Chapter Text
"Aunt Petunia!" A voice called, familiar and affectionate. And unmistakably excited!
Petunia Dursley turned towards the dining table, drying her hands on a towel as she did so. Her son Dudley and nephew Harry were bent over the mail they had brought in after playing in the park, shoulders nearly knocking into each other as they argued over envelopes.
"I got into Hogwarts!"
"Show me that!" Dudley made a grab for it, reaching across the table with little patience for neatness.
Petunia dropped the last plate into the dishwasher and wiped her hands properly this time, a smile already forming before she could stop it. Finally. They would be able to tell Harry more about his heritage. The version they had given him so far had been… edited. Carefully. Just in case the letter never came. She had not wanted to build hope on uncertainty.
The letter had come.
"That's wonderful, Harry!" She dropped a kiss onto his black mop—still as unruly as his father’s, though on Harry it softened him rather than sharpened him. "Congratulations! And just in time for your birthday, too!"
Harry flushed. The warmth in her voice settled something in him that had been restless all summer.
He had been anxious these past few weeks, ever since Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had made the boys sit down and explain—properly this time—why strange things tended to happen around him. He had never needed to account for it before. Things simply… worked. And no one had ever pressed him on it.
Once, when Dudley and he were five, they had crossed truly terrible traffic on Westminster, convinced they were lost. Harry swore he had stopped taxis just by raising his arm. Uncle Vernon insisted the drivers had seen two children and braked. But Harry remembered the shock on their faces. He had stopped them. He just knew.
And he had led both of them through the crowd and back to Vernon, who had been far more shaken than he admitted at the time.
This summer was the first time they had offered an explanation. Harry had magic in his blood. And if he had enough, Aunt Petunia had said, he might be accepted to a wizarding boarding school. She had promised introductions to a few people who had known his mother—whether or not he was accepted—by his birthday.
This year, it was to be a private dinner.
"You get to have a wand!" Dudley screeched, now halfway through Harry’s acceptance letter while Harry himself had drifted into imagining the school.
"I do?" Harry snatched the letter back and read it again quickly, as though it might say something new the second time.
"And you'll need an owl." She cooed. "Wizarding post works like that, you know. Letters by owl. My—there’s so much to get started on. Let me phone Remus and give him the good news!"
Remus Lupin, as Harry had learned three weeks ago, was one of his parents' closest friends from school. He had never met the man, but Aunt Petunia spoke of him often now, with a familiarity that felt newly reclaimed. She had been keeping him informed about Harry ever since he had come to live with them as a one-year-old.
Harry had only known a few things about his parents. He held onto them in pieces, the way one holds onto something fragile without quite knowing what it once was. He had his mother's eyes—bright green, which shone like emerald when he was passionate about something. He had his father's unruly mop of black hair, something that ran on the Potter side of the family.
His parents had been murdered out of vengeance. That part had always been clear. Which was why he, Harry, lived with his blood relatives and not people like Remus, who anyone—especially the murderer—might associate with the Potter child.
He had seen childhood pictures of his mother, but nothing of her teenage years. This, Aunt Petunia had admitted with regret, was her own doing. She had been jealous of her sister—so much so that it had created a rift between them that stretched well into adulthood. They had attended each other’s weddings out of necessity and little more, and had not even known of each other’s sons.
Only on November 1, 1981, Uncle Vernon had supplied—when Aunt Petunia had dissolved into tears during her explanation—had he come across Harry, sound asleep at their front door, a mere one-year-old in the harsh winter night.
Harry had gulped at that.
Someone had delivered him to his relatives like a package.
Vernon had taken him inside, read the letter, and eventually woken Petunia with a voice thick with something she had never heard from him before. Lily Potter and James Potter had perished at the hands of a dark wizard. Their son needed the protection of a blood relative.
Petunia had screeched. Anger first—sharp, immediate—at the murderer, at the situation, at the world that had intruded so violently into her life. And then the grief had followed, heavier and far more unforgiving. The realisation of never having taken the chance to correct her teenage follies, to be the elder sister she should have been. She hadn’t even known her nephew existed.
And then, in the quiet hours of the morning, Harry had opened his eyes.
Petunia's heart had trembled.
Her father's eyes. Lily's eyes.
There had been no going back after that.
And so, Harry had only known love all his childhood.
Dudley and Harry were celebrated together and punished together. Pranks had become common as they grew up, and somehow his aunt always knew they were in it together. Taking the blame for each other never worked. She would only smirk and separate them into different errands for days until both of them caved.
They loved doing everything together.
As they grew older, they made new friends, settled easily into different groups, and yet, come what may—if Harry was in trouble, Dudley was always a step ahead, placing himself squarely between Harry and whatever came his way, his presence loud and immediate.
Whatever issues Aunt Petunia had with his mother had never reflected on him.
Harry knew this in his bones.
"I'm going to be a wizard." He hummed himself to sleep that night.
July 31st approached at a snail's pace, each day stretching just a little longer than it should have. Harry found himself checking the calendar more often than he meant to, as though the act itself might push time forward.
Finally, he opened his eyes on the bright morning and left his bed to scratch at his calendar. Above his study desk, his fingers made quick work of crossing out July 30 and staring at the next date.
He was eleven.
He grinned and ran to the shower.
About an hour later, he entered the dining hall to be greeted by his Uncle.
"Happy Birthday, you little rascal!"
Vernon stood near the head of the table, already dressed, already settled into the day, his presence as steady as the house itself.
He grinned back. "Thank you! Bacon!" He caught the smell and immediately moved toward the kitchen, drawn in.
"Well, of course!" Aunt Petunia scooped a batch and set it onto a plate. She dropped a kiss on his cheek. "Happy Birthday, Harry!"
"Thanks, Aunt Petunia! Have I mentioned how much I love your bacon?" Harry put on an admiring mask.
"Only every time she makes it." Dudley entered the kitchen, voice loud before he fully arrived.
"Well, I do!" Harry grabbed two more plates and set up the table, dividing the batch among them as Dudley set the toast.
The bell rang.
Harry looked up just in time to catch the look that passed between Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon—amused, expectant.
"Right on time, he is!"
"Who?" Harry asked, curiosity immediate. Remus Lupin was supposed to be there for dinner, so who else were they expecting?
The answer arrived a moment later.
A tall, pale man stepped in behind Petunia, dressed in long black robes that seemed to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it. His hair was slicked back, his face sharp, and his eyes—dark, precise—took in the room in a single sweep.
"Hello, freak!" Petunia smirked, as if expecting the reply before it came.
"Old habits don't die, do they Petunia?" he returned, voice smooth, almost conversational, though something in it held.
"Harry, this is Severus Snape. Lily and I grew up with him."
Harry turned to him, taking him in properly now. Severus Snape. Another of his parents’ friends.
"You knew my mother?"
"Your father, too. We were in the same year at Hogwarts." Severus nodded and took a seat beside Vernon without hesitation.
"You must have loved it if you're still there." Petunia jabbed lightly.
"You're still— You're a teacher!?" Harry asked, leaning forward now, interest catching up to everything else. "What do you teach?"
"Potions."
"That's the class you need a cauldron for!" Dudley laughed. "I was going to make Harry believe it was a fluke. Damn!"
"Language, Dudley!" Vernon warned, though the warmth in his eyes undercut the severity. "So, Snape—"
"Severus is fine."
"Severus, then. Will you be teaching Harry, too?" There was a slight shift in Vernon’s tone—polite, but measured. "Pet mentioned something about you being in the Slytherin house. How does that work if he is a Gryffindor like his parents?"
"Before that," Harry cut in, "Aunt Petunia didn’t mention all the school houses. How do I know which I want to be in?"
There was a pause—small, but noticeable—as attention settled.
"Students do not decide their houses. There is a... shall we say, magical aid which identifies the best suited house for each student upon their arrival." Snape answered. "Furthermore, there are four houses. Do you have your acceptance letter?"
"Yes." Harry fished it out from his pocket and placed it on the table.
"How long have you been carrying that around?" Petunia asked fondly.
"Only today." Harry flushed.
Snape gestured toward the Hogwarts seal.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was founded by four of the most brilliant witches and wizards of their time..."
"My parents were Gryffindors?" Harry felt a small swell of pride at knowing even this much. The House of the Brave. He could get on board with that.
"They were. Some of the bravest people I knew. Including Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew."
"Peter Pettigrew?" Harry asked. He hadn’t heard that name before. But then, he hadn’t heard of Severus Snape until that very morning. What had prompted Aunt Petunia to speak of Remus, but not Severus?
"Oh yes, Peter and Sirius." Aunt Petunia’s tone shifted slightly, her attention drifting somewhere else. "Remus doesn’t mention them when I speak to him. How’s things been for them?"
"You don’t know, do you?" Snape’s lips thinned.
"Why, what happened?" It seemed Petunia and Severus were also speaking face-to-face after a long time.
Snape’s gaze flicked briefly to Harry and Dudley. "Perhaps it’s a conversation best had later."
"Harry knows far too little about his parents. Whatever it is, surely he should know?" Vernon nudged, steady as ever.
There was a brief pause, and then the moment tipped forward.
"You're not going to like this, Harry. Your father James had three best friends—Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black!" Snape almost spat out the last name. "They were his dorm mates in school, closer than brothers."
That much, at least, was easy to picture.
"Not you?"
"No. I was in Slytherin. I was only Lily's friend, and we too drifted apart towards graduation. When James proposed to Lily after graduation, Sirius became his best man. He had only been living with the Potters for three years. Euphemia, your late grandmother, considered him her own son. They were brothers in everything but blood.
So, naturally, when they went into hiding, Sirius was made Secret Keeper. A Secret Keeper is—only this person can inform anyone about heavily protected homes. You could walk in front of a home under the Fidelius Charm and not know that someone stood before your eyes. That’s how you and your parents lived for months in hiding.”
Harry tried to picture it—houses hidden in plain sight, lives folded into secrecy. It felt distant, and yet uncomfortably close.
"Because of that dark wizard? Why was he even hunting my parents?"
The question came out quieter than he intended.
Severus Snape felt his stomach dip at Harry Potter’s utter trust in the adults around him. "He wasn’t hunting your parents, Harry." Snape swallowed once. "He was hunting you."
Petunia’s fork clanked against her plate.
"What!?" Vernon turned sharply. "Why?"
"There has been a prophecy. This dark wizard—he was ended by you. Part of him, at least." Snape’s arm twitched slightly.
The words did not settle. They seemed to hang instead, suspended in the space between them.
The table fell silent.
"Prophecies, they have a way of coming true, Harry, sooner or later." Snape spoke into the silence. "This one alluded to you—a child born in late July, as the month ends—to be the saviour of the wizarding world. There were other families who went into hiding. I know the Longbottoms did—"
"Alice’s?" Petunia asked, sharper now.
Snape nodded. "Her boy was born on the 30th. Neville Longbottom will be joining you at school, Harry. I daresay he will need a friend. His parents… suffered a fate worse than death. They are permanent residents at St Mungo’s—the wizarding hospital. Neville has been brought up by his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom."
Another name. Another story. Another piece.
"Sirius betrayed my parents?"
That was what it came down to.
"I'm afraid so. He also murdered Peter Pettigrew shortly after. Made quite a spectacle of it—bombarding a Muggle alley and taking twelve others with him." Snape exhaled, his jaw tightening.
"Muggles?" Dudley asked.
"Non-wizarding people. Like you lot."
"Sirius Black murdered thirteen people?" Aunt Petunia said, her voice firm in a way that suggested resistance rather than confusion. "I do not believe that, Sev."
"Black still rots in Azkaban for it, Pet—" Snape turned slightly. "The wizarding prison."
"But Severus—"
"His family has been dark for ages, Petunia. Generations! Don’t think of him as the sunshiney fellow you may have met at school. Somewhere along the way, he showed his true colours."
The conversation circled after that—never quite settling. Names, memories, fragments. Nothing resolved.
Harry pushed his chair back.
"Aunt Petunia, may I go to my room?"
"Well—"
He didn’t wait.
Dudley was up a second later. "I’ll go to him, Mum."
"Good boy, Dudders. Make sure he comes back to say goodbye to Severus?" Vernon said, a hand briefly steadying his shoulder.
"I’ll try."
Dudley knocked once and pushed the door open.
Harry lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Dudley lingered a moment before stepping in properly. "Do you want some company?"
Harry shifted slightly, making space without looking at him.
Dudley sat.
They stayed like that for a while.
"All this time, I wanted to know about my parents… I never thought…" Harry exhaled. "It’s a good thing Black is in prison already."
"That’s what the police are for, Harry!" Dudley said, kicking his legs lightly. "I’m glad he was caught."
"It’s a lot to stomach. What if the friends I make—"
"Don’t even go there! I will vet them myself if I have to," Dudley said immediately.
Harry almost smiled.
"You’re not going to Hogwarts with me though."
"There’s always summers!" Dudley grinned. "And you’ve got that Neville bloke Snape mentioned. Doesn’t sound like trouble. Snape wouldn’t have brought him up otherwise. He knows what you’ll need, I think."
Harry let out a slow breath.
"I am a little relieved he’s one of my teachers."
"You’re his best friend’s kid! He’ll be looking out for you for sure. And you—" Dudley nudged him, "—you did take down a dark lord as a baby. The whole school will probably be looking out for you! Chin up."
Harry gave a dry chuckle.
"I didn’t take him down. Not properly. Didn’t you hear? The prophecy—whatever it means—says I’m supposed to. Or Neville is."
"Then being friends with him sounds important, doesn’t it?"
"Friendship can’t be forced."
"You’ll still be dorm mates, from what I understood. That’s something. Civility goes a long way."
"I suppose."
"Come on down then. Snape deserves a goodbye, right?"
"Of course—yes. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a rude prat."
Harry stood, and Dudley followed him out.
The adults were still talking in the dining hall when the boys re-entered. The edge of the earlier conversation had softened, though it hadn’t quite disappeared.
Aunt Petunia was holding a small vial of something that smelt too sharp for Harry’s liking.
"Is that a potion?" Dudley asked, curiosity returning easily.
"Yes, it is. Harry, I do apologize—"
"No, Snape. Severus—"
"Professor Snape should be fine," Snape said, with that faint, knowing smirk.
"It's me who should apologize for being rude." Harry looked down at his feet. "You're the first person who could ever tell me about my parents’ lives in detail, and I acted like a sensitive little prat."
"It's alright, Harry, honey!" Petunia pulled him into a brief side hug. "You were as much in shock as I was. And I have known Sirius Black. Not properly, as I know now."
She set the vial carefully into a top drawer, closing it with more care than necessary.
Snape lifted his wand—wooden, slender—and with a small flick, a soft pink light filtered outward, touching both the vial and Petunia.
"Severus, what was that?" Vernon asked.
"Just a reminder, dear," Petunia said lightly, though her eyes lingered on the drawer for a second longer than before.
"If I must," Snape said, rising.
He turned his wand first toward the kitchen.
There was a brief stillness.
And then the room came alive.
Ingredients lifted from their places—bowls tilting, spoons stirring, knives moving with precise, invisible direction. Petunia let out a small squeak and stepped back from the stove.
"Oh my—"
Vernon stared, openly astonished.
Snape turned once more, this time toward the parlour.
Red and gold balloons burst gently into existence, rising toward the ceiling. A banner stretched itself across the room—Happy Birthday Harry!—while board games drifted down from the boys’ bedrooms, stacking neatly onto the coffee table.
The house, already warm, shifted into something brighter.
"Petunia mentioned that your friends are expected for the afternoon. Happy Birthday, Harry."
"Thank you," Harry said, not entirely sure what he was thanking him for. "I think you're going to be my favourite Professor!"
"Don't count your eggs before they hatch," Snape murmured.
The birthday lunch was everything it needed to be.
There was finger food everywhere Harry looked, thanks to Snape, who had charmed a few bowls to refill themselves endlessly. Plates never quite emptied, and after a while, no one questioned it.
Red and gold streamers stretched across the room, catching the light. The girls gathered near the glittering decorations, while the boys broke into small groups, voices rising over one another.
When the double-decker cake was brought out, the room seemed to draw in around it.
Aunt Petunia placed eleven candles carefully on top and lit them one by one.
"Make a wish, Harry!" Dudley said, with a quick grin.
Harry did.
For a brief moment, everything quieted—the flicker of candlelight, the faces around him.
He blew them out to a chorus of voices.
Harry cut a slice. As Dudley leaned forward to offer him the first bite, Harry caught Piers’ eye and grinned.
Suddenly, Dudley’s wrists were held in place.
Harry scooped up a generous amount of cream.
"Don't you dare—"
Harry swiped it clean across Dudley’s face and bolted. "Sorry, I didn’t!"
The room erupted. Petunia choked on a laugh, one hand flying to her mouth as she tried—and failed—to compose herself.
"Oh, you're on!" Dudley said, already in pursuit, cream still dripping.
Piers doubled over laughing.
The earlier weight of the morning scattered easily under the noise.
By the time the last of the friends had left and the house had begun to quiet, the decorations had started to droop slightly, the air settling again.
Petunia was clearing the parlour when the doorbell rang. "Harry, dear, would you get that please?"
Harry picked up the last of the streamers and tossed them into the bin before heading to the door.
He opened it—
—and stopped.
The man standing there was familiar.
Harry had seen him before, more than once—outside school, speaking with Aunt Petunia. But seeing him now, properly, something clicked. "Hello. Are you here to see Aunt Petunia?"
"Of sorts, yes." The man smiled. Up close, Harry could see the lines on his face more clearly now—wear, not just age. A faded scar ran across his cheek. "Harry, I'm Remus Lupin."
Harry’s eyes widened. This was—
"Uncle Moony!"
The name came out before he could think.
"Happy Birthday, Prongslet!" Remus said, placing a hand on his shoulder with easy familiarity. "Petunia?"
"Oh my—Remus! You're early! Do come in!" She glanced at Harry. "Harry, this is Remus Lupin."
"He called me Uncle Moony. Is there anything I should know about, Petunia?" Remus asked lightly, stepping in and, with a flick of his wand, clearing the remaining mess in one smooth motion.
"Sorry about the mess. The party was entertaining," Petunia said.
"As it should have been," Remus replied, smiling at the boys.
"What's a Moony?" Petunia asked.
"A story for another time," Remus said. "As to why I am early—I had a time-taking present for Harry. Come on, kids!"
He reached into his bag and brought out what looked like a small stone basin, carved with faint runes. "This is a Pensieve."
A tap of his wand, and it expanded—settling in the middle of the room, its surface faintly shimmering.
"Now, a Pensieve is a magical object—you can see the runes around it, right boys?"
"Yeah. This is… incredible. What does it do?" Harry asked.
"It lets you see memories like a movie. You can walk through them, revisit them. For now, I thought we could start with the Sorting Ceremony of my first year."
"That's wicked!" Dudley said.
"What's the Sorting Ceremony?" Petunia asked.
"When first years are assigned houses. I daresay, Petunia, you're about to see all of Hogwarts that you thought you never could."
Harry glanced at her. This wasn’t just for him.
"Can't Aunt Petunia get to visit?" he asked.
"I'm afraid she couldn't, even if she wanted to. The protections on magical places don’t allow non-magical people to enter."
Harry looked like he might argue.
"No exceptions, Harry. I’m sorry. But memories—memories have no such rules."
Remus closed his eyes briefly. A silvery strand lifted from his temple and flowed into the Pensieve.
"Alright. Before we begin—just a few pointers."
The Sorting Ceremony,
Harry focused entirely on what Snape had meant by a “magical aid.”
It turned out to be a worn, patched hat.
A hat.
He glanced sideways at Dudley.
Aunt Petunia, meanwhile, seemed far more taken with the Great Hall—the long tables, the floating candles, the sheer scale of it.
After his parents were sorted, Harry’s attention drifted.
Snape’s name was called.
For a moment—just a moment—Harry saw it: a small smile exchanged between his mother and Severus Snape.
He looked back at the staff table.
"Who are the professors?"
"Ah, of course! That’s Professor Slughorn—used to teach Potions. You’re lucky he retired. Severus is far more competent. That’s Pomona Sprout—Herbology. Head of Hufflepuff. Professor Filius Flitwick—Head of Ravenclaw."
"What is he?"
"He has goblin ancestry. And that—" Remus pointed, "—is Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of Grounds. He has giant ancestry."
"Giants?" Petunia squeaked.
"Hagrid is the friendliest man I know. You don’t have to worry. He’s the one who brought Harry to you."
"What?" Harry said.
"On Sirius’ motorbike. Flew it from the Hollow to Privet Drive."
"Sirius Black enchanted that thing to fly?" Petunia asked, stunned.
"James and he used it often during training."
"Training for what?"
"The Auror program. Wizarding law enforcement."
"They were partners?" Harry asked.
"It's a travesty what happened. Minerva still believes Sirius should have had a trial." There had to be reason—something more to it. Something that had not yet been said, or had been said wrong.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
"What would the Deputy Headmistress know?" Harry said. The thought lingered, unfinished, as if it had been pulled from somewhere else entirely and set down without explanation.
"She was James’ godmother. Your grandmother’s closest friend. Had things gone differently, she would have raised you."
Harry studied her. "Who are my godparents?"
"Alice Longbottom," Petunia said. "And Sirius Black."
One invalid. One imprisoned.
"Oh."
"I think that’s enough for now," Remus said gently. "Let’s head back."
They gathered around him.
A moment later, they were out.
"Petunia!" His uncle's voice cut through the heavy silence.
They turned.
Vernon stood by the Pensieve, staring at it. "Explain."
Petunia hesitated. "This is Remus."
"And what," Vernon said, pointing, "is that?"
The question sat there—firm, practical, impossible to ignore. The world, it seemed, had only just begun to open.