My OC Stash #54 - Weeb by Andrius (HarryPotter)

-Hands down one of the best "parody" fic out there, I came in expecting cringe but it's surprisingly funny~

Synopsis: Harry grows up watching anime and fantasizing about having superpowers. When his Hogwarts letter arrives, he jumps at the chance to live the life of a harem protagonist. Not a harem fic. Timeline moved forward to modern day.

Rated: M

Words: 124K

Posted on: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12350003/1/Weeb (Andrius)

PS: If you're not able to copy/paste the link, you have everything in here to find it, by simply searching the author and the story title. It sucks that you can't copy links on mobile (´ー｀)

-I'll be putting the chapter ones of all the fanfics mentioned, to give you guys a sample if you wan't more please do go to the website and support the author! (And maybe even convince them to start uploading chapters in here as well!)

Chapter 1-3 (exceptional)

"Witness the might of the Eternal Warlock!" Harry proclaimed to the front lawn of number four, Privet Drive. "Mwahahaha!"

"Harry, could you help me in the kitchen?" Aunt Petunia called through an ajar window.

He struck the ground with the butt of his staff. "You ask this of me, who possesses the ultimate power?"

"Put that power to good use and shell these peas," she said. "Make sure to wash your hands first."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Sighing, he hid the well-polished stick behind the flowerpots and traipsed inside.

Over the years, his guardians had become grudgingly tolerant of him and Dudley playing samurai or superheroes or whatever other wicked stuff they saw on the telly, but Petunia liked tidiness in her garden, and he didn't want to lose his Staff of Doom. After all, he'd spent a week drawing mystical runes on it using a felt-tip pen nicked from Dudley.

The reason for Vernon's and Petunia's aversion towards all things fantastic eluded him. Why, the first time he and Dudley had raced down the stairs pretending to shoot ki blasts at each other, Harry's aunt went white as a sheet and his uncle nearly had a conniption. The boys were forced to endure a stern talking-to, with Petunia asking her Duddykins whether Harry had done anything weird, before the adults allowed the play-acting to continue—after a careful explanation that none of that 'nonsense' was real, that is.

Vernon still grumbled about 'that foreign rubbish rotting their brains' whenever he spotted the cousins watching Dragon Ball, but Dudley was rarely denied anything, and it would have been hypocritical of his parents to permit only one of the boys to enjoy their favorite animated series.

A classmate Harry had confided in guessed that the Dursleys were ultra-religious. He said his cousin from the countryside was forbidden from watching TV and reading any comics or books not approved by his parents, for they were filled with the words of the devil. Harry just nodded in sympathy back then, thinking that his own situation was different. The Dursleys and the little Potter did go to church on Christmas and Easter, but God never came up in a day-to-day conversation in their household.

Most nine-year-olds wouldn't have dwelled on this mystery for long, but he figured that his guardians, perfectly normal people that they were, wouldn't be acting this odd without a reason. Furthermore, Harry himself vaguely recalled a couple of incidents from his early childhood when unexplainable stuff occurred around him.

That being said, he couldn't make anything weird happen no matter what occult invocations he spoke while brandishing his staff, nor how much he strained his muscles while pretending to power up, so perhaps it had just been his imagination. Either way, Harry knew better than to ask his family for clarification.

At least he could play whatever he wanted these days, with Aunt Petunia adopting a weary resignation towards his antics. Harry was still careful not to go too wild within eyeshot of his uncle, who could be downright scary when angered; he usually retreated to his room or the nearby park after Vernon came home from work.

"Oi, cuz, I got homework that needs doing," Dudley said, blocking the corridor with his meaty arm.

"Get on with it, then," Harry shot back.

"I'll give you my pocket money," Dudley offered, jingling the coins in his fist.

He stared at him with distrust. "Money first, or you'll just 'forget' again."

"Heh. Whatever, I'll just ask Mum for more."

Accepting the coins and Dudley's exercise book, Harry proceeded into his room. This was a frequent occurrence lately, and he suspected his 'help' was the only reason his cousin was maintaining his mediocre grades. Dudley had lost any motivation for schoolwork and spent all his time in the company of the school's most notorious bullies. He'd also grown to be nearly twice Harry's size—in width, if not height—which came in handy when extorting lunch money.

Owing to their familial relation, Harry was never a target of Dudley's gang, but the boys never talked in public anymore. Harry was told he was too lame to hang with the cool kids, and his cousin denounced ever having any interest in 'stupid Chinese cartoons'. That stuff was for specky geeks, after all.

As a result of them drifting apart, the last two years of primary school weren't very pleasant. Harry never made many friends, and without Dudley's imposing presence to deter them, his rowdier classmates were free to deride him for being too skinny, wearing dorky glasses, or loudly discussing an ongoing show during recess with a rare fellow soul. Perhaps he'd have renounced his favorite pastime, were it not for the anime club at the local library.

After pestering his aunt into allowing him to join, he never missed a meeting. The group would watch various series and movies, and squabble about whether subs or dubs were superior until they were blue in the face. While the senior members treated him like a snot-nosed brat, he could feel an undercurrent of camaraderie through their shared hobby. For Harry, it was the best time of the week.

Their de facto leader was Brandon, a chubby teenager who peppered his speech with Japanese words and butted heads with anyone who dared disagree with his opinions. The others considered him obnoxious, but Harry didn't mind him much, even though he did insist on calling Harry a kouhai and ridicule all of his childhood's favorite series. Brandon was always teaching him new words, and he also brought in the most interesting shows.

It was here in the library that Harry's life was forever changed.

"It's after hours, and you know what that means, gentlemen," Brandon said, glancing at his watch before rising from his chair. "We turn the kiddy garbage off and put on some quality entertainment. I got something amazing this time—the uncensored hot springs episode alone is a masterpiece."

"You guys are so gross," a female voice said from the back. "I'm out of here."

Chairs scraped the floor as the majority of the club filtered out of the room. Brandon locked the door and headed for the computer, peering at the handful of boys who stayed. His eyes lingered on Harry.

"Maybe you should go home for tonight. This stuff's not for kids."

"But I want to watch! Please, senpai!"

Brandon's pudgy face colored slightly. That was the first time Harry had used the word despite all his previous attempts to get the younger boy to call him that. "Fine, just don't tell anybody."

"You didn't bring porn, did you?" another teen asked.

"Pfft, it's nothing but wholesome fanservice!" Brandon scratched his pimply chin and began fiddling with the computer. "Don't fret, it aired on TV in Japan—although how they get away with showing this, I haven't the foggiest. Living there must be awesome... There we go."

Harry gazed at the projector screen with bated breath, caught up in the riveting story of an average teenager who discovered a hidden power, transferred to a special school, and inexplicably ended up living with a bunch of cute girls. Salacious shenanigans like the main character walking in on a girl getting changed or tripping and accidentally groping her chest had him blushing, and he was glad the lights in the room were off.

"Er, guys... what is this kind of show called?" Harry asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone.

As usual, Brandon was eager to flaunt his knowledge. "That, my friend, is a harem."

"A harem," he repeated wistfully, now watching the protagonist receive scrumptious lunchboxes from three different girls. Harry's own school lunches were bland and soggy, and Aunt Petunia's fad diets were even worse. "I think I'd like one of those."

Scattered laughter greeted his words.

"It's every man's dream," Brandon said solemnly. "Sadly, that's something that can only exist in the pure world of 2D."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. This anime was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and he had to have more. His aunt had promised to buy him his own computer if he continued getting good marks at school; if he was allowed to keep it in his room, perhaps he could look up those sorts of things with the Dursleys being none the wiser.

Joining the club aside, Harry's most life-altering event transpired during dinner with his family prior to his eleventh birthday. A sharp crack sounded somewhere in the street, causing Petunia to drop her fork with a clatter. She clasped it again and stilled, fingers whitening with tension, then relaxing as the silence outside stretched on.

Then the doorbell rang, and Petunia nearly jumped out of her chair. Oblivious to his wife's distress, Vernon raised his head from his meal and stood with a grunt. Harry followed his uncle with his eyes, curious about what visitor could be calling this late.

"Good evening, Mr. Dursley. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I'm the deputy headmistress at—"

"Look here, we don't need whatever it is you're... selling..." His voice faltered.

"Vernon!" Petunia rushed to the door. "Vernon, she's one of them!"

"I can ruddy well see that!"

Harry glanced at Dudley, but his cousin obviously had no more idea of who 'they' were than he himself did. Taking care not to scrape his chair against the floor, he stood and tiptoed to the kitchen door. From that spot, McGonagall's crisp voice could be heard clearly.

"Mrs. Dursley, it's good to see you in such high spirits. May I come in? We have things to discuss."

There were heated whispers that Harry couldn't make out before the front door banged shut. Petunia hurried back into the kitchen, her face paler than he'd ever seen.

"Dudley, go play upstairs. Harry—living room, now."

It was a testament to how severe she looked that even his cousin obeyed without talking back. Harry gulped and followed her to the living room, where he was greeted by an unusual sight.

Minerva McGonagall turned out to be an elderly woman—a lady, he corrected himself—who wore a long black coat over a dress straight out of a historical drama. Sitting on the couch with her back ramrod straight, she held what appeared to be a pointy hat in her lap. Uncle Vernon occupied the armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table, his mustache quivering as he scowled in the guest's general direction.

Harry lingered at the threshold until his aunt ushered him in and sat him down on the second armchair. Petunia herself remained standing, as though hinting the unexpected visitor not to overstay her welcome.

The lady smiled at him gently. "Good evening, Mr. Potter. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I'm a professor at Hogwarts. Do you know what that is?"

Harry clutched the armrests, uneasy at the attention. "No, ma'am."

"It's a good thing I decided to come in person, then," McGonagall continued with a slight frown. "Hogwarts is Europe's premier school of witchcraft and wizardry. You have a place there, just like your parents did before you."

Harry choked back his laughter at that ridiculous statement when he saw the pained expression on his aunt's face. He glanced at the hat the purported professor was holding.

"Are you saying I'm supposed to be a witch... er?" He imagined himself swinging a silver sword and slaying monsters.

"Women are witches, Mr. Potter—you, on the other hand, are very much a wizard."

He leaned forward eagerly. "You mean I'll be able to do magic? And wear a pointy hat and everything?"

McGonagall smiled, stroking the brim of her iconic headwear. "Why, certainly. The hat is a part of the Hogwarts uniform and is worn on formal occasions. As to your first question, that's what our school is for." She paused, glancing at the Dursleys. "Muggle parents often require a demonstration before they're convinced this is not a practical joke of some kind, but I'm not sure it is necessary in this case..."

Harry bounced in his seat. "Oh, please!" he uttered before his guardians could protest.

"Very well." McGonagall produced a thin stick—an actual wand, Harry thought with a thrill—and gave it an intricate twirl, pointing at the coffee table. The wooden construction shuddered and collapsed into itself, turning into a colorful garden gnome.

"Whoa..." Harry gaped at it, hardly believing his eyes. The woman was a real witch. She did magic. And, if she was to be believed, he could learn it too! He lifted his head, about to pelt the professor with a million questions, but they stuck in his throat when he saw the state of his family.

Vernon was crossing himself—he never did that—while Petunia whimpered, covering her mouth with trembling hands. Noticing their alarm, McGonagall sighed and raised her wand again.

"There's no need for dramatics," she said, disdain coloring her voice. An almost careless gesture returned the coffee table to its original state. "It was basic Transfiguration—you must've heard about it from your sister, Mrs. Dursley, seen it—"

"M-my sister," Petunia interrupted, finally finding her voice, "my sister, whom you took away from us and got killed!" Sobbing, she drew closer to Vernon, who squeezed her in a one-armed hug.

"I thought my parents died in a car crash," Harry said in a betrayed voice. Magic didn't seem so neat all of a sudden.

"Poppycock," McGonagall said firmly. "James and Lily Potter were murdered by a Dark wizard, one whose name we dare not speak to this day. He was the one who gave you that scar"—Harry's hand shot up to his forehead—"vanishing in his attempt on your life. Your story is famous in our world, Mr. Potter."

"Enough," Petunia demanded. "He's just a child!"

"You would deny him his heritage? The knowledge about the fate of his own parents?" The witch's voice became agitated for the first time that evening.

"If it protects him, yes." Petunia raised her chin. "I'm not going to let you take my nephew away like you did his mother."

McGonagall pursed her lips at the accusation, but her next words were conciliatory. "No one is going to force Mr. Potter to attend, of course—he can decide whether he wants to or not himself. I merely wish to make certain he is aware of his options."

Petunia sniffed. "Do you expect me to trust you people to keep him safe?"

"Harry, why don't you go to your room," Uncle Vernon interjected, patting his wife's hand gently. "We have a lot to discuss with the professor here."

Given how it was his future that was being decided, Harry was reluctant to leave, but Vernon's tone brooked no argument. He nodded and left, closing the door behind him and wincing when the voices of the three adults quickly rose in volume and pitch.

Knowing full well how much the Dursleys valued obedience, he didn't loiter outside the door but went up the stairs and began preparing for bed. Dudley's incessant questions were deflected on autopilot as his mind reeled with all he'd learned. He was a wizard—he was capable of doing magic—except it wasn't all fun and games. His parents, apparently a witch and wizard themselves, had been murdered.

Even when he lay down in bed, his thoughts kept him awake. He felt a pang of anger at his guardians for never telling him the truth, but then he remembered how scared Aunt Petunia had been at the prospect of McGonagall taking him away. He'd always had to work harder than Dudley to gain his family's approval—not that he would ever voice the complaint—thus his aunt acting so protective of him made him happy. Yet it was also worrying, for it meant the magical world was truly dangerous. Well, hopefully less dangerous now that the bad guy was gone.

"Magical world," Harry whispered, his eyes wide open yet seeing mysterious castles, wondrous creatures, and ancient forests rather than the familiar darkness of his bedroom. It wasn't much of a choice, was it? He'd been fascinated with fantasy worlds for most of his short life and was just told that one actually existed. There was simply no way he'd let this chance slip by! And if there were evil wizards lurking about, it was only smart to learn as much magic as possible so he could defend himself.

Emboldened by his decision, Harry got up, stepped into his slippers, and sneaked downstairs. He followed the sound of hushed conversation to the dimly lit kitchen, where he found Vernon and Petunia talking over a cup of tea.

Harry shifted his feet, the small noise causing his aunt to look up sharply. Her expression softened when she saw the boy and she beckoned him closer, ruffling his messy black hair.

"Has that McGonagall lady left?" he asked quietly.

Petunia pursed her lips. "Yes, and not a moment too soon."

"All those things she said—they were true, weren't they?"

"They were," she said with a sigh.

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted out after a short silence. "You know, for being a—a wizard."

Vernon and Petunia exchanged uncomfortable glances. "It's not your fault… son," Vernon said gruffly. "You can't help it, being born this way."

Petunia nodded and patted Harry on the head. "Do you even want to go to that madhouse of a school? The witch swore it was safe, but…" Her disgusted expression clearly showed what she thought of McGonagall's promises.

Harry nodded guardedly. "I do."

The Dursleys exchanged another long look, then Harry's uncle reached into his pocket and withdrew a thick, yellow envelope.

"Then I guess we'll have to make arrangements for your shopping trip."

Harry beamed, his genuine happiness lightening up even the somber expressions on the Dursleys' faces.

Harry eyed the shabby storefront with suspicion. It didn't look like much, but it was the only place to get a wand, Hagrid had said. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the noises of the Diagon Alley fading as he crossed the threshold.

He gasped when his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The shop was much larger than its exterior suggested, with rows upon rows of dusty shelves extending into infinity. Trying to figure out where they ended was making him dizzy.

"Wands. Lots of wands," he murmured.

"Very astute, Mr. Potter," a reedy voice said behind him. Harry whirled around to find a white-haired man watching him with startlingly pale eyes. "Good afternoon, and welcome. I was wondering when you'd show up."

"Er... hello, sir," Harry said, a little freaked out. The man had known who he was without even seeing the infamous scar. "I'd like to—"

"Buy your first wand, of course. How time flies! It seems only yesterday your parents were here to purchase theirs. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, for your mother; eleven inches, mahogany, for your father. Both well-suited to their particular talents—then again, no one leaves this place without a perfectly matched wand."

Harry considered the seemingly endless stock and gulped. The wandmaker led him towards the counter, then disappeared between the shelves as though swallowed by the darkness. He came back carrying a teetering stack of boxes in his arms.

"Shall we begin, Mr. Potter? Simply take the wand and give it a go," Ollivander explained, dumping the cases on the counter. "Here. Maple and unicorn hair, seven and a half inches, nice and springy."

Unsure what to expect, Harry picked the wand up and waved it around. The shopkeeper promptly snatched it back, muttering something under his breath, then thrust another one at him. "Ebony and phoenix feather—an unusual combination, but eminently effective in capable hands. Give it a try."

Harry pouted when his hands didn't appear to be capable, but Ollivander had another suggestion already. "Dogwood and unicorn hair, exactly ten inches—oh dear."

The wand made a loud ripping noise, and Harry let go in surprise. While embarrassed, he was still heartened to get a reaction; he'd been starting to think he had no talent for wizardry at all.

The next wand was pine and dragon heartstring, and for the first time, Harry felt a pleasant warmth emanate from the wood. When Ollivander extended his hand, he was reluctant to give it back, which didn't escape the wandmaker's notice.

"An affinity for pine? Hmm. A bit of a loner, are we?"

Harry ducked his head bashfully. When he raised it again, he saw that Ollivander was off to bring more boxes. Five pinewood wands were tried and rejected, Ollivander making thoughtful noises as they went through the stock. He then reached for a particularly dusty box at the bottom of the pile.

"Red pine, twelve inches, rather stiff. Dragon core, one of my... less popular variants."

Harry looked askance at Ollivander but picked it up. When his fingers gripped the smooth handle, an electrifying tingle shot up his arm, filling his body with heat. He gave the wand a broad sweep, shooting out multicolored sparks that lingered in the air.

"Mwahaha!" he laughed, feeling heady and energized. "Tremble before my power, mortals!"

"I am quaking in my boots," Ollivander said dryly, bringing him back to earth. "I knew this wand would find its master one day. Alas, not many wizards acquiesce to a core of a dragon's baculum."

"Baculum, sir?"

"Also known as the penile bone," Ollivander said. "I do not have a diagram on hand, but the name should be self-explanatory."

Harry scanned the wandmaker's face for signs of mockery but found none. "So inside this, there's a dragon's..."

"Penile bone, yes. A splinter of such, if you wish to be exact."

Harry chuckled nervously. "Mr. Ollivander, please—surely you're just poking fun at a clueless Muggle-raised wizard like myself?" He slowly lowered the wand to the counter, but couldn't bring himself to let go.

The man drew himself up. "Mr. Potter, I treat my craft with the respect it deserves. Along with its heart, the baculum is a dragon's most magical part. The only reason I seldom use it anymore is that customers ofttimes refuse to buy wands with these cores."

"I wonder why," Harry muttered.

"Nevertheless, these tend to have much the same characteristics as heartstring cores, which is to say they are powerful and temperamental," Ollivander continued a little indignantly. "Paired with pine, they make the most adaptive and quick-learning wands."

Harry looked at the wand longingly, then at its maker who was gazing at him with affront. He sighed. "Alright, I'll take it, but you have to keep this a secret. No telling anyone—not even my kids, if I ever have any."

Harry left Ollivander's and looked around, quickly locating his towering companion. Hagrid's enormous strides soon brought him to his charge and he beamed at the boy, looking immensely pleased with himself. His shovel-like hands cradled a round cage with a large white bird inside.

"Ain' she a beauty?" The half-giant proffered the cage, causing the bird to flutter its wings to regain balance. "My present to yeh, Harry. Happy birthday."

The creature stared at Harry unblinkingly with its yellow eyes. He shuddered. "Look, Mr. Hagrid, I appreciate the gesture—"

"It's jus' Hagrid. Told yeh that already, didn' I?" He patted Harry on the shoulder with his free hand.

He winced, knowing things were about to get awkward. "Right. Hagrid, thank you for the gift, but—how should I put this—I don't really want an owl."

"Don' want her?" Hagrid's jaw hung open. "Owls are dead useful, they are. How else are yeh goin' ter write yer friends over the summer?"

He shrugged. "I'll just text them or something."

Hagrid glanced at him, then at the cage. "But I thought every boy yer age wanted one!"

"Sorry," Harry said with a grimace. "A bird like that would stand out in the suburbs, and Aunt Petunia would never allow it."

"Well, is there any other animal yeh'd like instead?" Hagrid asked hopefully.

"Not really. I just don't fancy cleaning poop every day." Hagrid's face fell, and Harry felt a pang of guilt. He added quickly, "If it was something cool, like a pseudodragon, I'd make an exception."

"Ain' tha' the truth," Hagrid said. "Bin petitionin' the Ministry ter let me breed dragons fer years, but they haven' budged yet. Lemme return this beauty ter the Emporium, then—if yeh're sure?"

"I'm sure," he confirmed.

They walked side by side, Harry shooting the downcast Hagrid furtive looks as he struggled to keep up. He wished he knew a way to cheer him up.

After they left the noisy and smelly owl shop, Hagrid stopped and stared at the younger wizard, frowning and scratching his beard for a good minute before perking up.

"How abou' a nice trunk? Everybody needs one."

They went to a boutique down one of the side alleys, where Hagrid got him an exquisite leather trunk enchanted to open only when its owner gave the correct password. Harry had a hard time figuring out the wizarding currency, but judging by the shopkeeper's smarmy demeanor, this model was fairly expensive.

"If young sir would kindly place his thumb on the handle—"

Harry obliged, eager to leave the shop. He jerked his hand away a second later and stared at his bleeding thumb.

"Ow! Bloody thing pricked me," he said incredulously.

Hagrid boomed a laugh. "Blimey, Harry, didn' even have time ter warn yeh. Don' s'ppose the lad could get another try?"

"I'm afraid the spell is quite permanent," the shopkeeper said, still smiling. "Top notch security, you understand."

Harry popped the sore digit into his mouth. "Wha' are you on abou'?"

Chapter 2

"Show me your ticket, Harry."

Having heard that request four times already, he had it on hand. "Here, Aunt Petunia."

She scrutinized the piece of paper anew as if expecting something to have changed. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," she read. "Three-Quarters, that makes no sense!"

A step behind them, Uncle Vernon grunted in agreement. As he huffed and puffed from having circled Platform Nine several times, somebody crashed into his back, and he turned about as quickly as his girth allowed. "Watch where you're going!"

A little girl jumped backwards. "Eek!"

A middle-aged man—her father, judging from the matching hair colors—caught her by the shoulders and gave the Dursley patriarch a polite smile. "Sorry about my daughter, sir."

Vernon grunted again, paying the pair no more heed. Harry, however, trailed them with his eyes until the two rejoined their family. As the uniformly red-haired group was trooping away, he heard the mother scold her daughter for running ahead.

"It's not my fault, Mum! That Muggle was enormous..."

Harry's eyes widened at the term, and he glanced at his guardians. Vernon seemed oblivious, but Petunia had clearly noticed as well.

"I suppose I could go ask them," she whispered, looking positively terrified at the thought.

"What? Pet, you don't mean those people are also—that sort?" Vernon sent the family a belated glare.

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm going," she declared in a tone that suggested she was about to do something life-threatening.

Before either of the males could say anything, Petunia squared her shoulders and strode towards the boisterous group. Harry watched her approach a plump woman and exchange a few words, then point back at him. The entire family eyed him for a moment, and he ducked his head. Both Vernon and he breathed easier when Petunia returned; Harry's uncle even hugged her in a rare show of affection.

"The woman's name is Weaselly. She said there was a m-magical barrier, and that she'd show you how to get through." Petunia took a steadying breath and gave Harry a hug. "Be good. Don't do anything dangerous."

Uncle Vernon clapped him on the shoulder, looking eager to put as much distance between himself and anything of 'that sort' as possible. "Good luck, nephew."

"Thanks," Harry said, taken aback by the hasty farewells. "Goodbye, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon."

He watched Vernon usher his wife across the platform until he lost them in the mass of commuters. A little uneasily, Harry began dragging his trunk towards the wizarding family.

He hauled his trunk down the train, pressing against the wall whenever anyone passed by. Having escaped the rambunctious gingers, he instantly found himself in a new predicament.

Oh, the Weasleys had shown him how to get to the platform, all right. They also asked him a million questions after finding out he was 'the Harry Potter', half of which he couldn't make heads or tails of. He even got scolded by the mother for swearing, but who could blame him? It's not every day one saw a pair of gangly teenagers run head-first into a wall and vanish instead of cracking their skulls open. Incidentally, none of the Muggles had paid them any attention whatsoever.

He got away from the fussy matron by climbing onto the Hogwarts Express, an old-fashioned steam train, only to find that it was absolutely teeming with ebullient young witches and wizards. All of whom were taller than Harry, and all of whom knew one another—or so it appeared, at least. Nobody paid him much heed, but he still kept his head low to hide his scar.

Raucous conversations abounded around him. His luggage seemed to be growing heavier by the minute, and he was barely making progress. He wanted nothing more than to hole up somewhere quiet, but all the compartments thus far had been taken, and he dreaded having to introduce himself to a bunch of older kids. He was starting to feel dizzy.

Suddenly, his eyes landed on a floating trunk following its owner like an obedient dog. He gaped at the sight, then released a tremulous breath. These people were all magical—and so was Harry. He belonged here.

Heartened by the thought, he trudged on, and eventually stumbled upon an empty compartment. Dragging his luggage in, he abandoned the notion of lifting it up to the overhead rack as futile, and collapsed on the exceptionally comfortable bench.

"Can I sit here?"

Harry turned and nodded in resignation. The newcomer looked about his age and was slightly shorter for a change. He had straw-colored hair and wore jeans and a T-shirt, which was downright mundane compared to the outlandish outfits Harry had glimpsed on the platform.

The boy pointed at Harry's fancy trunk. "Need a hand with that?"

Their combined effort was just enough to hoist both of their trunks onto the luggage rack. Harry made a mental note to learn the floating spell to make this easier in the future.

"Phew." The kid extended his hand. "Name's Anthony Goldstein, but everyone calls me Tony."

"Harry Potter," he said cautiously, shaking the proffered hand.

Anthony raised his eyebrows. "Like, that famous Harry Potter? My mum says you're some sort of a hero."

Harry grimaced. "Not really."

"Ah, well—sorry." The blond rubbed the back of his neck. "Bet you get that a lot."

"Not really," he repeated. "I had no clue I was a wizard until a few months ago."

"Huh. Well, there's probably lots of Muggleborn joining, so no worries." Tony plopped down on the seats. "Me, I'm what they call a halfblood. My mum's a witch, but we live in a regular house and everything. She says purebloods don't even have electricity, can you imagine?"

Harry's eyes popped out. "Seriously? What do they do for light and heating? Don't they need dishwashers and vacuum cleaners and stuff?"

"Oh, they have spells for those things. Rather handy ones, too—Mum uses them around the kitchen, although she always makes me do things by hand."

Harry could relate, thinking that a spell for peeling potatoes would've made his childhood a lot more enjoyable.

"No, it's worse than not having dishwashers," Tony continued, seemingly on a roll now. "They don't have computers nor internet. No game consoles, no tellies, no smartphones... Mum says they have radio, but there's only one station and it plays lame wizard music."

Harry shook his head. "That's horrible. Why would anybody do that to themselves?"

"Most of them are centuries behind the times," the boy explained. "And too much magic is bad for electronics, or so I hear. It's why none of it works around Hogwarts."

"It's worth it though, isn't it? Magic." Harry grinned at the thought that all the incredible stuff he'd seen so far was only the beginning. "I still can't believe it's real. Three months ago I'd have said aliens or giant robots were more likely."

"Oh yeah, giant robots? What kind?"

"Er... you know." He shifted in his seat, unsure if he was about to be made fun of. "The kind you pilot."

Tony leaned forward. "Gundam or Macross?"

Harry's sincere grin threatened to split his cheeks.

The first-years milled about the chamber, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Their imminent Sorting was the subject of a heated debate; the majority expected a magical test of some kind, although the 'wrestling a troll' theory proposed by a familiar ginger had a number of ardent supporters.

Not everybody appeared skittish: a pale kid with slicked-back hair boasted knowing exactly what the ceremony entailed. Flanked by two other boys who rivaled Dudley in size, he kept shooting the people around him haughty looks and snorting at their wild speculations. This didn't pass unnoticed by the Weasley boy, whose face grew as red as his hair as he glared at the trio. Harry inched away from the brewing conflict and settled at the edge of the crowd.

McGonagall returned before things could get out of hand, and led the suddenly quiet children out of the chamber and into the Great Hall. The place was well-deserving of its name; Harry reckoned his entire home would have fit in here twice over. The presence of magic was evident in the countless floating candles and the high ceiling which reflected the night sky.

Harry caught himself gawking and ducked his head when he realized that there were hundreds of students seated at four huge tables, all staring at the first-years. Then a scruffy hat began singing, and his jaw dropped again. He barely processed the meaning behind the lyrics, when McGonagall began calling them forward to be Sorted.

"Wait," Harry hissed, "it's going to look inside my head?" He looked around frantically, then froze when he saw the deputy headmistress glaring at him.

He watched the others undergo the ritual with increasing nervousness, absently noting that his new acquaintance, Anthony, went to Ravenclaw. His turn came all too soon, and he stepped forward on shaky legs, cringing at the commotion which started after McGonagall read his name.

Eager to hide from the stares, Harry sat on the stool and covered his head with the wide-brimmed hat. Only then did he remember that his mind was about to be read. His hand twitched as he suppressed the impulse to pull the hat off.

"Stop fretting," a mellow voice said in his head. "Those urges are perfectly normal for a boy your age."

Harry perked up. "Really? Even... that?"

"Seen it before. Yep, that too. You're not that special," the Hat drawled. "Look, I'm not here to play your therapist. Relax and let me do my job."

Harry exhaled, calmed by the Hat's nonchalant attitude. Whatever the magical artifact did to look inside his head, he didn't feel a thing, and it was over in a few moments.

"An inquiring if not particularly studious mind. A desire to make friends tempered by a high degree of self-sufficiency. Hmm... quite an ambition, and not one I've encountered in an eleven-year-old's head before." The Hat sounded interested now. "I guess you are somewhat special."

Harry pouted, getting the impression that he was being mocked. "It's every man's dream."

"You have peculiar taste in role models, Mr. Potter," the Hat said dryly. "Now, where shall I put you?"

"You're asking me?"

"Your house will be your home for the next seven years. Of course you get a say."

He shifted on the stool to get more comfortable and furrowed his brows. All he knew of the Hogwarts houses was a couple of lines from the Hat's song. He'd just have to trust it to make the right choice.

"I want to do my own thing in peace," Harry said, recalling the hazing he was subjected to in primary school. "Maybe somewhere with fewer jocks."

"That matches my evaluation nicely, Mr. Potter. A house for freethinkers, one where you can pursue your interests without undue judgement. I daresay you will be welcome at Ravenclaw!"

He nearly fell off the stool when the Sorting Hat shouted the last word out loud. Taking it off, he made his way to the Ravenclaw table, ears ringing from the thunderous applause. He lost count of the handshakes and claps on the back he received from his new housemates before reaching an empty seat next to a grinning Tony. Harry smiled shakily in return.

After the remaining kids were Sorted, Dumbledore stood to make a nonsensical speech which ended about ten seconds later to another round of applause. An older student at their table jotted the ostensibly random words down on a napkin.

"That made about as much sense as Evangelion's ending," Harry said weakly. "Was it some kind of a code?"

Tony snorted. "That old man is high as a kite."

After the feast and a raucous, off-tune rendition of the school song (the highlight being an older Gryffindor's lousy attempt at rapping), they were bid goodnight by the headmaster and led to the Ravenclaw tower by two prefects. One was a lanky, fidgety boy named Robert Hilliard, and the other a standoffish girl who didn't introduce herself, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. The trek up the tower wasn't exactly short, and many kids were out of breath by the time they reached their destination.

Hilliard pointed at an eagle-shaped knocker on the polished wooden door. "The entrance to the common room is protected by a password to make sure only house members can enter. Observe."

He knocked once, and a cool voice asked, "Password?"

"Two—Five—C—Hash—Seven—J—X—Zero," Hilliard recited.

"Password approved," the voice said, and the door swung inwards.

"Our house is awesome," Harry breathed.

The first-years exchanged unsure glances, and the one Harry recalled was named Michael Corner raised his hand. "Do we have to remember all that?"

"Yes, naturally—you there, don't write it down!" Robert jumped towards a girl who had a piece of paper out and seized it, causing her to squeak. "That would defeat the purpose!"

"Come off it, Hilliard," the female prefect said. "I told you to make the password simple, yet here you are with your ridiculous ideas again. We're changing it to 'raven's wit'."

Robert puffed up. "And I told you that passwords like that are vulnerable to dictionary attacks. It took Lysander and me less than an hour to break into the Hufflepuff common room using a Webster's Third we enchanted."

The girl rolled her eyes. "You dolts are the only ones in the castle who'd waste time on something like that. Come on—'raven's wit'."

Wilting under his partner's glare, the lanky boy nodded. The two prefects tapped the bronze knocker on each side with their wands and whispered something.

"Password changed," the voice announced.

"Get inside, I'll show you to your dorms," the female prefect ordered. "We've wasted enough time as it is."

"I thought your password was cool," Harry said as he walked past the dispirited Hilliard, who gave him a surprised grin.

The common room was tall and airy, with smooth stone walls rising up to a domed ceiling dotted with stars. An enormous fireplace cast a warm glow on the polished wood of the tables and armchairs arranged around the perimeter. The furniture was upholstered in blue and featured bronze accents, looking posh and formidable, like something one would find in a centuries-old mansion. The statue of a regal woman and the shelves brimming with ancient tomes only reinforced the image.

They didn't get to gawk for long. The grouchy prefect whose name Harry still didn't know separated them by gender and marched the girls through a large wooden door. Hilliard did the same with the boys, guiding the five towards an identical entrance on the opposite side of the tower. They found themselves on a narrow spiral staircase, climbing down and passing several doors until they arrived at one helpfully marked with the Roman numeral 'I'.

"Get some sleep and be in the common room by seven-thirty," Robert said, opening the door. "We're going to run an orientation."

Potions was starting in five minutes, and Harry had to double back to the dorms for the cauldron (pewter, size 2) he'd forgotten in his trunk.

"Hurry up!" Anthony groused.

"Er... mind giving me some privacy?" Harry asked, his face heating up.

Goldstein looked at him incredulously. "What do you have in there, pony plushies? Stop being a prat and get your stupid cauldron."

"Fine." Gripping the handle, he mumbled the password, yet his trunk stubbornly remained locked.

Tony shuffled his feet impatiently. "Get a move on!"

"Ow, bloody thing pricked me," Harry said in a monotone.

The trunk opened with a click, and he stooped to dig out his cauldron. He locked his belongings again and left the room, purposely not looking at his friend.

"I see you have one of those fancy two-factor security trunks," Tony said gleefully when he caught up.

Harry grunted, maintaining his brisk pace.

Anthony had the largest and most annoying smirk on his face. "Cool, cool. What you said earlier, that was your password, wasn't it?"

"Uh huh."

"Which you can't change, because the blood binding is permanent."

Harry sighed. "Evidently."

"That's priceless!" Bracing against the wall, Tony broke down in laughter. "So when it took a sample of your blood, you..."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not that funny. Let's go, we still have to find the classroom." They were running late as it was. He just hoped the professor was going to be sympathetic towards new students.

After they sprinted down the moving staircases and entered the dreary dungeons, Harry had to revise his initial assessment. They weren't just going to be late: at this rate, they were going to miss half the class. The place was a damned labyrinth, and wizards apparently disdained door signs.

Harry was getting desperate, so when he spied another student in the corridor ahead, he immediately raced after her.

"Wait—please," he gasped at the older girl.

"Yes?" She raised one eyebrow imperiously. Her tie was in Slytherin colors, and her black robes featured a shiny silver badge.

"We were hoping you could show us the way to the Potions classroom," Anthony said, sounding only a bit out of breath. Harry glanced at him enviously, gulping down air.

The girl smirked, her brown eyes glinting in the torchlight. "First-years, are you? You better hurry, Professor Snape despises tardiness. Follow this corridor"—she indicated the hallway behind her—"take the first right, then turn left at the stairs. The second door is the one you need."

"Thanks!" the boys shouted, and took off.

They followed the instructions to the letter, reaching the poorly lit hallway in a minute. Harry took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and entered.

"Sorry we're late..." he began, then blinked. The room was dark, dusty, and quite empty.

"That bitch," Anthony swore.

After a disastrous, if brief, Potions lesson which cost him and Tony at least fifty points apiece (he'd been too dazed to keep track of the deductions) Harry was eager to get as far away from the dungeons as possible. Thankfully, the next class, Charms, took place in an airy classroom on one of the upper floors.

He paused at the threshold to catch his breath. Stonework and high windows aside, the worn double desks wouldn't have looked out of place in an ordinary school. As he was one of the first to arrive, he could pick the spot he liked. Most of the window seats were free... except for the second-to-last one.

Harry groaned. After some deliberation, he walked up to the bored-looking ginger he recognized from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

"Um, hey. I don't suppose you could give me this seat?"

The Weasley boy narrowed his eyes. "What? Why?"

"It's hard to explain," Harry said, "but my future depends on it."

"You barmy or something?"

"Look, it makes no difference to you, does it?" Harry stuck his hands into his pockets, then paused as he got a flash of inspiration. "I could pay you."

Weasley bristled. "Do I look like a charity case? Jog on."

"Shit, I didn't mean..." Harry raked his hand through his hair. How was he going to explain the laws of anime to a pureblood wizard?

Weasley gaped at Harry's forehead. "Hold on, aren't you Harry Potter?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Wicked! Wait till my brothers hear about it." The boy smiled goofily, his earlier ire forgotten. "I'm Ron, Ron Weasley."

Harry shook his hand. "Alright, Ron."

"You can have the window seat—if I can sit next to you?" He sounded unduly hopeful.

Harry grinned at having secured his main character status. "Sure, why not."

After conceding his seat, Ron proceeded to question him. He looked disappointed to learn that Harry hadn't been battling dragons nor training under master Aurors (whatever those were) before starting Hogwarts. It seemed that the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived was even more famous than McGonagall had hinted at, with his sheltered childhood being a popular gossip topic.

Ron was a fount of knowledge about the wizarding world, his family being one of those isolated traditionalists whose understanding of technology was at a Middle Age level. While his constant prattling distracted Harry from the lesson, he didn't mind too much, and neither did Professor Flitwick.

The Head of House Ravenclaw proved to be the exact opposite of Professor Snape in that he didn't demand silence in the classroom and was generous in awarding points. He only gave a short lecture before handing out feathers to levitate and jumping right to practice.

"That looks brand new," Ron said, eyeing Harry's wand. "What's it made of?"

"Pine and... dragon."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Dragon what?"

"Just dragon," Harry said firmly.

Ron frowned but didn't pursue the topic. "Must be nice to have a matched one. Mine's a hand-me-down from my brother, Charlie. I don't think it has much life left in it." He demonstrated by making his feather wobble feebly.

Harry went through the swish-and-flick motion a couple times before taking a deep breath. "Wingardium Leviosa," he intoned, feeling a bit silly.

It took all he had not to whoop when the feather rose steadily, following his wand movements. There was no fanfare, no fancy light effects; it simply responded to his will.

"Splendid, Mr. Potter, just splendid! Five points to Ravenclaw," Professor Flitwick exclaimed, popping up next to their desk.

Harry grinned. The feather floated down at his lapse in concentration, but he knew he could do it again.

"On your first try, too." Ron sounded a tad bitter. "Oh well, you're the Boy-Who-Lived. It's a given."

"Maybe it is," he said with wonder. It would certainly be hero-like to have a natural gift for magic.

The rest of the lessons passed without notable incidents. He learned to turn matchsticks into needles, repot some sort of a magical parsley, recognize the three largest constellations of the night sky, and fly an actual broomstick. The last activity was surprisingly fun, and Harry resolved to buy his own broom next year.

The routine helped him accustom to the school. Sure, Hogwarts was a lot more exciting than the Muggle primary he used to attend, but there were also lessons, homework, and teachers who all had different opinions on how a classroom should be run. Some were amiable and supportive, while others demanded strict discipline.

The Potions professor was definitely the second type. That alone wouldn't have been so bad, but he also seemed to hold a grudge against Harry in particular, as he soon discovered.

After the ill-fated first lesson, he made sure to arrive early and follow the brewing instructions to the letter. That didn't prevent the professor from making snide remarks and docking points for things Harry couldn't have possibly known he was doing wrong. The latest lesson was no different, and he almost leapt towards the exit when it finally ended.

Tony caught up and clapped him on his back. "Does Snape know you from somewhere? I know we were late that one time, but damn."

Harry shook his head. "Haven't a clue what his problem is."

"You should talk to Flitwick," Tony suggested. "What he's doing can't be fair."

"I don't know... I still have at least five years with that git, and tattling on him might make it even worse."

"Well, you should do something," Terry Boot said from behind. "You've lost us a hundred points already."

Harry gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Potions aside, Harry was doing quite well, even compared to students who'd known about magic their whole lives. Sure, he might've been ignorant about things that were common knowledge in the wizarding world, but the lessons were designed to teach spellwork from scratch, so even the Muggleborn weren't at a huge disadvantage.

While the purebloods topped the rankings Flitwick put up as a way to motivate his Ravenclaws, Harry was often above average himself. Magic was still fresh to him, and he put his all into doing even those assignments others found tedious and dull.

The coursework wasn't too difficult, and he soon found himself with lots of free time on his hands. For a while, he practiced the Leviosa, annoying the older Ravenclaws by levitating everything in the common room that wasn't affixed to the floor, but the novelty eventually wore off. His limited repertoire of spells was a problem.

This led to Harry coming up with the notion of a study group. The more he thought of it, the better it seemed: not only could they help one another learn all sorts of awesome spells, but a bunch of pretty girls would inevitably join, and the rosy school life of his dreams would be within reach. He pondered how he could make it a reality before selling the idea to Tony, and the two started spreading the word.

"Bigger turnout than we expected," Tony remarked.

That was an understatement: it seemed like half the school had assembled in the library for their first meeting. There weren't enough chairs, and the students milled all over the place, only giving Madam Pince's desk a wide berth.

For a moment, Harry considered turning tail and running, but the people at the outskirts had already noticed his approach. Squaring his shoulders, he started squeezing through the throng, Tony following at a distance. Once he was in the middle of the packed library, he stood on his tiptoes and cleared his throat.

"Um, who's here for the study group?" He gulped at the unanimous show of hands. "Okay, we can make this work. Transfiguration homework's an essay, so we'll do that first—"

"Homework? I heard Harry Potter would be teaching magic," said an unfamiliar Gryffindor boy.

Harry blinked. "I am getting handy with Mending and Levitation Charms, I suppose..."

The boy scoffed. "First-year spells? Weren't you trained by the Unspeakables?"

"Blimey, you must be daft to believe that Quibbler shite," someone said, eliciting laughter from the crowd and making the Gryffindor blush.

"Quiet!" Madam Pince snapped.

Harry was cottoning on to the fact that he was in over his head. People were getting rowdy, and now that he took a closer look, many of them were clearly older than eleven. He rubbed his temples.

"Look, I only want to form a first-year club for helping each other with homework."

"What about third-years?" asked a spotty-faced Hufflepuff witch seated at one of the tables.

He threw his hands up in frustration. "What about them?"

"Wanker," the girl murmured.

This resulted in more peals of laughter, and Madam Pince finally had enough.

"That's it! If you're not going to behave, get out!" She raised her wand, producing a shrill whistle which made those closest to her desk cover their ears and flee.

"Wait," Harry said weakly, but it was too late. Crestfallen, he watched as the crowd streamed out of the library, nearly jumping when bony fingers squeezed his shoulder.

"Hold your meetings elsewhere in the future, Mr. Potter," the librarian said.

He wilted under her stern look. "Yes, Madam Pince."

Keeping his gaze on the floor, he headed for the exit. Most of the students had scattered, but a few still lingered in the corridor outside.

"Well, that was a waste of my time," a scrawny boy wearing a Hufflepuff tie said loudly.

Terry Boot nodded. "Hear, hear."

Harry winced and hurried past, not looking them in the eye.

After the fruitless first meeting of his study group—or perhaps gawk-at-Potter-and-make-noise group would be more accurate—Harry was understandably discouraged, yet he didn't drop the idea. Anime protagonists always started meeting cute girls after joining a club, so he just had to keep at it. Maybe aiming a bit lower was the key.

He decided to limit it to Ravenclaw, which would allow them to practice magic in the common room and not stretch his organizational skills too much. The house's private library, meager as it was, would be an added benefit. Thus, he built up his courage and approached his classmates one by one.

"I can read whenever I want, why do we need a club?"

"Who's going to teach us? You didn't invite any older students, did you?"

"Won't this flop like last time?"

Suffice to say, most of his housemates were skeptical, and Harry could hardly blame them once he realized he didn't have good answers to their questions. Yet with Tony's help, he somehow managed to rope two more people into joining: the pureblooded Terry Boot, and a pint-sized girl of Asian heritage named Su Li. They claimed a table under one of the tower's arched windows as their gathering place.

"Any suggestions on what we should work on first, Su?" Harry gallantly asked the sole female of their group.

The girl gave him an unreadable glance and shook her head.

"Er, well..." He floundered to the obvious amusement of the other two boys. "Let's go over our Transfiguration essays, then."

To Harry's pleasant surprise, his idea worked out fairly well. He learned many things that weren't taught in class, but every child growing up in a magical household knew and took for granted. He even contributed by demonstrating a few basic charms that the others had trouble with; the subject came easy for him, to Flitwick's endless delight.

Su rarely said a word outside academic subjects—and even then, her sentences were laconic to the point of being cryptic—but Harry was getting used to her quiet presence. From what he could gather, she was homeschooled by her wizard father, so to her first-year curriculum was more like revision. She single-handedly improved the group's grades by going over their essays and making corrections in the margins in her tidy script. Harry felt guilty every time this happened, and his later assignments tended to be better-researched and written in more comprehensible penmanship. Su didn't show any outward reaction to the change, but Harry was oddly pleased when she didn't spend as much time fixing his essays.

Tony was quickly becoming his best friend; he had a knack for explaining wizarding terms in plain language, and was one of Harry's few connections to the Muggle world. The two often compared real magic concepts to those found in Muggle media, marveling at the differences and similarities. Unfortunately, discussions of this nature peeved the fourth member of the group, so they tried to keep them to a minimum. Sometimes, they slipped up.

"This won't get you anywhere," Terry snapped as he watched Harry and Tony cross-reference magical plants with the effects of the potions they were used in. Harry had jokingly asked if Potions was anything like alchemy in The Elder Scrolls—a theory Tony was eager to check. "We ought to be memorizing formulas instead—you know, things which actually get us grades."

"But I want to know how it works!" Harry whinged.

"You're not going to discover the principles behind potion ingredient interactions on your own, Potter, and certainly not from some silly Muggle game." Terry shook his head. "Count me out of this."

Harry glumly watched the boy walk away. Terry was a bit uptight, but you couldn't deny his knowledge of magic.

The diminished group underwent another trial when Padma Patil approached them during one of their meetings. She appraised Harry and Tony sourly before addressing Su.

"Li, why are you always helping these two? Come and study with me and Liz. We can pull our own weight."

While irritated by the implication, Harry found himself turning towards the taciturn girl in curiosity. If he was being truthful, she didn't benefit from their association as much as he and Tony did.

There was a silence, just long enough for it to get awkward, before Su answered. "Anthony is fourth in our year at Transfiguration, and Harry second at Charms." Her gaze darted fleetingly to the boys in question. "They have interesting perspectives."

"Is that so," Padma said thoughtfully, and walked away.

The next evening, she came over and clumsily asked for help with her Charms essay. Harry was overjoyed, yet he had a hard time striking up conversation with their new member. Padma considered the two boys to be weirdos—and perhaps they were, from a pureblood's perspective—so he wanted to at least make her less wary around them. Unfortunately, no matter what he said, he ended up putting his foot in his mouth.

"Hey, Padma, I heard you had a sister in Gryffindor," he picked what he figured was a safe topic. "Praverti... Pavarotti... Perv—"

"Parvati," Padma enunciated, giving him a glare. Tony snickered, earning one for himself.

"Right, sorry," Harry said. "So, what's up with that? I thought siblings were usually Sorted into the same house."

"I'm nothing like my sister," she said vehemently.

Harry drew back in his seat. "Uh, sorry?"

"If we're not going to work, I'm leaving." Padma got up and stormed off.

Harry watched her retreating back, wondering what on earth he'd done wrong. Girls were difficult. How did harem protagonists manage it?

"I met Parvati on the train," Su said, startling him out of his woolgathering. "She wasn't very interested in studying."

Harry took some time to parse that statement. So Padma was the bookish type, while her sister was an airhead.

"I think I understand now," he said.

"P-P-Potter, a word?"

Harry sighed and turned, the other pupils stepping around him to leave. "Yes, professor?"

Professor Quirrel was one of his least favorite teachers. Not only was the man afraid of his own shadow, the smell of garlic pervading his classroom invariably gave Harry splitting headaches. He'd even gone to the school nurse to see if he had an allergy, but she seemed to think he was trying to skive off.

"I heard y-you started a st-study club." The turbaned professor gave him a wan smile. "Interested in learning n-new magic? I could t-teach you some Defense spells."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Thanks, sir, but why me?"

Quirrel chuckled. "Many educators would k-kill to be able to say that they had a h-hand in mentoring t-the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry inclined his head. "Alright."

Chapter 3

Quirrel's tutoring turned out to be unexpectedly worthwhile. During their first session, Harry was asked to demonstrate every jinx and hex he knew. As first-years weren't taught these Darker magics, his paltry arsenal consisted of spells like the Jelly-Legs Jinx he'd picked up from his housemates. A look of disappointment passed over Quirrel's face when he was done, leaving Harry humbled and determined to improve.

The subsequent lessons had them working on one spell at a time, with Harry being told to practice on his own once his performance was deemed acceptable. After a troll had somehow wandered into the school on Halloween, causing no damage but quite a commotion, he resolved to master the basic Defense skills, and never shirked training.

In addition to spell drills, Quirrel took to lecturing Harry on his subject. When he spoke of the Dark Arts, an odd transformation came over the man: his stuttering all but disappeared, and he talked of arcane magic with passion and intimate knowledge, teaching him of the underlying principles behind curses and their counters rather than textbook theory. It was only when their time was up that Quirrel would wake up from this bizarre trance, his stammer returning with a vengeance. If these lectures hadn't coincided with severe headaches, Harry would've enjoyed them even more.

Harry decided to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, hoping his family would understand. The castle was filled with fragrant fir garlands, floating candles, and singing suits of armor, and he never wanted to leave.

He slept in on the Christmas morning, being the only one in his dorm who stayed for the holiday. When he finally got up at an hour that would've made Aunt Petunia berate him for laziness, he found a pile of presents at the foot of his bed.

He sorted through the bits and bobbles from his friends, pausing at a fat post-stamped envelope. Ripping it open, he discovered a greeting card and a Tarot deck. Harry was oddly moved; he knew it would've taken his aunt and uncle considerable effort to overcome their aversion, even if Tarot had more to do with the Muggles' perception of witches than actual witchcraft.

He munched on some funny-tasting candy as he finished opening up the parcels. The last one held a diaphanous silvery blanket along with a note proclaiming it to be his father's. He fingered the thin material curiously, then gasped when his digits vanished from view.

"This has potential," he said, a smile creasing his cheeks.

On the second day of Christmas, an owl brought him a scribbled invitation from Hagrid to drop by for tea. It was fortuitous, for Harry wanted to thank him for his gift—a carved eagle, made with detail one wouldn't expect knowing the size of Hagrid's hands.

"Don' mention it," Hagrid said gruffly when he brought it up. "Glad yeh liked it, Harry. Yeh must be as smart as yer mother was, gettin' inter Ravenclaw."

"Did you know her, Hagrid?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. Yeh couldn' have found a more brilliant an' kind witch anywhere." Hagrid produced a towel-sized handkerchief from his coat and dabbed at his eyes. "Poor Lily... Righ' shame what happened ter her an' James."

Harry looked away uncomfortably, casting his eyes around the cabin. The wooden building wasn't large but had a high ceiling. Smoked hams and bundles of dried herbs hung from the beams, and various tools lined the walls. A crossbow the size of a small ballista was propped in the corner.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to find newspaper clippings with wizarding photographs tacked to the wall. A headline reporting a robbery at Gringotts attracted his attention.

"31st July? That's the day we went to Diagon Alley!" he exclaimed, squinting at the print.

Hagrid didn't share his enthusiasm. "Guess yeh're right. Nasty business, tha'." He rose and paced to the stove upon which stood a humongous kettle. "Tea, Harry?"

"Hagrid, I don't suppose..." He thought back to that day, trying to figure out what made the man so upset. "That parcel you took, was it from Vault 713?"

Hagrid's hand jerked and he nearly knocked the kettle over. "Couldn' say," he mumbled.

Harry was ready to drop the topic, but something else occurred to him. "Back then, you said it was Hogwarts business..."

Hagrid marched over to the wall, ripped off the offending article, and threw it into the fire. "Yeh shouldn' worry about tha'! The likes o' Dumbledore an' Flamel know what they're doing."

He mentally made a note to ask his older housemates about this 'Flamel' as soon as he returned. "Sure, Hagrid. How about that tea?"

Harry couldn't help but show off his invisibility cloak to Tony after the holidays. His friend was unabashedly envious of his new possession, but he became less vocal when Harry told him it was an heirloom from his father.

As the two were contemplating possible uses for the artifact in the common room, a thought occurred to Harry. "Do you think Dumbledore was serious about the forbidden corridor?"

"You mean the painful death and all that?" Tony scratched his head. "I reckon he was. Would certainly fit his reputation."

Harry nodded. "I just thought it odd that no one was all that surprised."

"You're awfully accepting yourself," Tony said. "I went to a Muggle school as well, you know. If someone pulled this kind of stuff there..."

He shrugged. "When in Rome, do as Romans do."

"That's how the Muggleborn should be," a loud voice said. "Adapting to our ways instead of trying to change them."

The boys turned to see Terry, his chin tilted up as if he'd said something profound.

"Get lost, Shoe," Tony said with a sigh.

Harry took to using his cloak every day. He'd slink around the common room, poking people and fighting not to laugh at their befuddled expressions. This lasted until a trigger-happy upper-year fired off a hex, missing Harry's invisible form by inches. He started venturing out into the castle after that, breathless with excitement at the way everybody passed by without seeing him.

It was during one of these strolls that he stumbled upon his least favorite teacher hobbling down the stairs from the forbidden third-floor corridor. Harry wouldn't have given it a second thought were it not for the conspicuous limp in Snape's step.

From then on, he checked up on the place whenever he went out under his cloak—especially on the days he had Potions, which always left him in a foul mood. In his fantasies, he'd be hailed a hero for foiling the break-in, while Snape would be dragged off by magical policemen.

His vigilance paid off when he came across Quirrel and Snape engaged in an argument one late evening. Their voices were low and tense, and Snape was holding the Defense professor by the lapel. Harry held his breath and approached.

"You've figured out how to get past the beast," Snape accused.

Quirrel swallowed. "I d-d-don't know what you're t-talking about, Severus."

"You know full well what I mean—and you're going to tell me!" Snape's wand was out in a flash, pointing straight at Quirrell's neck.

Harry inhaled sharply and scrambled for his own wand, not altogether sure what he was going to do. Snape whirled at the noise, his wand still under Quirrel's chin.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

Harry backtracked as quickly as he dared while Snape's black eyes roved the corridor. He ducked around the corner and stuck his head out.

Snape glared in his direction for a moment, then growled a threat at Quirrel and left. Straightening up, the Defense professor stared at the man's retreating back with an inscrutable expression.

Harry pulled off his cloak and stepped out from the corner, Quirrel's gaze darting to him as he approached.

"Potter!" The look of astonishment on his face was quickly replaced by a nervous smile. "What a r-remarkable cloak. I assume it w-was you who scared Professor Snape away. T-thank you."

"You're welcome, I guess." Harry caught a whiff of garlic and wrinkled his nose. "Why didn't you defend yourself, sir?"

Quirrel appeared terrified at the thought. "Professor Snape and I j-just had a minor m-misunderstanding! There was no n-need to get violent."

The corridor was silent while Harry deliberated on whether to voice his theory or not. His curiosity won out. "Is Snape after the Philosopher's Stone?" he probed, watching Quirrel intently.

The professor narrowed his eyes at him. "How do you know about that?"

Startled by his vehemence, Harry stepped back. "The older Ravenclaws—they've got this huge scroll where they write their guesses of what's inside the forbidden corridor."

"My former house," Quirrel said, "always poking their noses where they don't belong. Everyone knows, then?"

He shook his head. "The Stone's number seventy-eight on the list. I only made the connection when Hagrid let something slip." He winced at his own indiscretion. "Um, Hagrid's not going to get in trouble, is he?"

Quirrel exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "Dear old Hagrid. I'm sure he d-didn't mean any harm. Tell you what, P-Potter—I'll cover for him if you k-keep this a secret. Better not risk students snooping around and g-g-getting hurt, eh?"

Harry bobbed his head. "What about Snape?"

"Don't worry," Quirrel said with a glint in his eyes. "I'll watch out for him."

Quirrel's face was sunken and he had bags under his eyes, but his demeanor was unusually relaxed. "This is going to be our last lesson, isn't it?" he asked, twirling his wand idly.

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "Thanks, I've learned loads."

The professor grimaced. "A waste..."

"Sir?" He stopped short of putting his bag down. Something seemed different today.

"I'm saying these lessons were a waste of time, Potter. Do you know what you are? Average. Completely and utterly so."

Wincing at a sudden onset of headache, Harry edged backwards. Quirrel's wand twitched, and the door closed with a bang, making him jump.

"When he was your age, he could command magic through sheer willpower. Cast spells others could only dream of." Quirrel approached with slow, deliberate steps. "We thought there had to be something remarkable about the boy responsible for his downfall, and yet... what a disappointment."

Harry hefted his bag in front of him as if it were a shield. "W-who are you talking about?"

"You'll learn soon enough." Quirrel's wand rose, faster than he could react. "Imperio."

Total contentedness washed over Harry, and he forgot all his worries, the bag slipping from his hands as tension left his body. He didn't even blink when Quirrel bent down to look him in the eye.

Satisfied with the result, the Defense professor unlocked the door and left the room. Harry followed after a beat—it just seemed like a good idea.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor where the professor opened the forbidden door with a sweep of his wand. He produced a harp from his robes and put a monstrous three-headed dog to sleep, then disappeared down a trapdoor. Harry mimicked the action without quailing. Quirrel decelerated his fall with a silent spell, before collapsing the entry behind them.

They passed two rooms, one with keys fluttering in the air like butterflies, and another with a massive set of wizarding chess which the professor blasted apart. Harry's mind made note of everything, but there were no emotions attached to the events.

The third room had an array of bottles on a table, and a doorway blocked by a curtain of black fire. Here, he felt the first hint of unease when he saw Quirrell consult with his turban before he was given one of the potions to drink. Nevertheless, they advanced through the flame barrier without being any worse for the wear.

The pair found themselves in a vast, cold chamber lit by sparsely placed torches. Harry's eyes drifted towards its center, where a tall mirror stood upon a stone dais.

Quirrel was beside it in a blink of an eye, murmuring reverently as he caressed its ornate frame. He read the inscription, then stepped back to look into the mirror itself, staying motionless until a sharp hiss made him flinch and resume his examination. He began rapping the mirror with his wand, his movements becoming more frantic with each passing minute.

"Incompetent fool," said the same disembodied voice Harry had heard in the previous room. "Use the boy."

Quirrel spared him a glance, and Harry's feet carried him forward without conscious volition. The professor relinquished his place in front of the mirror, and Harry found himself staring at his own reflection. Then he blinked, and the image changed.

"Well, Potter? What do you see?" Quirrel asked impatiently.

"I get super rich and build myself a wizard's tower," he answered without thinking, "and I become immortal, and get a harem, and the girls make me delicious food, and..." He covered his face, still peeking through the gaps between his fingers. "Y-you aren't supposed to show this stuff to kids!"

"Tell me what you see!" Quirrel snapped.

"Don't make me say it! It's lewd, too lewd!"

"Your spell is already losing its hold," the voice from the turban said. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

"No! Please, master, give me more time—"

Harry tore his eyes away from the enchanted mirror to see Quirrel clutch his head as his turban unraveled on its own, revealing a disfigured face underneath. It appeared to be melting, burrowing deeper under Quirrel's bald scalp. Harry recoiled in horror.

"Cease your pointless resistance," the face hissed. "You have one last task to perform for Lord Voldemort."

The words shocked Harry into action and he bolted towards the exit, Quirrel's screams spurring him on. He came to a halt in front of the dark flames, steeling himself to jump through as their heat prickled his skin—until he was hauled backwards by an invisible force, landing on his back next to the dais. He reached for his wand, but ropes conjured from thin air wrapped around his body and trapped his arms.

"I won't have you dying just yet," Voldemort's sibilant voice spoke through Quirrel's mouth. One half of the man's face was contorted in pain, while the other held a crooked sneer, a single eye glowing red. Harry winced at the jab of pain in his scar.

The monster turned to the mirror, and the side that was Quirrel's went slack-jawed. Voldemort's half-sneer widened and he moved the professor's wand in a convoluted pattern, not quite touching the glass. At its end, he tapped the mirror once, creating ripples like on the surface of a puddle.

Mouth agape, Harry watched Voldemort plunge his arm inside the mirror, then withdraw it with a triumphant cry, holding a small red stone in his palm. He lifted his prize into the air and laughed.

Harry whimpered. The stereotypical evil laughter turned out to be terrifying when one was lying powerless at the villain's feet.

The left arm of Quirrel's body, lax at his side until now, twitched. Voldemort went quiet and looked down, both eyes burning crimson. Harry's breath caught in his throat.

"Harry Potter. My nemesis." Voldemort stepped off the dais, clutching the Stone in one hand and his wand in another. "It is a shame we don't have time to talk—but I know all about you already, do I not? Silly child, spilling your guts to the harmless, timid Professor Quirrel."

"Dumbledore," Harry gasped, "Dumbledore will stop you."

Voldemort's sneer faltered. "I sent that fool on a wild-goose chase. By the time he returns, I shall be long gone. And you, Potter..." He flicked his wand, sending Harry skidding across the flagstones. "You will serve as the means of my rebirth."

Even knowing it was useless, Harry struggled against the restraints. "What do you mean? You took over Quirrel's body, didn't you?"

"This is but a temporary vessel... one that is about to expire." Voldemort strode up to him and aimed the wand he'd seen in Quirrel's hand so many times downwards.

A scintillating purple ribbon shot from the tip, slicing open Harry's left forearm. Blood splattered on the ropes, the floor, everywhere. He screamed.

The shriek was cut short when Voldemort waved his wand again. "Do not fear the pain," he said, meeting Harry's eyes briefly. "It means you are still alive."

It felt like his arm was on fire. He yelled, wailed, begged, but no sound escaped his throat. Paying him no heed, Voldemort took three steps forward and lowered the Philosopher's Stone to the floor before returning his attention to Harry.

The boy flinched, but no more curses were fired his way. Rather, the blood that had been pooling underneath him flowed upwards into the air, forming a swirling crimson sphere.

"There is poetic justice in using your blood, don't you think?" Voldemort's eyes were aglow, his expression rapturous. "Watch closely. You will have the honor of witnessing my resurrection."

He turned his back to Harry and flourished his wand as though conducting an orchestra. Multiple streams shot out of the sphere and towards the Stone, circling it for a few seconds before splashing on the floor in a pattern that was anything but random.

Lifting his head as high as the ropes allowed, Harry saw an intricate design take shape. Five concentric circles appeared, then occult symbols were painted between their boundaries, glimmering with eerie sanguine light. The sphere gradually shrank to nothing, and the blood spurting out of his mutilated forearm with every heartbeat drained uselessly onto the floor.

For a time, Voldemort contemplated his handiwork in silence. Then he thrust his wand forward and began chanting in a guttural language that evoked images of something savage and primal.

Harry twisted and wriggled, then sank down to the floor panting for breath. His head was heavy; the pain in his arm no longer excruciating, reduced to a dull throb. He wondered if that meant he was about to die.

It was surreal. Even though he'd seen and experienced magic for himself, the wizarding world and its whimsical nature still occasionally felt like an elaborate joke. The thought that his life could end here seemed absurd—yet here he was, being used as fuel for a Dark ritual.

He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his stomach, the accompanying stab of pain clearing the fog in his mind. The magical circle glowed, pulsing in tune with Voldemort's chanting. The Philosopher's Stone floated in the middle, liquefied and shaped into a heart with blood vessels growing outwards. The sight was mesmerizing.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and fought the bindings again. Was it only his imagination, or were they a little looser this time? There was no way Voldemort would make a mistake like that, and yet...

Gasping with pain, he strained mightily until the blood-soaked ropes slackened. He wrenched his unbroken hand free, then braced himself and liberated the injured one. Even this small effort left him dizzy.

He fumbled about for his wand, but it wasn't in his pockets. The ropes around his legs were still tight, and wiggling out of them sapped the last vestiges of his strength. He blinked to clear the tears in his eyes.

Oblivious to the struggle behind him, Voldemort continued his incantations. Perfectly formed lungs now surrounded the heart, like an illustration from a book on human anatomy, and the rest of the internal organs were beginning to develop.

Harry shivered, heart pounding in his ears. Voldemort was about to gain a body using his life as a sacrifice. He was helpless and beaten. He was going to die.

"No," he mouthed, terror clenching his gut, "not like this."

Screaming without a sound, he extended his arms forward and pushed with his legs. Slowly, he began crawling, leaving bloody palm prints on the cool stone. He had to fight for every inch, but his objective wasn't far. Harry didn't know what he was going to do once he reached Voldemort, but reach him he would.

Those few yards was the longest distance he'd surmounted in his life. By the time Voldemort was an arm's length away, black spots were swimming in Harry's vision, and the chanting was building up to a crescendo.

Growling, Harry lifted his trembling hand and grabbed the Dark Lord's ankle.

Voldemort's voice wavered, but he persisted with the spell even as he glared and tried to shake Harry off. Suddenly, the furious expression on his face was replaced with one of agony, and he shrieked and fell, smearing a part of the circle.

Harry gaped at his bloody palm, then at Voldemort who was frantically casting something on his charred leg. Acting on a hunch, he staggered forward and smacked the Dark Lord across the face.

They both screamed, terrible pain erupting in Harry's forehead as he held on. Voldemort tried to push him off, but his palms burned on contact with Harry's skin. He raised his wand, but Harry used his mangled arm to slap it out of his blistered fingers.

Whatever peculiar power Harry's touch held, it was potent and deadly. Quirrel's face shriveled and cracked, and his body went limp. Voldemort's scream continued for several seconds as a pitch-black shade emerged from the smoldering corpse and flew away.

Harry collapsed on his back, gulping down air. The damaged circle next to him pulsed irregularly, the half-formed construct in the middle melting like hot wax. Rather than fading, the symbols on the floor shone brighter and brighter, accompanied by a deep hum which resonated in his bones.

He had to get away, but his consciousness was fading and he couldn't move a muscle. Thus, Harry simply closed his eyes to block out the glow, which was becoming unbearable, and relaxed.

"I'm the... Eternal... Warlock," he wheezed. "I'll... live."

A blinding flash, and he knew no more.

Even though he was safe in his hospital bed, Harry's heart thumped as if he were still in that chamber. It was spine-chilling to think just how close he'd come to death.

"My aunt was right. You lied to me." His words were aimed at McGonagall, but he could see Dumbledore and Flitwick duck their heads as well.

"Mr. Potter... I'm truly sorry." McGonagall's face was pale and drawn. "There were suspicions, whispers—nothing more. We had no reason to believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wasn't gone for good."

Harry glared at her until she shifted in her chair. "I'm not sure I want to come back next year. I mean, magic is amazing, but..."

McGonagall looked like she was about to object, but the headmaster stalled her with a gesture. "No one is going to force you to attend Hogwarts against your will," he said. "Dropping out is not a decision to be undertaken lightly, however. Your wand would be confiscated by the Ministry and you would be sent back to the Muggle world. Your home has protections that will ensure your safety, but only until you reach your majority."

"Once you're seventeen," Flitwick added, noticing his confusion.

Harry sighed. "I'd be untrained and powerless. Can't escape fate, I guess."

Dumbledore froze. "Fate, Harry?"

"It—it's nothing, sir." Confessing that he sometimes imagined himself to be the protagonist of a story wouldn't lead to anything good. "I just hope none of the professors have Voldemort growing out of their head next year."

McGonagall pursed her lips. "This is hardly an appropriate subject for a joke."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now, now, Minerva. I am afraid the fault lies squarely with me. I never expected Voldemort"—the other professors shuddered—"to take over one of our teachers. The enemy has played us all like a fiddle... except for you, Harry. You have thwarted his plans magnificently."

"Is that what you call it? Thwarted?" Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "I followed his orders like a puppet. He could've told me to stop breathing, and I'd have done it without a second thought."

Flitwick spoke up. "You're only eleven, Harry. There's no way you could have resisted the most powerful Dark wizard of our time."

He gritted his teeth. "It wasn't a question of resisting—it was like I wanted to follow him! How can you even fight something like that?"

Flitwick raised his hands in a placating gesture and shot Dumbledore a look. The older man nodded.

"There is an obscure discipline called Occlumency used to protect one's mind against external influences," the headmaster began. "While originally devised as a counterpart to Legilimency—the magic of thought-reading, if you will—it has a welcome side effect of helping defend against spells such as the Imperius you were exposed to."

"Teach me," Harry demanded. "I don't want to be controlled like that ever again."

Dumbledore sighed. "Therein lies the rub. True Occlumency can only be taught by practical means—namely, repeated Legilimency attacks which you are much too young to handle."

"Too young?" Harry's voice cracked. "But not too young to get cursed by a teacher you hired!"

"Do calm yourself, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sternly. Harry's ire rose, but Dumbledore spoke before he could say something he'd regret.

"Subjecting a developing mind to such a brutal process is out of the question," he said with a note of finality. "There are nevertheless some basic mental exercises that are prerequisite to Occlumency. These are similar to Muggle meditation, and few children ever have the patience—"

"I'll do it," Harry said, vowing to practice religiously. Not being in control of his own body, his own mind, had been even scarier than bleeding half to death.

"I'll be happy to prepare the materials for you," Professor Flitwick said. "I was a bit of a duelist back in my youth, and Occlumency was a useful technique to know."

"Good," he murmured, slumping on his pillow. Arguing with three professors had been exhausting.

Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder. "You should rest, Harry. I shall come by tomorrow."

True to his word, the headmaster visited him the next day, shortly after breakfast which was delivered to Harry's bed. He was already itching to leave as there was nothing physically wrong with him, but Madam Pomfrey kept him 'for observation'.

Despite his restlessness, they ended up talking for nearly an hour. Dumbledore expounded his not-so-successful idea of hiding Flamel's Stone in the Mirror of Erised so it could only be withdrawn by someone with the purest intentions. Harry couldn't resist expressing his disbelief that a person who wouldn't want the riches and immortality even existed—not that it mattered anymore, with the Stone consumed in the explosion that followed the failed ritual.

The conversation then turned to his parents. By the time Dumbledore finished explaining why Harry's touch affected Voldemort the way that it did, the boy's vision was blurry with tears.

"The power of love... that's pretty lame," he said, sniffling.

Dumbledore smiled and scrutinized the package of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans on the bedside cabinet, giving him the opportunity to wipe his eyes with a sleeve. It was only after he'd bid him goodbye that Harry discovered that all the yellow beans had mysteriously vanished from the bag.

Madam Pomfrey came by after the headmaster's departure and performed one last check-up. Harry tamped down his impatience, figuring he owed the nurse his life.

"Thanks for patching me up," he said after she pronounced him fit to leave. "I don't know what happened after I passed out, but it must've been bad."

"I only cleaned you up, but you're welcome all the same," she replied kindly.

He frowned. "What about the cut? And the explosion?"

"I beg your pardon?" Madam Pomfrey looked a little miffed when Harry began rolling up his left sleeve. "You didn't have a single injury, Mr. Potter—it was the first thing I checked for. The blood, as I understand, belonged to poor Quirinus."

Harry examined his forearm, finding nothing but healthy, unblemished skin. "Huh... fancy that."