Tangents of History

The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, by Ladoga Wundu

There was a distinct disadvantage to outliving all your friends. Especially when you're almost eleven. Harry of Yanworth counted the days, a purely ritualistic action, he didn't really know when his birthday was, nor can he count beyond ten without taking off his shoes, (not that he wore any in the Summer; it was more comfortable with his feet out of his cousin's battered shoes.) Bloody flux, evil fire, ague and red plague had more or less wiped out half the population his age and more besides, but he didn't make it his business to notice that.

Granted, he didn't really know any of them well enough to really call them friends. He couldn't remember any distinct faces or match names to the smudged figures of his memory. His missing them was more of a longing for general company than for anyone of them in particular.

That was also how parents died, or so his Aunt Petunia told him. James and Lily Potter had caught some mysterious disease when Harry was still a baby and died of it. His mother had probably died of childbirth. It was odd to think his mother sacrificed herself for him, only to have bargained for her son such an existence. His parents had lived in a placed called Yanworth, where his father had made and sold pots, but there weren't any in use in the household. Harry didn't ask about it; Aunt Petunia didn't detested curiosity, especially from him, and it didn't do to cross his aunt too often in one day. He had been excluded from enough meals to know at least that.

"Boy!"

Death's lieutenant, however, didn't summon his cousin Dudley, who had caught it three years ago. His weight must have cushioned his fall. The mysterious disease had burned off some of his size and left him with a face scarred with small crater-like marks the size of wheat grains.

"Mother wants you!"

Harry kept very still on the roof. His hands clutched the straw thatching tightly, trying to hold in the restive urge to move.

He sneaked a glance at his cousin. Though he was the same age as Harry, Dudley was much more robust. Like just about every other boy, Dudley had knightly aspirations, but that was far beyond his grasp as it was beyond Harry's. Being the only son of clerk, Dudley had no more noble blood in him than the nettles growing by the field.

"Harry! Come out or else-" Dudley never finished his threats. Harry had always put it down to stupidity, but that doesn't diminish the dramatic effect of the threat left hanging unfinished in the air between them.

Dudley had never thought to look upwards before and had no reason to start, but Harry was still nervous. As quietly as possible, he snuggled deeper into the hay. Harry like roofs; they were the safest place he knew. Every time he was chased by Dudley as his little following of equally unpleasant boys, Harry would scramble up the nearest building and burrow himself into the thatching.

There were a series of heavy footfalls. Harry braced himself; Dudley had given up. That could only mean on thing-

"Harry!" came his Aunt Petunia's shrill voice. "Harry! Chop some firewood. Vernon'll be back from Yarlingham tonight. Harry? Harry!"

Harry groaned inwardly. His Uncle Vernon was the clerk of the Sheriff of Surrishyre. He had been collecting various dues from Yarlingham for his lord. His temper had been darkening as royal reforms closed off various profitable loopholes in the law. Despite not even being remotely holy, Uncle Vernon was once a qualified cleric - but then about one in every fifty men were qualified clerics. Previously, being part of the church guaranteed a sanctuary from any criminal persecution as judicial courts were church-run. King Henry had replaced these courts with his own and all clerics were demoted to laymen.

"I know you can hear me, boy. I'm leaving the axe out. Finish the pile before sunset!" screaked Aunt Petunia.

Harry waited for Aunt Petunia leave. He counted thirty seven pulses of his wrist. Last time it was forty five; Aunt Petunia's patience is being weathered away. Then again, Harry's counting abilities were questionable.

When all was quiet, Harry climbed down from the roof and looked around for the axe Aunt Petunia left him. He meticulously picked out the hay from his messy black hair; it is important that no one sees it and realises his hiding place. His hand brushed against his scar. It started to the side of his forehead, slashing down in a zigzag through his right eyebrow like a bolt of lightning. It was the only part of himself that he found interesting. He had gotten it on the wrong side of Dudley's toy sword when his cousin had again forced him into a game of knights-and-dragons when they were younger. Harry remembered nothing of the incident, though he did often masquerade as a dragon and allow Dudley to prod him with his toy sword when they were young and he remembered almost all of those mishaps. The story had always struck him as odd. After all, Dudley's sword was quite blunt.

Dudley was thankfully nowhere in sight. Aunt Petunia had presumably demanded that he worked on his 'letters' again. Uncle Vernon hoped to send Dudley to Cambridge to study. Harry wasn't sure what 'letters' were, but they seemed painful considering how reluctant Dudley was in acquainting himself with them and for once Harry was thankful he was the less pivileged one.

The current woodpile was much diminished. Taking the axe with him, Harry headed out of the small town. Aunt Petunia could have bought firewood from one of the many woodcutters that ferried wood from the forest, but she was always a little ungenerous about the household accounts.

The forest was as it always was: lots of trees and leaf-filtered sunlight. Harry amused himself between twigs by practicing to walk without sound among the thick undergrowth of the forest.

'Oi! 'Arry!' A thunderous voice called to him. An enormous figure ran towards him. The enormous dark figure strided towards Harry and became an even larger man. He was at least as tall as two men and wide as five. The giant, wrapped in a thick moleskin cloak, beamed at Harry, white teeth shining from a mouth much covered by a black overgrowth of beard.

'Y...you must be mistaken, m'lord,' said Harry. The giant didn't really seem like a 'm'lord,' but with men that size, Harry thought it best to be safe than sorry. Harry wasn't particularly surprised. He had what Aunt Petunia called 'a horribly common face' and a 'horribly common name.' Complete strangers have approached him before about him being 'Harold Potter.'

The Riverwoman, or 'Mistress Figg' as Aunt Petunia called her, had once addressed him that too, inviting him to watch 'ashwinders' and 'salamanders' with her and advising him to 'beware the Basilisk.' Most people thought the Riverwoman was more or less entirely mad with her legions of cats and hut built from an upturned Viking ship. The only reason the authorities tolerated her was because said people were very protective of their mad Riverwoman, who also happened to have a way with herbs and cures. Most were useless against ague and bloody flux, but it has been known to ease the pain of red plague.

'Ye were a little mite when I last saw ye. Ye've grown.'

Harry reflected on that. He hadn't grown that much. Despite the lack of people the right age to compare his height with, it didn't escape his notice that he was a little undersized and shrimp-like, an awkward bundle of bony elbows and knees.

'And happy birthday, Harry. I thought to bring ye a present, but bin on Hogwarts business, y'know.'

'I can't be your Harry. Lots of peopl-'

'Of course yer Harry,' interrupted the giant. 'Mirror image of yer father, but ye've got your mother's eyes. They shouldna... I coulda...' The giant wiped what seemed suspiciously like a tear from his eye.

'Who are you? How do you know about my parents?'

'Rubiscant Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. But who wouldna ha' know 'bout James and Lily Potter? I was-' The giant's voice broke off. ''Ere I am twittering away when I'm on Hogwarts business. This is fer you.' The giant rummaged in his cloak and finally produced a much abused envelope of heavy, yellow parchment.

Harry starred at it and the green-inked words. 'I... I can't read.'

The giant stared. 'Ye don't know yer letters? Ye'll have a lot of catching up ter do at Hogwarts then. Mind, most might not be able to cross their own name. Ye'll be in good company, Harry. Open it. I'll figger if I could remember my letters.'

Inside the envelope was a folded letter, written again in green ink that seemed to have been made from ground emeralds. The words scrawled across the page in an elegant flourish.

Hagrid read in his booming voice, with occasional pauses between words:

'That means...' Harry didn't understand. It can't be right.

'Yer a wizard, Harry,' confirmed Hagrid.

'But I can't be. I'm just... me.' Harry had heard about witches and wizards, often in conjunction with evil and dark magic. He heard the Riverwoman being called a witch; it was only slightly disturbing to be in the same category as her.

'Harry, have yer ever done somethin' strange. Something no one could explain quite right...'

Yes. He had. But surely everyone's hair grew at strange rates. Surely everyone has had times when they suddenly find themselves on the roof of building without remembering how they got there. Surely everyone has had moments when just knew things and things just happened. If one concentrated hard enough anything would catch on fire, or glow, or move or change shape. It was probably the wind, or the sun or something.

It was perfectly normal.

'Yer have, haven't ye?' said Hagird smugly.

'But...' protested Harry. His mind was wild with confusion. He wasn't sure what to think. Despite having just met the stranger, he trusted him. It appealed to something instinctive in him.

'It's magic...'

'And my parents...'

'What didn't the Dursleys tell yer?' growled the giant, suddenly sounding dangerous. 'James and Lily Potter of Loxley were two of the best witches and wizards Hogwarts ever saw.'

'So...'

'Yer comin' te Hogwarts, right? Mistress Hufflepuff is really lookin forward te meetin' yer.'

Harry had often envisioned a dramatic showdown between himself and the Dursleys when he left, but there was no such thing. They met Uncle Vernon on his way back to the house. He and Hagrid exchanged a few insults. (Truth be told, Uncle Vernon had the better insults, but Hagird had the bulk needed to give weight to his threats.) Two outbursts, a bent sword, fifteen more insults and a shower of magical sparks later, Uncle Vernon reluctantly barked out a, 'Go boy, but-'

Hagrid's glare quieted the man and they left. They simply left. Harry never thought that leaving the Dursleys could be as easy as simply walking down the road. There was a sense of finality to this all, the sense that whatever happens now, his days with the Dursleys were over and that, for better or for worse, he was at the dawning of a new chapter of his life.

Harry wasn't sure how exactly it happened but their walk from Surrishyre to London only took them until late afternoon. He was sure that magic had some part to play in it, but he wasn't exactly sure how. The city was overwhelming. Haphazardly build structures leaned on one another, hunching over the streets. People swarmed, each tightly wrapped up in their own business, not caring or even seeing what was beyond their immediate sight.

The alley was not obtrusive; its entrance blurred into the shadows of the two buildings that stood round-shouldered on either side of it.

'Where are we?' said Harry. Excitement made him whisper; the crowd of people made him secretive.

'Diagon Alley. Best place to get yer school things,' replied Hagrid. Clearly, he didn't share Harry's desire to be quiet. He gesticulated as he talked, pointing to different shops. 'We should be able to get yer some robes there... and Smudges fer yer books.... there's Flourish and Blotts too, but I don't trust that place. Newly opened, y'see?...'

At some point in their hike to London, Harry learnt of the fortune his parents had left him in care of the 'bank'. Uncle Vernon had often expressed his distrust for such organisations claiming them to be no more than law-sanctioned thieves, but right now Harry was ready to disbelieve anything his uncle had told him. Their stop at Gringotts was interesting. The bank, run by goblins, was described as the 'safest place in the world' by Hagrid.

The procedure was thankfully brief; being scrutinised by suspicious goblins was not a pleasant experience. The goblin, perched on a tower of books, meticulously took down their details on a ledger and tottered off to fetch what they needed.

'We're not allowed te see the inside of the bank,' explained Hagrid, keeping up his running commentary. 'Some say it's because only they can get past the wards, but it could be just that they don't trust anyone.'

The goblin handed Harry a grubby purple pouch. Harry took it suspiciously; it was too light and made no sound as he shook it. Still, he carefully tied to his belt, so that it was completely hidden by the oversized tunic. For once, wearing Dudley's castoffs was advantageous.

'It's enchanted, Harry. Can fit most of Gringotts in one of those...' Hagrid looked up at the goblin. 'Yer not charging him fer th-'

The goblin shook his head. 'Complementary gift to the Boy who Survived.' He glanced around nervously, then continued, 'but don't tell anyone. We've a reputation to keep up. Can't have every knight errant and self-proclaimed hero in here asking for favours, can we?'

Though curious about why he was called 'the Boy who Survived' and more specifically exactly what he survived, Harry held in his questions, confident that Hagrid will tell him soon. The Dursley-ingrained habit of not asking questions still lingered.

Once outside a rather curious street vendor hailed them. He was festooned in bright, clashing colours, dripping a rainbow of scarves from his arms. Hagrid grinned, shouted 'If it isn't Dedalus Diggle!' and waved back. They engaged in a curious bout of back slapping and name calling; Harry assumed it was harmless, but he wasn't quite sure.

'So, yer big lout, whach'yer doin' in Diagon Alley?' asked Diggle.

Hagrid handed Diggle their shopping list, who took it dramatically with a slight twirl in his gesture.

'Keep yer tricks fer the tourists.'

Diggle tutted under his breath as he scanned it, holding it at armslength. 'One must keep in practice.... Hogwarts?' he asked.

Harry nodded, slightly intimidated by the flamboyant character.

Diggle squinted at Harry. 'I know yer... I've seen yer before...'

Hagrid guffawed. 'Yer mind's gettin' as flabby as yer-'

'I remember!' interrupted Diggle. 'Yer the Boy who Survived! Galloping Graphorns! Have yer the sca- of course you have the scar. Can I shake yer hand, Master Potter?' Diggle wiped his hand hurriedly on his trousers and offered it to Harry who shook it tentatively.

'Didn't you try to sell my aunt strawberries in February?' asked Harry.

'Why of course... nasty, petty little woman. Wouldn't believe I had strawberries.'

Harry nodded numbly, remembering the cold february morning when the flamboyant vendor had stopped by their house and offered to sell strawberries at a ridiculously high price.

'Honoured, Master Potter. Honoured te see ye. Honoured ye remembered me... And I'll find ye somethin' brilliant in 'ere, Master Potter.' Diggle threw back the patchwork blanket that covered his goods on the wheelbarrow, revealing a mountain of colourful junk. Muttering to himself, Diggle dipped his hand into the mountain of clutter on his wheelbarrow.

'Here's the pewter caldron,' said Diggle, emptying a rather large vessel and setting it onto the ground next to Harry. It was much larger than Aunt Petunia's pots. 'Almost new.'

Hagrid looked at it critically. 'It'll have to do.'

'Glass phials... I don't have the full set, but yer can have half a set of crystal ones with it. They won't match, but...' Diggle dropped two tightly rolled up bundles into the caldron. A brass telescope and a set of copper scales joined the two grubby bundles in the caldron, all thrown melodramatically into it with startling accuracy.

The haggling between them continued for a long time, coupled with insults and vague references to the 'good ol' days.' Finally the price was settled at a galleon and three sickles, which Harry carefully counted out for Diggle. Once Harry paid, Diggle vanished with a choking puff of smoke.

Wrinkling his nose and fanning the air in front of his face, Hagrid explained. 'He calls it Pirating or Aparting or something.... the ol' show off.'

Harry nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say. This state of wordlessness was becoming increasingly habitual.

Hagrid studied their shadow for a moment and decided it was getting late. He lead the way to a large brightly-lit inn. The sign hanging above the door was of a bubbling caldron, its contents boiling over and leaking from the thin fissure-like cracks in the pewter.

'The Leaky Caldron,' said Hagrid as they went inside.

Tallow-smoke made Harry's eyes water. The floorboards creaked underfoot. Wild-looking wizards sat around a table debating the contents of a piece of parchment in heated voices. Two young witches in canary yellow robes chatted idly about fashion, twirling their wands in little spark-trailing circles and a hag, bundled tightly in furs, was carefully tearing up slice of what look suspiciously like raw liver with her teeth.

By far the most eye-catching of the crowd was a stern old woman with a large stuffed vulture perched on her hat and carried a large crimson bag. She sat at a table with a cheeky-looking man who winked as Harry scanned the room.

Hagrid seated Harry at one of the tables, told Harry to wait for him as he made arrangements for them and marched up to the innkeeper whom he enveloped in a back-clapping hug.

Harry squirmed in his seat. The crowd seemed to be staring at him; they all knew something about him that he didn't. Something about him having survived something. All he could remember surviving was life with the Dursleys, which was bad, but not tragic or heroic enough to be gawked at.

'Have you by any chance seen a toad? Neville's lost his.'