Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 08: The Potter Grimoire
The rest of the shopping trip passed in a blur.
After Madam Malkin's, they had visited the apothecary, where a hunched, one-eyed man had sold them a cauldron, a set of glass phials, and a brass scale.
The shop smelled of rotten eggs and dried herbs, and Dudley had held his nose the entire time.
Harry had no idea how to use any of this, so he hoped that his potion's professor was better than the original Snape.
Then, Flourish & Blots, where Harry had purchased all the required textbooks. A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, The Standard Book of Spells Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk, and half a dozen others. They were all staked in a heavy paper bag that had made Vernon grumble about the weight.
They had bought a brass telescope from a shop that sold astronomical instruments, and a set of basic potion ingredients from a vendor who refused to make eye contact.
And finally, they visited the pet shop.
He had to admit that this was the shop he was the most excited to see, just slightly above the wand shop.
In his previous life, he never had a chance to have a pet, since he had spent most of it stuck in a hospital bed. But now he could finally get one, and he was even encouraged to do so by the school rules.
It was typical for a wizard or witch to have a familiar after all.
Harry had walked in, hoping to find a snowy owl. Someone like Hedwig, pristine white, beautiful, and loyal.
But the shop was small and cramped, filled with cages of croaking toads, sleeping cats, and rats gnawing at the bars of their cages.
The shopkeeper, a greasy-haired man with a nervous eye twitch, had shown him a row of owls. Much to his disappointment, none of them looked like Hedwig...
There were brown ones, grey ones, and one particularly enormous eagle owl that glared at him as he had personally offended its ancestors by just existing.
But at the very back, in a cage slightly larger than the other, sat an owl unlike any Harry had ever seen.
Its feathers were dark grey, almost black, with flecks of silver that made them stand out. Its eyes were a deep burning amber, and they followed Harry's every movement with an almost unsettling intelligence.
It did not hoot or flap its wings. It simply sat on its perch, watching.
"That one," the shopkeeper had said, noticing Harry's gaze, "is trouble. Been here for three years and has been returned five times. No one wants him...it bites, hisses, won't take food from strangers. Frankly, I'd pay someone to take him off my hands."
Harry had approached the cage slowly. The owl had tilted its head, and its amber eyes looked at him. Then...he felt something...perhaps a conection forming in between them.
"I'll take him," Harry said with confidence. He was sure that this was the owl for him.
The shopkeeper had looked relieved, Vernon had looked doubtful, and Petunia had looked worried.
But the owl had not bitten Harry when he opened the cage. It had hopped onto his arm without a sound, and when Harry had stroked its chest, it had closed its eyes and leaned into his touch.
"An odd choice," the shopkeeper had muttered. "It's yours now. Name it whatever you like. But I will not accept any return, and don't blame me if it pecks your eyes out."
Now, hours later, Harry lay on his bed in the large bedroom that was now cluttered with his purchases.
The cauldron sat on the desk, next to the stack of textbooks. The telescope leaned against the wardrobe. The glass phials glittered in the lamplight. And on the bedside table, in a simple iron cage, sat the owl.
Harry had not yet given him a name.
The owl had refused to eat the owl treats Harry had bought. It had refused the water he had offered. It simply sat on its perch, looking around with its amber eyes.
"I guess I should give you a name before anything else," Harry said, sitting up and walking up to the cage. He ran his fingers through the metal of the cage as he thought of something to call him. "How about… Hedwig?"
The owl bit him.
Not too hard, it had been more of a sharp nib than a real bite, but it was enough to draw a small bead of blood from Harry's finger.
He yelped and pulled his hand away from the cage, sucking on the wound.
"Okay, not Hedwig," he muttered. "I get it."
The owl blinked. Its amber eyes were gleaming with something that might have been satisfaction for being understood.
Harry needed a moment to think. In the books, Hedwig had been female. This owl was definitely male. The shopkeeper had mentioned it, but Harry had forgotten until now. A male owl would need a male name.
"What about...Jasper." Harry suggested.
The owl turned its head almost completely around, stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. It wasn't a bite, but it wasn't an approval either.
"No?. Mmm..." Harry sighed.
He then remembered an old book he read as a kid. In the story, the protagonist had a black cat, and he had decided to call it...
"Vesper." He muttered. "It means evening star. What do you think?. It's a cool name, right?"
The owl fluffed its feathers and settled deeper onto its perch. That didn't seem like no.
"Vesper it is, then," Harry said. "Welcome to the family, Vesper."
The owl clicked his beak once and then closed his eyes. Harry took that as acceptance.
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The rest of the evening passed quietly.
Petunia called him down for dinner. A simple meal of roast chicken and potatoes.
Dudley asked about the owl, and Harry let him peek into the cage. Vesper did not bite Dudley, which Harry took as a minor miracle.
After dinner, Harry retreated to his bedroom.
He sat on the edge of his bed, letting the many events of the day settle at the back of his mind. A lot had happened today.
The visit to Gringotts, finding an empty vault, getting a loan, the wand shop, the protection fee, meeting the twisted version of Draco Malfoy...
And then, there was also the Potter Grimoire.
The book had vanished into his body the moment he touched it. Even now, he could feel it, pulsating, somewhere in there...waiting to be called.
"No power on earth can take it from you now." Those were the words said by the goblin.
The book was no longer in a physical place, but at the same time, it formed part of his very own being.
Harry took a deep breath, then he closed his eyes and reached for that pulse emanating from the grimoire. He had never done something like this before, but at the same time...he knew exactly what he had to do.
'Come out,' He called for it.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a wave of warmth flooded his chest, spreading down his arms and into his hands.
He opened his eyes and found the grimoire resting on his lap.
"Cool!" He could not help but smile. This was the closest thing to magic that he had done so far.
Harry glanced at the book. It looked the same as it had in the vault. Dark, cracked leather, embossed with the symbol of the cloaked stag.
But now, under the lamplight of his bedroom, Harry could see details he had missed before.
The leather was not black, but a deep purple. The stag symbol was not painted, but it had been burned into the cover. The lines of the cloak and antlers were raised like scars.
The book was heavy. Even heavier than it looked, and it was warm to the touch.
Harry traced his fingers over the stag symbol...the symbol of his house. The leather seemed to shift under his touch, as if it were breathing.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let's see what kind of spells are written in here..." He could not contain his curiosity any longer and tried to open the cover.
Only to find out that he was unable to pull the pages apart.
"What is going on?" he stared at the book in confusion. There were no visible latches, locks, or anything that could keep the tome from opening, and yet, no matter how much force he applied, he could not get it to open up.
"Who are you?" And then...the book spoke.
"Ahh!" Harry screamed and jumped up from his bed, throwing the grimoire from his lap.
It landed on the floor with a heavy thud, the pages still firmly shut.
His heart was pounding, and his hands were shaking.
Vesper, the owl, had opened both amber eyes and was staring at him with what looked like profound annoyance for having disturbed its rest.
"You...you spoke?!" Harry exclaimed while backing towards the door.
"Of course I spoke," the book said again, its voice sounded dry and harsh. "And I would appreciate not being thrown to the floor like a common item. Or yelled at, for that matter. Especially not by a toddler who cannot yet perform the simplest of sorceries."
Harry felt a flash of indignation cut through his fear. "I am not a toddler. I am..." he paused. "I am eleven years old already."
"Five, eleven, eighteen...that is irrelevant. In magical terms, you are a toddler. You have not cast a single spell. You have not held a wand properly. You have not eve-"
"I held a wand today," Harry interrupted the book's speech. "At Ollivander's. It chose me, sparks flew, and everything."
The book was silent for a moment. "A wand chose you...very well, that is something at least. Perhaps you are not entirely hopeless. Now, hurry up and pick me up. I dislike being on the floor. It is not a place for a magical treasure such as myself."
Harry hesitated. Until his curiosity managed to overcome his caution. He bent down and lifted the grimoire.
It was still very heavy, and he could feel that strange pulse emanating from it again.
"Why can you talk?" he asked, sitting back on the bed. "I didn't know books could talk...maybe hats, but not books."
"I am far from a normal book, boy." Its voice carried a hint of ancient pride. "I am the Grimoire of the Potter Family. I have been imbued with magic that traces back to the founder of your house, twenty-five generations ago. He bound his knowledge, his memories, and a fragment of his own being into these pages. Since then, I have been passed from father to son, mother to daughter, for over seven centuries. I have witnessed wars, plagues, and betrayals. I have seen Potters rise to greatness and fall to ruin. So yes, I can talk. And I can do much more than that."
Harry stared at the book in his hands. Twenty-five generations...seven centuries. That sounded like a tremendously long life, even for a book.
"That's...incredible," he said softly.
It is...now," the grimoire's voice sharpened, "I have answered your question. You will answer mine...who are you?. I know you are a Potter. Otherwise, you would not have been able to hold me, or even talk with me."
"I am...Harry Potter. My father was James Potter." He responded.
"Harry Potter...son of James..." The book went silent after that, as if it was trying to remember something. "I see, you are the son of James Potter."
"Did you know Father well?" Harry asked. He thought that perhaps he had found someone whom he could ask for more information about his parents and discover what kind of people they really were.
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