Harry peered closely at the owl. It clicked its beak impatiently, and motioned towards the locked cage door with its beak. Harry knew, almost as though it was speaking to him, that it wanted to be let out. Harry was tempted to let it out, but his conscience kept him back. In fact, Harry wasn’t sure whether or it was actually his conscience, or the mysterious voice sinking into his brain.
The thought of some other voice leaking into his brain was enough to make Harry feel sick. Disgusted, Harry left the room. Although he was curious about the strange room, and the owl, Harry felt that something wasn’t right.
“Leave the room. There is nothing special for you here. You will never be able remember your past,” the voice sneered.
Harry could swear that he’d heard the voice before, but he couldn’t quite place it. The words sunk in, and something inside Harry told him that they were true. Harry sighed, and felt his legs take him out of the room.
Nothing interesting happened to Harry Potter for the remainder of the summer. His conscience kept him far away from the locked second bedroom, and his thoughts stayed firmly on the present. His aunt and uncle continued to treat him like a piece of rubbish that had found itself into their household. Dudley treating him even worse. Instead of using him as a punch bag as Harry remembered, he began to make cruel jokes towards Harry and occasionally lock him in his cupboard.
Before Harry knew it, the time had come for him to be back at school. The only problem was that he had no idea where he went to school. By listening to a few vague hints that Uncle Vernon had dropped, Harry could tell that he and Dudley went to different schools.
By the end of the week, Harry had figured out that he went to the newest Public High School in Little Winging, called Kinselton. It would be his first year there, and his relatives refused to tell him where he’d gone before that.
When Harry first walked into Kinselton, he was overwhelmed with the putrid small of old cheese and mustard. None of the kids even smiled at him, they just glared. Harry knew it was probably because nobody wanted to hang out with the weird kid with glasses, who was on Dudley’s bad side.
Harry walked towards the big sign that said MAIN OFFICE. A lady with enormous glasses who was sitting at a huge desk smiled at him when he walked in.
Harry smiled in spite of himself, and then added nervously, “I…I’m new, and I don’t know where my locker or classes or anything is.”
She smiled again, and began typing furiously on her computer until the computer gave a loud bing and some papers began to print on the printer. She picked them up, stapled them together, and handed them to Harry.
“Thanks,” he said, before leaving to find his locker, number seven hundred and thirteen.
It took Harry almost fifteen minutes to find his locker, and when he did, he was disgusted to find that it was covered in a weird gunk that he later identified as chewed gum.
His first class was math. His teacher reminded him of someone, but he wasn’t quite sure who. She had a pinched look on her face, and she looked quite demanding. Her name was Ms. Minerva.
“Welcome to Eleventh Grade Math.” she said, her voice crisp and strict. “Please take out your math books.”
Harry looked around, and saw that his fellow classmates were all taking out large textbooks. He raised his hand tentatively. She raised her eyebrows at him, and nodded.
“I don’t have a math book,” he stuttered, “I’m new.”
She scowled at him as though she thought getting a math book out for him would be a huge problem. He gave her a pleading look. She raised her eyebrows once more, then pulled a book out from the shelf on the wall. Harry took it and opened it up as he’d seen his other classmates do.
Mrs. Minerva began to write out some equations on the chalkboard. Harry watched her write, before realizing that he had no idea how to do any of the equations that she clearly expected them to know.
When she was done, she turned back to them. “Turn to page twenty. Do problems sixteen through fifty-eight. I expect them by the time this class period is over.”
Harry turned to page twenty, and stared at the text. He’d never seen such complicated problems in his life. Harry wanted to raise his hand again, but Mrs. Minerva scared him a little, and he didn’t want to seem dumb compared to the other kids, who were hard at work.
By the end of his first day at Kinselton, he’d acquired extra homework in every single subject because he was years behind everyone else. He’d tried to explain to his teachers that he’d lost most of his memory and he didn’t remember the any of the materials that he was sure that he’d already learned, but they didn’t believe him. Harry didn’t blame them; He wouldn’t believe himself either.
Harry had to walk home from school, because Uncle Vernon felt that he couldn’t spare the time to pick Harry up, and Harry missed the bus because the headmaster wanted to meet with him about his participation in his classes.
“We take our curriculum very seriously at Kinselton. We need you to concentrate completely, Mr. Potter.” The headmaster, Mr. Theodore, had said to Harry before turning back to his computer.
It took Harry a very long time to get to the Dursley’s, mostly because his backpack was crammed with every single textbook he had.
The next day was hardly better. The second he walked into the school, a boy several times bigger than Dudley (which was an impressive feat) tripped him, took his backpack, and stole his lunch money. Harry glared at him, but did nothing because he knew that the boy would probably beat him up if he tried. He watched him strut off, Harry’s money in his hand, while several smaller boys scurried out of the way.
“You have to watch out for him,”
Harry looked up, and saw another boy who was about fifteen years old standing next to him, offering Harry his hand. Harry took it, and the boy helped him up off the ground.
“Thanks,” mumbled Harry, his face red and his feet sore.
“I’m Trevor,” offered the boy. “Trevor McKinnon.”
Trevor looked a lot like someone that Harry remembered. He had flaming red hair, freckles all over his face, and a small scar on his cheek.
“I’m Harry Potter,” said Harry nervously, suddenly realizing how much bigger Trevor was than him, even though he was at least two years younger.
“Are you new or something?” Trevor questioned.
Harry grinned sheepishly. “How did you know?”
“You didn’t know to stay away from Buddy,” Trevor explained, shrugging. “He’s the toughest guy here.”
Harry nodded, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
“So, what school did you go to last year?” asked Trevor.
Harry didn’t know what to say. He searched his brain for the name of a nearby high school, but nothing came to his head. He blurted out the first word that came to his head.
“Dumbledore,” he stuttered.
Harry was surprised. He didn’t even know where that word had come from. Harry felt as though they were something out of a dream, and Harry knew they were probably part of his forgotten past.
Ron tapped his quill on his desk, sending ink flying across the room. He was writing his eighteenth letter to Harry, even though he knew that it probably hopeless. He’d tried everything he could think of (even convincing Hermione to apparate to the Dursley’s house to try to find him). That was hopeless too. When she came back, she told him that the entire house was empty, almost ghostlike, as though it had been deserted for years.
Dear Harry,
WHERE ARE YOU? I know I’ve already written seventeen other letters, but could you please respond? What happened to you? Did you move or something, because Hermione said that your house was empty. Me and Hermione (and the rest of the wizarding world) are really worried. Did you know that you’ve had seven front page stories in the prophet, and nearly twenty aurors are looking for you????