Harry Potter wasn't one to believe in magic or miracles. He believed in fate. In his opinion, fate controlled everything. He believed that his entire life had been pre-designed by some unknown deity. Sometimes, strange and unexplained things happen to him, but he knew better than to think that it's magic. No, it's all fate. Every moment is part of something much bigger.
And so, when Harry opened his eyes and found himself in an unknown location surrounded by unknown people, he refused to believe that it was magic that brought him there. There was no such thing as magic. He must have been fated to appear at the feet of someone tall and blond.
He was in what seemed to be a classroom, judging by the amount of desks and the many children sitting by them. They were all wearing some sort of uniforms with different coloured ties; some had green, and some had blue. It smelt oddly of rain and parchment. The man directly in front of him stood stiff, which was probably more from shock than good posture.
Not even a few seconds passed before an object that resembled a fancy stick was held to his face. "Who are you and what is your purpose?" The voice came from the man, who Harry assumed was the teacher. It was sharp and sturdy, but wasn't very deep. Harry felt like he should feel intimidated, but he wasn't. It was hard to feel scared when someone was pointing a stick at you.
"Harry. Harry Potter," he answered, deciding to pick himself up off of the ground and dust off his jeans. He looked to the teacher, who was still pointing that absurd stick at him.
"What is your purpose, boy?" The man asked again.
Harry thought for a moment. Before he closed his eyes, he had been back at the orphanage. He remembered they had just ate this disgusting and rather watery soup for dinner. After that, he had gone to his room to read a bit. And after that... nothing.
"I'm really not quite sure, Sir," he answered finally. The class behind him was dead silent, and Harry nearly forgot that they were there.
The teacher stared at him for a few seconds before shifting his gaze to the students. "Class dismissed," he said, and Harry didn't need to look behind to know that they were all leaving in a rush, judging by the squeaking of chair legs against the hard floor.
Soon, the students have left, and they were the only two left in the room.
"You will follow me without a word. If you try anything, I'll have you paralyzed before you can say butterbeer," the teacher threatened, and Harry raised an eyebrow at the word butterbeer. What on earth was that?
He was rather roughly shoved forward, and he reluctantly yet curiously followed the teacher through the many hallways of what seemed to be a school. Students watching the whole ordeal stood gaping at the two adult men rushing through the corridors.
Harry, after not even a minute of walking, realized that he was certainly in a strange place. The staircases moved as if they had mind of their own, and the portraits were somehow alive. This was all incredibly strange, but what drew Harry's attention the most was the teacher walking beside him with long and confident strides.
He looked rather young, most likely around Harry's age, but certainly older than him. His blond hair was short and left to hang over his forehead freely; Harry thought that he ought to slick it back. His eyes were sharp and grey and somehow seemed threatening. The teacher seemed stiff and calculating in general, his eyes flitting all around his surroundings. Harry wondered how long it would take him to realize that Harry was completely harmless and couldn't hurt him even if he tried.
Nonetheless, they soon reached a large statue, and the teacher stopped walking, as did Harry. "Albus," the teacher spoke, and before Harry could ask what he meant, the statue began to spin and stairs soon emerged. "Up you go," the teacher said, his voice still stiff and unyielding, and Harry walked up the stairs. By the creaking, he could tell the teacher was following him.
He soon entered a room with a large amount of odd and unidentified objects. There were a multitude of portraits scattered on the walls, all moving and alive. Amidst it all was an older woman sitting at a desk in the middle, who looked up instantly when the two men entered.
"Who's this, Draco?" She questioned, and Harry glanced at the teacher. The name Draco, as strange and uncommon as it was, fit rather perfectly. At least now he could put a name to the face.
The teacher, who Harry now knew as Draco, shoved him forward, forceful enough to move him but not enough to hurt him. "He claims his name is Harry Potter. When I asked him what his purpose was, he said he didn't know," he spoke, and Harry watched the way his lips formed the words. He had a bit of a British accent, so Harry knew he couldn't be too far from home.
The woman stood up and walked towards Harry. She wore small spectacles and bright green robes which swished behind her as she walked. As soon as she reached Harry, she stuck a hand out.
"A pleasure to meet you, Harry. My name is Minerva McGonagall. I am the Headmistress of this school," she explained. Harry, if anything, felt glad he had met someone who wasn't pointing a stick at his throat.
Harry took her hand, which was rather thin and bony. Draco stood silent beside him.
"Let me ask you, Harry, does the word muggle mean anything to you?" She asked, and Harry stared at her.
"No?" He answered. What kind of a word was muggle, anyway?
The Headmistress, McGonagall, nodded. "Very well. Harry, do you mind waiting outside while me and Mr Malfoy here have a quick chat?"
Awkwardly, Harry left the room and closed the door. However, he leaned up against it, hoping for some sort of explanation.
"Minerva, he appeared at my feet! During class! Tell me, does that not worry you, at least a little?" Harry heard Draco say. His voice was desperate, much unlike his tone from earlier, which was strict and firm.
"Draco, you cannot apparate on Hogwarts grounds, you know that! He seems thoroughly clueless about it all, and I'm sure no Death Eater is that good of an actor." Harry bit his lip. What the hell was a Death Eater? What did apparate mean? Where the hell was he?
"I don't trust this," Draco said, and Harry suppressed a bitter laugh. Me neither, buddy, he wanted to say.
"He seems harmless. Furthermore, that boy is no muggle; he must possess some sort of magic gene, since he appeared at your feet out of nowhere. Please, Draco, give it a bit of time, let us figure this whole thing out."
Harry backed away from the door, his throat suddenly constricting. Magic? Did he hear her correctly? Was this all a joke?
The door opened then, and Harry Potter was met with an annoyed-looking Draco. "Well, come on in, we don't have all day," he said, and Harry couldn't manage a sarcastic reply. He had too many questions. This was so incredibly strange. These people certainly seemed harmless for the most part, other than the stick-to-his-throat incident, but was Harry really safe here?
He walked back into the room, feeling a mix of anxiety and curiosity nipping at him. He raised an eyebrow that the Headmistress, who held no expression on her face.
"You see, Mr Potter," she began, "you are currently inside a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Harry immediately laughed, although he felt his stomach drop. "Yeah, as if!" He giggled forcefully, trying to distract himself from the way his hands were shaking.
The Headmistress, McGonagall, soon brought out the same stick sort of thing that he saw Draco with earlier, and Harry realized that it must have been a wand if these people were telling the truth. McGonagall pointed it at a jar lying on her table, did this weird little movement with it, and said "Wingardium Leviosa!" Immediately, the jar lifted into the air, and Harry felt he suddenly couldn't breathe.
This was the real deal then, wasn't it? Magic was real? There must have been some other explanation!
"Magic certainly is real, boy," McGonagall said, putting her wand back into her pocket. "Now, we have a theory that you must possess some sort of magical gene, since you appeared at Draco's feet. So, until we find out why you're here, we will need someone to teach you about the art of magic."
Harry clenched his teeth. If magic truly was real... well, this ought to be a blast. However, he did have a strange feeling about this all. Maybe not a bad feeling, but his stomach felt strangely queasy...
"Of course, I will always be here if you have any questions, but I'm too busy to teach you every day, of course, as I am the Headmistress..." She looked to Draco, who was standing silently and stiffly beside Harry the whole time. "Draco, do you mind...?"
Draco laughed bitterly, and scowl on his face. "Minerva, surely you don't think I have the patience to teach someone everything about magic?" When the Headmistress didn't answer, Draco groaned. Harry watched the conversation awkwardly. "C'mon, you've got to have someone better! I'm sure Hermione can find someone suitable! I bet even Neville would want to!"
"That's enough, Draco," Minerva cut him off. "Whether you see it or not, I believe you are best suited to be Harry's private tutor. I will find a supply for those days when you will be absent. Now, run along, before this escalates."
Draco glared at her, and Harry flinched from the anger that he radiated. He glanced at Harry, and his expression softened slightly, but his face remained hard. "After you, then," he said, and Harry made his way back down the stairs.
When they were gone, Minerva McGonagall turned to Albus Dumbledore's portrait, which was grinning. "Playing matchmaker, are we, Albus?" She asked him. He only grinned in reply.
She only sighed and sat back down at her desk. This would certainly be interesting.