My first fanfiction - English is not my first language

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling

Harry Potter the Necromancer

1 - The Necromancer's house

The only thing Harry could smell was the smell of thuja. Earlier, Dudley and Piers had decided to play their favourite game, hunting Harry down. Harry had then run down the street at full speed, then at the end of the road, he had turned right abruptly. At that moment, out of breath, he had spotted a hiding place. He had walked the few meters that separated him from the thuja hedge and slipped between it and the wall.

Now, panting, Harry listened. He could hear Dudley's and Piers' voices getting closer ... then going away. Harry waited, a branch was painfully pressed to his ribs but he did not dare to move it, for fear that it might give him away. He waited again until the rhythm of his breathing got back to normal. The only thing he could hear was the sound of vehicles on the expressway.

He thought things over – Dudley had been particularly tenacious that day and Harry had had to flee far away from Privet Drive – he needed a way to go back home. Either he could retrace his steps and then take Oxford Street and then Long Hill Road, or he could follow the street he was already on, then turn on Oak Lane along the expressway, then take Park Road and finally, Privet Drive. The second option was clearly the fastest and with a little luck, his simpleton cousin would not have thought of it.

Harry left his hiding place and watched the street carefully. An elderly couple was walking their dog a little further on the opposite sidewalk. Otherwise, the street was empty. Harry strode along heading towards Oak Lane. Dudley and Piers were still out of sight. More than two hundred meters before reaching Park Road. At that moment, a bike appeared in the distance, it was Piers'. Harry froze. A second bike made its appearance, it was Dudley's. Harry turned around and started running. He paused and turned abruptly down the ramp to the subway that crossed under the expressway. He slipped between the barriers and entered the tunnel, ran towards the exit and slipped back between the barriers. He then leaned against the wall, invisible from inside the tunnel. He listened. He heard the metallic noise from a bike hitting the barrier and Piers' voice:

"Harry! Why are you running away like this? We just want to play with you!"

Piers chuckled and then Dudley grumbled something like "the bike won't go through," but Harry could not hear him anymore, he had already resumed his run. He was no longer in Little Winging. On this side of the expressway, it was Lower Woodside and he did not know the streets as well here. He slowed down and looked around, he had to head to the public garden, then he would go through it and then ... Then go where? He accelerated again and turned left. Another idea came to his mind: he could find a new hiding spot, wait for Piers and Dudley to come by, wait until they go away, and wait longer this time, and then go home through the subway. Yes, it was the best solution, the muscles in his legs were starting to hurt already.

Harry could hear the bikes and Dudley's cries again. He turned in what appeared to be an alley then froze. It was a dead end. At the far end stood a rusty iron gate. The weeds that had grown in all the available gaps indicated that it had not been opened for years. Harry approached it and glanced in a slot between two iron plates. The garden he could see was fallow and the house seemed deserted. Dudley and Piers could not be far off, Harry had to make a decision. He thought things over: the house could not be deserted or he could still serve as a punching ball to Dudley. Harry had made up his mind.

The gate iron bars and ornaments offered easy holds despite the metal plate that blocked the view of the garden. Harry hauled himself up in a few seconds.

"Hey! What are you doing?" shouted Dudley as he entered the dead end. "You can't do that!"

Harry did not listen and peeped over the gate. The fully smooth inner face offered no grip, and it was far too high to jump. Harry grabbed the stones from the wall that stood on the side and climbed onto the ridge. A tree was standing a few feet away, a thick branch running at Harry's feet. The boy jumped on it and in a stride, he came brutally embracing the trunk. On the other side of the wall, he heard the bikes being thrown to the ground.

"Harry!" called Piers, kicking the gate.

"Let's go back" suggested Dudley. "I've got a new computer game, we could give it a go."

"Yeah, why not?" replied Piers.

Harry did not believe his ears when he heard the boys pick up their bikes and leave. His surprise was such that he had not even grasped their entire conversation. It was as if they had suddenly totally forgotten about Harry's existence. The boy was not going to complain. He caught his breath and dropped to the lower branch. He repeated the motion and leapt to the ground.

Harry could not help but smile, thinking that Aunt Petunia would have hated having a garden like this. The weeds came to his shoulders and mingled with brambles and nettles. The garden was not large and the high stone walls around it seemed disproportionate. In the centre stood a small stone house. The windows were tarnished and the tiles were covered with moss. On the ground floor, there was a door and a window on each side. The first floor, under the roof, only had one window.

Harry took a deep breath and noticed that the air felt different here, it was not the relief of escaping Dudley, nor a scent. It was something else, deeper, that he was not able to explain. He walked towards one of the windows on the ground floor and glanced inside. He could see a living room with a sofa, two armchairs, a fireplace and a bookcase. Harry turned his head to the right and saw the bottom of a staircase. He walked away from the window and began to walk around the house. A single room extension was attached to the back of the building. Harry went to the window. What he saw there was immensely captivating. He did not know if this room was an office, a workshop or a laboratory: on the left a desk was stuck against the wall, in the centre stood a large laboratory bench covered with cauldrons, books and glass or metal instruments that Harry could not name, and on the right he could see a bookcase and a large cabinet.

Harry stood there for a while contemplating the room in front of him before resuming his exploration. As he turned at the corner of the extension, he stopped. There was a door partly covered with ivy and Harry could not help but try to open it. The boy had trouble tearing the ivy off. He grabbed the handle and pushed hard. The hinges creaked and Harry managed to open the door a crack, enough for him to slip inside. He paused for a moment. Only silence surrounded him. He went to the bench and handled all the strange objects making the spiders that hid inside run away. Harry spotted a thick book. The cover was heavily dusty and Harry used the sleeve of his overlarge sweatshirt to dust it off. The title was engraved in the thick black leather cover and one could read Secrets of the Darkest Art. That was an intriguing title for a book. Harry opened it and his heart leapt. There was the word "magic" written in the first paragraph, and not just once. This book was about the forbidden word. The Dursleys had forbidden him to talk about anything out of the ordinary and Harry had found out that he should never say out loud the word "magic", ever. But that word was there, spelt out in the text. Harry could not help it, he sat down and began to read.

Harry was carried by his legs, his mind filled with what he had read in the book. The authors explained how to call the soul of the dead, tear the soul of the living from their bodies, rise the dead and lead them like puppets, and Harry had read only the first chapters. He had to go back to the house. Before leaving he had glanced at the hedges of the books in the bookcase. He could not help but smile when he read the forbidden word several times. His smile disappeared, he could not talk to anyone about it. The Dursleys could not know about this house. No, this house would be his secret, the place where the word "magic" was not forbidden.

Harry stopped daydreaming when he arrived in front of number 4 Privet Drive. The boy took a deep breath to give himself the courage to face the anger of his uncle and aunt. It was already late and if Dudley had told them that he had seen Harry enter a garden climbing a gate, he was going to receive some serious punishment. He entered the hallway and began to take his shoes off when he heard his aunt.

"Do you know what time it is? Where have you been? Come prepare dinner, and quickly, otherwise, you'll go to bed without eating."

That night, lying on his mattress in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry had trouble sleeping. He thought of all the treasures the house could contain, all the rooms he could explore and all the books he could read.

Harry had to wait one full week before he could return to the house. He had tried to go there in the afternoons after school, but if it was not for Dudley to stop him, it was for his aunt who had him weed the garden. Now, on Saturday afternoon, Dudley was at a classmate's birthday party and Harry had finished the chores Petunia had given him. He left home in silence and headed for Lower Woodside. He took the time to read the street sign that read Milton End. This time he tried to get into the house through the front door but it was blocked by a huge bramble clump and Harry, his hands covered in scratches, had to enter through the back door again. He walked through the laboratory and began to explore the rest of the house. The kitchen was far from Aunt Petunia's modern one. A fireplace stood on the left. The hearth still contained coals above which a blackened iron grate supported an empty pot. On the same wall was a stone sink above which stoves, pans, and other kitchen utensils were hung. The other furniture in the room were a dresser, a pantry and a table with four chairs. Harry crossed the room and entered the living room. His eyes were drawn to the large painting hanging on the mantelpiece. It was one of a woman sleeping in an armchair. Then his eyes landed on the bookcase. He would come back to the books but first, the boy turned away and headed to the stairs. The first step creaked and he froze. When he was sure of being alone, he climbed the rest of the steps. The first floor consisted of a bedroom with a bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. There was also a bathroom with a bathtub. Harry spent the rest of the afternoon opening the drawers, searching the cupboards, and flipping through the books. Finally, he decided to go back home before his absence went noticed.

The next day, Harry was back, he walked first thing towards the bookcase in the living room and seized Theoretical Magic and Seminal Principles he had spotted the day before. He sat on the armchair, spreading a cloud of dust around him, opened the book, and began to read. After several minutes, Harry had almost finished the first chapter, when suddenly.

"So you came back."

Harry startled, and stood up abruptly, dropping the book on the floor. He turned his head toward the voice but there was no one else in the room. Well, not exactly. The woman on the canvas was no longer sleeping, she sat up in her chair and watched Harry with a close look. The boy was frozen, his heart beating wildly. He wanted to flee but his legs no longer obeyed him. No, people in paintings could not move, much less talk, it was impossible. And yet. He then looked closely at the canvas: the woman wore a long black dress trimmed with turquoise and embroidered with silver threads, her long braid of light brown hair rested on her shoulder, and her blue eyes were intelligent and calculating. Harry could see she was moving, she blinked regularly, and she drummed her fingers at an impatient pace on the chair armrest. He tried to say something but the words could not come out. He felt as if he wanted to speak and started opening his mouth several times, which made him look like a fish out of the water.

"Well, young man," said the painting, "eloquence is not your forte."

Harry startled, jumped back and hit the table. The pain pulled him out of his stupor.

"But you ... you can talk ... and ... and move?" stuttered Harry, massaging his sore hip.

"Of course! I'm a portrait" replied the woman as if it was obvious.

"Oh ..." nodded Harry a few times. "You're a magical portrait then."

"Of course I am," she replied, her eyes sweeping over Harry from head to toe. "Tell me, what are you wearing? Is this how wizards dress now?"

Harry looked at his overlarge and worn clothes.

"Oh, these are Dudley's old clothes. He's my cousin," he explained. "I don't know how wizards dress today."

The portrait raised her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry", added Harry hurriedly, embarrassed.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," she retorted. "Aren't your parents wizards?"

"My parents, wizards? I don't know, they died when I was a baby."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Thanks. But I don't think they were wizards. They died in a car crash because my father drank too much."

"Yes, car… I remember that muggle invention."

"Invention what?"

"Muggle," repeated the portrait. "We call Muggles people who don't have magic."

"Oh… and when you say "we" you mean wizards and witches?"

The portrait nodded.

"You're a witch then?"

"Of course, and the "we" also includes you, young man."

"What? You think I'm a wizard? No that's impossible !" he exclaimed.

"Of course you're a wizard, you couldn't have found the house if you weren't."

"I don't understand…"

"My brother put numerous charms on this property to make sure muggles don't come near it," she explained.

"Is this your brother's house? Maybe I should leave before he gets home," said Harry, turning to the door.

"Unfortunately I don't think Charles will ever come back," said the woman sadly.

"What happened to him?"

"I was afraid he was made prisoner by our enemies, but no one has found the house for all these years or decades. I don't really know how much time has passed since he left, I'm a portrait," she said. "He must be dead now."

"He may come back," said Harry with hope. "Do you remember when he left?"

"It was early spring 1901."

"1901 ..." repeated Harry incredulously. "Your brother left 89 years ago. Today is May 1990."

The portrait's expression turned saddened and she remained a moment her eyes unfocused. Harry felt it was time for a change of topics.

"But I don't know your name," he said. "I'm Harry."

"Nice to meet you, Harry," said the portrait. "I'm Enid Akenham, Master Alchemist and Necromancer."

Harry had come across the terms alchemist and necromancer in the books. He came to the conclusion that the witch must know a lot about magic. He could ask her questions, and his mind overflowed with questions. He picked up the book, put it on the pedestal table, then turned the armchair and sat down in front of the portrait.

"What did you mean with "Muggles can't get near the house"?" he asked.

"To make sure Muggles wouldn't notice the house, Charles cast a Muggle-Repealing charm around it. So they walk past the gate without realizing it stands there, and if they see it they forget about it and it brings them the idea that they have something more important to do elsewhere."

So that was why Dudley had completely forgotten about Harry when he had started climbing the gate.

"Actually, he had put a lot of enchantments to be safe," proceeded Enid. "They're intended to prevent other wizards from entering without being invited and it's impossible to apparate into the garden or inside the house. Charles had also made the house unplotable, it cannot appear on a map which means that if you don't know the house is here, you can't find it.

"But I managed to find it and to come in," he said.

"Indeed, and I'd like to know how you did it. The charms were meant to stop adult wizards, those who are a real threat, but they wouldn't let you use magic to break in. So how did you manage it?"

"I climbed the gate, then on the wall and I jumped into the tree and leapt to the ground"

"You are very agile indeed," commented Enid, sincerely impressed. "And why did you want to come inside in the first place?"

"Uh ...", replied Harry embarrassed.

Then after a short silence, he explained what had pushed him into climbing over the wall, then he told her about Dudley and the Dursleys, how they treated him, what they would think if they knew about the house and how they hated everything that was out of the ordinary.

"This boy is foul," answered Enid outraged. "These Muggles are absolutely despicable, treating you like a house-elf ..."

"What's a house-elf?" he interrupted.

"Elves are wizards' servants."

"Okay," he said, nodding his head.

Harry had so many questions, he did not know where to start. He wanted to ask her what "Apparating" meant, but also why he had never met other wizards but it was perhaps because they were all hiding in their homes.

"I still have questions," he said. "Do all wizards put so many enchantments to hide their house?"

"Most wizards do protect their homes with enchantments and of course they're hidden from muggles who must absolutely ignore our existence. But they rarely use so many spells. My brother feared for his life. In the face of the threat hovering over him, Charles established a hidden refuge in this muggle area. We were the only two to know about it."

"But why was your brother in danger?"

"Charles was a very famous Master Necromancer. Unfortunately, our Art displeased many wizards. This movement, which was intended to banish dark magic, became much more popular between 1870 and 1880. They didn't go unheard by the Wizenmagot – the wizarding parliament – and they went so far as to prohibit the practice and the teaching of our Art. With other wizards, we stood against this decision but nothing worked. When the situation became unbearable, Charles hid the contents of our laboratory and the results of our work in here and finally settled in this house after my death."

There was a long pause during which Harry contemplated what he had just learned.

"I have another question," he said finally.

"Only one ?" asked Enid with a slight smile.

"Uh no ... more than one. If I'm a wizard, does it mean I can do magic?"

"Of course."

"Oh ... and would you teach me then?"

Enid did not reply, she just slumped against the back of her chair, stared at the boy, and smiled at him.

Harry went back to the house the next day. He greeted Enid and sat down in what had become his armchair. Several piles of books were now standing on the pedestal table. The day before, Enid had pointed out the books he should read in order to begin his magical training. But Harry could not be away for too long if he wanted to go unnoticed by his uncle and aunt. He could only spend a few hours once or twice a week reading books and talking to Enid, and it slowed down his training. He was thinking of a way to spend more time in the house when he entered through the laboratory door and put his jacket on the back of the chair.

"I thought you wouldn't come back."

Harry startled and faced the painting. He still had not gotten used to Enid going from frame to frame.

"Yes, I know," he lamented. "I couldn't come last week. My uncle became suspicious, he didn't stop asking me where I was going. But don't worry, I didn't tell him about the house. I told him I was going to the public library.

"But you couldn't come," she interrupted him.

"My uncle told me I had nothing to do there and that he knew I was up to something. But I know he just doesn't want people to think I'm smarter than Dudley."

"Pff ... ignorant muggles," she whispered.

"Anyway I'll be able to come more often, next week is the first week of the summer holidays. Well, if my aunt doesn't give me lots of housework and gardening to do.

Harry sighed and dropped into the chair in front of the bench and flipped through a book.

"Isn't there a potion I could use on my aunt for her to let me come here?" he asked.

"No, not in this book," replied Enid.

Harry straightened up abruptly and his eyes lit up.

"That kind of potion exists?" He asked.

"Of course it exists," she said, pointing her finger to the bookcase. "To Control the Mind and the Will, third shelf, on the right."

Harry rushed to the bookcase and took out the book. He sat down and flipped through the pages until he found the right potion: Radices cogitatus agere. He read the few pages of instructions and faced the painting.

"I don't think I'll be able to brew that potion," he finally said defeated.

"Well, young man! Get a grip!" exclaimed Enid. "I didn't think you were one to give up even before you began. This isn't a difficult potion, with the book instructions and the advice from the potion guidebook you have already read, you'll manage perfectly."

"That's not the problem," he explained. "I don't know where I'm going to find all these ingredients."

"In the cupboard, of course," she answered.

Harry went to the cupboard and opened it. The shelves were filled with jars and vials. Unfortunately, the vast majority were too old and unusable and Harry had to throw them away. He could only keep for his potion a jar of beetle eyes and powdered doxy wings. He made a list of the ingredients he would need to find and read it to Enid.

"All these ingredients are easy to harvest, you can do it alone," she explained. "Once you've gathered everything, you'll come back here to start the brewing."

Harry came back on the first day of the holidays. Some ingredients had been very easy to harvest: he had dug up the daisy roots of his aunt's garden and he had found mugwort in Mrs Figg's garden. She had even given him a five-pound note for weeding her garden. He had harvested the other plants on the slope between Oak Lane and the expressway or in the garden of Milton End. The hardest part had been finding and capturing frogs.

"Hello," said Harry, entering the lab.

"Hello Harry," said Enid as she entered the painting. "Do you have all the ingredients?"

"Yes," he replied with a big smile as he put his backpack on the bench.

He had wrapped the plants in newspaper and had put the frogs in an old ice cream box he had found in the trash. He re-read the instructions and the most relevant chapters in the Brewing Tips and Tricks guidebook.

"The art of Potion making requires organization, precision and concentration. A discipline to apply in any academic field," she reminded him when Harry had his equipment on the bench.

With that, the boy went to work, strictly following the instructions, and after more than an hour of work, he removed the cauldron from the fire and studied its contents. The potion was a deep green and pearly bubbles would pop regularly on its surface. Its appearance was exactly the one described in the book and Harry could not hold the smile that crept on his face.

"All right," said Enid, looking at the potion. "That's the work level I expect from you. You'll be able to bottle it. Then you'll wash your equipment, put it back to its place and you'll tidy the bench. Never forget that an orderly environment allows quality work."

Harry filled a small vial of potion that he slipped into his pocket and poured the remaining liquid into bottles that he put in the cupboard. He also stored the remains of the plants he had not used, as well as the remaining frog organs. After washing and tidying up his equipment and the bench, he set about reorganizing the laboratory. He dusted every surface and tidied the desk. Charles Akenham had left many notebooks and parchments on it when he had left the house for the last time. Harry piled them up and made bundles that he tied with a string he had found in a drawer.

When Harry was going to put the string ball back in the drawer, something drew his intention. It was a box in marquetry. The boy took it out of the drawer and put it on the desk. He let his fingers trace the ornamentation of the wood. When curiosity became impossible to ignore, he opened the box. It contained a dagger with a silver blade engraved with runes and a carved bone handle. Harry took the dagger and studied it closely before putting it on the desk. The second object in the box was thin, long, and wrapped in a blue cloth. The boy unpacked it and when he recognized it, he smiled. It was a magical wand. It was made of a light red wood veined with a brown-red tone. Harry twirled it between his fingers and then grabbed it and took the posture he had seen in Theoretical Magic and Seminal Principles illustrations. He tightened his grip, focused on the feeling of the wood in his hand, then he felt the magic. It was there, deep inside him. He felt it move from the depths of his being to his arm, then his hand, and ... With a loud crash, the inkwell that sat on the desk exploded in a myriad of crystal shards. Harry jumped back and dropped the wand.

"It is hard to do magic with a wand that doesn't belong to us, especially in the beginning," explained Enid.

"I'm sorry," he whispered shyly.

"But it'd be better if you waited to receive your letter before buying your own wand," she continued. "It'd be highly suspicious if a young wizard from a muggle family, who should know nothing about magic, got his wand so soon. I wouldn't want anyone to ask questions nor to come around and discover the house."

"I don't understand, what letter?" He asked.

"Your Hogwarts letter.

"Hogwarts?"

"School of witchcraft and wizardry."

"There's a school? A magical one? Is it far from here? Is it in London?

"It's not in London, there are too many muggles there. It's in Scotland."

"And they'll send me a letter?"

"Yes, they will. They send a letter to all British wizarding children around their eleventh birthday."

"I have to wait until I'm eleven? But that's a whole year of waiting."

"So eager, are you not? You have all the books in here to start your training."

Harry loved the idea of going to a school with other wizarding children, and if it was in Scotland, it had to be a boarding school. The idea of leaving the Dursleys was appealing. But thinking of the Dursleys, Harry stiffened.

"What is it ?" asked Enid.

"The Dursleys," he replied grimly. "They'll never let me go, and I've got no money, and they'll never pay for me to learn magic.

"Don't worry, if money is your problem, the school offers scholarships for students who need it. And don't forget you're a wizard, Harry, you're not going to let some Muggles stop you from going to Hogwarts."

Harry had trouble sleeping that night. He thought back to what he had learned: in little over a year he would leave this place whether the Dursley wanted it or not. But above all, he was thinking of what he would have to do in the morning. A few drops of the potion into the teapot, and he would not have to worry about the Dursleys any more.

The next morning, when Aunt Petunia knocked at the cupboard door, Harry hopped out of bed and dressed quickly. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the vial under his fingers. He entered the kitchen and forced himself to remove the smile from his face. He greeted his aunt and began to cook breakfast. His opportunity came when he put the bacon in the frying pan. Neither his uncle nor Dudley had come down yet and Aunt Petunia had just left the kitchen to enter the laundry room. Harry went to the teapot, lifted the lid, and poured the potion. The tea turned green and Harry started to panic. It was not going to work. They would never drink a tea of this colour. But a silver swirl rose out of the teapot and the tea returned to its usual colour. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

Harry put the mail on the table, sat down and ate in silence. His uncle and aunt drank their tea like they did every morning. For now, nothing had changed in their behaviour.

"I'm going to the library today," said Harry.

"Mmh ..." grumbled Uncle Vernon behind his newspaper.

"And I think I'd go there almost every day this summer."

"Mmh ... let me read my paper now", replied his uncle.

"You have the dishes and the laundry to do before leaving," added Aunt Petunia.

That day Harry actually went to the library where he borrowed a few books. He read them ostensibly in front of his uncle and aunt. The potion made it clear that it was perfectly normal for Harry to spend all day in the library, however, he had thought it better to make some evidence. Besides he really took a liking to read. Harry found a routine that suited him perfectly. In the morning he cooked breakfast and brought the mail to the table. His aunt gave him some housework or gardening to do. He went to the library every week and brought different books to read at night in the garden or on the front steps from where he greeted Mrs Figg. His neighbour had several times asked him to come to help her weed her garden which had allowed Harry, in addition to harvesting plants for his potions, to pocket a few pounds. He went almost every day to the house of Milton End where he spent his time between reading books, practising magic, brewing potions and collecting ingredients. Plant harvesting was the easiest thing while catching small animals was more difficult. But this problem was solved when Harry managed to master the wand enough to immobilize frogs, rats, salamanders or mice with a single spell. He also discovered his gift when he tried to capture an adder and Enid was delighted to know he was a parseltongue.

Harry was counting the money he had raised during the summer by doing some small work in the neighbourhood. He could easily afford a train ride to London. He wanted to enjoy his last days of holidays and see Diagon Alley. The next morning he left Privet Drive just after his uncle did. When he arrived in Charing Cross Road, a light rain took over the summer sun, and Harry pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head. The overlarge piece of clothing fell on his eyes. The boy had no trouble finding the Leaky Cauldron and when he entered he was overwhelmed by the atmosphere of the pub. The room was crowded and filled with the sound of conversations. Harry slipped between the customers, noting their strange outfits: robes, capes and pointed hats. He walked across the room and out into the backyard. There he found a couple and their two children who opened the passage in the wall. He slipped behind them and saw Diagon Alley for the first time.

Harry ran the length of the Alley into the rain. He went unnoticed to the passers-by who walked hurriedly with their children for some last-minute shopping just days before school started. He quickly realized that the few Pounds he had in his pocket would not allow him to buy anything. Enid had told him how to find the Alley but had forgotten to tell him that wizards did not use the same currency as muggles. But that did not detract Harry from his good mood. The boy paused for a long moment in front of the shop window of Flourish and Blotts before he walked in. He paced the alleys, fascinated by the number of books and the variety of topics. Of course, he did not find any books on Necromancy, but he knew that such books could only be found in Knockturn Alley.

Harry had taken off his hood and glanced at the hedges of the books. He froze. His name was written on a book cover. He re-read the title again: Harry Potter and the Dark Lord's fall. No, it could not be him, it had to be a namesake. The boy read the titles of the following books and he saw the same name again and again. His uncle and aunt had always told him that his name was very common, but apparently, he shared the name of a famous wizard. Harry took a book off the shelf: Famous Mages of the Twentieth Century. He scanned the table of contents and opened the book to the chapter about this Harry Potter. He began to read. He felt his heart beating faster and faster as he read and his eyes stopped on the last sentence of the chapter.

And still, to this day, nobody knows how, on this fateful night of October 31st of 1981, one-year-old Harry Potter, was able to defeat the Dark Lord and to survive with only a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

Harry snapped the book shut and placed his hand on his forehead. He glanced around anxiously but no one had noticed him. He pulled back his hood over his head. He then decided to read the chapter devoted to this Dark Lord, then he took another book. He then realized that all the books in this section were about this same topic. He spent many hours there and learned many things about his parents, his father a wizard from an old pureblood family, and his mother a muggle-born witch, and how they had been killed. He also learned who that Dark Lord Voldemort who had killed his parents was and how everyone was afraid to say his name. Harry knew Muggles knew nothing about wizards and he wondered if his aunt knew how her sister had died. Had she lied to Harry? or did she not know? He came out of his thoughts when someone addressed him.

"Are you on your own?"

It was one of the clerks. He was wielding an impressive stack of books with his wand.

"I was just reading," replied Harry hurriedly, putting the book back in its place in the rack.

"Be careful with the books," said the clerk. "Where are your parents ?"

"They're over here," lied Harry, pointing to the shop. "I think they're done now, I've got to go. Bye."

The boy slipped behind a bookcase and left the shop before the clerk had time to reply, or worse to start looking for his so-called parents in the bookstore.

Harry shared his discoveries about his origins with Enid, and with this knowledge, he applied himself even more in his study of magic. He also applied the method and precision instilled by the witch in his school work. He was now bringing much better grades than Dudley, to his teacher's satisfaction and his uncle and aunt's the greatest displeasure of. But this displeasure was short-lived, for, with a few drops of Radices cogitatus agere, they found it quite normal that their nephew had better grades than their son.

Harry made his first step in necromancy on a cloudy October afternoon. He had left school and headed towards Lower Woodside when his eyes were drawn to a motionless shape on the side of the road. It was a cat with grey tabby fur. Harry ran his hand through its fur. The animal had died recently, surely hit by a car. It did not have a collar. Harry lifted it up and carried it to the necromancer's house. He entered the house, closed the door with his foot, the cat still in his arms and greeted Enid in her frame.

"What are you carrying?" She asked.

"I'm going to rise it," he replied, heading towards the lab.

He placed the animal in the centre of the bench and opened Secrets of the Darkest Art. He had found the ritual during the summer: Anima carnis morticinae. Following the instructions, Harry grabbed the wand and traced the runes on the bench all around the cat chanting the incantation. He pulled the dagger out of the box and rolled up his left sleeve. He then chanted the rest of the incantation while slashing his left forearm with the dagger. His blood fell on the animal and was absorbed instantly. Then the runes ignited and the flesh of the boy's arm was tightened back together without a mark.

Harry watched the still motionless animal and in an instant, its eyes opened. The cat got back on its legs and stretched. Harry could hear the crack of the bones taking their place back. He reached out his hand and the cat head-butted him.

"Hello," said Harry.

The animal turned its head and looked attentively at the young necromancer through its dead eyes.

"I'm going to call you Midnight. Do you like it?

The cat purred and jumped swiftly to the floor where he rubbed itself against Harry's leg.

"Wicked…"

Harry was feeling very tired now, but he could not forget the feeling of the dagger slicing into his flesh and his blood flowing through the cut. It was the most exhilarating thing he had ever done. He could not stop wondering when he would be doing it again.