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alt_potterverse

Dataset card Data Studio Files
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He was staring up at Vernon, the knife he'd been chopping onions with lying forgotten at his feet. Vernon had his hand raised in a familiar pose, ready for the first slap in what was sure to be a major beating.
Harry had been hit many times before, and each time it happened, he'd hoped someone would stop it. He'd hope a neighbor would hear his cries. He'd hope a policeman would stop his uncle. He'd hope a teacher would notice his bruises. He'd hope someone from his real family—his parents, miraculously alive, or a long-lost u...
But it had never happened.
And so now, as he watched Vernon's hand descend, he hoped for something different.
As he braced for the blow, as he closed his eyes and cringed, he wished, with all his heart, that he could somehow stop Vernon, somehow hurt him even worse than he was about to hurt Harry...
The shock of the hit never came. Instead, Vernon bellowed again—but this time in pain.
Harry opened his eyes and looked up. The big man was screaming, clutching at the vegetable knife that was protruding from his palm. Blood was dribbling down the blade; the bits of onion still clinging to it were turning red.
How had this happened?
I did that, Harry realized with a start. I wanted to stop him, and I did.
And as Vernon raised his other fist for a punch, as Harry wanted to shove him back against the wall—and somehow, to his astonishment, did—as Petunia came in and screamed, as Dudley lunged for him only to be desperately restrained by his mother, as Harry delivered his ultimatum—"You will not touch me again"—and Vernon a...
You can't count on anyone to protect you but you.
It was only a couple weeks later that Harry came up with his second rule.
Harry had been fast asleep when a pain in his gut awoke him. His eyes flew open. It was dark, but he could see a figure silhouetted in the door of his cupboard.
It was Vernon. He had a cricket bat.
Harry gasped and wheezed—Vernon had knocked the breath out of him—and Vernon raised the bat for another blow—
Harry wanted to stop him as hard as he could and suddenly the middle third of the bat was a column of burning sawdust. Vernon overbalanced as he swung the handle back and he fell backwards, only to be hit in the face on the way down by the top third of the bat. He went down like a sack of bricks and didn't get up again...
And as Harry caught his breath, as he waited for Vernon to come to, as he thought of a way to keep this from happening again—he would demand Dudley's second bedroom, he decided, and a set of locks strong enough to keep the Dursleys out at night, and maybe a small knife for him to carry in case Vernon needed another les...
When you have power, use it to get things you'll need when you don't.
It was another two years before Harry came up with his third rule.
Things had gotten much better for him. Vernon had tried to attack him one more time, but Harry had not only delivered another demand—he and Petunia would feed him properly or else—he'd also said that the next attack would see him no longer doing any chores.
That had put a stop to it.
Vernon didn't hit him anymore; every time his anger was close to boiling over, he glanced down at the matching scars on his palm and the back of his hand and deflated. Petunia didn't shout at him when he didn't do a chore to her satisfaction, and even let him eat his share at meals. Even Dudley had gotten the message t...
Harry had also gotten Vernon to get him a new knife of some sort for each birthday and Christmas since then, just so he wouldn't forget.
Of course, that didn't mean everything was perfect. It seemed that, since the Dursleys could no longer beat the "unnaturalness" out of him (he assumed they meant his ability to change things by wanting them, whatever it was), they were going to try to sweat it out of him instead. And with summer in full swing, there wa...
So Harry was outside weeding Aunt Petunia's azaleas when he saw Ellie scamper up a tree across the street.
Ellie was a short girl with a birthmark on her cheek who lived at Number Seven; he'd occasionally noticed her on Privet Drive or in his class. Only occasionally, though, because she seemed to have a gift for not being noticed. Teachers almost never called on her, and other students rarely spoke to her. She could sneak ...
Harry suspected he was the only person who realized this; years of living in Vernon and Dudley's house had taught him to see everything around him. He was a little bit jealous, to tell the truth—that talent for not being noticed could have saved him some trouble with the Dursleys.
That skill seemed to have failed her today, though, and an exposed Ellie was always a target. Today she looked even smaller than usual; she was in tears, her bright yellow sundress grass-stained and dirty. And even as Harry watched, Dudley and three of his friends surrounded the tree and started shouting up at her.
"Awww, is little Patches scared?"
"Does she want her mommy?"
Harry remembered all the times he'd been tormented, by these boys and others, and hoped someone would come for him...
Harry brushed the soil off his hands and started crossing the street, reaching into the pocket of his baggy hand-me-down trousers to grasp his favorite Christmas present yet.
"Oh, look," Dudley's friend Piers said, "Scarhead is coming to rescue Patches—"
Harry swiftly drew the throwing knife and flung it in Dudley's direction.
Harry had pretty good aim, he'd discovered after he got the set of three throwing knives. But when he guided the blade with his mind, wanted it to fly to where he was aiming, it was nearly perfect.
And, just as he'd wanted it to, the blade flew right past Dudley's head, just barely clipping his ear, before embedding itself an inch into the tree trunk with a twang.
The handle quivered. Dudley reached for his ear; his fingers came away with just a few drops of blood. The other boys stared at Harry with eyes wide as saucers. Dudley turned, his face white as a sheet.
Harry was already holding another knife by the blade, glaring at them with cold green eyes. "You will not bother her again," Harry told them.
Dudley pissed himself, and the four boys ran.
"You can come down now," Harry called up, and Ellie dropped down to the ground.
"That was brilliant," she said in a quiet little voice. "Thank you."
Harry shrugged and pulled the knife out of the tree, wiping the few spots of Dudley's blood off on the inside of his shirt. "They used to do that to me," he said. "I couldn't let them do it to you, too."
She smiled uncertainly. "Could—could you show me how to do that?"
Harry glanced at the sun and sighed. "I have to get back to my chores, I think..."
"Maybe I can help," Ellie said.
Harry was startled. He looked at Ellie for a moment.
What was her game here?
At length, though, he finally said, "Sure."
She beamed, and they crossed back to Number Four's lawn.
And as they knelt down in the dirt together, as Harry taught her which plants were weeds, as Ellie wrinkled her nose and made a "blech!" sound when he told her what was in fertilizer, as they finished in record time and headed off together for a knife lesson, Harry Potter formulated his third rule.
You can get help from people who need help.
Harry and Ellie became friends over the next few years. He showed her how to throw knives and stones and other objects with pinpoint accuracy, and though she didn't seem to have his knack for making things happen by wanting them, she got pretty good at it. She reciprocated by showing him how to hide in plain sight—how ...
Harry found others who needed help from him, too. Jack, a tall, strong boy with an unfortunate stutter, showed them some of the karate he'd learned but was forbidden to use against anyone who didn't throw a punch first—how to fall without being hurt, how to kick and punch effectively, how to dodge and block the clumsy ...
Harry was ten years old when Ellie's family moved away. She confessed her fear that she wouldn't find anybody to be friends with in her new home, so Harry told her to do what he did: find the people who could use her help and befriend them. She thought that it sounded like a good plan. They promised to write, but withi...
And so it was that when a letter, addressed to "Mr. H. Potter" in emerald ink on yellow parchment, fell through the mail slot at Number Four, Harry at first thought it was a special birthday card from Ellie. It turned out to be something else entirely.
Five days ago, Harry had received a very strange letter informing him that he had been accepted at a "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".
There were three things about this letter that were strange. The first was that, so far as he knew, he had never applied to such a school. The second was that, so far as he knew, wizards and witches weren't real. And the third (he'd realized, once he'd penned a reply to this Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall askin...
No sooner had he wondered where he would get an owl, though, than one tapped on his bedroom window. Apparently Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had anticipated this problem.
A flurry of correspondence later, and Professor McGonagall (as she'd told him to address her) had arranged for someone to meet with Harry that Saturday to explain the situation.
Vernon and Petunia had not been happy about this, but Harry had pointed out, as he twirled the F-S Fighting Knife in his hand that he'd gotten last Christmas, that they would be even less happy if they had less than twenty fingers between them.
And so Harry found himself coming down the stairs when, at twelve o'clock on the dot, the doorbell rang. Harry opened the door and was greeted by the oddest-looking person he'd ever met.
The man was tall and thin and very old. He wore a lavender suit, shoes with buckles instead of laces, a tie spangled with stars that Harry could swear were moving, and white hair and a beard that both reached his belt. Keen blue eyes seemed to X-ray him from behind half-moon glasses.
"Good afternoon. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. It's a pleasure to finally see you again, Harry."
Several things tried to come out of Harry's mouth at once, but Ellie's most important lesson came back to him, as it always did at times like this: Always look like you know what you're doing. So he quickly put together most of the things he wanted to say.
"It's nice to meet you. Come in—is it Headmaster? Professor? Or one of those titles from the letter—Mugwump, I think?"
"'Professor" is more than adequate," Professor Dumbledore said. "When you have as many titles as I do, there is always a danger that you'll forget to answer to one of them."
Which only strengthened Harry's desire to say the one thing he hadn't included in that sentence—are you for real?
Harry glanced towards the living room, then back at Dumbledore. He'd been planning to talk in there, but one look at the man and he realized that if Vernon came in, he'd either fly into a rage or have a stroke. And while it'd be interesting to see how a wizard handled such things, either one would probably delay their ...
"We can speak in my bedroom," Harry decided. "This way."
The two of them climbed the stairs—Professor Dumbledore was very spry despite his age—and came to Harry's door. Harry undid the lock with practiced ease, not noticing Dumbledore's curious look, and led him in.
The furniture in Harry's room was shabby; the mattress was lumpy, the desk dented, and the wardrobe didn't close properly. Besides the furniture, the only objects in the room were a few shelves of books and a dart board that was so thoroughly thrashed, Dumbledore would probably never guess Harry had wanted it fixed at ...
Harry realized he only had one chair, but just as he was turning to offer it to Dumbledore, the older man drew a stick from inside his jacket and flicked it. Instantly, a cushy red armchair was standing in the empty space before the door.
Harry gaped. Dumbledore chuckled as he settled into the armchair. "I do so enjoy seeing the wonder on a child's face the first time they see magic. Alas, I haven't introduced anyone myself since I became Headmaster."
"Erm, right," Harry said. "I suppose that answers my first question. So, these things we can do...they're magic?"
"They are indeed," Dumbledore said. "What sorts of things can you do, Harry?"
"Nothing like that, I mean, that was—" Harry realized he was babbling and took a deep breath. Always look like you know what you're doing. He also realized he was still standing, and moved to sit down. "I can move things by wanting them to move. If I throw something, I can make it hit where I want it to go. I can repai...
"Did you really?" Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows had risen far above the rims of his glasses. "That's quite the list, young man. And without a wand?"
"A...a wand, Professor?"
Dumbledore showed Harry his stick. Up close, Harry could see it was much more than a strip of dark wood; it was intricately carved, with everything from eldritch sigils to what looked like clusters of berries etched along its length. "A wand is a wizard's tool, Harry. It focuses and amplifies your magic, allowing you t...
"You didn't use an...incantation when you created that chair, did you, sir?"
Dumbledore smiled. "You're a sharp one, aren't you? I am powerful enough that I can perform many spells silently. You probably will be too, Harry. The skills you mentioned—moving and guiding and repairing objects—are, though simple compared to conjuring a chair, far beyond what most wizards can do unaided. At Hogwarts,...
"As for the other skill you mentioned—speaking to snakes—I feel I must warn you. A person who can speak to snakes is called a Parselmouth, and wizards and witches have many unfounded superstitions about such people. I would not mention it to anyone you don't already trust."
Harry nodded, then paused for a moment. "Professor...if there are all these magical people in the world, why haven't I ever heard of them?"
"We hide ourselves, Harry. We have a law, the International Statute of Secrecy, that requires us to keep our existence from the Muggles."
"Non-magical people. No wizard or witch may reveal our existence to any Muggle, save close family members. We keep from performing magic in front of them, and we hide our buildings and communities from them with magic. When one of them does manage to see something magical, we erase their memory of the incident and send...
"Different wizards have different answers, Harry. Some say that the Muggles would pester us for magical solutions to their problems if they knew of us. Others"—he frowned here, as though he didn't like these others—"claim that Muggles are somehow beneath us, and that we oughtn't to associate with their sort."
"What do you think, sir?"
"I think," Dumbledore said, "that there are not very many wizards and witches in the world. Not one person in a thousand could use a wand to so much as make sparks, Harry. And only the most formidable of those could stand up to a single Muggle soldier, let alone an army. It is no coincidence that the Statute was introd...
Harry decided to be very careful where he used his magic.
"Fortunately, the spells we hide ourselves with care not what technology the Muggles use; if they cannot see a building in person, they cannot see it through a camera. And the charms that expunge records on paper work just as well against their remarkable thinking machines. Maintaining our secrecy requires a great deal...
"There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked.
"Oh, yes. In Britain, the Minister and the directors of the various departments are appointed by the Wizengamot, which also passes laws and tries court cases. At the worldwide level, the International Confederation of Wizards settles disputes between magical governments and ensures everyone is enforcing secrecy."
And Dumbledore seemingly held important positions in both of those governments—unless "supreme mugwump" meant "court jester". "Sir...why are you here? Surely you have more important things to do than talk to an ordinary ten-year-old...wizard?"
The word felt right, Harry realized as he voiced it. He was a wizard.
Dumbledore sighed. "Alas, Harry, I'm afraid you are no ordinary ten-year-old wizard."
And so Dumbledore told Harry of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters and their genocidal reign of terror.
"Though few truly wanted Voldemort to win, Harry, even fewer had the courage to stand against him. James and Lily Potter, your parents, were among them. Your father was a tremendous duelist, tricky and creative with preternatural reflexes, and your mother was one of the most powerful witches I'd ever met, and matched i...
"It was that third duel, I believe, which brought them to his attention. A wizard who had been friends with Lily once, before he took the Dark Mark, warned me that the Potters were being targeted for death. In other circumstances the Potters would have treated this as an opportunity, perhaps set an ambush—but Lily was ...
Harry furiously blinked away his tears.
"Instead, they went into hiding behind the strongest protections we could devise. But it was not enough. A traitor allowed Voldemort past the protections, and at nine o'clock in the evening on Halloween 1981, he blasted open the front door to your house.