Extras - Chapter 5 (TPoKn)

From the Story

...Harry spent his time wisely catching up on his reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix inside one of the castle's secluded towers. He wasn't exactly sure if anyone knew the tower actually existed, judging by the state of the room when Harry had found it: a thick layer of dust coated the floors and there were no furniture at all to speak of. There were three small windows that provide air and light...

Hogwart's Castle (source: hp-lexicon)

The Power of Knowledge - Chapter 5

The Power of Knowledge

Chapter 5

Harry Potter was having a very relaxed week. It was one of those rare times in a student’s academic career where they find themselves with a lot of free time, with no assignments that had to be handed in until late next week and no extracurricular activities, such as Quidditch practices, in the foreseeable future. Wood was, all of a sudden, struck ill (though Harry suspected the twins being behind the Quidditch captain’s sudden need to empty his stomach on a regular basis).

Nevertheless, Harry spent his time wisely catching up on his reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix inside one of the castle’s secluded towers. He wasn’t exactly sure if anyone knew the tower actually existed, judging by the state of the room when Harry had found it: a thick layer of dust coated the floors and there were no furniture at all to speak of. There were three small windows that provide air and light, and while the room might seem dismal to the average person, it was like home to Harry.

Well, not home per se… but it sure did help him hide from the rest of the castle’s inhabitants. It would not bode well if anyone caught him reading about an illicit organisation created by Dumbledore way back in the 70’s. As it was, the secluded little tower reminded Harry somewhat of his cupboard back in Privet Drive – not exactly one of the best places in the world but it was safe, familiar.

When they were all seated and quiet, she said, 'You may begin,' and turned over an enormous hour-glass on the desk beside her, on which there were also spare quills, ink bottles and rolls of parchment.

Harry turned over his paper, his heart thumping hard – three rows to his right and four seats ahead Hermione was already scribbling – and lowered his eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation and b) describe the wand movement required to make objects fly.

Immediately the memory of Ron levitating a troll’s wooden club rushed to the forefront of Harry’s mind, and it seemed that the book version of himself shared the same mind because he was recalling the memory as well. It wasn’t until the book Harry was taking his Astronomy OWLs that the real Harry realised that of course he and the book version of himself shared the same mind – they were the same person, more or less.
The character was based on him, after all, and in the next two years, that could be him.

I’d rather hope not Harry thought idly as he flipped over a page. I don’t want to turn into a self-centred git who yells at his friends. Come to think of it, his current life seemed so much better compared to Book Harry, even if a supposed mass murderer is after him. At least now he didn’t have to care about leading an illegal school club, or worry about passing his OWLs.

Shaking his head for the poor Fifth and Seventh Years working hard to pass their exams, Harry resumed reading.

He was walking along the cool, dark corridor to the Department of Mysteries again, – Harry stiffened and unconsciously held his breath – walking with a firm and purposeful tread, breaking occasionally into a run, determined to reach his destination at last . . . He was having that dream again, and in the middle of an exam no less! Granted it was History of Magic, which sort of guaranteed him falling asleep at some point, but honestly? Why this dream? Why now? He would rather take on the dreadfully boring exam than that blasted bigot.

Sometimes – well, most of the time – okay, all the time – Harry hated being connected to Voldemort the way he was. Yes, it helped save lives like that time when Book Mr Weasley was bitten by the snake but other than that, Harry felt that it was nothing but a thorn at his side. With a resigned sigh, Harry continued reading.

He did not like what he saw.

 'You'll have to kill me,' whispered Sirius.

 'Undoubtedly I shall in the end,' said the cold voice.

“No,” came his strangled cry. His grip on the book tightened, his fingers go white and red from the pressure. His entire body was stiff yet shaking at the same time, as if he was stuck outside with no cloak on or even a hint of a Warming Charm. He might not know Sirius Black as the Book Harry does, but a part of him sees felt the same way he does. After all, Sirius was the only family he had left. He was his godfather and his father’s best friend. While Professor Lupin was a close friend of James Potter as well, he had not offered him a loving home like Book Sirius did in Prisoner of Azkaban.

In other words, he had not been Sirius. Harry didn’t know how he could go on without Sirius Black. If Voldemort does indeed manage to kill him – and judging from Harry’s luck so far in life, that event seemed very likely – then perhaps meeting the man later on in the year might not be such a good idea after all. I mean, Harry thought numbly, his eyes levelled at the jumbled words in front of him, might as well save myself the trouble of getting my hopes up and then having them crushed.

With the temper that Book Harry has got, Harry feared how he will react to his godfather’s upcoming death. He hoped, somehow futilely, that he will not do anything drastic and put everyone he knew in danger.

Heaving a heavy sigh (and then coughing up a fit after he inhaled a large amount of dust), Harry gathered up his courage and picked up where he left off. He was a Gryffindor after all, and he would rather face this problem head on, so to speak, rather than think too much about it.

It wasn’t until well into the evening that a heavy-hearted Harry left his tower sanctuary. A handful of hours had passed since he had read about Sirius being held captive by Voldemort, and now he had finished reading the book. He now knew what awaited him in his Fifth Year, what terrors and utter stupidity… It was his fault, undoubtedly. Book Sirius was dead because of the frantic decisions that the fifteen year old version of himself made.

“I wish could have un-read that,” Harry mumbled quietly as he turned a corner. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not notice he was not alone in the corridor. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had figured that since dinner was being served, no one would be around the halls to bother him. Wallowing in misery was something he liked to do in private.

“Talking to yourself, wee Potty?” commented the intruder. “Going ‘round the bend, are you?”

Harry glanced at the Poltergeist. “I’m not talking to myself,” he denied. “Just… thinking out loud.”

Peeves didn’t look like he believed him, but he seemed to have gotten bored by the conversation so he simply blew a raspberry before passing through the walls, leaving Harry alone again. This time, he checked the entire perimeter before returning to his previous musings. Or he would have done so, if his stomach hadn’t reminded him that there was a reason why everyone was in the Great Hall at this time.

“Food,” he grumbled, patting his stomach in compassion. He has barely eaten anything all day, save for those Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans that, quite frankly, did not agree with him.

_Page Break_

Harry tried his best not to let his newfound knowledge concerning the godfather he had not officially met yet get to him, especially as the Quidditch game against Slytherin slowly approached. He felt very conflicted as, if Prisoner of Azkaban was right about how the game will turn out, not only would Harry be overwhelmed by Dementors, miss the Snitch and lose the game for his House, but his beloved Nimbus 2000 would be battered by the Whomping Willow as well. Of course, the chances of the game turning out exactly like the one in the book was very unlikely – there were many factors that should be taken into account such as the weather and the split-moment decisions made during a Quidditch game – Harry still felt queasiness in his stomach.

“It’s going to be a tough one,” said Wood. Like Harry, he wasn’t eating much of anything.

“Stop worrying, Oliver,” replied Alicia in a soothing manner. Harry slowly tuned her out as he mentally prepared himself for the game. It was one thing to accept that his first broomstick would break after a freak accident with the Dementors, but it was quite another to let it happen when he knew that he could prevent it.

Grimacing, Harry followed his teammates towards the Quidditch field. His expression, usually excited at the prospect of a Quidditch game no matter the weather, was stoic and determined. It was out of his hands to control what was going to happen. The best he could do was just do his best. If he catches the Snitch before Diggory, then fine; a win would not affect anything major as far as he knew. If he doesn’t catch the Snitch, then he would have other things to worry about. Trying not to split his head open when he falls comes to mind…

“Hey, Harry!” the twins called as they mounted their brooms. “Mind getting your head off the clouds and joining us for the game?” hollered George.

“Yeah!” continued Fred. “We don’t want to lose to a bunch of ‘Puffs do we now, Harry, me old chap!”

For the first time that day, Harry Potter grinned. There was nothing like a playful banter with the twins to lift one’s spirits, even though technically he hadn’t really participated in the conversation. He didn’t have the opportunity before Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle was blasting in his ear. What he did have the opportunity for, however, was so choke over some choice swear words as the heavy rain quickly soaked him to the bone. He could not see beyond the tip of his broom, let alone hunt for the Snitch, it was raining so hard.

I can’t recall Book Me having this much trouble, Harry thought desperately as he whizzed past the Hufflepuff Chasers and breaking up their formation. Several minutes and two scores for Gryffindor later, Harry was touching ground after the time-out Wood had called.

“I’ve got no chance catching anything remotely Snitch-sized with these one,” Harry said to Wood but addressing the team at large. “I might as well be underwater,” he continued as he tugged his glasses off and wiped them dry with some cloth that Angelina conjured. “Thanks,” he nodded to the girl. “Isn’t there a spell somewhere that can make my glasses waterproof? I mean, I know there’s a spell that can keep water out, but I don’t think we’ve covered it in Charms yet.”

Seeing the blank faces staring back at him, Harry figured that none of the older years have covered it as well. Or they just can’t remember. Bugger it all. Harry ran a hand through his hair, though unfortunately he managed to hit something – well, someone – with his elbow in the process.

“Dammit, I’m sorry!” was his immediate response. “Hermione, what are you doing here?!” was his second followed by a “You know the spell!” as realisation dawned on him. The rest of the team shared looks at their Seeker’s seemingly bipolar behaviour, but these went unnoticed as Harry quickly explained to Hermione the situation.

“Wow, Harry,” commented the bushy haired witch as she took his glasses from him. Her eyebrows were raised in appreciation. “I didn’t know you were aware of that spell. It’s not on the Hogwarts syllabus, seeing as most wizards are unable to expand the charm beyond certain areas. While of course I find it a very interesting spell to learn, the professors think it’s a waste of time to teach students because of its many restrictions –“

Before his best friend could go on a tangent (they do have a game to get back to, after all), Harry grabbed his glasses and propped them on his face. “I might not look it, Hermione,” he smiled, “but I do pick up a book once in a while.”

Hermione paused, started to say something, and then paused again.

“I don’t just hang with you in the library to watch people, you know. I do read sometimes. But right not, I think I should get back to the game. See you later in the Common Room?”

Once Hermione returned for the stands, Fred and George each swung an arm over Harry’s shoulders and praised his skills in handling the fairer sex. He sank into the mud a little because of their weight, but Harry would never dare mention it to the twins. “What do you mean my skills?” he asked. “I was just telling her the truth!”

The twins shared a look.

“Come off it, Harry,” they chorused. “You’re the last person aside from Ron who would voluntary pick up a book and learn spells,” added Fred. He ruffled Harry’s soaking wet hair.

“Jinxes and charms to mess with people, maybe,” said George, “but practical spells like that Impervious Charm? We’re thick, but not that thick.”

“Oh, believe me Gred, Forge,” Harry shrugged off their arms and swung his Nimbus to replace their weight, “you guys are not, as you put it, thick.” He thought about the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and how much ingenuity, hard work and dedication the twins are capable of when given the right occasion. “And I do read.”

George snorted. “Yeah, right. If you’re a reader then I’m a saint.”

Fred laughingly shoved his twin and mounted his broom. Time-out was nearly over. “And I’m a bleeding Hinkypunk. Just make sure you catch that Snitch, Harry!”

Harry accepted the light-hearted teasing and mounted his own broom. He sped off without as much as a worry about the game’s ending. For now, he was just going to have fun doing what he does best: Quidditch.

_Page Break_

Muffled discussion permeated through the thick fog that was Harry’s consciousness. The last thing he knew was pushing with all his might for his Nimbus to go faster. The Snitch was so close and Diggory was not that far of as well. He remembered making a desperate lunge towards the Snitch, scratching at the other Seeker’s hands in his haste to get it… Now his head hurts, along with the rest of him, actually.

“Y’know, we wouldn’t have minded if he does read up on practical spells in the library,” admitted one of the twins. Harry was too punch-drunk to bother separating the two.

“Unlike Hermione here,” continued the other twin, “we can totally see ickle Harrikins hitting the books. Maybe not as much as Ginny. That little sister of ours is always disappearing to read those wishy-washy novels of hers.”

There was a scornful scoff, presumably from Hermione. “I didn’t say it was a farfetched idea,” she said. Yes, Harry thought, definitely Hermione. “I never said anything of the sort.”

“But you don’t believe him,” someone else chimed it. It was one of the Chaser girls. Katie, maybe?

“Of course, I do –“

“You said so yourself that you didn’t know Harry knew of that spell – what was it called again?” Chuckles and groans erupted from the pack gathered around Harry’s prone form. Was it really that difficult to remember a spell that makes things water repellent? “You were surprised when he mentioned that he reads.”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Really, could have fooled me,” said Alicia. Harry was certain this was Alicia because the only person who heard her (apart from him) had hissed for her to be quiet else she’d get the wrath of an irritated bookworm.

“Get of her case, guys,” came the reasonable voice of Harry’s other best mate, Ron. “You’re saying things Hermione never said.” Hermione’s thanks were soft and barely audible. “Of course, what she really meant was that she was surprised not by Harry reading because let’s face it, the git doesn’t wear glasses because it’s hip in the Muggle world.”

What on earth was Ron talking about? And since when did he used the word “hip”? Damn, he must have been talking to Dean again. Muggle slang was his thing.

“Hermione’s just mad because Harry’s giving her a run for her Galleons,” finished Ron.

There was complete and utter silence after Ron finished his sentence. Just when everyone thought he had matured even for the slightest bit, he had gone and made a joke out of it. While he couldn’t be blame – the cue was right there for the taking – no one could believe that he could say that. And within arm’s length of the bushy haired witch herself. Harry couldn’t help it anymore.

He snorted. Forcefully peeling his eyes open, he laughed his way to a sitting position until he had grabbed his glasses and settled his sheets comfortably around him. “Hello, everyone,” he greeted cheerfully. “What did I miss?”

“Apparently, not much,” answered Hermione, glaring at him coldly. “If you’re fine enough to laugh in my expense, then I shouldn’t have bothered waiting for you to wake up.”

“C’mon, Hermione,” said Harry with a winning smile. “Don’t be like that!”

When the girl in question refused to meet his eyes (or anyone’s, for that matter), Harry turned to his teammates and repeated his question, adding one about the results of the game. Despite the sense of foreboding Harry had felt this morning over breakfast, things had turned out pretty well. The Dementors still came and he had still fallen off his broom, but they had won the match after Harry barely scraped by in catching the elusive Snitch before Diggory could. There was a party in the Common Room in celebration for their victory.

“What about my Nimbus?” Harry asked. He almost regretted it upon seeing the smiles drop off his friends’ faces.

“Well…” drawled Ron, the only one with enough courage – or stupidity – to brave whatever reaction Harry would have once the news was delivered. What he wasn’t aware of, however, was that Harry already knew what happened to his broom. It was asking too much of serendipity for that to have changed.

After hearing Ron and Hermione (who had gotten over her anger) recount the events that led to his trusted broomstick, Harry didn’t know what to feel. Things had not gone the way they did in the Prisoner of Azakaban, but still the results were the same more or less. The Dementors still flock to him like a drug, he still fell several feet off his broom and into the squelchy mud of the Quidditch Pitch, and his Nimbus 2000 was ruined beyond repair. Only, The Whomping Willow was not to blame. This time, his broomstick had simply been blown into across the grounds before drowning in the Black Lake.

Oh well, Harry mused as he settled into bed later that night, at least I’ll have that Firebolt to look forward to.

The Power of Knowledge - Chapter 4

The Power of Knowledge

Chapter 4

“Are you sure you packed everything before we left?” asked Hermione in her usual bossy tone, though as the years passed Harry grew a little bit immune to its effects. In fact, his slight resistance to The Tone was the reason why Hermione was using it in the first place. For all intents and purposes, Harry Potter was tuning her out. He was still listening, of course, but the larger percentage of his concentration was on his inner monologue.

I was sure I’ve got them here somewhere, he thought, absently unloading his Potions equipment and setting them on the ground beside his opened trunk; the slight drizzle of rain coated his things. Maybe they’re next to my Quidditch gear? No, it can’t be… He had had unpacked the scarlet uniform first before everything else, since they were at the very top.

Meanwhile, Harry’s best friend (the one not nagging him about his carelessness), assured the bushy haired witch that everything was going to be fine. “We’re not gonna be late for the Feast, so stop badgering him.”

“I’m not worried about the Feast, Ronald!” Hermione exclaimed. “I’m worried about having to walk all the way up to the castle in this weather, all because Harry,” the boy in mention cringed as he shifted his Charms book to the right, “forgot his Hogwarts robes.”

“For the last time, I did not forget them,” he sighed. “I just… misplaced them. I remember putting them in my trunk before we left the castle last year, and I never took them out. They’re in here. They’re just… hiding from me.”

“Then tell them come out of hiding!”

It was a joke – well, not quite a joke but for sure it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. You simply do not talk to lost items in hope that they’d come running back to you like a long lost lover. However, if you follow the train of thought… Harry fumbled for his wand, thinking of that time in the Goblet of Fire when he called for his Firebolt.

“Harry, mate, what are you doing?” asked Ron.

“Just trying out something,” he said vaguely, preoccupied by recalling that spell. It was a one-worded spell, and he was sure it ended with an o.

“And that something is…?”

The proverbial light bulb suddenly switched on above Harry’s head. He gave a wordless cheer, sending a grin over his shoulder to his two confused best friends and then cried, “Accio school robes!” Said item of clothing came sailing from the depths of his trunk and hit Harry unceremoniously on the face. Not as smooth sailing as he predicted, but it worked out in the end.

Hermione was stuttering out a question, but she was interrupted by Ron saying, “It worked! Whatever it was, it got you your robes, Harry, so hurry up or we’ll really miss the Feast. I dunno about you, but I don’t feel like missing another Sorting.”

Quickly, Harry donned his robes and stuffed all his things back in his trunk. In his haste, he overlooked a small book. At first glance it might be mistaken as a school book, and that was what Ginny Weasley thought when she accidentally stepped on it and painfully grazed her knees. On a closer inspection, however, she found that it was far from a school book – a biography maybe, but certainly not a school book.

“Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone,” she muttered, reading the title. “What in the world…?”

_Page Break_

After Hagrid had walked Harry, Ron and Hermione back to the castle (he even insisted on making sure they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait), the three decided to retire for the evening, despite the earliness of the hour. They’ve had a busy first day, and they were exhausted from the added electives they were taking this year.

“Harry, d’you suppose Hagrid’s going to get the sack because of this mess?” asked Ron as the boy in question came out of the bathroom. “I mean, it wasn’t his fault, but…” He reclined on his bed and sent Harry a worried look. “Malfoy’s a menace.”

“Everything’s going to be all right, Ron,” assured Harry, “I promise.”

Silence filled the common room in which Ron mulled over his friend’s words. Absently, he scratched the side of his nose. “Yeah,” he agreed finally. “The git’s dad might be on the board of governors, but Dumbledore won’t let anything get past him.”

Ron yawned and, as he bid Harry goodnight, closed the curtains of his four poster bed. Minutes later, snores could be heard echoing in the room. Neville and Dean were already asleep, while Seamus was still downstairs doing who knows what, leaving Harry the only one awake in the Third Year Boys’ dorm. His body was tired but his mind was reeling: he was sure Hagrid was going to be all right, but it wouldn’t do any harm just to check, right?

Harry scrambled off his bed and quietly unlatched the locks on his trunk. Compared to yesterday, it was not as full with the majority of his clothes stowed away in his assigned dresser – that, and also because more than half of his school books were stuffed inside his book bag.

C’mon, where are you? Harry shoved aside some of Dudley’s disfigured hand-me-downs in search for the pile of story books that happened to revolve around his life. Aha! He found them underneath his cauldron, which in turn was happily stuffed with one of Harry’s shoes.

“Hallows, Prince, Order...” Harry ghosted through the titles, checking that all were accounted for. “Goblet, Prisoner,” he fingered the book out the pile, “Chamber, Stone – hold on!” Harry shook his head and leaned closer to make sure. Right there, underneath his shoe-stuffed cauldron and located at the leftmost end, was where Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was supposed to be. But the problem was that it wasn’t.

Instantly, Harry was wide awake, traces of his weariness from just a minute before now gone. There was a brief moment in which his heart thudded loudly in his chest and his breathing had paused, but then that moment passed and Harry uttered some of the best curse words he knew (all under his breath, of course, since he didn’t want to disturb his dorm mates).

The small hardbound book that basically recorded his first year at Hogwarts was missing. Missing! But how could it be? It was safely locked away in his trunk –

“Except for that time in Hogsmeade,” Harry breathed. He had been so caught up in looking for his robes that he must have accidentally unearthed the book and, for some reason, he had forgotten to re-pack it. Basically, he had left a book on the ground at Hogsmeade Station where anyone could see and pick it up.

“Bloody hell,” Harry wheezed, feeling very lightheaded all of a sudden. Anyone could have picked it up! Some random person – or worse, a Slytherin – could be reading about my life right now.

After closing his trunk, Harry collapsed on his bed, his head spinning at the possible consequences of his thoughtless mistake could be. For one thing his secrets could be revealed, such as Hagrid’s former pet dragon Norbert, his father’s Invisibility Cloak and – Harry grimaced – his life before Hogwarts. The words cupboard under the stairs rang between his ears, almost loud enough to give him a headache.

“Are you okay there, Harry?”

Jumping at the new voice, Harry’s head snapped towards the door and saw a slightly concerned Seamus. Harry struggled to work his throat. “Oh, um, I’m fine. I was just… going to sleep.” With shaking hands, Harry slipped off his glasses, and as surreptitiously as he could, slipped Prisoner of Azkaban under his pillow. Seamus was still eyeing him weirdly, but Harry quickly forgot about him as he wondered what he should do about the missing book. It wasn’t until Seamus (who usually took a considerable length of time before falling asleep) was snoring that Harry finally drifted off into slumber.

In view of his recent worries, it was only fitting that Harry’s dreams revolved around the consequences if Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was never found. This dream plagued him nearly every night for the next week, and it wasn’t until he faced the Dementor in Defence Against the Dark Arts that finally banished it. However, a small part of Harry would give all the gold in his vault to have it back again, if only so he wouldn’t hear his mother’s dying voice while he slept.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked one afternoon. They were in the library occupied with some homework, which struck to Hermione as peculiar seeing as they were the only Third Years among the sea of Fifth and Seventh Years. While it was more than standard for her to spend time in the library, for her best friend Harry Potter, it was not.

“All right?” Harry repeated, turning his head to face Hermione. “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hermione pursed her lips and busied her hands by cleaning the tip of her quill. “Well,” she said, “you have been acting kind of odd lately.”

“Odd?” asked Harry.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Hermione slowly, “but you are spending your free time here in the library with me –“

“What’s wrong with that?” interjected Harry. Underneath the table and away from Hermione’s line of sight, he wiped his sweaty hands on his cloak. “You’re one of my best friends, Hermione. I like spending time with you.”

“That’s not the problem, Harry.” Hermione rolled her eyes at the bespectacled boy for interrupting her. “It’s the fact that you’ve done so five times in a row. I thought you didn’t like the library that much… why the change of heart?”

Harry thought of a reply, but none was forthcoming. How was he to explain to Hermione, the brightest witch of her age, that he was looking for the person who would be reading a storybook about his life? Not only would that lead to a conversation about the book’s sequels, but at the fact that someone somewhere knew what was going to happen in the future. With the amount of proof the books contained, Hermione was sure to believe in ‘foresight’, and Divination class was hard enough without her actually beginning to take it seriously.

“Um…” Harry blinked rapidly. “I really, really needed to work on my essays,” he said, but the lilt in his voice at the end implied that he was unsure of his answer. That was the cause of his undoing. What followed was a very stressful interrogation that made Harry wish he had told the truth in the first place.  Anything was worth not being subjected to the Spanish Inquisition.

Eventually, Harry lost control of his temper. “All right – all right, I get it!” he all but yelled, disturbing the occupants of the hushed library. Standing up, he quickly gathered his books and his pitiful looking essay, saying how he knew “when his company was not wanted.”

This time, it was Hermione’s turn to flounder like a fish out of water. “What – Harry, of course I didn’t mean it like that! I don’t mind studying with you.”

Harry sighed. “Then why are you so eager to get rid of me?”

“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you!” Harry snorted. “Don’t you laugh at me, Harry!” Hermione threatened. “I’ve known you for three years and never in those times have you been this eager to go to the library to study. Besides, all you’ve been doing the past hour was look around at what other people are doing – not once have you added to your Charms essay!”

For the second time, the ball was on Harry’s court. Damn, Hermione was too observant for her own good. She was right, of course. He had been neglected his essay, but only because the real reason he was in the library was not to work on it because if he was honest with himself, he could write a good enough draft in the Common Room with Ron. He figured that if someone had Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, they would certainly be reading it, and where else can someone read peacefully other than at a library?

It was simple logic, though it did not occur to young Harry that the person reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was hiding in the bathroom of the Second Year Girls, specifically in the bathtub with the company of some cushions (kindly conjured by her brother Percy), a glass and a pitcher of pumpkin juice, and a basket of homemade cookies from her mother. Interestingly enough, she was currently reading the ninth chapter. Combining the very interesting subject matter and her above average reading skill, this would be the third time reading the book in two months.

She was so hooked to the narrative retelling of Harry’s First Year that she would have advanced to the next instalment quite readily if it weren’t for a couple of hindrances: the fact that she didn’t have the book and she was too chicken to go up to the boy in question to ask for it, assuming that he has the copy and also, the second book would definitely be about Harry’s Second Year at Hogwarts. That was also her First Year, the very same year that she was possessed by the spectre of Lord Voldemort. Fortunately for her, Harry was there to save the day.

Idly, Ginny Weasley laughed as the First Year version of Hermione Granger admonished her brother and Harry.

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”

Finishing the page, Ginny used one of her fingers to flick over unto the next page. It was good to forget the mundane worries of a boarding school girl – missing her parents, not getting along with her dorm mates, etc. – and simply fall into the world of stories, even if the story she was reading wasn’t much of a story as it was a biography told in narrative.

At the back of her mind, at the furthest corner where some thoughts such as eating broccoli and washing behind her ears were stored and not particularly listened to, Ginny wondered how on earth a story book about Harry Potter came about. It wasn’t like Harry to confide in someone, especially an author, about his personal experiences.

Extras - Chapter 2 (TPoKn)

From the Story

Step one was to hide behind Number 2's hedges until...

For step two, Harry needed to get through the high hedges somehow and then walk over the flower bed (just to spite his Aunt Petunia), go around the greenhouse and then make a beeline towards the back door.

The Power of Knowledge - Chapter 3

The Power of Knowledge

Chapter 3

It was nearing midday, that much Harry was sure. He had spent the better part of the past hour studiously scanning the Prisoner of Azkaban, trying to commit it to memory. He couldn’t very well bring it along with him wherever he went in the Wizarding world, or the Leaky Cauldron at the very least. Not only would people find it strange that he was reading a book about himself, but they would ask questions too.

Besides, Harry did not want people to get any ideas. He had enough books written about him, thank you very much.

Harry paused in his speed reading when he felt a familiar faint twinge in his stomach. It must have registered his thoughts about the Wizarding pub and connected it with the idea of food. Harry grimaced and shared a look with Hedwig. “I suppose it’s time for us to get going, huh?”

Hedwig hooted in reply. Took you long enough, her look seemed to say.

“Oh, shut it, you,” Harry grumbled, standing from his makeshift seat on the ground. He stuffed the Prisoner of Azkaban into his trouser pockets, for once glad that Dudley’s hand-me-downs were large enough to occupy a decent sized book. Harry then followed Book Stan’s instructions on how to summon the Knight Bus.

Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go.

Despite already knowing how the purple triple-decker bus would appear, Harry was still surprised and a slightly bit awed upon seeing the Knight Bus. He did not expect how loud the BANG was going to be, plus a triple-decker bus was high. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d suspect it could reach the sky. Turning away from the vehicle’s roof, Harry saw that its name was proudly written in gold letters on the windshield, just as the books described.

A wide grin threatened to spill off of Harry’s face. “Wicked…”

“Yeah, we sometimes have that effect on people.” A purple clad conductor stepped out of the bus and bowed regally. Clearly, he was not Stan Shunpike. “It is rare that a witch or wizard gets stranded during the day,” remarked the man, “but we take what we can get. Welcome, young sir, to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for us Wizard folk. My name is Tim Fawlty, and I will be your conductor this fine day.”

“Er, thank you,” stammered Harry, taken by surprise at the sudden formality of it all. “If you could just…” he gestured lamely behind him at his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, “…help me with my things and I’ll –”

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed Tim. He readily grabbed Harry’s school trunk by the handle and lifted it into the bus. Hedwig’s empty cage, meanwhile, bobbed along behind him. “Is there anything I can get you, Mr…?” Tim asked after stowing Harry’s trunk underneath a spare bed. When Harry made no signs of saying his name, Tim pursed his lips in suspicion and told the bus driver that everything was secure.

Harry wondered if Tim knew what the word secure meant seeing as, when the Knight Bus drove away with another loud BANG, he was dislodged from the bed and landed clumsily on the floor. With a bark of laughter, Tim offered his hand for Harry to take.

Muttering his thanks, Harry sat on the bed again, this time at the very center so that there won’t be any repeat of his fall.

“So you’re from Hogwarts then?” asked Tim, making small talk. He was looking at Harry strangely and, for the second time today, Harry resisted the urge to make sure his scar was covered. He knew it was covered. His hair was long enough. There was no need to draw attention to it.

“Why d’you ask that?” asked Harry, neither confirming nor denying Tim’s assumption.

“I saw the Hogwarts crest on your trunk. Isn’t it a bit early to be getting on the Express?”

“I’m going to the Leaky Cauldron.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not running away from home, are you?”

“Why?” Harry countered. Tim was spot on, but Harry knew better than to admit it. “Do I look like I’m running away?”

Tim rolled his eyes in frustration. “Either you’re hiding something or it’s in your personality. You’re a Slytherin,” he accused.

Harry praised himself for keeping his cool façade while inside, he was screaming.Slytherin! What on earth did I do that came off as Slytherin?! The Gryffindor side of him — that is, the one majority of him — bristled at Tim Fawlty’s accusation. However, the Slytherin part of him — the one the Sorting Hat acknowledged two years ago while he was was being Sorted — preened with something akin to pride.

“But that can’t be,” frowned Tim. “You’re a Muggleborn, right? You dress like a Muggle, anyhow.”

“Not all Slytherins are pureblood,” said Harry coolly, “just like not all purebloods are Slytherins.”

Tim looked stump for a moment. Harry, too, because he was aware that he wasn’t the type to say things Dumbledore might say. Hermione, maybe. She was one of his best friends, along with Ron. Out of the three of them, she was the most likely to say something deep and wise and profound, not Harry.

Feeling uncomfortable at the conductor’s gaze on him, Harry fidgeted on the bed. Finally he decided to get out the elven Sickles that was the fare. The Knight Bus found London without much conversation going on between Harry and Tim, which was what the former preferred. The ride was awkward at the most, but Harry did not dwell on that thought. He had bigger things to worry about… like the Minister for Magic, for instance.

“Am I in deep trouble, Minister Fudge?” asked Harry the moment he stepped on the road in front of the Leaky Cauldron. (He knew this was coming.) Even though there was a purple triple-decker bus on the road, the many Muggles around paid no heed to it. They stared, though, at the portly little man wearing a pinstripe cloak. Who wore cloaks in this summer weather?

“No,” said Fudge, squirming under the Muggles’ scrutiny. “Why don’t we take this inside the Leaky, shall we? We can discuss the predicament we seem find ourselves in over some hearty soup.”

Harry was in no place to decline, so he sent a nod over his shoulder at Tim as a goodbye. The conductor’s complexion matched his uniform when he realized that the odd student — (really, a Muggleborn Slytherin?) — was on talking terms with the Minster of Magic.

Fudge led the way inside the pub as Tom, the landlord, hobbled to the Knight Bus to collect Harry’s things. When everything was settled, Harry found himself sitting opposite Fudge on a particularly large round table, eating crumpets and drinking pumpkin juice. Merlin, did Harry miss pumpkin juice.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” said Fudge, pouring himself a drink from the bottle the waitress just brought in. Upon hearing Harry’s name, the waitress’ head snapped up and her eyes immediately sought out Harry’s scar.

“Please,” interrupted Harry. He had enough formalities today from Tim. “Call me Harry.”

Fudge, looking flustered after being interrupted, nodded his head in understanding and continued whatever it was he was going to say. “I hope you don’t mind me telling you, Harry,” he locked eyes with the boy, “but you’ve had us all in a right flap. You shouldn’t have run away from your aunt and uncle’s house like that!”

Harry placed his knife and fork down and did not tear his eyes away from Fudge’s. “I wasn’t running away as much as I was hiding from their reaction,” he admitted. Feigning concern, he asked the Minister how his relatives were faring with Aunt Marge’s condition.

Meanwhile, the waitress that was staring at him snapped back to reality and scuttled out of the room.

“I won’t deny anything, Harry,” said Fudge. “You’re aunt and uncle are extremely angry with you, but they are prepared to take you back this summer. Unfortunately, you’re required to stay at Hogwarts during the Christmas and Eater holidays.”

“That’s fine with me. And Aunt Marge?”

“She’s perfectly all right, Harry. Two of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department’s most trusted and competent members were dispatched to Privet Drive thirty minutes after the incident happened. Miss Marjorie Dursley is back to her normal self and, taking into account your uncle’s shouts of her being permanently scarred from this affair, her memory is wiped clean as well. She’ll be just like you remembered her, Harry.”

Oh, joy.

Fudge, not noticing that Harry’s smile was fake, chortled happily and chatted about trivial things as they finished their lunch. “Oh, and by the way, Harry, I’ve booked a room for you here in the Leaky for the last few weeks of the summer holidays. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable in room eleven. You can go wherever you want in Diagon Alley during the day, Harry. Go to Gringotts and do your school shopping. Check out that new model of broomstick at –”

“The Firebolt, you mean?” interrupted Harry, the Quidditch player in him getting the better of his manners.

“You’ve heard about that, have you?” asked Fudge amusedly. “It’s not even out in the shops yet.” Then his smile slipped off and he grew serious. “I don’t want you wandering off to Muggle London. Keep to Diagon Alley only. Don’t go into Knockturn Alley, either, and make sure you’re to be back here before dark each night. It’s for your safety, Harry. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“Are you putting me in some sort of house arrest because of what I did to Aunt Marge?” Harry’s tone, though light, had a hint of seriousness to it. “Because if you are, I can assure you that nothing of that sort would happen again, Minister.”

“No, nothing of that sort!” laughed Fudge obnoxiously. “We just don’t want to lose you again, do we? No, no… best we know where you are… Tom would be keeping an eye on you for me. Well, I think it’s time for me to go!”

Harry watched Fudge stand up and re-hook the silver fastenings of his cloak. “Is this about Black then, Minister?” he asked, unable to contain himself any longer.

“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard — well, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” As he spoke, Fudge was encroaching towards the door. As he said his goodbyes, Harry forced his mouth shut from asking any more questions and let the poor man go. He already knew what’s gotten his knickers in a twist: Sirius Black, the man wrongfully imprisoned for a crime one of his trusted friends had committed. What’s more, he was the man whom Harry just met face to face mere hours ago.

_Page Break_

Harry Potter woke up from sleep feeling very weary. His face hurt terribly, especially around the side of his face where his glasses pressed uncomfortably against his skin. He had fallen asleep reading again and had forgotten to remove his glasses, or perhaps he had convinced himself that he was just going to rest his eyes before opening them again to finish a chapter. He had done that a lot lately, reading until his eyes couldn’t take it anymore. It had come to a point that his excuses — not to mention his days — just melted into one long mesh of night and day.

But it wasn’t like he could help it. After finishing the Goblet of Fire, Harry found that he couldn’t put the Order of the Phoenix down even if his life depended on it. He wanted to know what Voldemort planned on doing. The Dark Lord had gotten himself a body by the end of the fourth book, and Harry wanted to know how much damage he was causing in book five.

Harry needed to know. He needed to be ready. Opening the thick book to the right page, Harry quickly scanned the paragraphs until he found where he left off last night — or was it earlier in the morning?

‘FOUR WEEKS I’VE BEEN STUCK IN PRIVET DRIVE, NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY AND FIND OUT WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON –’

‘We wanted to -’

‘I SUPPOSE YOU’VE BEEN HAVING A REAL LAUGH, HAVEN’T YOU, ALL HOLED UP HERE TOGETHER -’

‘No, honest -’

With a disgusted cry, Harry slammed the book shut and threw it across the bed. He wouldn’t grow up to be that much of an self-centered idiot, would he? Shouting at his friends, thinking about only himself and not considering what others must be going through… Two years from now wouldn’t find him like that, right?

“Merlin,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck to relax the muscles. “I certainly hope not.”

Harry stood up, swayed a bit as he gained his bearings, and made his way to the bathroom where he took a quick shower before going downstairs to eat his breakfast. Tom greeted his cheerfully as was the routine, and Harry smiled and listed what he felt like eating today. Despite Fudge’s ominous warnings to never stray out of Diagon Alley, Harry found himself enjoying his freedom. Never before had been allowed to eat anything he pleased whenever he fancied, and it was novelty every day as his appetite showed his Gryffindor personality.

“I’d like to try something different today, Tom,” Harry told the bartender.

“Don’t you always?” the old man behind the bar said, chuckling. “I take it you’ve grown out of your French cuisine stage?”

Harry grimaced and involuntarily grabbed his stomach. Those frog’s legs did not agree with him. “No, I think I’m done with the French, Tom. How about something more exotic? Indian food, perhaps? I overheard a classmate of mine talking that the spices are exquisite.”

“How about some curry then?” suggested Tom. “It’s not breakfast food, but it’s Indian.”

“Fantastic. I’ll have that, then.”

As Harry ate his so-called breakfast, his eyes scanned the busy pub for a familiar family with red hair. The hours passed and Harry grew anxious. Perhaps he had things wrong. Was he certain that the Weasleys would be in Diagon Alley today of all days? Maybe they had already done their school shopping and Harry had missed them because he was holed up in his room like a vampire afraid of daylight.

A frown marred the young wizard’s face. With butterflies fluttering in his stomach, Harry reached into his robes — he had begun wearing them to blend in to the Wizarding crowd — and took out the Prisoner of Azkaban. He had taken to carrying it with him everywhere, just in case he needed to check up on something. Like the date of the Weasleys’ arrival, for instance.

Harry flipped through the book furiously until his eyes caught the part where Mr. Weasley was warning him against Black. Flipping to the pages before that, Harry scanned the paragraphs until he read over the part where he met up with Ron and Hermione. The scene was at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor.

Should I be there? Harry asked himself. But I wanted to meet them before that, and the books says that they checked the Leaky Cauldron first. Perhaps I should just follow the book’s timeline –

Loud shuffling came from the general direction of the fireplace, and Harry turned on his seat to see what the scuffle was all about. Seeing two familiar heads of hair, a grin tugged on Harry’s lips. Quietly as to not give away his position, Harry crept behind the Weasley twins and, just as the Floo burped out Ginny, Harry tapped the boys’ inside shoulders. They were standing so close together that when they turned around to see who wanted their attention, their heads bumped quite painfully.

“Hello there, Fred, George,” Harry greeted amicably. “I trust you’ve had a fine time in Egypt.”

“It was wonderful, Harry,” said the twin whom Harry assumed was Fred. “You should’ve been there — ow!” Fred winced at George elbowed. “What in Merlin’s name was that for?”

George rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, my less intelligent twin, I see you are completely unaware of the prank young Harry has just pulled on us.”

“A prank?” echoed Fred. George nodded sombrely. “You mean the –” George nodded again and this time, Fred understood enough to realize that the reason a part of his head was throbbing was because of the young upstart more popularly known as the Boy Who Lived. “Why you…” he said before proceeding to call Harry a very nasty name.

“My sentiments exactly,” agreed George, reaching out to ruffle Harry’s hair.

“Hey,” shouted Harry, skillfully dodging away. “What I did was completely tame compared to what you lot do! I say it was only fair that I did what I did.”

“And what exactly did you do, Harry?” someone from behind Fred and George asked. The twins dutifully stepped back to reveal a soot covered Ron, flanked by his parents, Percy and Ginny, who was flushed red from laughing, having witnessed Harry’s harmless trick on her brothers.

“Ron!” exclaimed Harry. The two best friends, after weeks of separation, met halfways to engulf each other in a manly hug. The hug in itself wasn’t a hug, but more of a round of back slapping and uttered “glad to see you”, “you look well” and “that was some bloody good magic you did on your aunt!”

The last, of course, was said by Ron. Ignoring his mother’s reprimands, the redhead smiled sheepishly at Harry before asking whether he wanted to come with his family to Diagon Alley. “It’s Hermione,” Ron said. “She said that she’ll be at Fortescue’s after doing her school shopping. You haven’t seen her around, have you?”

“Nah, ‘fraid not. Haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts, actually.” Harry rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably, debating over whether or not to tell Ron — and Hermione, for that matter — about the books he had received on his birthday. “I’ve uh, I’ve been stuck indoors most of the time.”

Ron grimaced and patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Did the Minister put you on house arrest or something? I heard from Fred and George who heard from Dad that he came and got you from the Muggles.”

Harry doubted that it was in Fudge’s list of responsibilities as Minister of Magic to retrieve Hogwarts students from Muggle relatives for doing accidental magic. “No,” Harry shot down Ron’s assumption. “I wasn’t put on house arrest. I was free to do anything, actually. And I did roam around the Alley the first few days. But then I got caught up in reading and –”

“Those nasty essays killing you, too?” Ron rubbed his ear, deep in thought. “I swear I almost died when Mum threatened to leave me in Egypt if I skipped on my essays.”

Deciding not to correct his friend, Harry hastily bobbed his head up and down. Before long, the two boys passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies and were sufficiently distracted by the Firebolt on display. They found Hermione half an hour later in Florean Fortescue’s, cradling a ball of fluffy orange fur named Crookshanks. The lecturing that followed the brief pleasantries made Harry half wish he was back in his room, but he understood that Hermione meant well.

Boy, was he glad to be among familiar faces again.