They crowded around Harry, jostling him and each other so they could get close to him.
"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."
Many began to shake his hand, grabbing and jerking said appendage in their own grip, not even taking into consideration the fact that he might not want to.
"Always wanted to shake your hand—I'm all a flutter."
Those who could not shake his hand grabbed his clothes. Their hands clawed at him, clutching his shirt, his pants, his hair; greedy, grubby hands from people he didn't know touching him everywhere.
They were all talking to him as well. Harry could not even get a word in edge wise, though not for lack of trying. He did try to speak, many a time he opened his mouth, only to close it as the cloying scent of so many bodies filled him. The smell of alcohol on those who had consumed too much. The terrible, rancid stench of smoke from the witch that had been puffing on the pipe. The noxious fumes of sweat, combined with the scents of so many different people. It was impossible for Harry to speak when each time he sucked in a breath, the disgusting scent of a dozen bodies pervaded his nostrils.
Even if he could speak it wouldn't have mattered. The many people around him weren't even paying attention to him. So caught up in their own excitement were they that they hardly noticed the boy they clawed at so brazenly. Their voices were raised, each one trying to be heard over the others. It only caused the volume in the room to increase exponentially. Even if Harry was capable of speech right now, he would not have been heard.
Harry felt panic rise up inside of him. There were few things in this world that he truly feared, at least that he knew of. Of those things the one he feared the most was the unpredictable. The things he could never see coming no matter how hard he looked, no matter how much he knowledge he acquired, no matter how many memories he accumulated. To see so much yet never notice when something is coming, never even think about it happening, or how it could happen. It was a terrifying thing for Harry.
There were several facets of Harry that he took great pride in. The first was his intelligence. Harry Potter was smart, he knew that, his peers knew that, and his teachers knew that. He was the top student in his class, and though none of his teachers knew this, he was far ahead of every subject they taught. He was almost sure that he could graduate from Secondary school with top marks with how much he knew right now—though that could just be pride speaking.
The second aspect he took great pride in was his skill martial arts. Harry was the best student under his master's tutelage. While there were those who were better than him, none of them learned as quickly as he did. Each day he became just a little better, each day he was one step closer to matching the black belts of his class. While Master Wei may insult him about his form, he knew it was just the old man's way of saying he still had a long way to go, and ensuring that he did not get a big head.
Thirdly, Harry took great pride in his appearance. Harry had a body that no eleven year old boy should possess. His body was defined by hard, sinuous muscles. Like a whipcord, taut, strong and meant to be used. His muscles were the kind that only came from constant use and training, not the bulky and outlandish ones people gained from going to the gym.
Of the aspects he prided himself on, the fourth was a recent addition, gained only within the last two years. Harry prided himself on his reputation. As a student, Harry was looked up to by everyone, both for his vast intelligence and his helpful demeanor. He enjoyed the respect and admiration his fellow students had for his accomplishments, and how he was always willing to lend a helping hand, even if he did not particularly like any of the people he called peers.
Out of all the aspects he prided himself on, it was the fifth that he took the most pride in. Thanks to his perfect memory, Harry's talent in observation went far beyond those of anyone else's. It only took him a single glance at something to pick up every single detail of whatever he was looking at. Due to this, and the many subjects he studied, Harry's ability to predict the way people would react to stimuli both outside and inside was unprecedented. He only need a few minutes speaking with someone to have most of their personality down to a T. After that it was a very simple matter for him to predict what they would do in any given situation.
It was this ability which failed him right now. These people that were mobbing him, he had never expected them to, could have never even hoped to anticipate this happening. Were he not in the beginning vestiges of panic he would have probably begun asking questions. Why were these people reacting like this? How did these people know him? Just what had he done to deserve such recognition? In most cases, it would have been clear to him that he was severely lacking in the necessary information that would allow him to come up with a logical conclusion. As things were, his mind was in such disarray from the many people mobbing and grasping at him that he couldn't even think.
The people around him didn't seem to notice his discomfort, or that he was starting to shake with the beginnings of a panic attack. They did not see how his breathing was starting to get labored, or how black spots began forming at the edge of his vision. Due to him being the sole attention of damn near everyone in the room, they did not see or hear the tables, the chairs and all the glasses and table wear in the room begin to jitter and shake. Fortunately for Harry and the people currently harassing him, someone did.
XoX
Minerva McGonagall was sitting in the Leaky Cauldron that morning, lightly sipping at some black tea with a bit of cream while she looked over a list that sat upon her table. The list was of those students who she was to meet today. She had done this every year since becoming the Head of House Gryffindor. Each year she before the school year started, McGonagall would get an early start and head towards the Leaky Cauldron, where she would have a cup of tea before heading off to meet her potential students.
Currently, her eyes were scanning the list, the steaming cup of black liquid slightly tanned by cream beside it. At the top of the page was her first student, one Hermione Jean Granger. The girl was from a well-to-do family, as far as McGonagall could tell; her parents were dentists and made a nice living for themselves. There wasn't much more information than that, just the address she needed to take the Hogwarts acceptance letter to.
"Good Lord, is this—can it be—?"
As soon as the words had been spoken, McGonagall, like everyone else, had turned towards the source. Her eyes had widened at the sight before her: a young boy, thin, but not skinny, his muggle clothing framed his form nicely. Raven locks sprang from his head in a messy bird's nest. Emerald green eyes glowed the same color as those of the killing curse. She knew that hair and those eyes; they belonged to two of her most favorite students. And she knew this young man, even if she had not seen him since he was a baby.
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