Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

(Harry discovers magic rather sooner than he was meant to. It gets a lot more complicated.)

#

Harry was nine years old when he first did it: he turned his teacher's wig blue.

He got in so much trouble for it, and everyone – his Aunt, his Uncle, the Principal – was angry at him for doing it, even if they couldn't prove how he did it. But who had ever cared about silly things like proof? It was enough that he had an awful reputation (apparently, having absentee parents was a crime now) and that his Aunt was in a bad mood that day.

Curled up in his cupboard, Harry seethed. He hadn't meant to do it, honest! He didn't even know how to do it! But of course, someone had to be blamed for the incident. After a while though, the anger faded, and it left misery in its wake. What was the point of it all? They blamed him for all the suspicious happenings, all the time. If only he had actually done it – that way it wouldn't sting so badly.

''I wish I could turn somebody's hair blue for real,'' he mumbled to himself quietly. ''That way, no one would dare to yell at me.''

But of course, that was impossible. There was not a snowball's chance in hell of something like that happening. Right?

:

The next incident was only weeks later: he shrunk the nasty jumper Aunt Petunia was trying to force on him.

Thankfully, she was having a good day, what with Uncle Vernon's raise and the sudden blooming of her geraniums, so she decided that the jumper had shrunk in the wash and just sent him on his way. Harry was quick to take advantage of his good fortune and scrambled away before she could change her mind and dole out punishment.

Hidden in the kitchen, breathlessly shuddering with mixed fear and excitement, Harry allowed himself a moment of incredulity. It can't have happened, it can't have! Such things surely weren't real. And yet… and yet. The treatment of his Aunt and Uncle – a mixture of anxiety, anger and fear – is so much more understandable now. He can do impossible things! He can shrink jumpers!

Alright, so it wasn't the most impressive of magic, but it was something. It was a start. And if he could shrink jumpers and turn people's wigs blue, then what else could he do?

Frowning in concentration, Harry admitted to himself that he had no idea how to go about this. It was time, he shivered, to visit the library.

:

Harry had never cared for books, and the library in particular was a place he avoided. The librarian disliked him fiercely, and being subjected to Madam Salisbury's hawk-eyed stare was more than a little scary, even if you were nice and quiet and obeyed all the rules.

She didn't bother to reply to his hesitant greeting, merely pointing him the direction of phantasy books when he asked about magic.

Phantasy, Harry found out, was a very complicated literature genre. He couldn't take books out of the library, let alone take them home, which meant that he had a limited time frame to educate himself on all things magical. Sadly, the books proved to be utterly unhelpful in this endeavour.

They all claimed different things, at places even contradicting themselves, and oftentimes they were so vague and confusing it left him wondering what they were even trying to say. What did inner peace even mean, and what did souls have to do with anything?

It took him several more trips to the library, which he spent being thoroughly scrutinised by Madam Salisbury, before he decided on what rules to follow and what not to. For example, while the Lord of the Rings had featured incredible magic from what he could gleam from the first book, Harry doubted it applied to him. For one, he had already proven that magic could be used for the little things, unless, of course, the size of Dudley's old jumper was of universal importance.

No, what seemed the most genuine to him was magic as it was described in a rather gruesome and horror-filled book of fairy tales, magic which worked on the principle of exchange. Equal exchange, at that.

This principle explained why magic played such a bad role in most of the books: it needed sacrifice. The stronger the spell, the greater the sacrifice had to be. For big magic he would have to give up things important to him, such as pets or friends or even bits of himself. One of the characters in the book sacrificed her own sister for a binding spell that would last a lifetime, and while the sister had agreed and knowingly allowed it to happen, it was still awful.

There were, of course, the fairies, but they weren't human. It seemed to him that only human magic was costly. I also pleased him that all the evil curses could be broken with nice, simple things. But, well. That didn't ease his mind when it came to casting the curse. Not that he would curse someone, of course not! But maybe Dudley deserved a jinx…

It made him a bit horrified to wonder what he had already given up to turn that wig blue. It also put him in a pickle of sorts. If magic was evil like most books claimed, did that also mean he was also evil?

Head aching and deeply troubled, Harry retreated to his cupboard, hoping things would be clearer when he woke up.

:

Morning brought no relief.

His Aunt noticed something was wrong immediately upon seeing him staring forlornly at the half-empty carton of eggs, unaware that his share of bacon was being spirited away by his cousin, but she didn't care enough to ask about it. Dudley had whinged and teased, but a cuff around the head from his father had set him right. If there was one thing Vernon Dursley hated more that oddities, it was noise during breakfast.

Once he was packed off to school, Harry made an effort to pay attention to the material instead of something that might not be real. After all, he hadn't done a single magical thing since the jumper incident. Alas, history was not nearly interesting enough to occupy his thoughts for long, and soon he was back to agonising over his magic, if it could be called that.

:

''Oh honestly, child, you are far too young to have that look in your eyes!'' Madam Salisbury had scoffed at the sight of him when he came in some time later. ''The way you act, one would say you were thinking of wars instead of fiction!''

Harry lifted his head up, shocked to see the sharp-faced librarian looming over him, long, dark red fingernails tapping an impatient beat on the surface of the table.

''What is it that troubles you so?'' she demanded, primly seating herself opposite of him.

Harry stared at her blankly. What could he say? That he has magic? She would laugh him out of the library at best. At the subtle darkening of her face, he frantically sought out an answer. ''I…'' But what else could he say? Madam Salisbury was no fool; she would see right through any lie he might speak. Defeated, he settled on the truth. ''I'm a witch, and I might be evil.''

Madam Salisbury offered him a false smile. ''Child,'' she told him silkily, ''I have no tolerance for liars. This is a private library, and I have every right to bar entry to those I deem… unworthy.''

''I'm not lying!'' Harry righted himself from his slouch and glared. ''I don't lie! I wouldn't, not – not here.''

The librarian paused and took in the mixed anger and fear, the tense line of the shoulders, the trembling fingers clenched in a fist. ''If you are not lying,'' she said carefully, ''then you are speaking the truth as you know it.'' Now worried at his rebellious bristling, she continued on gently. ''There is no such thing as magic, child.''

Harry stood up. He had known it would be a mistake to say anything, and look, he was right. Madam Salisbury was the same as all other adults, just as close-minded and stupid. He should never said a thing. Without another word, he stormed out of the library.

Madam Salisbury, startled, watched as the boy ran away from her. He couldn't possibly believe such nonsense! …But why not? She worried her lip, somewhere between indignation and shame. Had she not been a little girl herself once? Had she not, in those days of youth and innocence, believed there was magic in the world?

She sighed and took the school bag the boy had forgotten, going back to work, sorting out all the books. She would have to apologise when he came back.

:

Harry, for his part, was fuming mad. What did Madam Salisbury think, just telling him that like he was a baby who didn't understand anything? He knew his magic was hard to believe, but it wasn't impossible.

Things happened all the time, things that were quite impossible by the knowledge of the time – rockets, for one. Had the telephone not been a mere fantasy not that long ago? And what about the automobile? Electricity? Things that defied logic happened all the time.

The next day, he got in trouble at school for not having his homework done. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that he would need to go to the library again to get his school bag. But he could procrastinate for a little while – at the very least, he could wait until the afternoon. Maybe Aunt Petunia wouldn't notice that he was sent back from school that way.

This meant that he couldn't go home until evening, because Aunt Petunia had been quite clear when she said he wasn't allowed to come back 'til he had found his bag. She wasn't about to get him a new one, after all.

Reluctantly dragging his feet, Harry went in the direction of the playground. It was too cold for there to be any other kids there, so he would have the place to himself. It was good that it was this cold, though. It meant that he would be able to go outside and spend time away from his house. He would get the opportunity to try and practice his magic.

Speaking of magic and training, could he not try some magic now? He was alone at the moment, so he could spare an hour. And if he had proof for Madam Salisbury, then she wouldn't be able to say magic wasn't real! Energised, Harry rushed onward, eager to one up the librarian.

:

It was chilly in the park, awfully so, despite the fact that winter was still a long way away. Still, it was better in the shade where the wind couldn't find him, hidden under the foliage of the still green trees. Harry threw his jacket on the ground and sat on it, before stilling.

How was he to go about this? While he understood magic followed certain rules, nowhere had there been actual instructions for using it. In all the books, the character's magic training was glossed over, with only obscure references to arcane practices of 'purifying one's soul', which was not helpful at all.

Maybe he should start with figuring out what he wanted to do. Hmm…

Casting his eye around, Harry caught sight of a dead leaves littering the ground. Picking one up, he hesitated. Wouldn't restoring a leaf be hard? He would basically be giving it life, and if what he thought he knew of magic was true, then the only life he could give was his own. He felt leery of giving away his life for something that might not work.

In that case, following that line of reason, would it not be easier to drain the life of a leaf? Putting the dried up leaf down, he plucked a healthy, new one from the nearby bush. It was soft and pliant, that yellowish shade of green only baby leaves had and he could almost imagine the life flowing through it.

How was he to do this… Maybe if he focused on the leaf? All the books seemed to emphasise concentration and the mind. Screwing his eyes shut, Harry tried to reach out to the leaf, to feel out what he could only visualise as a bloodstream filled with light.

But, it wasn't working, even after several minutes had passed. Either he wasn't focusing right, or there was something wrong with his technique. Glaring at the stubborn leaf, Harry tried to find the fault in his reasoning. It was a heathy leaf, young and alive. It should be easy for him to feel its life force: that much all the stories agreed on.

Frustrated and, to his embarrassment, with tears in his eyes, Harry tossed it at the ground with a huff. Maybe Madam Salisbury was right, maybe magic wasn't real and he was just that desperate to be special. A lump formed in his throat; maybe he had yelled at Madam Salisbury for nothing.

He can't have, he can't have! Harry had never been needlessly rude to anyone, and he always tried to be as well behaved as he could be. He was always trying to prove the Dursleys' opinions wrong. Snapping his fingers to work off the anxiety, he searched out the leaf that had given him so much trouble. And that's when he saw it.

The lovely green leaf was lying on the ground, surrounded by its dried up brethren. It looked so different from the brown leaves, but fundamentally it was the same as them. All the leaves lying on the ground were dead leaves, no matter their appearance. The moment he had plucked the leaf from the bush, he had killed it. Which meant that…

Quickly closing his eyes, Harry focused on the bush. Still not feeling the difference but unwilling to give up, he wrapped his fingers around one thin branch, seeking out its presence. He didn't find what he was looking for.

What he did find, though, was much greater than the bush.

There was… something… beneath him, roiling with something he instinctively shied away from, so forceful with its existence he could not believe he hadn't noticed it before. Panic clawed at his throat: to begin with, this thing was so alien and alive he felt himself tremble at the frightening sensations it created – as if someone were crackling static electricity inside of his bones.

Wrenching away with a gasp, he drew his hands to himself, and then doing the same with his feet when he noticed he had unconsciously been digging the heels of his shoes into the earth. That was… That had been…

Oh.

Had that been what magic felt like?

Feeling very small at the moment, shaken up by his experience, Harry stumbled to his feet. His teeth were buzzing. Clacking his jaw a few times to get rid of the feeling, he ran away on unsteady legs. He just wanted to go home.

:

As if his Aunt's wrath hadn't been enough, the teachers scowled at him the whole of the next day. He still didn't have his book bag, seeing as he'd forgotten to go get it after what happened in the park, and his bones still ached with the residue of the terrifying magic he had felt.

The truth of the matter was that he felt afraid. All this time he had hoped and wished for magic because it would make him different and strong and, as taken with the fanciful phantasies as he was, he hadn't given any thought to the possible dangers of it. Now that he knew what magic was like, he dearly regretted ever tapping into… whatever that had been.

''Mr Potter,'' his teacher called out, ''if you would please stay behind.''

Dudley sneered at him, gleefully telling his friends something and making Piers stick his tongue out at the bespectacled boy. Harry didn't wish to know what was being said of him – likely something cruel or nasty.

''You wanted to see me, Miss Rowan?'' he asked dully of the woman, eyeing her new wig, which was very obviously not blue.

The woman's lips thinned when she realised what had his attention, but she didn't try to ask him any awkward questions. She was of the opinion that, even if Harry had been the one to embarrass her so, the poor boy was as horrified by it as she was, and he had no idea how he could have possibly done it, so there was no use in digging into that any further. What was the point of beating a dead horse? she claimed.

''You've been acting oddly, Mr Potter. In the last few days exceptionally so. I have been… concerned.'' Her expression grew even tighter at this. Harry was by no means her favoured student – that would be Gordon – be she didn't buy into all the rumours his Aunt spread around either.

Harry shrugged lightly. ''It's nothing,'' he murmured, keeping his gaze on the floor. ''Just… things.''

Miss Rowan pinched the bridge of her nose. ''I need to know about these 'things', Mr Potter. As your teacher, I am responsible for you and it is my duty to ascertain your safety and well-being.'' Squinting at him exasperatedly, she huffed when she saw that the boy wasn't paying her any attention, drolly nodding along with her instead.

''Mr Potter!'' she squawked at him angrily. ''I am not playing games here. I will need to contact your guardians about this, because if something –''

Harry's head snapped to her. ''No, you can't do that!''

Miss Rowan pursed her lips. If the boy wanted to be listened to, then he first had to learn how to listen himself. Well, two could play this game. With a sigh, she went back to arranging the papers she had to grade. ''You're dismissed, Mr Potter. Do inform your guardian I wish to speak with them, or I'll be forced to call them instead.''

Defeated, somehow even more miserable than before, Harry slunk out of the classroom. Nothing was going his way lately.

:

Harry found his way back to Madam Salisbury's library. He debated not entering at the beginning, but he needed that bag, and he also needed to know more about magic if he wanted to protect himself from those things. Reluctantly, he creaked the door open.

Madam Salisbury's grey eyes were upon his face immediately. He floundered a bit, not at all comfortable in the oppressive silence but not wanting to be the one to break it. Finally, Madam Salisbury closed her book and waved him inside.

Perching herself on a chair across from him, Madam Salisbury started tapping her nails on the table, fixing him those eyes of hers. ''Child, I am sorry for the way I treated you when you last came here. It was inexcusable, and I deeply apologise.''

Uncertain what to say and shocked at the words coming out of Madam Salisbury's mouth, Harry settled for shrugging his shoulders. ''It's fine. I mean, I did say it badly, so I can understand how it would be taken the wrong way.''

Madam Salisbury nodded in agreement, but forged on with her apology. ''I may have also given impressions that I think poorly of yourself and your intelligence, and I want it known that I didn't mean any of those things. It was merely surprise and bitterness of old age that caught up with me.''

''You're not that old!'' Harry protested, before flushing and backtracking. ''I mean… You aren't…''

Madam Salisbury smiled, relaxing. ''I am over sixty years old, child, though I thank you for your kind words. They mean a lot to me.''

Harry blinked at the librarian. Over sixty…? Getting over it, he remembered his manners. ''Call me Harry, Madam Salisbury. I… I won't mind.''

''Well then, Harry. What were you saying about magic?''

:

After telling Madam Salisbury everything he had done so far, Harry felt much lighter. A great weight had dropped off his shoulders, and, in the middle of the library, those scary things underground seemed much less real than before.

His fear wasn't quelled though, because Madam Salisbury was still mulling over the new information. He worried she wouldn't believe him, and he doubted he had the courage to go and get her proof if she asked for it.

''Well,'' Madam started, ''it seems to me that all of your efforts so far had been fruitless. I'm quite certain this is because you have no actual knowledge; you went into this – if you will pardon my language – like a fool, and expected it to work out seamlessly.''

Harry blushed furiously. It was true that he hadn't ever sat down and made a plan, which, in retrospect, was terribly stupid of him. All it resulted in was frustration and fear so far.

''Take a biscuit, Harry.'' Madam pushed the tray closer to him when she saw his shame. ''And, ah where was I? Oh yes, the plan. What you need, Harry, is a plan. An actual plan that won't consist of improvisation. You have made progress, I assure you of that – we now know you can sense the life force, or magic, of other beings if you focus – but you have gone about it in a way I dislike.''

''I know, Madam.'' Harry told her sadly. There had been reported damage to the playground, and Harry was sure he was the cause of the scorch-marks on the ground. ''I'm sorry for the park, but –''

Madam rolled her eyes. ''Oh it isn't the park I worry about, you silly boy! You endangered yourself: that is what angers me!''

Thumping her fist on the table so hard the teacups rattled, Madam Salisbury pointed her finger at him, making him go cross-eyed in an effort to keep the poison green fingernail in his line of sight.

''You found something that could potentially be deadly, Harry, and instead of seeking help you kept it to yourself, even when it harmed you. Indeed, you gave no thought to your wounds, ignoring them and choosing to go on as usual. This is what makes me so mad, Harry, and I want you to promise never to do it again!''

Harry's jaw dropped open slightly. ''I can't, Madam! Magic –''

''I meant the reckless way you go about it.'' Madam Salisbury clarified. ''I'm willing to help – no objections, child – and I will veto anything I consider to be too dangerous. I won't stop your… magic… but I will be monitoring it. Is that alright?''

Harry thought it over. Madam was probably just humouring him – he doubted she believed him. However, it didn't seem like he had any other options. If he said no, Madam Salisbury might tell on him to Aunt Petunia, and if he said yes, then she would help him. It was a good deal, he supposed. Madam Salisbury was the librarian so she would know which books were good and which were nonsense, and since she was so scary no one would try to butt in when he came over. Everyone approved of a kid going to the library, didn't they?

''Alright, Madam Salisbury.'' He agreed. ''When will we start? And how will we start?''

:

Apparently, they started the following day, which meant that he had to face the proverbial dragon when he came back home.

Aunt Petunia was breathing fire when she saw him, screeching at him for getting in trouble. Grumbling, Harry concluded Miss Rowan had done as she told him she would and called his Aunt. How lovely.

''You stupid boy! You just have to embarrass me at every turn!'' Aunt Petunia ranted as she prepared dinner, periodically turning back to him and waving a ladle at him. ''You just wait 'til your Uncle gets home, then you'll get what you're due! Duddy-Dumms never does things like this!''

And on and on she went. Harry listened to her with only half an ear: while his Aunt could spew poison with the best of them, she would never raise a hand against anyone. Harry had learned to tune her out pretty early on in his life. It was his Uncle he had to watch out for, who, while never actually going through with his threats to beat him black and blue, liked to withhold food and pile chores on him.

''Eat your dinner now!'' Aunt Petunia hissed at him, putting a bowl of salad in front of him, along with a glass of cold milk. ''And then off to the cupboard with you!''

Blinking a bit, Harry sat at the table. Wasn't she just saying how he was to wait for Uncle Vernon to come back? Sneaking a look at his Aunt, Harry saw her mixing the chopped vegetables with more force than necessary. Maybe she was so upset she forgot.

The salad was unseasoned and slightly wilted, but it was much better than what Uncle Vernon would give him, and the milk more than made up for its blandness. Gobbling it down as fast as he humanely could, Harry vacated the premises of the kitchen and rushed to his cupboard just as he heard his Uncle's keys jangle and turn in the lock.

Closing the cupboard, he breathed a sigh of relief. Just in time. Settling down to sleep, he murmured himself a 'good night' and closed his eyes. It was Saturday tomorrow. He would do magic tomorrow…

So, a big round of applause for my amazing beta, Sable Supernova, who understood my deranged ramblings and made this into a story that can actually be read.

This is actually complete, and I'm just waiting for it all to be beta'd. So... enjoy.