The Bookworm

This is a story where Harry is, as the title implies, a bookworm. Not like Hermione though, he doesn't read to learn, history doesn't fascinate him, reasoning and rules don't draw him to books. It's the stories. All the Fictional stories that he reads, how the characters interact, how you always have to expect the unexpected, the mysteries – everything, is what draws him to his books.

And he is oddly upset with the Wizarding World's selection of books. Not for the normal reasons, but because he can't understand them that well. The muggle books are what he grew up with, that and muggle rationality, reading something from a wizards view at age eleven is like trying to read Shakespeare to Harry. Creatures like the Hippogriff are not common animals in the muggle world, like the cat, for example.

Simply put, Harry cannot relate to these books. But you'll learn more about that later.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Harry glanced up as the light flickered above him.

It wasn't unusual, on the contrary, it was nearly expected that anything in this room act wonky at certain times during its life.

And, as such, Harry dutifully ignored it as he returned to the book that was settled comfortably in his lap.

The book was old, it's pages wrinkled and tanned, and the once bright red cover dimmed to a dark maroon, the golden threads connecting the pages had been scratched off, or perhaps it had merely been age protesting against the book, pulling it apart at the seems.

But Harry didn't care. He was content to sit in the corner of his cupboard, the cot poking into his bottom, the stairs creaking ominously above him… and the light above him flickering.

He shoved his nose further into the book. He'd have to get better glasses, preferably soon.

Harry knew that his Aunt and Uncle wouldn't agree with that, wouldn't even think about it. He'd get a smack to the head and an order to take the garbage out at most. Definitely not the glasses.

He sighed as the words swam in front of him.

Sitting up late into the night, reading Around the World in 80 Days, was certainly not his best idea. But he couldn't bring himself to put it down.

He knew that he'd soon be woken up by his Aunt screeching at him, soon be preparing his cousins birthday breakfast, but he'd sooner just stay up, watching the words swim in front of him as he fell into his books, dreamed about his stories, thought about the man, Mr. Fogg, as he and Mr. Passépartout traveled the world, merely a bet, determined to prove the world wrong – and that it is impossible to travel the world in 80 days.

Harry found himself day-dreaming about Hong Kong, New York, Bombay, Calcutta…

He wished that he could see these places… if only once…

With a sigh, he set the book down underneath his pillow as the old grandfather clock chimed one in the morning. He pulled the chain hanging just above his face, and turned off onto his side. The chain tickled his ear.

In just six hours he'd be woken up by his (in ornately) early riser of an Aunt to make breakfast.

For, Harry decided to ignore all that. He decided to ignore his cousin's birthday early this morning, to ignore the unspoken rule of "no imagination", ignore the stupidity of his relatives…

He fell asleep. Only to dream a dream of an insane young British-man (himself it seemed) traveling the world, just like in his book, in only 80 days. No Aunt Petunia, no Uncle Vernon, no Dudley.

Just him.

And that side-kick that seemed to want to follow him around.

Ah well, there were worse things than the French. No matter what his Uncle Vernon had to say (in fact, if asked, Harry would have said that he believed that everything that came out of his Uncles mouth was a lie, so anything bad said about the French, Harry would automatically assume that the French were actually good people who were misunderstood).

Harry cautiously looked up the stairs. He could hear Piers and Dudley laughing (from Dudley's room, where – Harry hoped – they'd stay for at least a couple more hours).

The black-haired boy crept out the door, careful not to draw his Aunts attention. As long as he managed to make it outside unnoticed, he'd retrieve no chores. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes – and in this case, Harry could take it quite literally.

But his Aunt was in the kitchen, making lunchtime snacks for the two boys upstairs, not paying a lick of attention to her nephew quietly shutting the door.

Who cared when and how he left the house? As long as he left, that was fine enough for the Dursley's.

Harry never took this into account. These few hours that he'd manage to squeeze out of nature would be swell – as long as his cousin stayed inside. Harry didn't want to have to deal with "Harry Hunting" now that he was finally allowed outside.

He still couldn't get over the fact that he had talked to a snake.

It seemed as though it was right out of the story books, the Grimm's Fairy Tales come to life.

It all seemed worth it in the end.

And he had to wonder if that snake ever did manage to make it to Brazil…

Eh, something to contemplate while he wasn't attempting to impersonate James Bond while sneaking out of his relatives house.

He'd managed to finish Around the World in 80 Days without a hitch, although being locked in his room (or cupboard) for weeks on end could help accomplish that fact.

Harry had now started Tea with the Black Dragon once he'd swapped books at the library (thanking God that Around the World in 80 Days hadn't been overdue. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would throw a fit if they realized that he was reading fantasy books – books that "weren't real and could never happen" as his aunt always said - imagine that in a higher tone of voice and incredibly shrill, and, congrats, you've listened to his Aunt Petunia).

But, and Harry was eternally grateful for this, he did not have to listen to Aunt Petunia at the moment. Those few hours (far and in between) were a blessing to him. Especially now since he had the small, thin, orange book stuffed safely in his pants pockets.

No one would look for them in there. Not now, since Harry started doing the wash for his Aunt as one of his weekly chores.

Weaving past a few teenagers walking down the sidewalk (one of the girls cooed at him and winked), Harry slowly made his way to the park.

There was a certain tree that he always had to sit at.

Or on. Either way.

The park was old, Harry mused thoughtfully as he approached it, and nobody went there anymore. And when he said nobody, he meant nobody… The only other person that he'd seen frequenting the park was one of the teenagers and his friends; and they were happy to just ignore that Harry ever even stepped foot near them.

It made for a nice, secluded place where Harry could hide, quite easily.

He meandered off the path, skipping down the short, stubby hill, and jumped down onto the solid ground, before looking skywards and continuing on his way.

His footsteps faltered.

Confused, Harry felt his brow furrow. There was another owl flying overhead….

Harry pursed his lips before moving forwards. No. He mustn't convince himself that owls were forming a small army to fight against humanity. That was just getting way too into Sci-Fi. There was a reason that he attempted to measure his alien intake every month.

If he managed to start it up again, he'd probably have nightmares about his Uncle turning into a hippo and eating him in his sleep.

For nearly three years Harry was afraid to look his Uncle in the face without screaming.

It confused his Aunt and Uncle to no end and Dudley took a sick pleasure in exploiting that certain fear as much as he could.

But, with a new spring added to his step, Harry continued forwards, grinning once he caught sight of the tree, and bounded forwards, an excitable aura about him… which quickly turned sour once he realized that there was yet another owl there – snowy white – and it was in his favorite spot.

He walked up to the base of the tree and gave a stern glare up at the bird. "That's my spot," Harry told the bird simply, "and you're hanging out in it. Even though it's my favorite spot. I always sit there. You can't steal it." Harry was quite adamant that his bird could understand him (Harry had heard somewhere that animals had some innate feeling or whatever of what a human was saying) and the idea didn't seem as farfetched as some stories that he'd read before.

The story that he, now, wanted to get started on had a character who could turn into a Dragon and understand a bazillion languages. Now, even Harry had to admit that that is farfetched.

The bird wasn't moved by Harry's speech. No matter how powerful it was (to the boy at least).

With a huff, Harry made sure that his book was still secure in his pocket before moving to grasp the branch, helpfully in reach, and heft himself up, slowly but surely (like in Aesop's fables Harry mused brightly) up to his branch.

The owl didn't move.

"Well," Harry sulked, "if you're going to stay here with me, then you'll need a name."

The owl hooted and held out a leg.

Harry stared at the piece of parchment tied to the animal's leg in bemusement. "A messenger owl," he questioned, intrigued, "really, did a wizard send you?"

The owl hooted once again and twitched its leg. Harry took the letter with no small amount of bewilderment. "It's for me?" he asked, looking at the address. Cupboard Under the Stairs indeed.

The owl let out another small noise, not quite a hoot, but, well, Harry wasn't sure how to describe it. And the thing came up close to him – Harry staring at it wide eyed in the mean time – and butted its head against his thigh softly.

Harry blinked at it before turning back to the letter, slowly opening the heavy parchment with delicate care – he'd never gotten a letter before, much less by Owl Post.

He paused, blinked a couple of times, looked up at the owl, and looked back down at the letter. It took a few minutes for his mind to come up with some type of explanation before a "wicked" escaped his mouth.

Wizardry.

One simple word suddenly made Harry's whole day.