Absolutely Normal Chaos

CHAPTER ONE. Gray.

“Wake up! You don’t want to be late for your first day of school! Up!” Aunt Petunia's voice screeched through the door to the cupboard under the stairs. Fumbling for his glasses, Harry pulled back the sheets and caught a glimpse of Aunt Petunia’s sharp noise through the grill in the door. Slipping into the baggy gray potato sack that was supposed to pass for a school uniform (after pulling several spiders off of it), he stepped into the kitchen, squinting his eyes against the sunlight. Uncle Vernon was sitting at the table reading a newspaper.

“Bring me my coffee, boy!”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry mumbled, reaching for the coffeepot and burning his hand. With a yelp he jumped back. Uncle Vernon grunted. Harry poured the coffee.

“Where’s Dudley?” he asked. Aunt Petunia pursed her lips.

“We’ve driven him to his academy already. Now hurry up, or you’ll miss your bus! Don’t think we’ll drive you to school, boy!”

It was a silent, uncomfortable breakfast: Harry chewed on a piece of toast, Uncle Vernon grunted as he read the newspaper, Aunt Petunia checked her watch every thirty seconds with a sour face. When he finished with his toast, Harry slung his schoolbag over his shoulder and, not knowing what to do, timidly said, “’Bye.” They didn’t say anything, so he walked outside. A gust of cold air hit his face as soon as he stepped onto the porch. Wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck, he walked slowly down the road to his bus stop. The sky was barely tinged with pink. He grinned as he thought of Dudley, waking up at 5 A.M. for the rest of the year. Sticking his hands in his pocket to keep them warm, he waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a rumbling came around the corner told him the bus had decided to show up (a/n: are there school buses in England?...). The foggy glass doors opened, and he stepped onto the bus and into his new life.

The bus driver glanced at him uninterestedly and shut the door behind him. It was an ominous sort of sound. Nervously, he walked down the aisle looking for a seat. Dull, empty faces stared at him from the sides, people of no particular sex in their smart gray uniforms, simply waiting for another schoolday to start. They didn’t look remotely excited to begin their school year. Harry found a seat next to a likely-looking person: a boy of about his age, with dreadlocks.

“Er...can I...can I sit down here?” he asked. The boy just stared at him blankly. Harry sat down. The seat was at the very back, so when the bus rolled down the road once more, he jounced up and down in his seat. It was most uncomfortable.

A few more blank-faced people in gray uniforms got on, and the bus stopped. Wiping a circle in the misty window, he saw a large mouldy-looking brick building. Next to it was a much nicer building, with a neatly printed sign that said in calligraphy, Maris Academy for Girls. He stared. He had been quite sure that Stonewall High admitted all sexes, and that it had, in fact, been called ‘Stonewall High.’ Then he realized that the faceless people were getting off of the bus. He followed them into the mouldy-looking building and realized that this was Stonewall High.

An enormous mass of people in dull gray uniforms were milling around in the hall, whispering and talking and even laughing a bit. They seemed a good bit more alive than the students on the bus had been. He joined them, nervously rolling up his baggy sleeves and hoping he didn’t look like he was wearing old elephant skin. Through the windows he could see other schoolbuses stopping. A mixed assortment of Stonewall students and girls wearing dark maroon and navy uniforms got off of them, the girls going into the much nicer neighboring building.

“Attention! Attention, all students!” Suddenly, there was an empty circle in the center of the congregating students, and a stern-looking woman stood in the middle of the circle, holding a bullhorn up to her mouth. “You will note that the rooms are numbered: our school consists of three floors, and six halls. On the first floor, A and B halls. On the second floor, C and D halls. On the third floor, E and F halls. The rooms are numbered accordingly. If your name begins with the letter ‘A,’ please report to...” She read off a long list of names, and gray-clad students of varying heights walked off in different directions. When ‘P’ was called, Harry wondered what to do when he noticed a group of people walking to the stairwell. Running to catch up, he walked with them up the stairs to the third floor. Through the hallway, and to their classroom. Inside, a man wearing long, pinstriped pants and a pinstriped blazer was taking roll in a dull voice. He looked as though he were wearing his pyjamas. Harry quickly took a seat with everyone else. With no change of expression, the teacher finished roll and put the list down on his desk. Harry’s hand went up and the teacher stared at him.

“S...sorry,” said Harry, trying to find his voice, “but...you didn’t call my name.”

“Well, what is your name?” said the teacher in a voice that plainly said: I’ve never been wrong.

“Potter. Harry Potter.” The man scanned the list.

“I’m sorry, your name isn’t on the list, Mr. Potter.” Harry gulped. Everyone was staring at him. The teacher continued.

“Perhaps you should see the main office. It’s on the second floor, between rooms 5C and 6C.”

Harry nervously got up and swung his schoolbag over his shoulder. Over his shoulder, he saw the class and the teacher staring after him before he walked into the hallway. Down the stairwell, to the second floor. As room after room passed him, he looked up on the walls. Grim-looking portraits hung above the lockers (which were a sea-green color) of past principals and administrators. The carpet was a dirty gray color, like almost everything else in the school. Here and there a student was opening their locker, and stared at him as he walked by. Quickening his pace, he reached the office. A sign on the door said:

MAIN OFFICE

~

Principal M. Shuffleburger

He pushed the door open hesitantly. Inside, several important-looking people were on the phone, typing furiously on computers.

“Ex—excuse me?” One of them paused, annoyed, and said, “What?” impatiently.

“I—my name’s not on the roll,” he explained. The woman he said this to looked exasperated.

“Well, don’t tell us, then, tell Mr. Shuffleburger, he’ll sort out trivial problems like that,” she said, pointing at a frosted glass window, which belonged to a polished wooden door, which had a sign on it that said, “Principal Mauritius Shuffleburger.”

Inside, a chubby man with a flowery tie was doodling on a yellow notepad. He jumped when Harry walked in and chuckled.

“Hello, hello, haven’t had a person in my office for months, besides the garbage-collector.” He chuckled again and shook Harry’s hand.

“I...um...my name wasn’t on the roll.” The man’s smile vanished.

“Well, if you don’t belong to this school, then that is a problem indeed.” Harry wanted to tell him that he didn’t belong anywhere, that the Dursleys had picked Stonewall High, that Privet Drive shouldn’t have been his home, that he should have been swooped up by long-lost relatives a long time ago...

“My name’s Harry Potter, sir,” he stammered. Putting on a tiny pair of spectacles, Principle Shuffleburger scanned the list.

“No Potter on this list, no,” he said. Harry felt a queasy sensation in his stomach.

“Are you...are you sure?”

“Yes, indeed, we’ve got Harry Abernathy, Harry Abel, Harry Batton, Harry Bellingham, Harry Crup, Harry Diddle, Harry Dursley, Harry—”

“That’s me!” Harry interrupted. “Harry Dursley!” The principal looked at him severely.

“You quite clearly stated that your name was Harry Potter. Do you know, lying will get you—”

“I live with my aunt and uncle,” Harry explained, “my parents died in a car crash when I was little, and I came to live with them.” Principal Shuffleburger’s cheery blue eyes searched Harry’s green ones for honesty, and finally tore away.

“All right, then, Mr. Potter—er, Mr. Dursley. You’re registered as Harry Dursley here, so mind you use that name. Goodbye then.”

Walking down the halls to the stairwell, he thought about his meeting with Principal Shuffleburger. Somehow, the thought that the Dursleys had registered him under their name wasn’t very comforting. It just brought him closer to the Dursleys: he had insisted on the name Potter, and the Dursleys had not objected, all his life because it was one more thing to separate him from his horrible relatives. Now, while nobody would know the difference, he wouldn’t be Harry Potter anymore. Just...Harry Dursley.

He suddenly realized that he didn’t know where to go now. Oh, well, he thought, at least Dudley wasn’t around anymore...