Chapter Text
The occupants of number 4 Privet Drive had a reputation; the reputation they wanted to have was that of normal, rich, and, above all, better than everyone else around them. The Joneses next door were these two women who she kept referring to as sisters, and they appeared to constantly be annoyed by that, while all the neighbours saw the Dursleys as the extremely weird, obsessively clean, and put-together family with a loud, obnoxious child. They did have two children, and no one really knew much about their nephew.
Harry Potter lay in the garden; he was very small and skinny, and while the kind neighbour Arabella Figg, with all the cats, kept him fed when she could, he was too shy and scared to really do anything against his larger bully of a cousin, Dudley. Every time Dudley had gotten into trouble for fighting, they had rewarded him with ice cream if he won. Things were at that pace until Harry’s sixth birthday.
On that day, when his mind could handle them—or perhaps a magical force outside of himself—he gained or regained memories. He had always had a connection with snakes; he talked to snakes before he could talk to humans, so these memories of an old time, centuries old and full of magic, felt true. As he lay in the bushes watching the clouds float by, thinking, he could sense his snake. Many snakes tried to talk to him, but his one stuck around.
“Hello, dear,” he said.
“Why are you out here? It’s freezing,” the snake replied.
“I was thinking.” He had, in fact, been trying to think; the memories would have been dismissed as fantasy if he was on his own: a castle, magic, friends, being an old man, his wife and child growing up, watching the students, being a teacher—it was all there, and yet he was here, and he was a child.
“I was wondering how to get to Hogwarts. The non-magical folk here are useless. The ones I am living with are dangerous,” he said, and took a deep breath, hands under his head.
“Why don’t you leave?” the snake suggested.
Harry simply laughed “It’s too different, and I’m six. My magic isn’t powerful, plus I might be insane I am talking to a snake.” The snake in question didn’t have an answer to that, it was really hard to prove your own existance and the snake didn’t really want to do that it was too early to bother so it just slithered away.
By the time winter had arrived that year Vernon and Petunia found out that much to their horror the small boy was no longer afraid, the babysitting duties had always fallen to Mrs Figg who was the only one not scared by all the snakes, she waved from the garden the snakes weren’t there they never seemed to bother her at all. She was nice; and taught Harry a lot about cats they were probably his second favourite animal.
“Hello, Harry, what would you like to do today?” she asked cheerfully. Too cheerfully, Harry noticed. He noticed little things about people, but sometimes it was obvious.
“Do you have candles?” Harry asked, and the old woman thought about it.
“We can find some.” She led him inside, being used to odd requests, and so long as they weren’t dangerous, she granted them, if nothing else just to see what he would do.
They went to the stairs; she was going to check the cupboard under the stairs, but when she looked, the cupboard wasn’t there; in fact, neither was a door nor anything else. The only thing that was there was a small carving of what looked like a compass with interlocking lines, sharp angles, and branching hooks radiating from a central, rigid axis.
“Harry, was there a—” As she asked about the cupboard under the stairs, the rune glowed and she forgot what she was looking at but remembered the candles.
Arabella Figg had to keep an eye on Harry; she was his babysitter, which was fair enough, and he seemed normal, aside from the snake thing, up until his birthday. But ever since then, she had a thing for plausible deniability, though there were a few things that were obvious and hard to justify. Albus Dumbledore was curious about the snakes, but he probably didn’t need to know about meditation so long as nothing actually magic happened.
“Spirit, Air, Fire, Water, Earth,” he said as he lit each candle. He then sat in the middle of the pentagram which, according to her mother, was not satanic but was about magical energy and convergence; how Harry knew that fell under that plausible deniability she was relying on.
As the small boy sat, closing his eyes and breathing, the flames grew and shrank in rhythm with his breaths. He began chanting in a language she didn’t recognise.
"Geþeod me þæm galdre, geþeod minne gast, geþeod minne cræft, gedo me hal. Wisdom forloren, wisdom funden, geþeod minne cræft, geþeod minne gast."
Connect me to magic, connect my soul, connect my magic, make me whole. Knowledge lost, knowledge found, connect my magic, connect my soul.
The fire rose and surrounded him; five fiery serpents entangled him as he gained visions, knowledge, memories. Fully formed, his magic still weak but his mind strong, when he opened his eyes he knew, for the first time in six years, who he was—that Harry Potter was simply what people called him. That now, for the first time, he knew that he was no mere child but was, in fact, Salazar Slytherin, healer, teacher, king of serpents, Salazar Slytherin. When he opened his eyes, everything looked the same but felt different. He felt different; he was different, not only from the non-mages but also from the mages. A cold wind blew from the boy, and the candles went out as he smiled.
“Harry? Harry, are you okay?”
He looked at Arabella and nodded. “Arabella, if Hogwarts still stands connect me with the head of it.”
Mrs Figg was completely and utterly bewildered, but she agreed and did as she was asked. Whatever was going on, she knew it was well above her pay grade. If this meant her retirement plan was over, then at least it ended on an interesting night.
Harry lay on his bed late at night. He thought about everything: the years of magic he remembered, the dreams of Hogwarts, the castle, and his friends. He felt a deep sense of contentment in the knowledge that it was real and he would see it again. Soon so very very soon he would be old enough and return to his home his castle.
Dear Albus,
I have no idea what to make of Harry. His aunt and uncle treat him well enough, even though they clearly try to avoid him. He is quiet, contemplative, and above all, mature, too mature. I hoped you were wrong, and now I believe you are.
He Who Must Not Be Named wouldn’t have allowed himself to be part of this, but I do believe that Harry has a connection to ancient magic somehow, and to memories. He spoke in a language I didn’t recognise, but it was ancient; I know that much. Whatever is happening with Harry, I do not believe he is a bad person, but if he possesses power unknown, then I believe I have seen it.
Send someone to watch him, someone who knows more of magic than I, someone whom you believe can understand what is happening.
Arabella Figg