew of journalists holding cameras suddenly appeared, cameras already flashing. His face was locked into a permanent, incredulous frown, confused out of his mind.

"OMEN!" He shouted louder.

The bird seemed to be taking its sweet time coming back, however.

An old man Apparated around the corner, near the Gringotts Bank, obscured by the forming crowd, but Harry instantly noticed him. Immediately, the air became thick with the presence of magic. An expression of worry and relief was etched into the man's face.

Were he any less observant, Harry wouldn't have noticed the trickle of magic that wrapped around him at that moment. It didn't come from anyone, curiously enough. It came from the sky, as if from the clouds. The tiny, unassuming trickle embraced him, enticing him to not go away.

Distantly, he remembered the many times he heard a similar voice tell him he should go back home. Every time he had failed to find a base, the same voice had enticed him to return to the Dursleys. Suddenly, he started noticing the many instances in his life where he'd listened to the nondescript whisper.

The trickle of magic became more noticeable, only now his mind paying attention to it. It was unnatural. It permeated the Earth.

'What...'

Omen finally reached his left shoulder, and both boy and raven stood paralysed for half a second. The journalists' cameras flashed at that moment, catching a perfect picture of the pair.

"Fuck this," Escaped his lips.

He did the mental equivalent of spitting at the trickle of magic that enticed him to stay.

A snap of displaced air reverberated through the streets, louder than it had any right to be. A deafening silence ensued - all frozen standstill - and a single name coursed through the crowd's mind.

'Harry Potter'.