Harry Potter awoke to the sound of pounding on his cupboard door.
“Boy!” Uncle Vernon’s voice resonated through the closed door. “Out of bed this instant! I won’t have you missing the bus to St. Brutus’s.”
“I’m up,” Harry mumbled as he rolled over and covered his head with his pillow. Although he wasn’t sure, he assumed St. Brutus’s must be the name of his school, since tomorrow was the start of term, but he wasn’t concerned with that right now. The dream he had just been having was hovering just at the edge of his consciousness, and he was struggling to hold onto it. Although he remembered nothing of the dream’s details, he was sure it had been a good one. Now, unfortunately, all he could remember was the face of a young girl. Her eyes were closed and she looked extremely pale, but just before Harry had awoken, she had opened her soft brown eyes. He was mesmerized by the memory of it, although he had no idea why. Maybe-
“Now!” Uncle Vernon thundered, flinging the cupboard door open and causing Harry to fall sideways out of bed, all thoughts of his dream now forgotten. After satisfying himself that his nephew was indeed out of bed, Uncle Vernon stormed off in the direction of the kitchen.
Harry fumbled around for a moment before he found his glasses, and then dressed quickly. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed two slices of toast before returning to his cupboard to “pack.” For Harry, packing consisted of throwing his toothbrush, an old pair of Dudley’s carpet slippers, and all of his clothes into a small schoolbag, as he owned little else. Once this task was accomplished and his toast eaten, he headed out the front door with his uncle.
The drive to the bus terminal was quiet and uneventful. As soon as Harry was buckled into the backseat (he was never allowed to ride up front, even on these rare occasions when he was alone in the car with his uncle), Uncle Vernon said, “In case you don’t remember, you’re going to St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.”
After that, neither of them said a word. While he drove, Uncle Vernon glared straight ahead, as if wanting to make sure it was perfectly clear that he wanted nothing so much as to be rid of his nephew. Harry stared unseeing out of the window, wondering what St. Brutus’s would be like and if he would have any friends there. A few times, his thoughts returned to the girl from his dream the previous night, but he didn’t dwell on her for long. She was just a dream after all, and, even if she had been real, he couldn’t have met her at St. Brutus’s - it was, apparently, an institution for boys only.
They arrived at the bus terminal at half past nine, and Harry shouldered his schoolbag and was ushered into a queue of very rough-looking boys who were waiting to board a bus that was being watched over by a pair of armed guards. Harry eyed the other boys nervously as his uncle drove away. Were these really his classmates? Were they really the boys he lived with for nine months out of the year? No one had shown any sign of recognizing him; perhaps he really didn’t have any friends at school.
After only a few more minutes of waiting, the queue began to inch slowly forward. When Harry reached the front, one of the guards took his bag and rifled through it, searching for any evidence of weapons or other contraband. When he found nothing, he thrust the bag unceremoniously back into Harry’s arms and pushed him roughly toward the door of the bus. Harry hurried up the steps, tripping once in his haste, and gazed down the aisle between the seats, hoping against hope that someone would show some sign of recognition, perhaps even wave him over to sit with them. He was disappointed. Hanging his head, he walked slowly to an empty seat and began staring out the window.
After another half hour of waiting, Harry was pulled from his daze by the bus lurching forward. He glanced around to see that the seat next to him was one of only two empty seats.
Am I so terrible that they don’t even want to sit near me? he asked himself.
More likely it’s the opposite, answered a small voice inside his head. I don’t look nearly as tough as the rest of these blokes. They probably think sitting next to me would be a sign of weakness or something. He sighed and leaned his head against the window, allowing himself to drift off to sleep for the long trip to St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.
Harry was back in the cottage by the sea with the Dursleys. He was lying on the floor when the cottage began to change around him. In less than a minute it had twisted and warped until, instead of the welcoming little home he remembered, it had become a filthy, run-down hovel. Suddenly, there was a great pounding noise and the front door came off its hinges, allowing a giant of a man to enter.
The front wheel of the bus hit a pothole in the road, and Harry was jerked awake, wondering why he had been having such a strange dream. The longer he was awake, the more the memory of the dream seemed to fade until, in an attempt to recall what the giant had looked like, he closed his eyes and drifted away once more.
Harry watched as a man he had never seen before slowly removed a turban from his head. When the man turned his back, Harry saw to his horror that a face seemed to be pushing its way out of the back of the man’s skull. This second face was hideous - it looked only marginally human - yet Harry found himself unable to run, or even to look away. The instant the hideous face was uncovered, the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead burned white hot with a pain like nothing he had ever experienced.
Harry awoke on the bus once more, this time covered in cold sweat and clutching his head. Unlike the previous dream, he had no trouble at all recalling this one, no matter how hard he tried to force the memory of it from his mind. Every time he blinked, that hideous second face stared back at him and, even though he knew he must be imagining it, his scar prickled and itched as though the pain he had dreamed about had somehow been real.
Resolving to force himself to remain awake for the remainder of the journey in order to avoid having to see that hideous two-faced man again, Harry settled back into his seat and stared out the window. Mile after mile of identical landscape passed, interrupted only occasionally by seemingly lifeless little villages. Slowly, his eyelids began to droop until they closed completely and he was dreaming once again.
He recognized her in an instant - it was the same girl he had dreamed about the night before, but this time she was older, closer to his own age. Once again, all he could see was her face, but even so, she looked a good deal healthier this time around. She smiled broadly at him, her eyes alight with excitement, and he felt his pulse quicken. Why couldn’t he see more of her? How tall was this girl? He couldn’t even see her hair, for goodness’ sake! Yet somehow it didn’t matter all that much. Even if the girl turned out to be completely bald - which he very much doubted - she would still have those deep brown eyes that were so alive with excitement, and that smile that made him-
Harry swore under his breath as he was once again jarred awake, this time by the bus coming to an abrupt halt. Before he could stop himself, he lurched forward, hitting his head hard against the back of the seat in front of him. Several of the boys around him snickered as he rubbed his head where it had collided with the hard metal of the seat back. The boys at the front of the bus were beginning to disembark, but no one near Harry was moving, so he took the opportunity to look out the window at his new home. The sun was high in the sky, and the glare it provided glinted off of the stone and concrete structure ahead of him. It was no wonder St. Brutus’s appeared to house the worst of the worst; the older wing looked like a prison straight out of the Middle Ages. While the newer wing’s concrete seemed to be relatively solid, the stonework on the older portion of the building was crumbling badly. It would probably never be fixed, though - after all, who cared what kind of conditions this bunch of delinquents had to live in?
Before long, Harry was ushered along to the “dormitory” with the rest of the boys. The dormitory, it turned out, was located in the basement of the old wing of the school, in what had been a dungeon for prisoners centuries before. As he descended the dimly-lit stone staircase, Harry felt a looming sense of foreboding, but there was something else he felt as well. What was it? Something was sitting just on the edge of his consciousness, waiting for him to discover it, but he had absolutely no idea what it was. He glanced up and saw a rusty bracket hanging from the wall, a vestige left over from the days when the prison had been lit by torches. Something about the thought of torches jarred his mind just enough to remind him: he recognized the stone walls and floor. With a thrill of excitement, he waited for his memory to come pouring back. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Nevertheless, he was now certain that he had been here before, for he found he was already accustomed to the worn stone of the walls and floor.
Harry was one of the last to arrive in the dormitory, and so was left without a bed - apparently St. Brutus’s had more “incurably criminal boys” than beds. With a soft sigh, he sank down in an unoccupied corner of the room and leaned against the cold stone wall. He had to shift sideways a little to avoid leaning against a large iron ring that protruded from the stone - no doubt it had once been used to anchor some poor soul’s shackles in order to prevent him from escaping. The boys who had arrived early enough to claim the sparse beds had begun stretching out to rest, and a few were already snoring softly. Harry shivered slightly as he lay down on the cold, slightly damp stone floor, using his schoolbag for a pillow. No sooner had he closed his eyes than he was dreaming again.
He was running. Although he had no idea who or what he was running from, Harry was running as fast as he could, and he was terrified of slowing down and being caught. He flew down stone corridors, past endless flights of stairs, and through several doorways before realizing that he was not alone; two other boys and a girl were speeding along with him. Suddenly, they all skidded to a halt in front of a massive wooden door. They tried opening it, but it was locked. Footsteps began echoing down the corridor behind them; they were about to be caught! The girl pushed her way forward, her bushy hair hiding her face, and whispered the strange word, “Alohomora.” The lock clicked. They pushed the door open and slipped inside.
Harry was awakened by someone kicking his feet. He was really getting tired of being woken up every ten minutes.
“Lunch,” someone called, and sure enough, the room was rapidly emptying of its occupants. Harry left his bag in the corner and followed the others down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs into a large cafeteria in the newer portion of the building. Here, the walls were not made of stone, but of concrete, and they seemed strange and foreign to him. This was odd, he thought, because he had definitely felt that the older stone portion of the building was familiar. Perhaps he usually spent most of his time in the old section.
Harry wandered down the aisle between two of the tables, searching for a familiar face, but finally had to give up and sit down. He happened to sit next to a small boy about his own age that he had seen earlier in the dormitory, and who he had noticed did not have a bed either. The boy had light brown hair and beady black eyes that seemed to constantly dart about as he piled his plate high with an unappetizing-looking slop. Hungry though he was, Harry sincerely hoped that this would not be the typical meal around this place. He scooped a modest amount of pale goo onto his plate before turning to engage the small boy in conversation.
“Hi,” Harry said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster under the circumstances. “My name’s Harry.”
“Tyler,” the small boy responded with a nod as he took a very large bite of slop. “Tyler Stevens. You new here? I’ve never seen you around before.”
“Yeah,” Harry replied without thinking. “Er, I mean sort of. Not really, though.” Tyler looked at him quizzically for a moment before allowing his eyes to begin darting around the room once more. Harry quickly began to explain in a low voice. “What I mean is, no, I’m not new here - this is my sixth year at St. Brutus’s. The thing is, though, I can’t remember any of it.” Tyler raised an eyebrow. “They told me I got hit over the head during a fight at the end of last term,” Harry continued. “I can’t remember any of it, though. The last five years or so are just a blur for me; I can’t remember anything specific since before I started coming here.”
Tyler nodded his head as he chewed, seeming to contemplate this information. “Just between you and me,” he whispered, “you might not want to go spreading that around. There’s all sorts here, if you know what I mean, and if they think you’re vulnerable in any way, they’ll be all over you like buzzards. Me you got nothing to fear from, though - I’m just a pickpocket, and I can tell by looking at you that you’ve got nothing I want.”
“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.
“What’s your thing, anyway?” asked Tyler. Harry only gave him a confused look, so he tried again. “What’re you in here for? What’s your specialty, crime-wise?”
“I- Er- I haven’t got one,” Harry answered. Then, on further reflection, he quickly added, “Or if I do have some sort of specialty, I can’t remember what it is.”
Tyler thought about this for a moment. “I’d keep that quiet too,” he said at last. “The larger blokes-” he nodded toward a table full of rowdy boys who were all nearly as large as Dudley, “-are pretty much all in here for violence of one sort or another, so you may want to steer clear of them, although there are plenty of smaller ones who’d surprise you with how well they fight.”
“Thanks,” Harry said as he struggled to swallow another bite of slop. “I’ll try and remember that.”
“Especially watch out for Big Tom and his gang,” Tyler added, nodding toward a particularly large and mean-looking boy. Big Tom was tall, and extremely wide and muscular, and he wore his sandy blond hair cropped close to his head. Unlike Dudley, however, Tom had an intangible hardness to him that Harry’s cousin had tried, but never quite managed, to capture.
“They’re the toughest ones around,” Tyler continued, his tone indicating a mixture of awe and distaste. “The tall, skinny one with short brown hair is Robert Lyon. He doesn’t say much, but I heard he’s killed two people in knife fights. The only reason he’s not in prison is because they couldn’t find any witnesses and he’s underage.
“Next to him is Leland Nash.” Harry glanced over and saw a boy who was almost as large as Big Tom. His shaved head only added to an already menacing appearance. “He’s usually the first to start a fight - it doesn’t take much to set him off - and he grew up on the streets, so he knows how to handle himself.
“Across from him is Todd Wilkins, the stocky one with the spiky black hair. He’s not quite as big, but he’s a natural fighter. The last one is Lloyd Hodges.” Hodges was about average size, making him the smallest in the gang, and his long black hair fell down into his eyes to give him a lazy sort of appearance. “He comes from a good upper-class family, from what I hear, but his sticky fingers landed him in here. His parents got him kickboxing lessons when he was younger, before they figured out what he was really like. I wouldn’t want to be caught going up against any one of them.”
Still looking at the gang, Harry thought he couldn’t agree more. If he had ever been frightened of Dudley and his little gang, it was only because he had never met anyone like the boys at St. Brutus’s.
“So, where’s your gang?” Harry asked after a moment.
“My gang?” Tyler asked with a laugh. “Haven’t got one. Truth is, all my mates left after last year. Two of them came of age and got to leave, and another got sent away to a youth prison for hitting somebody over the head with a brick. The bloke had it coming, mind, but still.... That’s not much of a defense in court, is it?”
“I guess not,” Harry agreed. “Are you finished?” He had already swallowed as much of the “supper” as he could stomach, and was anxious to get away from the smell of the stuff.
“Yeah,” said Tyler. “Let’s get out of here.”
A moment later, Harry was following Tyler toward the kitchen to drop off their dirty dishes. “So how come you kept picking pockets until they sent you here?” he finally asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.
“Had to eat, didn’t I?” asked Tyler without looking back. “We never had nothin’, even when Mum and Dad were still around. Things just got worse after they died, though, and I had to steal to keep alive. I got pretty good at it, but nobody’s so good they never get caught. Eventually, they hauled me in so many times that the magistrate decided to send me here.” He shrugged. “At least here they give you food, even if it is rubbish.”
Harry followed him out of the cafeteria before saying in a very soft voice, “I’m an orphan too. How old were you when it happened?”
“Eight,” Tyler said without looking at Harry. “You?”
“Just over a year. I don’t even remember them.”
“You grew up in an orphanage, then?” asked Tyler.
“No, with my aunt and uncle, although an orphanage would probably have been more pleasant. They absolutely hate me; keep me locked up in a cupboard like some sort of freak, that sort of rubbish. An orphanage could only be an improvement.”
The rest of the day was spent in various orientation meetings with staff members, most of whom were so large and muscular that they looked like they could pick up Uncle Vernon in one hand and Dudley in the other. The meetings were exceptionally dull, as it seemed that the point of each was to reiterate an interminable list of rules. By the end of the day, all Harry had absorbed was that it seemed they were not allowed to do anything without explicit permission.
That night, as he lay on the stone floor that was to be his bed for the next several months, Harry allowed his thoughts to wander over the day’s events. So far, nothing but the stone walls and floors had triggered any sort of memories at all, and no one had shown any signs of recognizing him. For what seemed to be the millionth time, he tried to force himself to remember something - anything - that had happened in the years he had spent at St. Brutus’s, but the result was still the same: a blur and a headache.
The first real day of classes began with a flurry of activity. A hurried breakfast was followed by a near-sprint to the first class of the day. The instructor was a burly woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. Her light brown hair was beginning to be streaked with gray, but that didn’t make her look any less formidable.
“My name is Madam Davies,” she began. “I will be your Literature instructor this year. As the staff no doubt explained to you yesterday, no fighting of any kind will be permitted in this institution. However, just to be safe, I’ve decided not to use a traditional pointer to call your attention to the blackboard. Instead, I will use this.” She withdrew a long aluminum baseball bat from behind her desk and tapped it loudly against the blackboard. Madam Davies’ unspoken message couldn’t have been clearer: the bat had nothing to do with either the blackboard or America’s pastime.
“Is she serious?” Harry whispered, leaning slightly toward Tyler, who was seated next to him.
Tyler responded with a slight nod of the head. His face was grim, and for the first time since Harry had met him, his eyes were not darting about; they were focused intently on Madam Davies. Noting this behavior, Harry realized that Tyler must consider her to be the biggest threat in the room, and decided he had no choice but to believe his new friend. He would have to be very careful not to get on Madam Davies’ bad side.
The first forty minutes of class went as well as could be expected. Madam Davies lectured on famous English literature, emphasizing the differences in style of several authors, playwrights, and poets, as well as mentioning a few anonymous works. The class remained relatively quiet and, although Todd Wilkins, a member of Big Tom’s gang, did his best to mock the instructor when called upon to answer a question, most of the class was surprisingly respectful. Harry decided that the baseball bat probably had something to do with the level of respect Madam Davies was enjoying.
It wasn’t until class was nearly over that Harry was called upon to answer a question. Madam Davies had told them to open their Literature textbooks to page 247, which was the beginning of a section on the Legends of Camelot. Harry examined the illustration with interest, especially the tall, thin man with long, white hair and beard, who was standing serenely next to a young king. The old man wore a long robe and a pointed hat, both of which were midnight blue and decorated with yellow moons and stars. There was something strangely familiar about the man, and Harry got the odd impression that he knew someone like him in real life.
“Mister Potter,” Madam Davies began, forcing him to abandon his attempt to remember who the old man in the picture reminded him of. She spoke in an even-toned voice that must have taken her years to perfect. “Please give us the name and a short description of the central figure in the Legends of Camelot.”
“Merlin,” Harry responded automatically. That was the old man’s name! More information about him flowed into Harry’s mind, and he continued speaking. “He was one of the most powerful wizards of all time, and he did his best to help wizards and, er, regular people live together in peace. I think he was part of the king’s court at one point too, but I forget.” He had no idea how he had known that answer, but he did. As soon as the question had left Madam Davies’ lips, the words had just poured into his mind. He looked up to give the instructor a satisfied smile, but quickly discovered that she was not smiling back at him.
“Think you’re funny, do you?” she snapped. Her practiced even tones had suddenly been replaced by a harsh, angry voice. Harry’s head swiveled from side to side. Several of his classmates were snickering behind their hands; a few of the more brazen boys were laughing openly. Most of the smaller boys simply stared at him in shocked disbelief, as if he had just said something extremely offensive.
“Er- no, Ma’am,” Harry stammered. “I- I really thought- wasn’t that the right answer?” Madam Davies’ face was slowly turning a pale shade of purple that Harry usually associated with his Uncle Vernon. It was amazing that someone who angered so easily was able to survive working in a place like this. He eyed the baseball bat nervously as she clenched and unclenched her hands around the handle. She was standing directly in front of him now; if she decided to swing, there would be no time to dodge the blow, and she looked strong enough to completely remove his head from the rest of his body if she wanted to.
“Detention, Potter,” Madam Davies hissed at last. “My office, five o’clock. You will not be eating supper tonight.”
Harry stared at her in disbelief, but said nothing - after all, he was in no position to argue. He couldn’t understand it; he had been so sure of the answer to that question that for a moment he had thought it was something he had learned at some point during the years he had forgotten. Now, he wasn’t sure where the information had come from.
As soon as class let out, Tyler pulled Harry aside in the corridor. “What did you think you were doing in there?” he demanded, his beady eyes darting about like those of a rodent in search of predators. “If you don’t know the answer, just say so! Making up rubbish only makes it worse, especially with Davies. You should know that.” Harry gave him a pointed look. “Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot. You don’t remember any of that. But where did that answer come from, Harry? It sounded like you knew the right answer, but you were just trying to get on her nerves or something.”
“But I wasn’t,” Harry insisted. “Honestly, I thought that was the right answer. It just popped into my head, so I figured it was something I had learned last year but forgot when I got hit over the head.”
Tyler shook his head in disbelief. “The main character in Camelot was King Arthur, Harry. Merlin was a wizard, or a fortune teller, or something, but he was just a minor player in the king’s court. Even I know that.”
The conversation ended abruptly as they reached their next classroom and silently took their seats. It was going to be a long day.
Harry reported to his detention with Madam Davies promptly at five o’clock; he had no intention of angering her further. Without a word, she picked up a dented metal pail that was half-filled with soapy water, and motioned for him to follow her. They walked in silence through the stone corridors and into a room with a red cross painted on the door. Harry guessed that it must be the infirmary. Once inside, she set the bucket on the floor and turned to face him.
“For your detention, you will wash the floor of the infirmary,” Madam Davies said in her practiced even tone.
Glancing around, Harry couldn’t help thinking that it didn’t seem like too bad of a job, all things considered. The room stank like vomit, but it wasn’t much larger than Aunt Petunia’s kitchen and dining room, which he had mopped countless times in his life. There was only room for a pair of beds, a large wooden desk with matching chair, and a row of filing cabinets.
“Be sure not to miss anything beside the beds,” Madam Davis added. Her voice remained even, but there was something malicious in her eyes that made Harry nervous. Taking a step further into the room, he could see a pool of dark liquid on the floor in between the two beds. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he knew: it was blood. Two steps further and he could see that the floor between the far bed and the wall was covered in vomit.
That explains the smell, he thought.
Madam Davis turned to leave, but Harry called after her before she could make it out the door.
“Wait! You haven’t left me a mop,” he said, a little more aggressively than he had intended. It was one thing to have to mop the floor; cleaning up someone else’s bodily fluids was an entirely different matter.
Madam Davis turned just far enough to give him a contemptuous glare. “It’s in the pail,” she said coldly, and quickly exited the room before Harry was able to point out that there was, in fact, no mop in the pail of soapy water. He rushed over to the door, intent on chasing her down if necessary, but was stopped abruptly when he found he was unable to turn the knob on the heavy steel door. She had locked him in.
After kicking the door in frustration, which served only to give him a sore toe, he grudgingly turned to the dented pail.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” Harry asked himself aloud. His voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the stone walls. And then he saw it: there was something in the bottom of the pail, nearly hidden by the large suds that floated on top of the water. Instinctively, he reached in and closed his fingers around the thin, red handle. As he caught sight of what he was holding, he let out a frustrated growl. It was a toothbrush.
A/N: I really did have a teacher in high school who kept a baseball bat behind her desk because she claimed to be afraid that a fight would break out in her classroom. She had much less reason to worry than Madam Davies does, of course, but I couldn’t resist using that bit in the story. Oh, and the bat is about the only thing my old teacher and Madam Davies have in common. :)