Disclaimer: I do now own Harry Potter

So, unless you haven't been reading, this is an AU. Meaning, it deviates from Canon. This is visible in this chapter, which is coincidentally also the last chapter.

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Madam's ideas of entertainment tended to include Harry being tricked or hoodwinked in some way, so he was naturally wary of her idea for his training. However, glee overweighed the suspicion, though he knew it wasn't wise to go in wide-eyed and trusting.

In theory, it seemed like a good way to practice fine control, which was exactly what Harry needed. He still had the habit of accidentally making things shatter or die if he didn't concentrate on what he was trying to do completely. This was actually the reason why Madam forbade him from ever changing the light bulbs with magic again: he kept making them fizzle out or explode.

The premise of the exercise was this: he was to manipulate the air around a sheet of paper to make the paper bend or crinkle. Not the paper itself, mind you, but the air. Madam had told him it should be a fairly simple thing to do, and a fairly safe one, too. He could hardly blow up the air, after all. Sadly, it didn't go nearly as easily as he thought it would.

For one, he didn't have the faintest clue how to go about dealing with an element such as air. He couldn't conceptualise it, and therefore he couldn't do it. Attempting to blindly find it like he had found the network of roots – that was what the terrifying monster underground had been – resulted in utter failure and all he accomplished was to tear the paper to pieces.

It was such a disappointing and disheartening experience.

Madam had a way to solve it of course, and this is where Harry's day went from bad to worse. Her solution was for him to understand air, which meant that she took a hairdryer and merrily started blowing it in his face, telling him all the while to focus on the air currents. All Harry could focus on were the tears of discomfort forming in his eyes, along with an overwhelming urge to sneeze.

The next thing they tried was fanning him. It went better than with the hairdryer, though Madam's arm went numb soon after from all the fanning she was doing. Harry still didn't understand how to control the air.

When he argued that it made no sense to even try to do it, because he couldn't connect with something dead, Madam merely thwacked him with her notes. He could do it if he tried – they had already proven the theory of only being able to manipulate living things when Harry first succeeded in lighting a candle in a fit of rage. It was just his impatience and frustration that were impeding him.

By the time night started to fall, Harry was ready to cry. There had still been no progress in the slightest, unless, of course, one counted charging the paper by mistake and destroying it as progress. He had never, not even when he was agonising over the blasted roots, been so vexed over something. That it was his magic making him feel like that, when it was usually a source of joy and peace, was only more disturbing to the messy-haired boy.

Instead of staying over and sleeping in the guest bedroom of Madam's apartment – which was on the floor above the library – he went to Number 4. Aunt Petunia's displeasure was keenly felt, but he just couldn't stay at Madam's place any longer.

:

Harry went back to the library the following day, determined to make the exercise work. Aunt Petunia had been glad to have him gone from her house; not having to worry about her nephew while simultaneously knowing he was being useful to someone out there had spoiled her, and she almost wished Madam Salisbury would ask for the boy to move in with her.

Madam Salisbury, for her part, felt guilty for the way she had treated Harry. The child had done his best and she had outright told him it wasn't enough, not even bothering to say it kindly.

When Harry entered the library, the first thing she did was apologise. At times it felt like she had apologised more in the time since she had met the boy than in the rest of her life. What that said about her, she didn't know, but she liked having the child around, even if he did bring the headache of magic with him.

''Madam Salisbury…'' Harry called out after putting away his school bag, not seeing the woman in her usual spot by the windows, nor where the bookshelves were. Where did she go? She was right there a minute before! ''Madam Salisbury, where are you?''

''The garden, boy.'' Came her voice, as grumpy as ever. ''Where do you think I am? And get me my notes!''

With a low sigh that was far more resigned than it should be, Harry snapped up the stack of papers and slipped through the backdoor into the little jungle Madam claimed had once been a rose garden.

''Look at them, child!'' she told him triumphantly, gesturing at the row of small, paper windmills that now decorated her lawn. ''Aren't they simply marvellous?''

''They're toy windmills, Madam.'' He answered her dubiously. ''What do you need them for?''

''Foolish child,'' she groused, accepting her notes. ''They're for your training. You need to understand the air, do you not? Well, what better way that through a windmill? And I can't bloody well get a real windmill, can I? Where would I put it? The police would have a fit if I got a real one. Not to mention the neighbours…''

''Oh!'' Harry exclaimed, finally understanding what Madam planned to do.

''Yes, yes, you know what to do.'' Grabbing her notes and promptly beginning to put down the date and location, Madam motioned him to start. ''Go on then! Dazzle me!''

''Right…''

Closing his eyes, Harry focused on the little windmills. He couldn't reach out for the air by himself, but he could use a medium, the medium being, in this case, the windmill. He had learned his lesson and didn't give in to the urge to play with the windmill, extending his awareness from the windmill to the space its wings spun through. It was harder than he thought it would be, but not nearly as hard as the paper exercise had been.

And… there.

A trickle of something, an almost not-there something, slipping through his fingers like a dream only half-remembered, and he hurriedly clutched as many of the gossamer strands as he could. It was woefully little, but it was enough.

Harry got his first taste of how the air felt, and it was glorious. Opening his eyes and letting go of the connection, he swayed a tad. Madam forced a glass of orange juice down his throat right away, because he actually appeared like he was slightly drunk.

''Did you do it?'' she asked him, long ago cured of panicking whenever he seemed a little out of it.

Harry dipped his chin in response, giggling quietly. ''It was like… like not being real. It feels like…'' scrunching up his nose, he tried to focus his thoughts and describe the sensation correctly. ''It felt like… It was like the word escapism. I – I don't know how to describe it. Just… not real, not there, but more there than anything else I've ever… I don't know.'' He trailed off, gazing longingly into the distance. As much as he wanted to, he knew better than to try it again without getting Madam's stamp of approval.

''Do you think you would be able to do the paper exercise now?'' she inquired, scribbling down another note worthy of remembering later on.

Harry thought it over quickly, straightening from the slouch he had subconsciously fallen into. ''I think so… I probably could. I know what to search for now.''

''Try it then.''

Taking the offered paper and observing that wasn't a clean sheet, but one Madam had used for her note-taking, Harry tried to fold it. It didn't really work out. He had clearly used too much force, because the paper had bunched up and the air had made several dozen thin, shallow cuts in the skin of his hands, over his fingers and palms and all the way up to his elbows. How had he managed to do that?

:

With his arms wrapped up in bandages and unable to use his fingers because of this, Harry couldn't do any of the things he usually did, not even reading Madam's books. Instead, he got to practice his Italian.

Italian had been something of a novelty to him in the beginning, and he had quickly fallen in love with the language when he saw how easy it was to learn it. But now he was slowly coming to see that it had only been due to Madam's simple way of teaching that he had found it easy. His accent had been atrocious from the start, but his grammar had been passable. But now, even grammar was getting difficult: he simply could not differentiate between all the tenses. And as irritated as he was, he was even starting to make mistakes in the tenses he had previously known perfectly well.

Madam didn't see the problem in this. Her solution was to merely continue doing as she had – talking and talking and filling his head up with Italian, her mouth expelling words so fast they slurred together. Harry didn't understand: how could he learn if he didn't know what was being said? How was he to remember words with meanings he didn't know?

Madam was veritably ruthless with the way she taught him; she considered complete submersion to be the only way to learn a language, and if that submersion left him baffled and demoralised, well... If he overcame his shortcomings, then it was the best way possible. If he failed and gave up, then he didn't deserve to learn it in the first place. She took the opportunity created by his wounded hands to commence with this training method gleefully. Madam was an awful teacher.

Still, he grudgingly admitted he did improve. His vocabulary was laughably limited and his grammar lacked any form of coherent syntax, but at least he was adapting to the speed of speech and – though he wished it weren't happening, so that he could be angry at Madam some more – he was beginning to understand what was being said without translating the words to English in his head.

…Perhaps Madam wasn't so bad at teaching… Maybe she was just making it more difficult. Harry could deal with it.

:

The next time he tried using air magic, it was two weeks later and summer was doing its utmost to roast him alive. Madam kept grumbling about global warming, but Harry was of the opinion that it was punishment for his consistent bad grades throughout the school year.

Again, he overpowered the air and the paper he was trying to fold was completely shredded. He earned himself many more cuts and gashes as he forged on in his training despite Madam's ever more vocal protests. She disciplined him by making him read books, and not the interesting ones.

Madam had theorised that perhaps he wasn't cutting things, but tearing them. If he had somehow made the wind move fast enough, then the air should have been able to tear his skin and clothes. It would also explain why the edges to the wounds were so ragged.

However, by the end of July he had managed to finally fold a sheet of paper, even if it was done sloppily. He did it just in time for his birthday, and that made the success twice more victorious. Madam wasn't impressed by his accomplishment. She went on to make him fold papers for the rest of the summer, and then well into autumn. By the time winter rolled around, he was more than capable of making various origami shapes with only the help of his magic and the air. Harry still wished she wasn't as pedantic as she was.

His birthday had been celebrated though, even if not very glamorously, and there had been Madam with a present – another book – and the girl from the Care Centre, who had brought a small cake for Madam's 'nephew'. Harry still didn't know her name, but he was rather convinced it started with an 'A'. Alice, perhaps, or maybe Amanda.

Miss Rowan was still there when he went up a year, and she seemed inordinately proud with his grades, which had stabilised at around a C, or B- if he was lucky. The Dursleys were more willing than ever to continue to perpetually ignore his existence, though Aunt Petunia did put in an effort every now and then and made him lunch for school.

Life was good, for the most part.

:

The coming of the spring always excited Harry, though he never knew exactly why. It wasn't something he could explain away with words, nor accurately describe by other means. Madam loved spring because she claimed it brought the promise of new life and new beginnings, but for Harry this wasn't it.

The closest he ever came to unravelling his fascination with the season was in art class at school, when he had accidentally spilled green water colours all over his paper. There was something hypnotising about the green swirls and their lazy curls, contrasted sharply against the white of the paper in some places and almost disappearing into the whiteness of it in others. He took the paper with him and Madam had framed it, but they mostly kept it out of sight, seeing as Harry tended to stare at it dazedly if it entered his line of vision.

The roots beneath him started to… he wasn't sure. 'Gain consciousness' would probably be horrifically incorrect, but that was what it felt like to Harry. He still disliked connecting to the grounds and much preferred the fleeting intangibleness of the wind, but he understood the reasons Madam never let him stop doing it.

Madam valued information above all else – she was a librarian, after all – and she claimed that there were many things to be learned through the root network. Harry agreed with her, but he didn't see why the consistency of the earth or the amount of rocks in the ground were important. Nor did he understand the need to keep whispering about the moisture in the earth, but he supposed that water was the most important thing in the life of a root. Survival and all that.

And then the roots started talking to him.

It seems silly when said like that, since the roots had been speaking for as long as Harry knew of them, but never had they actually talked to him directly, asking him questions. Well, it was more of a request to water them, but the point still stood. Harry had learned that the root was something akin to the brain of the plant and that this brain was far from stupid, but the fact that they talked still frightened him out of his wits.

Madam took this development in stride; she commanded him to get the watering can and oblige the poor plants. That the plants said only mean things about her didn't bother her one bit.

In the years to come, Harry would thank whatever god existed and watched over him, because the fact that he could speak to plants would save his life more than once. But for now, he just grumbled about being saddled with more chores (Madam ordered him to water the trees in Little Whinging daily – all the trees) and got on with it. Not like Madam would change her mind about it.

:

''Why do you let me stay here, Madam?''

Madam Salisbury lifted her eyes from the pages of her favourite book and blinked at the boy she had come to view as a grandson in the time since she had met him. ''Pardon me?''

Harry, the unpredictable little brat, had stopped dusting the library and was giving her a curious look. ''Why do you let me stay, Madam? I mean, I'm more trouble than I'm worth, what with all the magic and accidents and the damage I cause.''

It was the truth, Madam knew that well enough. Just the day before the child had broken all her windows while playing with the wind, when she had told him hundreds of times he was forbidden from doing magic inside the house unless she gave her express permission. But there was something about the way the boy said it, about the formulation of the sentence that rubbed her the wrong way.

She slipped a ribbon to mark the page she was at and closed the book, placing it on the coffee table with a nearly silent thud. ''Why wouldn't I let you stay, child?'' she asked his shrewdly. ''You are no trouble at all, and you even help me get things done around here.''

Harry folded his hands and lowered his voice. ''Sometimes, Madam, you look at me… and… I don't think it's me you see. You seem… sad… whenever that happens. I just… I wondered why you let me stay if I make you sad.''

The boy looked like he expected to be kicked, but Madam was far too preoccupied by his words to notice his emotional state. She hadn't realised the child had noticed her occasional reminiscence. ''I am sorry if I appear like that, Harry. You don't make me sad, quite the opposite… You shouldn't worry about such things.''

Harry knew it was wrong to press Madam, but he wanted to know. Madam always seemed so different when she got that glint in her eyes, and he wanted to understand it. ''Madam, I'd really like to know.''

Madam looked at him blankly for a minute, so long that he almost wanted to leave and forget he had ever asked about this, but then she unexpectedly smiled, looking both baffled and amused. ''He would have said the same thing,'' she said, and piqued Harry's interest.

''Who?''

''My husband, of course.''

Madam snickered at his obvious surprise, and Harry flushed. It was hard to imagine Madam ever having been married, especially so since she didn't wear any ring. Then he realised why the husband wouldn't be there and immediately felt a cold stone drop in his stomach like lead.

''He died a long time ago, child.'' Madam comforted, aware of his dismay. ''You shouldn't worry about him.''

:

Before he knew it, Harry was swept up in the excitement that came with understanding magic. Well, understanding was a bit too strong of a word, but he was starting to have instinctual reactions when it came to magic. It was as if he had suddenly grasped what he had previously been struggling with, like something had just clicked in his mind. He found himself able to predict what could and what couldn't be done with his current level of control and power.

The root network's only contribution to his training was to remind him if they needed watering and to zap him to the bones if he soaked the ground too much. They hated drowning in their precious water, apparently. He was beginning to dislike the needy plants, because while he had stopped fearing the magic they emitted, he still resented their callous treatment. Madam kept snorting at him and saying how they weren't human – weren't even animals, really – and wouldn't care for him and his frailty.

But the wind – oh, the wind. The air was everything Harry wanted, and he was slowly abandoning the use of magic in other fields. He hadn't used his magic for anything other than air manipulation for months. Not even the root network could tempt him to do much more than listen to their complaints of the day. Ever since he had succeeded in folding paper he had weaned himself off using magic for things like cleaning, cooking and other 'lesser' uses.

He could use the air to affect his surroundings, but only ever on a large scale. His control was nowhere near fine enough to try anything more delicate than paper folding, but that was alright. Sometimes he played at having telekinesis, pretending to be a superhero. He had wanted to try using the blades the air sometimes turned into as a weapon, but Madam had strictly forbidden such an endeavour. It was too destructive for her tastes, and too dangerous for him to use.

But more than he wanted a weapon, Harry wanted to fly. That was his greatest wish, and even though cuts and exhaustion had become a normal state of being to him in his time spent exercising magic, he was willing to do anything to fly. The wind had woken up something in him that day with the windmills, a longing that went deeper than his heart, and Harry knew he would never rest at peace until he could take to the skies, aided only by his magic.

:

''Madam, this is for you.''

Madam startled and dropped the book she was holding; in the time since Harry had known her, her senses had dulled so much that it was hard for her to read anymore. It was a harsh blow to the librarian who lived for books and knowledge. Harry read to her sometimes, of course, but it was not the same, and he was busy with magic anyway.

It felt at times that Madam was pulling away from him, getting less and less involved with his life. Where before she had been eager and enthusiastic about magic, since that first time Harry had cut up his hands she had been distancing herself. Perhaps she was afraid, though Harry doubted this, but she was still there when he needed her, still there for his Italian lessons. That was enough.

''What is it, boy?'' she snapped, ''I don't have the time for –''

''It's a book.'' He cut her off. ''I… It's about magic, I made it from your notes.'' Suddenly shy, he gently laid the book on the counter where Madam awaited her customers – not that many people came to the library in the first place – and looked at the floor. ''I thought you might want a book of your own.''

Sneaking a look at his mentor, the woman he even considered his family, Harry tried to read her stony expression.

Smoothing out the wrinkle in the book's wrapping, Madam started speaking, ever so carefully, tasting all the words out before allowing them to come out. ''Do you know why I became a librarian, Harry?''

''No, Madam.'' He told her cautiously. ''You never said.''

''It's because I didn't want to experience life except through books.'' She said, only a hint of bitterness colouring her tone. ''My husband… I never married him, though I call him my husband. He died a long time ago, in Italy. It was the War… the Germans… that took him. He was like you, adored the air. He was a pilot. After he died, I didn't want to get hurt anymore. I thought I would never hurt again if I had all the knowledge in the world, and so I retreated to a dusty library, amongst books, where there was no living person who could hurt me.''

She glanced at him, and there was a strange shine to her face.

''Madam?'' Harry asked, taking several steps backwards. ''You don't have to tell me –''

''For forty years I was alone,'' Madam continued ruthlessly, ''but I was not lonely. At least, I didn't think I was. And then a little brat turned up out of nowhere, scuffed up shoes and as skinny as a reed, asking about magic, and… I realised I might have been lonely after all.'' Opening the book, which was written in Harry's best handwriting and bound in cardboard, she smiled. ''I haven't believed in magic ever since Alfred left me. I still don't. But I believe in you, child, and that is an improvement.''

And then Harry realised something. In all the time he had spent with Madam, he had never learnt her first name. It just wasn't something that mattered – Madam Salisbury was and always would be Madam Salisbury – but now he thought it was selfish.

''Madam…'' he tried to ask, ''would you mind telling me your name?''

She smirked at him, the expression tugging at her wrinkled face. ''I thought you'd never ask, boy. It's Primrose, though no one has called me by that name in years. If you want, you can call me Arthur, but never Arty.''

Madam wasn't suited to the name Primrose in the least, and Harry wondered how deluded her parents must have been to give her such a girly, meek name. Arthur was better, but…

''Why Arthur? That's a boy's name.''

Madam shrugged, carding her fingers through her hair wryly. ''Alfred liked to call me that. Said I could give King Arthur himself a run for his money.''

Harry could see that. The sudden image the thought gave birth to – Madam, wearing shiny armour, with her silver hair whipping in the wind, challenging a deeply confused and intimidated King Arthur to a duel – made him laugh, and his giggles echoed in the library.

The shadows summoned by Madam's story dispersed, leaving behind the usual atmosphere consisting of Madam's exasperation, Harry's mischief and the smell of old books.

''Go away, child.'' Madam waved him off, ''I have enough on my plate without you there to watch out for.''

:

The visit to the Zoo for Dudley's birthday was an eventful trip.

Harry wasn't even supposed to go, but Madam was feeling ill that day and couldn't take him in. Harry had wanted to stay with her – her more and more frequent bouts of weakness and dizzy spells worried him greatly – but she had shooed him out, claiming he was the source of her headaches and that she wouldn't recover with him there.

Mrs Fig was also feeling under the weather. Harry had heard something about a broken leg, but he didn't spend enough time with her to know for sure. She had staunchly refused to take him, despite all his Aunt's protests.

So he got to go to the Zoo. It was interesting, certainly, and he even got Dudley's ice cream when his cousin demanded a bigger one. He saw lions sunbathing and a petting zoo with goats and a pony, and he touched a live chicken. But the most interesting part of the trip happened in the Reptile House.

The Reptile House was dark and dry, almost cold. The various snakes and lizards were showcased in big niches in the wall, lighted up from the inside. Dudley wasted no time in finding the biggest snake there, an enormous boa constrictor that seemed to have more interest in sleeping than paying attention to all the over-excited children that kept knocking on its glass.

Harry was perfectly content with the visit so far, and he even held hopes that all would end well, but then the impossible happened. Again.

The snake talked.

Harry wasn't even startled by its ability of speech – apparently everything talked, from the plants to the winds to the snakes – but rather by the fact that it spoke in an intelligent, understandable way. Most of the beings that talked to him were very simplistic and didn't care much for chatting. It was all about the water with them, or the movement. The snake, though, greeted him like a human would.

''You can talk?'' he asked. ''Really talk?''

The boa nodded its head lazily. ''Well, yessss. Why wouldn't I?''

Harry hastily backtracked. ''Oh, no reason. Um, it says here you're from Brazil. Was it nice there?''

The snake motioned its tail and Harry checked the plate again. 'This specimen was bred in captivity,' it said.

''I'm sorry, I didn't look.'' He apologised, and then, because all those times Madam sighed over his complete incompetency when it came to socialising and functioning in public, he continued. ''Do you wish you were ever there?''

The snake gave him a long look, and then sighed. Humans were getting odder and odder the more time passed, and it was all far too much work for a snake to keep up with. The boa coiled up and tried to pretend Harry wasn't there.

''I'm sorry,'' Harry apologised again, but the snake was firmly asleep.

:

Harry had expected his eleventh birthday to come and go, spent with Madam and later on with Miss Rowan, with Aunt Petunia's grudging acknowledgment shown in the lack of chores, but ultimately it was supposed to be a day like any other.

His life was never meant to fall apart on his birthday.

But it did, and all because of a strange letter written on real parchment in emerald green ink. It was tacky and presumptious, and undeniably foreboding.

The second she saw it, Aunt Petunia threw a fit. She kept her mouth shut while Dudley and Uncle Vernon were there, yes, but the second they were gone she was screaming at him. Harry didn't quite understand everything she had told him, but he understood enough.

She was throwing him out.

He was mostly upset over the fact that he wasn't upset, and this was… strange. Harry wasn't in the habit of worrying about people. He didn't even worry much about Madam despite her illness, but hadn't ever truly noticed his… apathy… if it could be called that.

He went to the library, seeking out the comforting presence of Madam, but she wasn't there. Oh, right. She was at the hospital, having her check-ups done.

But more than the loss of his home, he chewed over the contents of the letter. Aunt Petunia had shredded it in the blender, but he could recall what it had said more or less clearly. It claimed him as a wizard, and invited him to a wizard school.

Did that mean there were others who used magic like him? Well, obviously there were, but would they be like him? Using magic to control the air? Would they like him? Not many people did, they found him disconcerting and they shied away from him. Harry wondered if he would have friends if he went to this school for wizards. He had never had friends before…

:

When Minerva McGonagall came to the residence of one Harry James Potter, she was surprised. Firstly because it wasn't Privet Drive Number 4, and secondly because it was a library. That should have been her clues that she would often find herself surprised when it came to Mr Potter.

Instead, she knocked on the green door, and waited.

No one answered.

She knocked again, this time more loudly, and waited. No one opened the door, but a voice did call out for her to let herself in.

Entering the library she noted that it was rather messy inside, with more books lying around in heaps and stacks than placed on the bookshelves. However, there was no dust nor grime. She followed the voices through another door and into a garden; a lovely slice of green heaven, with thick grass and a tall tree casting shadows over a small bench. Minerva's lips twitched a bit when she saw several rows of miniature windmills decorating the lawn.

There was a very old woman sitting on the bench and listening as a boy, presumably Mr Potter, read her a book of poems aloud.

''Madam, Mr Potter.'' She greeted. ''I am Minerva McGonagall, a professor from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm here to explain some things…''

:

Once again, a round of salutations for my beautiful Beta, Sable Supernova. She really outdid herself with this chapter.

I consider this story finished. It was meant to be a oneshot, but it grew much too big, so I broke it up. There will probably be sequels soon. I have school exams right now (school's ending... Don't know if I should be happy or horrified) but over the summer...

So, yeah. Look out for the sequel.