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Chapter Text

Prologue. June, 1988

All good men are dead; evil men live forever.

Everything was just terribly so at Durmstrang. As Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff enjoyed the power of his position thoroughly. Hypocrisy and cruelty did not bother him; he was, in fact, content with it. And yet, Karkaroff did not see himself as he was–  terrible bloodshot eyes, rotten teeth, youth cleanly cut from him– but as a father. It was, in his mind, his responsibility to nurse the children of the wizarding world with despair and to save them from their false grandeur. But Karkaroff was not a father, he was a horrible man, and he had been for a very long time… 

The reality of his weakness came to him slowly. The mark of Lord Voldemort remained on his arm and had begun to haunt him. Increasingly often, he fell asleep and awoke to his left hand around his throat, gripped tightly as if attempting to have him commit suicide. Irony hunts the weak; Karkaroff quickly became emaciated from his own fear. He was awake in the morning and at night, but he did not leave his quarters– not even to eat. It was not the Dark Lord he was afraid of, not yet, but the reminder of his followers, and what other traces of him remained…

Drunk off paranoia, a faint conclusion came to him. Karkaroff bid his school, his expertise, and thus, himself, away; if the time came, he would welcome Harry Potter and raise him by his side. It was reasonless and illogical, but…

The evil man is unfaithful to his cruelty and his indifference. He begs for divine intervention; it is all he can do.

Years later…

Tap Tap Tap.

Harry jerked awake with all the grace of a newborn calf. 

Groggily, he sat up and reached for the string light positioned somewhere above his head. He found it and pulled as hard as he could. It didn't turn on. Biting his lip in concentration, Harry took another heavy tug, twisting the string awkwardly so that it would work. 

"Hurry up, boy,” said Aunt Petunia from outside the cupboard door. Her foot tapped on the hardwood sharply and impatiently. 

Harry pulled off Dudley’s hand-me-down pajama set and slipped into more of his cousin’s old clothes. The shirt was loose, though he remembered the tan teddy drawn on the front from Dudley’s fourth birthday. 

“I said up !” snapped Aunt Petunia, swinging the cupboard door open violently. 

Harry dropped the edges of his bedspread and felt the pain of a tweaked ear as his Aunt took his pace into her own hands. 

“Ouch!” he said. “Whasamatter?” 

“Don’t slur your words, it’s a nasty habit,” said his Aunt, striking the back of his head. “And you’d do well to remember Dudley’s birthday.”

Right, he remembered. Dudley’s birthday, the most important day of the year. 

And it was; more than Christmas or New Years or Easter. At least during proper holidays, it was his Aunt’s reputation on the line. On those days, Harry only had one job: to stay quiet and out of sight. Not so much was granted today. 

He’d have to cook through the morning and the afternoon, clean the house for Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge to kip over in the guest room, and all on an empty stomach. Well, maybe a half-spoiled apple if he was good. His stomach growled at the thought, and Harry patted it hastily as if to calm it down. 

Aunt Petunia practically punted him to the kitchen at the first indication that he was awake in his right mind. She forced him to wash his hands three times to make sure he didn’t get anything untoward in the food (what? Harry wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just the concept of his person that was unappetizing). 

“And what are you smiling for?” his Aunt demanded as Harry scrubbed absentmindedly. Her chin jutted out and emphasized her giraffe-like neck. “Cook now! You haven’t got much time.” 

Aunt Petunia didn’t bother to supervise and instead left to place all of her son’s presents atop the coffee table in front of the telly. 

Luckily, there was a recipe on the counter. Harry skimmed through it twice before pulling out the appropriate ingredients and setting off to work. This was the silence before the storm. Harry was free to daydream as he moved back and forth from the fridge to the counter to the cupboards on the walls for the hundredth time.

I wonder how many presents Dudley’s got this year, Harry thought to himself, more curious than bitter. Never the one to receive anything for himself, Harry viewed the whole thing in a detached alien sort of way, as if there was a science to it he ought to observe. He ignored the thin remains of jealousy in his chest easily as he took to beating some eggs with a fork. 

By half past six, Harry had a rather large bowl of pancake batter sitting on the countertop proudly, along with a generous tray of finger sandwiches (that was for Aunt Petunia and Marge) and a pot pie, which he placed in the oven for all the Dursleys to share. The broom leaning next to him was a testament to the chores he had completed during the in-betweens, and so was the letter holder, which he had refilled with the day’s mail.

At seven, Uncle Vernon grumbled down the stairs. Petunia put on the kettle at his request, and Harry listened to the unpleasant boiling sound as he stuck a butter knife into the pot pie to make sure it was cooked all the way through. The knife came out wet, so he determined to let it cook for another twenty minutes to a half hour. 

“I’d best go to the station,” said Uncle Vernon a few minutes later. He glanced at the large watch on his beefy wrist to reassure himself. “Yes, yes. Looks about time.” 

He peeled himself from the armchair with a heavy groan of discomfort and didn't bother turning off the telly. The female news reporter continued to talk about something to do with the economy as Uncle Vernon clapped Aunt Petunia’s shoulder and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek.

“Marge is due in half an hour. And don’t ask why she couldn’t have gotten a later train. Really, a man shouldn’t be expected to wake up earlier than half past nine on a Saturday.”

“Oh.. my sweet,” Aunt Petunia simpered. 

Just then, the entire upstairs shook with the force of a colossal boom. Harry flinched uncomfortably. 

“Mummy, Mummy!” Dudley exclaimed as he jumped carelessly down the stairs. “It’s my birthday. My tenth birthday!” 

Aunt Petunia cooed and clutched at her pearls, as though her five-chinned, wobbly son was as cute (or more so) than a wide-eyed puppy, or else a particularly loveable kitten. 

“Oh yes! That's right, my Diddykins,” she praised, leaning down for a bony hug which Dudley valiantly clawed against until she gave up and let him go running towards the living room. 

Despite his fat legs, which both his parents insisted were preventing him from excelling in sissy activities like running during Sport at school, he reached the pile of presents in no time at all.

“How many are there?” he demanded. 

“Thirty-four,” said Aunt Petunia, with pride. “But Auntie Marge will bring one or two more.” 

“Can I open that?” asked Dudley, pointing a meaty little finger at a gift bag with a large golden bow. 

“Well…” said Aunt Petunia, “just one wouldn't hurt, would it, Vernon?”

“No, no, certainly not. He’s a determined boy.” Uncle Vernon chuckled. 

The oven timer went off. Harry slipped his red oven mitts back on and went to review the state of the pot pie. He missed the present entirely.

"I want to open another! ” Dudley was now writhing on the ground and pounding his fists on the floor like a baby. 

“Now, now,” Petunia smiled and wagged her finger. “Wait for your Auntie to arrive. You can open your gifts after you’ve had your breakfast.”

“But I want to open them now!”

Uncle Vernon made to leave then, walking past Harry’s cupboard and to the hanger. He pulled on his coat and unlocked the door, then doubled back unexpectedly.

“Boy!” he said. 

Once Harry was in front of him, Uncle Vernon lowered himself to match his height. Globs of spit expelled from his uncle's mouth and caught in his mustache as he proclaimed with great intent, “I shouldn't have to tell you this, but no funny business from you. Not on my watch. And not today. You will behave in front of Marge, and you will behave at Mrs. Figg’s, or you’ll be in the cupboard for three... no, four days. And you won’t have supper. Alright?” 

Harry nodded. 

Uncle Vernon slammed the door in his face.

Marge Dursley was an unpleasant woman whom her younger brother, Harry’s Uncle Vernon, took after marvelously. They were practically identical, in fact, from their broad, fat features to the thick hairs on their upper lips. 

“Oh, let me have at that Vernon. You were always too much of a sissy for my taste..” said Marge. She snatched her bulging suitcase from him testily and dragged it through the open door. 

“Ripper, sit!” She used her free hand to tug at the leash of her favorite, foul-tempered bulldog. 

She chuckled once she entered Number Four and shook her head in humor.

“Where’s my boy? I see that wrapping on the floor– he’s playing with his presents, I expect,” said Marge with pride.

Noticing Harry, she said: “I'm disappointed you two have yet to rid yourself of this one. Really, Petunia, you ought to send him off. Think of his influence on poor Dudley.”

Harry fell over when she pushed her luggage at him, full force. 

Marge threw her coat on his head. 

“Dog treats are in the right pocket. Mind your fingers, Ripper’s got sharp teeth,” said Marge with a distinct lack of sincerity. 

The three Dursleys vacated the entrance hall with the thunk of the front door closing. Marge made small talk by discussing the incestuous breeding habits of her new pups. Uncle Vernon clapped her on the back while Aunt Petunia held her distance, a bit put off.

“Well, here you go..” said Harry to Ripper the dog. He held out the stale biscuit as far away from him as possible. 

Ripper jumped and began barking with a clear, violent intent. Harry dropped the biscuit fearfully and backed away from where his leash was tied. 

“You. Up!” Aunt Petunia peeked her long giraffe's neck out from beyond the foyer. “Snacks. Now!”

With relieved haste, Harry made his way to the kitchen. Carefully, he held the neck and the base of the repurposed fruit stand and placed it on the coffee table. 

“... to call him down. Dudley! Be a dear and greet your Aunt.”

From upstairs came: “Don’t wanna!”

Marge chuckled. “‘Course, my nephew is too much of a man to pussyfoot around. Let’s cut to it, then. I’ve got presents!” 

Like a dog, Dudley made his hasty way down the stairs. When his Aunt gave him a wet, slimy kiss on the cheek, she slipped a fifty-pound note into his pocket. Dudley looked like he might wet himself in excitement. 

“Fifty pounds! Fifty pounds!” he cheered. “A lolly is only half a quid! That’s, that’s ten lollies… twenty lollies… thirty lollies… er..”

“One hundred lollies,” Aunt Petunia added helpfully. 

“Oh tah! Maths is all tosh anyhow,” said Marge, pinching Dudley’s cheek. “A true man like you is better off learning how to throw a punch.”

Harry’s bruised, knobby knees were a testament to Dudley’s achievement, in this respect. The sport of ‘Harry Hunting’ was still alive and well, if on a bit of a hiatus; Dudley’s best mate and partner in crime, Piers Polkiss, had taken the front end of the summer holiday off to visit family in Cambridge.

Dudley was entertained for no longer than five minutes by finger food or goggling at the dollar bill. With intent, he marched to where Harry had sectioned off Marge’s suitcase and kicked it to the ground. He gnawed at the zipper in his haste to rip the thing open. Only Harry and Ripper, who had both been on the receiving end of a cane for far less, marveled at his lack of propriety. 

Marge laughed. “Eager, are you? Look in the front pocket, no, the front pocket. Your present is the orange one. Yes, that’s it.” Her stubby winger waved all about the place. 

Dudley tore all the wrapping in one go. It was a computerized robot. Poking at it carelessly for a few moments, Dudley scratched one of the wobbly chins. 

“What’s it do?” he asked. 

“All sorts.” said Marge, “once you’ve got the batteries in.”

“Maybe it would do some good to play with your lovely robot after the waterpark?” Aunt Petunia said pointedly. She elbowed her husband. 

“Oh! I expect Pet's quite right. Look at the time! Your friends will be here at any moment.” 

There was a hustle and bustle in the house as Dudley (with the help of his mother and Aunt) bagged his swim clothes, pool noodles, and sandals. Uncle Vernon put ice creams and sodas into the freezer and started up the car after he’d escorted (thrown) Ripper to the guest bedroom. 

“And you!” Marge caught Harry’s shoulder from where he was awkwardly standing. “What are we to do with you?”

“He’ll be off to the neighbor's,” sniffed Petunia. “Wonderful woman.”

“Must be a saint to take in a no-good like him, even for a couple of hours,” Marge said agreeably. “See, there are people who live for that stuff, fixing up delinquent boys. Schools, even. I wrote to Yvonne about just that a few weeks ago. She mentioned something… Brutus' institute, or whatnot. It would be good for him to go there, next year if he doesn’t shape up, and God knows he won't. Sense comes from blood and beatings, only, Petunia. There’s no hope, otherwise.” 

Aunt Petunia hummed in affirmation, but there was a pale quality about her. 

“If it was me, he’d have felt the taste of the streets a long while ago–”

The doorbell rang just as the Dursley family car revved in the garage. Dudley threw himself up and about in a joyous interpretive dance.

“They’re here! They’re here!” he exclaimed. 

Harry sank into disregard as introductions were made and pleasantries were exchanged. Angrily, he tidied up the sitting room. 

Didn’t Marge know he'd prefer the streets to the sweaty, mean smell of the Dursleys? For once, he felt disappointed that his Aunt and Uncle were all bark, no bite. He felt he’d do anything to be rid of the place.

Chapter Text

Crowded to the end of Mrs. Figg’s old, peeling couch, Harry used a fork to poke at his leftover casserole. The telly was playing a black and white film that he found too confusing to follow; something about an affair between a small town’s outcast woman and the resident handsome, rich man. Close to ten cats shared the rest of the cushions between themselves, though they remained a cautious distance from him. 

“Oh, hello,” said Harry. 

A wet nose pressed flush to the back of his hand. It was a cat with dull, white fur and two handsome yellow eyes. 

“You want some?” asked Harry, smiling as he scratched behind her ears. “I ought to warn you, it tastes like cabbage, egg, and tomato. Not chicken at all. Then again, I expect it’s better than the stuff from the tin.” 

The cat meowed and arched her back so that Harry's hand slid to her midriff. Harry separated a portion of the ground chicken and balled it in his palm. He felt her rough, sandpaper tongue as she ate it. 

Harry let out a sweet, childish “hah!”

“Stop that!” he giggled as the cat’s tongue wandered further up his arm. 

“Here, take all of it, I won’t be able to finish it anyhow.” he said, holding out his plate. 

The cat had assessed his offer, then valiantly began to lick the china clean. In no time at all, the casserole was half-finished. 

Another three licks after that, the doorbell rang. The cat lept into the air and out of the room with a loud, painful: “ hiss !” 

“Ouch,” Harry groaned. 

He rubbed the claw marks on his lap in pain. When he turned to look out the window, he was disappointed to see his Aunt, whose silhouette was recognizable despite the 10 pm darkness. He heard the door open and Mrs. Figg exchange poor, stilted pleasantries with Petunia. 

“..is he? He’s in the living room with the cats. Not all of them, of course. That'll be Tibbles you’re looking at, and Mr. Paws standing right next to her. Oh, of course… I’ll call him right now. Harry, your Aunt is here !”

“Thank you, Mrs Figg,” he said dutifully, ducking into eyesight. 

“You haven’t caused any trouble, have you?” asked Petunia, as a greeting. 

Mrs. Figg warbled, “Certainly not– nothing to worry about!” 

Harry could tell from her beady, squinting eyes, that Aunt Petunia didn’t quite believe it. Then again, she was of the opinion that his presence was trouble enough.  

“Up and out, then. Up and out.” Mrs. Figg patted him on the back.  

Once Harry had stepped onto the shared sidewalk, she closed the door. Her living room light remained lit, however, and Harry got the distinct impression she was watching him from the peephole, or else the window. 

Aunt Petunia felt similarly. She grabbed his wrist and they made the quick walk back to number four. 

“Everyone is asleep,” she told him in a clipped, warning tone. “Watch your step. You have a minute to wash up and use the loo.” 

Aunt Petunia opened the door slowly, and Harry followed her cautious example. Once he had brushed his teeth and relieved himself, Aunt Petunia shoved him into his cupboard. 

“Not a single peep, tonight.” she jutted her finger out in an Uncle Vernon-like manner. “Not with that thing upstairs.”

She was, of course, referring to Ripper. 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” said Harry dutifully. 

Aunt Petunia gave him a studied glare and shut the door. Harry heard her footsteps above his head as she climbed the stairs. 

Satisfied by his surprisingly above-par visit to Mrs. Figg’s, Harry tucked himself in bed and screwed his eyes shut. Yet, for no reason at all, sleep evaded him. 

Harry stared at the ceiling of his cupboard. To himself, he muttered, “I ought to rest up for tomorrow. Marge, and all.” 

He went quiet again. He waited another few minutes and a few minutes after that. He still felt violently awake. It had surely not been more than a quarter of an hour since Petunia had retrieved him from being babysat when his stomach began to tighten uncomfortably. 

“ I shouldn’t be hungry!” Harry thought, “ I had a bit of toast for lunch, and then a bite or two of casserole.” 

But whether or not he should be, he was.

Though very nearly dissuaded by Aunt Petunia's words, Harry opened his cupboard and crept out for a snack.

Uncle Vernon or else Aunt Marge was snoring loudly, it was impossible to tell. Harry sneaked all the way to the kitchen with practiced ease. He swiped an apple from the fruit bowl on the countertop, but thought about the practicality of the noise it would make when he bit into it, put it back, and instead began peeling a spotty banana. 

Dudley wouldn’t eat it anyway . 

As he ate, Harry took some letters out of the letterbox and flipped through them for reading material. Bills, bills, a fundraising request from Smeltings…

But, what was that? 

Inconspicuously buried between letters addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs. Dursley’ was:

Harry James Potter

Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry frowned. He had never received a letter before, and for good reason; there was nobody in the entire world who would spend the price of postage to talk to him. He thought at once it must be something boring and normal like a fee or a bill, but what for? He didn’t even have a library card.

There was also the matter of the thing itself. Maybe it was the moon peeking out of the draped window behind him, but the envelope seemed to glitter navy blue. Despite his hefty experience as an errand boy, Harry had never before seen such a thing. 

Curiosity getting the better of him, he ripped the envelope open and shook out the letter inside. He read:

‘Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to offer you a place at Durmstrang, the premier Magical Institute of Northern Europe. 

Should you choose to attend for the full term of 16th of August to the 17th of June, please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Best,

Igor Karkaroff

Headmaster.’

“What’s the matter?” asked Vernon half-heartedly. His eyes were glued to the football match on the telly, which was England versus Spain. 

Marge had returned to her home in the English countryside a day or two prior. Now, the mid-afternoon sun was baking all of Surrey in a summer heatwave. Dudley and his friends were playing with the sprinkler in Mrs. Polkiss’ yard down the block to cool off. The boy was weeding begonias in the yard.

Number 4 itself was calm and quiet, the way it should be. All was good and well, except for the letter gripped in Petunia’s hand, which was quivering in fear, or else in anger. 

“Vernon…” said Petunia. 

“Pet, the game’s on! Oh– foul! foul !” 

“Vernon,” whispered Petunia. “It’s them.”

“Them?” asked Vernon. “ Them?”

Petunia bit her lip to stop the hot, angry tears that were threatening the corners of her eyes. She thrust the open envelope for him to see and then threw it on the coffee table with disgust. 

Vernon’s face turned red. He peeled himself from his armchair in anger. “You told me– their word– no contact until he was at least eleven! Oh, damn for thinking such... such.. charlatans would ever–” 

“It’s not from Hogwarts.” 

“ So it’s that man again. He had two conditions, Pet. Food, and shelter. He never said we had to pamper the boy! Who is he to –”

“It’s not him either,”  Petunia said. 

“Well,” said Vernon, looking perplexed. He sat down. “Who else could it be?” 

“Read it,” said Petunia. She pointed to the letter on the coffee table. 

Vernon picked up the envelope but had a suspicious look on his face. 

“And you’re sure this thing hasn’t been… tampered with ?” he said. “You understand these people are dangerous, unnatural –” 

“Read it!” said Petunia shrilly. 

Begrudgingly, Vernon read: “. ..Durmstrang Institute… pleased to present to the parent(s) or guardian(s)... Options for enrollment. So it is a school!” 

“Yes,” said Petunia. Feeling faint, she sat on the chair opposite to her husband. “Lily never… she never… only Hogwarts.” 

“So he doesn’t have to go!” Vernon said. “We can go right ahead and ignore them. And if they don’t take that for an answer… my rifle will show them what’s what!” 

“They have summer boarding,” whispered Petunia. Her head was in her hands.

“Pet?”

“summer boarding,” Petunia repeated. 

“… we’d be rid of him?”

 Petunia nodded. 

“For good?” 

“For good.” 

Vernon clasped his hands in his lap. He was slightly pale from nausea, and his walrus mustache appeared to have wilted. 

“... it would be nice… for Dudley,” said Vernon, finally. 

“It would be,” agreed Petunia.

“Of course, you… well… it’s your choice.”

Petunia took her husband’s fat hand in her own. 

“I’ll do it,” she said, eventually. “I worry about his influence on our little boy.” 

Vernon nodded tensely. 

“Yes, yes..” he said, and that was that.

Chapter Text

Harry extended a palm and caught the spider that dropped from the ceiling of his cupboard.

It was the night of the 15th of July. Nearly a month had passed since Dudley’s birthday, but Privet Drive remained as suburban and quaint as always. Harry was almost always sore from long runs in the opposite direction of Dudley and his gang, and sunburned from working in the garden for hours on end. No more letters had arrived for him. 

The spider’s legs shook in fear as Harry cupped it in his hands. Spiders were not social creatures. Harry once read that they cannibalized their young. Evolutionarily, it was interesting. The Dursleys proved it was perfectly normal. 

“Don’t be scared,” whispered Harry, to the spider. “I’ll set you down in a moment. Try to avoid falling on my bed, next time, alright?” 

Though Uncle Vernon had bolted the cupboard shut earlier in the evening, Harry found he was able to turn the knob. He opened the door a smidge (which was as far as it would go without resisting the deadbolt) and placed it on the floor. 

“Vernon! Over there!” 

From the kitchen, Harry heard his Uncle’s Oxford hitting the ground. The poor spider was certainly dead, crushed under the incredible weight of his Uncle’s disgust and his Aunt’s debilitating fear. 

And to think, if it could’ve just tolerated the cupboard, or else stuck to where it could not be seen or heard… 

Well, it would have stayed alive. 

Aunt Petunia was staring at Harry with a thin, constipated expression. Uncle Vernon was gripping her waifish hand and looked vaguely purple and seriously ill. 

Harry resisted the urge to do anything but continue mopping the kitchen floor with all the seriousness he could muster. He did not look up if he could help it; at Number Four, anything out of the ordinary practically spelled trouble, and he was best ignoring it altogether.  

Harry stepped on a floorboard and it made a harsh, sudden noise. His uncle squealed like a pig.  

That was the limit for Harry, who looked up in astonishment. The mop took its chance and escaped from his loosened grip. It made another, louder noise as it clattered to the ground. Uncle Vernon whimpered. 

Harry gave up any impression of feigning obliviousness. 

“Er….” he said, slowly. 

It was Aunt Petunia who snapped out of the trance first. Perhaps because it was the only thing she thought to do, she slapped Harry across the face and then swallowed harshly. Harry winced. 

“ We… me and… we ought to… to talk, ” she said.

“Alright.”

“I expect Dudley’s second bedroom would be appropriate.” 

“Alright”

“Vernon… stay.” 

Dudley was out of the house. As it was, his mechanized robot was all he bothered spending time with, so dust gathered gratefully on whatever it could manage. That included the potted succulent on the bedstand. Dead and covered in pillow fluff, It looked rather like a grimy Christmas tree. Dudley had a nasty habit of breaking his toys when he played. Harry had to push aside a parrot cage that his cousin had squashed with his bum, a swarm of half-melted army men, and an absurd amount of sweets wrappers to make room on his cousin’s old race car bed.

At last, Aunt Petunia opened her mouth. “This is about your mother and your father,” 

“Are they alive?” asked Harry before he could stop himself.

“Don’t be daft.”

Aunt Petunia made brief eye contact, but startled and looked away. 

“Lily wasn’t– the both of them, they weren’t normal,” she said, pursing her lips. “They were born weirdos, nothing to do about it. Even their own kind knew they ought not to mix with normal folk; Lily left for some silly boarding school when she was about your age.”

“Have I got to go there too? ” Harry asked. “What about Stonewall? And anyway, aren’t I supposed to finish primary school next year?” 

Aunt Petunia looked out the window.

“Her lot had a unique backward system,” she said, finally. “Yes, you’ll be going this coming August.” 

“It’s not Smeltings, is it?” Harry asked weakly. He hadn’t heard of another boarding school in the area. But then, that was hardly likely. He thought: Is it secretly an orphanage? An asylum? A plot to leave me stranded in a foreign country, unable to return? 

“As if they’d let someone like you within ten feet of my little boy.” his Aunt snapped. 

“Well, what is it?”

“I say, watch your tone,” warned Aunt Petunia. Then, “It’s in Northern Europe. Durmstrang.”

“Durmstrang? Durmstrang!?” Harry’s mouth dropped open, forming a solid, surprised ‘O’. It couldn’t be…

“My mum was magic? I’m magic !?”  

“Hush!” Aunt Petunia shushed at once. Her eyes narrowed as his words caught up to her. “You horrible boy,” she seethed. “How long has it been since you nicked that letter?”

Harry looked away. 

“Thank the lord you’ll soon be well and done with. Come, we’re off to London.” 

“London?” asked Harry. 

Petunia scowled. “You need supplies, don’t you?” 

Harry scrambled down the stairs. He retrieved the letter under his pillow and pulled on his scrappy trainers. His aunt looked through the peephole before opening the door. 

“You’d do well to remember I'm not doing this for you,” she said. “You’ll stay far, far away from us. No holiday visits, not even over the summers. This is it.” 

Harry nodded. He clasped his hands together and felt himself go stiff with excitement as he waited for his Aunt to let him out. 

Without Uncle Vernon’s bright red convertible, the trip to London took around an hour and a half of walking and another hour on the tube. Harry had been a few times before; his Uncle Vernon’s mate from Smeltings was an optometrist in the area and had a shabby little practice that the Dursley family was quite fond of. Aunt Petunia purchased and renewed her red, prudish reading glasses partially out of pocket, so those sorts of discounts were appreciated. Though, that was the suburban part of the city.

Harry had seen downtown London only once, a few years ago through the holes of a trunk (Uncle Vernon owned a family van at the time). Mrs. Figg was away on family business during holiday season, so he was in transit to the babysitter’s. From what he could see, which wasn't much, it was just… grey . 

At any rate, the assessment held true at the moment Harry and Aunt Petunia stepped out of a charming red bus and onto the crosswalk, airing out the smelliness of the underground from their clothes (though for Harry it was no loss) and the insides of their noses. London was dull and foggy, and later Harry remarked there was a bit of rain which came in bursts whenever the clouds fancied it as if someone up above was having a gentle cry. 

“Look,” said Aunt Petunia, pinching his shoulder unkindly. “It ought to be around there.”  

She briefly pointed at some combination of inconspicuous houses and shops on the other side of the road. Harry missed the exact direction of her finger because of the traffic (which blocked his view), but maintained the impression that there was nothing at all odd or else magical going on in the area at all! As it was, Aunt Petunia bundled up her strong convictions in one hand and Harry in the other, stopping the busy, honking cars to cross. 

“Aunt Petunia,” Harry whispered. “I’m afraid I can’t see the entrance”

“Don’t be silly, of course you can. It’s all m-m-magicked so that only your lot can enter.” Aunt Petunia’s expression was sour. “They don’t value anyone else at all, don't you know? We , meaning us normal folk, are the ones who can’t see it.” 

“Must I go alone then?” asked Harry. He found it unlikely that people without magic would be permitted inside if they were not even allowed to see the outskirts. 

“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Petunia. “May the Lord strike me down before I allow such people to guide me in with their– their disgusting hands over my eyes and make me kneel in praise or whatnot… As if I ought to admit my–my– inferiority . Pah! I won’t have it.”

All the better , thought Harry. It would be easier this way, and he was quick and smart enough to trace his steps back to Little Whinging later on. 

“Well, I still can’t see anything…” he said, squinting in frustration. 

A small surge of pedestrians from the adjacent crosswalk appeared at the next green light, and in the haste of the crowd, a stiff elbow caught Harry’s back. He stumbled forward and fell on hand and knee. 

“Oof!”

“Oh– Oh pardon! Terribly sorry there! Let me help you up, take my hand. Yes, yes.” It was certainly a man’s voice, but it lacked that sort of masculine austerity that one could often pick up; it was nervous, and feminine in pitch and tone. “Dedalus Diggle, at your service.” 

Mr. Diggle, which Harry remarked was a strange name indeed, was wearing a hot pink suit jacket and a pair of plaid flamingo dress pants with a matching pocket square. Upon looking him up and down twice, Harry heard his Aunt Petunia gasp involuntarily: “Oh my!”

“Nice thing isn't it?” Mr. Diggle said, making a little half spin to show off the purple underbelly of the monstrous coat. “Charmed– oh, pardon me– sewed it just last week! And just look at this!”

He pulled out a pocket watch from his right pants pocket. It was pink, of course, and instead of two rotating hands, there was just a large, pink badger in the middle.

“How’s it meant to tell the time?” Harry wondered out loud. He used the back of his hand to wipe some debris off of his forehead. 

“You ask it, of course. Look and see. Ahem– the time, if you please.” 

The badger on Mr. Diggle’s pocket watch opened its mouth and said: “quarter past eleven in the morning.”

“Nice bit of… how do you say… telechno-ologie, no?” Mr. Diggle looked at Harry and winked. His smile dropped suddenly as his eyes caught on Harry’s forehead; he knew at once he must have parted his fringe by mistake and exposed his scar. “Well, I never! Harry Potter, is that you?”  

“We’ll be off!” interrupted Aunt Petunia before Harry had a chance to respond. She clasped Harry’s hand and made to walk away. 

“Oh it is, thank Merlin it is! And, you must be Harry’s guardian. What a pleasure it is to meet your acquaintance as well, Madame!”  

Aunt Petunia dodged Diggle’s attempt to kiss her hand, looking disgusted. 

“I know you,” said Harry suddenly. “You were that man in the yellow hat, a few years ago in Kent. You shook my hand!”

“Oh, he remembers! Mr. Potter remembers!” cried Diggle, looking as if he might wet himself in excitement. Much to Harry’s horror, his expression changed abruptly. Tears began to well in the corner of his eyes, and he took out his pocket square to dab at them emotionally. “ SNIFFFF– What your parents would think– SNIFFFFF–  if they could see you now, so grown up...”

Diggle blew a wad of wet snot into the handkerchief. It dripped unpleasantly as he shook it out; Aunt Petunia looked faintly green and took a step back to avoid making any contact. 

Harry paid no attention to any of this. 

“You knew my parents?” he asked, looking at Diggle in awe. 

“Yes, yes,” said Diggle, refolding his pocket square. He wiped a final tear with the back of his knuckle. “They were a few years ahead of me at school if I do so recall. Oh… but the resemblance… just like James, with Lily’s eyes. Dear me!” 

“Oh... ” Harry said. He felt a strange, tight feeling in his chest. Nobody had told him about his parents before. 

Harry took a moment to primp at his reflection, which he noticed in the wet, puddle-prone pavement. Just as they had been for his entire life, his eyes were a pretty green. His face, meanwhile, was distorted in the water, making it look boyish and full. Harry imagined he was looking down at his prebuscent father, which was easy if he squinted his eyes a bit. 

“Then, you must be a wizard,” Harry said, suddenly. 

“Oh, yes,” Diggle said. “Ah– but don’t look at my N.E.W.Ts.” 

“Right. I don’t suppose you’d know how to enter… er…”

“Diagon Alley?” said Diggle. “Just enter there, through the Leaky Cauldron. Ask for Tom the barman. He’ll open up the gate for you. I would have loved to see you through, Harry, but I'm afraid I’ve some matters to attend to. No matter… it’s been an honor, indeed. ” 

Harry thanked Mr. Diggle and then furiously waved off his attempts to bow and kiss the hems of his trousers. Finally, Diggle settled for a strong handshake and ducked into an alleyway. Waving goodbye, he pulled out what appeared to be a long, magic wand. With a wink and a large CRACK, he was gone. 

"Well, I never,” said Aunt Petunia. 

Harry was secretly of the same opinion. What a strange man , he thought. 

“I guess that’s it, then, Aunt Petunia.” 

Harry pointed to the pub a short ways on his right side. It was a small, dingy thing, that he never would’ve noticed unless it had been pointed out to him. “That’s the Leaky Cauldron. Er, the entrance..” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Petunia uncomfortably. “I suppose that’s that.” 

Harry glanced at her over and over, with similar discomfort. 

He was short, much shorter than her still, and very young too. It seemed much too early to split into such immensely different paths. Harry felt a misplaced sense of dread form a pit in the bottom of his stomach. Was this goodbye for good? There was some time until he was off to school, so there was a chance the Dursleys would spare him his cupboard for a few more days, but that was up to Harry. He’d be out of reach in just a few moments, free to do whatever he pleased. 

“Well,” Aunt Petunia said. “I expect– you–” 

“Goodbye,” said Harry. He ran over and gave her a squeeze in the waist area (a hug, if you were generous). He pulled back, and made to enter the pub. 

“Wait!” said Aunt Petunia. Harry looked at her curiously. Her cheeks were flushed as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a scruffy twenty pound note. She handed it to him, but not before wagging her finger harshly.

“This is for your supplies,” she said. “Not for sweets or for moseying about, purchasing anything inappropriate. It’s the last thing you’ll get from me and Vernon. Be smart about it, if you can manage.“

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” said Harry. 

There was nothing more to say. He opened the door and disappeared from view. 

Chapter Text

Harry found the barman, Tom, hunching and staggering around the Leaky Cauldron. Several bottles of Butterbeer floated behind him as he made way, bowing their necks and pouring into many glasses over the span of many tables. As he walked, Tom’s silver cane wobbled from beneath him. He was hardly heavy– in fact, the opposite– but Harry suspected his wrists were worn from his old age, so he had a soft, unreliable grip.

Late July and early August must be high season.

Mothers were breastfeeding on barstools, their oafish husbands left to engage the older children. But the little boys and girls always scrambled back to their Mums, pulling on their overalls and sundresses as they fussed and nagged loudly (rather like Harry’s cousin Dudley): “ Can we go hoooooome yet?” . The men who were too old or else too indigent to be fathers held communion in their own corner. They were liberal with their spirits, sloshing whiskey all over their fronts and waving their wands to make their shot glasses grow hands and line dance with one another. 

There was a short free minute Harry used to meet Tom and ask to be let into Diagon Alley proper. With firm advice to head to Gringotts (the premier Wizarding Bank), he was off. 

It had been trained out of him now, but as a boy Harry had lived off of his imagination; in dreaming his mind could in some capacity convince him he had escaped from his prim and proper Aunt Petunia and the rest of the Dursley family. Diagon Alley slotted into his mind right there, next to the dinosaurs and the blue, flying convertibles. It was so wonderful it evaded description and could only be conveyed through anecdotes. On his way to Flourish and Blotts , for instance, Harry met an adventurous talking snake by the name of Javier and made conversation all the way to Knockturn Alley . That was the standard of business. 

Noon came with a warm hand and Harry found himself at Ollivander’s to buy a wand. Ollivander’s was right next to Eeylops Owl Emporium. That meant several owls were flying around with letters or packages to deliver. A snowy owl stopped to sit on Harry’s shoulder and nip at his ear. Harry giggled as it nabbed a bit of his hair on its way out. In high spirits, he pulled his trunk behind him and entered. 

“… Hello?” 

The bell tinkled politely as the door swung closed. Harry took a few steps inside and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Thin, wiry muttering alerted him to the presence of who he assumed was Ollivander. He had his back turned and was rubbing his chin wildly. Ollivander noticed Harry but did not move, holding out one finger as if to say, ‘One moment, please.’ 

“ Yes… dragon liver crushed in the… and yew… Oh– pardon me so I may write this down. Here for your wand, yes?” 

Ollivander had a soft, airy voice. Once he turned around, he proved he was slim and old to match. Harry remarked he was handsome enough in the way old men with hair left on their heads generally are, but everything about him was weedy and gave the impression that he had recently stuck his finger in a charged socket. The best way to put it was that he wasn’t unclean but he was untidy; his close-cut goatee was the only neat thing about him. 

His shop was the same. It was disorganized (at least to the layman) and chaotic by the nature of the number of wand boxes stacked on top of each other in such a small space. Harry was certain that Ollivander was a hoarder disguised as a merchant. 

“Yes. Just a wand, please. Unless I… er… need something else.” 

Ollivander hummed and got to work, climbing like a monkey on his impressively tall, wooden ladder. From what appeared to be the tenth shelf up, he reached for a pinkish box and opened it. He took the wand out and inspected it as he spoke.

“I hope you will find your wand by itself, perfectly adequate. There are other things of course… in rare cases, you may see some sheaths or holistors… but it’s best to avoid all of that. Hubris by such means has a price and the price quite often is, dare I say, efficacy. The wand is not subservient… no, no… it will not be restricted in such a way. Now, take this: Walnut and unicorn, ten inches. Swishy and flexible. Likes a bit of adventure. ”

Ollivander tossed the box down and Harry caught it easily. He took the wand in his right hand but paused before he could raise it. 

“Er… pardon, but haven’t you got to ask me some things first? How’d you know that wand’s for me?” 

“Wandmaking is a precise but uncertain art,” said Ollivander. “The wand chooses the wizard. Neither I nor any other can speak on its behalf.”

“So, you’re guessing?”

“ Estimating would be more accurate. Now, give that one a wave. Nice and pronounced!” 

Feeling silly, Harry waved the wand. 

Whatever it was he had done shattered the nearest window in wand range. A million little pieces of colored glass rained down violently and missed Harry and Ollivander by an uncomfortably small margin. Harry’s jaw dropped. 

Ollivander just shook his head. 

“A fair bit too stubborn, as it stands. What great potential… Oh, no need for those wobbly eyes. Reparo. There, it's alright now.” 

With just a complicated swish, the window mended itself, collecting and stitching together the shards on the floor. 

“No unicorn will bow to you, young man. Trust, I’ve learned my lesson in that respect… But, not to worry… not to worry… dragon heartstring and oak, 11 inches.” 

The dragon heartstring or else the oak wood failed to disagree with Harry to the extent of the previous wand, but despite two pointed waves it remained cold in his hand. 

“Er–” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Ollivander had swiped the wand away and put it back into its place. 

“And not one for dragons either…” he muttered. 

With every failed match, Harry felt his stomach churn more violently, confronted by the horrible thought that, perhaps, he wasn't a wizard at all! 

His disposition did not soon improve as he waved and waved for over a half hour, yet (impossibly!) found no suitable wand. Not many more exploded, and some even managed to produce small, weak sparks, but Ollivander refused to collect Harry’s money and his excuse that ‘ really, that ought to be good enough!’   “Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.” 

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air, and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls. 

Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well . . . how curious . . . how very curious . . .”

So cowed by the realization that it had almost been a full hour since he had arrived, Harry dared not ask what in fact was curious. He paid his seven gold galleons quickly and stuffed his rucksack back into his pocket. 

“I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter, ” said Ollivander. “Though I dare say, one year may make all the difference.”

In lieu of a reply, Harry bowed awkwardly and left. Later, he would recall that he and Mr. Ollivander had never made pleasant introductions. But for the moment, Harry was preoccupied. He had one thing left on his school list: a school uniform.   

Unlike Ollivander’s, Madam Malkin’s was large, spacey, and busy. Harry met with an older woman at the door who pinched his cheek sweetly and asked: “Hello. Hogwarts, dear?” 

“No, sorry. Durmstrang.”

It was as if he had just said a very bad curse word very, very loudly; the warmth of quiet conversation between the staff died down pointedly, but Madam Malkin righted her off-put expression and waved her hand, and it resumed. 

“Well, we always have one or two internationals. Come with me. And you ought to purchase a coat for the cold as well.”

“Yes’m” was the only thing Harry could say. In impressive time he found himself repeatedly assaulted by measuring tape, needles, and fabric. 

“Now, you stay still until I come back,” Madam Malkin said sternly. Harry watched her chat with another customer on the other side of the shop. She returned with a younger woman in tow. They both got to work, taking out pins one by one and watching Harry deflate like a punctured balloon. 

“Only one Frenchman this year. Beauxbatons must be losing it’s popularity.” said the assistant in a low voice. She waved her wand and Harry struggled against an overenthusiastic ribbon. “And Merlin bless the long gone 80s– can’t believe we’ve got a Durmstrang student, British as can be. You would’ve thought his parents had enough sense to send him off to Hogwarts where he belongs.”

“Now don’t go saying such things,” Madam Malkin said. “And the boy’s certainly not deaf, are you, young man?”

“No ma'am.”

“Well, there you have it. Work faster, Matilda. What am I paying you for?”

“Pardon me,” Harry asked. “What’s Hogwarts?”

“ Merlin bless him ,”  Madam Malkin whimpered. The shop assistant, Matilda, had an aghast expression on her face.

“Only the finest Wizarding School in Britain. And the West, really,” she said, bursting with pride. “He’s a muggle-born, Mrs. Malkin, I bet he is, just look at his clothes.”

Shaking her head ruefully, Madam Malkin said, “Are you sure you’re meant to buy the Durmstrang uniform?”

“No refunds,” Matilda said charitably.

Harry shook his head and pulled his letter out of his pocket with the one arm he could still extend. 

From under her reading glasses, Madam Malkin gasped: “ Muggleborn invited to Durmstrang… Well, I never .” 

“Are you German? Eastern European of any kind?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Harry, but his response was lost in the novelty of the situation which the two women gossiped about shamelessly for the remainder of the hour. 

“There you are, dearie,” said Madam Malkin once everything was all said and done. She handed him his uniform, tailored to perfection. She smiled and waved her wand as Harry paid, slipping everything neatly into his trunk.

“You be careful out there,” Matilda warned playfully. “Don’t do anything I wouldn't do. That means no Dark Arts. We don’t need another You-Know-Who, alright?”

Madam Malkin squawked and berated her assistant by whacking her with a pincushion over and over. Harry giggled. 

Taking a stroll down the road, Harry noticed he had a bit of a headache. He was certain it was a byproduct of all the day’s new words and experiences rattling around up there because the pain was familiar; It was as if he had lifted something too heavy, but instead of a sore back he had a sore brain. Yet, Harry found himself at an impasse. All his shopping was done, but he hardly wanted to go back to Privet Drive. And he didn’t have to go back to Privet Drive. He didn't have to do anything. Maybe that was the problem all in one: he was overwhelmed and inexperienced with any sort of autonomy. There was no real solution to a problem like that, there was only biding time. 

Harry had some more adventures. He met a street rat who would do flips for change outside of a menagerie and somehow spent his last knut on a pack of hot-balloon gum at a candy store with a particularly pushy clerk. He quickly learned not to try anything unfamiliar in a deserted area; he was nearly above the clouds when someone finally noticed him and cast a spell to pop the gum and reunite him with the ground. 

Harry finally settled on a bench by a busy horseshoe-like section of Diagon Alley, where all the popular children’s shops were. He had already explored Boogermongers and Spintwitches Sporting Needs, so he decided to make the best of his time and read a bit of one of his textbooks. 

He had hardly even opened his trunk when the stampede came. Caught in the crossfire of two dozen chattering children, Harry stumbled onto his knees with a loud: 

“ Oof!”

“Oh, now look what you’ve done. RONALD WEASLEY. GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT. I SEE YOU SNEAKING OFF. TURN AROUND– I'm terribly sorry dear, what’s your name?” 

A kind-looking woman with a round face helped Harry off of the ground. She continued to shout and point until her red-headed son groaned and gestured in a resigned sort of way at the broom display that several groups of boys were ogling at.

“ Ron Weasley . Go on and say sorry right this moment. I saw you push him.” 

Harry shook his head and said with guilt: “it’s alright, really.”

Mrs. Weasley didn’t take her stern eyes off of her son. 

“Well, sorry about that,” said Ron finally. “I didn't mean to hit you or anything. I’m right clumsy and just wanted to finally see the Nimbus ‘99. Have you heard? This one’s faster than ever. Great steering sensitivity, too.”

“Do you play Quidditch, Harry?” asked Mrs. Weasley politely.

“No, this is all pretty new…”

“Muggle-born? You’ll be one year older than Ron, then. He’s off to Hogwarts next year. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Of course,” Harry said. 

Mrs. Weasley asked Harry about a few other things, goading her son into the conversation which he resisted admirably. It didn’t last very long. The three of them jerked suddenly at the sound of an explosion and Mrs. Weasley rushed into Quality Quidditch Supplies with a worried expression on her face.

“That’ll be Fred and George, I expect,” said Ron gloomily. “My brothers– they’re always doing stuff like that: blowing things up. I can barely go anywhere with their reputation. Everyone looks at me funny as if I'll set the place on fire or something… Do you have any siblings?”

“I live with my cousin,” Harry offered awkwardly. 

“‘S not the same, is it?”

Harry shook his head. “So are you going to Hogwarts?” he asked. 

“Of course,” said Ron, looking surprised. “Doesn't everyone? Not this year, though. I’m still too young. But next year… Well, I reckon I'll finally be able to get away from Mum longer than a trip to the loo. You’re lucky you get to go now– other kids don’t know what they’re missing out on, but with five brothers, I've been looking forward to it since I was eight. I don’t suppose you’d be able to tell me about how the sorting goes. It's the one thing they refuse to share.”

“I don’t think I can say….” said Harry awkwardly.

“Why not?” asked Ron, looking defensive. “It’ll hardly be any work at all.”

“Er.. I won't be going.”

Ron’s eyes widened in shock. 

“Not going to Hogwarts? But you’re as English as can be! Where else is there? Don’t tell me you’re a muggle!”

“A muggle?”

“You have no magic!” 

“I do too!” replied Harry testily. “Look! I’ve got my wand and everything.”

He took it out of his pocket and brandished it carefully as proof. 

“Wicked…” said Ron enviously. “I suppose there’s homeschool, but didn’t you tell Mum you were a muggle-born? That means both your parents are muggles.” 

Harry was reminded of Aunt Petunia and her strange lack of hesitance to believe in magic and witchcraft. He hummed and thought carefully about his reply.

“My mum and dad passed away when I was a baby.” He said. “My Mum might’ve been a witch, I think. My Aunt wasn’t too pleased to let me know.”

“Oh..” said Ron, red from embarrassment. “But she can still hardly teach you—your Aunt that is. Can you speak French?”

“No…”

“German?”

“Only English.” 

“That’s Beaubatons and Durmstrang out, then. Don’t tell me you’re American. ”

“Oh,” said Harry “But I am going to Durmstrang.”

“ Durmstrang, are you really ? ” asked Ron in disbelief. “Mate, I was just joking… and you said you don't know how to speak German!”

“I don’t!” 

“How will you learn at all!? They’d probably have to transfer you back to Hogwarts or something– but that’s for the best. I’ve heard Durmstrang is dark . Like you-know-who level dark.”

Harry frowned. 

“I hardly care if I get transferred,” he determined. “As long as I get to learn spells and magic. And for the record, I don't know who.”

“Sorry?”

“You said you-know-who. Well, I don't know who.”

“Blimey,” said Ron, scratching his dirty chin. “I can't explain much ‘cause my mum wouldn't tell me anything at all if she could help it. I know he was a dark wizard, though. Proper dark. That’s why you can’t say his name, yeah? He was only ever scared of one person: Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster at Hogwarts. But even that didn’t keep him from killing loads of people ‘cause he had so many followers to do his bidding. Nobody could stop him. Well, not until he attacked Harry Potter when he was a baby. His killing curse rebounded, and he was gone just like that!”

He lowered his voice to a whisper: “I heard Dad say they found his wand in the rubble. It was proof that he was gone for good.”

“What?” Harry asked, in shock. 

“What about it?” asked Ron. 

“Who was that baby you mentioned?”

“Harry Potter. You haven't met him, have you?”

“ I’m Harry Potter!” Harry said. 

Ron’s jaw dropped. 

“Blimey!” he said, before frowning. “But you can’t be. Harry Potter’s my age! You’ve just turned eleven.”

“Have not! I’m ten this July.”

“Then you wouldn't be off to school till next year!” Ron said suspiciously. “I don’t know how you got your wand so early.”

“Durmstrang must start one year before Hogwarts,” Harry concluded. 

As an afterthought, he asked: “Are there many Harry Potter’s around here?”

Ron shook his head. “I don’t think so… Have you got the scar?” 

“The scar?”

“Harry Potter’s got a scar on his forehead, all lightning-like. Do you have it?” 

Harry felt himself flush. His fringe twitched guiltily and Harry became very aware that it was just barely touching his eyebrows. He opened his mouth to respond but–

A harsh bell and the sound of a slamming door alerted the two of them to the Quality Quidditch Supplies once again, where Ron's mum had burst out of the door, gripping two identical redheads by the ears. 

“ If you two ever try something like that again, I'll spell your arms right off!” 

Mrs. Weasley’s gaze softened when she saw Harry and Ron together.

“Hello again Harry. Have you and Ron become friends? I do wish we could stay at Diagon for longer but I’m afraid we’ve finished all of our shopping and we’ve had quite enough– ahem – mischief for the day–”

“Mum!” interrupted Ron, who looked as if the words had involuntarily burst from his mouth. “Mum! Mum! This is Harry Potter.”

Ron’s mum dropped her two identical sons and clapped her hands over her heart as she gasped.

“Oh my… How could I have missed it– just like James. Oh my… but with Lily's eyes...”

“Potter? Did someone say, Harry Potter?”

" The boy-who-lived? At Diagon Alley?”

" Mummy mummy!”

“Oh, hush! All of you!” said Mrs. Weasley to the oncoming crowd, and she patted Harry behind herself hastily to avoid attention. “There’s no Harry Potter here, and Merlin knows you should treat any boy better than to act like a swarm of busybodies in his presence. Go on! Shoo!” 

“No need to act so testily…” said a grumpy middle-aged man in a tall wizard's hat.

Elbowing Harry in the ribs, the two twin Weasleys whispered “Oi! Watch this! Accio !” 

With only a flick of their wands, the wizard’s hat flew from atop the man’s head and up, up, up into the air. 

“Hey!” he said, feeling his free scalp. 

“Now, Now, Shafiq,” said Mrs. Weasley with a harsh glare. “You ought to know when to close your mouth.” 

Shafiq was a bit pink in the face by the time he managed to retrieve his hat from the sky, pat it off, and put it back on his head.

“Yes, well… I’ll be seeing you,” he said and was off post haste. 

“Wicked!” Ron and Harry exclaimed in unison. 

Mrs. Weasley shook her head, though her cheeks were slightly blushed with pride. 

“Hardly! And Fred, George, don’t think you’re off the hook. Blowing up a shop! Underage magic! What an example for Ron and Ginny.” 

“Don’t have a conniption. Someone has to stop them from turning into Prefects like Bill and Charlie.” Fred said. George nodded in support. 

“You two would do well to act more like them!” said Mrs. Weasley irritably. “And where are your guardians, Harry, dear?” 

“Aunt Petunia left a few hours ago to deal with my cousin.”

Mrs. Weasley’s brows furrowed. She looked perplexed. 

“How on earth are you expected to get back home?”

“Just the train.” 

“Alone?”

“I can handle myself,” Harry assured. “I’ve only got to switch the line twice!”

“You're not yet ten!” squawked Mrs. Weasley. “That’s hardly appropriate! You ought to come with us and use the Floo.” 

“Oh no, it's alright..” Harry protested, but from Mrs. Weasley’s expression, he knew he would be swiftly defeated. 

Harry and the Weasleys headed to the Leaky Cauldron to exit Diagon Alley. Mrs. Weasley had charmed Harry’s new trunk to follow them around so he didn’t have to carry the heavy burden of his school supplies. Harry and Ron spent the short trek talking about Quidditch, a popular wizarding sport (which explained all the ruckus around magic brooms), and Ron’s favorite team, The Chudley Cannons. From what Harry could gather, they were only a bit short of utter rubbish. It was a wonder they had any fans at all!

At the pub, Mrs. Weasley pushed through the swarm of patrons and reached the counter. 

“Just the Floo, please,” she said.

Noticing Harry, Tom the bartender put down the dirty glass he had been cleaning to wave at him. Harry tentatively waved back. 

Tom took the small bronze coin Mrs. Weasley had slid over and reached under the counter to retrieve a large pot. 

“Fire’s over there,” he said, pointing to his left. “If you see the sign for the loo, you’ve gone too far.”

“Now, Harry. Have you used the Floo?” asked Mrs Weasley.

She was using several complicated spells to clean the fireplace. Once she assessed it was ready, she lit the wood with a strong spark from her wand. Harry jolted slightly. The fire caught exceptionally well, and soon enough it was raging and licking at its enclosure. 

“No,” Harry mumbled. “Is it, er… dangerous?” 

“Not particularly,” Fred grinned and mimed picking something out of his teeth. 

“Of course, there was that one time Percy got burned to death,” said George. “Freak accident, you know. But you win some, you lose some, I daresay.” 

“Stop that! You’re scaring the boy,” Mrs. Weasley scolded. 

“They’re only joking,” said Ron “Percy’s alive and well.”

“Pity.”

Mrs. Weasley swatted George on the head. 

“Don’t you worry, it’s not difficult at all,” she told Harry gently. “Just throw some Floo powder into the fire, and state your destination. Be careful to keep your hands and feet stiff and still, of course; you wouldn’t want to fall into the wrong chimney.  ”

“We’re traveling by chimney? Like Father Christmas? Was he a wizard?” Harry asked.

Mrs. Weasley smiled. 

“No, no,” she said. “Father Christmas was a muggle if he even ‘was’ at all. The Floo doesn’t work in Muggle houses. Imagine if it did. Hah! Arthur would have a field day.”

“Dad works in the Department of Muggle Affairs,” Ron said proudly. 

“Now line up one by one, the lot of you. Fred, you go first. Here's some powder–”

“Wait!” said Harry. He had been struck by an anxious realization. “Mrs. Weasley, my aunt and uncle are muggles. I don’t think I can use the Floo.” 

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Harry should come to the Burrow with us!” Ron butted in. “Dad can take him over later.” 

“Well... I suppose… as long your Aunt wouldn’t mind. Oh, and only if you’d like to, Harry, dear."

“Would I!” Harry said at once. 

Ron beamed, his eyes flashing with excitement. 

“Well then, that’s settled. You’ll come with us to the Burrow, have a bite to eat, and then Arthur can take you home.”

“You’re alright with explosions, aren’t you Harry?” George asked. 

“Or the occasional Dung Bomb?”

“Fred! George! No nonsense in the house with guests– not ever! Do you know how much it cost to repair the roof when you sent Muriel flying into it? Your father–” 

When he noticed Harry’s concerned expression, Ron just shrugged. 

“They’re all mental,” he said. 

Just as Mrs. Weasley had explained, Floo travel was far from complex. Fred, who was the least trustworthy of them all, went first. He took some powder and threw it into the fireplace. Violently green flames erupted from the hearth in a puff , and he stepped into them. For Harry’s entertainment, he made a brief show of burning to death but was quickly shut up by Mrs. Weasley’s sharp look. 

“The Burrow!” he said, and that was that. 

“Now you, George,” said Mrs. Weasley.

Harry went after George and Ron but before Mrs. Weasley, who stayed there for supervision. 

“Remember to speak clearly, dear. No slurring stuttering or sneezing, if you can help it. Just say ‘The Burrow’, nice and pronounced. Oh, and one more thing...” 

Mrs. Weasley carefully slid Harry’s glasses off the bridge of his nose. She tapped them twice with her wand and then folded them into the baggy breast pocket of Dudley’s old uniform polo.

“Just a little sticking charm,” she said. “So they won’t get lost or broken.” 

Harry gave Mrs. Weasley a big, genuine smile.

“The Burrow!”

THUMP. 

“You alright, mate?” said Ron. “Mum’ll be coming through soon. You ought to move before you get knocked down.”

At least the floo was as fast as it was unpleasant. 

Harry gurgled a bit before he found his legs and wobbled out of the chimney. It took another moment to remember to open his eyes and put on his glasses. As everything came into focus, Harry’s jaw dropped. 

“Woah…” 

The Weasleys’ house was as unlike Number 4, Privet Drive as any place could possibly be. 

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle and Harry grabbed on to the edge of a seat, looking around. He had never been in a wizard house before. The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like ‘Time to make tea’, ‘Time to feed the chickens’ and ‘You’re late’. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking and One Minute Feasts – It’s Magic! And unless Harry’s ears were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was ‘Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck’. 

In other words, it was brilliant. 

“It’s nothing much,” said Ron.

“Come off it,” said Harry. “It’s the best house I’ve ever seen!” 

“Molly, dear, Is everything alright? Oh, hello. And who are you?” 

Mr. Weasley had made his way downstairs. Ron took after him very much– putting aside the obvious, they had the same long nose, round eyes, and freckled face

“Dad. That's Harry Potter!” 

“Harry Potter? Is he really?”

“ Really!”

“The Harry Potter?” 

“ Of course he’s the–”

“Did someone say something about Harry Potter?” 

That had to be Ron’s sister. She was just as ginger as the rest of them, only she had two long plaits coming out of her head and a shorter, rounder face. She looked less like Mr. Weasley and more like Mrs. Weasley, who had finally arrived, trunks and all. 

“No dawdling on the stairs, Ginny. Come say hello.” 

“Hello. How do you do?” 

“Er.. well, thank you,” Harry said.

“Are you one of Ron’s friends? Funny, I didn't know he had any.”

“Ginny!” 

“What? It’s the truth!”

“Stop bothering your brother and come pick up your clothes,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Merlin knows you’ve been growing like a weed. And Ron as well. I got two shirts and two trousers for each of you, and some pants for you, Ginny.” 

“ MUM!”

“Pants are hardly embarrassing,” said Mr. Weasley good-naturedly. “We all wear them. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, no need for all that. Call me Arthur.” 

“Hang on a moment,” said Ginny. “Harry? As in, Harry Potter?”

“That’s right.” 

Ginny squeaked and leaped about ten feet in the air. Just noticing she was still in her pink, heart pattern pajamas, she turned red and scrambled all the way up the upstairs screaming “ YOU GIT–” and “–TALKING ABOUT PANTS IN FRONT OF HARRY BLEEDING POTTER–”

“Is she alright?” Harry asked. 

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I’d hoped she’d grown out of that by now...”

What ‘that’ was, exactly, Harry never got around to finding out. The twins had reappeared with an entire stock of pranks to test him with, and somehow by the end they had knocked out Harry’s last baby tooth and Ron had two large black eyes . 

Harry met the last of Ron’s brothers shortly afterward: Percy and Charlie (who were still in school) and Bill, who had already graduated and could do magic freely. 

Bill ended up fixing Ron’s face and enacting justice on the twins since ‘as the oldest brother, that was his sort of responsibility’ . 

By the time everything had been sorted it was lunch, and Mrs. Weasely was yelling at the top of her lungs: “ FOOD’S READY! IF YOU’RE HUNGRY, NOW’S THE TIME!” 

Sitting next to Ron, Harry ate around his wide, gap-toothed smile. 

“Careful,” teased Bill. “You might just get stuck like that.”

Harry wanted nothing more. 

Chapter Text

Once everyone had been fed and watered, Mr. Weasley found the strength to peel himself from the patchy maroon sofa that he had just finished napping on. Scratching his thin, protruding belly with satisfaction, he said: 

“Well, Harry, let’s get you home. Wouldn’t want to keep you for too long.”

Mrs. Weasley and all seven of her children waved goodbye as Mr. Weasley loaded Harry’s trunk into the back of the family car: a handsome, blue Ford Anglia. The ‘SOLD’ sticker was still on the back where the license plate ought to be, Harry briefly noticed. 

Ron helped Harry balance his tall pile of Fudge Flies, Ice Mice, and Jelly Slugs (from Fred and George, of course).

“You’ll visit again, won’t you?” he asked, looking at his feet. 

“Whenever I can,” Harry promised. 

Harry opened the door and sat next to Mr. Weasley.

"Everything accounted for?” Mr. Weasley asked, fiddling with the rearview mirror and looking faintly curious. 

Harry looked behind him and nodded. 

“Wait! You’ve forgotten this !” 

Mrs. Weasley handed a large, red Tupperware to Harry through the window.  

“It's nothing much,” she said, “but I had to send you off with something. Do your Aunt and Uncle like muffins?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Harry gloomily, reminded of his greedy cousin Dudley for the first time since that morning. “They do.” 

Mr. Weasley gave Mrs. Weasley a kiss on the cheek before the Ford Anglia finally pulled out of the driveway and onto the rough, unpaved dirt road. He fiddled unsuccessfully with the button for the radio as the car swerved. Harry felt carsick and pulled the window down for some fresh air. 

“Alright, Harry?” asked Mr Weasley. “Just one moment… oh, not this button either– Whoops!” 

He pulled the wheel abruptly to the left, veering back onto the road and avoiding a violent oak tree by a fraction of a second. 

“You’ll have to forgive me, just got my license last week!” Mr. Weasley was yelling over the loud air, “Fifth time’s the charm, as the muggles say. And I only had to confund the instructor once!”

Whatever confunding was, Harry thought it did not sound promising. He whimpered slightly and thrust his head in his hands. 

“AHA!”

Finally, Mr. Weasley cranked the correct dial, and the radio started. To Harry’s relief, he put both of his hands on the wheel. 

“Oh Wow,” Mr. Weasley said, humming along to the sound of static. “What an interesting muggle song.”

The two of them arrived at Little Whinging sometime later in the afternoon. Harry, unnerved at the idea of reuniting with his Aunt, Uncle, and cousin, had his eyes closed and was attempting to burn the day's memories into his brain. 

“They all look the same! Which one is Number Four, Harry ?”

“Just that one, over there,” Harry said, opening his eyes and pointing. 

Mr. Weasley parked on the corner of Privet Drive and leaped out of the door. Harry was much less hasty; he had noticed Mrs. Number 2 looking at them from behind her lacy, ‘snooping curtains’ and was unwilling to expose himself. It was probably Mr. Weasley’s mustard jumpsuit that was drawing attention– his poor attempt at ‘dressing muggle’.  

“Right on,” said Mr. Weasley, trunk in hand. “ It’s very exciting to be here. I can’t remember the last time I met a muggle. Certainly not on the job; baiting tends to send them straight to St. Mungo’s , see. And then they’re obliviated and sent off. There’s hardly any time for discussion. Would your Aunt and Uncle mind answering a few questions? I’ve been meaning to ask: what exactly is gerrymandering?”

“Err…” said Harry quickly, “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. Everything’s quite busy at the moment...”

Mr. Weasley frowned. “Well alright–” 

Harry exhaled. 

“-- I’ll only stay a moment.”

“No! No, really–”

But it was too late. Mr. Weasley had already pressed the doorbell one– two – three times in quick succession. Harry hid his face in his hands and expected it when Aunt Petunia snapped open the door, pink-faced and angry. 

“For the last time, we will not be giving any money to– Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Well, get in. I’ll tell Vernon you found your way back, somehow.”

“You must be Mrs. Dursley-- Arthur Weasley, nice to meet you,” said Mr. Weasley. He held out his hand to shake. “My wife bumped into Harry earlier this afternoon; I felt responsible to make sure he got home safe. I understand there was an emergency with Harry’s cousin?” 

Aunt Petunia didn’t dare touch his hand, eyes fixed on his highlighter-orange cufflinks and then the rest of him. The only indication that she had heard him was the thinning of her lipstick-ed lips and her unhappy expression. 

“...Well, I’ll just take Harry’s stuff inside.” 

“You will not step foot inside my house!” shrieked Aunt Petunia at once, coming to life and moving to cover the doorway with her twiggy body. “Not with my son inside, so help me!”
“ Mrs. Dursley,” said Mr. Weasley in bewilderment. “I do understand you may have had–”

He looked at Harry for a moment. 

“– poor experiences with the magical world, but be that as it may… I would never do anything to harm a muggle.”

“A Muggle !” said Aunt Petunia in fury. “We are not muggles! We’re good, normal people. How dare you insult my family!” 

“ Oh, dear,” said Mr. Weasley, looking overwhelmed. “If you’d just let me take Harry’s trunk up to his room, I'd be out of your hair. It’ll only take a moment. Just one spell!” 

That did it. Aunt Petunia turned red from head to foot, shaking with rage and fear at alternating intervals. Her hand was raised as if to slap Mr. Weasley, and Harry thought it was quite fortunate she didn’t have anything sharp near her to grab. 

“ You–you –” she wobbled angrily. “ Stay away! We don’t tolerate that stuff here!”  

“What? Magic? Your nephew is a wizard; I dare say you’ll get used to it.”

Uncle Vernon’s deep, ugly voice interrupted him: “ Pet? Who’s at the door?” 

“Just the postman, sweetums!” Aunt Petunia crowed, sounding strained. She lowered her voice. 

“You!” she pointed at Harry. “We’ve done nothing but tolerate you and put a roof over your head. This is how you repay us? Vernon and I talked: we’re done! This is our limit! There will be no foolish wand waving in this house, not for even one moment!” 

“Aunt Petunia,” Harry said quietly. “I won’t–”

“ Not one !” Aunt Petunia whispered shrilly. “Out, both of you! Out for good.”

“For good?” repeated Mr. Weasley, eyes wide. “Surely you don’t mean that. Harry’s nine! What’s he supposed to do? Fend for himself?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” she snapped. “What happened to feeling responsible ?”   

“Wait! Aunt Petunia–” 

But she had already slammed the door; the deadbolt turned and locked with a loud, muffled click. 

“Come on then,” said Mr. Weasley at last. He was frowning deeply, his fists clenched. 

“It’s alright,” said Harry carefully. “She’ll let me back in. She didn’t mean anything by it. She’s… not usually like this.” 

“Thank you, Harry, but I have seven children,” said Mr. Weasley. “I can recognize a bully just fine.” 

***

Back at the Burrow, Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Weasley were having a heated conversation in the kitchen. Snippets of it came and went:

“ ...overreacting…”
“Certainly not…”
“But Dumbledore…”

Fred, George, and Ron were sitting with Harry on a couch in the living room, eating muffins out of the Tupperware that had been intended for Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley. With the exception of Percy (who had gone back to reading his textbooks in his room) and Ginny (who was hiding somewhere), the rest of the Weasleys were out of the house.

“I guess your next visit was sooner than expected,” George joked.

Embarassed, Harry mumbled something vague and ate some crumbs off of his plate.

Harry did not particularly enjoy talking about the Dursleys: It never led to anything good. It didn’t matter what he said-- once Aunt Petunia opened her mouth, there was no changing any minds about it: he was a no-good delinquent like his drunkard father. And even if the Weasleys saw past that… Well, it was bad enough to be an orphan, much less an unwanted one.  

“What happened anyway?” asked Ron through mouthfuls of blueberry muffin. 

“ Nothing…” 

“Sure doesn’t seem like nothing,” said Fred suspiciously. 

George noticed Harry’s uncomfortable expression and elbowed Fred in the shoulder. 

“Buzz off,” he said. “A gentleman doesn’t prank and tell, yeah?” 

“Alright,” said Fred. He shrugged and ate another muffin. 

Soon, the conversation in the kitchen slowed and died. Sighing and rubbing her temples, Mrs. Weasley came out and said: “Harry, dear. Would you mind joining us for a moment?”

Harry stood up and followed Mrs. Weasley nervously. He sat down at the end of the kitchen table. Mrs. Weasley was on his left and Mr. Weasley on his right– they looked serious. 

“I’m really sorry about my Aunt,” Harry said, at once. “She shouldn’t have been rude to you.” 

Mrs. Weasley’s expression softened. 

“Don’t worry about that,” she said kindly. “I promise we’ve heard worse.”

“Could you tell us a bit more about your Aunt, Harry?” interrupted Mr. Weasley. “Did your cousin really have an emergency this morning?”

“No…” Harry admitted. 

“Then, why did she leave you alone?” 

“The Dursleys don’t like magic very much,” Harry said. “And I’m nearly ten. I can shop alone.”

“She could’ve waited for you nearby instead of going back home,” said Mr. Weasley. “She could’ve done a number of things besides leaving. I’ll say it as it is– I’m not convinced of her ability to care for you.” 

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Weasley.

Harry was bright red. 

“I can take care of myself."   

“Harry…” Mrs. Weasley said softly. 

Harry shut his eyes and turned away. 

“Aunt Petunia really isn’t that bad…” he said, at last. “And it doesn't matter, Mr. Weasley; I only have to stay with her for one more month.” 

“Why a month?”  

“I'm off to school, then.”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged puzzled looks. 

“Is that why you were at Diagon Alley?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “To buy school supplies?”

Harry nodded. 

Her face fell. 

“Oh, Harry,” she said. “Hogwarts starts at eleven, not ten.”
Harry shook his head and pulled his letter out of his pocket. Showing it off, he said: “I’m going to Durmstrang, Mrs. Weasley. They start at ten.” 

“Durmstrang! Surely not! Dumbledore wouldn’t–”

“I’m sure he thought it out, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Well, I suppose but–”

“He’s a great man.”

“Oh, stuff it. I never said anything otherwise.”

“ Molly.”  

“Don’t Molly me. His Aunt and now this–.”

“ –It's a school .”

Harry opened his mouth.

“Dumbledore knows,” he lied. 

At once, Mr and Mrs. Weasley turned to look at him. 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure who Dumbledore was, besides the fact that he was a powerful wizard (or something like that). He was, however, entirely determined to go to magic school as soon as possible; there was no way he was going back to the Dursleys now.

“He talked to Aunt Petunia all about it a few weeks ago. He said Durmstrang was the… err… safest option.” 

“...Well, that’s that,” said Mr. Weasley. 

Mrs. Weasley deflated a bit. 

“Oh, alright then,” she sighed.   

“All good, mate?” Ron asked when Harry appeared in the living room once again. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But, I think I'll be at the Burrow for a while.”

“Wicked!” Ron said. “We’ll have the rest of the day to play Wizard's Chess or Exploding Snap. And Quidditch, if we’re lucky.”

He looked out the window. It was still overcast. 

“Well… maybe not.”

“Er….” Harry said. 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley finally joined them. 

Mrs. Weasley gave a strained smile and said at once: “Ronald, dear, go show Harry your room.”

Fred and George finally looked up from their game of Gobstones. 

“Hang on,” Fred said. “Why does he need to see Ron’s room?”

"He needs someplace to sleep, doesn't he?"

“Sleep!?” Fred, George, and Ginny (who was hiding behind a bookshelf) yelled in unison. 

“It’s barely mid-afternoon,” Ron grumbled. 

“You dimwit,” Ginny squeaked. “Mum means he’ll be staying overnight, that's all. For how long?”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a look. 

“About a month...” Mr. Weasley said. 

The rest of the Weasley children exploded in chatter, and Ron grinned from ear to ear.

"I guess we’ll have plenty of time for Quidditch now," he said. 

Chapter Text

Just as Ron had predicted, Harry’s time at the Burrow focused majorly on Quidditch. Perhaps because his presence evened the Weasleys into two teams, he rarely left the pitch. Even then, Harry had taken to carrying a broom around with him in case of a spontaneous match. Though he remarked, it wasn’t all fun and games; Charlie, Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, had taken the opportunity to train Fred and George, who had just recently been made Gryffindor’s beaters, as well as Harry, quite heavily. During their early morning drills, Ron, who was a Keeper, cheered them on from the sidelines. He was quite content to sit it all out– there were, after all, “only so many ways you can chuck a Quaffle at a hoop”.  

To put all the practice Charlie had inflicted on them to use, a tournament-style competition was set for the end of the summer. Well, ‘ Tournament’ was a stretch. It was, in reality, a single match meant to celebrate Harry’s final day at the Burrow. No matter whether he won or lost, however, Harry was certain of one thing: there was no better way to end the summer.  

Though the concept had started with recreation in mind, the match approached with increasing seriousness. After a few incidents involving tampered ballots, Mr. Weasley had to take the afternoon off work to monitor what was referred to as the Weasley Quidditch Draft , during which the two teams were officially set. To keep things fair, anyone who was currently (or had been) a part of the Hogwarts Interhouse League was distributed evenly. This meant that Fred and George were on opposite sides by default. Harry and Charlie, who both played the same position, were split as well. That left Bill and Ginny as Chasers, and Ron and Percy as Keepers. After hours of bickering, the final lineup was put to paper: ​​Charlie, Fred, Ginny, and Ron on one side and Harry, George, Bill, and Percy on the other. 

As time tended to do, the day of the match arrived (though with anticipation and fanfare) surprisingly quickly. Harry felt that he had only settled in at the Burrow before finding himself here, thrown into the middle of the ultimate Quidditch competition.

And so it was. They had been playing for a quarter of an hour already, and tensions were high. The score was entirely even. 

“-Quaffle to Bill. He aims for the middle hoop– CATCH THAT RON… ah, it goes in. Tough luck.” George said, commentating lightly.

“OI RON,” Fred interjected, whizzing by. “The middle hoop is that tall circular thing behind you. Funny, you must’ve missed it.” 

“Buzz off!” Ron grumbled. He ducked suddenly, avoiding the bludger George had just aimed at his head. 

As the rest of the Weasleys bickered, Harry flew below them. Both his eyes were peeled as far as they could go, and for good reason. Harry had watched Charlie fly for nearly a full summer now. He knew that he could not out-race him if it came to it. His only chance was to spot the snitch as early and from as far away as possible. 

“-Ginny flying forward. She’s dodged Bill, heading toward the hoops…bludger to your right– DODGE, Ginny, DODGE !”

“FRED– STOP COMMENTATING AND FOCUS,” yelled Charlie from above. 

Fred raised his bat. “You’re only Quidditch captain at Hogwarts, you know,” he muttered, swinging a bludger in Bill’s direction.

Harry watched Charlie angle his broom and begin to descend. In retaliation, Harry tilted the nose of his broom and went up. He jerked suddenly as horns began to blast from across the pitch– Ginny’s quaffle had gone in. 

"FIFTY FIFTY SPLIT. WHAT A GAME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. WHAT A GAME–”

And what a game it was, because there, right by Fred’s blissfully oblivious right ear, was the snitch. 

It all happened in a fraction of a second. Harry had barely any time on Charlie, who heard him breathe in sharply and turned around at once. The two of them were bent in half on their brooms, racing towards the snitch from opposite sides of the pitch. Harry couldn’t tell who was closer. There was a faint recognition of risk in the back of his head– a little voice whispering about a collision– but he had no time to listen. He was too busy with the feeling of the hot summer air whipping alongside his body as he contorted himself forward. He stretched as far as he could, lifting from his seat to lengthen his arm, stretch his fingers, and just about grab that beautiful golden—

The snitch was gone. 

Harry went careening into Fred’s back. Charlie got the short end of the stick, slamming into his front. 

“OUCH!” Fred exclaimed, groaning and clutching at his crotch. “Merlin, Charlie. That wasn’t my bat you ran into.” 

He didn’t whine for long, however. The Burrow’s garden doors burst open with fanfare, and Mrs. Weasley stormed outside. 

“CHARLES SEPTIMUS WEASLEY,” Mrs. Weasley yelled at the top of her lungs. “GET DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS MOMENT.” 

“Oh, hell,” said Charlie, gripping his ribs in one hand as he touched down. 

Harry and the rest of the Weasleys shadowed him slowly, afraid of Mrs. Weasley turning on them.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? THEY NEED SUPERVISION– THEY’RE ALL CHILDREN, FOR MERLIN'S SAKE. YOU’RE ALMOST AN ADULT– SEVEN O.W.L.S BUT NOT EVEN TWO KNUTS WORTH OF COMMON SENSE TO RUB TOGETHER.”

“It's my fault, Mum,” Bill interrupted, but Mrs. Weasley wasn’t having it.

 She went on and on, wagging her finger menacingly. She abandoned her tirade only once she noticed the large, purpling bruise covering half of Harry's face and connected it with Charlie’s limp and Fred’s faintly painful expression. 

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, hurrying towards him. “All you alright, Harry? Come on, let me see.”

Harry winced as Mrs. Weasley felt his cheek. It was hot, as if the energy of the collision was still buzzing under his skin. 

“Nothing a little bruise paste can’t fix,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Let’s get this sorted inside. Would anyone else care to join?”

In the end, Harry and the Weasleys laid out like starfish on the living room carpet while Mrs. Weasley attended to them. The air smelled strongly of medication-mint from the bruise paste that nearly everyone was covered in. Given the relative severity of Charlie’s injury, which had been swiftly diagnosed as a few broken ribs, Mrs. Weasley filled the silence by muttering about a Quidditch ban under her breath. 

There was a swift crack outside as Mr. Weasley returned from work. He found all of his children just so: groaning and twisting on the floor as the bruise paste began to itch. 

“Entertaining match, I take it,” Mr. Weasley said, eyes shining with amusement.  “Who won?”

“We did,” said Fred and George at the same time. “No– we did!” 

“They both lost,” said Mrs. Weasley, rolling her eyes. “Just look at them.”

“Too true, dear,” said Mr. Weasley, reaching into his pocket. “Ah, and before I forget. This is for you, Harry.”

Mr. Weasley threw something at him, which Harry caught easily. Examining what was now gripped in his palm, he frowned in confusion. It was just an old fishhook, about the size of his palm. 

“Er…” Harry said. “Sorry, what’s this?”

“It’s your portkey, of course,” said Mr. Weasley. He smiled knowingly. “Perhaps it slipped your mind, considering, ah, today’s excitement.” 

Harry blushed slightly.

He hadn’t forgotten, per se –he knew it was the sixteenth of August, his last day before term. It was, in his opinion, more accurate to blame it all on the British academic calendar; it still felt like summer, particularly since the rest of the Weasleys wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts for another few weeks. And yet it was undeniable. His first day at Durmstrang was right there, awaiting him. 

It seemed like Harry wasn’t the only one who had forgotten the significance of the inconspicuous summer Thursday. Mrs. Weasley paled at once and, in a fit of visible panic, barked at Ron to “ go help Harry with his trunk” . 

“Not sure what she wants me to do,” said Ron once they were alone in the bedroom. “You’ve already packed.”

Harry hummed, tilting down to look under his bunk for forgotten socks. There was a long pause as the two of them attended to similar, useless work. 

“I wish I could come with you,” Ron said suddenly. “I even asked Mum. She was against it, of course. I got told off for even asking; apparently, the Weasleys have attended Hogwarts since the 1600s. But, er, Dad calmed her down. He mentioned something about you being alone, not that you can’t handle yourself, mind– but it warmed her up to the idea.”
“Ah,” said Harry, refusing to sound hopeful. “Did she change her mind?”

“Well, no,” Ron admitted, ears turning pink. “But I think I could win her over by next year.” 

“What about Hogwarts? Don’t you want to go?”
“Of course, I want to go,” Ron said. “But magic is magic.”

He didn’t say it, but both of them heard it: And you won’t be at Hogwarts. 

They turned red in unison and, feeling adequately embarrassed, took a break from their conversation to clean.

Once he had recovered, Harry looked at Ron and grinned.   

“Thanks,” he said, eyes shining with sincerity. 

“Yeah,  ‘course,” 

Ron was still pink when he picked up Harry’s trunk, covering his hot face with it as he carried it down the stairs. 

Noon made its swift exit, and soon it was evening. At Mrs. Weasley's behest, everyone else was in bed, having said their goodbyes an hour or so ago. Now bereft of Fred and George’s antics, the Burrow was unnaturally silent. Harry waited for his Portkey to activate by replaying the happy haze of the month’s experiences in his mind. He smiled sorely as he thought about how much he would miss flying, now that he had no access to a broom. Thinking about it felt as if he had lost a limb. It was even worse, since Harry knew Aunt Petunia had written to the school and made it known he was unwelcome to leave for the holidays, including the summer term (he hadn’t mentioned that bit to Mr. or Mrs. Weasley, who seemed under the impression that the Dursley family would undergo a spiritual transformation in his absence and welcome him back with open arms). Despite this isolated reality, Harry hoped he would be allowed to visit the Burrow soon, and not just to play Quidditch. Even though he had only been in the Weasley’s company for a short time, he felt like a part of the family. Mrs. Weasley certainly treated him like one of her own sons; she had baked him a cake for his birthday and knitted him a dozen hats and mitts to prepare for his foray into the colder climate. There were at least ten sweaters in his trunk as well, which was exceptionally fuller than when he had arrived. It was, in her words, best to prepare for a place like Durmstrang, Harry dear. 

Harry briefly imagined what Durmstrang might be like. He had taken some initiative to read up on it, but had forgotten what little information he had found. It had all come spilling out of his ears to make room for Quidditch, he supposed. There was no forgetting its poor reputation, however. Harry recalled Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s reactions when the name had first come out of his mouth. Even Ron, who was hardly older than him, seemed to know of some unknown evil that awaited him there. The only reason tensions had eased was because of Dumbledore’s judgment: total rubbish, since Dumbledore didn’t know a fig about Harry or his escape from the Dursleys. 

Perhaps lying had been in poor taste and in poorer judgment, but instead of feeling alarmed, Harry went back to thinking about Quidditch. 

He was only ten, after all. The way he saw it, magic was magic and any sort of magic was better than none; there was no ruddy way he was returning to the Dursleys now. 

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Weasley, coming downstairs. “I’m terribly sorry, Harry, I couldn’t find Charlie’s old pajamas. I’m afraid you’re stuck with Ron’s things for now. They shouldn’t be that big in a few months; you’re a growing boy.”

Besides what she had knit for him, Mrs. Weasley was on a mission to replenish Harry’s wardrobe with hand-me-downs. He was shorter and smaller than everybody else, so there was much to choose from. 

“It’s alright, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said. “It’s leagues better than Dudley’s castaways. Just a bit too long, that’s all.” 

Mrs. Weasley frowned. As time went on, her opinion of the Dursleys had sunk further and further. Harry tried to keep the topic out of conversation, since she seemed on the verge of driving to Surrey, confronting Aunt Petunia herself whenever they were mentioned. 

Before Mrs. Weasley could say anything further, the clock on the wall chimed loudly, marking the new hour. It was helpful not only to distract from the situation; both Mrs. Weasley and Harry became suddenly aware that the Portkey was due to activate at any minute. 

To Harry’s horror, tears began to well up in Mrs. Weasley's eyes. 

“Try and enjoy yourself, won’t you? At D-Durmstrang,” she said with a watery smile. “And write to us all, not just to Ron, for goodness' sake. If something seems fishy, Harry, let me know. Arthur will come and collect you. He’ll rally the whole Ministry, if necessary. Oh dear…” 

Mrs. Weasley grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her nose liberally. Once she collected herself, she gave Harry a quick, tight hug. 

“Now, we’ve been over this before. Keep a firm hand on the Portkey. You’ll be there in a hop, skip, and a jump. It'll be a bit disorienting, no matter what, but make sure not to–”

Harry didn’t catch the rest of her sentence, distracted by the swift pull of his navel, which snatched him forward into a beam of wind and light. 

When Harry awoke, he first noticed that the feeling he had grown so used to at the Weasleys’– the giddy, hazy, summer weather– was long gone. Though he welcomed the absence of the English heatwave that had tormented him since the beginning of June, he realized quickly that he was ill-prepared for the cold that now confronted him. Harry had not realized that the even month of August would not be spared from the freezing, harsh winds that now whipped and burned his face pink, even lying down. 

Once he was able, he sat up, noticing at once why the winds were so strong. Curiously, the portkey had brought him somewhere on the European coast. This must be an old ship dock, Harry thought. There was no other explanation for the winding boardwalk he was on now. Since Surrey was a landlocked county, Harry had never seen a large body of water up close and spent some time looking at it with interest. Once he felt he had seen enough, he turned his head slowly and began to observe the people around him.

The platform itself was busy despite the absence of mothers and fathers: there were only tufts of children, speaking to each other in hushed tones. The older they were, the quieter they spoke, until they sounded not so much like children but firm young men and women on the cusp of adulthood. 

Harry felt out of sorts, not least of which because noises and sights came to him slowly and distorted. I must have taken a rough fall, he thought. He put one hand to the back of his head and, when he pulled back, noticed some blood on it. His other hand, he then realized, was gripping his glasses tightly. How they had gotten there, he didn’t recall. In fact, he couldn’t recall much of anything… not since the start of that day. 

Harry did not notice the woman in front of him until she had grabbed his hand and hoisted him upward, muttering something in a foreign language. She was odd to look at, because her face reminded Harry quite sharply of his Aunt Petunia. He felt quite guilty for making the comparison; she helped put his glasses on and, once everything came into focus, Harry could finally make out her expression of exceptional concern. 

She began to speak to him quickly in a foreign language. Harry, not in his best mind, stared at her blankly, unable to open his mouth and declare his lack of fluency. 

“-Do you speak English?” she said. 

This part, Harry understood. He nodded. 

“Name? Vot is your name?”

“’aaarry P–”
“Harry Potter? It eez just as Karkaroff said.”

Turning to look behind her, she gestured toward another adult. 

“Mr.Dantés, I haff need for your assistance.” 

As it turned out, Dantés was unable to speak English, and the two of them spoke quickly in a language Harry could not understand. After a moment, Dantés understood whatever had to be done and raised his wand. 

Temporary blind from the light that Dantés had ‘magicked up’ , Harry took a moment to blink owlishly at his surroundings. His head felt much lighter than before, though it still ached where he had fallen on it. His legs were now much steadier as well.

This time, it was the woman who raised her wand. Rather than casting a spell in front of him, she placed the tip of her wand on his temple. The spell felt rather nasty, as if someone had suddenly placed a thick weight on the top of his head. Once the discomfort subsided, the purpose of the spell became immediately clear: he could understand the words of everybody around him. 

“It has vorked, yes?” asked Mr. Dantés. 

“Er.. yeah,” said Harry. “What did that bit of magic do, exactly?”

“It is very simple,” said Mr. Dantés. “Vot you are experiencing is known as the translation spell, vich turns all words into one’s native language. I consulted with Karkaroff before this; he assured me you spoke English only. The translation spell has many consequences otherwise, and still, it must be used vith much caution. It vill only vork for the rest of the day, and aftervords ve cannot reapply it until a month has passed. ”

“Alright,” Harry said. “How will I understand anything the rest of the time?” 

“You vill learn Prussian at Durmstrang,” said Mr. Dantés. 

“Not German? I thought–” 

“It is a common misunderstanding. We maintain this language because it is our culture, not because many may understand. Normally, children learn it young– it is a prerequisite to enrolling. For you… It cannot be helped. You vill be separated from your peers for a vile until you are proficient. Language tutoring will replace some other introductory courses, or else any free periods. I do not know much more than this.”

Perhaps Mr. Dantés noticed the discomfort in Harry’s eyes, because he said: “It is nothing to be ashamed ov. Ve are all one, at Durmstrang.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and found the strength to nod. He was distracted, then, by a loud, unfamiliar sound. A hundred-some eyes snapped to the dock from where the noise had come, and watched in unison as the waves tore apart and a ship revealed itself from some pocket of the water.

"I see it is time to board,” said Dantés.

Harry turned around and ran toward the line of students that had appeared before them. In his haste and in the night’s darkness, he missed Dantés curse softly, his round teeth lengthening and his cheeks thinning out until the illusion of his person fell entirely.