9Disclaimer: I own nothing save for the OCs & the plot. Characters and settings are owned by J.K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin. Some aspects and plot devises may belong to Bethesda Studios, and some inspirations may be drawn from J.R. Tolkien in the future. Anything else will be mentioned as it appears on a chapter-by-chapter basis. If I miss anything, please inform me & I will correct the disclaimer as needed.
Thoughts
-Thought-speak-
"Spirits, Daedra, Higher non-human entities, Vampire Lords(transformed)"
~Parseltoungue~
"Normal Speech"
"Valyrian"
"High Valyrian"
[Arias (castings of big spells/ritual words)]
Note: I'm not actively planning on using allof these languages/speech mode, but I thought it would be better to have them here.
Chapter 1 : Prologue
Year 3 at the Dursleys:
Harry Potter was a rather unusual boy. His skin was quite pale, even for a young englishman, and clear of any marks. His hair was naturally messy in a way that seemed intentional, with a pitch black tone that drew attention to his poison-green eyes. He had a very faded, barely-even-there scar on his forehead. He thought sometimes that it looked like a bolt of lightning, the sort that he saw the other child in the house draw with his crayons. He was currently scrubbing the pots and pans that had been left after he'd made dinner for the people he lived with. He refused to actually consider them family.
His memories were blurry and faded, but he could catch scattered images of two people looking down at him, smiling. He remembered the one with blood-colored hair carrying his small form close. The black-haired on laughing and playing with him. That was family. Not whatever...this situation was. He just...knew that much. He didn't know where that surety came from, but he drew comfort and strength from it anyway. It was often the only solace he could find at all.
Year 6 at the Dursleys:
Harry was still unusually pale, despite long hours spent outside in the garden had unusually messy hair, strikingly green eyes, though now they had a small ring of amber-yellow around his iris, and as he had for years now, wore shockingly baggy and worn-out clothes. The only difference was that he was taller now, surprisingly so, since he knew that his...wardens barely fed him enough to be considered decent for a small dog, let alone a growing boy. Yet somehow, his vertical growth had not been stymied by his lack of nutrition, nor had his build become slight; He would be both tall and broad in build once fully grown. Something his relatives were not pleased about, he knew, and their obvious frustration was something which he took some satisfaction from
As he'd grown, he began to realize that he noticed much more that he really should have been able to. Somehow, he could smell when someone was lying, or becoming ill. There were a myriad of other scents that he'd no idea of the meanings of, and he knew it would take time to learn. He'd also begun to notice moments in time where some sort of...other influence would try and make him….he didn't know the word, but had he the vocabulary, he would have said submissive, a pale-grey cloud in his mind, whispering about his lack of self-worth. He quickly learnt to recognize the feeling, and to ignore it. Whenever he did so, he pretended to follow its 'lead' while trying to identify where it came from. So far he'd had no luck, though he only felt when at Privet Drive.
Currently, he was sitting on the front stoop of No.4 Privet Drive, scratching the ears of "Aunt" Marge's' prized bulldog, a great brute of a beast named "Ripper". He actually looked forward to Marge's visits, if only because, out of sight of the Dursley's, she was actually quite reasonable. When asked why, she told him thus, "When I was just getting my first set of breeding dogs, a man came to me. He said he'd heard about what I was doing from Vernon, and that his family had a breed of dogs all their own; an old line of war-hounds, he said. He wondered if perhaps I'd be interested in taking a few pairs, and trying to start a separate line of them. 'Good to separate the blood a bit, keep it from growing stale.'" Marge had paused, lost in the memory. "...So I told the man that I'd have to have a look at them first; make sure I had enough room and money for their care, as well as the right kind of knowledge to train them. The man nodded, and said he'd be back at the end of the week with the Kennel's prize male, just for me to get an idea. I agreed, and he left. Later that week, the man came back, and he brought the beast with him." Marge shivered. "To this day, just the memory of that hound gives me the shivers." She explained. " He was a monster. Almost a full meter at the shoulder, and at least one-and-a half feet across the shoulder. All muscle and bone, with pitch-black fur, and eyes that were a rather striking shade of red-brown. Like dried blood. And it was a smart beasty too, that one. Looked at me, like it was sizing me up." She stopped again, clearly lost in the memory. "Don't misunderstand me boy. He was a terrifying hound to be sure. Short hair along the upper legs and sides, longer and shaggier along his paws and back. Actual claws, and a set of teeth to shame a lion. But oh, what a beautiful beast he was. I agreed as soon as laid eyes on him."
Harry had nodded, a small frown on his face. "But what does this have to do with how you behave when the Du-Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are out with Dudley?"
Marge smirked. "I know my brother boy. And I know your aunt. I knew you parents rather more than either of those two idiots realize. After all, that big black beast of a hound was bred by your Father's Grandfather, who you just happen to be named for."
Harry's eyes bugged out. "What?" he asked, stunned. "My name is just Harry." He said.
Marge shook her head. "Not a chance in hell it is boy. Not a common name at all. After all, what kind of Noble has their legal name as 'Harry'? (Here Harry couldn't help but think of the Prince and chuckle inwardly.) No, you, boy, are named Harkon. Harkon Iacobus Potter. Or Harry James Potter for those who aren't fond of the Old Latin...or whatever bloody language 'Harkon' comes from."
Harry-Harkon- could only sit, stunned at the information he'd learned. It proved to be too much to parse for a child his age, and that last thing he remembered was Marge's jowled-face wobbling with restrained laughter as she watched him pass out in a dead faint.
Year 9 at the Dursleys:
Harkon(who was annoyingly still called 'boy', 'freak', or 'Harry') spent a great deal of time in the library. He'd made use of the computer and the rather helpful Librarian to try and find out more of his family. He'd made little progress, until he came across a book detailing several old families from almost 4 centuries ago. The book itself was fairly recent, but the list of family names had what he was looking for. The Ancient and Indomitable House of Pitio, which, he read had been warped and misrecorded over so long to simply, 'Potter', was a house that had its roots in ancient Greece, even before the rise of Rome, and indeed where some of said nations' founding fathers. He had no way to actually link himself or either of his parents to that legacy, but it certainly had fit what Marge had told him, and from what he knew of Greco-Roman facial features, he certainly had the right sort of nose, and it would help explain the rather dark curls he had on his head. Furthermore, he'd made a rather interesting discovery concerning the root of the word 'Pition' from which Pitio was derived. Apparently from Pition, came Python, as in the one slain by Apollo: He'd since found serpents to be rather interesting conversationalists, surprisingly enough, which had served as reasonable evidence of two thing in his mind. The first, that magic was real, & that there might be more to the name of Pition than history might suggest, and the second was that someone, somewhere was trying to affect his psyche with magic, and probably against his interests. (Nevermind that it was possible that his family had affected the entirety of the English Language.)
That, of course, was all several years ago now. At the moment, young Harkon was reading a rather good book about sleight-of-hand tricks and illusions while also reflecting on whether such things should be easy to learn or not.. He'd continued to notice things over the years, things that were...unusual. He had exceptional senses and reflexes. His vision was sharp, if a bit sensitive to light. His skin remained pale, regardless how long he spent outside. He mended quickly, and found that he was quite a bit stronger than anyone his age should be, though he didn't make use of it, preferring to downplay it as much as he could (though he did begin to exercise whenever he had the time,space and privacy to do so.) The outside influence that tried to make him submissive and docile had continued, and there had been many time where he'd found his mind clouded; more that could be accounted for normally. It was only his own habit during his time alone beneath the stairs that had allowed him to notice the difference. The cloudiness had the same sort of feel to it as the force that tried to make him submit. There had even been one that had tried to make him angry and impulsive. As usual, he went along with it, something in the back of his mind warning him away.
He also found that he had to keep a firm grip on his temper even before that...force had interfered. He often entertained what would probably be considered ultra-violent scenarios concerning those he did not like, sometimes without even realizing it. He'd played along with the outside impulses, the badgering and abuse the Dursleys piled on. He kept his head down, and remembered the times he'd been able to speak with Aunt Marge-the only Dursley he actually considered family. He'd listened and learned how to practical, how to be pragmatic, and most importantly, to never forget a slight or an insult. He shook his head, pulled out a worn-out deck of playing cards and began to practice his sleight of hand. Never know, someday, this stuff might be useful, He thought.
Year 10 at the Dursleys:
Today, Harkon was 11 years old. He noticed that Petunia was...heightened. Worried...no, tense...about something. He had long since honed his...ability to affect things around him without touching them. He was quite sure his jailers knew about it, or at least his potential for it, and that was the reason they had raised him the way they had; Keeping in mind the constant pressure on his psyche from outside... And it all added up to a rather disquieting picture in his mind. Parents killed. I actually can remember that if I try. Alone with 'relatives' who hated said parents, and will therefore likely to hate me, or at least dislike and distrust. Never told about this; Marge likely doesn't know. Some sort of charms?Curses? Some kind of Geas? To make me less intelligent. Less focused. Easily ordered about. Controllable...Dominated. Harkon's rather frighteningly astute mind-especially given his age-could only come to one logical conclusion. A soldier. A loyal one. Unquestioning. Too selfless, too grateful to resist helping the one who 'saved' them. At the back of his mind he could feel part of himself cringe at how cold his thoughts were; He honestly couldn't bring himself to care. This was about his life. About one day being able to escape this dreary, cookie-cutter, cut-and-paste boring priso- Waitaminute...that ...that thought wasn't his. Scary. He thought. Who, or whatever was meddling about in this was almost aggravatingly pervasive. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.
He was well aware that all the only reason he was not in fact what the environment and effects had tried to make him into, was because he had matured mentally far more quickly than was normal. Something he was glad for, but wasn't certain of the reasons for. He ate his food quickly, knowing that Vernon would be telling him to get the mail, as usual, and that Dudley would steal his food as soon as he left the table. It wasn't long before his expectation was fulfilled.
"Dudley, get the mail." *
"Dad! Make the freak get it!" *
"Get the mail freak." *
"...Yes sir." *
Harkon stood, and headed to the door, moving with a habitual and entirely unconscious balance and ease that (unbeknownst to him) was one of the main reasons he unsettled his...relatives. He stooped to pick up the letters, and shuffled through them. Bills...Bills...Letter from Marge to Vernon...Letter to Vernon from...Violet Hammond?...I don't want to know. And a letter fo-...me? Harkon quickly stuffed the old-fashioned parchment letter under the door to his cupboard as he passed, covering it as a slip on his too-loose pants. I will check on that later. He returned to the kitchen, his face impassive as usual.
"The mail...Uncle."
" 'Bout time boy. What were you doing? Checking for letter bombs?" ** His...jailor laughed. Harry decided to toy with him.
" But of course uncle. What with that man in the colonies...the unabomber, I think they're calling him; One can't be too careful." He said lightly, in the kind of tone would use to speak of their favorite ice cream, or a favorite movie. He smirked inwardly as his ' Relatives' ' faces paled.
"Do you think you're being clever boy! To you room, NOW! Ungrateful-"
Not deigning to respond to this newest tirade, Harkon left the table and returned to his cupboard, all the while cackling to himself. Hook. Line. Sucker.
Harkon was undeniably smug as he read his letter by the dim light coming from underneath the doorway to his cupboard.
It read:
'HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
sets of plain work robes (black)
plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
pair of protective gloves (dragon-hide or similar)
winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS' ***
.
He couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face. Magic. That confirms the theory then, for now at least. Oh!, I have sooo many ideas!
Meanwhile, in an ancient and rather stately castle in the north of Scotland, a rather severe old woman, a hook-nosed man, and a positively ancient-seeming old goat all felt a rather chilling tingle spread down their spines.
The next few days where rather complicated. Harkon knew that whoever had placed him here under whatever enchantment or wards constantly tried to affect his mind would likely be keeping an eye on him. So he planned and considered his options. They will be expecting a helpless, spineless, vulnerable little whelp...but now I consider it, pressure doesn't only break. It also can refine. So then...a stubborn, untrusting, pragmatic and emotionally cold skeptic. If I wasn't aware of the actual direction the wards?...whatever; where trying to push me I'd be nervous. He chuckled. He wouldn't have to hide his nature at all. After all, given the environment he'd grown up in, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility for him to have grown up the way he had. And now, we wait. I think they should be sending someone along within the next few days to check. Now I think of it, "we await your owl"? What the hell does that mean?
As he had expected, not more that two days later, on Saturday, just after noon, there came a knock on the door.
"GET THE DOOR BOY!"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon."
Harkon opened the door an inch, peeking out with his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Looking back at him was a serious looking woman wearing a rather old fashioned Ladies suit, and a rather ostentatious sunhat. Just behind her was a Rough-looking behemoth of a man, 8-foot tall if he was an inch, and at least 500 lbs of muscle and hair, made bulkier by his rather...primitive clothing material.
"Hello? Who are you and what do you want?" He spoke before they could.
"Eh- Yes, Hello young man, my name is Minerva McGonagall, and my associate is Hagrid. We're here to speak to a Mr. Harry James Potter about his letter."
Harkon paused for a moment. He yelled out to his uncle, while raising one hand in a ' just a moment' gesture. "Just some salesman Uncle Vernon. I'll see them out while I get the trash."
"You better not try anything funny boy!"
"Yes Uncle." Familial interaction completed he turned back to the pair on the stoop and said "Listen, I've just gotten an excuse to get outside. Just a moment, and I'll meet out by the bins."
He didn't wait for a response, before closing the door & heading to the kitchen to gather up all the trash bags. He found the mismatched pair waiting with looks of confusion and concern respectively.
"Right then, I'll be blunt. You sent my letter?"
"Yes, I- wha- Your letter?"
Harkon simply stared deadpan and dry as the desert responded "Yeeesss. My letter. Addressed to Harry J. Potter, The Cupboard Under The Stairs, blah-blah-blah. My name, my bedroom, my letter. Do keep up would you? I don't exactly have a lot of time to talk. My questions are as follows: Magic is real? Did you check the address? Would you have done something about it? Will you do something about it? And finally, why should I agree to come, where will I get money for my equipment, as well as the equipment itself, and who the in the nine hells decided to leave me here with these pathetic, selfish, abusive FUCKING excuses for human beings!?" His list ended in a rasping growl that rang with such hatred and viciousness that the pair actually recoiled.
"M-Mr. Potter, I...have no Idea what is going on here, and would love to answer your questions but I really must insis-"
"That we go inside and talk with them? Not on your life. This is MY future, and MY time. Thus, MY concerns go first...Ma'am."
McGonagall paused, then gave in. "Very well. In order you asked, yes, no, as much as I was able, as much as I AM able, because it is where your parents went, along with many of your father's ancestors, your parents left you a trust vault among other things, Diagon Alley, and...Albus Too-many-last-names Dumbledore."
"First off, Diagon Alley? Diagonally? Second, Albus who? What exactly gives him the right, and I am going to want to see proof positive, in writing, in triplicate about that, because as you have no doubt noticed, this place? Not home. Never was, and never will be."
"But Harry!-" The large man began to bluster.
"No. I don't know who he is, or where he gets off playing around with my life, but I will not tolerate even an inch more that I must." Harkon interrupted. "Now, knowing the...Dursleys as I do, it may be best for me to simply leave and drop a letter behind, and find somewhere else to stay until the start of term. Is that doable, ?"
The stern-looking woman's face was turning a startling shade of red, and Harkon was concerned, right up until she burst out laughing. "Och, Laddie, I ken your meaning. Aye, I rather ken tha' we might be able tae arrange something."
Harkon smiled ( as much as he ever did, which most would call a smirk.) "Excellent. Shall we?"
"Aye laddie, we shall." McGonagall's tone was once more under control, but held an undertone of humor.