Harry Potter & Remarkability
Today is a bad day. It is also a remarkable one for today, Harry Potter receives a howler. It arrives at breakfast. Harry had rolled his eyes, held up his letter, made one sarcastic comment or another, and opened it. He had expected backlash for his political opinions -- one angry Pureblood parent from the Affair or another -- death threats, slurs both old and new, shaming of aspects of himself he hadn’t even thought shameable. All those things he would at most use to his advantage. I may be radical in action, but have I ever insulted anyone’s mother and called them a “blue blooded whore”? I fight but I don’t aim low, now, do I? He would use them to his advantage despite his anger and he would laugh it off with his friends. The days before he opened the howlers and it was all alright. It was all okay.
But today, today is different. Today is remarkable. Harry opens the letter and he is called slurs, but they’re not wizard. Some prejudices are particularly Muggle and these ones… definitely fit that definition. Tom looks puzzled and Harry looks livid. Neville hugs him close to his chest and though it is a kind gesture, it does nothing to stifle the boundless rage that consumes him.
Petunia Evans and, from the sound of it, her bastard of a husband. This is their response. It is a poor one. It is misguided. Harry opens up his journal -- the howler still shrilling in the background -- and rereads his copy of the letter Blaise had sent to his family and sure enough, there is not one word in there warranting of such disrespect.
The man on the letter calls his blood tainted. Harry, tainted. Does he not see how unfair that is? Harry begs for information about his parentage and all he gets is “they were bad enough to make you bad, too.” It doesn’t work that way. Don’t they know that?
Doesn’t Petunia?
Well.
Of course she doesn’t. Pomfrey had warned him. Had said that Petunia doesn’t take well to magic so why in Merlin’s name would she ever take well to Harry, either?
But…
Harry closes his journal with a frown. But doesn’t that make this whole thing odd? If it is assumed Petunia hates him, then why was she involved in this hate-mail by having her name listed? Why is she not with her husband, spitting slurs? And if she hates magic so much, why can only she indulge it? That’s not much fair, though not entirely implausible. Cognitive dissonance if a fun little thing -- pro-lifers often do that, too. Abortion is bad unless it is my abortion. Then it is understandable.
So is Petunia deluding herself here in order to add insult to injury or, rather, magic to insult?
Harry does not know. He does not know how relevant it is, either.
While they walk to class, the howler still trailing him, Harry asks Blaise if he could do him a favor. Tom jumps in, before Blaise can answer, and asks, “What is it you need, Harry? I’m sure I’m… equally as capable as Blaise.”
Harry shrugs. “Whichever of you two, I need you to send her back a howler.”
“Who?”
Harry inclines his head. “Her. And her husband. Because fuck him, too. And I want it set up every day, at the same time. I want her to hear one of those tones -- you know the kind, Blaise -- where it’s so high pitched, it hurts your head. Yeah. What I have in mind is more of an automated system, so it wouldn’t have to be recorded and cast every morning--”
“Fascinating concept, Harry,” Tom compliments. He is genuinely impressed. “Magical engineering of the likes of this is no small feat. I suppose I must ask why you’re not considering creating such a loop yourself?”
“Already considered and dismissed. Hermione did the practical thinking for me and for it to work well for even over ten days, the caster would need a magical core almost four times as strong as my own.” Harry laughs, running a hand through his hair. “As I’ve been told, magical strength has never been my strongest suit.”
Tom times not to let his irritation show. “So why are you asking Blaise?”
“And whatever do you mean by that, Tom?” Blaise asks. “Don’t you think it’s rather presumptuous--”
“What I do and do not think is not of the question, Blaise, but what the facts--”
“And you think the facts are of your favor? We both know I wield a branch of magic you do not even possess.”
“As do I,” says Tom. “But I’m not stupid enough to reveal it without reason. Unlike you, Blaise, I know when not to show my cards--”
“Holy shit,” snaps Harry, turning around toward them. He blasts the howler with a silencing charm and rubs his forehead. “Enough with the magical dick measuring, okay? Put it back in your pants. I don’t even remember why we were arguing in the first place.”
Tom gives one last glare to Blaise before saying, softly, patiently, “The magical loop of a howler--”
“Holy shit, that’s such a smart idea.”
Blaise winces and Tom lets out a breath, calmly. I will do my research later today. I will fix him. He is not unrepairable. If anyone can prove that, it is me. Reassured, he says, “It is, isn’t it? Which one of us two do you think more fitting for the endeavor, given the skills required?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Blaise, without a doubt.”
Tom flinches back and ignores Blaise’s smug expression -- Look at that, Tom. You do not own him yet -- and asks, far too quickly, “What? Why?”
“Cause,” says Harry simply, “he’ll know exactly when to stop.”
Tom doesn’t get that, either. “Stop? Why would you want to stop? Isn’t this an act of revenge?”
“It is,” Blaise answers for him, and that just pisses Tom off more. “But it’s more, right?”
Harry nods. “Right. Petunia’s an odd one, her motives all mixed up. She isn’t certain why she’s doing this herself, I think. When there is a sliver of insecurity there can be a crack. So we beat her till she breaks.”
“And when she breaks?” asks Tom.
“She’ll figure that one out herself. Now, c’mon. We’ve got Divination.”
Blaise looks uncomfortable. “No, Harry. I’ve got Divination. You’ve got Magical Creatures. I don’t even care what Tom’s got.” Tom is more worried about other matters at the moment that he lets the slight slide. At least for now.
“Oh,” says Harry, looking up at the ladder as Blaise begins climbing it. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. Why didn’t I know that? Why --why’d you let me come all this way?”
Blaise pulls himself into the classroom, saying only, “I was just happy to spend time with you.”
Harry stares after him, small frown on his face. He laughs, though there is little humor in it. “You know, I haven’t gotten my schedule wrong since first year. Next thing you know, I’m gonna lose myself in the infirmary.”
Tom doesn’t reply to that. What is he supposed to say? I have known what is wrong with you for a while now and have kept it from you, sorry, lol? Harry might just be happy to have answers, but Tom’s not willing to risk it. No. The Gringotts visit happens over Christmas break. Harry will just have to wait a little longer.
“I’ll walk you to class. By Hagrid’s--” Tom’s nose wrinkles at the name “--shack, correct?”
“Yeah,” says Harry. “But -- erm -- isn’t your class around here? I don’t want to drag you so far, make you late for class.”
“Oh, please,” says Tom, flashing a winning smile. “Headboy rights. I’ll make something up.”
“Alright,” says Harry. “If you say so.” But Tom knows Harry’s just happy to spend time with him.
The howler follows their path down through the castle. “So, Divination.”
“What about it?”
“Your friends mentioned you liked it.” Actually, Tom had one of his Knights gather every bit of information about him in the public eye, but Harry doesn’t need to know that. “They said it was one of your favorite subjects, even. And yet, you didn’t enroll for it when third year came. Why?”
“Tough question.” Harry chews on his lip, clutching the strap of his book bag. “I was so excited for Divination -- during my years in Hogwarts, before I started classes, I would sit in on her class. But when the time where I could enroll came around, I just… I dunno. I don’t know my thought process, or if I had one -- maybe you should be asking my journal for answers instead of me -- but I just didn’t do it. I just didn’t.”
Tom gets it. He gets it more than Harry does -- that secret that shouldn’t be a secret -- and says, perhaps out of spite for the woman Harry shares his body with, perhaps out of love for Harry himself, “I can get you back into Divination.”
Harry laughs, like the notion is silly, and it would be had it been anyone else Harry was talking to.
“I’m serious,” says Tom. He has a mountain of connections. What worth are they if he puts no use to them? “I can pull a few strings, set some things up, if you’d like?” By this he means ‘blackmail some of the teachers’ but he’ll set that aside in the ever growing box of things Harry doesn’t need to know.
Harry blinks at him, giddy hope clouded by disbelief. “Really? But I thought--”
“Stop thinking. I can make this happen. For you. The only question is; do you want it? There must have been some reason for you to not have enrolled in the first place.”
And, normally, Harry trusts his past self. Details lost are irrelevant -- whatever he had written down, or done, at one point of time or another, that’s what sticks. If he had reason at one time, he has reason now.
But that’s the thing, really. He looks back at the passages about his electives choices and even then, all there is confusion. And disappointment.
So Harry says, softly, and blushing, “Yes. Yeah, thank you. That’d be nice.”
And Tom smiles and Harry knows that if he is not already gone already, he is now.
He joins the rest of his class with a lovesick look on his face and a fluttery feeling in his chest that he will not forget come morning.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Today is a terrible day. The reason for this is simple: the Evans/Dursley howler. But it is also remarkable. Because today, a new record is set. It’s not a good record. For that howler -- the very one Harry Potter listened to until he had the good mind to put a silencing charm on it, the very one that trailed him like a lost puppy afterwards -- lasted for a whooping seven hundred and eighty nine minutes -- that’s thirteen hours and nine minutes.
Not only is that excessive and cruel, but is also the longest howler ever sent. A record achieved by Muggles, it’s no wonder it ends up in the next edition of The Prophet.
(And, okay. It was a slow news day. What of it?)
So, imagine with me, if you will. You first know next to nothing about your long dead parents. Upon reaching out, you are more than disappointed. You are harassed. From basically the time you wake up, to past the time you go to bed. And because their dedication to hate you (you, their nephew, whether your blood is blue or not) is so goddamn impressive, your face is no longer known as the face of a revolution. You’re the loser whose aunt and uncle hate your fucking guts enough to break a magical record held for over five decades.
You are angry.
You are confused and upset but anger, it overtakes all of that. It always does. That’s how you are.
But once your personal grievances are aired and taken care of, your reputation remains. It is stained and torn. Right now you are humiliated. It is not fitting to your plans -- and you’ve got many, all righteous, all bold.
And this -- what you have now, this smear campaign -- it is not bold. It is not righteous. It is a joke and for what you have planned, you’re not joking.
So, imagine. What do you do next?
My guess is simple; you do something big.