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Walk Away Further: Neverstop

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Chapter 1

Help

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The Birthday Message

No matter how much one tries, when something really unusual happens nobody expects it. Even more true in the dead of night...

Cluff–cluff–cluff–cluff!

Harry Potter stretched out a hand to stifle his alarm clock before the cotton wool fell out from under the bell. It wouldn't do to wake his aunt and uncle at nearly midnight – especially tonight! He stared through the gloom in his cupboard – two minutes to go! Grappling for his precious collection of old-but-dry matches, he quickly lit the seven tiny candles left over from his cousin Dudley's birthday a few weeks earlier. Now they topped an almost complete doughnut and it was only a few days old!

One minute!

With trembling fingers he picked up an electric bill envelope on which he'd scrawled 'To Harry' and slipped his thumb under the flap ready to pull out the card inside. It was only a piece of cereal packet with Brand New Expert-Improved Super-Sunshiny Honey-Goodness Guaranteed in Every Mouthwatering Bite! on the outside, but that faultless promise had always dazzled his imaginative longing, and he couldn't wait to read the Happy Birthday, Harry! message he'd scrawled inside in different-coloured crayons. He wasn't sure what else greetings cards were supposed to have on them, so he'd drawn a house and a tree and copied a cracker riddle he'd found in the trash last Christmas – that always made him laugh! It would be like a real birthday.

His eyes brightened in expectation as the gap between the top of the dial and the minute hand narrowed like scissors carefully trimming off the day before.

Midnight! He was seven years old!

Hands shaking, he took out the card and gazed upon it. The smell of the burnt-out match still tickled his nostrils and the candle smoke was making his eyes water. Furthermore, the tiny flames flared suddenly, dazzling him. Words shone and sparkled, but they weren't his own – were they?

Never stop asking for help, Harry, and never stop offering it.

So hot was its import that the message seemed to sizzle itself into the card as much as his young, receptive mind, until finally he was certain nothing could ever remove its burning, pulsating rhythm: Neverstop – Neverstop – Neverstop!

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The Bleeding Nuisance

In the days that followed, Harry went silently about performing the arduous list of tasks set by his aunt. Yet no matter how often he looked, his birthday card only ever wished him a happy birthday, and the cracker joke was no longer amusing. There weren't any other words at all. But the shining message he'd seen and heard as his birthday had begun still continued to dominate his thoughts: Never stop! Had he imagined it? The words seemed really important and he couldn't stop thinking about them, and how they'd seemed so vivid and powerful and strange and...

But then freaky things often happened around Harry, and, quite rightly, he was deeply ashamed of being abnormal. Why couldn't he be like other children? Could no one show him how?

Never stop asking for help. The words were always lurking at the back of his mind now, waiting to spring out like festive cracker sayings.

"Aunt Petunia, how can I get to be normal like–"

"–Your parents were freaks, and that's why YOU are too!" shrilled his aunt. "And peel faster – no, don't hold the knife like that, boy! If you get blood on the potatoes again I'll give you such a whack!"

Never stop asking...

"Could the hospital make me better, like when–"

–Petunia Dursley's hard wet slap across Harry's ear stung. He stumbled, nicked his finger with the sharp blade.

"SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE, YOU WORTHLESS NUISANCE!" shrieked the woman. "GET AWAY! NOW I'VE GOT TO RINSE THE VEG! Wait till your uncle hears about this! NO, DON'T DRIBBLE BLOOD ALL OVER MY NICE CLEAN FLOOR!" She reeled off several sheets of kitchen paper and wiped the front of the sink which was darkly spotted, then swooped down to rub at the floor. "Here! hold that over the cut, and don't you dare spill anymore!" She thrust the filthy wad of paper into his hand and shoved him out the kitchen, then out the front door. "GO! Don't come back till it's stopped dripping! And stop that whimpering you pathetic freak! It's only a gash!"

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Cat Woman

Despite the hot sunny weather and the freedom of outdoors, Harry sniffled to himself as he walked up the garden path to the gate. He forced himself to walk away from Privet Drive but his stomach felt sick from seeing so much blood, his ear was still ringing and sore from Petunia's smack, and his finger was stinging with pain. Now what was he supposed to do?

Never stop asking for help, Harry.

The voice in his head was so clear he almost looked around. But he was alone at the corner of Wisteria Walk with only the blazing sun for company. Mrs Figg saved me last year. Perhaps she can call the nice amb'lance man again.

He walked along and knocked tentatively at the old lady's door – which opened abruptly within only a few seconds.

"Harry? I was expecting the post–" –The old lady tilted her head on one side to inspect the wodge of bloody tissue wrapped around the hand he'd held up. "Come in then."

Softness pressed hard past his ankle as he entered: one of the many friendly cats that were coming to physically welcome him, purring and miaowing. He wondered what it would feel like if a real person ever came close enough to–

"–Not seen you properly since... well, you know..." She peered briefly at his forehead then began fumbling in the top drawer of her sideboard. Its little dangly brass handle wobbled as she rummaged through sticks and stones and bottles – and Harry swore he saw sparkly dust drifting up, caught in the sunlight through the greying lace curtains. Yet the heavy Victorian side drapes remained silent and sombre on the brightest of days, he knew that. Anxiety rose up in him; perhaps he should not have troubled her again. He'd never even had a chance to–

"–Thank you, Mrs Figg, for when–"

"–Quite alright, Harry. Lucky I happened by and saw you lying there that day. What were you doing out in such weather with no coat?"

"Uncle Vernon wanted me to clean the oil spots off the drive while they drove to see Dudley be a angel in the school play."

"That man!" she shouted over her shoulder as she continued to rummage. Didn't he know you had the flu'!"

Harry shook his head and mumbled something.

"This'll do it," she muttered, coming back with what looked like a small grey rock clutched in her hand.

"That's a funny shape," said Harry. "Is it a dog?"

Mrs Figg made a throaty noise. Harry had never heard her laugh before. "You could say that," she said. "Certainly comes to heel when I say."

"A heeling stone," murmured Harry to himself, as she cast aside the makeshift bloody bandages and touched Harry's weeping injury with the rock. "There, that's soaked it up, dirt, blood, split and all."

Harry blinked closely but couldn't quite find where the cut had been. His ear wasn't hurting either.

"Best not say anything about this, Harry," said Mrs Figg as she put away the stone. "Here's fifty-pee. Nip round Fairlows and buy a pack of plasters. Stick one round your finger so–"

"–But my finger's fine now!"

Mrs Figg frowned. "And what would your aunt say to that, boy!"

Harry lowered his head and mumbled, "She'd say it's unnatural."

"Exactly."

He turned to go. "Thank you, Mrs Figg."

Never stop. Harry looked back at her quizzically. "Mrs Figg, do strange things like that...? Only they happen to me a lot and I wanted to ask if–"

"–I'm not supposed to–"

"–You know what it is?"

"You're too young, Harry. I–"

"–Will I get better when I grow up?"

The old lady's lips quivered, and she patted him on the shoulder. "Th–there, there, Harry ... f–fine as you are." She paused, trying to control herself. "Oh well, in for a Knut, in for a G–Galleon, I suppose. Can't be helped now." But still she hesitated, unsure, and muttering to herself. "Promise ... keep s–secret. I'm not s'posed to–"

"–I promise," cried Harry, moved by the anguish in her expression.

Mrs Figg gathered herself together as if about to make an effort. "It's magic, Harry. You can do magic."

The little boy stared for a few moments then giggled with relief that she wasn't really upset but playing a game with him. He only stopped grinning when he saw the batty old woman wasn't even smiling. Harry frowned. "People can do real magic? Not just tricks?"

"Not everyone, Harry. ... Listen, I've said enough. You'd better go. Don't forget them plasters from the shop so your aunt doesn't–"

–Never stop asking. "But YOU can!" He held up his finger. There wasn't even a scar.

"No, I can't, boy! It was the stone that healed, not me. I can't do anything."

"Who then? Who else can do magic? Can they help me to stop being a freak? So I'm not... abnormal?"

Mrs Figg shook her head. The boy was more messed up than she'd feared. "I can't help you. Go."

Never stop asking. Please, Mrs Figg. I promised to keep your secret. If you can't, then who can? I'll always be a..."

There was real fear in her eyes as she stared into the distance. "You tell no one about me. You never mention me, hear?"

"I promise."

He followed her to the sideboard this time. She took out a little stick and a tiny bottle of misty green. "One sip as needed to make you look older. Your guise is uhh... Ben ... Higgins. Here's some Knuts money – all I can spare. Walk up Magnolia and hold out this stick. Ask on the bus for The Leaky. Then put this cloak on. You'll be safe enough if you follow what I say and get back this afternoon. Go right through to the backyard and tap the bricks like this..."

She rattled on with instructions till Harry's head spun in confusion. "A grownups bank? In London? Aren't you coming? I've never been on my own in–"

"–Then ask someone else for help. I'll be in enough trouble as it is if this gets out!"

She shooed Harry out of the house, her face showing renewed uncertainty and even horror at her own impulsiveness. The door closed behind him. He was alone on Wisteria Walk, spotlighted by the blinding sunshine and trembling at the prospect of travelling into London by himself.

Never stop asking for help.

Encouraged by the caution in his mind he began to walk.

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Curiosa and Curiosa

The strange old cloak was far too long and the coins were fake or foreign. As Harry uncorked the bottle, he stared miserably up and down Magnolia Crescent to see if anyone was watching. There were no bus stops he already knew. One sip he took, then quite quickly felt both himself and his hand-me-down clothing stretching and swelling upwards! He stumbled in astonishment and took a few steps to adjust to his new proportions as an adult. Bracing himself to keep focusing on the help he'd been given, he held the stick out into the road.

There was a huge whoosh and a screech – a strange bus hurtled to a stop beside him. Harry blinked and got on board. He offered the funny money, recited, "Leaky, please," then he was on his way.

Everything was just as Mrs Figg had described and, once he put on his man-sized cloak, no one took any notice of Harry Potter as he drew gold from a goblin bank – where he discovered his parents had left him a significant fortune. Not one person showed any interest when he bought books from Blotts, and not a glance came his way when he entered a charms shop run by the elderly Rosa Curiosa and her sister Cora.

Rosa had explained, "This green abacus bead is a counter, remember that. We've bewitched it to counter most average spells. It's like the Finite wand spell, only – no shame in being a Squib, sir; we get a lot in here, don't we Cora? Now see this little blue ring? It'll ring a moderate shield round you when turned. The silver wristlet we call a riskless because it twitches when there's danger to be avoided. Just follow the notes, and here's a booklet for all the others and the safety wand."

"Safety?"

"Well, it's–"

"–Polite term for a Squib wand," called Cora from the side counter.

Never Stop asking for help.

"Thanks, but where can I get more help?"

Cora came around to him wearing a quizzical frown. "What sort of help?"

Harry bit his lip. "Dunno. About magical–"

"–Finding lodgings? Legal advice? Education? Raising ch– you have a magical child? You Muggle-raised? Wife Muggle too?"

"Yeah." The lie came out easily, instinctively. After all, Harry had himself to care for, and he was a magical kid, so it was mostly true anyway since he hadn't directly answered all her questions.

"Ah, I see... that's hard for someone like you. Don't let your young un' have an adult wand till they're eleven or the Ministry will cause trouble. The wand we've sold you is limited, but safe and legal."

The short, dumpy women were very tidy-looking but not as pushy or distant as normal shopkeepers usually seemed to the boy, and certainly more open and genuinely friendly than most, especially now Harry was taller than them, and so less intimidated. He wondered if they were twins or simply very close in age and looks.

Rosa smiled. "As for other general advice and help, I suggest you check the classifieds. Get a Daily Prophet at the corner and look through the adverts in the back pages. Should have come to the Alley when you were younger, sir. Takes years to adjust to actually living in the magical community. All them Muggle-borns are so disadvantaged..." She shook her head sympathetically.

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A Place of Asking

The Daily Prophet was the oddest newspaper that Harry had ever seen, with moving pictures and dogeared corners that seemed to crook a finger beckoning you forward to the next page, and the next, and the– so he soon found himself amongst the classified ads. With a crayon he ringed round a paragraph headed Advice Bureau and asked passersby for help in finding it. It was right on a corner, but with the entrance unfairly set in a sad little dirt street off Diagon named Margin Alley. The adjacent couture was derelict, its attempt at pedigree failing to survive where even weeds struggled, so the Bureau's bright paint could never hide its cheap surroundings.

Harry liked that magic shops had little bells inside their entrances which always tinkled cheekily no matter how many times he pushed and pulled the doors. Fuller's Bureau was no different, though the interior was more of an office than a shop, and brighter and cleaner than the stores he'd visited. He stared at the large banner gently swaying like a kite in a sensible breeze over the main counter. The sign read: A Place Of Asking.

"Good morning, sir, how may I help you?" said the middle-aged woman behind the desk. She half rose to greet Harry who thought it was very polite of her seeing as she was a lady.

"I'm new to uumm... and need help with erm..." He struggled to remember Rosa's words. "Squirts? Loggings? Legal vice? Muddled children – lots of them actually."

The lady's eyebrow only twitched slightly. "I see... Mr...?"

"Uumm... Higgins."

"Well, Mr Uumm... Higgins, that's a lot of help you need, " she raised her chin defiantly and clasped her hands together, "so I'll require five hundred Galleons up front as a gesture of credibility."

Harry nodded and began spilling out coins from his pouch onto the–

"–STOP, stop! I see you're solvent," cried the woman. "I just needed to confirm that you're not – please take back your gold, Mr Higgins, and we'll talk business."

Harry frowned. "I know these gold tokens looks funny but they say it's true wizards' money, honest! Don't you want it? I haven't got any proper money 'xcept fifty-pee, and I need that to buy sticky plasters even though–" He clamped his mouth shut tight, remembering his faithful promise to Mrs Figg.

"Don't worry, I'll bill you if we can make a deal. Now, first things first, are you saying you're a Squib who's had to live amongst Muggles?"

"Uumm... I think so."

"You don't know what a Squib is, do you? ... Or a Muggle?" The lady drew a quick breath as if she were about to sigh, but stopped herself, straightened up, and said briskly, "You're exactly the sort of person we love to help!"

Harry beamed. "Thank you Mrs Fuller."

"Call me Mercy." She pulled a form out of nowhere and a quill rushed to poise itself eagerly above the first tickbox on the left at the top. "And your first name, Mr Higgins?"

"Erm... Ben."

Mercy smiled and nodded agreeably enough. "Age?"

"Uuh... sixty-four – no, fifty-four, I meant."

Now an eyebrow really shot up. "You're fifty-four?"

"Yeah, or... thereabouts. I've had so many birthdays I tend to forget." He reached to show her his homemade card... then thought better of it.

"I see. Well then, Mr ErmBen UummHiggins who looks twenty years younger than he says and talks even younger, you clearly need a lot of guidance, and my first piece of advice is you'll need to be absolutely truthful if you want legal 'vice'."

Harry nodded. "Okay."

"So...?"

Harry nodded and smiled, waiting politely.

Mercy Fuller could feel the corners of her lips curling upwards in response. "I'll start then, shall I?" she said, "I've lived for twenty-three years but physically I'm nineteen because that's when I began to continuously use an ageing potion so people would take me more seriously. And Mercy Fuller is only my business name. You, I take it, are using an ageing potion and another name for... a similar reason?"

Harry frowned. "You won't tell anyone?"

"I promise I won't. Confidentiality is... secrecy is very important to good business relationships."

Harry stared at the woman, at the hair greying at the temples, the tiny wrinkles on her face, and the worn elbows on her robe. Even he could see the office was not very grand. Why she might be as hungry as he so often was! And yet she'd been noble enough to refuse his money...

"I think you are a very honest person Mrs... Mercy. So I will share my secret with you. My true name is Harry Potter and" – he raised his shoulders proudly – "I am seven years old."

Mercy Fuller could not speak for a few moments. The Boy Who Lived was actually present before her, not as a great vanquisher of evil, nor a swaggering celebrity, but innocent, confused, clearly ignorant of magical ways, and seeking her help. "Harry... I promise to assist you to the utmost, and in every way I am able. You need only ask."

Harry's eyes lit up and his mind turned over and over with delight. Neverstop – Neverstop – Never stop asking!

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Appreciating the Moment

The remainder of Harry's summer was spent flitting from Privet Drive to Diagon Alley so he could ask endless questions of the obliging Mercy Fuller. She never seemed to tire nor become irritated, and sometimes he stayed overnight in a room she'd provided as lodgings. There were more visits to the bank to set up payments, make enquiries, and establish details of how his money was to be managed and the amounts. She introduced him to the reliable law firm of Dither and Dodge who would advise and represent him in legal matters. But most of all, Mercy Fuller instructed Harry in the ways of magic and the doings of the magical community.

This was a joyful season for Harry, with gloom only settling upon him when he began to contemplate the dreary return to school in September. Never stop asking!

"Mercy, do I really have to go back to school?" he pouted, knowing full well that all kids in the Muggle world were forced to attend.

The woman paused only for a moment before pleasantly surprising him. "No, you don't have to go to school, Harry. Children can receive their elementary education at home. I am qualified in that capacity if you so wish, and I can arrange via the Ministry for the Muggle authorities to accept you are being home taught. I can also explain the change to your aunt."

So it was. By winter, Harry was spending more time with Mercy than at home in Little Whinging. He'd been persuaded to use ageing potion sparingly while he was still growing, so he dutifully countered the potion with his abacus bead while indoors.

"Your safety is important, Harry," she explained. "The Dark Lord still has many followers who would do you harm given the chance. I'm surprised the Ministry permitted you to stay with your Muggle relatives. I did detect some protective magic when I visited your aunt but how strong it might be I do not know. The home concealment magic your parents used is much more secure; even Voldemort could not break in till they were betrayed."

"Why me?" frowned Harry. "I've seen lots of magical children in Diagon Alley he could have tried to kill instead."

Mercy nodded. "Yes, but he must have learnt something about you that worried him."

"What did he learn about me?"

"You're asking me to find out?" she said, reaching for her notebook.

"Yes, please. I'd hate to be killed and not know why, wouldn't you? Those other children are jolly lucky not to–"

Mercy Fuller waited patiently while Harry's brow furrowed in concentration. When he spoke again, he'd changed his view. "No, I'm the one who's lucky to have found out about..." He paused as a further idea came to him. "What happens to Muggle-borns who don't know about magic?"

"They remain ignorant until they are eleven and receive a letter from Hogwarts."

"But that's horrible! And so unfair." Neverstop – neverstop – never stop offering... "Can we help them? Can we?"

"Mmm..." Now it's was Mercy's turn to frown her way through deep thoughts. She placed the point of her Muggle pen upon the next page of her notebook but did not immediately begin to write. "Perhaps..." she said, and that is the word she finally wrote.

Important changes first originate with new occurrences in someone's head. Being so focused on these ideas, Mercy could hardly be expected to appreciate the importance of the moment, so how could a little child?

The honesty of Mercy's spirit was conflicted in that she would directly profit from advising a client. Her nascent plan included improving and extending her own property that she herself could not have afforded.

"Harry, this will need significant investment of–"

"–I don't care!" bristled Harry, as if money should not be regarded as important compared to – "We must never stop offering help to those that need it!"

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The Guardian of the Book

On Harry's behalf, Mercy bought the neighbouring couture. It was a large property, quite tall and with an overgrown roof garden, but near worthless because of its location in Margin Alley. The effort and expenses involved in converting it into a habitable place of learning easily surpassed the low purchase price. The building was merged seamlessly into her current establishment, the faltering advice business became a sideline, and the blank brickwork on Diagon Alley was opened up into a prime entrance above which was wrought:

THE MERCY FULLER JUNIOR ACADEMY
A Place of Asking

The old door in Margin Alley remained the postal address for deliveries and suchlike, but the newer, grander doors would draw in visitors. On the right side of these doors was a long window displaying a cauldron heaped with dry ingredients, a wheelbarrow entwined with writhing creepers, a shelf bulging with study and story books, and much other learning paraphernalia, including a wand, broomstick, and a stuffed owl that changed into a cat if you weren't looking.

Harry wrung his hands with excitement, almost jumping for joy. Mercy frowned tolerantly at the public display of boyish exuberance from the manly figure, and ushered him inside, explaining, "Only this frontage is visible to the public; the main building and its dormitories are magically concealed and you are what is called the Secret Keeper. Only you can reveal it to trusted individuals."

"What if one of them 'trays me? Like my parents were?"

"They cannot betray you, Harry, because only you can reveal the hidden access to another."

"And you can find them? The magical children?"

"I've been working on it..." Mercy sat Harry down beside her on one of the plush armchairs they'd prepared to welcome visitors into the school foyer. He sensed she was about to tell him something important.

"I had boundless energy at Hogwarts, always hungry to discover more. Your parents were four years ahead of me but–"

"–You knew my mum and dad?"

"Harry, everyone knew James and Lily. Your father showed me a secret way in and out of the castle; I think they must have found a map, though I never directly saw it. Anyway, I could now explore Hogsmeade and beyond, as well as Hogwarts itself; there was so much more to know!"

"But the little children, Mercy?"

"They are writ by the Quill of Acceptance in the Book of Admittance at Hogwarts; there's a secret chamber in the castle. Not even the Ministry has access, but a reckless friend of James took me to see it from outside. He'd borrowed a wonderful cloak of invisibility, and we clung on a broomstick together within inches of a narrow turret window. Neither of us was able to squeeze through of course – not even the smallest first-year could have – but the book was a wonderful sight! My companion and I visited on several different days hoping to see the Quill write as a magical baby was born, but to no avail. He reassured me we'd succeed one day, though we never did." Mercy sighed.

Her eyes were so misty-looking that Harry was taken by a powerful sensation that she'd been in love with the rider whose broom she'd shared. Harry knew all about love of course; he'd witnessed it once on the leafy side of the play park in Little Whinging. A couple had been holding hands so delicately, and the fondness in their eyes was so appealing, that their attachment could not be mistaken for anything else. Naturally he'd glimpsed similar scenes on television, and even parents caring tenderly for their offspring, before being shooed out of the room by his aunt, but everyone knew TV was make-believe so he hadn't been sure love could be real till the park incident.

"Some say the book is so ancient that the Founders themselves must have made it," continued Mercy, lost in her dream and oblivious to Harry's expression as he watched her face. She shook herself. "But it's watched over by the dreaded Lord Darkwith's portrait and few would–"

"–No, Mercy! Don't go any further!"

His companion smiled. "No need to fret. Lord Darkwith is dreaded because of reputation and rumour. It's true he'd ruthlessly report to Hogwarts' Headmaster anyone tampering with the Book of Admittance, but his portrait's been lonely up in that tower all these centuries. His vigilance denies him much sleep but provides plenty of boredom. He was therefore open and eager for conversation with anyone who was reverently curious, especially Muggle-borns."

"Those without magical parents? Why?"

"Lord Darkwith was born to Muggle nobility. He it was that petitioned for Muggle-borns to be allowed into Hogwarts. Perhaps it was Darkwith himself that created the Quill of Acceptance. After all, magical parents had declared their children openly until that point, and still do, but it's only the Quill that can detect the birth of all magical children, including those that do not even know it themselves yet. And he aimed to keep it that way by declaring an oath that no child's name be given to darkness, but preserved at Hogwarts solely for their education and nothing else."

Harry's eyes had brightened during Mercy's speech, though his shoulders slumped towards the end, until finally he erupted, "But that's our plan! Education and nothing else! Ask him, Mercy! Are you going to ask him to help us?"

"I already have – three days ago. But I cannot keep sneaking into Hogwarts for daily updates. Nor does even the portrait glimpse anything until the pages turn in the Book which cannot be reached or influenced from the window. I am working on a plan with an acquaintance of mine. However, Darkwith will agree to nothing unless he meets you first."

"Me? Why would a great lord want to see me?"

"It is because You-know-who – Harry, you must understand that the Dark Lord was, and perhaps still is, utterly and only evil – he'd plotted to seize Book and Quill so he might exterminate Muggle-borns at birth. You thwarted that when he tried to kill you and his curse rebounded. Lord Darkwith is grateful for so many innocent lives saved. He wishes to bless with thanks on behalf of those rescued... The Boy Who Lived."

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—oOo—

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Author's Notes

This story came about to push the walk away theme further while remaining at Hogwarts but refusing to accept the injustices of the school, refusing to keep quiet, and refusing to be manipulated. Where did the 'never stop' message come from? I like to think it was Harry's own accidental magic bursting out in an emotional moment to help him.

For those who don't know, 'fifty-pee' means fifty pence or pennies, usually written 50p, and equal to half a British pound sterling which equals 100p.

Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)

- Hippothestrowl

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