Stormseeker: Borrowed Destiny

Dumbledore makes all the appropriate arrangements. He requires a bit of my blood for one part of it, so I let him collect a bit in a little vial. All of this, just to make sure that I'm properly recognized as Harry Potter.

"The Potter vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank will recognize you as its legitimate heir now," Dumbledore says. "I believe there is sufficient wealth within to cover any expenses you might have."

We work out our story. Rather than being left with the Dursley family, I, Harry Potter, was sent to the United States of America to be raised in secret. I was adopted by the Chelseer family, and called Lexen Chelseer, in order to conceal my true identity. This will help cover all our bases just in case I make a slip up or someone from my home universe shows up and calls me the wrong name.

"You're also going to need to learn Occlumency," Dumbledore says. "A form of magic used to shield your mind against those who would intrude upon your secrets."

I nod. "Are people who can read minds common?"

"No," Dumbledore says. "Legilimens are rare, but you never know when you might run across one. Voldemort, however, is a skilled Legilimens himself."

"I see," I say. "So definitely an important thing to learn. Where do I start?"

"It may be difficult for one so young to master Occlumency," Dumbledore says. "For starters, if you think someone might try to read your mind, avoid eye contact. This will at least make it more difficult for them to use Legilimency on you." He frowns thoughtfully for a moment. "But if you cannot learn this in two months, we will need to bring another into our little conspiracy."

"I'll do my best," I say.

"You need to learn how to control your thoughts and emotions," Dumbledore says. "Growing angry or nervous at the wrong moment will completely give away that you're hiding something, even to someone who isn't a skilled Legilimens."

I nod, listening to Dumbledore as he continues on about what I need to learn. This will be difficult for me, to be sure, but I'm determined to learn it, even if it takes me a lifetime. After all, it will be a very good skill to have if I'm going to be exploring the multiverse and time traveling. Once I get it down, even if it takes me years to do so, I'll be set for that, I think.

The month of July passes, and I remain sequestered in the Headmaster's guest chambers for the duration. I'm given a crash course on what I'll need to know about this world to pass believably, in addition to my Occlumency lessons. At least I've some spare time to do some reading of my own. I've taken to reading the Daily Prophet to get a feel for the culture, as well.

Then comes the end of the month. July 31st, Harry's birthday. My birthday, I should say. I should get used to thinking of myself as Harry. I don't want to inadvertently give anything away.

"Harry, I'm sending Hagrid with you to Diagon Alley," Dumbledore says. "You'll be able to pick up your school supplies and anything else you may need there."

This will be the first time I've appeared in public since I arrived. Since I became Harry Potter. I have to admit that I'm a little nervous about it. What if I say something stupid? What if I slip up? No, there's no use to this line of thought. Be confident. Be Harry. What would Harry do? No, I don't know what Harry would do. I only know what I would do. It's easier to be Harry if I let Harry just be a facet of myself.

"Who is Hagrid?" I ask.

"He's the gamekeeper here at Hogwarts," Dumbledore says. "He's a good man, and means well, but he's a heavily misjudged one. He'll look after you while you're away."

"Alright," I say.

Shortly, a veritable giant of a man comes into Dumbledore's office. "Well, I'll be. This is little Harry, I take it? I haven't seen you since you were a baby!"

"Hello," I say cordially. "You must be Hagrid, I assume?"

"That I am," Hagrid says. "And what's this I hear about you being taken across the pond to be raised?"

"I apologize for the deception, Hagrid," Dumbledore says smoothly. "But it was necessary, you see."

"Ah, don't worry about it, Professor," Hagrid says. "I understand. If I'd known where he was, the wrong person might've found out about it. So, Harry, you ready to go shopping now?"

The way he says it, he makes it sound like a grand adventure. "Yes, sir."

We head over to the fireplace and take the Floo to someplace called the Leaky Cauldron. I go tumbling out of the fireplace on the far end. I'm still not used to the Floo. I gather myself and look around a bit. This place appears to be a tavern, filled with various patrons, many of them wearing robes.

"Not much for Floo travel, are you?" Hagrid says.

"I haven't done it much before," I admit.

The other wizards around the tavern notice me, and spot the scar on my forehead. "Is that Harry Potter?"

"Yes, I'm Harry Potter," I tell them.

They gather up to take turns shaking my hand and expressing their gratitude toward me. Some of them introduce themselves.

"I'm P-P-Professor Quirrell," stutters a man in a turban. "I'll be your D-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year. Of course, you wouldn't really need it, would you P-P-Potter?"

It takes a bit to extricate myself from the crowd. Thankfully, Hagrid rescues me, saying, "We must be going. Young Harry's got a lot of school supplies to collect still."

The crowd disperses a bit and lets me leave. Hagrid leads me back behind the tavern to a brick wall, and shows me what bricks to tap to open the way to Diagon Alley.

Diagon Alley reminds me a bit of Torn Elkandu. Not for the part about being covered in glowing runes and having a weird swirling purple sky, but for the fact that it's filled to the brim with magical things, and mages milling about. Well, wizards and witches, as they call them here. Like Torn Elkandu, there are a number of shops offering a variety of relics, books, ingredients, and familiars.

I notice one side alley heading off from the main street that looks a little different from the rest. Darker, dingier, more run down. "What's down that way, Hagrid?"

"That's Knockturn Alley," Hagrid replies. "Not a good place for a youngun like you to be running off. Darker and seedier types gather around there, and I don't know that all the stuff they sell is entirely legal, either."

"I see," I reply. Sounds like someplace that would be interesting to check out, given the opportunity.

"Our first stop is Gringotts," Hagrid says. "Got to get you some money in your pockets so you can buy what you'll need. You got your vault key with you, and your list of supplies? Sorry, should've asked this before we left."

"Yes, sir," I say. "I've got them."

Hagrid leads me over to a large building and we step inside. This must be the bank, and it appears to be run by goblins. Well, that's different. I haven't seen many goblins before, even back at home. The ones on Lezaria are usually slaves to the trolls.

One of the goblins leads the two of us over toward a cart, and takes us on a rapid, twisting ride down toward the vaults. Ugh, the lower gravity is disorienting enough without adding high motion and sudden turns into it.

We come to the Potter vault, and I open it up. It's full primarily of many neat stacks of gold coins. Dumbledore was right when he said that I shouldn't have to worry for currency. Although I have to wonder that giving access to this wealth to a random child from another universe was preferable to passing it along to one of the Potters' actual relatives. Maybe their relatives really are just that bad.

I gather up a bag full of coins, and we continue on. We make another stop at a different vault, in which Hagrid picks up a small package and tucks it away in a pocket.

"Just a little errand Dumbledore wanted me to take care of," Hagrid tells me quietly.

The goblin takes us back up to the surface again, and we leave the bank. Hagrid looks just about as woozy as I feel after that ride. I'm kind of glad for the extra weight of the coins. I feel like I'm about to go flying off the world half the time as it is, especially after a ride like that.

"Those goblin carts always do a number on my head," Hagrid says. "Why don't you go over and get fitted for your new robes? I'm going to head back to the Leaky Cauldron for a bit for a little pick-me-up, if you know what I mean."

"Sure thing," I say. "Take your time, I'll be fine."

Once Hagrid has his back turned, I head straight for the entrance to Knockturn Alley. The robes can wait. I want to take the chance to see what might be down this way.

The place definitely has a different sort of feel to it. Even in the middle of a bright summer day, it seems shadowy and dim here. Probably because the buildings are closer together and painted in darker colors, I would imagine. I decide to poke in one of the shops and see if they have anything interesting for sale. Perhaps books that might teach things that aren't strictly taught at school, or magic items that might help me out in some way.

Borgin and Burke's, this shop is called, apparently. I step inside and take a look around. The place is a little creepy, to say the least, in part because it's pretty dark in here. Why do these sorts of places feel the need to do their business in such improper lighting, anyway? Is the atmosphere really worth the trouble of having everything hard to see?

Anyway, despite the poor visibility, I can tell that there's strange masks on the walls with evil expressions, and other items along the shelves that might be made of human bodyparts, claws, fangs, or are just designed to look sinister.

"Are you lost, kid?" says the shopkeeper. "Or just looking to get a leg up?"

"Oh, no, I'm not lost, I came in here intentionally," I reply, smirking at him.

"Well, I'm Borgin, and I run this shop. Let me know if you're looking for anything in particular," he says. "We've got quite the selection of interesting artifacts."

My eye is drawn to an interesting little dagger labeled 'Frozen Viper'. The sign claims that it's capable of slaying dragons. I'd think that would be hard to do, for a dagger that's not even a foot long, never mind that it almost looks like it's made of ice.

I reach over to pick it up to examine it more closely. The hilt is cold to the touch. Freezing cold. In fact, ice is forming down my arm. "What in the Abyss?" I mutter. I try to drop the dagger, but my hand is frozen and won't respond.

"Ah, fuck," Borgin says. "That's not supposed to happen."

"Get it off of me!" I scream.

Borgin pulls out a wand and casts some spells at me, managing to slow the spread of the ice, but not stop it. "You're obviously not a dragon! Why is it doing this?" Borgin mutters. "A bloody useless weapon if it killed the one wielding it."

Maybe I should have listened to Hagrid and stayed away from Knockturn Alley after all. Or at least, avoided touching anything. Borgin's efforts are for naught, and the ice soon reaches my heart. I don't last long after that.

I wake in the guest room in the Headmaster's Tower at Hogwarts. I shiver involuntarily. Well, it's good to know that I'm still coming back from the dead, I suppose. And that I came back here rather than having to start at the beginning again. Ugh, but I'm going to have to ride that cart again. Oh well. It beats being dead.

I go through the morning routine again, and Hagrid takes me back to Diagon Alley once more. This time, when he suggests that I go for my robes, I listen to him rather than wandering off and getting myself killed by strange magical artifacts that I don't understand.

In the tailor shop, there's already another boy getting fitted, a blond boy looking to be around my age.

"I'll be with you in a moment, dear," says the seamstress. "Once I finish up taking young Mr. Malfoy's measurements."

"Hello," Malfoy says to me. "Getting ready for Hogwarts as well?"

"Yeah," I reply. He doesn't seem to have recognized me right off the bat. I don't bother introducing myself for fear of having to shake the hands of another swarm. Bad enough I had to go through that twice as it is.

"My father's buying my books for me, and my mother's up the street looking at wands," Malfoy drawls. "I should drag them off to look at brooms, next. I don't see why they don't let first years have their own brooms. I think I'll have my father buy one and I'll smuggle it in anyway somehow. Have you got your own broom?"

"No," I reply. "I've never ridden one before. It doesn't really sound very pleasant."

"Really?" Malfoy says. "Brooms are great, though! I'd like to play Quidditch. I'd better get picked for the house team. Do you know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," I say. "I was raised in America. I don't really know much about Hogwarts."

"Oh, I see," Malfoy says. "Well, there's four Houses. Slytherin's the best of them, of course. That's where you go if you're pureblooded, clever, and ambitious. Gryffindor's where you go if you've got more courage than common sense. Ravenclaw's for the ones who study too much. And Hufflepuff's for the duffers who don't fit anywhere else." I get the impression that Malfoy's descriptions are just a little biased.

"I think if I wound up in Hufflepuff, I'd commit suicide from the shame, just from the name," I comment dryly. "I take it you're hoping for Slytherin?"

"Yeah, all my family's been in Slytherin," Malfoy says. "What's your family like?"

"Dead," I reply flatly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Malfoy says. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure none of them were goblins or anything," I say with a shrug.

"Merlin, you're dense," Malfoy says. "I mean, they weren't Muggles, right?"

"Certainly not," I reply.

"I don't think they should let that other sort in, do you?" Malfoy says. "They're just not the same. They grow up not knowing anything about magic or our ways. I think they should just keep it to the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

"That's it for you, Mr. Malfoy," says the seamstress. "Sorry for the wait, young man. It's your turn."

"That's alright," I say, stepping on the stool that Malfoy had just occupied. "And my name is Potter."

She almost sticks me with a pin, and her eyes widen when she finally notices my scar. "Harry Potter? In my shop? Oh my!"

"Really?" Malfoy says, looking me over and sizing me up for the first time. "My father said you were about my age, but I didn't think we'd run into each other before school. Oh, I didn't properly introduce myself, either. I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

"You'll forgive me for not shaking your hand while pinned up like this," I reply.

"So you were sent off to be raised in America?" Draco says. "Why?"

"They wanted to keep me safe and hidden, I guess," I say.

"How long have you been back in Britain?" Draco asks.

"About a month," I reply. "It's pretty strange, compared to what I'm used to."

"You must not have many friends in this country yet," Draco says. "I can help you out there. I can tell you everything you need to know, show you around, point out which wizarding families are better than others."

"I certainly wouldn't mind a friend," I say, smiling at him. "But I'll prefer to make my own judgments."

"You wouldn't want to go making friends with the wrong sort, would you?" Draco says.

"That would depend," I say. "What would you consider to be the wrong sort?"

"You know," Draco says, lowering his voice. "Mudbloods."

"I'll not have that sort of language in my shop, Mr. Malfoy," says the seamstress.

"Fine, Muggle-borns, then," Draco says. "Don't tell me you're a Muggle-lover, are you, Potter?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I say.

"Good," Draco says. "Muggle-borns will never be proper wizards, anyway."

Does he mean wizards who have Muggles for parents? Dumbledore mentioned the term before, but didn't really explain it. "I don't see how it's possible for a wizard to have Muggles for parents," I comment.

"Yeah, they're not real wizards, of course," Draco says.

"I mean, magic is hereditary," I say. "How would it even be possible to do magic if you don't have any magic in your blood?"

"Oh," Draco says. "Well, I guess they're just like the opposite of Squibs. You know, children with magical parents, but they don't have magic themselves."

"I don't see how that is possible, either," I say. "They might not have much magic, but they've got to have some."

"Alright, Mr. Potter, you're done now," the seamstress says, shooing us along.

Draco heads out of the shop with me, continuing our conversation. "Well, Squibs do have some magic, I suppose. They can recognize magical things that a wizard could. They can't actually cast any spells, though."

"So they have latent magic, in other words," I say. "So how do wizard families normally treat Squibs that are born?"

"Oh, they're usually disowned and sent to live in the Muggle world," Draco replies.

"Well, there you go," I say.

"What?"

"They disown people with latent magic, and then complain when magical children get born to apparent Muggles?" I say.

"Oh," Draco says, eyes widening. "Oh... Oh!"

Back home, that sort of situation would never have happened. Sure, we have our Squibs too. We just call them mibis, and still consider them to be mages. Some of them can even learn a little magic. Others don't have much apparent magic due to having rare or obscure talents, or ones that aren't particularly useful in general. I've heard of mages whose only real power is to conjure smoke, or to turn things pink.

"There you are, Harry," Hagrid says, approaching us from the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. "You got your robes squared away? Who's your new friend?"

"Hagrid, this is Draco Malfoy," I say.

"Malfoy?" Hagrid says, frowning deeply. He lowers his voice and turns to speak to me. "Harry, you might not realize this, but the Malfoys are an old family of dark wizards. You should be careful around them."

"I'm right here, you know," Draco says, smirking.

"What, you mean to tell me that none of my family ever used dark magic?" I say. "All things considered, I wouldn't be surprised if he's my cousin, anyway."

"Second cousin once removed, on my mother's side," Draco replies.

"Well, yeah, all the old pureblood families are related..." Hagrid says. "But that's not the point! Ain't no wizard ever went bad who wasn't in Slytherin."

"And that I find hard to believe," I say. "Look, Hagrid. I appreciate your attempts to warn me, but I'll prefer to make my own judgments, rather than blindly listening to what anyone says one way or another. I told Draco the same thing."

"I kind of thought you were just making excuses for being a Muggle-lover," Draco comments.

"I meant it, you know," I say pointedly.

Hagrid sighs heavily. "Harry, you're young still. There's a lot you don't know about the world. I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression about things."

"It seems to me like both of you don't want me to get the 'wrong impression' about things," I say. "I'll be the first to admit that I have a lot to learn. But I'll prefer to learn by keeping my eyes open, and not clenching them shut."

"But the Malfoys were big supporters of You-Know-Who in the last war!" Hagrid says.

"Perhaps so," I say. "But I rather doubt that Draco had any particular strong political aspirations when he was a year old. Draco has done nothing to me yet. If he does in the future, I can hate him then. There's enough hate to go around in the world without needlessly adding to it, though."

"Fine," Hagrid says with a sigh. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you if this comes back around to bite you! Let's just get the rest of your shopping done, Harry."

I wave to Draco and say, "I'll see you at school, Draco."

Draco waves back, and we part ways. I follow Hagrid to go buy my school supplies. A cauldron, vials, a telescope, scales. Hagrid has to talk me out of buying a self-stirring cauldron.

I spend some extra time browsing around the bookshop after picking up my school books, to see if there's anything else interesting that I might want to pick up. I could purchase their entire inventory and feel like I've only just begun, however. I still haven't gotten through all of my course books yet, after all, so I only grab a couple extras: Hogwarts, a History and Curses and Counter-Curses.

Lastly, there's the matter of a wand. Much as I might disdain this universe's reliance on foci like this, I'm going to need it if I want to figure out how their brand of magic ticks. We head down the street to a building labeled "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." I wonder how long ago that is.

"I'll meet you down at the ice cream parlor once you've got your wand," Hagrid says.

"Alright," I say, and head inside.

The place is deceptively tiny, but is packed full of shelves piled high with many, many narrow little boxes, no doubt each of them containing a wand. An old man approaches me, looking me over with silver eyes that remind me of Keolah. Oh, I hope he isn't a Seeker. He'd find out in an instant that I'm not who I appear to be. No, I must stay calm. Remember Dumbledore's Occlumency lessons. Nervousness will give away that you have something to hide.

"Good afternoon," says the old man. "I am Ollivander. Welcome to my shop. And who might you be?"

"I'm Harry Potter," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Are you, now?" Ollivander says, peering at me intently, and then closely examining my scar. "Are you entirely certain of that?"

"Um..." I say hesitantly.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold," Ollivander says. "I know the wand I sold to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches. A great wand, destined for great things. Terrible things, but great." He points to my forehead. "This scar... was not made with that wand."

"Maybe he used a different wand?" I offer nervously.

"I would say that you're the spitting image of James Potter, with Lily's eyes," Ollivander says. "But there's something that feels off about you. Who are you?"

Shit. He knows. He knows I'm not Harry Potter. "I was Lexen Chelseer, but I'm being Harry Potter now," I say quietly.

Ollivander gazes at me for several long moments. Is he a Legilimens? Or is he reading something else entirely? "And what's become of the real Harry Potter?"

"He... I'm sorry to say that he died," I stammer. "He fell... he fell down a staircase when he was five."

"And why, praytell, are you being Harry Potter, then?" Ollivander asks.

"It was Dumbledore's idea," I mutter. "To give the people their hope and symbol..."

"I see," Ollivander says. "Very well. This is not my business. This is between you and Dumbledore. Regardless of who you are or who you appear to be, you are a young wizard about to attend Hogwarts, and so you're here to get a wand."

"Yes, sir," I say. "Thank you, sir."

"Which is your wand arm, child?" Ollivander asks.

"I'm left-handed, sir," I say.

"Very well. Let's try this one, shall we?" Ollivander says, placing a wand box in front of me. "Hawthorn and unicorn hair, eight inches. Pick it up and give it a little swish. We'll see which wand will choose you."

I take the wand and try it out. A box goes flying from a shelf and almost hits me in the head. Ollivander snatches it away, shaking his head, and gives me another wand to try. We try out wand after wand, doing more and more damage to the shop around us.

"Isn't there a better way to do this?" I say. "If you could tell which wand made my scar, couldn't you tell which wand would be right for me?"

"It is not so simple as that," Ollivander says. "Here, try this one. Willow and phoenix feather, twelve inches."

No, not that one either, apparently. Finally, one of the wands I pick up practically hums as I touch it, and emits a shower of green sparks. Holding it in my hand, something seems like it just clicked in place, and it feels right to me.

"Aha, there we go," Ollivander says. "Pine and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches, firm but flexible. An excellent match for you, it seems. This wand will be good for creative uses of magic. And it seems you've got a long life ahead of you. I've never known an owner of a pine wand to die young."

That might be true, but perhaps not in the way he expects.

"That'll be nine galleons," Ollivander adds.

I count out the coins from my bag and pass them over to him, and head out of the shop, waving around my new wand experimentally a bit more. It feels like an extension of my body and soul. I had been wondering why these people use wands before, but now I have to wonder why the Elkandu don't.

I head to the ice cream parlor to meet up with Hagrid. I'm glad he decided to wait outside. I'm unsure enough that Ollivander will keep my identity a secret. But while I trust Hagrid well enough, he doesn't strike me as the type that's very good at keeping things quiet.

"Ah, there you are, Harry," Hagrid says. "What's your favorite flavor?"

"I don't know," I say. "How about I try three different ones?"

Hagrid laughs. "Sounds good to me. So you got your wand, huh? What kind did you get?"

"Pine and dragon heartstring," I reply.

I eat up an ice cream cone laden with scoops chocolate, mint, and cherry. I do wonder if Ollivander's going to say anything to anyone, never mind how he knew, or what measures might be taken to prevent that sort of thing.

"Oh, Harry, before I forget, I was going to get you a birthday present!" Hagrid says.

"Ah, you don't have to get me anything, Hagrid," I say. "We just met, after all."

"Nonsense!" Hagrid says. "We met when you were a baby, after all! I know, how about I buy you your pet?"

"Well, alright," I say. "What kind?"

"How about an owl?" Hagrid says. "They're right useful, carry your mail and everything. We can head over to Eeylops Owl Emporium and you can pick out one you like."

We finish up our ice cream and head down there. This place is full of owls of all kinds. I don't know the names of the different sorts of owls, but there's brown ones, darker brown ones, lighter brown ones, slightly mottled ones, gray ones, white ones, almost black ones...

I decide on a large gray owl, and Hagrid goes over to pay for it. I feel a little bad about Hagrid paying with his own money, when I have access to a lot of money, and I'm not even who Hagrid thinks I am. But I shake it off. No use in thoughts like this. I'm Harry Potter now. I need to remember that.

"Hmm, what shall I call you?" I say, thoughtfully stroking my new pet. "I could call you something terribly cliched like Ghost or something."

The owl twists its head around and makes a sound like a protest at that suggestion, and I have to laugh.

"Alright, not that," I say. "How about... Solomon?"

The owl sounds much more approving over this one, practically cooing.

"Okay then, Solomon it is," I say.