Harry Potter and the Alchemist's Cell

Harry Potter and the Alchemist's Cell

The rain falling on Little Whinging, Surrey, was easily enough to wash away the layer of dust that had accumulated since the start of springtime. Perfect rows of perfect little suburban houses sat, pensively thinking as the water rinsed away the decay and the dirt, leaving nothing but sparkling sidewalk and the refreshing look of parched grass coming to life again. The heavy drizzle rolled across the suburban paradise; the flickering light from the halogen lantern on the corner of one house shedding some light on the intensity of the rainy sky, which was, unsurprisingly, as overcast and as black as death itself. Though the streetlamps were lit, the dark rolling cloud cover and the driving rain seemed to block what little light came from them. Virtually the only thing illuminated was the very edge of the sidewalk and the long strip of black asphalt - that was, until the power cut out, suddenly plunging the neighbourhood into complete darkness.

For on this dreary and moreover wet night, the clouds that so impolitely limited the vision of the inhabitants and passer-bys of the neighbourhood were also rocking the heavens with the most impressive light show for thousands of miles, accompanied by an all-percussion symphony that seemed to heavily favour the timpani. As the sky shook, six legs marched up a long, cobblestone walkway. At that particular moment, the lightning had happened to illuminate the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive (a house no different from the rest - four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and significantly fewer books than television sets or trashy magazines), causing the muted silhouettes of the owners of the legs to dance precariously on the front lawn for several seconds. Though mildly blended, there were three easily distinguishable shapes: one, a tall, lanky, almost gangly person, one, a short but fairly curvaceous figure that quite obviously belonged to a female, and another, ahead of the other two this time, a short, thin shadow with an unruly mop of hair.

It so happened, on this evening, that the shadows respectively belonged to a tall, lanky, almost gangly redhead with shockingly blue eyes and a handsome face; a short, petite female with rather bushy brown hair and brown eyes; and an average-sized black-haired, green-eyed male whose body seemed to be showing obvious difficulty deciding between whether it was that of a boy or a man. The three figures were gathered around the doorstep of Number 4, huddled together under the eaves trough, trying to stay out of the rain, which was being kind enough to soak to the bone upon contact.

Shaking his head lightly to clear the majority of the wetness from the mop perched atop his head, the boy-man stepped forward to ring the faux-ivory doorbell mounted on the wall on the left side of the door, neatly hidden behind the sign that clearly stated, in big block letters, 'STAY OFF THE LAWN.' Pausing briefly, hand outstretched, he appeared to catch himself in mid-thought, freezing, reliving a memory of events passed:

A spiral staircase led off to the side of the crenellated ramparts of a very old castle, a gigantic image of a green skull floating, sparkling above, illuminating the dark night. Four nondescript figures wearing dark cloaks, a blonde boy wearing shorter but similar robes, and a man whose black eyes and greasy black hair caused him to stand out were standing around the battlements. The latter, whose hand was extended, holding a long stick pointed at a lone man, slinking, barely keeping himself upright, issued a guttural cry and spoke a few words - nonsense words, it almost seemed - but yet, a jet of green light shot from the end of the wand and hit the tall, wizened, graying man, who was extremely pale with a very long beard, striking him squarely in the chest. The man was blasted into the air: for a split second, he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell slowly backwards, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight -

"Harry?" interrupted the short girl with bushy brown hair, who had asked the figure who had unexpectedly paused, disrupting his recollection. "Harry? Are you alright?"

He paused, and the boy who would be Harry blinked twice, then shook his head quickly, as if trying to shake off a weight attached to his head, weighing down his thoughts and actions. He extended his hand once more, firmly pressed the bell, and stepped back, awaiting the arrival of one of figures that he had absolutely no desire to wish to see. "Never better," he replied, clearly implying the opposite, eyes narrowing grimly in anticipation. "Home sweet home, and all that, I guess, Hermione?"

The girl, Hermione, sniffled slightly, not really paying attention to the arm of the third figure wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her in tightly, trying to keep her warm from the bitter cold of the rainy summer night. The summer solstice, although supposedly heralding in an end to April showers and May flowers, and bringing in a new season of hot days for spending at the pool or relaxing on the hammock with a good novel, seemed to be ominous of the opposite - cold cloudy days with rain and thundershowers battering the flowers that so eagerly bloomed a month earlier.

The rain, which had previously been falling at an astounding rate, now redoubled its efforts and hurled itself with reckless abandon towards its fallen comrades, now littering the gutters in the form of large puddles. The rain had continued its relentless attack since two evenings ago; the whole of Britain had had more rain in the two days than they had had during the entire summer that had brought drought to it, two short years ago. The ground was saturated; worms drown by the bucketful and the birds were having their day. The sound of thumping footsteps now echoed from within the house, and shadows danced across the tiny panes of frosted glass that adorned either side of the doorframe. "Who the hell is calling at this time of night?" roared a deep, scornful voice from inside, approaching closer and closer. "No bloody consideration at all!"

Taking a step back reflexively from the door, Harry seemed to lose himself in thought again, caught up in the never-ending flow of memories that seemed to float past his eyes.

Gone again was the porch of Number 4 Privet drive, but this time the memory was not of the battered ramparts. The picture window ahead of him showed close to the same thing as he had been staring at moments ago, albeit from the other side. The lamppost of Number 4 shone brightly in the dark night, which was not drenched like it was this evening, but merely lit up the night sky. In a chair next to him by the blazing fire sat a tall, old figure with a very long beard and keen, penetrating blue eyes - the same figure that had flown off the edge of the astronomy tower in the previous memory, with the exception that he was clearly very alive at this point in time. The three people that Harry did not look forward to seeing this evening as he stood at the doorway were all sitting on the sofa apart from Harry and the tall, wizened man, huddled together, obviously offended by the presence of the very man who exuded safety from his very pores.

The man raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck the dumpy man - Harry's Uncle Vernon - dumb, and then spoke quietly. "The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time."

Once again, Harry's memory was interrupted, not by Hermione this time, but by the stocky, short man in Harry's memory, his most beloved Uncle Vernon. "YOU!" Vernon's eyes narrowed quickly and a snarl appeared on his face, outrage apparent. "What the ruddy hell are you here for, boy? You're almost three weeks early! Has that madhouse chucked you out?"

Eyes narrowing in counterpoint to his uncle's, Harry stepped forward, coming closer to Vernon, his chest proudly out and his eyes level with his fat relative's own, Harry nodded. "Oh yes, Uncle Vernon, Hogwarts - you know, the place where I learn magic, has chucked me out. Because I'm a freak, you know," he added, derision on his face as a deranged grin spread across his face.

Closing the distance to his nephew, Uncle Vernon stepped even closer, now practically nose-to-nose with Harry, ham-like hands now curling into fists by his sides as his face turned a dangerous shade of purple. "It wouldn't surprise me. You're the king of freaks, and I'll have no mocking me. I'm Vernon Dursley, and I'm normal, not some kind of mutant like you. You're inferior in every way, and if the government had any decency they'd put the lot of you down like a bunch of dogs! Now get off my doorstep and never come here again, or I'll get my shotgun and make sure you get off my doorstep if I have to blast you off it!"

It was at this point in time that the tall redhead extricated himself from Hermione and stepped forward, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I don't think that'd be a good idea, sir," he prompted quietly; so quiet, in fact, it was meant to intimidate. "We might find our hand slips, and if we were accidentally thinking hard enough about turning you into a pile of dung or compost, well...-" he stopped, letting his pause insinuate the rest. "Somehow, I don't think dung piles can fire shotguns. But maybe that's just me."

If there was anything that could have enraged Vernon more than shouting at him, this was it. Threatening to display, let alone use on him what he perceived to be an abomination: the dreaded magic, the very same thing that was his nephew's life. Perhaps it was an indication of why he detested the boy so much, but it was very clear to every passing magic user that this was not a man who would be wowed with a sparkle of light or a flock of birds discharged from a magic wand. Those that were able to make the distinction between him and one of those who could use magic would know him as a Muggle; and Vernon Dursley was as Mugglish as one could get.

In his defence, Vernon hadn't, in fact, known about magic when he chose to marry Harry's Aunt Petunia, who, as far as Harry could tell, was more closely related to a horse than she was to him; whose square, bony face and sallow smile tended to remind him quite particularly of the horses he had seen at the zoo, the only time he had ever gone, several weeks before he found was a magic user - a wizard. Vernon, as Harry had found out discreetly last year from Professor Dumbledore (who was, coincidentally, his late headmaster), had married his Aunt Petunia before she had told him her sister was a witch, her husband a wizard, and their nephew-to-be most likely a freak like them - a fact which Harry, at the time, hadn't thought was interesting enough to care about, but now popped to mind. Vernon Dursley might not have had any choice as to whether he knew about magic, but he was at least decent to stay with his wife although her family was utterly abnormal. It was this reason that prevented Harry from changing Vernon into a slug on sight.

"And who do you think you are, you... thing! And don't you dare mention that - filth - around me. I'll have nothing of it," Vernon hissed back at the tall boy. "Nothing! And I know you can't use... it... outside of that no-good school of yours!" Vernon's hiss was now almost inaudible. It seemed he was getting quieter and quieter as he got progressively more mad, in a vain attempt to prevent the neighbours who, should they actually be willing to brave the storm, would be unlikely to hear a small meteorite fall meters away from them over the din of the thunder and rain.

"The name is Ronald Weasley, sir," the redhead, Ron, replied, mockery evident all over his face. "And how do you know the rules haven't changed, we're allowed to use magic," - Vernon flinched at this - " - out of school?" he finished, eyes flashing dangerously and a triumphant smirk on his face.

Hermione stepped closer to Harry, and reached up and put a hand on his other shoulder (even though Harry was shorter than most, it was still a long reach for her). "And even if that wasn't the case, who says that we're not allowed to use magic out of school any more? We're of age, you know. So unless you want to find out what I've learned in the past six years," - "And trust us, she's learned a lot", interrupted Ron - "I'd advise you just to stand aside and let us in."

Vernon was slowly but determinedly growing a deeper shade of purple, if that was possible. It looked as if at any second one of the veins in his face would pop; there would be a sudden "Oh!" of realization and he would go sliding to the ground, unconscious. However, such was not the case, and Vernon Dursley had a face to match royal colors. "Why don't I just call the police then? Threaten me on my own property, you do, and just expect me to budge up and let you in? No ruddy chance! Where's that crazy old fool of a Headmaster of yours, now, boy, to force his way in? I don't see him here! Bit of a coward without him, aren't you? Well, you're not getting in with him or without him. I'm setting my foot down for good! You'll not enter this house!"

Harry stifled a small grin of satisfaction. The conversation was going exactly as he had laid it out to Ron and Hermione that day on the train, the Hogwarts Express, on the way back to London from Hogwarts, the private school for witches and wizards in Scotland. They had arrived in Little Whinging a few minutes ago, both of the boys tightly clutching the arms of the girl, looking very windswept and gasping as though they had just been squeezed very tightly, and nothing had gone wrong so far. The plan to either threaten, coerce, or just plain transmogrify Vernon into some pile of ectoplasm had been following the predictions and plan Harry had laid out to his friends down to the letter.

Harry's next bullet to fire was the fact that he was perhaps the most wanted wizard in Great Britain - not by the authorities, but by the man whom the authorities hunted (and whom were also systematically hunted by the same man) - the dreaded Lord Voldemort, easily the most feared wizard ever to terrorize the small island. This was largely the result of a prophecy made by Harry's former Divinations teacher, Sybill Trelawney, which stated in no uncertain terms that Harry would either kill or be killed by Lord Voldemort, and that Harry had some sort of power that Voldemort knew not. To Harry's advantage, the spy who had heard the prophecy had not heard the last section and as such wasn't able to convey to the Dark Lord the fact that ' the Dark Lord would mark him as his equal,' and 'he'll have power the Dark Lord knows not', and finally, that 'neither could live while the other survives'. However, much to his discontent, this single charm of good luck did not atone for the loss of his parents, his godfather, his mentor - especially considering the very fact that all these people were dead could be chalked up to Lord Voldemort, and Harry's treacherous ex-Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Severus Snape.

Although Severus Snape was one of the proud few Harry would have loved to strangle personally, he was by no means the only. Uncle Vernon was one of the few people that Harry had made a concerted effort to avoid in the past. While he couldn't possibly hope to best Vernon in a match of strength, Harry had previously felt confident that with his wand he could stop him, and at worst - if he didn't have his wand - he could have at least outrun his fat hands, but now the tables were turned - gone was the little child who was abused and neglected by his relatives, and here to stay was the Harry whom had fought (and all things considered, usually come off on the better side of things) Lord Voldemort and his minions six times, starting at age one-and-a-bit. Childhood was a lost commodity in Harry's life, and gone was the Harry who could stand to see injustice. All things considered, out of his three living relatives, Harry could live with Petunia, seeing as she was blood and she largely ignored him. Though this lack of acknowledgement of his and his parents' existences slightly upset him, he thought he was probably better off without the pleasure of her company. But Vernon Dursley was the foulest, revolting - well, almost the most foul, revolting piece of slime to walk the world.

The job of being the most foul, revolting person was reserved for Voldemort, and in close second came Snape. Voldemort had been the one whom had killed his parents and his loved ones. Snape, however, had overheard the prophecy and told Voldemort of it, causing Voldemort to go after Harry's parents in the first place; he had then ignored Harry in a complicated jumble that had occurred when Harry was under the influence of the Dark Lord and had consequently ran off to the Ministry of Magic to save his godfather, Sirius, during his fifth year at Hogwarts; As well (to cap it all), Snape had personally murdered his headmaster and mentor, Albus Dumbledore, five days earlier. Vernon, who almost paled when compared to the others, had locked Harry up in a cupboard for eleven years and was the donor of much of the genetic material of Harry's horrible lump of a cousin, Dudley. Harry often fantasized as of late about the idea of locking all three in the closet under the stairs (the selfsame one which had served as his bedroom for eleven years) and seeing who came out. He knew who would emerge victorious, of course - but still, it would be an easy method of taking care of two-thirds of his problems.

Smiling slightly at the thought, Harry pressed on. "Oh, my headmaster is dead, Uncle Vernon."

"Oh ho!" Vernon seized upon this like a starving weasel to a bloated corpse at the side of the road. "He's dead, is he? Well, then, boy, you're definitely not coming in, not now, not ever! Rest assured, I most anxiously await seeing you rotting in hell!" he finished, loudly, now turning to close the door.

Harry's voice, now slightly raised but not angry, maliciously calm caused him to stop though. "The goons of the same bloke who's out trying to get me killed him, you know. Actually, he's out looking for me right now. Kind of easy for him to spot me standing here, and if I can't call this home, then this place becomes visible, and he can find me as simple as that!" he added, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "And if he can find me here, rest assured you'd probably last a lot less time against him than I would, especially if I'm not inclined to protect you. After all, you got it right, - 'I will most anxiously await seeing you rot in hell.'"

"However," Harry added, now pausing slightly, doing all he could not to break out into a huge grin at how easy it was to manipulate such a big Muggle like this, "I'm sure it'd be a lot harder for him to find me if I was inside. And after all, if you let me stay, you'll be protected by the blood magic that protects me here, and I'll be long gone by the time before midnight of my birthday. So he won't be able to find you here."

And finally, with a great quivering shake, Vernon glared and swung the door open, stepping aside angrily and waiting for them to enter. Harry turned his head off to the side slightly to gloat to Ron; he had bet Ron two sickles that this would get Vernon to stand aside. However, the moment he turned his head, he regret it, for a large, meaty, purple fist shot out through the air and connected solidly with his jaw, knocking him backwards onto the ground, and causing his vision to blur, alarm bells and whistles going off inside his brain as he struggled to find reality again.

A few seconds later, Harry felt his arm being grabbed hold of, and felt himself stand up again, an arm wrapped around his waist and another around his shoulders, holding him up. Orienting himself again, he looked forward, and thought he must have a concussion, for there on the white carpet sat a particularly pudgy dog, purple as Vernon had been, if not more, throwing up large slugs every few seconds. Harry let out a small grin finally, and, letting himself be pulled into the house, watched the dog be ushered outside noisily and the door firmly closed behind them to the rain. Feeling himself being led to a chair at the kitchen table, he blinked twice, trying to make sense of the situation, and then realised that Hermione had her arm around his waist leading him, and Ron an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright. Finally plunking himself down in one of the chairs, he brought a hand up to his jaw, and felt around gingerly, trying to determine the extent of the damage.

"Alright there, mate?" queried Ron quietly, eyes on Harry. "That brute really can punch."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, but I've taken worse; I'm fine," Harry replied, honestly, although he still was quite obviously feeling the sting of the punch. "Although, I guess that's not really a surprise. It has led me to an interesting observation, though," he added.

"And what's that, Harry?" chirruped Hermione, kneeling down beside him, concern etched on her face.

Sore and slightly dizzy but his goal accomplished, Harry let out the biggest smile he had since his Headmaster had been murdered in front of him. "I think I might need a shave soon."