Chapter Text
Individuals aren’t naturally paid-up members of the human race, except biologically. They need to be bounced around by the Brownian motion of society, which is a mechanism by which human beings constantly remind one another that they are… well … human beings.
Terry Prachett – Men At Arms.
Magic in its raw, unbridled form is and remains a terrible and unpredictable force. Wizards have studied Magic for millennia and only managed to wrench mastery over the most insignificant chunk of it. Progress is made, but step by step with the occasional bounds and leaps, as anything more daring is often only rewarded by a swift blast, a puff of smoke and one less inquisitive brain.
It is therefore extremely difficult to understand or predict the effect of a sudden and unexpected blast of wild magic. It is a little like trying to forecast the weather for the next week, but the next week is the next second and the possible outcome is a flood, a hurricane, or the sudden blizzard over the Sahara.
And as children always love to make sure to keep things simple for their parents, it is a well-known fact they are a predilected conduct of raw magic. There is a spontaneity to children, that let them grasp on it and that is lost to boring adults who have a more mature conceptualisation of the idea of ending up as roasted chicken. Still, their loss, right?
Harry Potter was sure of one thing, which all in all was not a lot, but was quite enough for a few seconds filled with relief.
He wasn’t about to be grabbed by Dudley to be put through the second half of the Harry-hunting game. It was quite a scary thing, as the second part of the game depended on his cousin’s mood, and his friend inventiveness. He suspected they had started a competition of thinking especially nasty things to do to Harry in order to entertain Dudley and be -the best friend of the day-, a valued position in the gang.
As Harry’s breath settled from his frantic running, and the panicked haze of relief lifted from his eyes, Harry took in his surrounding, noting the tiles behind his hands and knees, and the fact he was at least one storey up. He blinked, tried to readjust his slightly broken glasses over his nose, and blinked again.
Rain started to splatter as a gust of wind caught him violently.
## # ##
‘What do you mean, he fell from the school’s roof?’
The voice from one or the other girl that worked at the orphanage filtered from under the infirmary door. Tom was casually sitting on the topmost step of the stairs, conveniently within earshot of the infirmary. Skimming through a book while keeping an ear out.
He’d heard the shuffle, last night as Mrs. Cole had been woken up by the local police officer. Not an unusual thing as the night patrol would collect the occasional orphans and bring them in. A mighty thunderstorm had broken with the evening and Tom had been rolling in his bed as sleep eluded him. So, he had paddled to the door of his little bedroom and had peaked out.
The officer was carrying a boy, with Mrs Cole leading the way by candlelight. He was older than Tom would have expected and bleeding from the head. Tom only got to glimpse a turf of unruly black hair and very bright, dazed green eyes before they turned the corner, and the corridor was returned to its black night.
‘Apparently so. Some kids spotted him and ran for the teachers. He has apparently woken up a couple times when he was with officer Smith, but they could not get a coherent statement from the poor child.’ Mrs Cole answered in a worried way.
‘And nobody knows who he is? No name, nothing?’
‘No. The officer has promised to put up notices and send a word to the papers to try and contact his family. Until then we have to make sure he is looked after.’
‘He is such a nice-looking chap,’ the girl, Anna(?), tutted sadly, ‘a little thin though. Perhaps he has been on the run?’
‘I do not know. Look after him, would you?’ Mrs Cole answered, in a conclusive fashion.
Tom closed his book carefully and rose to leave before Mrs Cole caught him being nosy again.
A nameless boy, falling from roofs.
Well, at least it had been an interesting story.
## # ##
The next day a notice was published in the papers, notifying a dark-haired boy with green eyes of about nine had been found, and that any relatives were to inquire at Wool’s orphanage.
Tom had sneered, fully expecting tearful parents to show up to collect their precious little boy.
The hours of the day ticked by, one after the other, and no one showed up.
And neither did they on the morrow, or the following days or weeks.
## # ##
After a couple days, Harry had been told he was fit enough to leave the infirmary. Anna remained concerned the boy seemed to have suffered quite the choc during his fall. He remained confused, and confusing.
He had been quite sure his name was Harry Potter. They had managed to parse out his parents were long dead, but he had been in the care of his aunt and uncle, named Dursley. Things got a little more complicated then as the boy affirmed, they were living in Little Whinging, Surrey -which did not exist- and that he had not the faintest idea how he had ended up in London. Only that he had been running from his cousin, which seemed to be indeed quite the motivation from his description but not quite enough to justify the trip.
Mrs Cole had ended politely nodding, concluded to herself the boy was lying, but agreed with Anna the fall must have rattled his head and that perhaps with time and care he would recollect the proper address.
He had been bunked with a nice, reasonable childe names James Coot, given a pair of old, but well cared for second-hand clothes and shoes. Smoothly, the life in the orphanage had clicked back into its little normal rhythm.
When it had become apparent Harry would be staying, and thanks to the rather awesome tale of his arrival, many of the other child dragged him into their little groups and games.
Harry, after a couple of days, found himself quite happy to be staying at Wool’s. The chores were not so bad, and the other children were not afraid of him because of Dudley.
It was… weird somehow in a fashion he could not place. The clothes, the building. Something nagged from the back of his head. But his memory was quite fuzzy since he had woken up. He could quite remember some precise things, like his relatives, and living with them. But apart from that, everything was very blurry.
His clothes scratched, the material rough against his skin. On the other hand, he felt like they rather fitted, and was happy about this innocuous fact.
## # ##
‘Who is he?’ Harry asked the girl that was currently seating next to him, Susan he thought her name was, pointing toward the carefully combed dark haired boy that was currently crossing the courtyard a little way from them.
He held a stack of books, and was carefully looking, Harry thought, at nobody.
Among all the other kids, Harry couldn’t help but feel rather curious about the bookish, discreet boy he had only come across a few times. He just caught his attention, like a passing lamp in the dark.
Susan peeked to try and see who Harry was inquiring about, before pouting a little.
‘That’s Tom Riddle, Harry. I wouldn’t try to speak to him if I were you,’ she affirmed vehemently.
‘Why so?’ Harry asked, genuinely curious.
‘He is mean, and he doesn’t have any friend.’ She answered very fast, before stopping to ponder her next words. ‘He does weird things. Freaky things.’ She confided like she was trusting Harry with a juicy secret. ‘I even heard Mrs Cole call him the Devil’s child, one night when she was talking with another adult and thinking nobody was listening.’
The girl seemed to puff in pride at being daring enough to wander after hours and hearing such a secret. Harry though, bristled.
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say!’ He accused with a frown.
‘I can’t help it that he is a freak!’ She snapped, vexed. ‘Everyone says so, it’s not just me you know.’
Harry suddenly felts sick to the stomach, not really sure why. The word ‘freak’ tasted sour in his mind, like a slap against his face.
‘Well, perhaps everyone is an idiot then!’ He snapped back, before snapping his book shut and storming off.
## # ##
Harry Potter.
Tom couldn’t quite place what it was about the new boy that both irked him and pushed him to want and clutch him closer. It was odd, and he had never felt that way toward any other member of the orphanage before.
The closest he had felt that way to, was when some kid would come by a new toy, or object that he would want for himself. Coming into their possession was never too difficult.
Thing is, he couldn’t get rid of the itch so easily with the new boy. He couldn’t quite come up to a boy and steal him.
Tom Riddle stopped and took in the sight of Harry Potter storming off from one snotty little girl that had been following him like a lost puppy for the past few days.
A way of possessing someone. Like a toy, to play with.
Was it how people felt? When they got the impulse to… Make friend?