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Chapter Text

Nanny and Cousin Harry
9.916 By Susan M. M.
Nanny and the Professor/Harry Potter (AU)

Disclaimer: This is an amateur work of fanfiction, based on characters and situations created by A. J. Carothers, J, K. Rowling and Thomas L. Miller. There is no attempt at copyright infringement, I’m just building sand castles on someone else’s beach. Please don’t sue. I have too many medical bills to pay a lawyer.

Once upon a time (please don’t ask me which time, since "Nanny and the Professor" was on TV from 1970-1971, and Harry Potter wasn’t born until 1980 and didn’t start Hogwarts until 1991), anyhow, once upon a time on a Monday morning in June, Phoebe Everett was weeding her garden, when she heard a rustling in the hydrangea bushes. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She saw a bit of red which was neither flowers nor feathers.
She heard a small voice say “Ouch.”
“People who steal other people’s blackberries ought not to complain about the thorns,” Phoebe Everett said sternly.
“I wasn’t trying to steal them,” a child’s voice replied. “But they were delicious.”
The child’s accent was English. From Kent or possibly Surrey, by the sound of him.
“Well, since I know you’re there, and you know that I know you’re there, why don’t you come out and we’ll tend to those scratches,” she invited.
“They’re not that bad,” the boy denied.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she declared. First as a nanny, and then as a stepmother, she had tended more skinned knees and bruises than she could count without an abacus.
A scrawny dark-haired boy crawled out. He looked between eight and ten, but once she got a look at his face, she recognized him and she knew he was eleven or twelve, although lamentably small for his age. He had a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead above vividly green eyes. He clenched a small green plastic soldier in his left hand.
“As I live and breathe, Harry Potter,” she exclaimed. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m not sure where here is.” He looked around the Everett’s backyard.
“I doubt you remember me, but I changed your nappies. I’m your cousin, Phoebe Everett.”
Harry shook his head. The only cousin he knew of was Dudley Dursley, although he had a great many paternal cousins, none of whom had bothered to tell him they were related.
“Everett is my married name. My maiden name was Figalilly.”
He had at least seen that name, engraved on trophies in the trophy case at Hogwarts, when Argus Filch had set him to polishing the trophies as penance for minor peccadilloes
“Your father was my second cousin, which makes us,” she stopped a moment to calculate, “Second cousins, once removed. Would you like to come in and have a sip of lemonade?”
“Pumpkin juice would be nice,” Harry countered.
“Oh, I haven’t had pumpkin juice in ages,” she said. The stores hereabouts don’t sell it.” She opened the kitchen door and let him in. “The loo is the first door on the left. You go wash up, and I’ll pour some lemonade and get out some oatmeal-raisin cookies.”
“Cookies?” Harry repeated. He was slightly confused.
“Oatmeal biscuits,” Mrs. Everett corrected herself. She’d lived in California long enough to have picked up the local dialect.
Harry went to the loo. He returned a minute later, with his hands and face noticeably cleaner.
Cousin Phoebe surprised Harry by taking a pitcher of yellow liquid and lemon slices and ice cubes out of the refrigerator. She poured him a glass.
He stared at the cup, slightly puzzled. It wasn’t bubbling. “I’ve never had a lemonade before. Aunt Petunia said fizzy drinks weren’t good for me.”
Actually, Aunt Petunia had said fizzy drinks were too expensive to waste on freaks, but Harry didn’t feel like quoting her exactly at the moment.
I’ve been in the States so long I’d almost forgotten that lemonade is very different in the U.S. than it is in England. American lemonade is lemon juice, water and sugar or honey. It’s quite refreshing on a hot day.”
“Are we in America?” Harry asked, wide-eyed. When Cousin Phoebe nodded, he asked “How did I get here?”
“That I don’t know. May I see your toy soldier?”
Harry set it on the table and reached for a second oatmeal cookie. Phoebe picked up the toy and examined it. It looked like an old, green plastic soldier, with the tip of its rifle broken off; her stepsons, Hal and Butch had dozens like it over the years. But when she picked it up, she felt an unmistakable tingling. It reeked of magic. Had someone turned a Muggle toy into a portkey? If so, whomever had been travelling with Harry must be worried sick about him.
“Who were you travelling with, Harry?”
“I wasn’t travelling anywhere. I was at my aunt’s house, straightening up the cupboard. Then I was here.”
Phoebe frowned. She saw a reddish-brown stain on the tip of the soldier’s broken rifle. Harry must have been clasping it so hard that he’d punctured his hand.
Phoebe blinked. Could Harry, at his age, have made a portkey? Phoebe suppressed a shudder. Runes and arithmancy were not taught at Hogwarts until third year, and without a knowledge of runes and arithmancy, there was no way to designate a portkey’s destination. If he’d done this, he could’ve been killed. And the stain on the plastic toy suggested that Harry had accidentally used blood-magic.
“Harry, what were you doing right before you came here?” Cousin Phoebe asked.
“Straightening up the cupboard, and wishing I could spend the summer hols someplace else – anywhere else.”
“Wishing is very close to magic, Phoebe remarked, especially, she thought, but left unsaid, when a wizard’s blood is shed. It occurred to her if Harry Potter had punctured his hand on the sharp tip of the broken rifle, he might have accidentally cast blood magic.
She dismissed the thought. She had never been a theoretician. Her expertise was in practical magic.
Phoebe got the Bactine. She warned it’ll sting. It did. She Lectured about the power in witch’s blood: Snow White’s mother wishing on the drop of blood she pricked whilst sewing that she would have a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, etc., so the power of the blood wasn’t wasted. Most wizards grow beards so they won’t cut themselves shaving.
“You must be exhausted after your long trip,” she realized. “Why don’t I show you the guestroom, and you can have a nice kip.”
That sounded good to Harry. He nodded. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until she mentioned it to him. She led the way to a small bedroom, decorated in delicate, feminine style. Harry didn’t care that the bedspread and curtains had a floral pattern. He took off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Phoebe hummed an avoidance charm softly. She often hummed or sang, so the children wouldn’t be suspicious of the music. The avoidance charm would keep anyone from wanting to come in the living room unless it was an emergency. She lit the gas fire, despite the heat of the day. She took a decorative ceramic jar off the mantelpiece. The jar was filled with a glittering powder. She took a pinch of the powder and threw it into the fireplace. The flames turned green.
She called out, “Professor Pomona Sprout’s office, Hogwarts. A moment after the flames turned green, Phoebe saw a face in the fire. A round face of a grey-haired woman. “This is Professor Sprout. How may I help you?”
“Can you hear me, Pomona? It’s Phoebe Everett calling from California. I used to be Phoebe Figalilly,” she clarified.
“Phoebe Figalilly?” two female voices said in unison.
“Poppy Pomfrey is having a cup of tea with me,” Professor Sprout said. “You remember Poppy, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Phoebe replied.
“It’s Everett now?” Madam Pomphrey asked. “You’re married?”
“Married with three children. But I think I have something, er someone of yours.
“I was working in my garden a bit ago and I found James Potter’s son in my hydrangeas.” She heard stunned gasps through the fireplace. I was delighted to see Cousin Harry, of course, but surely someone there is missing him. A boy his age ought not to be travelling to other countries by himself.”
“Harry Potter!” Pomona Sprout exclaimed. “How did he get to America by himself?”
“He went home for the summer hols a week ago. He should be with his mother’s Muggle relatives,” Poppy Pomphrey said.
“What a time for Albus to have gone off to France,” Pomona lamented.
“He’s at a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards,” Poppy Pomphrey explained. She raised her voice and called out, “Gilly!”
“Yes, Mistress.” Phoebe Everett heard the high, squeaky voice of a house-elf.
“Fetch Professor McGonagall at once,” Madam Pomphrey ordered.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“May I offer you a gingersnap, Phoebe? Pomona offered.
“I really shouldn’t,” Phoebe tried to demur, “But thank you.” A wrinkled hand reached through the fireplace with a small plate laden with three gingersnaps. Phoebe reached out and took two biscuits off the white porcelain plate. She held one in her left hand and delicately nibbled the other one. “The kitchen elves haven’t lost their touch. This is delicious.”
“Once Gilly gets back, I’ll have her relay your compliments to the other elves,” Poppy promised. House-elves worked best when their efforts were appreciated.
They chatted for a few minutes whilst waiting for Minerva McGonagall. Phoebe told her two old friends about her husband and her stepchildren. Pomona and Poppy caught her up on the doings of mutual friends. After five minutes, the Deputy Headmistress joined the school nurse and the Herbology professor at the fire.
“Professor McGonagall, it’s Phoebe Figalilly. I have Harry Potter napping in my guest room.”
“But aren’t you in California now?” What would Harry be doing there? How in Merlin’s name did he get there?” McGonagall demanded.
“I have a theory, but I’m not sure how logical it is.” Phoebe explained her notion that Harry had accidentally made a portkey. “But is that even possible?”
“If he’s there in the States, it must be possible,” McGonagall reasoned.
“What am I to do with the boy? How am I to explain to my husband we had three children this morning and four this afternoon?”
“I never approved of him going to Lily’s sister,” Professor McGonagall said. “A holiday abroad would do the boy a world of good. Could you take him in for a week or two?”
“He is my cousin. And with three children already, a fourth one isn’t that much extra bother. I’m sure Harold won’t mind.”
After a moment’s thought, she added: “I dread to think what his home life must be like if he wished so hard to spend the summer hols with a total stranger. The last time I saw him, he was just a baby. He couldn’t possibly remember me.”
“You’d be astounded what infants can retain,” Madam Pomphrey spoke up.
“Blood calls to blood. He wished for a safe place to spend his summer holiday with a happy, healthy family. You are not only a kinswoman, but the chatelaine of such a home.” McGonagall fell silent. Surely the Weasleys, the Tonkses, or even the Malfoys, would have fit the parameters of the unspoken spell better than the Everetts in California. Aloud, she continued, “I wouldn’t consider his Muggle relatives a healthy, happy family. Albus is in France at a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards. I shall consult with him to see what his wishes are. Unless he tells me otherwise, I shall go to the Ministry for an international portkey and come fetch him myself in a week’s time. If you can keep him that long.”
# # #
Meanwhile, in a small hotel on the left bank of the River Seine, Albus Dumbledore crouched before a fireplace trying to calm a Squib friend on a Floo call of his own.
“Now, Arabella, calm down, my dear. I’m sure he’s fine.
“But Albus, I haven’t seen him outside once since the Dursleys returned from London. He hasn’t been out to mow the lawn or tend the garden. He hasn’t so much as gone for a walk. There’s no sign of him.”
“Perhaps he’s inside watching the television or reading a book. After school schedule for months, he may simply be trying to sleep in as much as possible,” Albus Dumbledore suggested.
“It’s not natural for him not to have been outside once all week,” Arabella Figg insisted.

The flames suddenly turned purple. “Excuse me, Arabella, I have another call coming in,” Albus announced. “It’s probably the Minister wanting me to hold his hand. Cornelius always frets when I’m abroad.” He pointed his wand at the fireplace.
“Goodbye, Albus,” Arabella Figg said. “Please do check on Harry when you get the chance. I’m worried about him.” Her face disappeared from the fireplace. As the flames turned green again, Minerva McGonagall’s face appeared.
“Albus! Thank Merlin I was able to reach you. Albus, you’ll never guess what Harry Potter has done,” Minerva predicted.
“What is the dear boy up to now?” Professor Dumbledore inquired calmly.
“Harry Potter is in America,” Professor McGonagall announced.
“America? What? How?” Dumbledore was so startled by the news, he almost dropped his wand.
“Apparently, he accidentally constructed a portkey – I didn’t think that was possible, and wished himself to California. His cousin Phoebe Figalilly found him and she’s agreed to watch him for a few days until someone from the school can come fetch him. You remember her? She was the Hufflepuff Prefect a few years ago.”
Albus nodded. “Yes, I remember her.” She was also a distant cousin. As incestuously inbred as wizarding society was, so were many of his pupils.
“I knew he was talented. I didn’t think him capable of constructing a Portkey at his age, “Dumbledore mumbled. “Harry Potter must be returned to his aunt’s home as soon as possible. Only the blood-wards can protect him.”
“Albus, does it occur to you that if he was able to wish hard enough to teleport to California that he really doesn’t want to be at the Dursley home?” Minerva asked.
“It is his home. Petunia Dursley is his next of kin. He has a great many cousins, myself included, but Lily’s sister is his closest blood-kin.” Albus was adamant.
“I told Phoebe Figalilly that a week’s holiday abroad would do the boy a world of good. It’ll give me time to go to London and obtain an international Portkey. I may take a few days’ holiday myself when I go to fetch him. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean.”
“I imagine it looks quite like the Atlantic,” Albus guessed.
“You’ll be tied up with the I.C.W. all month, won’t you?” Minerva asked.
“Assuming I can stand French food that long.” Albus held up a plate of escargot in front of the fire to show her. “This should be potion ingredients, not food.”
“I’m tempted to ask Phoebe if she can watch Harry for a fortnight, given how much end of year paperwork I have to do.” Under her breath, she added, “If you didn’t always find an excuse to be somewhere else at the end of the year, you’d know much paperwork there is when the school year ends.”
“Young Mr. Potter cannot spend two weeks in America,” Dumbledore insisted. “The sooner he is back at his aunt’s house, the better. It was Lily’s sacrifice that saved Harry. Only a relative on the maternal side can provide him with a safe home and anchor the blood-wards.”
“You put too much faith in blood-wards,” Minerva said quietly. “Phoebe is a competent witch. Harry is a clever boy. He’ll be safe enough for a few days in the U.S. I doubt Voldemort has many minions in Los Angeles.”
“Do you? I don’t.”
Professor McGonagall realized the conversation was going nowhere and said goodbye.
## ## ## ##

This story is Nanny and Cousin Harry 9.916 By Susan M. M.
Nanny and the Professor/Harry Potter (AU)

Disclaimer: This is an amateur work of fanfiction, based on characters and situations created by A. J. Carothers, J, K. Rowling and Thomas L. Miller. There is no attempt at copyright infringement, I’m just building sand castles on someone else’s beach. Please don’t sue. I have too many medical bills to pay a lawyer.

Once upon a time (please don’t ask me which time, since Nanny and the Professor was on TV from 1970-1971, and Harry Potter wasn’t born until 1980 and didn’t start Hogwarts until 1991), anyhow, once upon a time on a Monday morning Phoebe Everett was weeding her garden, when she heard a rustling in the hydrangea bushes. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She saw a bit of red which was neither flowers nor feathers.
She heard a small voice say “Ouch.”
“People who steal other people’s blackberries ought not to complain about the thorns,” Phoebe Everett said sternly.
“I wasn’t trying to steal them,” a child’s voice replied. “But they were delicious.”
The child’s accent was English. From Kent or possibly Surrey, by the sound of him.
“Well, since I know you’re there, and you know that I know you’re there, why don’t you come out and we’ll tend to those scratches,” she invited.
“They’re not that bad,” the boy denied.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she declared. First as a nanny, and then as a stepmother, she had tended more skinned knees and bruises than she could count without an abacus.
A scrawny dark-haired boy crawled out. He looked between eight and ten, but once she got a look at his face, she recognized him and she knew he was eleven or twelve, although lamentably small for his age. He had a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead above vividly green eyes. He clenched a small green plastic soldier in his left hand.
“As I live and breathe, Harry Potter,” she exclaimed. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m not sure where here is.” He looked around the Everett’s backyard.
“I doubt you remember me, but I changed your nappies. I’m your cousin, Phoebe Everett.”
Harry shook his head. The only cousin he knew of was Dudley Dursley, although he had a great many paternal cousins, none of whom had bothered to tell him they were related.
“Everett is my married name. My maiden name was Figalilly.”
He had at least seen that name, engraved on trophies in the trophy case at Hogwarts, when Argus Filch had set him to polishing the trophies as penance for minor peccadilloes
“Your father was my second cousin, which makes us,” she stopped a moment to calculate, “Second cousins, once removed. Would you like to come in and have a sip of lemonade?”
“Pumpkin juice would be nice,” Harry countered.
“Oh, I haven’t had pumpkin juice in ages,” she said. The stores hereabouts don’t sell it.” She opened the kitchen door and let him in. “The loo is the first door on the left. You go wash up, and I’ll pour some lemonade and get out some oatmeal-raisin cookies.”
“Cookies?” Harry repeated. He was slightly confused.
“Oatmeal biscuits,” Mrs. Everett corrected herself. She’d lived in California long enough to have picked up the local dialect.
Harry went to the loo. He returned a minute later, with his hands and face noticeably cleaner.
Cousin Phoebe surprised Harry by taking a pitcher of yellow liquid and lemon slices and ice cubes out of the refrigerator. She poured him a glass.
He stared at the cup, slightly puzzled. It wasn’t bubbling. “I’ve never had a lemonade before. Aunt Petunia said fizzy drinks weren’t good for me.”
Actually, Aunt Petunia had said fizzy drinks were too expensive to waste on freaks, but Harry didn’t feel like quoting her exactly at the moment.
I’ve been in the States so long I’d almost forgotten that lemonade is very different in the U.S. than it is in England. American lemonade is lemon juice, water and sugar or honey. It’s quite refreshing on a hot day.”
“Are we in America?” Harry asked, wide-eyed. When Cousin Phoebe nodded, he asked “How did I get here?”
“That I don’t know. May I see your toy soldier?”
Harry set it on the table and reached for a second oatmeal cookie. Phoebe picked up the toy and examined it. It looked like an old, green plastic soldier, with the tip of its rifle broken off; her stepsons, Hal and Butch had dozens like it over the years. But when she picked it up, she felt an unmistakable tingling. It reeked of magic. Had someone turned a Muggle toy into a portkey? If so, whomever had been travelling with Harry must be worried sick about him.
“Who were you travelling with, Harry?”
“I wasn’t travelling anywhere. I was at my aunt’s house, straightening up the cupboard. Then I was here.”
Phoebe frowned. She saw a reddish-brown stain on the tip of the soldier’s broken rifle. Harry must have been clasping it so hard that he’d punctured his hand.
Phoebe blinked. Could Harry, at his age, have made a portkey? Phoebe suppressed a shudder. Runes and arithmancy were not taught at Hogwarts until third year, and without a knowledge of runes and arithmancy, there was no way to designate a portkey’s destination. If he’d done this, he could’ve been killed. And the stain on the plastic toy suggested that Harry had accidentally used blood-magic.
“Harry, what were you doing right before you came here?” Cousin Phoebe asked.
“Straightening up the cupboard, and wishing I could spend the summer hols someplace else – anywhere else.”
“Wishing is very close to magic, Phoebe remarked, especially, she thought, but left unsaid, when a wizard’s blood is shed. It occurred to her if Harry Potter had punctured his hand on the sharp tip of the broken rifle, he might have accidentally cast blood magic.
She dismissed the thought. She had never been a theoretician. Her expertise was in practical magic.
Phoebe got the Bactine. She warned it’ll sting. It did. She Lectured about the power in witch’s blood: Snow White’s mother wishing on the drop of blood she pricked whilst sewing that she would have a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, etc., so the power of the blood wasn’t wasted. Most wizards grow beards so they won’t cut themselves shaving.
“You must be exhausted after your long trip,” she realized. “Why don’t I show you the guestroom, and you can have a nice kip.”
That sounded good to Harry. He nodded. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until she mentioned it to him. She led the way to a small bedroom, decorated in delicate, feminine style. Harry didn’t care that the bedspread and curtains had a floral pattern. He took off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
Phoebe hummed an avoidance charm softly. She often hummed or sang, so the children wouldn’t be suspicious of the music. The avoidance charm would keep anyone from wanting to come in the living room unless it was an emergency. She lit the gas fire, despite the heat of the day. She took a decorative ceramic jar off the mantelpiece. The jar was filled with a glittering powder. She took a pinch of the powder and threw it into the fireplace. The flames turned green.
She called out, “Professor Pomona Sprout’s office, Hogwarts. A moment after the flames turned green, Phoebe saw a face in the fire. A round face of a grey-haired woman. “This is Professor Sprout. How may I help you?”
“Can you hear me, Pomona? It’s Phoebe Everett calling from California. I used to be Phoebe Figalilly,” she clarified.
“Phoebe Figalilly?” two female voices said in unison.
“Poppy Pomfrey is having a cup of tea with me,” Professor Sprout said. “You remember Poppy, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Phoebe replied.
“It’s Everett now?” Madam Pomphrey asked. “You’re married?”
“Married with three children. But I think I have something, er someone of yours.
“I was working in my garden a bit ago and I found James Potter’s son in my hydrangeas.” She heard stunned gasps through the fireplace. I was delighted to see Cousin Harry, of course, but surely someone there is missing him. A boy his age ought not to be travelling to other countries by himself.”
“Harry Potter!” Pomona Sprout exclaimed. “How did he get to America by himself?”
“He went home for the summer hols a week ago. He should be with his mother’s Muggle relatives,” Poppy Pomphrey said.
“What a time for Albus to have gone off to France,” Pomona lamented.
“He’s at a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards,” Poppy Pomphrey explained. She raised her voice and called out, “Gilly!”
“Yes, Mistress.” Phoebe Everett heard the high, squeaky voice of a house-elf.
“Fetch Professor McGonagall at once,” Madam Pomphrey ordered.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“May I offer you a gingersnap, Phoebe? Pomona offered.
“I really shouldn’t,” Phoebe tried to demur, “But thank you.” A wrinkled hand reached through the fireplace with a small plate laden with three gingersnaps. Phoebe reached out and took two biscuits off the white porcelain plate. She held one in her left hand and delicately nibbled the other one. “The kitchen elves haven’t lost their touch. This is delicious.”
“Once Gilly gets back, I’ll have her relay your compliments to the other elves,” Poppy promised. House-elves worked best when their efforts were appreciated.
They chatted for a few minutes whilst waiting for Minerva McGonagall. Phoebe told her two old friends about her husband and her stepchildren. Pomona and Poppy caught her up on the doings of mutual friends. After five minutes, the Deputy Headmistress joined the school nurse and the Herbology professor at the fire.
“Professor McGonagall, it’s Phoebe Figalilly. I have Harry Potter napping in my guest room.”
“But aren’t you in California now?” What would Harry be doing there? How in Merlin’s name did he get there?” McGonagall demanded.
“I have a theory, but I’m not sure how logical it is.” Phoebe explained her notion that Harry had accidentally made a portkey. “But is that even possible?”
“If he’s there in the States, it must be possible,” McGonagall reasoned.
“What am I to do with the boy? How am I to explain to my husband we had three children this morning and four this afternoon?”
“I never approved of him going to Lily’s sister,” Professor McGonagall said. “A holiday abroad would do the boy a world of good. Could you take him in for a week or two?”
“He is my cousin. And with three children already, a fourth one isn’t that much extra bother. I’m sure Harold won’t mind.”
After a moment’s thought, she added: “I dread to think what his home life must be like if he wished so hard to spend the summer hols with a total stranger. The last time I saw him, he was just a baby. He couldn’t possibly remember me.”
“You’d be astounded what infants can retain,” Madam Pomphrey spoke up.
“Blood calls to blood. He wished for a safe place to spend his summer holiday with a happy, healthy family. You are not only a kinswoman, but the chatelaine of such a home.” McGonagall fell silent. Surely the Weasleys, the Tonkses, or even the Malfoys, would have fit the parameters of the unspoken spell better than the Everetts in California. Aloud, she continued, “I wouldn’t consider his Muggle relatives a healthy, happy family. Albus is in France at a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards. I shall consult with him to see what his wishes are. Unless he tells me otherwise, I shall go to the Ministry for an international portkey and come fetch him myself in a week’s time. If you can keep him that long.”
# # #
Meanwhile, in a small hotel on the left bank of the River Seine, Albus Dumbledore crouched before a fireplace trying to calm a Squib friend on a Floo call of his own.
“Now, Arabella, calm down, my dear. I’m sure he’s fine.
“But Albus, I haven’t seen him outside once since the Dursleys returned from London. He hasn’t been out to mow the lawn or tend the garden. He hasn’t so much as gone for a walk. There’s no sign of him.”
“Perhaps he’s inside watching the television or reading a book. After school schedule for months, he may simply be trying to sleep in as much as possible,” Albus Dumbledore suggested.
“It’s not natural for him not to have been outside once all week,” Arabella Figg insisted.

The flames suddenly turned purple. “Excuse me, Arabella, I have another call coming in,” Albus announced. “It’s probably the Minister wanting me to hold his hand. Cornelius always frets when I’m abroad.” He pointed his wand at the fireplace.
“Goodbye, Albus,” Arabella Figg said. “Please do check on Harry when you get the chance. I’m worried about him.” Her face disappeared from the fireplace. As the flames turned green again, Minerva McGonagall’s face appeared.
“Albus! “I’m tempted to ask Phoebe if she can watch Harry for a fortnight, given how much end of year paperwork I have to do.” Under her breath, she added, “If you didn’t always find an excuse to be somewhere else at the end of the year, you’d know much paperwork there is when the school year ends.”
“Young Mr. Potter cannot spend two weeks in America,” Dumbledore insisted. “The sooner he is back at his aunt’s house, the better. It was Lily’s sacrifice that saved Harry. Only a relative on the maternal side can provide him with a safe home and anchor the blood-wards.”
“You put too much faith in blood-wards,” Minerva said quietly. “Phoebe is a competent witch. Harry is a clever boy. He’ll be safe enough for a few days in the U.S. I doubt Voldemort has many minions in Los Angeles.”
“Do you? I don’t.”
Professor McGonagall realized the conversation was going nowhere and said goodbye.
## ## ## ##

Chapter Text

Thousands of miles away, Hal, Butch, and Harry tossed a (non-fanged ) frisbee between the three of them and the Everetts’ dog, Waldo. When the boys grew tired – about ten, fifteen minutes after Waldo quit – they went inside to cool off. They drank lemonade, nibbled cookies, and shared a jigsaw puzzle.
Phoebe called Harold and asked him to stop at the Take-and-Bake on the way home. “The Take and Bake, why?” asked Professor Everett.
“We have unexpected company for dinner, and what I had planned won’t stretch to feed six.”
“All right,” the mathematician agreed. He brought readymade raw pizza home. His wife thanked him and baked it. Harry had his first American pizza.
Phoebe introduced them. “Harold, “This is Harry Potter, my cousin James’ son. Harry, my husband, Professor Harold Everett, Sr., professor of applied mathematics and related sciences.”
The tall, dark, and handsome scientist shook hands with the dark-haired, green-eyed boy. “What are you doing in America, Harry?”
Unable to answer that question, Harry said nothing. Dinner that night was the four-quarter sampler: a large pizza, cut into sixteen pieces: four pieces cheese, four pieces pepperoni, four pieces sausage, and four pieces Hawaiian. Harry found the pepperoni too spicy, but enjoyed the cheese and Hawaiian.
“He got separated from the people he was with,” Phoebe said honestly, then added a small fib, “Luckily, he had my address and was able to make his way here. You don’t mind if he stays for a few days, do you?”
“No, of course not. The more the merrier,” Professor Everett replied. He suspected there was more to it than that, but he had learned not to ask his wife questions he didn’t really want the answer to.

The next few days, as Arabella Figg grew more and more concerned, Harry watched reruns of Leave It To Beaver and The Andy Griffith Show, and played board games. He read and was read to. Twice he went to the beach with his cousin and her family. The Everett family picnicked. The children built elaborate sandcastles. Butch demonstrated his attempts to learn surfing. Harry and Prudence splashed in the waves. All four children collected seashells.
Wednesday, Butch asked his stepmother, “Are we still going to Disneyland this Saturday?”
“Of course we are, darling. We’ve been planning this trip for weekss. We’ll just be taking Harry with us.”
That evening, after they had gone to bed, Phoebe confirmed with her husband that he would have no objections to including Harry in their trip to the Happiest Place on Earth.
“Of course, he’ll come with us, sweetheart. Can’t very well let your cousin come all the way to California and then stay home with Waldo to watch TV while the rest of us go to Disneyland,” Professor Everett said.
Phoebe kissed his cheek. “I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you.”
“Of course, Disneyland is expensive. Maybe with a party of six instead of a party of five we should skip the Blue Bayou and have lunch at Captain Hook’s Galley,” he suggested.
“Harold Everett, we are not going to Disneyland to eat tuna fish sandwiches. If we’re going to Disneyland, we’re going to the Blue Bayou for lunch,” she told him in no uncertain terms.
“Yes, dear,” he acquiesced wisely.
Friday night, Phoebe made a good hearty dinner, so everyone went to bed with full stomachs. She insisted on baths for all four children so they would be relaxed and sleep well. The boys sat in the hallway as Prudence took the first bath. Phoebe stood outside the open bathroom door and read Alfred Noyes’ “The Highwayman” aloud.
“When everyone was clean and had been read to, it was off to bed to rest up for the big day tomorrow.