Chapter 3: 03. Welcome Back, Mr. Potter: A Cold Embrace
The roar of the motorcycle engine wasn't thunder, Harry knew that instantly. It vibrated through every bone as he awoke, his senses assaulted by the reeking smell of damp leather and something vaguely familiar. It was a musty scent, like an old attic filled with forgotten objects – the smell of neglected history.
Panic clawed at his throat, choking out the question that burned on his tongue. He pushed against the worn leather, gasping for air that refused to come. Rain lashed against his face, blurring his vision. Below, an endless vista of swirling clouds stretched out, devoid of any familiar landmark. His heart hammered against his ribs. He'd never been outside the Dursleys' house for more than a few hours at a time, let alone flown through the stormy sky.
"Harry! You're awake!" A booming voice cut through the wind. Hagrid, his giant form dwarfed by the motorcycle, beamed down at him with relief. "I was about to land at St. Mungo's if you hadn't woken up."
"Land?" Harry choked out, his voice barely audible over the wind. He shielded his eyes, searching for any sign of solid ground, anything familiar. The endless sky mocked him. Panic welled up, a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd never truly belonged at the Dursleys, but at least it was familiar, predictable. Now, he was hurtling through the storm on a flying motorbike with a giant he barely knew.
"Blimey, Harry, calm down!" Hagrid rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Hold on tight, I got somethin' for that."
Ignoring the danger, Harry watched as Hagrid fumbled with the handlebars, searching his pockets. The motorcycle tipped downwards, sending a jolt of terror through Harry. He scrambled back, burying himself in the damp leather, bracing for impact. The world tilted, the storm screaming in his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the crash.
But it never came. Instead, the motorcycle leveled out with a lurch, followed by a sigh of relief from Hagrid. Harry, drenched and shaking, opened his eyes to see the giant retrieve a small vial from his pocket.
"Here, Harry, drink this," Hagrid said, offering the vial. "It'll help you feel better."
Harry eyed the vial with suspicion. Why would he accept a strange potion from a giant who was still a stranger himself? As if reading his mind, Hagrid explained.
"It's just a simple Pepper-Up potion," he said, shaking it. "Makes you alert and sharp for a bit."
Harry cautiously took the vial. "Why didn't you drink it yourself?"
Hagrid flashed a toothy grin. "Forgot I had it, to be honest. Been in me pocket for... well, I can't remember."
Harry considered refusing, but then Hagrid's words sunk in. A potion. Real magic. A thrill of anticipation coursed through him. He uncorked the vial and gulped down the potion in one go.
Hagrid, unaware of the potion's potency due to its age, didn't realize his mistake. The potion was designed to ferment over time, increasing its effects. Harry had just ingested a potent dose all at once.
Luckily, his empty stomach saved him from a more explosive reaction. The potion took effect immediately. His senses sharpened, every detail of the storm amplified. The wind whipped through his hair, and the rain felt like needles pricking his skin. Yet, a strange calmness washed over him. Fear melted away, replaced by a newfound determination.
He was flying on a motorcycle. An actual, flying motorcycle. And he wasn't scared. He was going to Hogwarts, a school for magic. This journey, however unpredictable, held the promise of a new beginning, a chance to finally belong.
He gripped the letter in his pocket, a single thought echoing in his mind: "I'm going to learn magic."
A loud bellow broke the silence. "Hold on now, Harry! Coming in for a landing!" Hagrid boomed.
Harry braced himself, his feet wedged firmly inside the bundled coat. The motorcycle bounced with several bumps as it touched down on the deserted street. He barely flinched.
Hagrid dismounted, securing the motorcycle with a series of clicks and button presses. He then turned to Harry, a hint of concern in his eyes.
"Alright, Harry? Follow me," he said, casting a simple cleaning charm that mostly cleared the vomit stains from Harry's shoes and coat. "Stay close, now. Don't want to lose you in the crowd."
Hagrid's cleaning charm shimmered across Harry's clothes, barely leaving a trace of the vomit stain. The dampness, however, remained, clinging like a chill to Harry's skin. He followed Hagrid towards the dimly lit entrance of a pub, the worn wooden sign creaking ominously above them. A faint outline of a leaky cauldron hung above an inscription that read "The Leaky Cauldron."
The air inside was thick with the smell of old ale and something else, something faintly herbal and intriguing. Hagrid waded through the throng of patrons, their faces illuminated by flickering candlelight. Whispers followed them, their words barely audible over the din of boisterous laughter and clinking glasses.
"Well, Hagrid!" boomed a voice from behind the bar. A man with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard and a jovial grin wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron. "What brings you here so early? Fancy a drink already?"
"Not today, Tom," Hagrid replied, his voice booming like distant thunder in the cramped space. "Just bringing young Harry here for his school supplies."
At the mention of Harry's name, the pub fell silent. Every head turned, scrutinizing Harry with a mixture of curiosity and a strange reverence in their eyes. Harry felt exposed, his skin prickling under the weight of their stares.
"Bless my soul," the bartender muttered, his eyes widening in recognition. "Harry... Harry Potter!"
Before Harry could react, a man with greasy blond hair and a sickly smile pushed his way through the crowd. He grabbed Harry's hand with surprising force. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with a disconcerting eagerness. "Welcome back!"
Harry recoiled, his hand throbbing from the man's grip. He found himself surrounded by a flurry of greetings, handshakes, and pats on the back. The potion had heightened his senses, making the commotion feel overwhelming. He couldn't catch any names, their faces blurring into a sea of unfamiliar smiles.
"Ah, Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid boomed, steering Harry through the crowd. "Harry, this is Professor Quirrell, one of your teachers at Hogwarts."
A slender man with nervous eyes and a turban perched precariously on his head extended a trembling hand towards Harry. "P-P-Potter," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I c-can't t-tell you how p-p-pleased I am to m-meet you."
The man's nervous demeanor sent shivers down Harry's spine. He hesitantly shook Professor Quirrell's hand, feeling a damp chill emanating from the man's touch. Just then, a chilling silence descended upon the bar. It was broken by the sizzle of something cooking on an unseen grill, followed by a sound that sent a jolt of terror through Harry.
A scream, unlike anything he had ever heard before, tore through the air. It was raw, primal, and filled with an unimaginable pain that seemed to resonate within Harry's very core. The jovial chatter, the clinking glasses, everything fell silent in the face of this horrifying shriek.
Everyone in the bar turned towards the source of the sound, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and confusion. Harry, frozen in place, followed their gaze to Professor Quirrell, who stood rooted to the spot, his hand clasped tightly with Harry's. Except, it wasn't Professor Quirrell's hand anymore.
It was a blackened, skeletal claw, wisps of smoke curling from its decaying flesh. A look of pure, unadulterated terror contorted Professor Quirrell's face as he screamed, a sound that defied human expression.
Before anyone could react, the skeletal hand crumbled to dust, leaving behind only Professor Quirrell's empty sleeve. His face contorted in a silent scream, then he too turned to ash, dissipating into the air like a wisp of smoke.
A single, spectral wisp resembling a human face lingered for a moment, its eyes burning with an unnatural light. Then, with a sound like a strangled whimper, it too vanished, leaving an unsettling emptiness behind.
The silence stretched on for an eternity before the crowd erupted in a cacophony of screams and gasps. Harry remained frozen, the horrifying image of Professor Quirrell's demise seared into his mind. The potion's effect, fueled by the chaos and terror, had reached its peak. His mind was overwhelmed, struggling to make sense of the nightmarish scene that had unfolded before his very eyes.
As the world around him swirled in confusion, a single thought echoed through Harry's mind: "Magic. This is magic." But the magic he had witnessed wasn't the fantastical world he had expected; it was dark, terrifying, and left him feeling more lost and alone
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