Wildfire

Chapter 1: Scorched Clovers

Since the first dawn, fire had always been a symbol for civilization, knowledge and stability.

Everyone always praised fire's beauty, with no wonder, of course. It was warm, soothing and unlike anything else in this world.

However, it was also incredibly dangerous.

Fire ripped apart families, forests, buildings; anything that stood in its path.

Harry hated fire.

He hated being near its flaming, unnatural warmth. He hated its ugly shades of reds and the shape it created as it consumed its surroundings. He hated the stench it released when it burned.

Especially when it burned flesh.

Touching his calloused, molten cheek with hesitant fingers, the scarred child let out a deep, strained sigh. It had been over four years since he received his burns, but every time he saw himself in the mirror, they felt as raw as they did when his body was unbandaged for the first time.

He hated them so much. Harry Potter never thought he would experience such harsh feelings of loathing and rage at such the ripe age of ten, but here he was.

The young boy didn't know how long he spent standing in front of the long, smudged mirror. He would always forget where he was when he stood there, but turning around to the rest of the room brought him back to the mundane reality of the orphanage. The room was fairly small with minimal furniture. There were two single beds that hugged the walls, perpendicular to the large window in the back. His room was on the second floor of the orphanage, so sometimes, when the window wasn't clouded by rain and fog, Harry got a pretty decent view of the outside world. Across the window, the pale, wooden door stood, contrasting fairly well against the chestnut-colored furniture and murky blue walls. Beside it, a large wardrobe filled with plain clothing stood proudly, reaching higher than anything else in the room. Scowling and turning his head away from his ugly reflection, he shoved his hands into his pockets, before childishly waddling over to his messy bed. He collapsed onto the rough mattress and blankets face first, his glasses falling off his face in the process.

Harry found himself wondering whether or not he should have glasses in the first place. His vision wasn't that bad and one eye was permanently shut due to his scar, anyways. Maybe he should get a monocle, or something.

No way. Not in the far off year of 1991, instead of receiving stares, he would get laughs and giggles thrown his way. It was essentially social suicide.

The boy groaned loudly and turned around onto his back. His hand roamed his bed, trying to recover the lost round spectacles until he figured that they probably landed on his pillow. Staring up at the white, plain ceiling, his thoughts wandered elsewhere. What was he doing here? Was he going to rot away? Would anyone ever adopt him?

Probably not. He felt like a trapped dog in one of those pet shelters. Maybe even like a mutt, like the ones who lost an eye in a pit fight and were simply imprisoned for years to come. While everyone adopted those cute, soft puppies with large eyes and playful attitudes, the other uglier mutts would simply sit in the dark, day after day. He supposed that some ugly dogs do get adopted, though. Perhaps his calling was right around the corner and all he had to do was leave this room.

How long had he been cooped up in here, anyways? Harry turned his head towards his worn down end table, glancing at the ancient, nearly broken clock. 14:35. He didn't want to leave the small, minimalistic room, but his stomach gurgling suggested otherwise. With a deep, exhausted sigh, Harry stood up and glanced back at his ruffled bed, before finally taking note of his discarded glasses. He reached down to pick them up, carelessly putting them back on his face to their former position. Taking one last resentful look in the mirror, the short boy made his way towards the door. He placed his unfeeling hand onto the cold, smooth handle and turned it, pulling the door open.

The halls of the orphanage weren't much more spectacular than its bedrooms. The long walls were painted a murky greyish-green, revealing its white drywall underneath through the cracks of the peeled paint. Was this even sanitary? Harry had no idea how this place passed its annual inspections. The floors, which were made out of wood, were covered by a dusty, long carpet, decorated by children's muddy footsteps. He ignored the depressing setting and began to make his way towards the common room and by extension, the kitchen.

As he took long strides, he noticed a few of the other kids running by him, either laughing excitedly or pointedly ignoring him. His burnt hand reached up to shield his face self-consciously, tugging on the chunk of hair that was almost covering his shut eye. His hair was an annoyance to maintain sometimes, honestly. It was a wild, uneven mane that curled up at the ends and every time he tried to cover his face protectively, it simply propped itself up again. After a few minutes of silent and sullen walking, Harry finally reached the common room of the orphanage.

Cloverfield was one of the smallest orphanages in London, its population consistently staying in the low twenties. Kids always came by and went, with their ages ranging from infancy all the way to near adulthood. They always seemed to get adopted by their late teens, though. He only knew one kid that never got adopted and stayed until he was eighteen, but it wasn't a surprise. The guy was fairly violent and rude to just about everyone he met, including Harry. The green-eyed youth rolled his eyes at the memory of the tall, lanky teen pointedly mocking him about his scars. At the time, Harry was straight out of the hospital, barely recovered. To say that it was a pretty rough time was an understatement. He was fairly nervous and flustered during the day, pointedly cowering away from all the pitiful gazes thrown in his direction. At night, he would cry himself to sleep, only to be waken up in cold sweat from fiery nightmares. He dimly remembered his time with the Dursleys, his mother's relatives. After getting released from the hospital and having his medical bills mysteriously paid off, he was sent to stay with them.

Harry never really knew them. When he would curiously ask his young mother about her own family, while she was still alive, she would simply change the topic or stay fairly vague about it. The only point of information the young child managed to pry out of her after some hugs and puppy-dog eyes was that she had an older sister named Petunia whom she didn't speak with anymore.

Even though it had been four years since her death, Harry barely remembered his mother. He hated the thought of forgetting her memory, but it made sense, he guessed. He was only six when she protected him from the fire and went out in flames, so as he would grow older he would only forget her more. The realization brought a pain in his heart and he felt his open eye prick with tears, only for it to quickly pass as he furiously rubbed at it, drying any tears threatening to roll down his cheek.

The ten year old stopped walking as soon as the grave awakening hit him: he didn't remember how her voice sounded like. The boy stared down at the floor until his vision blurred and he blinked, realizing that some of the younger orphans around him were glancing at him curiously. He looked away, glancing down at his worn out trainers self-consciously. He hated this type of attention; the thought of people staring at him and whispering about his scars crawled up his spine. He rubbed his right arm awkwardly, suddenly thankful that he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt that day. It wasn't particularly cold, in fact, this July had been hotter than most. The weather didn't affect his day-to-day fashion, though.

Now that he thought about it, Harry hadn't worn a short-sleeve shirt in a long time, at least in public. Sure, he wore a tank top to bed sometimes, but his wardrobe mainly consisted of plain long-sleeved shirts and oversized pants. Whenever he would get offered and gifted new clothing by his caretakers, he would never receive shorts or t-shirts. He was glad, honestly, as it saved him from the children's teasing and stares, but he had a strange feeling that even if he didn't ask for that type of fashion, he would receive it anyways.

As he walked into the kitchen, he was met with a strong aroma of fresh, baking bread and the searing stench of the stew's meat. He flinched ever so slightly by his overwhelmed senses, but he managed to force a smile when he saw the kindly chef and two of the older orphans working together. The kitchen was fairly small and well worn out from excessive use, but it had a welcoming feel nonetheless. Something about the pale, teal colors and the homely nature of the hearth washed a relaxing and comforting feeling over Harry, though on the other hand it wasn't hard to admit that the proximity to the strong heat made him wary.

Leaning by the doorframe, he curiously watched the cooks work. The head chef of the orphanage, Rosa, was sweet and motherly towards all of its inhabitants. She was an older woman nearing her fifties, Harry guessed, with a thick frame and a face wrinkled by smile lines. The chef curiously reminded the raven-haired boy of his own late mother, so he's not surprised that he quickly got attached to her. She seemed to like him well enough, too, as he noticed by her subtle hints when she would offer him extra loaves of bread or a freshly-baked pastry. His thoughts were interrupted by the woman's hearty laugh when she turned around and noticed the shy boy standing near the door.

"Harry! How are you, dear?" Rosa gave him a fond smile before glancing back at the pot in front of her, stirring it mundanely.

The jade-eyed youth's contrasting face cracked into a small smile, his calloused cheek tugging tightly. "I'm good, Miss Rosa. How are you?" His right hand reached up to tug on his tuft of soft, ebony hair protectively. He pointedly ignored the two older kids' wary and disgusted glares thrown in his direction, instead keeping his good eye directed at the homely cook's form as she hummed to herself.

"I'm good as always, my dear. Of course, I feel better now though now that you have graced us with your presence. Did you want a snack, dear? Lunch will be ready in half an hour. You and the other kids will get a kick out of this fresh stew! Marie and Ethan have helped out today and they did a great job with prepping!" She announced proudly, clasping her hand on Marie's shoulder, who jumped at the sudden form of affection. Harry felt his smile grow as he shrunk shyly at the woman's praise. If anyone else said those words, he would instantly jump to the conclusion that it was a pointed form of sarcasm or mockery, but he knew she was only being honest. Her warm nature was almost intoxicating and he bit his lip excitedly as he felt butterflies flutter in his stomach.

"Oh, if lunch will be ready soon, then I'll wait it out. I just wanted to see if you had any leftovers from breakfast, I haven't eaten all day." He said truthfully, rubbing his right arm in his notable way. He never realized that he did that until his roommate pointed it out to him a few months ago, curiously asking him why he constantly reached for his arm. It was fairly strange, though he supposed habits didn't have to make sense.

Rosa turned back to look at him, frowning suddenly, "Did you just leave your room for the first time today? I sent Charlie with today's breakfast to your room, did you not receive it?" She inquired worriedly, not noticing the other two kids' barely concealed snickers. Harry flinched, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he glanced down at his trainers in an attempt to avoid her disapproving gaze. "Uh, no? Nobody talked to me today, I haven't even seen Charlie since last night."

The chef's assistants chortled loudly before being silenced by the larger woman's stern gaze, who turned back to look at Harry pitifully. He frowned at the sight, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. If there was one thing he hated more than his scars, it was the pity that they gathered. The concept of pity was relatively new to the ten year old. Actually, that wasn't right. He had been met with pity ever since he first awoke in the hospital, in the burn victims' unit. Harry had no idea that such a word existed, until he finally ended up in Cloverfield Orphanage and was given a long, boring speech by its owner and staff.

Clicking her tongue, Rosa sighed tiredly. "I'm going to have a talk with that young man. I'm sorry, Harry. We're almost finished with lunch, so if you're still floating near the dining room, you'll be able to grab seconds." She offered sympathetically, before putting down her mixing spoon and grabbing a rag. He knew the conversation was over, so he simply shrugged and tried to offer a smile to her.

"That's alright. Thank you, Miss Rosa. I'll, uh, see you around." Harry offered a wave, shuffling out of the kitchen. Back in the halls connecting to the common room, he sighed. As he walked out, he could've sworn he heard those two teens laughing mischievously and frantically gossiping, before the chef chastised them loudly. Honestly, he couldn't wait until he was out of here. Sure, it was a stable home and he had some people he liked, like Rosa, but he was quite frankly getting tired of all the other kids. 'Get used to it, Harry,' he thought to himself sullenly, 'that's how it's gonna be from here on out.'

Suddenly, he heard a low hissing and a small voice soothingly whispered in his ear, "It'sssss not that bad.." It was a quiet, feminine voice, but it didn't seem to be quite there. It sounded like it came from far away, almost as if it was underwater.

Or maybe it was in his mind.

Harry turned around suspiciously, looking around to locate the source of the voice. Seeing that he was the only person standing in the hall, he wondered if he imagined it. Like an imaginary friend, or something. Brilliant, he had no friends, so now he had to make them up? How pathetic. Harry sighed loudly, his hand reaching to feel the rough cheek again, before shrugging his shoulders. Soon after, the boy started walking again, shuffling his feet on the blue-grey carpet.

"Down here! Hey!" The same voice filled his ears, now in a louder, more desperate tone. It wasn't as loud as another person's voice would be in a conversation, but it was much louder than the soft hissing he heard moments before. The scarred boy stopped walking again, looking back behind him to see if he could catch anybody in the act. Nothing. The plain halls appeared the same as they did the last time Harry turned around. His gaze narrowed as he turned around again, squinting at the far end of the hall. Nothing again.

"Very funny, guys." Harry finally said aloud, suddenly on guard. This wouldn't be the first time the others would try to pull a prank on him. He recalled one time when he found a burnt candle near his face when he awoke one December morning. The experience was innocent enough, but it did give him quite a scare. When he asked about it, he was only met with mischievous giggles and no one fessed up.

The boy looked down at his feet and for a while, the only sound he heard was the rapid beating of his heart. This time he would be ready for any incoming pranks or unwanted attention. Taking a deep breath, he worriedly looked back behind him, staring at the doorframe of the kitchen for what seemed like minutes.

"I'm pretty funny, yeah. Ah, whatever, boy! Look down! At the wall! I'm right here! Hellooooo?" The voice seemed to shout, as if it were frantically trying to get his attention, but it was still quiet. How weird. Warily, the dark-haired boy looked down near the wall beside him. Right at the crevice of the floor and wall, there was a small hole. Instead of a small mouse or another cretin, a small snake peeked out, glancing up at Harry with almost a morbid curiosity. Surprised, he took a step back, glancing back and forth at both ends of the halls to make sure nobody was around to witness the event.

The snake, from what he could tell, wasn't venomous. It looked like a simple house snake, like one of those species that people kept as pets. Did someone lose it? He couldn't recall that any of the orphans at Cloverfield had a pet snake. Now that he thought about it, he remembered that they weren't even allowed to keep pets, as they were a hazard, or whatever the owner said. The snake slithered out of the jagged hole, revealing the rest of its long, reptilian body. It was larger than he expected, but its size didn't compare to wild, feral snakes. It had a sleek, scaly brown coat patterned with blobs of varying shades of brown that reminded Harry of those chocolate-swirled ice cream cones, except this was a potentially dangerous and frightening animal while the other was a delicious frozen dessert. After staring at the reptile for a few seconds, he recognized it to be a ball python, recalling his reading sessions at the small library that the orphanage had to offer.

Harry didn't particularly enjoy reading, but he didn't really have anything else to do with his free time. Sometimes it was interesting, he supposed. Cloverfield's library, despite the limited variety, did have some books on classical civilizations and animal encyclopedias. Sometimes he would spend his days cooped up in the library, from dawn to dusk, reading about Ancient Roman emperors and snake diets. Those days were rare though, because Harry genuinely believed he spent more time searching for a decent book than actually reading one.

Awkward silence filled the dreary hall as the boy and the snake stared at each other expectantly. Harry began to wonder whether or not he imagined the voice, but an unlikely thought hit him: what if it was the snake that talked to him? Magic flowed through his veins, after all. Who's to say he can't talk to snakes? Memories filled his thoughts as he recalled listening intently to his parents' exciting stories of their school adventures, when they were still alive. His lips quirked up into a small, nostalgic smile as the memories vibrantly grew stronger and he felt himself slowly slipping away from the present.

His vision blurred and he blinked quickly, his daydreams crashing down around him as he realized that he was just standing in the hallway, blanking out. Harry heard footsteps behind him and he whirled around, only to see one of the younger kids jump in surprise. The burnt boy eyed him cautiously, only to be met with a yelp and the kid skittered off without a single word, clutching his book tightly. Harry felt a frown grow on his face and a guilty pang struck his heart, but he knew that he couldn't do anything about it. Almost as if it was sensing a change in mood, the mysterious voice spoke again after its indefinite silence.

"Sssso, you can hear me! I've been talking to all these kidssssss here and nobody even showed a ssssign of responding!" Quickly picking up on the strange accent and stressing of the voice's s's, Harry whirled back around, glaring at the snake.

"So, I'm not imagining this, then? A snake's talking to me?"

He kneeled down, closing the distance between him and the snake. The only way it could escape was back into its hole, now that he realized, but it didn't seem to be afraid of him nor his sudden, harsh movements. The ball python simply stared up at him with what he imagined to be excitement and curiosity, its golden eyes flickering.

"Yup! Sssso, what'sssss your name, kid?" He, no, she spoke; Harry realized that it was definitely a female, high-pitched voice speaking. Carelessly, the snake slithered out and curled around his feet. Almost losing his balance, Harry desperately tried to tilt towards the wall with his hands forward. As soon as his fingertips made contact with the sleek wallpaper, he felt stable. The raven-haired boy found himself nervously wishing that nobody would walk through the hallway and see this exchange, because he wouldn't be able to make up a story.

"Harry. What's yours?" He asked, somewhat curiously, before finally deciding that he should sit down. Turning over, careful not to step on the long snake, he leaned his back against the wall and sat, clutching his knees closely to him.

"Oh, I don't have a name. Want to give me one? I want to ssssee what you can come up with." The snake hissed brightly and he felt himself flinch at her happy disposition. Weren't snakes supposed to be fearsome predators who ate mice and slept all day?

"Uh, are you sure?" Harry inquired hesitantly, biting his lip. Why was he suddenly so stressed? It was just a name. Sensing his nervousness, the snake slithered onto his leg. He supposed she meant for it to be affectionate, but it was more threatening than anything.

"Sure, why not?"

Just when he was going to answer, he heard a dull, bored voice interrupt his train of thought. "Potter, what on god's green earth are you doing?"

Harry's head snapped up, turning to identify the person who spoke. His nerves were comforted when he realized it was one of the teenager orphans, Daniel Marvell, who was staring at him with a half-lidded gaze and a hand on his hip. "I'm sitting." The younger boy shrugged, covering the snake on his knee protectively with his burnt hand.

"In the hallway?"

"Yes."

"Hissing to that snake on your knee? Why do you have a snake anyways? We're not allowed to keep pets. Maybe I should slip in a word to the director."

"While you're at it, ask him why there are rats and snakes in the walls of the orphanage. Maybe we could get a fund and put it towards replacing our pillows, especially Ethan Zappala's. I wonder if he ever found out who was it that washed his pillowcase in a toilet bowl in the boys' bathrooms, huh, Marvell?" Harry hummed as he stroked his chin in thought, glancing up at the blonde boy innocently. His words seem to have done the trick, as the lanky, dull boy simply flushed a bright red and neared threateningly, but failed to do so. Instead, he only looked as pathetic as he felt. The bespectacled boy bit his cheek to prevent a victorious smirk from growing on his face. It always felt nice to be able to stand up to kids who were five years older, as all he had to do was pay extra attention to conversations and pranks and he had all the information he needed.

"You wouldn't. Who would believe you, anyways?"

"Last time I checked, I'm known as the ugly burnt kid here, not the resident liar. Can't say the same for you, though. You seem to fit both labels." He sighed dramatically, shrugging. If possible, Marvell's angry face flushed even brighter. Harry noted that he vaguely resembled one of those American rednecks he'd see on television sometimes and he snorted, unable to hide his amusement any longer.

"You better sleep with one eye open, Potter. But I suppose then you'd only be fully awake then, huh?"

"All the better to watch you try to put a candle in my pillow, hm? If I hear one word out of you about the snake, then you better have an apology letter ready for Zappala. Maybe one for Marie, too, I'm sure she'd love to hear about your adventures with Catherine in her room, as your girlfriend." He smiled innocently, batting his eyelashes.

"How did you-, actually, you know what? Whatever. I'm not going to spend my time fucking arguing with an ugly, burnt ten year old. Watch your back, Potter. This isn't the end."

"I'm sure it isn't," Harry smiled, before waving him goodbye. "Bye, Marvell." He watched the teenager's retreating form as he stormed back into the common room. Unable to keep his face serious anymore, he laughed. He withdrew his hand from the snake, who was hissing in amusement too, as if she were giggling along with him.

"Wow," the snake let out a low noise, almost like a whistle, "I knew you were different from the others, but I didn't know you just started arguments with kids five years your senior." She giggled, before slowly slithering back down his leg and back into the hole in the wall.

"Thanks, it's one of my only talents, along with being sad all day," Harry sighed, but he was grinning ear to ear nonetheless. He glanced back down at the curiously-patterned ball python, who met his gaze with a happy clicking of her jaw, as if she was trying to grin widely.

"Well, I'm getting hungry, ssso I'll sssssee you around, Harry. Conssssider yoursssself lucky, I'm giving you extra time to think of a name." With that, the snake retreated into the hall and silence filled the air. Standing up and stretching widely, the young Harry Potter retreated back into his room, with a happier bounce to his normally plain step.

"Potter! Wake up, you've got mail!" A male voice barked at him, stirring the resting boy from his dreamless sleep. When he didn't react immediately, his roommate simply huffed, before slapping an envelope on his end table and storming out. The sudden gesture didn't gather the retaliation it intended, as Harry simply shifted in his bed, tugging his blankets over his chin. He flinched when he felt the morning sun rays strike his face, groaning loudly. He supposed he should get up soon; what time was it, anyways? Glaring at his clock, Harry sighed when he realized he couldn't read the time without his glasses.

He sat up in his bed, letting the sheets fall off his chest. Avoiding glancing at his exposed arm and the scars that decorated it, the boy grabbed a hold of his glasses, slipping them on. After doing so, he grasped the letter that lay on the oaken end table and examined it closely.

It was smooth and ancient looking, as if it didn't belong to this century. The paper was a dim yellow which resembled old, Victorian parchment. It wasn't anything special, except for its seal, which was a deep mahogany. The hardened wax was stamped with a sigil; a strange banner which was separated into four sections. When Harry couldn't figure out the shapes and engravings on the emblem, he simply shrugged. Flipping the envelope to the front, he raised his eyebrow at the font.

"Mr. H. Potter,

Cloverfield Orphanage,

26 Oat Lane,

London, England"

Harry blinked in confusion, before a sudden realization hit him. This couldn't be his Hogwarts letter, could it? He vaguely remembered his mother intensively describing her first letter; how it came as a shock to her family that witches and wizards existed and that she was one, of all people.

Now, it was his turn, wasn't it?

He gingerly unfolded the letter, careful not to tear up the contents inside. After making a messy yet simple enough tear, he excitedly opened the old-school envelope and glanced over the papers inside.

The contents were roughly what he imagined, while at the same time they were exactly as his mum described it. Inside, he found a long letter describing his enrollment and a list of items required for his first year at the wizarding school. A fearful pang struck his chest as he found himself wondering how he would pay for all of this. Was there some sort of wizarding loan he could get? If so, where would he go? Was there a bank just for wizards? Did his parents have anything valuable stored there and if so, what? They wouldn't keep all their money in the house, right? It burned down to the ground, there's nothing but ashes left.

Harry took a deep breath to steady his nerves, though he noticed that his hands were shaking. He let go of his grip of the letter, letting it fall onto his blanket. How would he tell the owners of orphanage, anyways? Would he just go up to them and say, 'oh, hey, I just got an enrollment letter to a private wizarding school who-knows-where and by the way, magic is real'?

Blimey, why did this have to happen now? Harry put his face in his hands and groaned loudly, conflicted and devastated. Sure, he was excited in the first, what, thirty seconds of the revelation, but now all he felt was a deep pit in his stomach and cold, clammy hands on his face. What day was it, anyways?

The boy glanced over at the calendar that hung on the door of the wardrobe, squinting at the small writing. Yesterday was Tuesday, right? July 30th. That meant that today was…

"Oh," Harry said blankly, glancing down at the letters scattered on his bed. It was his birthday. Fantastic, as if his mood couldn't get any worse... He knew other kids would be ecstatic for their birthdays, but it was, quite frankly, Harry's least favorite day. All it did for him was remind the scarred boy of the Fire and the tragedy that would haunt him until his dying breath.

Absent-mindedly, his fingers traced over the scars that covered his right arm. Maybe he should've worn a long-sleeved pyjama shirt instead of a tank top, he figured, as the soothing gliding of his fingers quickly turned into harsh gripping. His fingers tensed as he dug his nails until the pain echoed through his entire forearm. When he let his clean hand go, the pink, burnt skin was patterned by white crescent-shaped marks.

It was too early for this. He had to get back to the matter at hand, which begged the question: what was he going to do? Suddenly, as if his hopes and fears were answered, he noticed a small paper package that was tucked deep into the letter. He fished it out and glanced at the brown, square-shaped packaging that he uncovered. It wasn't particularly heavy; Harry actually thought that the covering was heavier than the mysterious object itself, but whatever. After tugging at the paper for a few minutes, he finally managed to open it and unsheath the object.

Inside the packaging, the scarred boy found a small, thin silver key. It appeared ancient, but it was kept in pristine condition, with minimal scratching and rust. He gently took a hold of it, gripping the cold steel key as he pondered on its possible uses. Surely it wasn't an accident, it was practically gift-wrapped! Placing it back on the brown packaging to its original position, he carefully wrapped and sealed it. Perhaps there was something else written in one of the letters? Why would they send him an old key without a reason?

Surely enough, after minutes of skimming over all the papers, he found a small note. It was written in fancy, sleek cursive that Harry had a hard time reading through, but after minutes of careful deciphering, he concluded that it was a key to Gringotts, the wizarding bank. While searching, another question of his was answered, as he discovered where he would need to head to next to purchase all the necessities.

Diagon Alley.

Harry frowned as he practiced saying the words in his head. Was it a pun on diagonally? Suddenly, images of diagonal European buildings filled his mind and he began to doubt whether or not he should go. Well, not like he had a choice, did he? What would happen if he just skipped out on going to Hogwarts? Would he be tracked down and dragged there? Or would they just forget about him?

He was fairly tempted to not go. This was all too surreal, and sudden, too. Sure, he knew about the existence of magic since he was born, but after living in such a modern, lonely world for so long, would he even be able to get used to the change? He almost came to the decision to just stay with his old life, where it was safe and normal until a realization hit him.

Magic was the only connection he had left to his late parents.

Sighing loudly, he glanced back at the letters scattered on his bed.

"I guess I really don't have a choice, huh?"

The whole situation was easier to handle than he expected, much to his relief.

As soon as the young wizard left his room, he was called down to the owner's office, who gave him a long speech about who-knows-what; Harry didn't really listen, he just nodded his head and smiled, before finally being told that he was accepted into a boarding school in Scotland. He snickered as he recalled the owner's shocked, disbelieving expression when he announced it; the eleven year old orphaned burn victim was a child genius? Since when?

Oh, well, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, right?

After offering a flimsy story about having to gather his uniform and supplies from a postal office, Harry left the orphanage with a bag in tow and the mysterious key in hand. He'd be back later in the day, unfortunately, but at least there was only a month before he would be gone for a good whole year. All of his previous worries and thoughts were quickly replaced by excitement and anticipation. A new magical school with entirely new people in the middle of nowhere? Yes, please!

It was pretty uncommon for Harry to go out to London, especially by himself. He figured he should be scared; after all, a small, vulnerable orphan sitting alone on the metro was basically asking for trouble. Instead, he was only excited at the prospect of having the freedom to do whatever he wanted with no one to stop him. What would happen if he got into trouble? It'd be pretty funny if he got caught by the police; how would the Cloverfield owner react? Maybe he should go take a trip to downtown while he was at it, it was bound to have some rad places to check out there.

Unfortunately, as soon as he got out of the platform, all of his entertained daydreams died out when he turned his head upwards and glanced at the clock: 15:50. How was it so late already? He didn't even do anything yet!

The next hour was spent by brisk walking and rereading his letters. By some miracle, he managed to find the aforementioned Diagon Alley after some prying around, which was almost like the light at the end of the tunnel for him.

It was like everything he imagined but at the same time, it wasn't. Long, dark Victorian-styled buildings curved and twisted the streets, managing to look both inviting and menacing. The roads, which were covered in cobblestone, were too narrow to allow cars to pass through, but they were wide enough for people to walk and socialize on. The street was particularly busy this afternoon, with an excited buzzing of many robed mages, both young and old, filling the area. Harry assumed that it was all witches and wizards here, which was quickly confirmed as he scanned the crowd and its attire. They all dressed as if they were straight out of some fantasy video game, like one of those that the older boys played in the common room. They all dressed in dark, long robes, with pointy, velvety hats. There wasn't any color variety beyond black, grey or brown, but upon further examination, he noticed that darker shades of greens, purples and blues were also present.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reshifted his coat and hair in an attempt to cover most of his scars. Of course, he couldn't; they'd always be visible for the whole world to see. But he could try, and so he did. Lowering his head, he began to make his way down the street. There were many different stores, all for magical purposes, obviously. Potion shops, pet familiar shops, broom stores, and more, all of them decorating the buildings' exteriors. There were some wooden wagons and carriages parked right outside on the street, holding various condiments and suspiciously-looking meats. Harry thought he heard a merchant advertising fresh dragon liver, but he didn't think too hard about it.

It was strange to see how the wizarding world and the normal world were so similar yet contrasting at the same time. Sure, there were all these weird stores with strangely-dressed people, but it was still a human civilization. There were advertisements, currency and gossiping near cafes. Teenage girls giggled amongst themselves and young boys gawked at a new cool product that would excite their friends. Maybe this wouldn't be such an abrupt change, Harry mused. His hand reached up to brush a tuft of hair onto his shut eye, covering a fair amount of his prominent scars. Thankfully enough, he didn't attract as much attention as he expected while walking. Everyone was there for their own business or interest, but that didn't mean that nobody stared at him. He gathered some morbidly curious and disgusted glances to which the small boy uncomfortably looked down at his feet and the ancient cobblestones around him. 'It'll be over soon,' he tried to reassure himself, though it didn't help much, 'just go to Gringotts and follow the letter'.

Easier said than done. Even after walking for what seemed like half an hour, he only seemed to be going in a circle, because Harry could've sworn he saw that stupid Quidditch uniform store four times. Maybe he should ask someone for help? Before he could ponder on the choices available to him, he walked past a nervous boy of similar height. Was he also in the same year as him? Harry was glad to see that he wasn't the only one struggling with the whole experience. The boy was short and pudgy, with a round face and dark brown hair. Accompanied by him was a tall giant of a man. The man, burly and bearded, was taller than anyone Harry has ever seen. He seemed to be talking rambunctiously, waving his hands widely, seemingly more excited than the poor boy himself. The man's voice faltered as his eyes set on Harry, who glanced back at him, narrowing his gaze cautiously.

'Great, here we go again,' Harry groaned inwardly, as he felt the stare settle on his cheek. Honestly, if he had a pound for every time someone stared at his scars, he would've been rich!

"Hagrid? What's wrong?" The shy boy spoke out, his voice was a high-pitched, mousey sound. Harry tried not to flinch, instead glancing away from the pair, pretending to ignore them. He heard a low, hearty laugh, but it was getting quieter as Harry briskly walked away.

"Heh, s'nothin', Neville. Aye, there's Ollivander's! Come along now, we still need to get yeh a wand..." The man, Hagrid's, voice rang out and his cheery disposition was quickly restored. Harry kept up the speed until he heard their voices get drowned out by the crowd and distance, sighing softly once he finally felt safe to drop the pace. As if he was led by fate, he glanced up curiously in an attempt to adjust to his new surroundings that he blindly barged into. He stood at an intersection and in front of him, a tall, regal building stood high with multiple stories. On the very top, Harry noticed a long, wooden sign with golden writing engraved in it. Taking a step back and cranking his neck up, he squinted as he made an attempt to read the sign.

Gringotts.

Well, that was easy.

Harry exhaled shortly, glancing down at himself to check for any faults. His plain, guarding clothing seemed to look clean and tidy enough, and the only scars exposed were on his hand and face. He fiddled with the silver key, which was still warm from his tight clutching during his walk. With his free, pale hand, he leaned over towards the intimidating door, which was built from wood and was lined with a gold frame. They really liked gold, huh? He pushed the door open and stepped into the mysterious establishment.

The bank itself was much grander than anything he expected. Sure, it was very extravagant from the outside, but it looked just like a fancier wizarding building. This, however, was something else. It could've passed for the Queen's personal bank, if anything. He stood in a long corridor that was illuminated by a warm, golden light. As he looked up, he noticed an enormous chandelier, encrusted by diamonds and of course, gold. It appeared more expensive than Harry's entire life and he wondered what would happen if it just mysteriously fell down and shattered. The floor was immaculate; covered in smooth, peach-colored tiles that didn't have a single speck of dust trapped in its crevices. Around the room, tall wooden desks guarded the area, forming a u-shape. Lines formed in front of them, consisting of impatient warlocks and stressing witches. Operating the services, however, were creatures that were more curious than the entire building.

The tellers appeared to be gremlins of some sort, or something, because they didn't look human at all. They were short and stout, with scrunched, wrinkly faces and long, pointy ears. Their hands, too large for their bodies, had thin, spider-like fingers that covered the scarred boy's body in disturbed goosebumps. They all appeared to be either apathetic or annoyed. Harry hadn't notice one of them move their mouths, but that was potentially because they were listening to their customers chatter their hats off. The mysterious creatures dressed in fancy, modern clothes, resembling the immaculate tellers that worked in downtown London; which was fairly jarring compared to the attire he had been forced witness since arriving at Diagon Alley.

Recalling that the letter had referred to Gringotts as a goblin-run bank, Harry hesitantly glanced around the grandiose hall, wondering what to do now. After discovering what seemed to be the shortest line of customers in the whole bank, he waddled over. He secured his spot behind a frantic-looking witch, who was muttering to herself as she nervously went through her wallet and bag, seemingly searching for something. Harry simply began considering what he should say to the goblin teller as he glanced around the bank, attempting to eavesdrop on some of the other customers' conversations, which proved to be a difficult task as the hall easily echoed loudly stacking papers and numerous conversations happening at once.

Well, at least it won't take that long, right?

If Harry Potter learned one thing today in his mundane excursion to Diagon Alley, it's that banks were hell on earth.

Finally taking foot outside of Gringotts after a few hours, he glanced up at the sky, squinting as the golden rays of the sunset struck his eyes. The sky, which was previously a pale blue covered by countless clouds, was now an iridescent flurry of bright oranges, pinks and blues. Diagon Alley itself looked much more peaceful, with most of its inhabitants gone home. There were some stray mages here and there, but overall it was more serene and quiet.

The young wizard's face formed into a deep frown, tugging tightly at the corners of his lips as he wondered whether or not he would be able to get all of his shopping done today. After politely inquiring and being given an annoyed speech about wizarding currency, Harry managed to withdraw what seemed to be a decent amount of money; enough to last his shopping spree, he hoped. He glanced down at his cheap watch that was wrapped around his wrist and almost choked in shock: 18:10?! When do these stores close, anyways? He prayed that they would close in a few hours; it was a weekday, for crying out loud!

Harry let out a deep breath and began briskly walking down the plaza. His face was buried in his letters, though occasionally he looked up and tried to search for one of the shops listed. He spent the next forty or so minutes checking off most of the required items on his list, going at a fairly efficient pace. He assumed the store owners and workers wanted to get rid of him, too, as they serviced him within minutes. Thankful that they didn't start awkward conversations or glance at his scars too pointedly, Harry quickly paid the costs given and stuffed his new purchases in his bag. It began to feel heavy after the fifth store, as it was filled almost to the top with textbooks, vials and his new, sleek wand.

Going to Ollivander's to purchase a wand for himself was easily one of the most uncomfortable experiences in his eleven year old life. The old man, with his wide, pale eyes and wild hair, seemed to stare him down, like a hunter would with a trapped deer. Harry tried to rush through the process, but the owner seemed to simply take his time, asking him questions with long pauses and would slowly go to the back to search through what seemed to be countless wands. Impatient to leave, Harry simply smiled and paid him the price, before grabbing his new wand and dashing out of the old, dusty store.

His last stop was the robes' tailor. Harry had tried putting it off, but he knew that it was required, so reluctantly, he slowly made his way to the small store. He hated when people, especially strangers, touched him; a possible fear he had taken along with him as a souvenir from the hospital. Worst case scenario, he would have to strip naked and be measured for size adjustments in his robes, but was hopefully unrealistic. At least, the prospect of stripping naked in front of strangers, exposing his scars that twisted around his back and leg. That would be truly awful.

Harry's legs began to ache and he was suddenly thankful that this shop would be his last destination. Within minutes of walking, he managed to track down the dark, homely-looking tailory. Carefully pushing the door open, he stepped inside, ignoring the soft creaking. Harry looked around: it was fairly standard. There were a few wooden stools and long, shiny mirrors, along with some hangers and large rolls of fabric that decorated the walls and shelves. It was fairly empty, its only other customer being a young boy who was in the process of getting his robes adjusted. Harry hovered near the door awkwardly, adjusting the weight of his full bag as he watched at the middle-aged witch dash around the room, gathering fabrics and handling tools effortlessly. She glanced over at the door, noticing Harry for the first time.

"Oh! Are you here to purchase your set of Hogwarts robes too? I'll be with you in just a second, dear! Just come along here to this stool and take off your bag, please." She waved him over, giving the scarred boy a pleasant, polite smile to which he nodded shyly in response before shuffling over.

The stool she offered to him was right beside the other boy's, whom Harry managed to get a closer look at. The boy was taller than him, he guessed, even if he was standing on a stool. He had a pointed face and sleek, pale blonde hair, which almost appeared white. He had a mix of a scowl and a childish pout planted on his face, though Harry didn't blame him, as the boy was being hovered over by the tailor and had his robes readjusted every few seconds, before being bombarded with questions. The boy peered down at him and his gaze narrowed, but Harry wasn't sure whether or not it was because of his scars or his plain attire. Probably both.

After a few minutes of standing around and watching the tailor do her job, she finally focused her attention on him. He simply nodded and replied shortly to any of her questions, but he didn't think she minded. She was a bit of a chatterbox, he quickly realized, as she was babbling about who-knows-what while directing him to shed his coat and bag, before rushing to grab a bundle of fabrics and pins. After managing to measure him, which thankfully, he didn't have to strip for, as he feared, she dashed to the back, assumingly to grab more materials.

It was then he noticed the blond boy staring at him, though he was pretending not to do so, as every time Harry whirled his head at him, the git simply looked away. Finally catching him in the act after a few seconds, Harry's face formed into a deep scowl.

"Can you stop staring at me?"

The boy, defeated, looked back at him, finally free to stare openly. He raised a dainty, light eyebrow, his expression unchanged. "What spell hit you?" He drawled, crossing his arms while still dressed in his dark, long robes. Harry narrowed his gaze, turning his head away and by extension, his scarred cheek.

"Excuse me?"

"Your scars. I assume you got hit by some sort of hex?" The boy spoke with a light accent, though Harry couldn't pinpoint which one it was. Some sort of European one, maybe French? He didn't care, to be honest, as he was getting fairly annoyed by this kid pretty quickly.

"Uh, no. Fire." Harry said shortly, staring the boy down. The boy's grey eyes met his, seemingly unintimidated. Instead, he raised both of his eyebrows in disbelief, though his gaze was still half-lidded.

"Curious. There are spells to put out fires, you know. Not sure how it would've gotten big enough to damage your face; your parents were wizards, right? At least, I'd hope so." He mused, glancing down at his cuticles.

Why did Harry think the wizarding world would be any better than the orphanage? If anything, this kid was more pretentious than all of his peers combined. He smiled tightly, clenching his right fist in an attempt to restrain himself from strangling this pompous git.

"Yeah, I don't know. I'll go ask them about it next time I see them at the graveyard."

That seemed to shut the little frog up. He simply shrugged and looked away, and Harry knew the conversation was over. Thank god. Just as he spoke his last word, the tailor rushed back in, seemingly done, as she had a large smile on her face.

"Alright, dear, your robes are ready. You can go up to the counter and pay now." She nodded at Harry, who raised his eyebrow in pleasant surprise. That was quick; but when you have magic, life's easier, huh? He stepped down from the stool, grabbing his belongings and walked over towards the counter with Galleons in his hand, ready to pay. She accepted his coins and gave him a large bag, in which Harry noticed the dark fabric was neatly folded inside. Thanking her, he left the tailory and by extension, that blond rat. Honestly, good riddance.

Outside, it didn't look too different than it did when he entered the shop, though the sky was a shade darker. With his bags in tow, he made his way back towards the entrance of Diagon Alley. The walk was fairly silent, as the stray wizards from before had assumedly left the alley. The only sound that filled his ears were the occasional flapping of wings and calls of crows, almost sounding like a soothing melody. What a long day.

At least there was only one month left. Though his expectations and hopes had been somewhat ruined by the few wizards he did interact with, he was still optimistic. He could set a new reputation for himself, even if it will be difficult to do so. If all failed and he wouldn't be able to gather any positive attention, then at least Harry could look forward to not having to sleep in that grey, plain room for the rest of the year.

After all, how bad can Hogwarts really be?

Author's Note: And we're off! Next stop: Hogwarts! If you managed to find this story and read 'till the end, then welcome, and I hope you stay along for the ride! It only goes downhill from here, and I don't mean it in writing quality, hehe. (; It's my first story in a looooong while, so I'm open to any constructive criticism. I've played around the wide of a burn-scar!Harry for a while, so I'm excited for its fruition, and I hope someone out there is too! If this idea or execution had been done before, please notify me, but keep in mind that I do have some plans thought out already that I hope will heavily differentiate this story. c:

Once again, thank you for reading and stay tuned for more!