Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to the Harry Potter verse. This story has been created simply for my own amusement and there has been no monetary gain made from the production of this story.

Author's Note: A big thanks to notyourparade for editing this. You're awesome.

Chapter One

The Problem With Coming Of Age

Dear Harry,

I can understand your concern, however, I can assure you that this is nothing to worry about. It is quite natural for a young Witch or Wizard, such as yourself, to experience some physical changes during the weeks prior to their seventeenth birthday. The dormant magic within you will slowly become active over this period until your full magical potential becomes apparent. I am sure that Miss Granger has already sent ahead reading material on this subject. It could be quite beneficial if you read through it carefully.

On another note, Molly and Arthur Weasley have requested that you spend the last four weeks of the summer under their care. I see no reason to deny them this request and, therefore, a member of the Order will be arriving on the 1st of August to escort you to the Burrow.

Enjoy the remainder of your summer and Happy Birthday!

Sincerely,

Professor Dumbledore

Harry growled in frustration, the letter crumpling in his hand. That was it? These things happen? Scowling, he tossed the small ball of wadded up parchment in the general direction of his wastebasket, not bothering to check whether it had hit its target. Enjoy the remainder of your summer? How am I supposed to enjoy myself when I'm the only one who seems to care that there is something seriously wrong with me?

He'd gone page by page through both books Hermione had sent and he'd found absolutely nothing. The entire task was like trying to read a newspaper in a rainstorm: completely pointless. Sinking onto his unmade bed, Harry sighed, more than a little bit of frustration slipping into the sound. He simply couldn't figure out how everything had gone so horribly wrong in such a short period of time. The summer had started out just as every previous summer had. The Dursleys -in their newest company car - had arrived at King's Cross Station looking as displeased to see him as he was about returning to Privet Drive. Having returned home Harry had since been spending the majority of his time making no noise and pretending that he didn't exist. That was, after all, the way Vernon preferred it. Same old, same old? Not Exactly. The trip to Privet Drive had been the end of what, for Harry, was a familiar sequence. Since his arrival in Little Whinning, strange things had been happening; things no one had an explanation for. Naturally, this only made his Aunt and Uncle glower at him all the more and, unfortunately, it was getting worse as his seventeenth birthday drew closer.

In a final, albeit futile, attempt to find answers; Harry grabbed the book closest to him. Almost frantically, he flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the words in the hope of finding something he had missed. Perhaps this was some sort of vague Wizarding right of passage? Did Wizards do that sort of thing? That simple question was enough to make Harry realize, if nothing else, he actually knew very little about the world he was now a part of. Harry sighed at that. If he ever found the answers he was looking for, he swore he'd spend all of his free time with Hermione in the library in order to make up for his severe lack of knowledge. For all he knew, this was some twisted plot concocted by Voldemort, himself, to drive Harry absolutely batty. If that was the case, Harry had to hand it to him. It was working splendidly.

During the weeks before a Witch or Wizard comes of age they may notice slight changes in their hearing, sight, and balance. These are normal reactions to the inherent magical levels shifting and increasing within the body. The length of this process varies from individual to individual, ranging anywhere from a fortnight to eight weeks.

The problem with Harry's experience, however, lay in a single term: slight. Over the past week Harry had experienced the change in height, hearing, sight, and he'd even felt a change in how he carried his weight. For someone who had never been extremely tall or had never been able to see without glasses, these changes might have seemed like a blessing. The problem for Harry was the level at which these changes had occurred. In no way, shape, or form could Harry's developments be considered slight. He had grown over six inches in the last few days alone, his hair – while being ridiculously shiny and strong – was now down to the middle of his back, he could hear what was being said three blocks over, and, worst of all, he could count Dudley's nose hairs from the opposite end of a Quidditch pitch. By no stretch of the imagination were these changes normal. Having spent several years in the Wizarding world and seen a wide variety of magical events, he'd like to think that he had a greater imagination than most.

Slamming the book closed once more, he tossed it to the floor, the corresponding bang instantly assaulted his now delicate hearing. The saving grace to Harry's current predicament was the small fact that it didn't seem overly difficult to control his new, extended, senses. He had been able to gain some control over how much he heard or how far he saw, which certainly helped. Unfortunately, while he could control the level at which he heard, he simply couldn't control the level at which Vernon shouted.

"BOY!"

As the loud and grating voice of his Uncle bounded up the stairs, Harry's hands slammed protectively over his ears. Something needed to be done about the situation, preferably before he started to bleed from his ears. He could only hope that once midnight hit everything would return to a relatively normal state. All the books had stated that the changes stopped as the individual in question came of age. It was all he could do not to count the seconds.

Having climbed down the short flight of stairs with some trepidation, Harry located his Uncle reclining in the sitting room. Vernon's rather large backside was squeezed into one of Petunia's delicate looking chairs, the telly was turned on, and a bowl of popcorn sat on the stand beside the chair. "You called?"

Round, beady eyes turned from the telly to focus on Harry, the disapproval and contempt quite evident in their shallow depths. If there was one thing Vernon Dursley despised, it was anything that didn't fit into his definition of "normal." Unfortunately, for Harry, his new hairstyle – among other things – certainly wasn't on the list of things a normal individual would condone. Of course, there wasn't a thing either of his guardians could do to rectify the situation. The Dursleys' had been trying for years to rid Harry of Magic only to be chased by Owls, terrorized by a half-giant, and confronted in public by a group of 'sketchy' looking individuals. In regards to Harry's hair alone, Petunia had ruined three pairs of good scissor and some garden shears in an attempt to return it to an acceptable length. It was now another character flaw that the Dursleys could add to Harry's growing list of abnormalities.

"As you are well aware, Petunia is hosting a dinner party this evening for a few of the ladies in the neighbourhood. While we have guests, you will be staying in your room. I don't want any sort of funny business out of you. If I hear one sound out of that room, you'll wish you'd never heard the name Vernon Dursley. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry only nodded in response, the rather irritating sound of his Uncles voice burrowing into his ears. It took all of Harry's will not to mention the small fact that he'd reached that particular point in his life several years ago. The threat itself probably would have carried much more weight before Harry had known of his magical heritage. The Dursleys, while being quite aware that Harry would never use magic against them, were not so sure about the others like him.

"Good," Vernon responded, a slow smirk stretching across his face, causing several of his chins to jiggle. It was a look Harry had hoped to never again see on his Uncle's face. It was a look that meant Harry was about to get some information that he wasn't particularly going to like. "It's about time you made yourself useful, boy!"

Fighting the urge to shrink back was almost impossible as Harry watched Vernon push himself out of the chair, the material stretching while the wood frame groaned in protest. He was honestly curious as to how the piece of furniture was still standing. Surely there must be some form of magical reinforcement holding it together.

Vernon's meaty hand plunged into the pocket of his trousers and Harry was almost afraid of what the older man would produce. After a moment of digging around, Vernon's hand reappeared with a scrap of paper and a ten-pound note. "Bastien's store. You're to pick up these items and have them back here before it gets dark. We're not going to wait all bloody night for them."

Harry blinked and slowly turned to face his Uncle once more, his eyes bouncing between the list and Vernon's swollen face. He couldn't possibly have heard right. "Excuse me?" he gaped, "I must have heard you wrong."

"You heard me right!" was the snapped reply. Vernon sneered up into Harry's face, his breath smelling of soured milk, causing Harry's stomach to flip violently. "I want you back before it's dark!"

"Bastien's store is miles away," Harry responded, glancing quickly out the front window to assess the level of light that was left in the day. "I'll never make it there and back before it gets dark. If you need it so badly why can't you just drive over and-"

"ARE YOU QUESTIONING ME?"

Vernon's voice pounded against Harry's unprotected eardrums, causing him to shrink back against the pain that jolted through his skull. "No, sir," he responded, holding his hand out for the list and money. Silently, of course, Harry was raging. Years of this behaviour had led to Harry's rather decent ability to prevent his true emotions from coming to the surface, at least where Vernon was concerned. Ron and Hermione might be able to read him, but Vernon merely thought he was intimidated into obedience.

"You had best get a move on, boy," was the final sneered comment to come from his Uncle before the mass of flesh squeezed himself back into his favourite chair, a large meaty hand reaching out for the bowl of over-buttered popcorn.

Keeping his mouth firmly shut, Harry moved to the front door and slipped easily into his shoes. He would have given anything to be able to turn around, march straight back into the sitting room, and hex his sad excuse for an Uncle until he couldn't see straight. As he moved out the door, he did, however, allow himself a small victory by slamming the door shut behind him rather forcefully. The resulting bang was just the noise needed to grab the attention of every individual that occupied the street. Even the ringing in his own ears couldn't dim the small satisfaction he received hearing his Uncle curse him from inside the house.

Sticking to the side of the street that offered the shade of a large row of Sycamores, Harry set off in the general direction of Bastien's store, knowing full well that he was never going to make it before the store closed. Little Whinning was not as 'little' as the name suggested. He continued to walk for several blocks, still silently fuming. He continued on like this until a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks.

The Bastien's store was a men's shop.

As the suspicious feeling started to grow, wriggling in the back of his mind. Harry pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and scanned the items listed. He nearly groaned aloud when he realized what he'd been sent to retrieve.

Mens Aftershave?

Purple neckties.

Nothing on the list was for Petunia. Every item listed would belong to Vernon and/or Dudley. Harry did have a certain sense of family loyalty. Had the items actually been for Petunia, he would have carried out his task. She was family, despite everything. As far as Harry was concerned, Vernon and Dudley were insignificant dots in a very long line of insignificant dots. The Evans bloodline could have continued to include Dudley in this sense of family, but the boy's resemblance to his father put Harry completely off the idea. Instead, he rather liked lumping them together into one massive blob.

An irritated grumble escaped Harry's mouth as he crumpled the list, depositing it in the closest trash bin. There wasn't a point in attempting to complete the errand. The sun was already sinking behind the trees and in a few short hours he would be of age and, therefore, wouldn't have to worry about Vernon's ridiculous demands. He'd be able to leave without permission and control his own life. Vernon could try to reprimand Harry for not doing as he was told, but he had a rather amusing tendency to turn into a stuttering windbag whenever Harry's wand was in sight. That thought alone always improved Harry's mood.

With each step he took, Harry's mind drifted further and further from Little Whinning and his terrible relatives. His thoughts focused instead on the following day, wondering about what other surprises that could be in store for him. Aside from the strange physical changes, there were other traditions within the Wizarding world that had piqued his interest. The books Hermione had sent had been frustratingly informative in the area of material inheritances. With Sirius gone, Harry knew that he would be receiving his Godfather's property and the accounts connected to it, but what really drew his interest was the prospect of an inheritance from the Potter line. Most of the Pureblood families had an ancestral home. Even the Weasleys, further back in the line, had owned one. He had always assumed that the residence at Godric's Hollow had been his parents' only property, but he was starting to question his assumption. James had been from a pureblood family. Was there more to his Father's history than he had realized? If the Potters did, in fact, own a family home, he wondered if it might be safe enough to reside in, or, more importantly, if it held some piece of his Father that Harry had yet to discover.

Lost in his own thoughts, Harry didn't realize how much time had passed or how far he had strayed into Little Whinning. He continued to walk and ponder his future without noticing the gradual increase in noise. Finally, as he stepped off the edge of the sidewalk, the blaring of a car horn as it rushed past him brought him sharply out of his daydream. He had walked straight into one of the busiest sections of the community. Engines revved, horns honked, and the general buzz of conversation assaulted his hearing with a far greater effect than even the most insistent of Vernon's shouting.

Clamping his hands over his ears, Harry retreated quickly, his eyes searching for a place to escape the brash noises. As he rounded the nearest corner, he found himself at the gates of the Memorial park. There were no swing sets or sandboxes to attract children and their parents, which meant that most of the individuals who visited this park did so simply to enjoy the quiet scenery. Most significantly, there would be a distinct lack of man-made noise.

Harry sighed in frustration as the noise of the busy streets could still be heard from inside the park. What he needed was to get further away from the houses and streets. He needed to surround himself in nothing but the light sounds of nature that only the small section of wooded area at the back of the park could offer. The sun had already slipped behind the trees, casting long shadows around him. With his desperate wish for silence, Harry really couldn't be bothered with the approaching darkness.

As he inched closer to the trees, the sounds began to slowly fade, little by little. Rather than the blaring of car horns, he could hear the quick beat of a bird's wing and the quiet rustle of a squirrel's tail as it brushed a leaf. Harry's hands fell from his ears as the thrumming of the woods encircled him. He'd never before been this far into the park and, yet, strangely enough, he was enveloped by the oddest sense of welcome. As his fingers brushed the rough bark of a nearby elm tree the feeling changed into something else entirely. This was something completely new and overwhelming. This felt like home.

Harry relished the feeling. This was something more than what Hogwarts or even the Burrow could offer. He moved forward instantly, further into the trees, while stepping easily around roots and brush as though he'd walked that very path before. As he continued forward, Harry's surroundings began to shift, his peace of mind following suite as confusion washed over him. The soft hum of life had vanished, only to be replaced by an odd silence and quick, almost imperceptible movements of light. The sun was long past setting and yet, despite the diminished light, Harry could still see every knot in a tree that stood a good fifteen feet in front of him.

To his left, Harry caught another glimpse of bright movement. Someone or something was there with him. The sights and sounds he was seeing only further convinced him of this fact. With each flash of light there was a corresponding sound of laughter: the laughter of children.

"Wait!" he called, hoping to have whoever was out there reveal itself. His voice echoed among the trees as the footsteps shifted, sounding directly behind him, followed immediately by another set to his left. Each time the footfalls sounded, the pitch of laughter increased until it had become nothing but painful shrieks accompanied by blinding flashes of light.

The overwhelming environment assaulted Harry's delicate senses, bringing him to his knees as he was overcome with pain, his stomach flipping in response. Harry's hands moved in a vain attempt to protect his ears from the piercing sound, with a desperate cry of "Stop!" He had no defences for this sort of pain. It attacked his every sense. All he could do was wait, his lips moving in a plea for silent darkness.

Unknown to Harry, two sets of eyes peered out from the safety of the trees, each watching him with curiosity. Neither one moved in an attempt to help or protect him from the pain he was wracked with. Instead, they waited. For what, only they knew.

"Is this the boy we've been searching for?"

"His identity doesn't matter. He is one of us and, as the law decrees, we must take him back regardless."

"Pity. He doesn't look like he'll amount to much."

"If I recall correctly, neither did you when you were his age."

"What are you waiting for then?"

A heavy curtain of annoyance hung in the air for several moments after the comment was muttered, before two pairs of feet touched the soft earth with barely a sound. Not even the leaves rustled in their wake. Little Whinning had, over the years, seen it's fair share of Witches and Wizards, but this was something else entirely. With a delicate wave of a hand, a simple barrier surrounded Harry, offering him a small reprieve from the assault on his senses. As the pain dulled, Harry's eyes cracked open to peer blearily up at his rescuers. His eyes blurred further as they attempted to adjust to the change in light, but, even as he was he could see wealth and elegance in their stance. Their clothing was like nothing Harry had ever seen. The long, flowing material that had been combined with, what appeared to be, smooth dragonhide, held a distinct, if not exotic, sense of taste.

His gaze moved from the rather expensive looking boots to the deep shades of their cloaks, and further upward, eventually finding the eyes of each individual. The colours were startling, like two sets of glowing beacons in the darkness that surrounded them. Harry couldn't look away, and yet, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't read them either. A solid wall, acting as the doors to a fortress that protected their innermost thoughts.

"Who are you?" he whispered, the sound harsh and gravely.

"We are like you," the voice was smooth, holding the slightest trace of humour, "or, as I should say, you are like us."

Harry couldn't begin to explain what was going on and a sharp stab of pain through his skull was his instant reward for his attempts. After the previous onslaught, his mental capacity and physical strength were rather lacking, leaving his mind foggy and his movements sluggish. "What's happening to me?

As a pale hand was raised toward him, Harry's immediate reaction was to pull away. The attempted retreat, however, lasted but a fraction of a second before Harry found himself pinned in place by the strong, piercing gaze of blue eyes. Slowly, the hand moved toward once more until the tip of a finger rested against the feverish skin of his forehead.

"Everything will be explained in due time. Sleep long and well."

Harry could feel the darkness of his unconscious creep up around him as he stared deeply into those unfamiliar eyes and, strangely enough, he wasn't frightened. As odd as it was to contemplate, the darkness held within it a welcome like that of the morning sun and Harry felt it embrace him completely. As he allowed the dark tendrils of his unconscious to wrap securely around him, Harry Potter knew no more.

to be continued