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Chapter Text

“Back to your cupboard,” Aunt Petunia hissed, shooing her away. Harry went obediently - at six years old, she was old enough to know that nothing she did, nothing she said, would make a difference. That was how the world worked. That was how it’d always been. 

She tucked herself away in her cupboard, feeling the shadows wrap around her like an old friend. She smiled at the spider living in the topmost corner, which she’d named Webby. She closed the door, and heard the bolt slide shut behind her. 

Harry adjusted herself on her makeshift bed, readying herself for a long wait. Tomorrow was her seventh birthday, and Harry had a tradition where she stayed up until midnight and wished herself a happy birthday. It wasn’t like anyone else would, after all. She wasn’t sad about it, not really - that was how it’d always been, after all. 

In a soft, low whisper, Harry told the shadows about her day. She’d weeded the garden, and had the most pleasant conversation with a garden snake. She’d had the dream about the flying motorbike again, and imagined that she could actually feel the wind in her hair as she weeded. 

She checked her watch - another hand-me-down from Dudley. Two minutes until midnight. 

“I suppose I ought to make a wish, oughtn’t I?” Harry murmured to herself. She hesitated, thinking. She could make the same wish she had every year - for someone to come and rescue her from the Dursleys - but… it didn’t make sense, to keep wishing over and over for something that never happened. She’d have to wish for something different, this year. 

I wish… I wish I could rescue myself from the Dursleys.

She paused, just as the clock hit midnight. She waited - she could feel a sort of buzzing on her skin, but perhaps that was just the exhaustion. She certainly didn’t feel any different. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, anyhow - she was just a child. A seven-year-old child now, yes, but a child nonetheless. And it’d been a silly wish to dream that she could do anything on her own - she was told every day how worthless and incompetent she was. 

Harry sighed, and just then, something odd happened. 

The shadows moved. 

Harry blinked, and rubbed her eyes, staring hard. Perhaps she was more tired than she thought. 

But then they moved again, pulling closer to each other, as if reaching. They went from a dark grey to a pitch black, and Harry scrambled backwards, eyes wide. Strangely enough, she wasn’t afraid. The shadows wouldn’t hurt her, even if they were behaving oddly. Webby scrambled back, but Harry leaned forwards. 

Slowly, in the light of the dingy old lightbulb hanging from the roof of the cupboard, the shadows coalesced into a man. He had dark hair smoothed neatly over his head, skin as white as paper, and eyes that were pure blackness - no sclera, no iris, just black. He was sitting cross-legged in her cupboard, regarding her with those black eyes of his. There was a cane tucked neatly against his legs. It was topped with a crow’s head engraved in silver. 

“Hello,” Harry said. 

The man tilted his head. “Hello,” he returned pleasantly, as if they were anywhere other than a dusty, spider-inhabited cupboard and he hadn’t just appeared from the shadows, quite literally. 

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry offered, when it became clear he was waiting for her to speak. “May I ask why you’re in my cupboard?” 

The man’s lips quirked. “To wish you a happy birthday, of course,” he said. “You’re seven now, aren’t you? Seven’s a very powerful number.”

Harry blinked at him. She didn’t question how he knew it was her birthday - if he came from the shadows, then she’d told him already. 

“Why’ve you been watching me?” she asked. “Aunt Petunia told Dudley that if he ever thought a strange grown-up was watching him, to go straight to her.” 

The man tilted his head at her. “And she was quite right, although she should have said the same to you. Oftentimes, when a strange grown-up watches a child, they don’t have the best of intentions.” 

“But this isn’t oftentimes,” Harry surmised. She’d never got the impression that the shadows - that this man - meant her any harm.

“Quite right.” It might have been her imagination, but she thought the man looked approving. “I am Death.” 

Harry tilted her head, mimicking the man. “Like, the Grim Reaper?” 

The man snorted. “Not like how the muggles imagine me, no. I am Death, Destroyer of Worlds. I am the End of All Things. I am the Great Equalizer.” As he spoke, the shadows seemed to get longer, darker, and Harry found a curious taste on her tongue. It tasted… it tasted like death. Death, darkness, and, strangely enough, hope. 

Then, suddenly, all of it was gone. The man - Death - regarded her for a moment, and all was silent. 

Harry considered what Death had just said. 

“If you’re Death,” she began slowly, “then does that mean you knew my parents?” 

Death blinked at her. “I would have thought your first question would be along the lines of if you were about to die.” 

Harry nodded. “I did think about that,” she said freely, “but then I thought it wouldn’t make much sense. After all, you wouldn’t have watched me all my life if it was going to end now, would you? And you did just wish me a happy birthday. It’d be rude to have me die right afterwards.”

Death arched an eyebrow. “Sound, if naive, reasoning,” he said slowly. “However, you forget that death cares not for social niceties.” 

Harry nodded again, more sagely. “Death, small d, doesn’t,” she agreed, “but I think Death, capital D, does. You’re wearing formalwear, after all.” She nodded to his outfit. 

Death regarded her curiously. “You, Harry Potter, are a very odd child.” 

Somehow, she knew he didn’t mean it the way the Dursleys did - that she was a freak. It seemed like Death didn’t quite know what to make of her, which Harry thought was fair - she didn’t quite know what to make of him, either. 

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” Harry pointed out stubbornly. 

Death paused, as if he was thinking. “I knew them as well as I knew any mortal,” he said at last. “Which is to say, very little. I did know your mother better than most, however, dabbling in death magic as she did.” He paused again. “Magic is real, by the way. You’re a witch.” 

Harry blinked. She turned this over in her head once, twice, three times. Then she nodded. “That makes sense.” 

Death blinked. “Does it?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Harry asked rhetorically. She gestured to Death’s… everything. “Besides, I can talk to snakes, and I turned my teacher’s hair blue last year.” She shrugged. “It just… makes sense.” 

And it did. When Death said that, it felt as though something had just clicked in Harry’s mind. Of course magic was real - how had she ever thought otherwise? It felt like something she’d always known, but been too unaware to acknowledge. 

“Well.” Death sat back, looking bemused. “That was easier than I thought it would be.”  

“Did you think I’d throw a fit?” Harry asked curiously. “I never throw fits.” That was more Dudley's thing, and Harry took quite a bit of pride in not being like Dudley. 

“I certainly thought you’d be more difficult to convince.”

Harry shrugged, having no answer to that, but she certainly had more questions. “Does this mean there are more magicals out there? And that my parents didn’t die in a car crash?” 

Death regarded her for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “There are. And no, they didn’t.” 

She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, Death explaining to her how her parents had really died. They’d been murdered, he told her, by a man named Tom Riddle but who had renamed himself Voldemort. There was an entire secret society living under the noses of the non-magicals - muggles, Death called them - and there’d been a war. He explained to her the cause of the war, how the Death Eaters had hated the muggleborns for simply existing, sought to eradicate them for that perceived crime, and how Voldemort had led them. Her parents had died for her, and in doing so, her mother had cast a spell that caused Voldemort’s Killing Curse to rebound upon him. 

When he was done, the soft rays of dawn were creeping through her cupboard. Harry stared up at Death with wide, slightly wet eyes. She had millions of questions, but one was most pressing. 

“Why me?” she asked, her voice very small. “Why did this Voldemort come after me? And does it have anything to do with why you’re here with me now?” 

Death paused. He seemed, not for the first time, a little uncertain. “The first question, I'm afraid I cannot tell you. Other powers stay my hand. As for the second… what Voldemort did to you has nothing and everything to do with why I’m here now.” 

Harry sniffled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Death agreed, looking apologetic. “But it’s all I have to answer. You will understand, I believe, in time.” He glanced at the light coming through the slats on the cupboard door. “For now,” he said, setting a hand gently on her head, “you should get some sleep. I will return tomorrow evening.” 

Harry nodded mutely, staring at Death with wide eyes. No one had ever touched her without malice before. 

~ 

Harry wasn’t ever sure how she got through the next day. No one took any notice of her birthday, of course. She cooked and cleaned and weeded, half-convinced that everything had been just a dream, when she caught sight of the garden snake she’d spoken to the day before. 

“Hello,” she said. 

The snake gave her a wary look, staying on the other side of the flowerbeds. “You reek of death, Speaker,” the snake hissed. “More than usual. Are you well?” 

Harry blinked. So… it hadn’t been a dream after all. She… didn’t know what to think about that.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’m fine.” At the snake’s curious look, she shrugged. “I’m not sure why I smell like death,” she lied. Death had sworn her to secrecy. “Sorry.”

The snake examined her critically. “You are a terrible liar.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, caught, when the snake then proceeded to point out where she’d gone wrong - she’d looked away, her heart rate had sped up - and coached her through it until Harry could lie, according to the snake, passably. By that time, of course, it was time to cook dinner, so she bid farewell to the snake and returned to the Dursley’s home.

~

They fell into a sort of routine. Death would visit her every night and teach her about the magical world, about magic. It all seemed so… surreal. Her parents hadn’t been worthless good-for-nothings who’d died drunk in a car crash. They’d loved her, really loved her, loved her enough to give up their lives for her. And she was, apparently, famous for something her mother had done, according to Death. She still didn’t quite believe him about that - how could she be famous? Her? She was so… ordinary. Just Harry. 

But Death had assured her otherwise. He told her about the wars with Voldemort and Grindelwald, taught her about magical culture. When she’d asked him how he knew these things, he’d simply looked at her silently, and then she’d remembered that she was talking to a deity, and fell silent with an embarrassed blush. Death had then smiled at her, a sort of softness to his gaze that she didn’t understand, and patted her head. 

"Everything that the dead know, I know, too," he'd told her. "Their magic, their culture... but the minutiae of their day-to-day, their personal lives, that escapes me."

It didn’t take long for her to beg to learn how to use magic. Death told her that, while she would have teachers for wand magic once she started Hogwarts, he could teach her other things, other magics, and Harry had agreed eagerly. Anything, anything would be better than nothing. 

What that entailed, apparently, was meditation. Lots and lots of meditation. Harry considered herself a very mature seven-year-old, especially compared to Dudley, but she was still seven - sitting still wasn’t in her nature. But Death insisted that this was the best way, and so she did her best, meditating with dogged determination whenever she could. Death walked her through it the first few times, and then left her to do it on her own, moving his own visits so that she’d have half an hour to meditate in her cupboard before he arrived. 

Time passed. School started again, and it was a special kind of torture, sitting in a classroom and knowing that she could be learning magic instead. Or, well, working on learning magic, she amended mentally. She hadn’t actually done any magic yet. 

Harry wished she could go to Diagon Alley. It was so close, it didn’t even require a special invitation like Hogwarts did, but Death had advised against it. He’d said that, at her age, she’d draw attention, and she was supposed to be living with muggles, blissfully unaware of the magical world. Besides, she didn’t have any way of defending herself yet, and the world was a dangerous place. Harry had sighed and acknowledged that Death had a good point, but it was difficult. She wanted to learn everything she could about magic and Hogwarts and her parents. 

~ 

She and Death celebrated Samhain on October 31st. Harry was… excited wasn’t the right word. Anticipatory, perhaps. Death had told her her parents had died on this day, and she felt somber, but at the same time, the Samhain celebration should let her feel closer to them. 

So she waited until night fell, meditating. It was easy now, to fall into a trance, focusing on nothing in particular. Suddenly, she became aware of a kind of warmth. It was… difficult to describe. It wasn’t centered in any particular place, more spread out across her entire body. It seemed alive, somehow, pulsing and weaving in and out of awareness. When it became aware of her notice, it seemed to brighten, and Harry got the impression of welcome. 

Then, even though her eyes were closed, she felt Death appear. His own magic - and it was magic that she was feeling, how wonderful, how incredible - was different and yet similar in a way she couldn’t describe. It was vast, endless, unfathomable, and she was struck, for the first time, by a feeling of awe. 

She opened her eyes. 

“Wow,” she whispered. Death was smiling, that soft smile Harry liked. 

“You’ve done it, then?” he asked. “You’ve felt your magic?” 

Harry nodded, feeling breathless. “Wow,” she repeated. 

Death’s smile widened. “Then you’re ready for the next step. But first,” he waved a hand, and Harry heard a click. “Samhain.” 

“Samhain,” Harry echoed, her mind refocusing. Then she blinked. “Wait - I thought you said you couldn’t interact with the world of the living?” 

“Not normally, no,” Death agreed. He opened the cupboard door and stood, holding out a hand. “But tonight is Samhain, when the veil between life and death is at its thinnest. Tonight, I am almost at my full power.” 

Harry’s mouth formed into a little ‘o’. She grabbed Death’s hand, surprised at its solidness. It was the first time she’d touched him - his hands were cold, which weren’t surprising, but she knew the magic that thrummed beneath, now, and that made them seem warmer. 

Together, they walked to a nearby forest, which was close to her primary school. Harry felt a bit embarrassed - Death had told her that the more magical the place, the more powerful the celebration would be, and she was a bit ashamed that she lived in the least magical place she knew. Death seemed to sense her thoughts, and gave her a chiding look. 

“Do not feel ashamed for things outside of your control, Harry,” he told her softly. “It is not your fault you were placed here.” 

Harry nodded, looking away. 

At last, they reached a place Death deemed satisfactory - next to a small pond. The still surface of the water symbolized the border between life and death. She sat cross-legged at the edge of the pond, facing it, and took a deep breath, going over the words in her head. 

When it was midnight, Death spoke. 

“It’s time.” 

Harry swallowed, and began the words, holding two names in her head. “I am here tonight to honor my dead,” she said softly. “I am here tonight to welcome them home. I am here tonight to ease their passing, and to ask that they, in turn, ease my living. Let it so be said.” 

Perhaps it was her imagination, but as she spoke, she felt a sort of resonance, an echo of her voice coming back to her. She suddenly had the feeling of being one small point in a huge, interconnected web, one small drop in the pond, one breath upon the air. She felt like she was part of something bigger than herself for the first time in her life. 

Then her mind went blank as a soft white mist seemed to rise from the surface of the pond. It swirled around her, and Harry felt softness and warmth from it - was this love? She wondered. Was this what it felt like to be loved?  

She couldn’t speak - she couldn’t even breathe. She just watched, eyes filled with tears, as the mist slowly dissipated. 

She felt… grounded, somehow. The tight, hard knot of sadness in her chest seemed to loosen, just a little. Her parents had loved her, she knew, but now she had undeniable proof that they loved her still, even though she hadn’t been able to properly honor them until now. 

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. “Mum. Dad. I’ll make you proud, I promise.” 

But the mist was gone, and the forest didn’t answer.

Chapter Text

Things were better after Samhain. That feeling she’d had after the celebration took three weeks to fade, and even then there was a lingering echo of peace. 

Peace. That was the word for it. 

She was quieter, more somber, in the days following, and no one but Death seemed to notice. He seemed to sense that she needed time, and didn’t show up until a week into November. Even then, he was quieter, too. 

“Now that you can sense your magic when you meditate,” he told her, “I want you to learn to do it all the time. Develop an awareness of your magic and the magic around you even when you’re doing mundane things.” 

Harry nodded determinedly. She set her mind to work. She learned how to fall into a meditative trance at a moment’s notice, and then she learned how to sense her magic without going into a trance in the first place. Death insisted she stick with the meditation, though, saying it'd lay an excellent groundwork for something called occlumency. 

It had confused her at first, though. She’d stretched out her magical awareness for the first time and been so startled her eyes had snapped open. 

“They’re magic!” Harry blurted out. “Mrs. Figg’s cats - they’re magic, too!” 

Death had raised his eyebrows. “Of course they are. They’re half-kneazles, you know, a sort of magical cat breed. Very clever.” 

Harry stared. “But Mrs. Figg, she’s -”

“A squib,” Death said. “A non-magical born to magical parents.” 

“But then, does she know about -” 

“About the magical world? Very likely. I’m not sure if she knows who you really are.” He paused. “Do you wish to contact her?” 

“No,” Harry said instantly, shaking her head. “She knows how the Dursleys treat me - she might tell them.” 

Death frowned at the mention of her relatives. “Does she, now?” he murmured, his tone dark.

~ 

November turned to December turned to January. Harry was sad she hadn’t been able to celebrate Yule - she had a lot to be grateful for, this year - but the winter solstice didn’t thin the veil between life and death the way Samhain had, so she hadn’t had any way of getting out of her cupboard. 

February came, and with it a pronouncement: she was finally, finally ready to start learning magic. After all the work she’d done in preparation, it was almost anticlimactically easy. 

“Pléasctha ar lasadh,” Harry whispered, cupping her hands. Burst aflame. She tugged at her magic, grabbing a strand and willing it free, wild, and burning. Between her palms, a soft orange flame appeared. 

She looked up, aglow with wonder and happiness, and saw Death staring down at her with something distinctly like pride on his face. 

“Well done,” he murmured. “And on the first try, too.” 

Harry swallowed. “Thanks,” she said shyly, turning her gaze back to the flame between her palms. She’d done it. She’d done it. This fire was made from her magic, made from her, made because of her. It was a heady, wonderful feeling. 

Gently, Harry blew it out with a whispered “ múchadh” , feeling an odd sense of loss. Death walked her through summoning the other elements, and at the end of it all Harry was left with an overwhelming feeling of completion. This was what she’d been born to do - she felt her magic purr and stretch, almost like it was alive, like it was pleased at being used for a purpose. The next day, she felt the very earth respond to her more. The snow swirled around her as she walked, the wind curling around her ankles. The earth felt more solid, more grounding. When she conjured fire again that night, the flames seemed to lean towards her, ever so slightly. 

Magic… magic was everything. 

~ 

(“Your mother was descended from Celtic druids,” Death said quietly, watching her wonder. “She had a particularly strong affinity for their magic, and passed that onto you. That is why I chose Druidic magic for you to learn - here, on the land of your ancestors, it will be stronger, much stronger, than anything else I could teach you.”)

~ 

One month after she’d first conjured a flame, Death turned his attention to other things. 

“Now that you have gained an adequate grasp of your magic,” he said, “it is time for the next step.” 

“What’s that?” Harry asked curiously. 

Death sent a disdainful look at Harry’s cupboard. “Getting you out of this… hovel.” 

Harry was puzzled. “I thought the blood wards here protected me.” 

“Not the house,” Death clarified, “unfortunately. But your oaf of a cousin has a second bedroom, does he not?” 

Harry goggled at him. “The Dursleys would never let me have Dudley’s second bedroom,” she said in disbelief. “They’re angry enough I’ve got the cupboard as it is!” 

“Not willingly,” Death agreed, and waited for Harry to understand. 

She blinked. “... I don’t know how to use magic to change minds.” 

“And I cannot teach you,” Death said, “not without a wand. But you can use magic, can you not?” 

Harry nodded, not seeing where Death was going with this. 

“And they are frightened of magic, are they not?” 

“... You want me to threaten them into giving me Dudley’s second bedroom?” Harry asked faintly. 

Death looked pleased. “Just so.” 

Harry considered this. Threatening people was wrong - everyone said so. But everyone also saw Harry’s bruises, skinny frame, and oversized clothes and did nothing, and that was wrong, too - Death had told her so - so perhaps ‘everyone’ wasn’t quite so knowledgeable or morally upstanding as they liked to think. 

“Okay,” she said at last. “But I don’t know how.” 

Death smiled, and it looked more like a predator baring its teeth. Harry was suddenly reminded that, no matter how human he looked, Death was anything but. 

“Good. Let’s begin.” 

~ 

“Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon.” 

It was a weekend. Dudley was out with his friends, likely tormenting some poor, unfortunate soul. Harry, meanwhile, was on a mission. She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. She was terrified, but she didn’t dare show it. 

“What is it, girl?” Uncle Vernon snapped, not looking up from his place on the couch, where he was reading the paper. 

“I want Dudley’s second bedroom.” 

Aunt Petunia looked up from her sewing. Uncle Vernon looked up from his paper. Both looked utterly incredulous. 

“Absolutely not!” Aunt Petunia spluttered. Uncle Vernon didn’t seem able to speak - he was slowly turning purple, a dangerous colour. “You ungrateful little -” 

Without breaking eye contact, the paper Uncle Vernon was holding burst into flames. Uncle Vernon dropped it with a shout of alarm. Harry hid a pleased smile - it'd taken her a while to learn how to do it wordlessly. Death had insisted that wordless magic would have a greater effect. 

“Allow me to repeat myself,” Harry said quietly. She straightened, channeling Death’s haughty, dangerous demeanor. “You are going to give me Dudley’s second bedroom, or I’ll set fire to something much worse than a paper.” 

Aunt Petunia went white. Uncle Vernon growled. 

“You don’t speak to me that way, girl -” 

Harry narrowed her eyes, and suddenly Uncle Vernon was on fire. He flailed and yelled, Aunt Petunia screamed, but Harry was silent. The flames vanished a millisecond later - Uncle Vernon hadn’t been touched. He stared at her, comprehending her power for the first time, and fell quiet. 

“You are going to give me Dudley’s second bedroom,” Harry repeated, and this time, they agreed. 

~ 

“Excellently done,” Death praised as Harry sat on her bed. She grinned up at him. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had a room - with a window! And a bed! And it was all hers. Dudley had thrown a tantrum, but been quieted by Aunt Petunia, who’d thrown fearful looks at Harry all the while. It was an unpleasant feeling, being feared, and Harry wished there’d been another way. Her smile faltered. 

“It was necessary. I could not abide you living in that cupboard for a moment longer,” Death said firmly. 

Harry swallowed, looking away. “But… they’re afraid of me now.” 

“Do you not enjoy it?” Death sounded genuinely curious. 

“No!” Harry was horrified. “Of course not! I wanted them to give me a room because they -” 

She fell silent. Death’s eyes softened with understanding. 

“You wanted them to love you,” he said gently, but Harry still flinched. 

“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I know it’s stupid.” 

Death studied her. “If there’s one thing I know about mortals,” he said, “it is that the wish to be loved is universal, especially when it is by one’s family.” 

Harry swallowed. “Can we change the subject?” she begged. “Please?” 

Death obliged, and for that, Harry was grateful. 

~ 

(she'd lied, just a little)

(a small, shameful part of her had enjoyed it)

~ 

Months passed. Harry filled her room - her room - with potted plants and cuttings from the garden, and they thrived under her care. She loved being surrounded by living things - they made her feel more connected to magic, to the earth, to her mother, who Death told her had always had a touch for nature magic. She’d found it odd, for she remembered Death telling her that Lily Potter had also dabbled in death magic, and Death had smiled. 

“Life and death are not opposites, much as it might seem that way,” Death had told her patiently. He was always patient, with her. “They are intertwined. One cannot exist without the other, and so ability in one lends to ability in the other.” 

Harry loved those bits of magical theory that Death imparted. He’d seen so much, witnessed everything, and there was never a question he refused to answer. When she’d overheard the Dursleys watching a zombie movie, he’d told her about inferi. When she’d asked about the magic she could feel shimmering on top of her skin, he’d told her about the protection her mother had cast. When she’d asked why Voldemort had gone after her, he told her about the rules Fate had put in place. 

“She will not allow me to tell you,” Death said softly, apologetically. “I would, were it within my control, but… it was one of her stipulations for allowing me to interfere.” 

“Interfere with what?” 

Death was quiet. “Your destiny,” he said, and that was all he would say about it.

Chapter Text

Years passed. Harry, at Death’s knee, learned how to disguise herself with a breath. She learned how to summon earthen soldiers, to make the wind do her bidding, to spark thunderstorms. He taught her how to shape her magic to her will. She began to carry herself with confidence. The Dursleys’ fear of her would sometimes fade, but then something odd would happen - lightning would strike their yard, the flames on the stove would strengthen when she neared - and it would be reignited. It made her sad, but she no longer lived in the cupboard, no longer had as many chores, no longer had to hear her parents ridiculed. Deep down, Harry knew she’d do the same thing again if she had to, and didn’t know what kind of person that made her. 

Then, one day, exactly a week before her eleventh birthday, she and the Dursleys were eating breakfast when the mail arrived. Harry had been getting increasingly anstier for days - she knew Hogwarts letters often arrived on or around one’s eleventh birthday. Death had assured her it was coming, but Harry couldn’t help but be fearful. Hogwarts only accepted the top 10% of eleven-year-olds based on magical power, after all, and what if she wasn’t good enough? What if it didn’t come? What if Hogwarts didn’t want her? What if - 

“I’ll get the mail,” Harry announced, shaking herself firmly from her rapidly spiralling thoughts. It’d do her no good, after all, and Harry wanted to be more pragmatic, like Death. She made her way down the hallway and froze. She felt magic there, at the end of the hallway. A small trace of it, an enchantment perhaps, but -

In an instant, she was at the door. She picked up the small pile of letters with trembling fingers, flipping through them until finally, finally, her fingers met parchment. 

She turned the letter over in her hands, savouring it. The parchment was smooth, thick, and creamy. The rich wax seal was what had caught her magical awareness - there was some sort of enchantment on it that she couldn’t identify. She ran her fingers over the seal, over Hogwarts’ seal, trying to decipher it, but to no avail - she hadn’t had enough exposure to magic yet. But she sensed no malice from the enchantment, and she knew Death would’ve warned her had she been in danger, and this was Hogwarts, so -

She took a deep breath, broke the seal, and unfolded the letter. 

To Miss H. Potter, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted…

~ 

Later that day, Harry stood alone in front of the Leaky Cauldron. She’d waited until Dudley was out of the house and once more threatened the Dursleys, only this time to let her go to Hogwarts. They had - after a demonstration of her magic - relented, and Aunt Petunia had agreed to drive her to the Leaky Cauldron. Aunt Petunia didn’t ask Harry where she’d learned the name, and Harry didn’t answer. Death had sworn her to secrecy, after all.

She checked that her scar was still concealed under her magic and her fringe in a nearby storefront. She didn’t want to get mobbed, if she really was as famous as Death said, which she still sort of doubted. 

She swallowed, hard. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on her trousers. This was it. Once she entered, there was no going back. She felt like she was on the cusp of something dangerous, something precarious, something that maybe - just maybe - could be great. She stared up at the Leaky Cauldron that the muggles around her seemed not to notice, and wished desperately that Death was with her. 

There was nothing for it. She took a deep breath, walked up the steps, and pushed open the door. 

~ 

Diagon Alley was brilliant. There was no other word for it. Harry looked this way and that, eyes round as saucers, drinking everything in. Here, the people weren’t afraid to hide their magic - they shouted it from the rooftops, bright and proud. It wasn’t a source of fear and shame, but of wonder. And her magic was happy. It loved being here, in this magical alley, where it belonged. For the first time in her life, Harry felt like she belonged somewhere. 

But it was still a little - no, very - overwhelming. She had to draw in her magical awareness because it was the equivalent of living in the dark her whole life and suddenly stepping out into the sunlight. It was blinding, and she had to cover up her wince. 

Hopefully, she’d get used to it. Hopefully.

She made her way down the alley to the large, imposing white marble building. Gringotts bank. The goblins she passed gave her an odd, nervous look. Death had warned her about this - because of the magic he’d taught her, she was more connected to the earth and its magic. Goblins, creatures of the earth themselves, might be able to sense that. And… as the snake had told her all those years ago, she reeked of death magic. 

It wasn’t anything to be afraid of. She mustn’t show fear in front of the goblins, at any rate, or else they wouldn’t respect her. 

Harry walked up to an available teller.

“Hello,” she said, speaking softly but clearly. “My name is Harry Potter, and I’m here to access my vault.” 

“Key?” 

Harry blinked. “I haven’t got a key,” she said. “Will that be a problem?” 

The goblin sighed, looking rather irritated. He slid a pin and piece of parchment over to her, and it was rather self-explanatory what he wanted her to do. She pricked her finger with the pin, and when the third drop of blood fell, the goblin snatched the parchment away and Harry healed the prick with a small press of her magic. He scanned the parchment before he abruptly choked, eyes nearly bursting out of his head.

“Is there a problem?” 

“No,” the goblin said, “not at all. Which of your vaults would you like to visit?” 

Harry blinked again. “I… hadn’t realised there was more than one,” she said slowly. 

“There is the Potter trust vault, the Black trust vault, and the Peverell trust vault,” the goblin said crisply, regaining himself. He looked at her with something approaching trepidation. “You will not be able to access your family vaults until you are either emancipated or turn seventeen.” 

“Alright, then.” Harry wondered if Death had known about the other two vaults. Perhaps he'd simply forgotten to mention it. “I suppose I’ll visit the Potter trust vault, then.”

“Very well,” he said. “Griphook!” 

Another goblin, Griphook, led her into the banks’ depths. Harry found she very much enjoyed the cart ride, and amused herself by imagining Death’s expression, were he there. She missed him - he’d told her that he had had to bargain with Fate to meet with her, and thus only had a few hours a day to spare. Harry was puzzled, but grateful, that he set the time aside for her. 

When Griphook opened the door to her vault, Harry’s mouth fell open. Death had told her that she had an inheritance, but she hadn’t believed him when he’d said how large it was. And if this was just her trust vault, and the Potter one at that… 

“Excuse me,” she said to Griphook. “But I believe, in my time away from the magical world, that things were willed to me, and I’d also like to look at my accounts. Is Gringotts responsible for handling all that?” 

Griphook looked like he was holding back a sneer. “Indeed. You will have to make an appointment.” 

Harry nodded, and set about doing just that. She really, really wished Death could be with her for it - she had no idea what she was doing. She made an appointment for next week, bought a blood-locked coin purse, and shovelled handfuls of coins inside it. She had no idea how much things would cost, and it’d be a bother to go back to her vault again, so she just took as much as she thought she needed. 

~ 

Back outside, Harry blinked in the sunlight. She had more gold now than she’d ever had in her life and a whole list of things to buy. She ran through her mental checklist: cover scar? Check. Ask about inheritance? Check. Buy school things? 

She looked down at her list and smiled. Time to get started!

First off - a wand. She made her way over to Ollivander’s (Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.) and stepped inside. She felt an enchantment wash over her and cocked her head. 

“Ah, Miss Potter,” a soft, low voice said, and an old man appeared from the gloom of the shop. His eyes were large and silver. “I thought I’d be seeing you here.” 

Harry was bursting with questions. “Hello - Mr. Ollivander, I presume?" When he nodded, she demanded, "How do you know my name? Was it the enchantment in your doorway? If so, how did you make it? If not, what was it?” 

The old man - Mr. Ollivander, Harry presumed - blinked. “Excellent magical sensitivity you have there, Miss Potter,” he said, not answering any of her questions. Harry opened her mouth to remind him, and his expression grew amused. “Yes, it is indeed how I knew your name. It is a very complex enchantment devised by my father during the war with Grindelwald - a security measure, you see. It was far too complex to remove without much effort, so I left it there. I rather like the effect it has on people, knowing their names without them introducing themselves.” 

Harry blinked admiringly. “That’s rather devious of you, sir.” 

“I like to think so,” Mr. Ollivander smiled. “Enchanting is a mixture of Charms and Ancient Runes - you’ll learn it if you take NEWT classes in both when you go to Hogwarts.” He paused. “But, Miss Potter, if I say so myself, I would have known you without the enchantment. You’re the very image of your mother at her age - save for the colour of your hair, of course, which you get from your father.”

Harry swallowed. “I know,” she said quietly. Death had told her. 

“Do you now,” Mr. Ollivander murmured. Then, he straightened. “Now, let’s get you a wand, shall we?” 

It took many, many tries. Enough tries that Mr. Ollivander grew delighted enough to laugh, which was a little eerie. Eventually, though, he handed her a holly and phoenix feather wand, and Harry watched the look in his eyes. It had changed - he hadn’t expected the other wands to work, she realised, because what she was seeing in his eyes now was anticipation. 

Hesitantly, Harry grasped it. At her touch, the wood cracked down the middle, revealing a red-gold feather. She flinched and yelped, looking to Mr. Ollivander for reassurance. 

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I don’t know what happened, I just -” 

Mr. Ollivander was staring at her, looking shocked for the first time. “I -” 

He seemed to collect himself. “Not to worry, Miss Potter,” he said, drawing himself up. “It seems the core wishes to bond with you, but the wood disagreed. Now, if you would follow me…” 

Death had told her that she was not, under any circumstances, to follow strange men where they led, but she thought he would make an exception for this case. She trailed after Mr. Ollivander as he led her to the back of the shop, which was lined with shelves upon shelves of wand wood at the top and drawers at the bottom, which she supposed held the cores. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated miserably. It seemed she couldn’t even get a wand correctly. “I really didn’t mean to -”

“Of course not,” Mr. Ollivander said, a new light entering his eyes as he looked at her. “I haven’t had a customer this tricky in a long time - it seems I’ll have to craft you a custom wand, Miss Potter.” 

Harry was horrified. “Oh, I didn’t meant to make you go to such trouble for me -” 

“Not at all!” Mr. Ollivander was, to Harry’s shock, beaming as if nothing could’ve made him happier. “This is quite unexpected, and therefore quite wonderful! Think nothing of it, Miss Potter. Just hold the phoenix feather in one hand and run your other hand along the wand woods - yes, that’s it - and concentrate on your magic. Which wood does it reach towards?”

Harry closed her eyes. The woods were, alternately, smooth and rough beneath her fingers. She walked along the edge of the room, concentrating on her magic. She was at the very end when it suddenly surged to life, and she opened her eyes. 

“This one,” she said firmly. “This is the one.” 

Mr. Ollivander peered at her. His eyes were unreadable in the dim light. “Indeed?” he murmured. “Yes, I think so…” He straightened. “The wand wood you have chosen is yew, Miss Potter. Are you aware of what that means?” 

Harry was starting to feel a little uncertain. “I’m afraid not.” 

“I sell very few yew wands, Miss Potter,” Mr. Ollivander said. “A wand of yew is reputed to endow its possessor with the power of life and death. They have a rather fearsome reputation, as they are quite good for dueling and curses, but what they have in common is that they never, ever choose someone who is ordinary.” He paused, looking at her, and Harry wondered if she was imagining the touch of wariness in his eyes. 

“I am not a fool, Miss Potter,” he said at last. “I sense the death magic you wear like a cloak. I thought, from the moment I saw you, that you might be endowed with a wand of yew. It is curious, as well, that this phoenix feather in particular should choose you, too - you see, the phoenix who gave its tail feather for this wand gave one other feather. Just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother - why, its brother gave you that scar.” His eyes sharpened. “And what a coincidence it should be that that wand, too, was made of yew.” 

Harry went still, but Mr. Ollivander wasn’t done. 

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great."

There was a long pause, in which Harry and Mr. Ollivander did nothing but watch each other. 

“I see,” Harry said at last, when it became clear Mr. Ollivander was waiting for her to speak. “Well, rest assured I have no intention of becoming a feared mass-murderer.” Her voice was dry and cutting - a defence mechanism. 

Mr. Ollivander smiled faintly. “No, I suppose you don’t,” he agreed. “But, then again, none ever do.” 

~

After the… rather unsettling experience with Mr. Ollivander, who’d told her to pick her wand up next week, Harry was aching for her next stop: the bookstore. Very firmly, she put her memory and emotions inside of a box, to be examined later, and silently thanked Death for teaching her Occlumency. She burst inside Flourish and Blotts and sighed in happiness at finally being there. She’d wanted to learn more about wanded magic for ages. Death had taught her many things, yes, but he had never taught her how to wield a wand, and these books would. 

It was a good thing that the baskets the bookshop had were extendable and charmed featherlight. Harry wasn’t sure her arms would’ve held up, otherwise. She crammed inside every book that looked interesting, which was most of them, but especially the ones on ancient runes. Death had taught her them, with it not being a wanded subject, but he hadn’t allowed her to actually try out any runic circles without proper, wanded supervision, since he couldn't interact with the living world save on Samhain. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to actually take Ancient Runes until third year, but still. Death couldn’t have taught her everything.  

She scowled at an out-of-reach book. She could read its spine very clearly - A Treatise on Elder Futhark - but she couldn’t reach. She was just about to surreptitiously make the air carry her when a voice came from behind. 

“Need a hand?” 

Harry stepped aside. “Yes, please,” she said gratefully. A tall, brown-haired boy reached up and grabbed the book she’d been eyeing. 

“This it?” 

“Yes. Thank you,” Harry said emphatically, looking her savior in the face for the first time. He was - as she’d already noted - tall and brown-haired. His eyes were brown, cautiously friendly, as he offered her the book. 

“Of course,” he said, looking at her curiously, though there was wariness in his eyes.  Harry put the book into her basket, and it flashed red, indicating - according to the signage - that it had reached its limit on its featherlight charm. 

“Oh,” Harry said, disappointed. She glanced up at the boy, intending to thank him again, only to find him staring at her with surprised amusement. 

“Going for Ravenclaw, I assume?” 

Harry shrugged dispassionately. “If that’s where I’m put, then yes.” 

The boy examined her for a moment. “Perhaps I’ll join you.” 

“You’re a first-year, too?” 

“Yes.” He didn’t introduce himself, so neither did she. They watched each other, evaluating, and Harry felt a spark of pleasure. This… this verbal battle she had with the boy was fun. Death always demolished her in things like this - it was nice to speak with someone who didn’t. 

“Theodore.” A tall, thin, elderly man emerged from around the corner. His eyes were brown, like the boy’s, but were cold and dark. They fell on her, and swept over her muggle clothes with visible disdain. “Who’s this?” 

“Grandfather.” The boy in front of her - Theodore, presumably - straightened, and his face turned expressionless. “This is no one.” 

Harry felt a flash of anger and hurt at being dismissed. She looked past Theodore and met his grandfather’s eyes, lifting her chin. 

“My name is Harry Potter,” she said quietly. The man’s eyes widened imperceptibly, and Theodore paled. She turned to him, holding back a sneer. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Theodore,” she said coolly. “I’ll see you at Hogwarts.” 

With that, she turned and left.

~

She got the rest of her school supplies with little issue and booked a room at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of the summer. In the time between her arrival and sundown, she went over her books - more specifically, the geneology book she’d bought from Flourish and Blotts. Theodore was a fairly common name, but his grandfather, though he’d never introduced himself, had been wearing a crest on his robes. 

Nott, she read, and understanding struck her. Death had told her about the members of Voldemort’s inner circle - Thaddeus Nott, presumably Theodore’s father, had been one of them. He was now in Azkaban, the magical prison, which explained why Theodore had been brought to Diagon Alley by his grandfather. 

Harry frowned. Theodore had acted like a completely different person when his grandfather had appeared - before then, he’d been, if not friendly, not-rude despite her muggle clothing. 

She needed more data, Harry decided. She’d wait until she got to Hogwarts before forming an opinion of Theodore. Besides… children weren’t their parents. Harry had no intention of judging Theodore for his father’s actions. That was why she’d made sure to never threaten Dudley directly. 

She sat down on her bed, stomach full and settled, and waited. The moment the sun descended beneath the horizon, Death appeared. 

“Excellent,” he said approvingly. “You’re finally out of that hovel. Now, tell me all about your day.” 

Harry did so. When she got to the part about her wand, she hesitated. In light of the meeting with Theodore, she’d almost forgotten.

“What does it mean?” she asked. “That my wand is the same as his?” 

Death’s expression darkened. “He had no right to say that to you,” he said lowly. “Your future is not predetermined.” He leaned forwards. She’d never seen him so intensely focused. “You will be whatever you wish,” he said firmly. “If you wish for a quiet life, that is what will happen. If you wish for greatness, you will achieve it. If you do not wish to become like Lord Voldemort, you will not. It is simple.” 

Harry felt the tension drain out of her at his words. My future is not predetermined, she told herself, and felt her stomach settle. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think… I needed to hear that.” 

“There is no need to thank me,” Death said. “I only stated the truth.” Quieter, he added, “No matter what Fate believes.” 

Chapter Text

Harry spent the next week reading over her books. She got through her textbooks in the first five days, then moved on to the genealogy book - she wanted to be able to recognize family crests on sight. She read over the entries on the Potters, Blacks, and Peverells as well, though it was nothing Death hadn’t already told her. The Potters were an old but not noble family, the Blacks were both old and noble, and the Peverells were thought to be extinct, but were also both old and noble. All three had seats on the Wizengamot, and Harry smiled. 

Death had always been objective when he’d told her the history of Britain’s magical world - he cared nothing for politics and sides, and so he’d simply given her the facts in the most informative manner he could. That, however, didn’t stop Harry from forming her own opinions - they just weren't biased by the manner of teaching. She thought that werewolves deserved equal rights as magicals, that Dark magic shouldn’t be looked down upon and banned, that muggle biases had no place in the magical world. 

Magic, Death had taught her, was not good or evil, like the Ministry said. Instead, it simply was. Magic was a tool, and tools could be used for good or evil acts, but had no inherent bias of their own. Dangerous magic ought not to be banned, but instead taught, so that magicals knew how to defend against them. Ignorance, Harry believed, was the worst enemy of all.

~

The night of her eleventh birthday, Harry stayed up, as usual. But, ever since she’d turned seven, she had company - Death stayed up with her, always. He’d never actually given her a present, but Harry had never minded. His presence was a gift enough. When she was younger, she’d never have imagined that the being watching her from the shadows would one day take her under his wing, but that was exactly what Death had done. He’d mentored her, cared for her, wanted her to be better. He’d told her the truth, and after years of being lied to, that was more important than anything. 

This time, though, was different. Death seemed odd as they waited for midnight. He didn’t show it, but Harry could feel his magic shifting uneasily around the edges. She liked Death’s magic - it was as comforting to her as her own, and seeing it so on edge put her on edge, too. 

“Is everything alright?” Harry asked, two minutes from midnight. “Your magic seems off.” 

“Everything is fine,” Death said, cocking his head. He looked a little thoughtful. “I believe I am merely… a little nervous.” 

Harry blinked. She hadn’t known Death could get nervous, and told him so.

“I did not believe so, either,” Death agreed. “And yet, there is no other explanation.” 

“Why are you nervous?” Harry asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Death gave her one of his soft looks. “I’m afraid not.”

Somewhere, a clock chimed, and Death exhaled. 

“Happy birthday, Harry,” he murmured. “I have… procured you a gift.” 

Harry’s eyes went round. “A gift?” she echoed. “But I thought -” 

Death gave a tentative smile. “I made another bargain with Fate,” he said. “I will no longer be able to visit you in the evenings. In exchange, she has allowed me to take a mortal form.” He paused, looking at her carefully. “Of course, if this does not please you, I can always -” 

“No!” Harry blurted out. Death looked vaguely alarmed, and Harry backtracked hurriedly. “No, I mean, it does please me! It pleases me very much! But what does it mean? Can you take me away from the Dursleys? Can you walk with me in Diagon Alley? Does that mean other people will be able to see you, too? And -” 

“Peace, Harry,” Death said, looking simultaneously relieved and amused. “I would have to go through legal channels to remove you from your…” his lip curled, “current living situation, but I believe it can be done. I would be able to walk with you in Diagon Alley, yes, and other people would be able to see me. Does this mean you are amenable to this gift?” 

“I am!” Harry said, nodding vigorously. She couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “So that means I’d come to live with you, then? All the time?” She hesitated. “And you’re okay with that?” 

Death tilted his head. “Why would I not be pleased? Have I not made it clear how much I dislike your relatives?” 

“Yes, but…” Harry struggled to find the words. “There’s a difference between wanting me out of there and taking me in yourself.” 

Death paused. “While true, I believe…” He hesitated, looking a little uncertain. “Have I not made clear my fondness for you? I assure you, it will not be a hardship, taking you in.”

Harry’s eyes welled up with tears. Death was - she’d suspected it, hoped for it, but she hadn’t dared let herself believe - 

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. Thank you, Death.” 

Death didn’t seem to quite know what to do with a crying ten-year-old. He patted her on the head. 

~ 

Later, when Harry had stopped crying, Death told her the details of his gift - and what an amazing gift it was. He’d take a mortal form, which meant he’d be around only until he died, and Fate had given him a brand-new ironclad identity, Morrigan Peverell. His powers would be greatly diminished to the point where he’d be considered, simply, as a wizard. A powerful one, yes, but a wizard nonetheless. The Peverells, Death told her, had been favoured greatly by him at one point, but everyone had believed they’d died out. 

“Peverell…” Harry said thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the family with the three brothers?” 

“Indeed.” Death looked pleased that she’d remembered. “Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus. You are descended from Ignotus’ line, and the rightful heir of the cloak of invisibility I gifted him.” He frowned slightly. “Your father lent it to Dumbledore. It seems he has not yet seen fit to return it.” 

Dumbledore again. He seemed inextricably linked to nearly every aspect of her life. It made Harry uneasy. 

They agreed that, if anyone asked, they’d say that Death was a family friend of the Evanses but had only recently returned to Britain after a decade in the States and heard about what had happened to Harry, as he hadn’t been aware that the Lily Potter in the papers was the same as the Lily Evans he’d known. It wasn’t exactly likely, but stranger things had happened - like a baby surviving the Killing Curse, for example. The magical world was odd, so she hoped they’d accept the story at face value. 

Eventually, though, Death told her to get some sleep. His bargain had begun at midnight, so  Death - er, Morrigan would join her for her appointments tomorrow. Harry bit her lip, rolling over in bed. If Death got custody of her, he’d be her guardian, wouldn’t he? They’d be… they’d be… almost like a family. 

Something small, delicate, and hopeful in Harry’s heart clenched. It was what she’d wished for all those years ago, and now, it might finally come true. 

~

The next day - or, rather, later that same day, once she’d gotten some sleep - Harry met Death in the entrance of Diagon Alley, bouncing on her feet. His mortal form looked exactly the same as his immortal one, except his skin had taken on a bit of colour and his eyes had a sclera. The irises were pure black, though. It was Harry’s very first time seeing Death in daylight, and -

“You look like a vampire!” Harry exclaimed gleefully. 

Death peered down at her disdainfully. “Nonsense,” he said dismissively. “Vampires have much paler skin than this form.” 

“You can’t refer to your body as ‘this form’,” Harry objected. “No one does that.” 

Death cocked his head. “Indeed? I’ve never before taken a mortal form. The minutiae of mortal life is beyond me.” 

“It’s okay!” Harry said, bouncing even more. “I can teach you for once!” 

They went to Ollivander’s first. Death said that he’d already crafted himself a wand - yew and thestral hair, he’d said with a secretive little smile, before promptly refusing to say anything more about the subject, citing Fate’s interference. He walked into the shop with her, his hand on her shoulder. When he saw them, Mr. Ollivander’s eyes widened. 

“Lord Peverell,” he said, bowing at the waist. “I wasn’t expecting to see you with Miss Potter.” 

“Indeed?” Death hummed. “We are here to pick up Harry’s wand.” 

“Yes,” Mr. Ollivander said, snapping to attention. “Yes, of course.” 

From below his desk, he pulled out a thin, narrow box. He took off the top and presented it to Harry. Within was a bone-white wand. She could feel her magic being pulled towards it, and reached out instinctively. 

Immediately, her magic seemed to glow. It twined with the magic of the wand as if in welcome, and Harry felt a sudden warmth beneath her fingers. A soft wind swept through the shop, smelling of rain and grass, and silver and gold sparks shot from the end of her wand. 

“Marvelous,” Mr. Ollivander murmured. Harry had already paid in advance for the wand - eighty galleons! - and so she and Death thanked him and left, Mr. Ollivander staring warily after them. 

~

Something odd happened as they walked up Gringotts’ steps. The goblins guarding the door almost fell over as they passed, staring at Death with wide, fearful eyes. When they entered the bank, every single goblin fell silent, their eyes snapping to Death. At Death’s unimpressed look, they swiftly went back to their business, noticeably tenser. The magicals in the bank, for their part, simply looked curious. As they approached the goblin teller, he shrank back, looking as though he wished he’d called in sick. 

“We are here for an appointment for Miss Hariel Potter,” Death said curtly. Harry blinked. 

“Yes, of course,” the goblin said, trembling. “Snarlock will show you the way.” 

Snarlock, when he was waved over, looked like he was trying very hard not to tremble. “This way, please,” he said, his voice shaking. He led them down a corridor. 

Harry tugged on Death’s sleeve. “Is Hariel my real name?” she asked. 

Death gave her an amused look. “You didn’t think Harry was your birth name, did you?” 

She had, and looked away, resisting the urge to shrug, embarrassed. 

“Do not blame yourself,” Death said lowly. “Blame the filthy creatures who raised you. Had I known of your ignorance, I would have rectified it earlier. My apologies.” 

Silently, Harry nodded, feeling a little better. Snarlock left them in an ornate white marble room, hurrying out of there as if he was trying not to run. Apart from them and a desk, it was empty.

“They all seem to be afraid of you,” Harry noted. 

Death smiled slightly, looking satisfied. “They sense what I truly am,” he said. “No goblin will harm you, Harry, not now that I have shown you to be under my protection.” 

“But magicals - humans - they won’t? Sense it, I mean.” 

“The more magically sensitive might think me a necromancer,” Death said, again looking amused, “but that is the most they will glean. Magicals have lost touch with their roots. There is not a single human alive that will be able to see me for what I am.” 

Harry nodded uncertainly. “And the goblins - the magical creatures - they won’t tell anyone?” 

“Of course not,” Death said, baring his teeth in a smile. “They fear the consequences if they cross me.” 

Harry blinked. “Clever of them.” 

Death looked pleased. “Indeed.” 

At that moment, the door opened, and another goblin walked in. He seemed to have been prepared for Death’s presence, because he didn’t flinch or go still - like prey, Harry’s mind whispered - but instead simply sat behind the desk as if all were normal. Harry felt her respect for the goblin go up. 

“I am Sharptooth, the Potter accounts manager,” the goblin said. His eyes flicked to Death. “I am afraid that none but Miss Hariel Potter’s magical or legal guardian may be present for this meeting.” His voice didn’t tremble. Harry’s respect went up a few more notches and so, it seemed, did Death’s, for he dipped his head. 

“Very well,” he said. He looked at Harry. “I will be waiting for you outside.” 

“But -” 

“You will be perfectly fine on your own,” Death told her. “The goblins know not to cross me.” 

He didn’t look at Sharptooth, but his message was clear. Sharptooth paled a little, but did nothing else. Death swept from the room, leaving Harry and Sharptooth alone. 

“Now,” Sharptooth said, “Before we begin, I need you to sign this contract, which will verify that you are sound of mind and body, and not under the influence of any external magics.” 

Harry nodded, reading the contract - Death hadn’t taught her to be a fool - and signing with a flourish. The contract glowed green for a moment. 

“Excellent,” Sharptooth said. “Now, as I’m sure you’re aware, you are quite famous in the magical world.” He waited for Harry to nod before proceeding. “It follows, therefore, that a number of people have gifted you a wide variety of things, all of which have been collected in a Gringotts vault for your convenience. You may go over the items in that vault at another time, as we are here to discuss the non-tangible gifts, such as property and business shares.” 

Harry’s eyes went wide. She had property? And… and business shares? What was a business share? 

~ 

It was several hours later that Harry and Death finally left Gringotts. Harry was in a daze. She had houses - several houses! And she apparently owned some parts of several businesses - Sharptooth had explained what a business share was. She didn’t know what to do about any of it, so Sharptooth had advised that she find a magical lawyer. And accountant, because apparently her finances were in disarray after a decade of absence. Her magical guardian - Dumbledore, again - was supposed to have managed them in her stead, but he hadn’t, so the task was left to her. It was all very overwhelming. 

He'd given her the Black and Potter heir rings, too. They'd merged into one ring on her hand, a simple obsidian with P and B engraved in elegant calligraphy, and she couldn't help but fiddle with it as she walked. This was a connection, the first connection she'd had with her past. There'd been Potters before her. She was only one in a long line of Potters, and somehow the thought was comforting.

But the properties and investments... that was a bit much.  

She was eleven. She’d leave the complicated legal and financial things to the adults, thanks. All Harry wanted, at the moment, was a nice big ice cream to soothe her aching head. Death, looking vaguely amused, agreed. 

They set off, Harry grabbing Death’s hand. His expression morphed to that of puzzlement at her touch, which only increased when she skidded to a stop outside Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlour and looked back and forth between Death and the shop.

“Death,” Harry began, in dawning horror, “have you ever had ice cream before?” 

Death blinked. “I’ve never had reason to consume mortal food and drink.” 

Harry stared. “Never?” 

“Never.”

There was a pause. 

“That’s awful,” Harry declared passionately. She dragged him into the parlour, beaming up at Florean Fortescue himself. 

“Hello, Mr. Fortescue!” 

“Hello, Miss Potter,” he said kindly. He looked at Death. “Who’s this?” 

His hand still in Harry’s, Death bowed. “I am Lord Morrigan Peverell. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Mr. Fortescue’s eyes widened but, apart from that, he didn’t react. “I see. What’ll you be having today, er - Lord Peverell?” 

Death looked at Harry. “I believe you are the expert in this realm.” 

Harry thought for a moment, examining the different flavours. She hadn’t tried all of them, but she’d had about half. Which would Death like? He’d never had anything before - she had to make a good choice. It was very important. 

Her frown deepened. Not the marshmallow jumpties - she didn’t think dignified Death would enjoy having to chase down his marshmallows. Perhaps the classic strawberry? But… that didn’t seem quite right either. Then her eyes landed on the flavour at the end of the aisle and lit up. 

“The mint chocolate frog for him, please!” Harry chirped. There was only one frog, and it was stuck into the ice-cream at the very top, so Death likely wouldn’t mind too much, would he? And it would be slow from the cold. “In a cup. And I’ll have the blueberry cobbler.” 

“A fine choice,” Mr. Fortescue said seriously as he handed them their cups and told them the price. Harry reached for her coin purse, but Death stilled her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“I believe it is custom for the adult to pay,” he said, looking faintly amused. 

“But it was my idea,” Harry protested. 

“It would be poor manners,” Death said firmly. “This is not in contention, Harry.” 

He was using his don’t-argue-with-me voice. Harry sighed, resolving to sneak payment into Death’s coin purse when he wasn’t looking. 

“And don’t even think about sneaking money into my coin purse,” Death added, handing over a handful of knuts. 

Harry stared at him, open-mouthed, ignoring Mr. Fortescue’s chuckles. “Are you a mind-reader?” she demanded. 

“No,” Death said, leading her over to a table outside. “You are merely very predictable. And the correct term is legilimens” He examined his ice cream critically. 

“You eat the frog first,” Harry said knowledgeably. “Or else it’ll jump away.” 

“Hmm.” Death plucked the frog from the top of the ice cream, watching as its legs flailed. “Fine spellwork. Does Mr. Fortescue enchant these himself?”

“No,” Harry said, having had the same question. “They’re enchanted by a company. Mr. Fortescue just buys them.”  

“Fascinating.” Delicately, he bit the head off the ice-cream-covered-frog. Harry watched with eager eyes as he chewed. He swallowed, all in silence. 

“Well?” she asked, unable to bear it any longer. “What d’you think?” 

“Incredible,” Death murmured. “The flavours… the texture. It seems to melt on the tongue. But there is a sort of sharpness to it…” 

Harry bounced in her seat, beaming. “That’d be the mint - I’m so glad you like it!”

Death gave her an approving nod. “A fine choice,” he said approvingly, eating the rest of the frog, which had gone limp. They finished off their ice cream, Harry chattering about everything she’d read and how excited she was for Hogwarts . Then, Death insisted that they get her some casual robes, because while she wasn’t wearing Dudley’s cast-offs anymore, the clothes Aunt Petunia got her weren’t exactly top-notch, either, and she’d need something to wear on the weekends. 

So she suffered through fittings at Twilfit and Tattlings, which was apparently higher quality than Madam Malkin’s, which she’d gone to for her school robes. Once again, Death paid, the shopkeeper's eyes going wide when he gave her his name. Harry, for her part, was enjoying the anonymity. 

Then, Death broached the subject of pets, and Harry perked up. She’d been wary of getting a pet - Death had told her that animals didn’t like him, which hadn’t surprised her at all. But now that Death had a mortal form, while they’d still be wary of him, there’d be some brave enough to withstand his presence, so the two went to the Magical Menagerie. 

When she entered, the animals all seemed to shy away instinctively from Death - all save one. It was a beautiful snowy owl, and Harry fell in love with her immediately. Death bought the owl for her, over her protests, the shopkeep apologising for the strange behaviour of all the other animals. 

When they walked back outside, Harry opened the cage. She didn’t like the idea of keeping a bird in a cage - it seemed wrong, somehow. If the owl wanted to leave, she wouldn’t make it stay. 

But it didn’t. It hopped out onto Harry’s offered finger with nary a glance at Death, looking at her curiously with its large amber eyes. In the light, its feathers were so white they looked almost blue. 

“Have you decided on a name?” Death asked. 

Harry nodded. She looked at the owl. “How do you like Hedwig?” she asked. “She was the patron saint of orphans.” 

The owl regarded her for a moment before letting out a soft hoot. Animal magic was easier to read than human magic - she could sense its contentment, and knew it was amenable. 

“Hedwig it is, then,” she said decisively. “Why don’t you fly back to my room at the Leaky Cauldron? I’m on the fourth floor in the -” 

But before she could finish speaking, Hedwig had already flown off. 

Death put a hand on her shoulder. “Owls are clever things,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice. “Hedwig will follow your magical signature and find your room with ease.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Wow.”

“Indeed.”

They ate lunch at a restaurant down Carkitt Alley, and then Death dropped her back off at the Leaky Cauldron, saying that he had meetings with various advisors, and that he would find her a lawyer and accountant. 

“I fear I will be quite busy in the upcoming weeks,” Death said, looking concerned. “There is far more to mortal life than I had anticipated. However, rest assured I will see you every weekend, and will see you off at the Hogwarts express.” 

Harry nodded, unable to conceal her disappointment. Death’s eyes seemed to soften. 

“You are still my priority, Harry,” he said. “I promise you, I will do the utmost to remove you from your relatives and place you into my care.” 

Unable to help herself, at Death’s words, she flung her arms around him in a hug. It was the first hug she remembered having - Death was warm, and she found she sort of missed the coldness of his immortal form. But his arms closed around her, and she buried her head in his torso, and then it was difficult to care much about anything.

Chapter Text

The month before her first year at Hogwarts was one of the best she’d ever had, easily. Not only could she spend time with Death in the open, other people could see him, too! And she was finally, finally learning wanded magic, just like her parents - she'd tried out every single charm in her Charms textbook and they’d all worked so far, to her utter delight, and it was the same for Transfiguration. Death said it was because she’d already spent years cultivating her magical awareness. She’d tried brewing a few potions, too, and found it utterly fascinating. Because Death had already taught her basic Arithmancy, she knew why certain numbers of things produced certain results, but there was simply so much to learn! So much theory Death had never touched on, saying that he needed to leave something for her to learn at Hogwarts, and she suddenly got access to the lot all at once. It was overwhelming in the best way. 

She spent her weekends with Death, talking over meals or just enjoying each others’ company in silence. She’d read her textbooks and Death would read his papers - he had stacks of parchment to read and sign - and on weekdays he’d leave to do adult things and she’d… continue reading her textbooks. Or browse the bookstore - the clerk knew her by face, now, if not by name. She was very grateful for the expandable bookcase in her trunk.

Harry loved it. For the first time in her life, she was free to do as she liked, eat what she liked, and do magic as she liked. It was a feeling unlike anything she’d felt before, and she hoped she never took it for granted. 

Soon, though, August came to a close. Harry packed up her things, said goodbye to Tom, and Death Apparated them to King’s Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters. She stood on the platform, her trunk levitating next to her, staring up at the bright red steam engine that’d take her to Hogwarts. 

Death cleared his throat. “I suppose this is goodbye.” 

The word ‘goodbye’ sent a shot of fear through Harry’s heart - what if she went on the train, and Death vanished? What if she never saw him again? What if - 

“No,” Harry said strongly. “This isn’t goodbye.” She turned, looking up at him earnestly. “This is a ‘see you later.’” 

Death peered down at her and, very gently, put a hand on top of her head. His eyes were soft. “Indeed. See you later then, Harry.” 

Harry hesitated, then hugged Death very quickly and ran off. “See you later!” she called over her shoulder. She risked a glance back when she’d clambered onto the train, and found Death looking at her fondly, albeit a bit bemusedly, a hand raised in farewell. She waved back, he turned on the spot, and was gone. Harry felt his loss keenly - she wouldn’t see him until winter break, and that was months away. Since meeting him, they’d never been apart for more than a week. 

They’d arrived an hour early, so the train was nearly empty. Harry, faced with far too many choices, ended up choosing a compartment at random. She plopped down and pulled out a book - The Beginner’s Guide to Herbology. Plants liked her, and Harry liked them back. Her favourite chore had been gardening, and the only one she’d kept after she’d gotten Dudley’s second bedroom. 

Lost in her book, she didn’t notice the train start to fill up. It wasn’t until there was a knock on the door and a ginger-haired boy poked his head in that she finally looked up. 

“Hello,” she said curiously. 

“Hello,” the boy said, flushing a little. Nervous, Harry thought. “Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.” 

She smiled at him to try and put him at ease. It was a lie, she knew, that the other compartments were full, but a harmless one - she thought he just didn’t want to sit alone. “Go ahead.” 

“Thanks.” 

The boy hefted his trunk into the compartment above their heads and plopped down across from her. 

“I’m Ron Weasley, by the way,” he said. “Who’re you?” 

“Harry Potter,” Harry said, and braced herself. 

Ron’s eyes widened. “Are you really?” 

“That’s what I’m told,” Harry said, taken aback by the wording of his question. “Of course, it’s possible that everyone in my life has been running an elaborate plot, and I’m not actually Harry Potter at all, just some sort of decoy put in place to protect the real one.” 

Ron stared. 

“... That was a joke,” Harry said lamely. 

Ron snorted. “I think you’d get along very well with my two of my brothers,” he said decisively. “They’re funny, too.” 

“If I was actually funny, you’d have laughed.” 

Ron grinned at her. “You just need to work a bit on your delivery, is all. It was funny once you said that it was a joke - don’t worry.” 

Harry smiled at him tentatively. “Thanks. Are you a first-year, too?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said, nodding. “Which -” 

“Ah, Ron!” A tall, ginger-haired boy who looked about fifteen poked his head into their compartment. He was wearing his Hogwarts robes already - Gryffindor, she noticed - and had a badge with a letter ‘P’ on it. “Settled in alright?” 

Ron looked irritated. “Yes, Percy,” he said in a long-suffering tone of voice. “No thanks to you.” He looked at Harry. “Harry, this is Percy, one of my brothers. Percy, this is Harry Potter.” 

Percy’s eyes widened when he heard her name and he puffed up his chest importantly. “Are you, now? Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Potter! As Ron mentioned, I’m Percy Weasley, one of Gryffindor’s fifth-year prefects. No matter which house you end up in, know that you can always come to me if you need advice, help, or anything of the sort.” 

Harry blinked. His tone of voice was oddly formal, so she shifted her own to match. “Thank you, Prefect Weasley,” she said. “I appreciate the offer, and will keep that in mind.” 

Percy flushed a little. “Ah, just Percy’s fine,” he said, dropping the formality. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two to chat, shall I?” 

“Please do,” Ron muttered, and Percy left with a final farewell. “Sorry about him,” Ron added, looking apologetically at Harry. “He’s a bit of a pompous prat.” 

“I liked him,” Harry said decisively. He’d been very pompous, yes, but she really did appreciate the offer of help. “He seems kind.” 

Ron gave her a bemused look. “If you say so.” 

“I take it he’s not one of the brothers you mentioned earlier? The ones I’d get along with?” 

“No,” Ron shook his head vigorously. “I was talking about Fred and George. They’re twins, see, and pranksters, some of the biggest you’ll ever meet.” 

Harry’s eyes went wide. “So you have three brothers?” 

Ron flushed. “Five, actually - Bill and Charlie have already left school. And a sister, Ginny. She’ll be attending next year.”

“You have six siblings?” Harry asked in wonder. “That sounds incredible. What’s it like?” 

“It’s not, not really,” Ron mumbled. “It’s a lot to live up to - Bill was head boy, Charlie quidditch captain. Now Percy’s a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot but they still get really good marks. And then there’s me.” Ron looked glum. “I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.” He pulled out a fat, grey rat from his robes. It was sleeping. “His name’s Scabbers, and he’s useless. Look, he’s even missing a toe.” 

Harry went still. She didn’t like Scabbers - not at all. His magic was thick and oily-feeling, and she resisted the urge to recoil. She drew her magical awareness back in - it wouldn’t do to offend her first potential friend. She turned her mind firmly away from Scabbers. 

Harry didn’t know how to cheer Ron up. It looked rather like he had an inferiority complex - he’d been living in his brother’s shadows so long he didn’t know what to do with himself or how to get out. She thought for a moment, desperate to wipe that glum look off his face. 

“Everyone has things they’re good at,” Harry said at last. “Don’t they? I’m sure you can do loads of stuff your brothers can’t. You’re your own person, after all, and everyone’s good at something.” 

Ron blinked at her. “I suppose… I’m not bad at chess,” he mumbled. 

“Chess!” Harry perked up. “I’ve never played chess before! Could you teach me?” 

Ron gaped. “Never played chess… of course I’ll teach you! Here, I’ve got an extra set, you can borrow it -” 

They opened up a chess board, which floated in the air between them, and Ron taught her how to set up the pieces. He tried to go through the rules, but he’d clearly never taught someone how to play before, because he kept going off on tangents and forgetting things, so eventually decided that he’d just walk her through her first few games ‘til she got the hang of it. 

They were halfway through their first - very confusing - game when the snack trolley arrived. Ron pulled out some very sad-looking corned beef sandwiches, and upon hearing that he didn’t like them, Harry bought a bit of everything and insisted on swapping. They set aside the chess game as they talked and ate, and Harry turned over the packages in her hands. 

“Chocolate frogs!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t realise they sold these separately!” 

Ron gave her an odd look. “Where’ve you been getting your chocolate frogs, then?” 

“Mr. Fortescue’s ice cream parlour,” Harry said. “I thought they only came with ice cream.” 

He snorted. “That’s silly,” Ron said decisively. “Where would you get a card, then?” 

“Card?” 

“Yeah, the frogs come with cards, they’re collectible - open one and find out!” 

Harry looked at the package and set it aside, shaking her head. “No, I’d rather give them all to D- my family friend,” she said, stumbling over the words. “He likes chocolate frogs, and neither of us knew you could buy them separately.” She hesitated. “Even if he did know, he wouldn’t buy them for himself, anyway - he’s not the type to buy chocolate.” 

Ron blinked at her. “Neither of you knew? Weird.” He looked at the pile of sweets between them, and picked out all the chocolate frogs. “Here, you can have them all.” 

Harry stared at him guiltily. “What, don’t you want any?” 

“Nah,” Ron said easily. “They’re yours, anyway, and I reckon your family friend’ll enjoy them more than I will.” 

“You sure?” 

“Positive.”

Harry hesitated. “Thanks,” she said, a little shyly, and stowed the frogs away in her bag. They barely made a dent in the sweets pile before collectively agreeing to set them aside and get back to the chess game, but even then it wasn’t long until they were interrupted yet again. 

“Excuse me,” a girl about their age said, poking her head in. She had very bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth. Behind her was a boy with soft-looking brown hair and who looked close to tears. “Has anyone here seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.” 

Ron didn’t look up from the board. “No, sorry.” 

Harry shook her head apologetically. “No, but I think I know a spell that might help, if you’re alright with that?” She looked at the brown-haired boy, whom she assumed was Neville. Neville blinked, looking uncertain, but the girl looked intrigued. 

“A spell?” she asked eagerly. “What spell?” 

“The Summoning Charm,” Harry said. 

The girl frowned. “I’ve never heard of that spell.” 

Ron finally looked up from the board incredulously. “What, really?” he asked. 

The girl sniffed. “Yes, really. It wasn’t in the Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, or Grade Two.” 

Harry nodded. “It was in Grade Four,” she said. “But I tried it out a few times, and I think it might work.” 

The girl looked skeptical. “You think?”

“It - it’s a good idea,” Neville said, speaking for the first time. His voice was very quiet. “Could you try it, please?” 

“Of course!” Harry said instantly. “What’s your toad’s name?” 

“Trevor.” 

Harry nodded to herself. She reached for her magic, pulling out her wand. She took a breath. 

“Accio Trevor!”

There was a pause wherein nothing happened. The girl sniffed.

“Are you sure that’s a real -” 

Then, a large warty toad came zooming into the compartment. Harry caught it with ease and held it out to Neville. 

“Trevor!” he cried gratefully. He grasped the toad, who looked very disgruntled at being caught. He turned to her. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Harry blushed, not used to being on the receiving end of so much sincere gratitude. “It’s not a problem.” 

The girl looked reluctantly impressed. “That must’ve been a fourth-year spell,” she said. “If it came from grade four. How on earth did you learn it?” 

Harry wanted to shrug, but she’d been chastised for it enough by Death that she held in the urge. Instead, she looked away. “It wasn’t that difficult,” she said, uncomfortable. “I’m sure anyone could do it if they tried.” 

The girl looked like she wanted to argue, but Ron cut in. Harry felt a surge of gratitude towards him. “I’m Ron Weasley,” he said. “If you two are going to join us, you might as well introduce yourselves and sit down. You’re blocking the hallway.” 

The girl frowned. “That’s very rude of you -” 

“I’m Neville Longbottom,” Neville said, seeming to sense an argument. “Are you sure you two don’t mind if we join you?” 

“Of course not,” Harry said, moving the pile of sweets aside. “Please, sit. What’s your name?” she asked, turning to the girl as Neville sat next to Harry.

The girl sniffed, sitting next to Ron, who looked vaguely displeased about it. “I’m Hermione Granger,” she said. “And you?” 

Harry hesitated. She was tempted to lie, but then they’d find out eventually, and she’d likely lose all chances of being friends with them. There was nothing for it. “Harry Potter.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Are you really?” she asked, unknowingly echoing Ron. “I’ve read all about you, of course. I got a few extra books, for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”

Harry felt rather overwhelmed and a little offended. She’d known about all that, of course, but -

“You can’t know all about me just from reading a few books,” she said. “Besides, I was one. Isn’t it more likely that my mum defeated Vol-” Harry checked herself. She and Death used the name, but she knew from her readings that the more socially acceptable phrase was - “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? I mean, I could barely talk, let alone cast a spell.” 

It was Hermione’s turn to look offended. “But the books said -” 

“Books aren’t always right.” She’d learned that when Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century had said that she was somewhere “safe and happy.” When the book had been published, she’d still been living in a cupboard. 

Hermione’s frown deepened. “But they’re books.”

“Just because - just because something’s written doesn’t mean it’s right,” Neville stammered. He kept his gaze fixed determinedly on the floor. “There’s lots of books in my family library that’ve been removed because the stuff in them’s wrong or outdated.” 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Some books aren’t worth the parchment they’re printed on.” 

"But -"

Thankfully, at that point, the conductor announced that they’d be arriving at Hogwarts soon, and there was a rush to change into their school robes. 

~ 

When the train slowed to a stop, they all clambered out onto the platform where an enormous man led them to the edge of a lake. The four of them clambered into a boat, the tension subsiding slightly, and they were off, drifting across the surface of the lake. 

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the large man called over his shoulder. “Jus’ round this bend ‘ere.” 

Harry gasped. She barely paid attention to the castle that’d appeared in front of them - she was more focused on what she could feel. 

Her magic… her magic was singing. 

Hogwarts has stood for over a thousand years, Death had told her. Wars have been fought for its land, blood has been spilt on its soil. Generations of young magicals have lived within its walls, and that grants a special kind of power. 

She hadn’t fully understood what he’d meant then, but she did now. Hogwarts… Hogwarts was beautiful. Its wards swept over her in a wave of welcome, and Harry could feel the castle’s joy at the beginning of yet another year. She was eager to have students once again within her walls, and she loved every single one of them. She’d be a home to those who needed it, a sanctuary to those who wanted it, and a place of being to all the rest. She was… she was… 

“Beautiful,” Harry whispered, not realising she’d spoken out loud until her three companions murmured their agreement. Somehow, though, she wasn’t sure they were talking about the same thing. 

~ 

They were handed off to a stern-looking woman wearing emerald green robes, whom the enormous man - Hagrid, the woman called him - called Professor McGonagall. 

“Teaches Transfiguration,” Ron hissed to Harry in an undertone. “She’s head of Gryffindor house - given Fred and George countless detentions.” 

Harry nodded in thanks. Professor McGonagall led them into the entrance hall and paused, sweeping her eyes over all of them. Her eyes seemed to linger on Harry. She gave a short speech about the houses before leaving them to their own devices. The hall immediately erupted into whispers. 

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” Harry asked Ron. It was something she’d never thought to ask Death. 

“Some sort of test, I think,” Ron said gloomily. “Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.” 

Some sort of test? Harry hoped, suddenly, that she was adequately prepared. She’d read all her textbooks - several times! And a few years ahead in some subjects. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if they included questions about magical society that she didn’t know? What if Death had forgotten to teach her something, or she’d forgotten something he had taught her?

“Ron,” Harry said, suddenly deeply afraid, “when exactly was the Wizengamot formed?”

Ron gave her a bemused look. Neville and Hermione did the same. 

“Why -”

“Move along, now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.” 

Professor McGonagall had reappeared. Harry hoped that she hadn’t heard what Harry had just said. What if that really was one of the questions on the test, and she thought Harry had been cheating? What if she kicked Harry out because of it? 

“C’mon,” Ron hissed. “Line up.” 

Harry blinked, jolting out of her thoughts. Quickly, she joined the line behind Ron. Professor McGonagall led them into the Great Hall, and Harry had to hold back a gasp. 

It was incredible. She raked her gaze across the sky, wondering how it’d been enchanted, before gazing at the candles, wondering how they’d been enchanted, and finally to the cutlery, wondering what those had been enchanted with. 

Her gaze was drawn, however, to the ragged hat Professor McGonagall had placed on top of a stool. A rip near the brim opened wide, and Harry’s mouth fell open as it began to sing. 

What - it spoke! It was a hat, and it spoke! Did it come up with its own songs? Did it - was it sentient? Had magicals found out how to give an inanimate object the gift of thought? Why was no one else freaking out about this?

When it was done, Ron whispered furiously to Harry. “So we’ve just got to try on the hat! I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll.” 

Harry nodded absently, still trying to figure out how exactly the hat worked and whom she could ask about it. 

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

“Hufflepuff!” the hat called. 

So it went. Hermione went - surprisingly - to Gryffindor. Ron groaned at that, and Harry suddenly realised she had no idea what house any of her - acquaintances? Friends? - wanted to go to. It’d never come up. 

Neville went to Gryffindor as well, but he ran off with the hat still on his head, leading the hall to laugh. He scrambled back, handed it to Professor McGonagall, and returned, red-faced, to the Gryffindor table. 

Nerves coiled anxiously in Harry’s stomach. She wondered anxiously which house she’d be placed in. Maybe - 

“Potter, Harry!” 

The Great Hall erupted into whispers. 

“Potter, did she say?” 

“The Harry Potter?” 

Harry took a deep breath. Willing her legs not to tremble and wishing she didn’t have to do this with everyone watching, she walked up to the stool. Professor McGonagall peered down at her, and Harry wondered if she was imagining the subtle softness in her eyes. 

She glanced out over the hall. Ron, in the centre with the other unsorted first-years, gave her a nervous grin and a thumbs-up. Then the hat slipped down over her head, and all she saw was black. 

Hello, Mr. Hat, she thought, very hesitantly. 

Hello, Miss Potter, the hat said, its voice soft in her head. Some very fine Occlumency shields you have here. 

Thank you, Harry thought back shyly. May I ask how you were made?

The hat chuckled. I’m afraid I don’t know, it said apologetically. But let us get back on track - I’m here to Sort you, after all. 

Harry felt a twinge of disappointment. 

I’m not actually sentient, Miss Potter, the hat said, sounding amused. Simply something close to it. I doubt I’d be able to answer any of your questions even if I tried. 

Alright, then, Harry thought glumly. 

If you could please lower your shields, however, that would be much appreciated. 

D- I was told to never lower them. 

I’m afraid I cannot Sort you if you do not, Miss Potter. 

Harry frowned. This was a conundrum. 

I cannot tell your secrets, Miss Potter, the Hat said, sensing her hesitation. What happens between us is completely private. 

… Fine. 

She lowered her shields.  After another chuckle, the hat began to sort through her head. Hm. Difficult, very difficult, it mused. Plenty of courage, I see. And a brilliant mind, too - it’s been cultivated very, very well.  Now, let’s see here… there’s talent, and - oh, yes, and a nice thirst to prove yourself. You want to make your guardian proud. Now, where shall I put you? 

Everyone expects me to be in Gryffindor, Harry thought. Don’t they? 

Perhaps, but are you one to follow what everyone expects of you? The Hat’s voice was sly, almost teasing. 

I suppose it depends on the expectation. If it counts at all, I’d like Gryffindor, please. 

Are you quite sure? You could be great, you know. It’s all here in your head and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that. 

I think… Harry paused. I think that, in the future, there’ll be times when I’ll have to choose to be brave. I already have cunning and ambition - you know who I was raised by. But bravery… that was never really a focal point. 

There was a long, thoughtful pause. You are suggesting, the Hat said slowly, that I Sort you based not on what traits you have, but on what you need to develop? 

Yes. 

…. That’s the most Slytherin argument for getting into Gryffindor that I’ve ever heard. 

Harry’s stomach dropped. Had she failed? Was she going to get put into Slytherin regardless of - 

But you’ve convinced me, Miss Potter. Better be - “GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry exhaled as Professor McGonagall took the Hat from her head. The Gryffindor table had erupted into cheers. A pair of redheaded twins were yelling, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” It was loud and exuberant and everything she wasn’t used to. She sat down and let the noise wash over her, smiling. 

Now, there were only four people left to be sorted. Dean Thomas went to Gryffindor, Lisa Turpin went to Ravenclaw, and then it was Ron’s turn. Harry watched him hopefully, a part of her hoping he’d get Gryffindor, too. It’d be nice to be in the same house. 

She needn’t have worried. The moment the Hat touched his head, it called out, “GRYFFINDOR!” and she clapped along with the rest, grinning as he sat down next to her. Blaise Zabini went to Slytherin, and then - 

The man at the centre of the high table had gotten to his feet. He had long silver hair and beard, half-moon glasses, and twinkling eyes. Judging by the large gold chair he sat in, Harry supposed that was Dumbledore. Her stomach churned. 

Dumbledore was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry stared. Slytherin, she noticed, was noticeably quieter, and she felt a pang of longing for the house she’d turned down. She saw Theodore there, sitting apart from the others, and frowned slightly. Ron nudged her. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” 

Harry blinked, realising that the plates in front of her had filled with food. She filled her plate swiftly, tuning back into the conversation, Theodore forgotten for the moment. 

“I thought the castle had ghosts,” Ron was saying to Percy around a mouthful of food. “Where are they?” 

Percy frowned. “You didn’t see them in the entrance hall? I…” He looked around. “That’s odd. They’re usually present for the welcoming feast.” 

“Weird,” Ron said, and shrugged, going back to his food. 

~

(during dessert, she felt a prodding at her mental shields. She snapped her head up, eyes narrowing, and caught the back of the head of a man sitting at the high table wearing a turban. No one was looking at her, but she had the feeling that that man was, somehow, even if his face was turned away. She ducked her head immediately, going back to her treacle tart and mentally fortifying her shields)

(that man would be one to watch out for)

Chapter Text

The first-year Gryffindor’s first class was Transfiguration, which they had alone. After taking a lot of notes, to the point where Harry’s hand was cramping, Professor McGonagall gave each of them a match and instructed them to turn it into a needle. Harry pulled out her wand for the first time, and beside her, Ron made an aborted movement. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Nothing - nothing,” he said, but he avoided her eyes, ears turning red, and Harry knew he was lying. Staring at her wand, her stomach sank. She’d done some reading on wandlore - was Ron frightened of her, because her wand was made of yew? 

Maybe he should be, a small voice whispered in the back of her head. Maybe everyone should be. 

No, Harry thought back strongly. My future is not predetermined. 

“It’s just,” Ron blurted out, “there’s a lot of prejudice against yew wands. People think they only choose magicals destined to go Dark.”

Harry hesitated. “Do you think that?” She glanced at him.

Ron looked like he was struggling with something, but then something in his eyes firmed and he shook his head. “No. I don’t. Just… be careful, alright?” 

Harry felt a faint warmth in her chest. Ron wasn’t afraid of her - he was worried for her. He was trying to warn her about the prejudice she might face in the kindest way he knew how, and for that, she was touched. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. Conversation over, they each turned back to their matches. 

She took a deep breath, focusing her magic. Transfiguration, she’d learned from her books and from Professor McGonagall’s lecture, changed the very substance of matter. It rearranged atoms using magic, which was just another form of energy. She waved her wand down the length of the matchstick and felt her magic pool at its tip. 

“Mutare,” she murmured. She could feel her magic flow out of her wand, steady and gentle as a running stream, and smoothly, the matchstick lengthened. At her next exhale, a thin, pointed needle sat in its place. She looked up. 

Professor McGonagall was standing in front of Harry’s desk, one thin eyebrow delicately raised. Beside Harry, Ron was grinning. 

“Well done, Miss Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, a note of pride in her voice. “Very well done. Ten points to Gryffindor. Perhaps you could try helping your classmates.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said shyly, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. 

As Professor McGonagall moved on, Ron nudged her. “Teacher’s pet,” he teased in a whisper. 

Harry scowled at him. “Do you want my help or not?”

“No - no - I take it back, sorry.” 

Harry grinned smugly. “That’s what I thought.” 

By the end of the lesson, Ron, Dean, Parvati, and Lavender hadn’t quite turned their matchsticks into needles, but they were close. Harry had offered to help Hermione, but Hermione had only glared at her and told her to go away. Seamus, somehow, had set his matchstick on fire, and Neville hadn’t made any progress at all. Professor McGonagall sent them off with the matchsticks and instructions to practice, except Harry, whom she held back. 

“Your father was excellent in Transfiguration, you know,” she told Harry. “But I don’t think even he managed the full transfiguration on his first try.” 

Harry’s eyes went wide. “You knew my father, Professor?” 

Professor McGonagall gave her a small smile. “Indeed. Now, run along, Miss Potter, or else you’ll be late to your next class.” 

~

After lunch, they had History of Magic, which was apparently taught by a ghost. Apparently, because when they got to the classroom - they’d beaten the Hufflepuffs - the classroom was empty. And it stayed empty, even as the Hufflepuffs arrived and the bell rang. 

“Perhaps he’s… invisible?” Susan Bones suggested tentatively. 

Ron frowned. “Even if he were invisible, we’d still be able to hear him. No, I just don’t think he’s there.” 

They all stared at the empty desk. It was fifteen minutes past the time when class was supposed to start. 

~

Friday morning, the Gryffindors had double Potions with the Slytherins. Harry was looking forward to Potions - it was all so interesting, the way Arithmancy and Herbology came together. This number of stirs plus this ingredient produced that result… it was fascinating. After the disaster that was History of Magic the day before - they’d ended up trooping to the nearest classroom and a flustered Professor Flitwick had given them the period off while he sorted out the issue - Harry was looking forward to a class taught by a professor who was, at the very least, tangible. 

They headed down to the dungeons, ending up in a room lined with pickled animals floating in glass jars all along the walls. Judging by some of her yearmate’s shudders, they thought it was creepy, but Harry, who’d spent years with Death , thought it was wicked. 

The Slytherins had beaten them there, and as Harry and Ron sat down at the front, a blond boy with a pale, pointed face swaggered over. 

“So,” he said grandly, “you’re Harry Potter, are you?” 

Harry tilted her head, a little bemused. “That’s what they tell me.” 

The boy puffed up. “I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” 

Next to her, Ron gave a snigger. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. 

“Think my name’s funny, do you?” he sneered. “No need to ask who you are - red hair and hand-me-down robes - you must be a Weasley.” 

Before Ron could do much more than puff up indignantly, Harry intervened. “Can I help you, Malfoy?” she asked politely. 

Malfoy turned his gaze back to her. “Shame you’re in Gryffindor,” he said, sneering slightly. “But I suppose I can look past it.” He offered her a hand. 

Harry watched him evenly, feeling irritated. This boy had come in, insulted her first friend, and now he wanted her to shake his hand?  

“I’m not sure I want to know someone who’ll have to look past my house,” she said pleasantly. “Next time you try getting someone on your side, I’d suggest not insulting their friend while you’re at it.” She inclined her head. “Good day, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy stared at her. It seemed he couldn’t believe she’d just turned down his offer of friendship. Slowly, he lowered his hand. 

Ron snickered. 

“You’ll regret that, Potter,” Malfoy said lowly, his face flushed. He glanced at his fellow Slytherins, then glared at her. “Don’t you know who I am? Who my father is?” 

Harry stared at him, a little confused. “Are you trying to frighten me?” 

Malfoy’s flush deepend. “You - you -” 

“Mr. Malfoy,” a smooth, drawling voice called out. “To your seat, please.” 

“I’ll make you pay,” Malfoy hissed at her, before stalking back to his seat. Harry looked up, meeting Professor Snape’s black eyes. They reminded her of Death’s eyes, and she smiled a little. 

Professor Snape’s eyes narrowed as he took the roll call. He paused at Harry’s name, but said nothing, which Harry was grateful for, because Professor Flitwick had toppled off his stack of books when he’d done the same. 

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Harry’s eyes widened in awe and she leaned forwards. She’d been distracted by Malfoy, but suddenly she felt her excitement fill her all over again. Professor Snape was the youngest Potions Master in centuries  - he was absolutely brilliant, and he was her professor. 

“Potter!” Professor Snape snapped suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Harry’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, and then delight. Here was her chance to prove herself to him! 

“Draught of Living Death, sir,” she said confidently. 

Professor Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Hm. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” 

“In the stomach of a goat, sir.” 

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?” 

“They’re the same plant, sir.” 

Something flashed in his eyes, and he switched his glare to the rest of the class. “Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?” 

Harry exhaled, getting the impression that she’d passed some sort of test. Professor Snape flicked his wand, and instructions appeared on the blackboard for a simple Boil Cure potion. 

Since they were working individually, Harry got to work. She expanded her magical awareness tentatively to keep track of how her potion was doing. She was just about to bottle her finished product when suddenly alarm bells rang in her head, her magical awareness sending out a warning. She turned, catching Neville’s wrist before he added the porcupine quills. 

“Wait,” she blurted out. “Take the cauldron off the fire first.” 

Professor Snape, who seemed able to sense any sort of disruption in his classroom, swept over. “And why,” he said silkily, “should he do that, Miss Potter?” 

So she was Miss Potter now, Harry noted. Not just Potter, spat out like he hated the taste of it in his mouth. 

“Because the porcupine quills would’ve reacted with the crushed snake fangs and horned slugs,” Harry said. “Porcupine quills aren’t usually very reactive as they’re from a non-magical animal, but stewing the horned slugs releases a great deal of the ambient magic they have stored up. All that magic goes into the potion, which makes it highly reactive, and is why it needs to be taken off the fire first - otherwise, there’d be too much energy and the potion would explode. As the porcupine quills absorb the excess magic, and the five clockwise stirs reverses the effect, the potion likely would’ve not only exploded, but caused boils whenever it landed on skin, sir.” 

Professor Snape was watching her, one eyebrow raised. There was a long pause. Harry bit her lip nervously, running over the theory in her head - she was sure she’d gotten it right, but with the way Professor Snape was looking at her, suddenly she wasn’t so sure. 

“It seems you’ve cracked open a book before coming here,” he said at last, expression unreadable. “Longbottom, you’re lucky Miss Potter saved you from your own idiocy, otherwise it would’ve been a trip to the hospital wing for you.” 

Neville shrank into himself, and Harry frowned as Snape swept away. Professor Snape was being unnecessarily cruel - it’d been an honest mistake, and sheer luck that her magical awareness had caught it in time. Her image of him as the brilliant potions professor was slowly breaking apart. What kind of adult insulted children? 

“It’s not your fault, Neville,” she said firmly. “You made a mistake, that’s all.” 

Neville shrugged, looking away. “Thanks,” he said quietly, taking his cauldron off the fire and adding the porcupine quills. 

“Anytime,” Harry said, still feeling uneasy. She turned back to her own cauldron, where Ron was staring at her. 

“Merlin,” he said, “I can’t believe I’m friends with the other know-it-all.” 

Harry nudged him. “Hush,” she said, smiling. 

Ron looked at her perfect potion and shook his head. “Really, though,” he said in an undertone, “you’re pretty good at -” 

“Silence!” Professor Snape snapped, eyes flashing. 

Ron swallowed, looking pale, and went back to his potion. 

Chapter Text

Dear Harry,

You don’t know me, but I knew your parents. I’d be happy to tell you about them over tea today at 1 o’clock. 

- Hagrid. 

~ 

Harry frowned at her note. The gamekeeper? She wondered. Nonetheless, she was intrigued, so she scribbled back a reply in the affirmative and sent Hedwig off again. She showed the note to Ron, who was looking at her curiously. 

“Want to come with?” she asked. 

Ron shrugged. “Sure.” 

~ 

Hagrid lived in a little hut on the school grounds. Harry knocked on the door, and heard several large, booming steps. 

“Harry!” Hagrid exclaimed, beaming at her from beneath his busy beard. “How are yeh? And who’s this?” 

“This is Ron Weasley,” Harry introduced. 

Hagrid chuckled. “Another Weasley, eh? I spent half me life chasin’ yer brothers away from the Forbidden Forest.” 

Ron seemed to scowl at being called ‘another Weasley’. Harry frowned. 

“Ron’s not just another Weasley,” Harry said firmly. “He’s brilliant at chess.” 

Ron seemed to puff up a little at her praise. Hagrid blinked. 

“‘Course he is,” he said gruffly. “Come inside now, I jus’ prepared a cuppa tea.” 

While Ron told Hagrid about their classes, Harry picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table. It was a cutting from the Daily Prophet. 

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

“Oh, tha’,” Hagrid said, snatching the paper out of Harry’s reach. “Tha’s none o’ yer business, Harry - it’s strictly between Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel.” 

Ron blinked. “Nicholas Flamel?” 

Hagrid suddenly looked furious with himself. “Forget I said that,” he growled. He turned the conversation back to classes, but Harry couldn’t help but frown. 

Nicholas Flamel… where had she heard that before?

~

Dear Harry, 

Congratulations on getting Sorted into Gryffindor - I must confess myself surprised at your Sorting, but your reasoning is sound, so I digress. How are your classes? How is Hogwarts? I’ve never attended it myself, obviously, although I’ve heard quite a few stories of the place. 

Ronald Weasley sounds like a fine friend - I never knew his parents personally, though I was familiar with his maternal uncles, Gideon and Fabian Prewett. They passed in the war, I’m afraid, but they were deeply loyal to those whom they considered theirs. I hope, for your sake, that this Ronald Weasley is the same. 

I have procured you a lawyer. Her name is Aida Zabini - I believe her son is in your year. She has won nearly every case she ever fought, and specialises in everything from intellectual property to criminal defence. She has recommended an accountant, Erebos Nott. With your permission, they will sign confidentiality agreements, which I have enclosed. Do not worry yourself overmuch over this - focus on your schooling. 

Thank you for the chocolate frogs. They were very much appreciated, though the company was rather lacking.

Yours sincerely, 

Morrigan

P.S. I would ask that you refrain from feeding your owl bacon. She had developed a rather unkind habit of expecting it from me, and I detest the stuff. I am quite at a loss as to how you enjoy it. 

~ 

Harry grinned. Just for that postscript, she’d make sure to feed Hedwig bacon every time she saw her, she decided mischievously. 

“Who’d be writing to you?” a snobbish, unpleasant voice demanded. 

Harry didn’t look up, tucking her letter into her pocket. “None of your business, Malfoy.” 

She heard him make a frustrated noise and hid a smile. She turned to Ron. “We’ll be late for Defence if we don’t leave soon,” she said. 

Ron nodded, unable to hold back a grin. “Right, let’s go.” 

~ 

Unfortunately, they had Defence with the Slytherins, so by the time they got there, Harry had had to dodge three jinxes, all from Malfoy. Fortunately, though, he wouldn’t dare attack her in front of a professor - that was her hope, anyway - so she considered herself safe as soon as Quirrell walked in. 

Well. As safe as she could be, with that veil of malicious magic hanging around Quirrell’s body. 

After learning how to send up sparks - which had been pitifully easy - they were paired up to practice the Knockback Jinx. Quirrell, either unaware or uncaring of the animosity between them, paired her up with Malfoy. Malfoy smirked at her and raised his wand. 

“Can’t dodge this time, can you, Potter?” he taunted. 

Harry raised her eyebrows. “No, I suppose not,” she agreed amicably. Malfoy blinked, surprised, before narrowing his eyes. 

“Flipendo!”

To his credit, he got it on the first try, or perhaps he’d been practising beforehand. She was pushed back a few paces, but kept her balance and didn’t fall. She pulled out her wand, finding some faint enjoyment in the way Malfoy’s face paled at the yew. 

“My turn,” she said. “Flipendo!”  

Malfoy was blasted off his feet and slammed into the wall. He groaned as he got to his feet. 

Professor Quirrell, who’d been watching their exchange, raised his eyebrows at her. “P-perhaps a l-little t-too much p-power there, P-Potter.” 

“Apologies, Professor,” Harry said easily. “No idea how that happened.” 

She wondered if she’d imagined the way his lips twitched. 

When class was over, Professor Quirrell called her back. Malfoy smirked at her as he passed, and she ignored him, walking up to Professor Quirrell. 

“Yes, Professor?” 

He studied her. “T-that was an i-impressive showing in c-class, Miss P-Potter.”

Harry blinked at him, masking her wariness. “Thank you, Professor.” 

There was a pause.

“You know,” Professor Quirrell said, “if you don’t put a stop to it, it’ll only get worse.” 

Harry knew they weren’t talking about her spellwork anymore. She noticed, curiously, that Professor Quirrell’s stutter had vanished. He looked at her with brown eyes, and there was a slight gleam of red to them. The veil of magic seemed, somehow, less malicious than before. 

Suddenly, Harry knew exactly whom she was dealing with. She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and slid on her mask. 

“I’m aware,” Harry said. “But if I don’t react, he’ll only get more angry and desperate, and angry and desperate people make mistakes. It’s only a matter of time before he tries something in front of a professor or a prefect.” 

Quirrell - she would no longer dignify him with the title of Professor - seemed to hold back a sneer. “So you would rely on others to fight your battles for you?” 

“No,” Harry said calmly, “but his father’s rather important, isn’t he? Eventually, it’ll get back to him that his darling son cursed poor, defenceless Harry Potter in front of witnesses, and he’ll likely try to make amends.” She paused, looking at Quirrell’s eyelids. “I’d rather not make enemies, Professor.” 

Quirrell studied her. “Careful, Potter,” he murmured. “If he doesn’t get a reaction out of you, he might go after your… friends.” 

Harry went still. She’d never considered that before - she’d never had to. She’d always been alone. 

Her eyes narrowed, and she spoke without thinking. “If he goes after my friends,” she said quietly, viciously, “then I’ll make him pay.” 

Something like approval flashed in Quirrell’s eyes. “You would have made a fine Slytherin, I think,” he said softly. 

Harry heard the unspoken question - so why are you a Gryffindor? - and smiled. “The Hat wanted me there, sir, but I disagreed.” 

“Oh?” 

She nodded. “Yes. Everyone expects me to be Gryffindor’s golden girl. If I deviate from there too obviously, they’ll be wary. It’s a shame, though,” Harry added, a little wistfully. “I’ve always liked snakes.” 

Quirrell’s eyes were piercing. “Clever,” he murmured. “Very clever.” 

Harry’s eyes widened minutely. “Thank you, Professor,” she said courteously.

Quirrell smiled, and somehow it was more terrifying than anything he’d yet done. “Now, off you go, Potter.” 

Harry dipped her head. “Thank you, Professor,” she repeated. “I’ll see you next class.” 

~ 

The next morning, she got a note. 

~

Dear Harry, 

I would like to see you in my office this evening at seven o’clock. 

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I quite enjoy licorice wands

~ 

Harry stared at it, an uneasy feeling in her stomach. At Ron’s curious look, she handed it to him. 

“Merlin,” Ron said, “you’re not in trouble, are you?” 

“I hope not.” 

Ron frowned. “If this is about Malfoy, then I’ll go with you,” he said firmly. “He’s been vicious to you all week, ever since Potions.” 

“You don’t have to -” 

“I do,” Ron said. “You’re my friend, and friends back each other up.” 

Harry swallowed. She didn’t want to face the Headmaster alone. “Thank you.” 

~ 

At six-thirty, they realised that neither of them knew where the Headmaster’s office was. 

“We could ask McGonagall,” Ron said, chewing on his lip. “Her office hours end at seven, don’t they?” 

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry corrected automatically. “But I don’t want to trouble her. Maybe…” her eyes trailed to the portraits and she walked up to the Fat Lady. 

“Excuse me,” she said politely. “Could you direct us to the Headmaster’s office, please?” 

The Fat Lady looked surprised and then pleased. “But of course! You just go down the hall, make a left…” 

Harry nodded, making mental notes, and then thanked her pleasantly. The Fat Lady beamed at her. 

“If you ever have any other questions about Hogwarts, feel free to ask!” 

“I will,” Harry promised. She paused. "By the way, I just realized I never asked your name. I'm terribly sorry - that's awfully rude of me."

The Fat Lady blinked before looking more pleased than ever. "No one ever does, darling, don't worry. But my name is Catherine."

~ 

They came to a statue of a gargoyle on the third floor. Harry and Ron exchanged puzzled looks. 

“Hello,” Harry said. “I have a meeting with the Headmaster at seven.” 

The gargoyle did nothing. 

“Maybe there’s a password?” Ron ventured. Harry reread her note. The postscript, then - that was the obvious clue. 

“Licorice wands.” 

The gargoyle stepped aside, revealing a circular, moving stone staircase. 

Ron’s eyes widened. “Wicked.” 

Together, they went up the moving staircase, and knocked on the door at the top. 

“Enter,” a voice called. 

~ 

The Headmaster’s office was a large, circular room with many windows. It was filled with portraits and rather cluttered, with several side tables and shelves filled with silver instruments. 

“Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said, raising his eyebrows. Harry’s eyes snapped to him when he spoke. He looked gentle and unassuming, but she could feel the power beneath his skin. 

Ron lifted his chin, though he was visibly nervous. “If this is about the jinxing in the corridors, it’s not Harry’s fault,” he declared. “Malfoy’s the one who sends jinxes - Harry’s never once retaliated.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “This is not, in fact, about Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “Although it is admirable that you came to defend your friend.” 

Ron flushed hotly. It went all the way to his ears. “Oh.” 

“I’d like to speak to Harry in private, if you please, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said. He called her ‘Harry’, Harry noted, but Ron was ‘Mr. Weasley.’ She didn’t like the overly-familiar tone he took with her. 

“I’ll, er, wait for you outside, then,” Ron muttered. “Sorry.”

Harry sent him a warm smile. “Don’t be. I’m grateful you came.” 

Ron’s face went, if possible, even more red, and he quietly shuffled out of the room. Harry heard the grinding of the moving staircase and flicked her eyes to Dumbledore’s nose. 

“You wanted to see me, Headmaster?” 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Take a seat, Harry.” 

He waved his wand, and a squashy purple armchair appeared in front of his desk. Harry sat at the very edge of it, nervous. 

“I wanted to speak with you about Professor Binns, Harry,” Dumbledore said. 

Harry blinked. “Professor Binns? The ghost?” 

“Indeed.” Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “After some investigation, I have found that Professor Binns simply refuses to teach a class with you in it, Miss Potter. In fact, all the ghosts in the school seem - forgive me - deathly frightened of you.”

Harry stared. She couldn’t help it. “But why? I’ve never even seen a ghost before Hogwarts. I still haven’t seen a ghost,” she added. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “I believe - and this is merely a hypothesis - that it has something to do with what you survived as a baby. Perhaps the killing curse left some residual magic on you, and the ghosts sense that, and are frightened by it.” 

You reek of death, Harry remembered a snake telling her. She nodded, knowing, somehow, that his theory wasn’t true. 

“Does that mean I won’t be able to attend history classes, sir?” 

“Quite,” Dumbledore said. “It’s most unusual, and I deeply apologize for the inconvenience, but it seems you’ll have to self-study for your history classes. Hopefully, I can work something out with Professor Binns, but in the meantime, I’m afraid it’s our only option.” He peered at her over his glasses. “You understand - we can’t hold back an entire year just because of one student.” 

Harry swallowed. Why don’t you just hire a human professor? Why is my education less important than those of my classmates? She wanted to ask, but didn’t. “I understand, sir. Thank you for telling me.” 

“Not at all! But I must confess, that isn’t the only reason I’ve asked you here, Miss Potter,” Dumbledore said, smile fading slightly. His eyes sharpened. “It has come to my attention that you did not return to your relatives after getting your school supplies.” 

Panic swelled, and Harry pushed it down ruthlessly. “No, I didn’t,” she said, not asking how he knew. 

“I see.” Dumbledore’s eyes dimmed. His face was a mask of disappointment. “You are safest with your relatives, Miss Potter. I expect you to return to them when you are not at Hogwarts.” 

Safe from whom? Harry asked acidly. Safe from magicals, perhaps, but certainly not from muggles. 

She nodded, concealing her anger and overlaying it with false shame. “Yes, Professor,” she murmured. 

“They love you, you know,” Dumbledore added. “They have cared for you all these years, after all.” 

The anger in her stomach turned to fury. Liar, her mind hissed. “Yes, Professor,” she repeated quietly. 

“And, Miss Potter,” Dumbledore said, “you should be wary of those who claim to care for you. Morrigan Peverell might have known your mother, but the Peverells are a Dark family, and it is rather suspicious, the timing of his reappearance. You understand, don’t you?” 

She’d almost reached her breaking point. How dare Dumbledore insinuate that Death had anything but her best interests at heart? Dumbledore was the one who’d abandoned her with magic-hating muggles. Dumbledore was the one who’d never once checked up on her. Dumbledore was the cause of all the suffering she’d experienced as a child, and now he dared to claim that Death was the suspicious one, the one not to be trusted? 

She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Professor,” she said.

~

“Are you alright?” Ron asked when she left Dumbledore’s office. His eyes were worried. “You’re not in trouble, are you?” 

Harry shook her head. “He just wanted to tell me that I’ll have to self-study for history. Apparently, the killing curse left some sort of residue and now the ghosts don’t want to interact with me.” 

Ron looked outraged. “What, really? That’s so stupid! It’s not like it’s your fault!” 

Harry shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “It’s fine,” she said, and it was. She didn’t particularly care, anyway. Mostly, she was just furious. “I’m going to take a walk before heading back. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Ron nodded, looking at her closely. “You sure you’re alright?” 

Harry smiled at him, and he relaxed slightly. “I’m sure.” 

She waited until Ron was out of sight, then turned on her heel and headed for the seventh floor. Death had told her about this room. She paced the corridor three times, thinking. 

I need a place to fight, somewhere no one can find me.

A door materialised opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Harry was too angry to feel even the slightest bit of awe, and flung it open. The room was filled with golems, and they raised their heads as she entered. Harry bared her teeth in a grin, her yew wand humming in her hand. 

“Begin.”

Chapter Text

Thursday morning, before flying lessons, there was an incident where Malfoy tried to grab Neville’s Remembrall, but Professor McGonagall swiftly intervened. At three-thirty that afternoon, they hurried down the front steps onto the grounds. There were twenty broomsticks lying in two neat lines along the ground - the Slytherins had already claimed one of the lines, so the Gryffindors went to the other. 

Madam Hooch narrowed her eyes once they were all in place. “Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.” 

Harry glanced down at her broom. It was very old - she could feel the enchantments. They were weak. 

“Stick your dominant hand over your broom, and say ‘up!’” 

“Up!” everyone shouted. 

Harry’s broom jumped into her hand at once. They mounted their brooms, Madam Hooch correcting their grips. Harry was pleased when she had nothing to say about her grip but told Malfoy he’d been doing it wrong for years. 

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle - three - two-"

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle - twelve feet - twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and - 

Her wand was in her hand before she realised what was happening. She didn’t say a spell, nor did she wave it. She just pointed it at Neville and willed him to slow. 

Neville decelerated. He drifted to the ground like a leaf, landing lightly on his feet. He wobbled, and Harry realised that everyone was staring. Smoothly, she tucked away her wand. 

“Are you alright, Neville?” Harry asked, and that seemed to snap Madam Hooch out of her spell. 

“Foolish boy,” she snapped. “You kicked off too hard - Miss Potter, ten points to Gryffindor for excellent spellwork. Mr. Longbottom, I’m taking you to the infirmary - a Calming Draught wouldn’t go amiss, I think.” She looked around, eyes hard. “None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, legs trembling, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter. 

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” 

Half the Slytherins joined in. The other half were giving Harry speculative looks, in what they probably thought was a subtle manner. Theodore, Harry noticed, was no longer alone - he and Blaise Zabini were standing apart from the others. 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Parvati snapped. 

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy Parkinson sneered. “Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.” 

“Look!” Malfoy said, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.” 

With a flick of her wrist, Harry’s wand was in her hand again. 

“Accio Remembrall ,” she said quietly, and the glass sphere zipped from Malfoy’s hand into hers. Everyone stopped talking to watch. 

“Thanks for picking it up, Malfoy,” Harry said pleasantly. “I’m sure Neville will be grateful you found it - it was a gift, after all.” 

Malfoy’s face soured. “You - Potter!” he spat. 

“Yes, that’s my name,” Harry agreed. “Do try not to wear it out.” 

Several Gryffindors sniggered, and Malfoy flushed. He whipped out his wand, but at that moment, Professor McGonagall materialised in front of them. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said sternly. “What are you doing?” 

Malfoy tucked away his wand, glaring at Harry. “Nothing, Professor,” he ground out. 

“I thought so,” Professor McGonagall said crisply. “Now, back beside your brooms, everyone. I will supervise until Madam Hooch returns.” 

~ 

“That was brilliant,” Ron said breathlessly, grinning broadly at her. 

Harry smiled at him. “Thanks, Ron. Do you know where the Hospital Wing is? I’d like to return Neville’s Remembrall.” 

Ron shrugged. “Beats me.” 

Harry sighed. “Portraits it is, then.” 

~ 

Neville thanked her profusely for returning his Remembrall. She and Ron met him just as he was leaving the Hospital Wing.

“I didn’t even realise I’d dropped it!” he said. “Gran would’ve been furious - thanks, Harry.” 

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Harry smiled. “Malfoy has no right to be so nasty to you, anyways.” 

Neville’s smile faded. “He does, though,” he said, looking at his feet. “At least he has magic.” 

Harry frowned. “You’ve got magic, Neville -”

“I haven’t been able to get a single spell right,” he said miserably. “I’m practically a Squib.” 

“Well -” Ron began, with the emotional range of a teaspoon, and Harry stomped on his foot. 

“You’re not,” she said firmly. “Else you wouldn’t be here, would you?” 

Neville avoided their eyes. “Maybe Hogwarts made a mistake.” 

“No, she didn’t,” Harry said. “Hogwarts doesn’t make mistakes, and besides, I’ve seen you in Herbology.”

“Herbology doesn’t require magic, though.” 

Harry stared at him. “Of course it does,” she said, nonplussed. “It’s not just glorified gardening - magical plants soak in the magic you give out. That’s what makes them aggressive or calm. You must have really calming magic, Neville, to have such a way with plants.”

Ron and Neville both stared at her. 

“What?” Harry asked defensively. “It’s true.” 

“I’ve never heard of that before,” Neville said. “But I suppose it does make sense, though it doesn’t explain why I’m so rubbish at spells.”  

Harry frowned thoughtfully before an idea occurred to her. “Look - why don’t we go over the spells we’ve learned together?” 

Neville blinked, looking at her with a spark of hope in his eyes that made Harry’s heart hurt. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” Harry said. She looked at Ron. “You’re welcome to join if -”

“Nah,” Ron said, making a face. “I’d rather not do extra work, if it’s all the same to you.” 

Harry laughed. “Alright, then. C’mon, Neville, let’s find an abandoned classroom.” 

“What - you want to get started now?” 

“When better?” Harry asked. Ron headed towards the dormitories to enjoy their free time before dinner. She and Neville found an abandoned classroom and sat. 

Neville swallowed. “Shall we - shall we get started, then?” 

Harry nodded. “Let’s start simple - have you been able to turn your match into a needle yet?” 

Neville lowered his eyes in shame. “No.” 

“None of that,” Harry said sharply. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all going at our own pace - the only person you’re competing against is yourself.” 

Neville shook his head. “I’m not, though,” he said miserably. “Gran always compares me to my dad - I’ve got his old trunk, his old books, even his old wand. Not that it’s bad!” he added hurriedly. “I’m proud he’s my dad -” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Did his wand choose you?” she asked sharply, cutting him off. She’d thought something was wrong when she’d tried to help him in Transfiguration - it was as though barely any magic was being channelled out of his wand at all. She’d barely noticed at the time, but thinking back…

Neville blinked. “‘Choose me?’”

Harry frowned. “Did you feel a warmth when you first touched it?”

Neville shook his head. 

“That explains it, then,” Harry said, smacking herself on the forehead. “Listen, Neville, when I got my wand, Mr. Ollivander told me that the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around. That’s probably why your spells aren’t working - your wand hasn’t chosen you!” 

Neville seemed to wilt at her words, and Harry hurriedly backtracked. 

“That’s not anything to be ashamed of,” she said firmly. “All it means is that you’re not an exact copy of your dad. You’re you, Neville, not anyone else, and if anyone expects you to be your dad, that’s on them, not you. Come on,” she added, turning and striding out of the room. 

Neville hurried after her, eyes wide. “Where are we going?” 

“To Professor McGonagall,” Harry said. “I’m going to get you a new wand if it’s the last thing I do.” 

She knew, deep in her heart, why she felt so passionate about this. Neville reminded Harry of herself, the person she’d been before Death. Meek, cautious, certain of their own worthlessness. Neville had never had a Death to care for him and build his confidence, so she’d take on the role herself. Someone had to, and Harry refused to leave Neville as he was. He deserved better. 

She knocked briskly on Professor McGonagall’s door, holding Neville by the wrist. At her “Enter,” she dragged him inside. 

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “Miss Potter? Mr. Longbottom? What can I do for you?” 

Harry lifted her chin. “Neville’s using a wand that didn’t choose him, Professor,” she said. 

Professor McGonagall blinked. “Is this true?” she demanded, looking at Neville, who quailed under her gaze. 

“Um - yes,” he stammered. “But my gran said - it’s my dad’s wand, you see, and -” 

Professor McGonagall’s eyes hardened. “That is unacceptable,” she said briskly. “Mr. Longbottom, are you available this Saturday?” 

“Yes, but my gran -” 

“I shall be having a talk with Augusta Longbottom,” Professor McGonagall said, nostrils flaring. “Mr. Longbottom, I expect you here at nine o’clock sharp Saturday morning. I will handle your grandmother.” 

Neville nodded silently, eyes wide, and Professor McGonagall’s eyes softened. 

“You are not your father,” Professor McGonagall said, unknowingly echoing Harry’s words. “That is not a bad thing, Mr. Longbottom. You are your own person, and you deserve your own wand.” 

Neville swallowed. He didn’t seem able to speak. Professor McGonagall studied him for a moment before turning to Harry. 

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Potter,” she said. “Five points to Gryffindor for looking out for a housemate.” 

“Looking out for a friend,” Harry corrected, and Professor McGonagall smiled. 

“Looking out for a friend, then,” she said. “Now, run along, both of you. Nine o’clock, Mr. Longbottom - don’t forget.” 

Neville nodded vigorously, and they left. Harry let go of his wrist, not realising she’d been holding it the whole time. There was a moment of silence. 

“I’m sorry if I was a bit - forceful,” Harry said sheepishly.

Neville shook his head. “No, it’s alright,” he said quietly. He looked up. His eyes were hesitant. “D’you really think it’s okay, that I’m not my dad?” 

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. “We’re all our own people - I’m not either of my parents, I’m me, and that’s alright.” 

Neville swallowed. He looked shaken. “Okay,” he whispered. 

Chapter Text

That night at dinner, Harry sat with Ron and Neville. When she heard familiar footsteps behind her, she held back a sigh. 

“You’ll pay for what you did today, Potter,” Malfoy spat. 

Harry didn’t turn around. “Will I?” she said mildly. 

“I’ll take you on anytime,” Malfoy sneered. “Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only - no contact. Trophy room.” 

“No thanks,” Harry said, spearing a roasted carrot with her fork. 

She heard Malfoy splutter. “No - no thanks?” he said in disbelief. Quickly, he recovered. “What, too scared to get your arse handed to you?” 

Harry heaved a sigh. Perhaps Quirrell was right - Malfoy wouldn’t stop until she made him. Perhaps he was like the Dursleys, who hadn’t stopped until she’d made them . Fear, she supposed, was an excellent motivator, and Malfoy was getting irritating. 

“Or perhaps Longbottom’s rubbed off on you,” Malfoy taunted. “Little cowardly crybaby that he is.” 

Across from her, Neville flushed, lowering his gaze, and something inside Harry flared. She could handle insults to her person - she’d been getting them all her life, after all. But Neville - Neville was her friend, and no one hurt her friends. She glared at Malfoy, her most vicious glare, and he actually took a step back.

“What, exactly, is your problem, Malfoy?” she asked silkily. “Were you hoping that the famous Harry Potter would be your instant friend because of your status? That your surname would give you everything you’d ever wanted?” 

Malfoy’s eyes widened, and she knew she’d hit the nail on the head. She smiled pityingly. “Oh, Malfoy,” she cooed. “I don’t work like that. People don’t work like that. The ones who are friends with you for your status aren’t really your friends, don’t you know? They don’t care about you, but rather what you can do for them. That’s not real friendship. I care about the content of a person’s character, Malfoy. I care about how they treat the people I care about. I care about if they’re kind, considerate, and caring. And from my perspective,” Harry held up a hand and began counting on her fingers, “you insulted my first friend in our first conversation, insulted my second friend in our second conversation, and now you’ve gone and insulted both my friends in our third conversation. Now tell me, Malfoy, does that sound like a person I’d want to be friends with to you?” 

Malfoy stared at her. His eyes were watery, and while some part of Harry felt guilty, another part felt viciously satisfied. He’d insulted her friends - she was just repaying the favour. 

“Run along, now, Malfoy,” Harry said airily. “And leave my friends and I alone.” 

He left, head lowered. Harry turned back to the table, where Ron looked impressed and Neville a little hesitant. 

“Don’t you think that was a little harsh?” Neville asked tentatively. 

Harry faltered a little, but held firm. “He deserved it,” she said. “He insulted you, and you’re my friend. What kind of person would I be if I let people insult my friends and just stood by?” 

Ron nodded. “Plus, he’s been awful to Harry since our first Potions class,” he said. “He had it coming.” 

Neville seemed to think on this. At last, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said decisively. “I suppose he did.” 

~

Dear Morrigan,

I have something to confess: I sort of gave Malfoy a verbal evisceration the other day. I denigrated his character and accused him of being superficial, and I might’ve made him tear up a little. Part of me feels terrible, but the other part feels… satisfied, I think? He’d insulted Neville and had been trying to jinx me for ages, so Ron and Neville said he had it coming. He’s barely looked in our direction since then, which is a good thing, I suppose. 

Anyway, classes have been going great, except History of Magic. I’ve read the textbook a few times, but it’s rather tedious to look things up in the library whenever I’ve got a question. From what I hear from Ron and Neville, though, Professor Binns only teaches about goblin rebellions, which is awfully strange - what about the Celts? The Romans? The way geography and culture shapes a society’s magic? You’ve taught me those things, of course, but Ron and Neville didn’t have any idea about stuff like Boudica’s uprising against the Romans! She nearly drove the Romans off Britannia and was the most famous female War Mage of the Iron Age! She was absolutely brilliant, and it’s a travesty that Ron and Neville didn’t know about her. I know you’re working on getting me a tutor, but I’m not sure I want one if all they know is goblin rebellions. From what I’ve heard, Professor Binns doesn’t even go into the pre-goblin-treaty days! Or on why the goblins rebelled in the first place! 

And about Professor Snape - he’s a brilliant Potions Master, of course, and I’m doing well in his class, but he makes Neville go to pieces and I don’t blame him. Professor Snape is absolutely brutal to him, and it’s so unfair! He almost made Neville cry last class - it’s awful. I hate that I can’t say anything to Professor Snape to get him to stop. 

Also, remember that forbidden corridor I wrote to you about at the start of term? Fred and George - Ron’s older brothers - broke in the other day and apparently there’s a cerberus in there! Ron thinks they’re joking, but their eyes were dead serious. It’s frightening - what if the cerberus gets loose somehow? Fred and George say all they needed to get in was an alohamora - what if someone else breaks in and can’t get away fast enough? 

I know you said Hogwarts was a good school, but honestly, there’ve been a lot of problems. You told me to tell you if there was ever anything on my mind, so I am. I hope you’re doing well. 

Regards,

Harry

~

Dear Harry,

I have discovered a new ability: the ability to experience heart palpitations. There’s a cerberus in your school? And students have encountered it? This is outrageous. Promise me that you won’t go anywhere near the corridor in question until I have this sorted out. 

With regards to your other complaints, Mrs. Zabini did some investigation on our behalf and uncovered a slew of complaints to Hogwarts regarding Professors Snape and Binns. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to ever come of them, but she suggested a more public approach might be different. I am unsure how I feel about this - despite the weight your name holds, you are still a child, Harry, and it should not be your responsibility to fix these things. But ultimately, it is your choice. 

Regards,

Morrigan

P.S. In my opinion, you were right to - as you say - “verbally eviscerate” Mr. Malfoy. He has shown himself capable of attacking you and verbally attacking your friends, and you should not let that go unpunished. I am proud that you defended you and yours - you’ve come a long way. 

~

Harry swallowed, staring at that last sentence. I am proud. Death had never told her he was proud of her before - it sounded… it sounded rather like something a parent would say. 

~

Neville got his new wand - cherry and unicorn hair - and his spellwork improved by leaps and bounds. He also proved himself to be something of a prodigy in Herbology, and slowly, Harry could sense his confidence improving. 

~ 

Samhain morning, they woke to the smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors. Ron was visibly excited when Professor Flitwick announced they were ready to learn the levitation charm, but Harry couldn’t bring herself to fake it. Her parents had died ten years ago on this day, after all. 

She knew that traditional pagan celebrations were rather uncommon in Britain. They weren’t illegal though, and Harry decided to carry on with them no matter the greyness of it. 

Harry shook herself when Professor Flitwick announced that they would be put into pairs. Harry was partnered with Seamus Finnigan, but Ron was working with Hermione Granger, who hadn’t spoken to either of them since the incident with Malfoy. Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from sending glares Harry’s way whenever she got a spell first. 

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practising!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too - never forget the wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

Harry swished and flicked boredly. She’d practised the spell before, after all, and was utterly unsurprised when the feather rose into the air. 

“Well done, Miss Potter!” Professor Flitwick squeaked. “Five points to Gryffindor!” 

Hermione sent her usual glare Harry’s way, which she ignored. Seamus tried the spell and ended up setting their feather on fire. She was so distracted by putting it out that she hardly noticed the argument Ron and Hermione were having at the next table. 

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her," he said to Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly."

Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face - and was startled to see that she was in tears.

"I think she heard you."

"So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She must've noticed she's got no friends."

Harry frowned. “You didn’t have to point it out like that, though. I’m sure she’s lonely. I think you should apologise.” 

Ron grimaced. “You think so?” 

“I didn’t have any friends before you two, either,” Neville said quietly. “Apologising’s the right thing to do, I think.” 

Ron sighed and left, turning up late to the next class. He told her and Neville, in a murmur, that he hadn’t been able to find Hermione, and that he’d look for her after class. He couldn’t find her then, either, though.

On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, though, Harry, Ron, and Neville overheard Parvati telling Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girl’s bathroom and wanted to be left alone. 

Harry frowned. “I’ll go speak to her,” she said. 

“But you’ll miss the feast -” Ron protested. 

Harry shrugged, looking away. “Today’s the day I became an orphan,” she said quietly, avoiding their eyes. “I don’t particularly feel like celebrating, anyway.” 

Not seeing how her words had landed, she left.

~ 

“Hermione?” Harry called hesitantly. The door to the girl’s bathroom creaked as she pushed it open. “I… how are you feeling?” 

“Go - go away!” 

Harry’s heart clenched at Hermione’s strangled tone. She didn’t deserve what Ron had said. 

“Ron was a prat, huh?” Harry ventured tentatively. “I’m sorry about him, really.” 

“Go away! I don’t want to talk to anyone, especially not you!”

Harry hesitated. She didn’t understand what she’d done wrong, but Hermione had - by the sound of it - been crying alone all day, and there was something terribly sad about that. “Well, that puts us in a bit of a pickle, doesn’t it, because I’m not leaving you alone.” 

The door to the stall was flung open. Hermione glared at her with all her might, tear tracks on her cheeks. “Why do you even care?” she cried. “You’ve got friends, you’re the best in our class at magic - why are you here?”

Harry took a tentative step forwards. “Because I’d like to be your friend too, Hermione. You’re better than me at the theory, and I could use a study partner.” She grinned. “Ron just wants to play chess all the time.” 

Hermione stared at her, then slumped. “Fine, do what you want,” she muttered. “But we’re not going to be friends.” 

Harry blinked, hurt. “Why not?” 

“Because - because - all I’ve ever had were my grades,” Hermione said miserably. The words poured out of her, as if she’d wanted to say them to someone all year but never got the chance. “My grades, and books. Then you came along and -” her eyes filled with tears again. “I hate you.” 

Harry flinched. 

“And what’s worse is that you make it so hard to hate you! Always trying to help and be nice and - and - why am I even telling you these things?” Hermione made a frustrated noise and made to close the stall door. Harry held it open, finally understanding. 

“Before Hogwarts,” Harry said, “books were your only friends.” 

Hermione glared at her. “Yes.” 

“But they don’t have to be.” Harry held out a hand. “I can’t promise to dumb myself down for you - I don’t think you’d like that anyway. But I can promise to cheer you on, to help you if you need it, and just… be a friend. If you want.” 

Hermione stared at Harry’s offered hand. Confusion flickered across her face. 

“Why?” 

“Because I’d like a study partner,” Harry said, shrugging. “Because Ron and Neville grew up around magic and don't understand the wonder I have whenever I learn something new. Because I’ve never had a friend before Hogwarts, and I think you’d be a good one.” 

Hermione lifted her gaze to Harry’s. “You never had a friend before Hogwarts?” 

Harry shook her head. “The other kids at primary school thought I was weird. They thought my eyes were too strange, my turns of phrase too antiquated, and they knew strange things happened when I was around. I was a freak, and no one wanted to be friends with the freak.” 

Hermione studied her. “I’ve never had a friend before Hogwarts, either,” she said. “All the other children thought I was too bookish.” She scowled. “A know-it-all.” 

“Ron’s a prat,” Harry repeated. “But he has a good heart.” 

Hermione’s brown eyes were wary. Then, something inside them settled, and slowly, she took Harry’s hand. Harry made to smile at her, but then -

There was a sudden crash, and both girls froze. Harry whipped around just as an enormous creature lumbered into the bathroom. She recognized it from her books - it was a mountain troll.

Acting on instinct, Harry pushed Hermione behind her and drew her wand. The troll roared, face turning in their direction. 

Her heart was pounding in her ears. She shot every spell she knew at it, but her aim was poor and she missed its eyes and mouth, and they bounced harmless off the troll’s thick skin. The floor shook as it walked towards them, and Harry suddenly felt very small, small in a way she hadn’t since she’d threatened the Dursleys with fire. 

Fire. 

Fire. 

“ Pléasctha ar lasadh,” Harry breathed, and thrust out her hand.

Ordinarily, fire wouldn’t have harmed a troll. Their skin was thick, resistant to most magic. But trolls were creatures, creatures of the earth, and Druidic magic, at its core, harnessed the elements. 

Suddenly, the troll was wreathed in bright blue flames. Wind swirled at its feet, containing the blaze and turning it into a firestorm. The blades of wind were cutting - they sheared at the troll’s thick skin, and the fire that might’ve once only tickled it was able to devour it. Harry’s eyes hurt from the brightness, but it was mesmerising. 

The troll screamed, falling to the ground and writhing. Harry maintained her focus, narrowing her eyes slightly. The room reeked of burning flesh. She could stop - it was injured - but it had threatened both her and Hermione. Hermione was her friend now, was one of hers, and that meant that the troll had to pay. 

It stopped moving. 

Harry exhaled and released her hold on her focus, lowering her hand. The wind died, but the flames burnt on, fed by the troll’s corpse. Harry couldn’t tear her eyes away from them. 

The silence was broken by Hermione’s voice. “Is it… is it… dead?” 

Before Harry could answer, she saw a flash of ginger and looked up. Ron was standing in the doorway, wand raised uselessly, his face pale as he stared at her. 

He’d seen everything. 

Harry suddenly felt cold with fear. Would he tell on her? She wasn’t supposed to know magic without a wand - Death had stressed that she keep her knowledge of druidic magic a secret, because he knew that Lord Voldemort wasn’t yet dead. He knew she’d need an edge, and she might’ve just lost that because she’d been so distracted by the troll she hadn’t bothered to look around. 

And - and there was a difference, between what had happened with Malfoy and what had happened here. With Malfoy, all she’d used had been words. But here… she’d killed a creature, and she didn’t regret it. 

It had been it or her, and it had tried to hurt Hermione. She’d do it again if she had to. 

She heard footsteps, and all of a sudden Professors Snape, McGonagall, and Quirrell were rushing into the bathroom, wands drawn. Behind them was, surprisingly enough, Neville. Their eyes went immediately to the troll and widened, though she saw a flash of - something - in Quirrell’s. 

Professor McGonagall was staring at the three Gryffindors - Ron had hurried to Harry and Hermione’s side when the professors had rushed in. Her lips were white with fury. 

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor McGonagall, nostrils flaring. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you in your dormitory?” 

“Please - Professor McGonagall - they were looking for me.” 

Hermione stepped out from behind Harry, face downturned and abashed. “I went looking for the -” 

Suddenly, it became clear to Harry that Hermione was about to take all the blame. She was going to lie to get Harry and Ron out of trouble, and Harry quickly spoke up. 

“Hermione was looking for me,” Harry said. “I wasn’t at the feast - I didn’t much care for celebrating the day my parents died. We were talking here, and didn’t know about the troll.” She hesitated, but thankfully, Ron picked up her story. 

“Neville and I realised that Harry and Hermione didn’t know about the troll,” he said. “So I rushed to let them know, and Neville went to get a professor, just in case - even though we thought it was in the dungeons.” 

Professor McGonagall’s eyes seemed to soften slightly. “I see. Well, that doesn’t explain what happened to the troll. A mere incendio wouldn’t have been nearly powerful enough to…” She looked a little queasy.

Harry lowered her gaze. A thousand excuses ran through her mind, but they were useless if Ron or Hermione told the truth. This was it - if one of the others told on her, especially in front of Quirrell - she didn’t even want to think about what might happen.

“Accidental magic,” Ron said firmly. “I arrived just in time to see. The troll was about to kill Harry and Hermione when it suddenly went up in flames.”

Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together. “I see…” she said. There was still something uneasy about her expression. 

Harry swallowed, willing herself to tremble. If that was Ron’s story - and it was a good one - she had to make it believable. Normal eleven-year-olds didn’t simply murder a mountain troll in cold blood and act perfectly fine. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to, I was just so scared, and it just sort of happened.”  

She chanced a look at Professor McGonagall. Her eyes had gone sympathetic. “It wasn’t your fault, Miss Potter,” she said gently, and Harry’s guilt doubled. Quirrell was watching her closely. 

Professor McGonagall turned to Ron. “However good your intentions were, you still shouldn’t have come. For this, I will be taking five points from Gryffindor.” Ron hung his head. Then her gaze went to Hermione. “Miss Granger, it was good of you to find Miss Potter when you noticed she was absent from the feast. For that, I award Gryffindor five points.” At last, she looked at Harry again. “And, Miss Potter… five points to Gryffindor. For sheer, dumb luck.” 

Her eyes softened. “If none of you are hurt, you may return to your dormitories.” 

They left as a group. Harry swallowed. She could still taste the scent of burning flesh on her tongue. 

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered. “If you hadn’t - stopped the troll, I’d be…” 

Harry shook her head. “If it weren’t for Ron, I think I’d have been expelled.” 

“If it weren’t for me, neither of you would’ve been there in the first place,” Ron said. He looked at Hermione shamefully. “I’m sorry, Hermione.” 

“Sorry I brought the professors,” Neville mumbled. “It looked like you all had it handled.” From the look he sent her, Harry knew Neville knew that it hadn’t just been accidental magic.

Harry hesitated. 

“You won’t - tell anyone -” 

“Tell anyone what?” Ron grinned, though his face was still pale. “It was accidental magic, wasn’t it? What’s there to tell?” 

“Exactly,” Hermione said firmly. “Accidental magic.” 

Neville grinned slightly. “I wasn’t even there.” 

“Thank you,” she said softly. 

Ron slung one arm over her and Hermione and one over Neville. Hermione squealed, but didn’t wriggle away, and Harry laughed. 

For the first time in her life at Hogwarts, she had people she could count on. 

(it wasn’t until the next morning that she realised she’d forgotten about the Samhain celebration entirely. She hoped her parents would forgive her)

Chapter Text

After the incident with the mountain troll, Hermione joined their little group. She was far more relaxed about breaking the rules, and much nicer for it. She no longer glared at Harry whenever Harry got something right ahead of her - instead, she seemed to take it as a challenge, and Harry and her were soon neck and neck for the top spot in their year. It was nice, having someone to study with - neither Ron nor Neville were particularly studious, so Harry and Hermione were often studying together while the other two did whatever. 

“It’s Friday!” Ron moaned as the two girls headed to the library. “The first quidditch game’s tomorrow - surely homework can wait?” 

Harry and Hermione exchanged exasperated looks. 

“You’re not going to let up, are you?” Harry asked, amused. 

Ron grinned, and Harry sighed. Hermione slumped, knowing what that meant. 

“Sunday, then,” Hermione grumbled, as they switched directions to head to the common room. “If I get a bad mark because of you, Ron, I’ll -” 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Like you’ve gotten anything less than an O.” 

“But if I do,” Hermione pressed, “I’ll - I’ll -” 

Ron looked rather smug. “You’ll what?” 

“I’ll sic Harry on you!” 

It was the first allusion any of them had made to Harry’s vicious side, and her eyes widened. Ron, though, just rolled his eyes again. 

“Harry wouldn’t hurt me,” he said confidently. 

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “Then I won’t help you with your homework.” 

At this, Ron looked alarmed for the first time. “Wait, Hermione -” 

There was a satisfied smile on Hermione’s face. “I’m not taking it back.” 

Harry met Neville’s eye and he pretended to sigh, a long-suffering look on his face. Harry giggled. Ron and Hermione got on like oil and water - which was to say, not at all - but their bickering was amusing, at least. And she had Neville to suffer through it with her. 

~ 

The next morning dawned very bright and cold. Everyone seemed to be looking forward to a good quidditch match - the Great Hall was filled with cheerful chatter. They trooped out onto the field, clutching their scarves, and piled onto the stands. 

“None of you have ever seen a quidditch game, have you?” Ron was saying as they sat. “You just wait, it’s wicked, the best thing in the world -” 

They heard Madam Hooch’s whistle as the players rose into the air, and Ron fell silent. 

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor - what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too-"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."

The Weasley twins' friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for the match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.

It was lovely - there were cheers from the Gryffindors every time they scored, and howls and moans from the Slytherins. Harry watched the seekers, flying high above the action, and wondered what it’d be like to be amongst them. 

A flash of gold caught her eye. She looked back at the seekers and made a frustrated sound, leaning forwards. 

“What is it?” Ron asked, oblivious. 

“The snitch is right there,” Harry said. “Why can’t they see it?” 

Ron stared at her. “You see the snitch already?” 

“Yes, but I don’t know why they can’t,” Harry complained. 

Ron’s gaze turned evaluative. “You’re one of the best fliers in our year,” he said slowly. 

Harry blinked at him. “And?” 

“If you had a good broom…” Ron turned away and started muttering to himself, before his eyes widened and he practically lunged at her. “How do you feel about quidditch? Do you like it?” 

Harry blinked again, nonplussed. “I suppose? It’s entertaining enough.”

Ron seemed to consider this for a moment before shrugging. “Good enough. You’re trying out for seeker next year.” 

“I am?”

“You are.”

“... Alright,” Harry said, not too sure what had just happened. 

~ 

The game had been uneventful. The real drama came the day after. Mrs. Zabini had written to Dumbledore at Death’s prompting and gotten her a tutor, who was, surprisingly, fourth-year Slytherin Lucian Bole. Ron was appalled. 

“A Slytherin?” he said in disbelief. “What if he does something?” 

“What’s wrong with Slytherin?” Harry asked. 

Ron stared at her. “You-Know-Who was a Slytherin,” he said. 

Harry blinked. “So?” 

Ron spluttered. “So - so -”

“The Hat almost put me in Slytherin,” Harry said. “If it had, would you have stopped being friends with me? Because I’d have shared a house with You-Know-Who?” 

Ron wilted. “No,” he said. “No, of course not. It’s just - Slytherins have a reputation, all right? So - please be careful.” 

“I will, if it makes you feel better,” Harry conceded. “But I really don’t think his house says anything about his character. There’s nothing wrong with being cunning or ambitious.” 

There was a pause. 

“I suppose,” Ron said, clearly not convinced. 

“We’ll see, then, won’t we?” Harry replied, and by mutual agreement, they dropped the subject. Hermione and Neville, who hadn’t spoken, exchanged looks. 

~ 

She and Bole coordinated their first meeting through letters and met in a corner of the library, at a table practically hidden from passersby. When she arrived, he was already there, working on an essay. He looked up when she approached, blinking in surprise. 

“Potter,” he said. “You’re here?” 

Harry tilted her head. “... Yes? We did agree on the time and place, didn’t we?” 

“Yes, I just didn’t think - never mind,” Bole said, stowing away his essay and pulling out a sheaf of notes. 

“You didn’t think I’d show up,” Harry guessed, sitting down. 

Bole looked at her contemplatively. “To be blunt, no, I didn’t.” 

“Because you’re a Slytherin?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think that’s silly,” Harry said decisively. “I need a tutor for History of Magic and you’re willing to be that tutor. Your house doesn’t matter to me as long as you’re willing to teach me.” 

Bole blinked. “That’s… awfully pragmatic of you, Potter.” 

“Thank you.” Harry beamed. “I try. But for the record,” she added, “I asked for you, once Mrs. Zabini told me you were looking to get a Mastery in History of Magic.”

He choked. “Mrs. - you don’t mean Aida Zabini?”

Harry cocked her head. “I do,” she said. “She’s my lawyer, but she has a son in my year, which is how I figured she knew, so -” 

“Merlin,” Bole said, looking pale. “Alright. Alright.” He hesitated. He looked at his notes, then at her, then at his notes again. Finally, he met her very confused gaze. “I have to know, though - how exactly did you come to have her as your lawyer?” 

“My family friend said she was good,” Harry said, nonplussed. 

“Your family friend,” Bole repeated. “Who is…?” 

“Morrigan Peverell.” 

Bole stared at her. “Peverell, as in the Noble and Most Ancient -” 

“Yes.” 

“Merlin,” Bole repeated, with feeling. He stared at her for a moment longer. “Remind me to never get on your bad side, Potter.” 

Harry blinked. “Is that necessary?” 

“Yes,” Bole said emphatically. “Yes, it really is.” He took a breath. “Now then, shall we begin?” 

Harry beamed. “Yes, please!” 

~ 

Ron pounced on her the moment she entered the common room. 

“Are you alright?” he demanded. “You’re not bewitched, are you? You’ve got all your limbs?”

“Yes, no, and to the best of my knowledge, yes,” Harry answered promptly. 

“To the best of your knowledge?” Ron echoed shrilly, pulling at his hair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, sometimes limbs just fall off and you don’t notice until you trip over your own arm, do you?” Harry said reasonably. “Or sometimes you just pull at a leg and it comes off. I do that to you all the time.” 

“Wh-”

“She’s pulling your leg, Ronald,” Hermione sighed. “A bit too literally, in this case.” 

Ron gaped at her before turning to Harry, who was sniggering. “This isn’t funny!”

“It’s a little funny.” 

“Hermione!” 

“She’s clearly fine, Ron,” Neville said, ever the peacemaker. “How’d it go, though, Harry?” 

“He thought I wouldn’t show up because of his house,” Harry said. “And there was a strange bit at the beginning when he learned that Mrs. Zabini was my lawyer and Morrigan Peverell was my family friend, but apart from that -” 

“Hang on,” Ron said. “As in Aida Zabini?” 

Harry gave him a strange look. “That’s exactly what he said.” 

“You’re not answering the question!” Ron shrieked. Thankfully, the common room was empty. 

Harry sighed. “Yes, as in Aida Zabini,” she said impatiently. “I don’t see what the problem is, Morrigan said she’d won nearly every one of her cases -” 

“Because she’s bloody terrifying, that’s why!” Ron cried. “Nearly every single one of her husbands has died under suspicious circumstances!” 

“Really?” Harry asked, intrigued. “Interesting.” 

Ron pulled harder at his hair. “What do you mean, ‘interesting’?!” 

“Because,” Harry said patiently, “she struck me as a very pragmatic person. The deaths of her husbands must’ve benefited her in some way, if she is indeed the culprit, but I don’t see how that has any bearing on her abilities as a law witch. Besides,” she added, “Morrigan recommended her.” 

“Morrigan,” Ron repeated faintly. “As in, Morrigan Peverell. As in, that Peverell family? The Peverell family known for producing necromancers?” 

“Yes,” Harry said confusedly. 

“Necromancers,” Ron repeated. “Necromancers!” 

“He took care of me when nobody else did,” Harry said quietly. “He believed in me, encouraged me, and told me the truth. He’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. I don’t care what reputation his family has, he’s never given me a reason to distrust him.” 

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stared at her intently. “What do you mean, ‘he took care of you when nobody else did’? I thought you lived with your muggle relatives.” 

“I do,” Harry said, looking away. “But they’ve never been exactly pleasant.” 

“What does that mean, exactly?” Hermione asked slowly. Her brown eyes were large and concerned. “Harry, they’ve… did they ever hurt you?” 

“We just don’t get on,” Harry said, not answering the question. “Listen, my point is that Morrigan’s been brilliant, and I’m very grateful for him. So I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk badly about him, especially when you don’t know him.” 

“Of course not,” Neville said, stomping on Hermione’s foot. She scowled at him, before softening when she looked at Harry. 

“We won’t.” 

“Yeah,” Ron said quietly, still giving her that soul-searching look. “Promise.”