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Chapter Text

22^nd May 1987

Harry Potter watched with rising uneasiness as his aunt’s normally doting expression morphed into one of surprise and then into one that was carefully blank.

Somewhere, off to his right, his cousin, Dudley, was still obliviously ranting on about the incident in the school playground earlier in the day. Dudley had never been particularly quick on the update of social queues, and distracted by the story he was in the middle of telling and the warm cookies on the kitchen counter that he was making his way through, the change in his mother’s features didn’t even register to him.

“…it was just like how Luke or Master Yoda moved stuff in the movies! I’m telling you; Harry can use the force!” He finished excitedly. “Do you think it’s possible for me to do it too?”

The lack of a response from the two other people in the room seemed to finally get through to the boy as he looked up at his mother who was staring at her nephew with an impassive gaze.

“Er…mum?” Dudley asked cautiously. “You ok?”

Petunia Dursley nee Evans started and focused once more on her son. “What? Oh, yes” she stammered taking a deep breath to calm herself. “Are you…are you quite sure it wasn’t one of your other friends that, erm, pushed the trampoline to make sure you landed safely Dudders?”

“Noooo mum!” Dudley whined with increasing petulance. “I keep telling you all, Piers was off balance from having yanked it away in the first place! And no one else was even touching it!” He jabbed a cookie excitedly at his cousin once more, “Harry can use the force!” He repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I see,” Petunia said softly and very slowly turned to look at her nephew while forcing a smile to appear on her face through sheer effort. “Well, thank you Harry for saving Dudders from getting hurt by using…the Force.” She intoned with an odd strain in her voice.

Before Harry could interject and claim that he had no idea what had happened either, she was waving away his incoming objection.

“But enough talk, hurry up and finish the cookies the two of you. We have guests coming over for dinner and you both need to finish your homework before they arrive.” She announced, regaining some of her usual mannerisms and starting to head out of the kitchen.

“Oh, and it might be a good idea to keep Harry’s knack for…all this, under wraps for now” she added, pausing at the door leading to the hall and turning around to look at the kids.

“Oooooh just like in the movies!” Dudley squealed in delight, his eyes going wide with renewed excitement that finally a grown-up was taking his version of events seriously.

“Erm, yes…precisely,” Petunia said after barely a moment of hesitation. She’d spent most of the family movie night focusing on her knitting than on the screen. “Don’t leave any crumbs on the table now!” she called as she finally left.

Dudley turned his attention to his cousin once more. “We’ve got to do some tests to see what all other Jedi stuff you can do!” He gushed, somehow managing to talk around an entire cookie in his mouth. “Do you think we might be able to create a lightsaber? Or do you think you can do the mind trick thing? You could make the teachers forget about tests and homework!” He was practically quivering in excitement.

“You heard her Dudley; we’re supposed to keep it quiet,” Harry said with a sigh, reaching for a cookie himself before Dudley finished them all. He’d been dealing with his cousin’s excitement all the way home from school. He thought for a moment as he bit into one and began to chew. Hmm, chocolate chip…both his and Dudley’s favorite.

He swallowed a mouthful before responding, “Besides, I don’t really know how to explain what happened…”. He cut off abruptly as a persistent tiredness, that he’d not been wholly aware of suddenly began to ebb.

“What the…I feel funny” he said, holding up his non-cookie-wielding hand in front of his face. The tips of his fingers felt like they were tingling ever so slightly. Was he imagining this?

“Funny? What do you mean?” Dudley asked with his brow furrowed. His concern almost immediately gave way to renewed excitement, “Do you think you’re feeling the Force again?”

“What? No!” Harry said startled. “I think I was just, a bit knackered from the day…” he mused. “But c’mon, we better hurry up or we won’t get through the homework before the guests arrive. Who do you think is coming over anyway?”

He grabbed two more cookies and began to chivvy his older cousin out of the kitchen, listening to him speculate with half an ear while he mentally tried to piece together the events of the day to try and identify what had tired him out.

“C’mon Duds! You’ve been hogging it all afternoon!” The plaintive cry of Piers Polkiss rose above the din of children on the little school’s playground.

“Two…more…minutes!” shouted the boy currently on the trampoline in between bounces.

Usually, there would be a teacher on the grounds with the kids, to keep them from hurting themselves or, more frequently, adjudicating whose turn it was on any of the various equipment. But Mrs. Danvers had been called away by an emergency with the Year 1s and Dudley, Piers and the rest of the kids in Year 2 were unsupervised for the moment.

Some of the kids were off playing Marbles to the side of the grounds, while the more boisterous ones were taking turns to see how high they could bounce on the trampoline. An activity that they could not typically indulge in when adults were keeping an eye on the proceedings.

A few dozen feet away and seemingly by himself, a boy with messy jet-black hair and round wire-framed glasses who seemed a bit younger than the rest, was leafing through a book while occasionally glancing at his cousin’s imitation of a hyperactive kangaroo.

When it happened, it happened in the blink of an eye.

One second, Dudley was bouncing back up skywards from the trampoline, and the next, Piers, in a fit of childhood pique had yelled “It’s been more than five minutes already!” and yanked the trampoline towards himself.

The limited physical strength of a seven-year-old (no matter how beefy), ensured that the trampoline, which through a serious oversight on the school’s part was not bolted firmly to the ground, did not move too far, but by the time Dudley began his descent he was heading toward the metal outer rim of the contraption, instead of the jumping mat.

Harry saw it all happen as if in slow motion and in mounting horror, and book forgotten on his lap raised his arms out in a futile effort to break Dudley’s fall or will the trampoline back into place. Of course, it was no use, he was too far away. Even if he had been close enough, he wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to drag the damn thing anywhere.

“No, no, no!”, he thought in panic as Dudley plummeted, realizing his own imminent danger and started to let out a yell of fear.

And in the same instance that his cousin’s voice reached his ears, Harry felt a jolt of something begin in the pit of his stomach and flood up into his torso and rush down to his arms, that were extended reflexively towards the tableau in front.

And the trampoline snapped back into place.

It was a good thing he was sitting down already, or the sudden exhaustion would have made him collapse.

Dimly, through the inexplicable ringing in his ears, he heard the yells of the momentarily frightened children. Sensed more than saw Dudley clamber off the trampoline and rush towards him in excitement yelling “How did you do that?!”

Getting through homework was even more of a slog than usual.

Dudley did not particularly like spending time on subjects he did not enjoy on the best of days and was prone to hiding comic books within his texts to read them sneakily. And with all the excitement of the day, he wasn’t even trying to focus.

Thus far, he’d drawn a crude table on a blank sheet with numbers running down the left-hand side, with two columns titled “Jedi Powers” and “How to test” on the top.

Harry studiously ignored him and focused on his math problems.

“Hmm…maybe hypnotizing one of Mrs. Figg’s cats?” Dudley muttered to himself, tapping the pencil against his chin.

Harry’s left eye twitched as he focused on tuning out his cousin.

“Lightsabers are gonna be tricky…I know they need a crystal. Maybe Mum will lend us one of her jewels.”

Harry screwed his eyes shut for a moment and passed a hand over his forehead, his thumb brushing the uneven skin around his lightning bolt-shaped scar.

“Looks like the easiest thing to test would be the Force powers to move stuff around. We can probably start testing that right now. Harry, move this pencil with your mind.”

Harry finally looked up and fixed his cousin, who had a pencil lying on his upturned palm, with a flat stare.

“No,” he said eloquently, before turning back to his homework.

“But whyyyyyy? It’s so cool! Why aren’t you more excited by this?” Dudley complained.

“You heard your mum. We’re supposed to keep it quiet for now, plus this homework is due Monday. If we don’t finish this tonight, we’ll have to work on it over the weekend.” Harry lied.

In truth, he was more than a little nervous about what had happened. He corrected himself…what he thought had happened.

Dudley wasn’t having it.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he demanded with the confidence of a child who was rarely denied anything. “Can you only do it when someone is in danger? Can you only move metal things, like Magneto? Ooooh, do you think you’re a mutant instead of a Jedi?”

Harry looked up again.

“Okay, first-of-all…rude! Second-of-all, I’m not even sure if it was me! I mean, I guess it might have been, but…I just don’t know, ok?”

Dudley nodded feigning understanding. “And this will help us figure it out.” he said tartly, before seeing Harry glare at him. “Fine, once you’re ready to talk about it I suppose.” He finally relented with poor grace.

Their homework, (or at least Harry’s) was interrupted when they heard a car pulling up in their driveway. This was followed shortly by a shouted “Honey, I’m home!” indicating that Uncle Vernon was back from the drill factory where he worked.

Harry sighed as he watched his cousin use his father’s arrival as an excuse to abandon his schoolwork for the evening and run out of the study (really a repurposed spare bedroom, next to the one that Harry and Dudley shared). He idly glanced at Dudley’s scribbles as the footsteps pounding down the stairs grew fainter, before sighing again and starting to put away his own homework.

He made sure to tuck away the sheet of paper with the ‘Jedi Powers’ table underneath Dudley’s books, so his aunt and uncle didn’t spot it and realized that Dudley hadn’t even bothered trying to focus today. Once this was done, he made his way downstairs at a much more measured pace.

Unlike Dudley, who had apparently inherited his father’s large bones and was already several inches taller and quite a few pounds heavier than him, Harry was small for his age. He had dark hair, unlike his cousin and uncle who were blond or his aunt whose hair was brown. All in all, in terms of appearance Harry bore little to no resemblance to the rest of his family.

He had asked about this when he was younger and had been informed over a mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows, that his appearance most closely resembled that of his father, James, who along with his mom, Lily, had died when he was a child.

They’d supposedly been in a car crash, which only Harry had survived.

Harry had asked if there were any pictures of his parents and had been shown a bunch of pictures of his mother in some of Petunia’s old family albums. But to his disappointment, his aunt and uncle did not have any pictures of his father.

He had, however, been quite pleased to discover that he had inherited his mother’s green eyes, if not her vibrant red hair.

The size and build difference between him and his cousin had played a part in making him the more cautious child.

As a toddler, while he and Dudley had played on the nearby street, they’d once been knocked down by a bike messenger who’d lost control of his cycle. While Dudley had bounced back up from the impact (almost literally), Harry had been sore for a whole week.

While Dudley usually gave better than he got while roughhousing with the other kids on the block, Harry usually preferred running away…or as he liked to phrase it, make a tactical withdrawal. He was faster than he looked, and he felt that his best chance at surviving was to play to his own strengths.

Once they’d started school the year before, their differences when it came to approaching life had become even more apparent. Dudley was the boisterous and exuberant one, while Harry was generally the quiet one observing from a distance.

But importantly, when all was said and done, they always had each other’s backs.

Without having to be asked, Dudley always made sure he was around if any of the older kids looked to be getting ready to pick on Harry. And for his part, Harry always made sure that Dudley got through his homework and assignments no matter how much his cousin hated it.

And so, Harry only arrived downstairs a good few minutes after his cousin had charged away from his schoolwork to greet his father.

Aside from his uncle, aunt and cousin, the entryway was currently occupied by three more people. A thin man in a gray business suit with thinning blond hair and kind brown eyes in his forties, a brown-haired matronly woman in a sundress who was in the process of handing a bouquet of flowers to his aunt and a young girl in dark blue jeans and a white top, of perhaps twelve, with her blond hair in a braid who was in the process of closing the door behind her.

“There you are Harry!” his uncle greeted cheerfully from the hall where Aunt Petunia was greeting the family that had presumably arrived with Vernon. Dudley was standing off to the side with a polite smile on his face, and sneaking peeks into the kitchen to figure out what was for dinner,

“I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather and their lovely daughter Sarah.” Vernon continued. He turned to ensure he was addressing both Harry and Dudley. “Johnathan here,” he indicated Mr. Merryweather, “is Grunnings’ Regional Manager for the Southwest just as I am for the Southeast. He’s visiting our Surrey branch for a few conferences, and I wanted you all to meet him and his lovely family.”

“Hello boys,” Mr. Merryweather smiled and nodded in their direction.

“Nice to meet you sir.” Harry and Dudley chorused dutifully.

“Please, call me John” the man said with a chuckle. “Vernon speaks of you both quite often.”

“Usually about all the trouble the two of you always seem to land yourselves in” Vernon laughed, beginning to recount the incident with the bike messenger.

Harry’s attention, however, had shifted past the adults in the hallway and was focused on Sarah. She was staring at him with her eyes wide and mouth visibly open.

His brow furrowed, wondering if he’d ever met this girl before, and why she seemed to be reacting to him like he was some manner of circus freak. The adults and Dudley had not noticed and were wincing in sympathy as Uncle Vernon wrapped up his story with a mention of Harry’s long convalescence.

By this time, probably snapped back into reality by Harry’s frown at her initial reaction, the girl, Sarah, had apparently mastered herself and was no longer gaping at him.

Harry kept a close eye on her as the group moved into the kitchen that Aunt Petunia had already set up for dinner. But throughout the various conversations, Sarah looked distracted, and her eyes kept returning to Harry. Even the usually clueless Dudley eventually picked up on it.

“Why does she keep staring at you?” He asked Harry in a whisper, while the Merryweathers laughed at one of Aunt Petunia’s quips.

“I honestly have no idea,” Harry muttered in response.

Even when his uncle asked her some questions about what her school was like, she seemed too distracted to answer for a moment before focusing on Vernon.

“Pardon, sir?” she enquired, blushing a bit in embarrassment.

Uncle Vernon smiled and repeated his question. “I heard Johnathan mention that you were attending a very select boarding school somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. I was wondering what it’s like over there.”

“Oh er…” Sarah stuttered for a bit. “It’s quite nice. Um, we have a lake next to the school grounds. Um, a village that we will be allowed to visit on the weekends once we’re older. And um, lots of, um, fun clubs and er, sports.” She trailed off.

“Sounds rather nice” Aunt Petunia smiled. “What is this school called?” Harry felt like he was imagining the faintest trace of…something, in his aunt’s voice.

“Ho-” Sarah began.

“Howards Institute.” Her mother finished. “It unfortunately keeps our Sarah away for nine months out of twelve, but we’re reliably told it is one of the best schools in the country.”

“Sounds very exclusive.” Uncle Vernon commented. “We were considering Smeltings for Dudley and Harry, call it bias towards my own alma mater” he laughed. “But hopefully we still have a few years before we have to decide.”

“True,” Mr. Merryweather observed. “I dare say that sending Sarah off to a boarding school was a difficult decision for us. The house just feels so empty with her gone. So, when we got her o-” he coughed, “her letter that her term would end a couple of weeks earlier than scheduled, I decided that we’d turn my week of conferences into a family trip to Surrey.”

“An excellent decision” Petunia smiled. “Have you had a chance to visit the…” and as the rest of conversation veered into sight-seeing advice, Harry continued to observe Sarah stealing glances at him when she thought no one was looking.

“Seriously, this is weird, right?” Dudley whispered.

“Yeah…definitely weird.” Harry responded with a frown.

Later that evening once the Merryweathers had taken their leave and Harry and Dudley were helping Petunia in the kitchen, a keen-eared passerby on the normally quiet suburban street of Little Whinging, would have been able to hear a rather curious conversation as a family of three strolled towards the main street where their company car was expected to pick them up.

“Harry Plotter?”

“I’ve mentioned this before Dad! Harry Potter! He’s famous! And no one knows where he has been these last few years!”

“But why is he famous again…?”

“Argh! Never mind! I’ve got to write to everyone at school! This is like grade ‘A’ breaking news, and I’m stranded in Surrey without anyone to share it with!”

“Um…sure dear, if you say so. But is it a good idea to gossip about a child?”

A faint pop interrupted the incoming response to the question.

“What was that?”

“What was what sweetheart?”

“Didn’t anyone hear that? Well, never mind…it’s not gossip dad! The whole of Wizarding Britain would want to know this! Huh? Did I imagine that or did those streetlights just wink out all at once?”

The family came to a cautious halt at the edge of the stretch of darkened street that lay between them and their pick-up spot.

“Good evening, Ms. Merryweather.”

“Headmaster Dumbledore…? What are you doing here? I think I found Harry Potter!”

“You did indeed, Ms. Merryweather. Obliviate.”

Later still, probably sometime after midnight, as Harry and Dudley were preparing for bed, a knock on their door caused them both to turn in time for both Vernon and Petunia to walk in with a nervous and determined expression on their countenance respectively.

“Is something wrong?” Dudley asked hesitantly.

“Nothing is wrong, Dudders. We just, uh, need to have a little chat.” His mother reassured him, almost entirely suppressing the slight tightness in her voice.

“Why don’t you two have a seat.” Uncle Vernon gestured towards Dudley’s bed. He said with a smile that seemed a little forced.

Harry and Dudley met each other’s eyes before slowly heading over to the indicated bed and sitting down.

The adults sat across from them on Harry’s bed.

“Well, it’s about the incident from earlier today you see…” Petunia began.

“I’m telling you I didn’t imagine it!” Dudley wailed, right on cue.

“Now, see here son-” his father began.

“There was no one else who could have pushed it!” Dudley continued heedless of his father.

“I get-” his mother tried.

“Piers will tell you! He accidentally shifted the trampoline and was off balance and couldn’t have pushed it back into place even if he tried-”

“We-”

“Harry! Tell them-”

“We believe you!”

Silence.

“…oh.”

“Yes. Now please calm down a moment and let us finish. Heaven knows you’ll have lots of questions later,” Petunia sighed, passing a tired hand over her face.

“Ok, Mum. Sorry.”

“That’s alright Dudders. But the important thing is, we believe what you saw. Because…because growing up, I saw similar things too, and more than once.”

More silence reigned in the room as the two children absorbed this.

“The Jedi are real?!”

“Where did you see this?”

Harry and Dudley met each other’s eyes again, and Dudley waved his hand indicating that his cousin should go first.

“Where did you see this happen Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked.

“Your mother, Lily, could do similar things as well Harry,” Petunia said, closing her eyes for a moment before meeting her nephew’s bright green eyes that reminded her so much of her sister. “She had…magic. She was something called a witch.” She steadied herself for a moment. “And it would appear that you have inherited her…gift.”

“So, I’m a witch?”

“Not exactly.” Petunia corrected, hoping she still remembered the terminology right even after all these years. “You’re a wizard Harry.”

Chapter Text

23^rd May 1987

“You’re a wizard Harry.”

The kid’s bedroom at number four, Privet Drive was silent once more with the two adults in the room peering closely at the children and waiting for their reaction.

There wasn’t much of one aside from confusion.

“Wiz-zard? Like the Wizard of Oz?” Harry asked, skepticism clear on his face.

“Not quite like that, I think?” Petunia clarified hesitantly. “Vernon?” she asked, turning to her husband, hoping he could help with the explanation.

Uncle Vernon cleared his throat.

“You see Harry, when Tuney and I got engaged, she told me about…well, about all of this. And I had lots of questions too, at least after I was sure I wasn’t being pranked. So, let me see if I can explain this in a way that makes sense to you.”

He paused again, marshalling his thoughts while Dudley and Harry both waited for him to continue.

“Magic is real. As are people who can use it. Women who can use magic are called witches, and men who can do so are called wizards. And er, both of your parents, Harry, were magical. And while the existence of magic or magical people is, obviously, kept secret from the regular non-magical world in general…it is common enough to warrant the existence of magical schools, a magical government and er, even a magical prison.”

Aunt Petunia spoke up when Vernon paused again. “The only reason we know about magic at all is because of Lily. When we were growing up, she tended to make strange things happen. Like making flowers bloom in the blink of an eye, or turning things into something else, or making her toys fly across the room. There was another magical kid near where we grew up too, who explained some of the stuff to her, and after she turned eleven, she got a letter offering her a place at a magic school.”

She hesitated before steeling herself and continuing.

“I will admit Harry, that I wasn’t very nice to her after she left to learn magic. I was jealous and I let my own disappointment mar our relationship. And every summer, when she came home the rift between us grew deeper.”

She eyed Harry carefully for a moment before resuming.

“Lily met your father, James, at her school and they got married right after they graduated. We only reconciled at their wedding because mother and father were in poor health, and they insisted that I mend fences with Lily. And I’m really very glad that they did.”

Harry sat in silence.

“So, what happened in school today, might be a display of, er, accidental magic, Harry,” Petunia explained. Somewhat unnerved by her nephew’s silence.

“Harry, please say something…?” Vernon asked cautiously.

“Magic…?” Harry asked slowly trying to wrap his head around the concept. “But, if Mom and Dad were magic too, why couldn’t they save themselves in the car crash?”

Petunia winced visibly and cast a sidelong glance at her husband who returned a helpless shrug.

“Well Harry, we didn’t want to tell you this and uh, burden you, but er, your parents didn’t quite um, die, in a car crash per se.” She explained with visible discomfort.

“They did not?” Harry’s eyes widened.

“You see Harry, back in 1981 when you and Dudley would have been just over a year old, I woke up one morning in early November and, er, found you on our front steps,” Petunia said. “You were swaddled up in a blanket and had a letter resting on top of you. The letter had been from the headmaster of the school that Lily had attended, and it explained that both your parents had been um, killed on the night of Halloween that year.” She finished with a shudder.

“Killed as in…?” Harry started.

“I’ll find the letter in the morning if you want to read it for yourself Harry, but…yes,” Petunia confirmed, her voice tight. “The letter also informed us that this would be the safest place for you to be until you grew up and didn’t offer any other details. Vernon and I tried gathering more information but couldn’t find anything. Vernon even tried driving all the way to Godric’s Hollow, that’s the village where Lily and James lived, but he couldn’t even see their cottage anymore! It’s as if it had vanished into thin air overnight.”

“But why were they killed?” Harry demanded shrilly, desperate to make sense of at least some part of what he was being told.

“We don’t really know ourselves, Harry,” Petunia explained, slowly getting up from where she had been sitting and moving to sit next to Harry instead and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “Lily had mentioned that the magical world was in the middle of a conflict of sorts, and they were being targeted by some Dark Lord. Perhaps that had something to do with it…”

Harry looked even more puzzled at this. “A dark lord, like a lord in the parliament?”

“I really couldn’t say Harry,” Petunia confessed sounding distressed.

Vernon spoke up from the other bed.

“There’s a lot about the magical world we don’t really know Harry. Perhaps James or Lily would have explained things better to us, but between when we reconnected and when they, er, went into hiding, we didn’t really have a lot of time. I’m sorry to say that Tuney and I only know the absolute basics of this other world.”

Harry thought about this for a moment.

As far as he could tell, the most dominant emotion he was currently experiencing was that of surprise. He was a little disturbed to hear that his parents had not passed away in a car crash after all, but instead had been murdered by some lord.  But he didn’t really remember them much, so his mind kept focusing on what magic or his being capable of it meant for him.

“What does, being magic actually mean?” he finally asked.

“Well,” Petunia mused as she slowly removed her arm from around Harry (who was not much of a hugger) and ran her hand through her hair. “For Lily it meant learning strange new things like…like Potions and Charms. She talked about various lines of work in the magical world as well, from dragon handlers to enchanters. So, I guess-”

“Dragons are real?!”

The squeal that Dudley let out at this latest bit of information made the other three occupants of the room jump a foot into the air.

“This is so cool! Mum! Where can we find out more about magic? Are there any museums, or expos that we can go to?”

“Son!” Vernon barked. “Control yourself! Give Harry a chance to process all of this before you start planning how to tame a dragon.”

Dudley blushed crimson and glanced at his cousin who was smirking at his excitement instead of being annoyed at the interruption. “Sorry Harry.”

Harry gave his cousin a thumbs up and a smile before turning back to his aunt and uncle.

“Are there though? Any museums or expos I mean.”

“If there are, I’m afraid I’m not aware of them Harry,” Petunia said sadly. “But if you really want to find out more, I can try dragging some of Lily’s old stuff out of the attic for you. After your grandparents passed, we moved some of our childhood belongings from their house at Spinner’s End, which I think might include some of Lily’s school stuff. That turned out to be a good idea as well, cause the whole place exploded less than a week later…gas leak.”

“I would really like that, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said earnestly and hesitated before making a request.

“If you don’t mind, could we…could we maybe visit this Godorick’s Hallow sometime? Or maybe even Spinner’s Wind?” He asked.

“Spinner’s End is in Cokeworth Harry, so that’s in a whole other direction from Godric’s Hollow.” Vernon clarified. “Godric’s Hollow is in the West Country, and I don’t see an issue in us taking a weekend trip that way towards the end of the summer.”

“But Harry, how do you feel about all of this? You’re not upset at us keeping this a secret from you right?” Petunia asked her nephew.

“I don’t think so?” The boy answered hesitantly. “I’m a little shocked that, Mum and Dad were killed. But mostly, I think I’m very curious about magic.”

“Of course you are dear. And I promise that your Uncle Vernon and I will try our best to answer any questions you have to the best of our abilities. Or failing that, try to find answers for you.” Petunia swore.

“We should probably let you two get to bed,” Vernon said getting up. “We’ll dig up as much of the stuff from the attic tomorrow and we can talk about it some more.” He paused and met his nephew’s eyes resolutely. “But Harry, even though Petunia or I might be unable to do magic ourselves, you are not going to be alone in this. You understand?”

Harry felt as if his heart were constricted with emotion as he nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak lest his control betray him, and he began to bawl like a child.

“Good,” Vernon said with a smile and began to turn towards the door before stopping and directing a serious look towards his son.

“Dudley, this really needs to be a secret. No one except for us can ever know, you understand?”

Dudley rolled his eyes. “I get it, dad! I can keep a secret.”

He was met with three sets of dubious eyes.

Albus Dumbledore

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster's Office

November 1, 1981

Dear Petunia Dursley,

You may not know me, but I have the deepest respect and regard for you and your family. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where your sister, Lily, spent many of her happiest years.

I write to you with a heavy heart. Your sister Lily and her husband, James Potter, were tragically killed last night by a dark wizard named Voldemort. They died protecting their son, Harry. Thanks to their sacrifice and an extraordinary display of love, Harry survived the attack that claimed his parents’ lives.

Voldemort himself was rendered powerless and fled. Harry is now safe from immediate danger, but unfortunately, there are still those who follow Voldemort and would wish him harm. Harry’s safety is of paramount importance to the entire wizarding world.

I apologize for the suddenness of it all, but I fear that I must entrust Harry to your care, Petunia, because of the powerful protective charm that his mother’s sacrifice has imbued in him. This charm can only continue to protect him as long as he can call your home his home. By taking Harry in, you are not only honoring your sister’s memory, but you are also ensuring that he remains safe from harm.

I understand that this is an enormous responsibility and may bring unforeseen challenges, but I have faith in your strength and compassion. Harry will need to grow up away from the wizarding world for the time being, to have a chance at a normal childhood, free from the dangers that currently linger.

If Harry bears the same gift of magic as his parents, he will receive his letter to attend Hogwarts when he turns eleven, and at that time, he will be introduced to the magical heritage that his parents have left him. Until then, please treat him with kindness and care, as he will surely grow to be a remarkable boy, full of the same courage and love that his parents possessed.

Thank you for your understanding and for the love I believe you will come to show Harry. Should you ever need guidance or assistance, do not hesitate to contact me.

With deepest respect and gratitude,

Albus Dumbledore.

True to their word, Petunia and Vernon had unearthed the letter from Dumbledore before Harry and Dudley had gotten up the next morning and the two boys read it carefully over their morning cereal.

“Well, that doesn’t really tell us much does it?” Dudley eventually announced.

Harry nodded mutely in agreement before putting the letter down and looking at his aunt.

“Why would my safety be important to the wizarding world?” he asked puzzled.

“I’m afraid I don’t know Harry.” His aunt sighed.

“He said we can contact him, so could we send him a letter asking him to explain?” Harry enquired.

“We tried that too Harry. We tried sending him a letter the very next day in fact, but the letter just came back undelivered.” Uncle Vernon responded this time. “It appears that witches and wizards typically use owls for correspondence, and without owning an owl, we were in no position to even reach out to someone in the magical world.”

“Can we perhaps buy an owl?” Dudley asked, beating Harry to the question.

“We asked around…and apparently you need special permits to even own one. Permits we weren’t even eligible to apply for unless we could prove we owned sufficient farmlands or forests where the owl could hunt.” Petunia huffed. “Suffice to say, that magical folks are likely beyond the reach of such restrictions.”

“So, we can’t reach out to this” Harry peered at the letter again, “‘Dumbledoor’, and because of the followers of this ‘Voldermot’ it’s not safe for me to be a part of the magical world.” He summarized.

“That is what seems to be the case, Harry.”

“But then how do we find out more about magic?” Harry asked slumping down on the table.

“Well, I’ll try finding Lily’s old trunk in the attic after breakfast. Maybe there will be something helpful in there?” Vernon said, sipping his tea.

Harry nodded, looking up at his aunt and uncle as another thought occurred to him. “How did it even end up here? I mean, it would have made more sense for mom to take it with her from grandparent’s place, right?”

“Well after mother and father died, Lily and I decided it probably wasn’t safe to leave her childhood magical things in our old house,” Petunia explained. “Spinner’s End was never a very nice neighborhood you see. And we both felt that if someone were to break into the home and stumble on something magical, it would cause problems. So, James and Lily drove down there from Godric’s Hollow one weekend, while Vernon and I headed over from here, and we spent the weekend searching the house for all of Lily’s old things and packing away any other memorabilia that had sentimental or significant monetary value.”

“I think James had this strange magic on the boot of their car that allowed it to hold a lot more stuff than it normally should,” Vernon reminisced, “but even then they ran out of space eventually. So, we brought home one of the trunks which they could pick up later. We figured it was safer than leaving it there for burglars to find.”

Harry nodded. That made sense.

“You said the place exploded from a gas leak a week afterwards?” Dudley asked.

His father grunted his assent.

“We got a call a few days later from the local police and went to visit. It was in bad shape. Tuney discussed the situation with Lily, and they decided to sell the property, well mostly the land, instead of trying to rebuild it. I guess that, coupled with Lily and James going into hiding a few months later, put the matter of Lily’s trunk right out of our heads.”

“You never met with them after this happened?” Harry enquired.

Petunia shook her head.

“We kept in touch,” she said staring into the depths of her teacup. “Mostly through a few of her friends who dropped off or collected letters once every few months. She sent me a potion to help with the morning sickness when I was carrying Dudders” she smiled sadly, “and I kept asking her if we could come visit you, once you were born. But it never materialized…and then it was too late.”

“Ah those friends…” Uncle Vernon sneered rather uncharacteristically, startling both Dudley and Harry, while Petunia gave a small chuckle.

“Some of Lily’s and James’ friends considered themselves merry pranksters, you see.” She explained. “Peter, Sirius and Remus…I think they were called. And one of their pranks at James and Lily’s wedding may have rubbed Vernon the wrong way.”

“Petunia!” Uncle Vernon whined at his wife in a manner so reminiscent of his son that everyone else sniggered at his embarrassment.

“Well, be that as it may.” Petunia continued, patting her husband’s hand in a placating manner, “They helped us keep in touch. Well, in the last few months, I think it was mostly Peter who helped with that, with Remus having to travel abroad frequently or something and Sirius himself preparing to go into hiding.”

“Did they never get in touch afterwards?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“Surprisingly, they didn’t” Uncle Vernon frowned. “We didn’t really dwell on it until much later, since they only came by to bring letters from Lily and to take Tuney’s responses to her. But we realized that it was possible that they too had been hurt in the conflict, or perhaps Dumbledore had instructed them to stay away so they didn’t inadvertently lead any of this Lord Voldything’s people back to you.”

“And since we didn’t really have any of their addresses, we couldn’t try reaching out to them either.” Aunt Petunia finished sadly.

“I understand.” Harry said, sounding resigned. “Hopefully there will be something helpful in the trunk.” He added sipping his glass of milk.

After breakfast, once a protesting Dudley had been sent off to finish the homework he’d bailed on the previous evening, Harry helped Uncle Vernon manhandle a beat-up-looking trunk from the attic and drag it downstairs to the living room.

After frantically backpedaling into the hallway once Aunt Petunia shrieked at the dust that they were tracking onto her rug, it was the moment of truth.

He undid the clasps on the trunk and carefully raised the lid.

Inside, was an impressively large number of books, a few carefully folded robes not dissimilar to the ones worn by lawyers or judges and some peculiar-looking contraptions.

“Is this supposed to be a spyglass?” He asked extracting the device that looked like it had come right out of Treasure Island gingerly.

“If I recall correctly, one of Lily’s subjects at Hogwarts, was astronomy. So maybe that’s a beginner’s telescope?” His aunt remarked from over his shoulder.

“Huh,” Harry muttered, putting the thing on the floor and reaching for what looked like a small metal cookpot with a round bottom. “And this?”

“Something to do with brewing potions perhaps?” Aunt Petunia shrugged.

“There’s something inside it…looks like a set of scales, and a pair of green leather gloves.”

“I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“There seem to be several copies of the same books in here…oh wait, no. These are different books of the same series.” Harry remarked, holding up what seemed to be four thick volumes titled ‘The Standard Book of Spells by Miranda Goshawk’ but marked as Grades One through Four respectively. “Were these the school’s recommended texts for years one through four?”

“Looks that way. I’m guessing Lily would have requested a new trunk or something at some point and stored the old texts and equipment she no longer needed in her old one.”

“Huh, interesting,” Harry said putting the books back as another couple of titles caught his eye. He hesitated only for a moment before pulling them out.

“‘Magical Theory’ by Adalbert Waffling, ‘Defensive Magical Theory’ by Wilbert Slinkhard and ‘A History of Magic’ by Bathilda Bagshot” Aunt Petunia read aloud from behind him.

“Might help to understand a bit more about what magic is or where it came from,” Harry murmured.

After a brief pause, Petunia asked. “Do you mind if I borrow them once you’ve gone through those?”

The rest of Saturday passed uneventfully. After helping Aunt Petunia drag his mom’s old trunk to the kid’s study, Harry curled up on a couch in the living room with ‘A History of Magic’ in his hands and the sun at his back and was immediately fascinated and entranced.

The book was structured like an encyclopedia, ordered chronologically in chapters dedicated to the legends and lore of major magical events that had occurred in different eras. The first few sections spoke in broad strokes of the rise and fall of great magical civilizations in ages past such as Atlantis, Ancient Egypt, Babylon, Sumer and China, before starting to focus more specifically on the magical history in the British Isles from the time of the arrival of the Romans.

It spoke of the armistice between the ancient druids of Germania and Gaul and the Hierophants of Rome and how the groups had conspired to prevent a complete assimilation of these lands in the same manner that had befallen Brittania. Harry wondered if the non-magical populace had been aware of these machinations behind the scenes that had such a profound impact on their lives and lifestyles.

There were also entire sections dedicated to great and powerful wizards who had gained fame or notoriety across nations. There were wizards such as Emeric the Evil or Harpo the Foul, whose misdeeds and crimes had led them to be branded as Dark Lords and to contrast them there were mentions of wizards such as Merlin the Wild and Nicolas Flamel who were celebrated for their contributions to enrich all the magical world.

He read about the persecution of folks suspected of practicing magic that had begun in the dark ages, and how it was weaponized within the non-magical community as a way of intimidating those who had fallen out of favor with local feudal lords. It never became more than a nuisance to actual magic wielders, save for the unfortunate occasions when the mobs captured a magical child who would be unable to free themselves.

And he read how these events led to the Statute of Secrecy and the formation of Schools of Magic throughout the world, where magical children could be taught to harness and channel their abilities in safety before venturing out into a potentially hostile society.

Hogwarts it seemed was the oldest and most prestigious of these schools within the British Isles, though other notable institutes around the world rivalled its fame and glory.

Harry wondered what some of the other English schools of magic were and how children with the potential for magic were picked to go to the supposedly elite Hogwarts over one of these lesser-known institutions.

There were even chapters dedicated to things such as the ‘Goblin Rebellions’, ‘Centaur Wars’ and ‘Dragon Pox Outbreaks’ which made Harry immensely curious as to just what other manner of magical beings were also hidden away as part of the statute of secrecy.

Harry noticed that the last chapters of the book spoke about events no more recent than 1970 (the last entry being about a significant breakthrough by Master Potioneer Damocles Belby in managing the symptoms of the Lycanthropic Affliction) and figured that was when this version of the book was published. It made sense, since his mom would have started Hogwarts in 1971.

As he rubbed his eyes and put the book down to take a break, he was suddenly struck by a thought.

Perhaps a book that required periodic updates would require the publishers to provide some manner of address for correspondence, via which people could alert them in case they had missed something or made an error in a recent edition. If nothing else, perhaps it could be a way to at least get some current news of the magical world.

He snatched the book back off the couch and flipped it open to the inside of the front cover and seeing as it was blank flipped the back cover instead.

There, on the inside of the jacket, at the very bottom corner were the words: “Owl us at: M. L. Books, Number 13, Diagon Alley.”

Harry’s heart sank. Another dead end that was only circumventable by people with an owl.

He dropped the book onto the couch beside him and put his face in his hands just as Aunt Petunia entered the living room.

“What’s the matter?” she asked with some concern.

“I thought that the book,” Harry waved vaguely at the one next to him, “might have an address or something that we could write to, at least to order some more recent books about current affairs or something. But even this seems to be only reachable by owls. What kind of a name is ‘Diagon’ Alley anyway?” he grumbled.

The immediate silence following his petulant question didn’t immediately register to him, until it was broken by his aunt’s voice.

“What…did you say?” Petunia said, sounding slightly hoarse.

Harry looked up surprised and saw her standing frozen in her spot. “Er…Diagon Alley? That’s the address mentioned in the book.”

“Harry? I think I know where that is…and how to get there!”

“Ok, let me get this straight,” Uncle Vernon said as he thoughtfully chewed his chicken at dinner later that night, “you remember the place where the magic people go shopping from the trip you took prior to Lily’s first year at Hogwash?”

“Hogwarts dear, but essentially yes.” Petunia corrected.

“Sorry. And you want to take Harry with you to this place tomorrow and see if you can pick up some books about what has been happening in the magic world recently, and, if possible, try and buy an owl so that we can get in touch with some of these people?”

“All correct so far,” his wife said with a smile.

“And why can’t Dudley or I come?”

“Well, the only time I was there was way back in ’71 and mother, Lily and I were accompanied by a teacher at the school. A very severe Scottish woman, whose name I cannot quite recall.” Petunia took a sip of water before continuing. “When we arrived, we realized that mother could not see the, er, tavern through which one would be able to access the alley, even though both Lily and I could see it clearly. And the Scottish biddy explained that the magic of the place prevented non-magical folks from seeing it.”

“But you could see it?” Vernon asked dubiously.

“Yes, dear. Our guide from the school was surprised as well. She had been expecting that both mother and I would have to wait outside while she helped Lily with her shopping. She said something about latent magical heritage, but ultimately she took us both into the place called ‘Diagon Alley’ to purchase Lily’s school supplies.

“Ok, and you think Dudley, or I would be unable to see this place either.” Vernon finished seeming conflicted.

“Yes, dear. I don’t know for certain of course. And I think it might be a fun little day trip to London regardless, but there is a possibility that perhaps you will not be able to help with the last leg of the journey.” Petunia stated.

“It’s worth a shot I suppose. What do you think son?”

“Yes! Can you try and get some magic stuff for me even if I can’t get in? Please?” Dudley immediately pleaded.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Petunia said with a small smile.

“But hold on a moment,” Vernon spoke up again as a new thought struck him. “Do you think it’s safe for Harry to go anywhere near the magical world? Given the warning in the letter?”

“We thought of that too, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said. “Aunt Petunia mentioned that if someone were to recognize me, it would likely be because of the scar on my forehead that refuses to heal or by the fact that I have mom’s eyes or dad’s hair. So, we think sunglasses and a beanie should take care of all three issues.”

“Well, if you’re sure I guess.” Vernon accepted before turning to his wife. “Don’t the magicals have their own currency? What do we do about that if we need to purchase a yearbook or an owl.”

“They have sort of a bank outlet in the alley that changes currency,” Petunia recalled.

“Ok, fine. I guess it won’t hurt to try. But just to be on the safe side, avoid going by your real name while you’re there. Who knows who might recognize you.”

“That’s a good point, Vernon.” Petunia nodded. “Any idea what kind of name you want to go by Harry?”

“Um, how about Harrison? Or Hadrian perhaps?”

Dudley laughed from the other side of the table. “You’re not using your imagination! What about Rocky? Or Vader? Something cool!”

“And you might be using your imagination a bit too much.” Uncle Vernon snorted. “Keep it low-key and unremarkable if you can.”

“Ok…” Harry thought hard scrunching his face in the process. “Luke perhaps? Luke…Evans?”

“Maybe not a good idea to use your mom’s surname either Harry,” Vernon said kindly.

“Luke…Walker, then?” Harry asked with a small wink at his cousin who chuckled.

“I guess that should be fine,” Aunt Petunia said seriously. “That’s not someone famous or anything is it?”

“Nope, not to my knowledge,” Harry said with a perfectly straight face while his uncle narrowed his eyes suspiciously but thankfully didn’t say anything.

“You said this place is somewhere near Leadenhall Market, Tuney?” Vernon asked after a bit and seeing his wife’s nod he turned to Dudley before continuing “Very well then. And Dudley, if it turns out that you and I cannot get into this super-secret magical alley, we’re going to go visit the Bank of England Museum. I think I was about your age when my dad took me, and it’s quite a fun experience.”

Dudley grinned at his dad before turning back to his meal, but it seemed to Harry that his cousin would probably consider it a poor consolation prize if he was unable to see the magic tavern.

As they cleared the table and he and Dudley were sent to bed so they wouldn’t be sleepy for the big day tomorrow, Harry hoped desperately that his entire family would be able to experience the trip to the magical world the next day.

Chapter Text

24^th May 1987

Harry watched the landscape speed past as Uncle Vernon’s gray Vauxhall Cavalier made its steady way towards London.

They’d woken up and gotten ready for their trip rather early in the morning and Dudley was already snoring softly in the seat beside his cousin. Even though the M25 had opened the year before and helped reduce the commute time for folks plying to the capital and back, Uncle Vernon had not wanted to take any chances and insisted that they leave by six-thirty in the morning.

Between the drowsiness of the two boys, the fact that the milk wasn’t usually delivered so early and the realization that, in all the previous days’ excitement, they’d neglected their planned grocery shopping and were running low on cereals, they were running two hours behind their intended schedule by the time they were ready.

Eventually, after a light breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and some grapefruit, the family piled into the car and set off for the big city. Harry had asked if he should put on the sunglasses and the beanie already, but Petunia had decided it should be safe enough for now and to only put it on when they arrived in the vicinity of Leadenhall. For the time being then, a dark blue beanie hat, that could be pulled low enough onto Harry’s forehead to completely obscure his scar was resting on the seat next to him, along with a pair of dark glasses. Harry hoped it would be a sunny day today so his wearing the shades would not seem too out of place.

In the passenger seat, Aunt Petunia was fiddling with the car radio, trying to tune into the early morning news. Uncle Vernon had his eyes on the road, and aside from occasionally muttering under his breath when he judged another vehicle to be driving too recklessly, was holding back on his usual drive-time rant, probably so as not to disturb Dudley’s sleep.

Despite knowing about the impending impromptu trip, both the boys had found it nigh impossible to sleep the previous evening and had consequently snuck back into their study room and spent a large part of the night going through the remaining books in Lily’s trunk.

Dudley, predictably, had latched on to the copy of ‘The Standard Book of Spells’ and had started trying to cast something called a ‘Lumos’, his excitement undampened by the fact that the spell was meant for eleven-year-olds working under the tutelage of a trained instructor, required a wand to cast and would probably not work for someone unlikely to have magical potential anyway.

He’d given up on it after several minutes before turning his attention to ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ and had started skimming through it rapidly, his squeals of excitement whenever he reached the entry for a new creature, helping Harry track his cousin’s progress through the text.

Harry meanwhile had picked up ‘Magical Theory’.

He had thumbed wide-eyed through the lengthy index, wondering at titles such as ‘Fundamental Laws of Magic’ or ‘Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration’ and decided to start at the very beginning.

The preface had read: ‘Tamper with the deepest mysteries — the source of life, the essence of self — only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.’

Harry had tried and failed to contain his disappointment.

In theory, he could see how this might serve as a useful warning to over eager young magic wielders (Dudley, as if right on cue, erupted into excited giggles over whatever latest entry he’d just turned to), but the theory didn’t really help Harry figure out the more fundamental question of what Magic even was.

He’d flipped back to the index and decided to jump ahead at random to the chapter titled ‘Quisling’s Treatise on the Source of Spell Energies’ instead.

This chapter spoke about the research of Millford Quisling into anecdotal evidence of Witches and Wizards performing feats of magic that normally exceeded their abilities when faced with dire circumstances at the risk of physical and/or magical exhaustion. Harry was immediately reminded of his own reaction to the trampoline incident and dived into the chapter eagerly to immediately be disappointed for a second time.

Following the discussion on Quisling’s observations and hypothesis, the book noted that the theory was ultimately not proven and was discredited.

Harry huffed in annoyance and was about to try another different chapter when he spotted a little note in the margins: ‘According to SS, similar concepts are better described in ‘The Mystical Origins of Magicka’ by Edelbert Hughes.’

Harry had, of course, immediately snatched up a notebook from his desk and eagerly jotted down the name of the book.

He had then started actively looking for other similar notes or callouts to reference materials in the margin of the book and after an hour or so had added three more entries to his list.

‘Before you Begin to Brew’ by Krissador Hagglemere (which appeared to be a beginner’s introduction to the concepts of potioneering that had also been recommended to Lily by someone named ‘SS’), ‘Through the Looking Glass: An Introduction to Magical Great Britain’ by Vester Leveret (which had been recommended to his mom by someone unnamed after some incident in one of her classes) and ‘The Organized Mind: Building the Basics for the Mental Arts’ by Sorrell Buttonwood (which seemed to be yet another recommendation from ‘SS’).

He'd checked the time at this point while vaguely wondering who this ‘SS’ had been and after carefully replacing the books in his mother’s trunk had dragged Dudley off to bed.

As he’d stared at the ceiling while trying to entice sleep to claim him, he had kept wondering how all this talk of magic would end up changing his life, but more importantly how he’d explain to Aunt Petunia how he suddenly had a list of books he wanted to buy without revealing to her that he and Dudley had stayed up most of the night despite her instructions.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Uncle Vernon’s muttered exclamation jolted him back to the present as their car was cut off by a roaring motorcycle being ridden by a large man in a black leather jacket.

“…roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums!” his uncle grumbled as the biker half-turned to give them a cheeky unrepentant grin.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly ran over the bike.

“Er…motorcycles don’t fly, Harry.” Aunt Petunia ventured cautiously, observing her nephew in the rear-view mirror once her husband had regained control of the vehicle.

"I know they don't," said Harry, as Dudley continued to slumber. "It was only a dream."

“Actually,” Uncle Vernon said slowly. “Didn’t, er…Sirius once mention that he had, um, purchased a bike and charmed it to fly?”

“Wha-? Why don’t I remember this?” Petunia exclaimed. “That sounds like the sort of thing one would struggle to forget.”

“I think it happened when you were responding to Lily’s letters and he and I were desperately looking for subjects for small talk.” Vernon grimaced at the memory. “I don’t rightly remember how the topic came up, except as a way to stop us lapsing into an uncomfortable and awkward silence.”

“I…see.” Petunia sighed. “Well, I stand corrected Harry. Apparently, sometimes, motorcycles do, in fact, fly.” She turned in her seat as far as she could and fixed him with a firm gaze. “You are not to try to fly or attempt to make anything fly. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” Harry lied through his teeth without so much as batting an eye. A flying motorbike sounded ruddy awesome.

His aunt peered at him suspiciously for a few moments longer before turning back to the road.

“I wonder why Dudders is still asleep though. He’s usually up by this hour…”

Harry winced inwardly and focused back on the world outside. He knew after all why Dudley was still snoozing…he just hoped he wouldn’t be asked the question directly.

The good time they’d made on the new motorway was a distant memory by the time their car approached Leadenhall Market. Apparently, even on a Sunday morning, the traffic in London proper was a nightmare.

After being forced to take strange detours via a myriad of one-way streets, they finally got close enough to their intended destination for Petunia to remind Harry to put on his beanie hat and to wake up his cousin. Dudley had been nudged awake and had gone from groggy to hyper-excited in three seconds flat.

And after another quarter of an hour, where a grumbling Uncle Vernon had to drive further and further away from where they had planned on alighting while futilely looking for an unoccupied parking spot, they finally disembarked.

Petunia led the way from memory while Vernon made sure the boys didn’t get separated on the crowded sidewalk as he brought up the rear.

“What’re we looking for mum?” Dudley called out as Petunia slowly made her way down the street glancing at the various stores around her.

“Well, I recall wondering how no-one else noticed such an absurd building in the middle of an otherwise normal if busy neighborhood,” Petunia answered. “It was like, something out of a child’s picture book…all crooked walls and unnaturally steep roofs, surrounded by perfectly normal, everyday buildings. So, I guess we’re looking for a building that really stands out.”

Harry glanced around as well, although his and Dudley’s short stature meant that most of what he was able to see was a multitude of other pedestrians. Vernon kept an arm on each of the boy’s shoulders as he too kept an eye out for ‘weird buildings.’

“A-ha!” Petunia’s voice suddenly jolted the rest of them out of their search. “I think…I think I see it!” Petunia whispered in obvious excitement. “Come, follow me!” she announced as she led them off down a side street.

Harry and Dudley followed, with Uncle Vernon close behind. Harry’s heart was thumping in his chest in equal parts trepidation and excitement. He tried looking ahead through the sea of people towards whatever it was that his aunt was leading them to, but to no avail. He inwardly cursed being short, even for his age, before she stopped abruptly, causing him to nearly bump into her.

“Ok, now dear.” She turned around and whispered breathlessly, ignoring the annoyed people on the street who had to swerve away from their little group. “Tell me what you see.”

Harry took a deep calming breath and slowly peered past her at the building they’d stopped in front of and felt his jaw drop.

The structure in front of them had an undeniably medieval appearance, with weathered stone walls and a steep, sagging roof covered in moss and lichen. Wooden beams crisscrossed the façade, their dark, rough-hewn surfaces contrasting starkly with the sleek lines of the nearby buildings. The windows were small and leaded, with intricate, diamond-shaped panes that seemed to glimmer oddly in the daylight. An old, creaky sign hung above the entrance, swinging gently in the breeze. The sign bore the name "The Leaky Cauldron" in faded, gothic lettering, and below it, a cauldron that looked like it might very well have been around since the Middle Ages as well.

To Harry, the pub looked wonderfully out of place, as if a piece of the magical world had been hidden in plain sight, reserved for the eyes of those who knew just where to look. And while the ordinary folks on the road passed by the queer construction without a second glance, he could also see the occasional strangely attired people bustling in and out, dressed in odd robes of every conceivable color. He noted dumbly that the unusual clothes of these people generated as little interest among the general populace as did the building they emerged from.

He was brought out of his reverie by an awed whisper next to him.

“That is so cool!” whispered Dudley, clearly as awed as Harry felt.

“Um…which building are we supposed to be looking at again dear?” Uncle Vernon asked, sounding a little confused.

Harry turned to his uncle, realization rising fast within him, and watched as Vernon cautiously moved his gaze along the structures near them. He swore he could almost see the older man’s eyes glaze and slide past the strange tavern every time he attempted to focus in its general direction.

“It’s right in front of us dad!” Dudley exclaimed, waving at it as he excitedly pulled on Vernon’s sleeve. “See?”

Vernon furrowed his eyebrows in concentration as he tried to peer at the building his son was indicating. “The “While You Wait’ tavern? What’s so weird about that?” he asked clearly puzzled.

“What? No, the one to its left, The Leaky Cauldron!” Dudley pointed.

“I…don’t see it,” Vernon replied slowly. “The store that I see to the left of ‘While You Wait’ is an Oxford University Press bookstore.”

“Oh…” Dudley looked back at the row of buildings ahead of them as they collectively realized that whatever weirdness was at play out here was causing Vernon to fail to see an entire building while standing a few dozen feet from its entrance.

“Vernon…I’m sorry” Petunia said softly reaching out to squeeze her husband’s hand.

“Oh well.” Vernon chuckled. “We did know this was a possibility before we set out.” He shrugged directing a small smile at the kids, “Guess I’ll wait out here at the, ah, conveniently named ‘While You Wait’ tavern while you guys head in. Tuney, you’re sure about this right?” he asked, turning towards Petunia.

Petunia nodded resolutely. “I am if Harry is. Are you sure you’ll be fine waiting out here by yourself?”

“Oh please,” he snorted with forced jovialness. “My only challenge will be to not have so many pints that we’re forced to take the train back home.”

“Well, alright then, we’ll try to be back soon.” She squeezed his hand one more time before letting go.

“Hold on,” Vernon said before she could turn to the kids, reaching into his trouser pocket to pull out his wallet. “We’re not sure how much things are likely to cost in there, so…carrying a few extra pounds might be a good idea.” He said, handing over several notes to his wife.

As Petunia accepted them and put them inside her purse, he bent down to look Harry and Dursley in the eyes.

“Now, behave yourselves in there you two. Dudley, stay close to your mother. Harry, make sure the beanie is pulled low. And don’t draw too much attention if you can help it.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said obediently.

“Yes, dad!” Dudley added giving his father a little hug before turning back towards the strange pub with excitement.

“Ok, off you go then. I’ll be right here waiting once you’re done.” Vernon waved them on.

Petunia gave him a fond smile and a nod and started leading the boys towards the pub.

As she pushed open the door and Harry stepped inside the Leaky Cauldron for the first time, he was immediately enveloped in a warm, bustling atmosphere that was a stark contrast to the crowded but apathetic London streets outside. The interior was dimly lit even though it was bright and sunny outside, with the flickering glow of candles and lanterns casting cozy shadows across the room. The air was filled with the rich aroma of stews and freshly baked bread, mingling with the slightly smoky scent of the roaring fire in the extremely large stone fireplace which, even as he watched, erupted into bright emerald-green flames from which an aged woman stepped out wearing a ludicrous pointed hat topped by a stuffed vulture. With barely a glance at anyone in the room, she dusted herself off and marched away into the crowd, which paid her just as little heed as she had to them.

The pub was full of life, packed with an eclectic mix of more oddly dressed people. Some sat at the wooden tables, engaged in animated conversations over mugs of frothy beer and goblets of mysterious, shimmering potions. Others stood at the bar, chatting with a balding man of advanced years who was pulling a pint with a friendly smile on his lips.

The walls were adorned with an assortment of oddities and artifacts—old broomsticks, paintings whose contents Harry could swear were moving, and shelves lined with ancient books and curious trinkets. The ceiling was low and beamed, giving the room a snug, almost Hobbit-like feel. The furniture was mismatched but sturdy, with high-backed chairs and heavy oak tables, their surfaces etched with decades of wear and tear.

Harry's eyes widened as he took in the scene. Here and there among the people in brightly colored robes, some with pointed hats and others with peculiar accessories like feathered quills behind their ears or small, animated creatures perched on their shoulders, were beings that were not human at all! A group of what he strongly suspected were goblins sat in one corner, poring over thick ledgers, while an old, hunched woman with an odd green cast to her skin cackled along with a crowd at some tale being spun by a burly dwarf who stood atop a table.

Despite the unfamiliarity, Harry felt an odd sense of belonging he had never experienced before. This place, with its magical ambience and diverse clientele, was unlike anything he had ever seen, and he knew, deep down, that he was finally stepping into the world where he truly belonged, and it felt like coming home.

As the door shut behind them, a small tinkling bell sounded overhead, and though by all accounts, it should have been too faint a sound to be heard in all this din, the old man at the bar immediately looked over in their direction and gave them all a wide smile, proceeded to hand over the pint to one of the men in front of his counter, and started to walk over to them.

“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” He greeted cheerfully as he got within earshot. “Can’t say I recall seeing you here before madam? Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, finest pub in magical London! The name’s Tom. How may I be of service today?”

“Er…” Petunia began with some apprehension.

“Let me guess…passage to the alley?” Tom asked kindly before she could say anything.

Petunia nodded, looking a little overwhelmed.

“Come right this way then!” Tom announced, either oblivious to or perhaps politely refraining from commenting on the new arrival’s nervousness. And beckoned to them to follow him through the crowded dining area.

For once, even Dudley seemed too overcome with awe to comment on the surroundings or do much besides gape in amazement as the strange people and beings they made their way past. Harry, for his part, tugged down the edge of his beanie and followed his aunt, who in turn followed Tom the barman, who led them out through a backdoor and into what seemed like a little backyard, enclosed in a twelve-foot-high stone wall.

Before they had a chance to do much more than look puzzled, Tom had extracted what looked like a twig from his sleeve and was tapping it against the wall.

For a second, nothing happened as Tom, still smiling, put the stick back, and then to their surprise and wonder, the slabs of stone in the wall began to rotate, shuffle and move aside to split the wall down the middle and form an archway revealing the oddest street they had ever seen beyond it.

“Welcome,” Tom said, “to Diagon Alley.”

As Tom bowed and took his leave and the trio stepped through the archway, Harry was left speechless. The oddly named Diagon Alley, that stretched out before him, was a bustling thoroughfare brimming with magical wonders.

The cobbled street was alive with color and activity. Shops of every shape and size lined the alley, their windows filled with curious and enchanting displays. Owls hooted from perches in a storefront marked ‘Eeylops Owl Emporium,’ while cauldrons of all sizes were stacked outside ‘Cauldron Shop,’ some even stirring themselves as if practicing for potion making. The air was filled with the sound of chatter and laughter, the occasional pop of a spell being tested, and the rustle of cloaks as witches and wizards hurried about their business.

“Alright, I think the bank is this way,” Petunia said hesitantly and motioned for the boys to follow her. “Stay close to me now. Don’t wander off by yourselves.”

Harry forced himself to stop gawking and grabbed Dudley’s hand as they followed Petunia.

Street vendors peddled their wares, calling out to passersby with promises of the finest magical ingredients and the latest enchanted gadgets. Children pressed their noses against the windows of ‘Quality Quidditch Supplies,’ eyes wide with wonder at the gleaming brooms and colorful posters of men and women riding broomsticks.

Harry heard a snippet of a conversation as they made their past an excited pair of children, barely older than himself.

“Did you see the new Nimbus 1700? It's supposed to be the fastest broom on the market!”

“It’s probably just a marketing gimmick for the upcoming Quidditch season. Most teams still swear by the Comet.”

What on Earth was Quidditch, Harry mused.

‘Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions’ seemed to be a shop specializing in the strange garments that most of the people in the alley were wearing. In fact, out here, it seemed as though their small group were the ones that were dressed in a manner that defied the norm. Harry could have sworn he saw expressions of distaste on the faces of a few of the men and women they walked past as they regarded their party, before turning back to their own business.

They walked past an Apothecary, which exuded a strange mix of scents—earthy herbs, pungent potions, and exotic ingredients. Presumably emanating from the towers of jars, sacks and boxes that filled the store and were clearly visible through its slightly fogged windows even from the street outside.

There also seemed to be a somewhat heated argument that he caught a bit of before they were past the place.

“How’re you out of fresh Mandrake roots already? You’re the one who asked me to come back today since your new shipment would arrive on the twenty-third!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, sir. We only received a very small quantity. Perhaps you can check out the shops in Natcher Alley? They might have some for sale.”

As they continued to make their way down the alley, Harry's attention was captured by a bookshop, ‘Flourish and Blotts’, whose large floor-to-ceiling windows were filled with teetering stacks of colorful texts and tomes. The sound of pages turning and quills scratching filled the air whenever the door swung open. Harry made a quick mental note of the location of this store, as one they should probably visit once they had converted some money.

His distraction made him nearly bump into a couple of men who were just emerging from the shop and seemed to be distracted themselves.

Harry couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying before dodging past them and continuing to follow Petunia.

“Pathetic collection as usual. They refuse to stock anything that isn’t ministry approved.”

“Should we try ‘Knowledge is Power’ over in Knockturn Alley? They usually have a much better selection of rare books.”

“Are all the magical alleyways named as a pun?” Harry wondered.

Finally, they approached the imposing façade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. It was a massive white marble building that loomed over the alley, its tall bronze doors gleaming in the sunlight. A goblin, in gleaming silver armor stood guard outside, nodding curtly to those entering. The words "Gringotts Wizarding Bank" were etched above the entrance in elegant, curling script, lending an air of grandeur and mystery.

The guard nodded at them as they climbed the white steps towards the door and addressed them in a slightly high and nasal voice. "Welcome to Gringotts. If you're here for currency exchange or vault access, please proceed to the main hall."

“Um, thank you,” Petunia said after a moment’s hesitation.

Harry could have sworn the goblin’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, even as he waved them through.

Entering Gringotts was like stepping into yet another different world. The interior was grand and cavernous, with high ceilings and gleaming marble floors that echoed the click of shoes and the murmur of voices. The grandeur was both awe-inspiring and intimidating, a clear message that this was a place of great importance and immense power.

Goblin tellers, dressed in formal, if somewhat old-fashioned, suits, sat behind long counters, each one hunched over ledgers or examining jewels and coins through magnifying glasses. Their sharp eyes flicked up occasionally to scrutinize any newcomers with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. The counters were lined with brass scales and stacks of meticulously arranged gold, silver, and bronze coins, glittering under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling.

Harry's eyes roamed over the setup and the scope of what seemed to be a solely goblin-run operation. There were goblins counting money, others examining gemstones with expert precision, and some leading witches and wizards through a set of heavy doors to the far right on this space that presumably led to the aforementioned vaults. The atmosphere was filled with the quiet hum of activity and the occasional clink of coins being transferred.

Large, ornate pillars supported the high ceiling, their surfaces carved with intricate designs depicting dragons, treasure chests, and scenes of goblins at work. The air smelled faintly of metal and parchment, a testament to the centuries of financial transactions that had taken place within these walls.

At the far-left end of the hall, a grand staircase led to more private offices and rooms, guarded by goblins who eyed every visitor with a watchful gaze. Harry felt a mix of excitement and nervousness as he took in the sight. This seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be the heart of the magical world's economy, a place where fortunes were stored and protected with the utmost care.

Beside him, his aunt and cousin, though equally out of their element, seemed just as struck by the sheer opulence and efficiency of Gringotts. Petunia, recalling her own visit years ago with Lily, seemed slightly more at ease, though Dudley was once again visibly gaping at the goblins and magical ambience.

“Perhaps…perhaps we could go to a counter off to the side?” he asked his aunt in a small voice.

“Good idea.” His aunt agreed softly, and shaking herself out of her stupor began to lead them to the counter at the far left of the hall.

Their footsteps echoed loudly as they made their way across the marble floor, and they were soon standing in front of a counter where a goblin teller was scratching away with a large quill on a ledger in front of him.

He looked up from his book and bared his pointed teeth at them in what was hopefully a smile. “Just a moment, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.” He announced, in a surprisingly polite tone given his expression and in a voice that was much deeper and richer than the guard at the door.

Harry exchanged a glance with Dudley and shrugged.

“Ah, sorry about that.” The goblin said, finally putting aside the ledger and regarding them with his beady dark eyes, and Harry noted with surprise that the creature had no irises.

“Welcome to Gringotts. The greatest and only bank of Magical Britain and all her denizens. How may I be of assistance?” He leered at the group again, and this time Harry realized that it really was a smile.

“Erm, right,” his aunt said, fidgeting ever so slightly but keeping her voice steady and calm. “I was hoping to change some currency from pounds to…er, you know”, she hesitated.

The goblin seemed not to notice but grinned even more broadly.

“Why, certainly! I’d be delighted to help you with that. How many pounds would you like to have exchanged?”

“Um…I’m not sure. Would you mind telling me the exchange rate-er, hold on. Before I can tell you that, could you perhaps help us with some, er questions we have, Mr. er…?” Petunia asked, visibly overcoming her nervousness.

Only Harry noticed the teller’s eyebrows rise slightly, and for the second time in as many minutes he was left wondering what it was about his aunt’s interactions with the goblins were causing this reaction.

“I can certainly try madam. And it’s Goreshred. At your service.”

“Ah, right, Mr. Goreshred.” Petunia said without even a hint of a stammer this time. “We’re hoping to buy a few books. About recent events, contemporary history and probably also an owl. I’m not entirely sure how much that would cost.”

“I see, well I would be happy to hazard a tentative guess if you could provide a few more details of the specific titles you might be looking for? A standard post-owl would likely run you about five to ten galleons, which would be roughly twenty-five to fifty pounds.”

“Oh, I-I see. I’m afraid I do not really have a list-” Petunia broke off at the tug on her left sleeve and looked down at her elbow to see Harry sheepishly holding up a piece of paper in her direction.

She raised her eyebrow at him but took the little note and glanced at it before passing it on to Goreshred.

The goblin took the note, read it slowly and looked up at Petunia.

“That’s a very interesting collection of books,” he said carefully. “‘The Mystical Origins of Magicka’ and ‘Through the Looking Glass’ I believe are titles that have fallen out of vogue even though they used to be on the required reading list in the past for young wixen. You should be able to find copies of them in ‘Flourish and Blotts’, for hopefully no more than a galleon, or five pounds each. Probably less if you make more than one purchase.” He paused and tapped a long fingernail on the note again. “‘Before you Begin to Brew’ is also going to be available at the same shop or even in most potions or potion ingredient stores. It’s widely purchased by witches and wizards to give their children a basic introduction to potion-making before they start their magical education in earnest. I’d be surprised if that cost more than five sickles.”

He tapped the last item on the list and looked a little more serious.

“But this one, ‘The Organized Mind’, is going to be hard to come by. The book, and I believe all the works of Buttonwood, have been out of print for quite a while. It’s a very useful book for anyone, but you’ll likely only find a copy in a few select stores in Knockturn Alley…and that only if you’re lucky.” His grin broadened again. “Additionally, being a rare book and all that, it’s price might also be up to the seller’s whims and vary depending on who is doing the asking. And I feel I’d be greatly remiss if I didn’t mention that perhaps Knockturn Alley, isn’t a very safe place for folks, especially younglings, to venture into.”

He made to hand the note back to Petunia, but just as she extended her hand to accept it, he spoke again.

“Although, should you desire it, Gringotts does perform additional services for its valued customers. For a price, of course. It wouldn’t cost too much for us to send someone on your behalf to scour the shelves of Knockturn’s bookstores for the tome you’re looking for.”

Petunia froze for a moment as her eyes narrowed at Goreshred.

“And how much would the fee for said service be?” she asked coolly.

“Let’s say, fifty per cent of the price of the book?” Goreshred said.

“Twenty per cent.” Petunia countered without missing a beat.

“Twenty-five.”

“Done. But if the book costs more than,” she hesitated, “say more than five galleons. We’d probably not get it at all.”

“Deal. Based on that, I believe that changing about ninety pounds to galleons should suffice for all your planned purchases.” Goreshred nodded.

“Oh, let’s make it a hundred then…in case anything else catches our eye.”

“Very well. I’ll just need you to sign here and here…”

With the currency converted into a handful of strange gold coins, they were asked to return to the bank once all their other shopping was done. If the apparently rare book was anywhere to be found in the network of alleyways, and available at a cost not exceeding five galleons, a Gringotts agent would have it ready for them within an hour.

So, Harry and Dudley followed Petunia back out of the bank where Harry was able to guide them towards the shop he’d made a note of earlier called ‘Flourish and Blotts.’

It seemed to be a little less busy than a lot of the other establishments on the street, but Petunia refused to let either of the boys wander off amongst the tall shelves. She read out the names of the books they needed from Harry’s list (skipping the one which the Gringotts goblins were already attempting to procure) and in short order had all three books packed and ready to go.

She asked if there were any books on recent developments in the magical world and was directed to a few baskets containing volumes of ‘Year in Review’ style paperbacks for the last several years. Petunia picked out one each for the years 1980 through 1986.

With the books purchased, the trio headed towards stores that might be able to sell them an owl and briefly debated if they should check out ‘Eeylops Owl Emporium’ or ‘Magical Menagerie.’

Dudley of course wanted to go to Magical Menagerie, hoping to see magical creatures for himself, whereas Petunia wanted to go to Eeylops and conclude their intended purchase with the minimum of fuss.

Harry, trying to placate his cousin who had so far been on his best behavior despite the wide-eyed wonder, voted for the Menagerie as well.

If they had been dumbstruck by the Leaky Cauldron, or the interior of Gringotts, they were bowled over by the unbridled chaos that was Magical Menagerie. While Petunia tried her best not to stare and quickly asked to purchase a post-owl at the counter, the other shop attendant was all too happy to answer Dudley’s never-ending questions about the various beasts and birds perched in cages all around them.

What had initially appeared to be cats, were introduced as Kneazles. Adorable little puppies turned out to be something called Crups. And brightly plumed birds that were all eerily silent were indicated to be something called Fwoopers.

But despite the general cacophony of the shop as Aunt Petunia tried to quickly wrap up her purchase, Harry’s attention was suddenly focused on a section of the store containing several dozen snake cages.

He could have sworn that they were talking about him.

₷They don’t ssmell magical₷

₷Not the bigger oness perhapss, but the ssmall one definitely doess₷

₷He iss alsso sstaring at uss, for ssome reasson₷

“Harry?” Petunia’s voice broke through his befuddlement. “We’re all set.”

“Yeah, c-coming.” Harry said as he turned around and left the shop behind his aunt. Determined not to reveal this additional weirdness to anyone just yet.

Now that they were accompanied by a Tawny Owl snoozing in his cage, and still had some time before they were due back at Gringotts, Petunia decided that they should find a place to have a spot of lunch. The three soon found themselves seated at a small table at ‘ZA Coffee’, a tiny café right next to ‘Quality Quidditch Supplies’.

Harry asked his aunt if she had a clue as to what ‘Quidditch’ was supposed to be, and to his surprise, for once she actually did.

“It’s some sort of sport played on flying broomsticks” she sniffed. “Lily wasn’t a fan of the sport if I recall correctly. Apparently it was mostly played by annoying ‘toe-rags’ who loved endangering themselves and showing off. Her words, not mine.”

“A flying broomstick?” Dudley, who had been doing so well up until now, squealed. “Mum, please can we get one?”

Aunt Petunia didn’t deign to grace the request with a response.

Once back at Gringotts, the trio realized that Goreshred’s counter was occupied as he dealt with a tall blond man who was clearly not impressed with what he was being told.

Electing not to go to a different teller, they decided to wait for their turn for Goreshred to get free.

“I’m afraid Lord Malfoy, I simply cannot grant you access to your vault if you do not possess either your key or your Signet ring unless you choose to authenticate your magic signature via a blood verification” the goblin was saying in a polite but firm tone.

“Listen here, you imbecile. I cannot be bothered to carry around by ring or key with me everywhere I go. And neither do I feel particularly inclined to shed a single drop of my blood to verify my identity when you can see who I am quite clearly. The contents of my family’s vaults are mine by right, and I detest the notion that glorified caretakers such as yourself claim to have the audacity to deny me access!”

Harry gaped at the open rudeness and vitriol in the man’s voice, but before he could do much more than exchange a stunned look with his cousin, heard a new voice from somewhere to their left.

“Ah, Lord Malfoy. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Please, follow me and we can discuss whatever the matter seems to be in private.”

The goblin that had just emerged through the doors leading to the private rooms looked much like any of the other tellers in the main chamber, but the ones accompanying him looked anything but. Each of them was clad in armor like the guard at the main entrance and seemed to be carrying wicked-looking battleaxes to boot.

One look at them caused the man’s face to pale even further.

“Ah er, Sharpclaw,” he stammered. “I’m afraid I am in a bit of a rush you see. But rest assured I’ll be back soon to lodge a formal complaint. Count on it.”

The last words were said as he was backing away towards the entrance.

The goblin named Sharpclaw made no move to follow. “Are you quite sure Lord Malfoy? I’m sure we can have this all sorted out…posthaste if you could join me for a private chat. No?” He grinned without the slightest bit of humor in his eyes and Lord Malfoy nearly stumbled over his robes in his rush to leave the building.

With their client scared off, Sharpclaw nodded at Goreshred before retreating through the doors with his attendants in tow.

“Do pardon that little show, madam” Goreshred remarked nonchalantly, once Harry's group cautiously approached his counter, as if this was all in a day’s work. “It seems we can’t make it a whole week without an imposter attempting to access the vaults of some of our clients.”

“Oh! I see. But how did you know?” Petunia exclaimed as understanding dawned on her.

“Well, aside from the fact that our would-be thief had no form of identification on him? Why, the real Lord Malfoy would never debase himself enough to stop by the desk of a lowly teller. He’d make sure his personal account manager would be on hand to receive him for a private audience.” Goreshred barked out a laugh, before shaking his head. “No, as far as attempts go, this wasn’t a very well-planned one.”

“Were you going to…?” Harry asked despite himself. The memory of the axes was still fresh in his mind.

“Going to what-? Oh no, nothing of the sort. We’ve found that the threat of axes works just as well as axes themselves.” Goreshred smiled. “And leaves less of a mess to clean up afterwards.”

Petunia was starting to look a little green and firmly brought them back on track.

“Were you able to procure the book?”

“Ah, yes. We did. The price was two galleons, and we’ve already deducted our commission for services rendered and here is your receipt. You will just need to sign here.”

Petunia signed dutifully while Harry was struck by another thought.

“Do you not have to do some manner of authentication for this?”

Goreshred glanced at him before shooting him another toothy grin.

“Let’s just say that had the signature not matched the reference copy we had from your last visit…you’d have known.”

They grabbed the proffered parcel and exited the bank as quickly as decency allowed.

Chapter Text

24^th May 1987

The journey back to Surrey held Harry in the throes of a different sort of excitement than their journey towards London.

He couldn’t wait to tear into the books they had picked up at Diagon Alley and hopefully begin to piece together the ‘Hows’ and ‘Whys’ of magic. Aunt Petunia had nixed the plan of opening the packages from ‘Flourish and Blotts’ while still in the car on the grounds that any and all pursuits or discussions regarding the magical world could only be safely had in the privacy of their home. He conceded her point, but it did nothing to curb his excitement.

On the rear seat, between Dudley and himself was the large, covered cage containing their new family owl. They had been helpfully reminded by Tom, the owner and bartender of the Leaky Cauldron, that ‘muggles’, which Harry supposed was the magical world’s term for regular people, would not be accustomed to seeing caged owls being carried around their streets by children, and the cage holding their as yet unnamed pet had rolled up curtains circling the top to help obscure its occupants for just such situations. It apparently also helped the predominantly nocturnal birds be able to rest more easily in bright surroundings.

Uncle Vernon had been quite amused to hear Aunt Petunia recount the tale of how the goblin-run bank of Gringotts supposedly dealt with would-be thieves but had subsided on seeing how distraught his wife was from having experienced the situation firsthand. Harry got the impression that his uncle was of the opinion, that folks blatantly attempting to break the law were perhaps not deserving of too much sympathy.

During his wait at the ‘While You Wait’ pub next door to the Leaky Cauldron, Vernon had also theorized that perhaps both establishments were owned by magical people and were looking to profit from magical visitors to the alley and any non-magical folks that had come with them. He had observed several other folks, also usually by themselves, walk into the establishment while he had lingered over a pint, who had seemed to be as much at a loss for what to do with themselves, as he suspected he himself must have been when he had first entered.

Of course, he hadn’t felt brave enough to approach any of the other customers to confirm the theory that they too were trying to pass the time while people they had been accompanying were off doing magic things, but he’d resolved to try and find out more if they ever returned here to do more shopping.

For now, as they headed back to Surrey, he was good-naturedly griping about the fact that they had all found time for lunch while he had been forced to nurse a pint and spy on other people.

Thankfully, between the commotion at Gringotts and Uncle Vernon’s observations, his aunt seemed to have forgotten about Harry producing a list of books for purchase, and the matter had been allowed to rest for now.

He tuned back into Dudley attempting to come up with a name for their new owl companion and firmly vetoed ‘Feather Duster’ as a possible option.

By late afternoon they were pulling up into the driveway of number four.

Petunia stopped to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Figg who was out with one of her cats before heading in. Harry and Dudley helped Vernon carry in all their shopping, and just for a moment Harry’s brow furrowed watching his aunt interact with their elderly neighbor on the sidewalk.

Before he could pinpoint what it was that had made him stop, Mrs. Figg had taken her leave and aunt Petunia was ushering him into the house.

While depositing most of their new purchases in the study, Petunia suggested that they only let their owl out to hunt once it was dark enough that neighbors would be unlikely to spot it arriving or leaving.

She also took the year-in-review books to her and Vernon’s room upon ascertaining that Harry would be more likely to focus on the books on Magical Theory and Origins for now.

Since everyone was knackered from their trip, they elected to order in for dinner instead of making something at home, and as they munched happily on pizza around the kitchen table later in the evening, the atmosphere turned a little serious.

“Now, I know this is all very exciting for both of you boys,” Petunia began sternly. “But reading the books we got today, or trying to understand or explore magic, must NOT impact your usual schoolwork or any other responsibilities.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“Yes, mum.”

She peered at them suspiciously and continued, “That means, no unnecessarily staying up past your bedtimes, no skipping playtime with friends or rushing through homework just to spend more time pursuing magic. Is that clear?”

Twin nods.

“For now, I will elect to believe that you both are going to be responsible and balance your other commitments, so all the magical items will be kept in the study. But, if either of you fail to live up to our arrangement, we’re going to lock all of it in the cupboard under the stairs and they’ll only be brought out for supervised reading sessions once a week” she threatened.

Both Harry and Dudley rushed to assert that it would not be necessary.

“While we’re on the subject of leaving these magic books in the study,” Vernon said, “please make sure that none of these items are scattered around anywhere else in the house. I don’t fancy explaining to guests what a book on magic potions is doing lying on the coffee table.”

Seeing no arguments there, he continued after another bite of his pizza.

“And finally, back to more non-magical topics, Tuney and I have been discussing something else. You’re both growing up nicely and we wondered if perhaps you might want to have your own rooms now instead of continuing to share. The ‘study’ is a spare bedroom anyway, so that could easily be converted into Harry’s room, and you could continue to meet there for homework, or reading and use your current bedroom as Dudley’s room where you can meet for games. Does that sound like something you might like?”

Harry considered it.

He didn’t particularly mind sharing a room with his cousin. In fact, it made certain things, like shaking him awake in the mornings to avoid being late for school, easier. But having his own room sounded like such a grown-up thing that he was immediately tempted. It would make it much easier to stretch the limits of his bedtime if he could read in his bed and not have to worry about being caught out of his room after hours or explain what the new books were doing outside their designated area. So long as Dudley didn’t feel upset, of course-

“Oooooh! We get our own rooms?!” Dudley yelled happily.

-well, that settled that then.

“Only if both of you want it.” Vernon clarified looking at Harry.

“That sounds nice” Harry smiled at his cousin’s pleading expression.

And so it was that after dinner, once Vernon had helped move Harry’s stuff into the closet in what had previously been their study, and Harry and Dudley had packed and moved most of Dudley’s toys to what would now become his room, Harry Potter found himself seated on his new bed and contemplating how rapidly life was changing.

It boggled his mind that just two days ago, his life had been mostly unremarkable (aside from being raised by his uncle and aunt on account of being an orphan, he supposed). And now here he was, with a pet owl of all things (technically, the family pet and not his own), a trunk filled with his mother’s magical school gear and, most importantly, the knowledge that he himself was magical. What was the word that Aunt Petunia had used? Ah yes, he was a ‘Wizard.’

Even prior to experiencing the sense of wonder that today’s trip had left him with, he had intended to explore and understand every aspect of what this meant for him…and now, it was consuming him like an all-encompassing need.

He fully intended to honor Uncle Vernon’s instruction to not let the discovery of this part of him affect his school grades or anything similar…by that, he meant that he would do his best to not get caught studying the magical world or letting his schoolwork suffer noticeably.

Once he’d sat in the dark listening to the sounds of the house around him for several minutes and decided that everyone bar him was sound asleep, he carefully got up and walked over to the door to his new room and moving slowly so as not to cause any sounds lined the bottom of the door with one of his spare shirts.

Having thus ensured that there would be no light spilling out into the hallway through the gap beneath the door, even if his aunt and uncle were to wake up in the middle of the night, he carried all his new books (except for the ones that were with his aunt) to the table and flicked on the lamp.

He hesitated, before electing to pull ‘The Mystical Origins of Magicka’ towards him, along with an unused notebook and a pencil in case he wanted to take notes and began to read.

Mentions of magick and those adept at its practice are to be found throughout the annals of recorded history. What was the ritualistic embalming of the deceased Pharaohs of Egypt, along with their entire courts, if not an early and unrefined attempt at some form of Necromancy? Was it truly a mere coincidence that the earliest known human city of Uruk in ancient Sumer was situated at the largest convergence of Ley-Lines in the world? How is it that the descriptions and effects of Odysseus’ sirens correspond precisely with the manner in which Veela conduct themselves in battle?

To commence an inquiry into the origins of magick, magical beings, or magical phenomena, one must first concede that the most plausible hypothesis shall be exceedingly difficult to substantiate, given the vast expanse of time. With this concession, the prevailing theory posits that magick is, and hath always been, the sixth and largely unstudied classical element. Mundane scholars, ranging from Greece to India, did postulate that the four principal elements constituting the fabric of the universe are Earth, Air (termed Wind in certain cultures), Fire, and Water. Eventually, Aether, or Void, was appended as the fifth constituent.

If we were to refine this primitive hypothesis with the observation that the addition or removal of the element of Fire, or Energy, could transform the physical elements of Earth, Water (which, for simplicity, we shall term Fluid), and Air into one another, we might assert that the ancient scholars were not far afield. What they neglected to include in their theoretical framework were the instances of observed phenomena whose outcomes could not be predicted. What if those phenomena, dismissed as outliers and excluded from the study of the natural world, were incorporated into a grander hypothetical framework as something else? Let us call it 'Chaos.'

Heat ice in a pan, and it shall melt. Continue to apply heat, and eventually, the water shall evaporate into steam. But perform the same steps after casting a basic flame-freezing charm upon the fire or a stasis charm upon the block of ice, and the expected outcomes never materialize. Thus, there exist forces, whether applied artificially or naturally, that can affect the physical or energy-based elements in a manner that deviates from expectation.

To ascertain what magick is, let us tentatively consider the proposition that Magick is Chaos that, when applied to the remaining classical elements, produceth unexpected reactions.

Now, let us consider how beings, whether sentient or otherwise, interact with the physical elements of the world around them. It is safe to assert that all creatures, plants, and people are capable of influencing their immediate physical surroundings, albeit to varying degrees. After all, a Crup’s ability to fetch a thrown Remembrall would undoubtedly surpass that of a Ramora, which in turn would be much better suited to displace water and propel itself forward than a Mandrake. But the limitations imposed by their physical forms on the extent to which they can influence or be influenced by their physical surroundings do not negate the fact that they interact with the world around them. Likewise, all beings and creatures can exert a limited amount of influence on the energy or heat levels of their surroundings. Bees, for instance, inflict something termed as Cuddle Death upon the hive’s queen when she becometh too old by smothering her and raising her temperature until she perisheth.

However, when it comes to influencing the magick around them, the ability of creatures to do so appears inherently tied to their species, meaning that some can, and others simply cannot. While fire-crabs can inherently shoot flames at a perceived threat, their mundane counterparts cannot, despite extensive attempts to train them in pyrotechnics. Similarly, while the song of a Fwooper is inherently dangerous to most creatures, their ability cannot be replicated by any non-magical bird, as experiments in this regard have merely resulted in cages full of insane parrots and mockingbirds.

So, what differentiates some creatures from others in their limitations of accessing or manipulating magick? The prevalent theory in the modern magical world attributes this to something termed the 'Magical Core.'

The Magical Core, or simply the Core, is theorized to be a non-physical component of the makeup of all beings able to access, sense, or manipulate Magick or Chaos. It is commonly viewed as a dominant genetic trait inherited from parents by offspring and passed on through the generations. While the actual extent to which a creature can manipulate magick varies according to their core’s affinities for certain kinds of Magick, or simply the 'size' of their core, the descendants of all beings with a demonstrated affinity for magick, i.e., beings presumed to have a magical core, have invariably been found to possess at least some degree of magical potential themselves.

This means that a Kneazle crossbred with a common cat will invariably produce Kneazle offspring. A Crup, when mating with a mundane dog, will give birth to baby Crups, and so forth.

If we apply this same principle to magical versus non-magical people, the theory seems even more verifiable. An extensive study conducted in England and Western European nations by their respective ministries between 1576 and 1577 concluded that all known mundane-born magicals discovered during this period could trace their lineages back to at least one direct magical ancestor. In some cases, the ancestor in question was several generations apart, but there were no exceptions to this rule. This means that the very term 'mundane born' is, in fact, a misnomer. And slowly but surely, magical genes are spreading through our world, giving rise to new magicals or at the very least, new squibs with each passing generation.

The determining factor in which individual will be able to manipulate magick and which will be able to sense it but never master it seems to hinge upon the size of their magical cores. While there is no uniform metric to measure the strength or magical affinity of an individual, the Flamel scale comes close.

The Flamel scale assigneth a difficulty score to various spells, charms, and rituals by considering the complexity of the somatic, verbal, material, and esoteric components necessary to produce the desired outcome. At the lowest extreme of this scale lie spells taught to fledgling mages, such as the 'Lumos' charm to produce a small light. For reference, this spell is considered to have a Flamel scale score of one, and historically, any individual capable of perceiving magical creatures that are inherently hidden from non-magical sight (such as dementors) but is still incapable of casting the spell is considered to be a squib.

Returning once more to the matter of a magical core, as it is at the core (pun unintended) of our discourse on the manipulation of magick, let us consider what else is known. It appears that the magical core of a creature or a person grows both in size and potency from their childhood all the way to their maturity. This is demonstrated in nature by the intensity of the flames produced by a baby dragon compared to that of an adult member of its species. Likewise, in magical people, spells that are nearly impossible for children to cast become progressively easier as they grow older.

Additionally, the core also seems to behave, in some respects, like any other muscle in the human body, in that it grows faster the more it is exercised. The study of the magical potential of siblings close in age, conducted by the British Ministry of Magic in 1492, indicated that in nearly all observed cases, where there was a significant difference in how keenly the subjects applied themselves, there was also a noticeable difference in the growth of their abilities. Of course, this study was later discredited when accusations of compulsion charms surfaced against the researchers conducting the study, who were allegedly inducing studiousness or disinterest in the subjects they were monitoring to artificially create a contrast for their examination.

Of course, it must be stated that not all magical ability seems related to the strength of an individual’s core or the potency of their spellcraft. Studies indicate that elements of magick bypass an individual’s potential to directly manipulate raw Chaos itself and instead manifest as abilities tied to their mindset, their souls, or their lineages.

An interesting example of this would be the hereditary ability of the descendants of Salazar Slytherin to communicate using Parseltongue. Most notably, a descendant of Slytherin, Augustus Slytherin, was banished from his household in the early 1200s at the age of ten for failing to demonstrate any discernible aptitude for conventional wanded magick. Augustus, however, turned out to be an extremely talented Parselmouth who emigrated to the Far East and was instrumental in founding the Indian School of Healing in the Himalayas.

Likewise, magical disciplines focusing on the psychic arts seem to flout the conventional difficulties established through the Flamel scale. Sorrell Buttonwood, considered to be a pioneer and groundbreaker in the modernization of the psychic disciplines, was famously a dropout from his conventional magical education after failing to keep pace with even the basic first-year curriculum. Nonetheless, he went on to become the figure of authority in the studies pertaining to mental disciplines in later years.

So, if we were to categorize the various types of magick readily available for study by witches and wizards, we are left with four distinct branches:

1. Conventional Magick: Typically channeled through a spell-casting focus (most commonly a wand or staff) and usually requiring a combination of verbal, somatic, material, or esoteric components that sometimes must be fueled by the caster’s inner magical core.
2. Psychic Arts: Which require immense mental discipline and the ability to maintain exemplary levels of composure even in extreme situations to be reliably employed.
3. Hereditary Magick: Which is passed down through family trees and bloodlines and is inaccessible to those born outside of specific lineages.
4. Soul Magick: Which is likely the least comprehended of the four and remaineth a closely guarded area of study that we shall not discuss further in this text.

As the sagacious reader may have surmised, the modern magical world is centered predominantly around the mastery of Conventional Magick, to the near exclusion of most other forms of Chaos. Indeed, even though a significant portion of the institutionalization of modern magical society can be traced back to the establishment of hereditary magical households, an estimated ninety-three percent of the magick performed in Britain over the past decade hath been of a conventional nature.

Consequently, possessing a potent magical core is perceived as a mark of magical superiority in most magical societies, and the respect accorded to magical individuals seemeth to scale in proportion to their potential for conventional magick.

Conventional Magick is further divided into several principal areas of study, namely:

1. Active Magick: Which includeth sub-specialties such as Transfiguration (the art of creating, altering, or destroying physical objects) and Charms (the art of changing the nature or characteristics of animate and inanimate articles).
2. Prepared Magick: Which encompasseth the disciplines of Enchanting (the art of embedding magical properties and attributes into mundane objects), Numerology (also termed Arithmancy, the study of numbers, frequencies, and their impact on magical and mundane events and actions), Astronomy (the study of celestial objects and their impacts on magical and mundane endeavors), and Runecrafting (the channeling of magick through pre-prepared arcane symbols and wards).
3. Latent Magick: Which includeth Herbology (known in the Far East as Ayurveda and is the study of the properties of magical and mundane plant life and their impact on the physical and magical world), Magizoology (the study of magical creatures and their properties), and Potioneering (which aimeth to harness the magical and chemical effects of various ingredients to craft items with a variety of effects exceeding anything seen in the individual components themselves).

It should be noted that many of these subjects require a focus on multiple different disciplines to master. Advanced Potioneering, for instance, necessitateth an in-depth knowledge of Numerology, Magizoology, and Herbology in addition to basic Potions principles. Hybrid specializations, such as Alchemy, demandeth mastery of Potioneering, Transfiguration, Numerology, and Runecrafting at the very least.

Finally, it is worth mentioning that even within the various branches of Conventional Magick, it is solely the domains falling under the heading of 'Active Magick' that require a sufficiently large magical core enabling an individual to cast spells. Since we have previously observed that squibs, like ordinary witches or wizards, possess the innate potential to see or sense magick, there is no reason to believe they lack the potential to achieve prominence in any field of magical study not requiring the casting of spells. A regular witch or wizard may possess additional abilities to facilitate their tasks, such as casting a spell to regulate the temperature of the potion they are brewing, but even a squib, with due caution and requisite skill, is perfectly capable of replicating their efforts.

Another classification of the various forms of magick that may be practiced by most magical people is based on moral distinctions rather than any differentiation in their inherent nature. To this end, there exist only two primary forms of magick:

1. Dark Magick: Any form of magick deemed capable of harming another individual or the wielder themselves is loosely identified as Dark Magick. This arbitrary distinction causeth the classification of spells to change whenever there is a shift in public consensus. For example, farmyard spells such as the Entrail-Expelling spell, designed to reduce the manual labor required in a slaughterhouse, were infamously classified as Dark Magick due to abuse by fringe elements. Similarly, owing to its potential for laying down blood maledicts or family curses such as oaths of enmity, all forms of blood magick (a subsect of soul magick) are currently deemed Dark Magick, even though multiple instances exist where these same types of magick can be used to protect rather than harm.
2. Light Magick: Any form of magick that the current socio-political climate hath not deemed dark.

As is evident, the reactionary, unresearched, knee-jerk classifications above bear little to no significance in a nuanced debate regarding the nature of magick. Having made token mention of them, we shall speak no more of it.

A flutter of wings made Harry start and look up from the book he’d been devouring with his eyes to the exclusion of everything else around him.

Their owl had just returned from its hunt and had flown in through the open window and perched in its cage. It seemed to be regarding Harry with curious eyes as if wondering why he was still awake.

Harry quickly glanced at his timekeeper and at the sky outside which seemed to be suspiciously light and groaned.

He had completely lost track of time and hurriedly started putting away the book and his notes on it. After a few minutes of scrambling around, making sure he didn’t accidentally knock something over and wake his aunt and uncle, he had settled into bed and was mulling over everything he had just absorbed.

Some of the conclusions were easy enough to draw.

If both his mom and Aunt Petunia had been able to see the Leaky Cauldron, but their mother hadn’t, then they were clearly descended from some magical person (an unknown number of generations ago) through their father’s side.

Which meant that while Uncle Vernon was someone who could be deemed non-magical, Aunt Petunia and Dudley were at least squibs.

He thought back to his aunt’s comment from two nights before and how she had been estranged from his mother partly out of jealousy and wondered if Lily had ever gotten around to purchasing a copy of ‘The Mystical Origins of Magicka’ and realized that her sister may have been able to learn most forms of magic after all. He hadn’t seen a copy of the book in Lily’s trunk, so it was possible that she’d never gotten around to it.

He decided then and there to share his findings with both his aunt and his cousin and do his best to avoid any such estrangements between them.

He next turned his attention to the remark that had indicated that people’s magical cores grew stronger the more they were used. Which, to him, meant that the more he practiced magic, the more magic he would be able to practice.

He’d already resolved to explore mind magic even before he’d rightly known what that was even about. And he still intended to follow through on it, even though it sounded less exciting than Enchanting or Transfiguration. But that would be easier to do, he assumed since it did not require active magic casting. How on earth was he supposed to strengthen his core if he was unable to cast magic at all?

Obviously, the answer was that he was NOT supposed to be casting magic until he was eleven and at a magic school, but Harry chose to disregard that notion.

By its very definition, active magic, the most widely used form of magic, was the only kind that drew on and relied on a person’s core and strengthened it in the process and required a wand. So, without a wand he would simply be unable to practice any active magic-

Wait, that couldn’t be true.

There was no classification in the book that defined ‘Accidental Magic’ as its own area of magic…which meant what he’d performed in moving the trampoline, was also a form of active magic. Magic he’d accomplished without using a wand.

If he’d done that once, surely he should be able to do it again, right?

He jolted up and sat upright on his bed in excitement despite the time.

The book had said that conventional active Magic was ‘typically’ channeled through a spell-casting focus such as a wand. Not ‘always’, ‘typically.’ Which meant that it was possible to perform some active magic without requiring a focus at all.

So…what should he try first?

The answer came to him immediately from a reference in the book as well from Dudley’s experimentation the night before: Lumos.

Harry rubbed his palms together in the soft pre-dawn glow that was slowly creeping into his new room, all thoughts of sleep forgotten and held out his hand, palm upwards in front of him.

“Lumos,” he whispered into the quiet.

Nothing happened.

He cleared his throat softly, shook his hand a bit as if trying to loosen up his fingers and tried again. “Lumos.” He said with a little more authority.

Some more nothing happened.

He suppressed the groan of frustration and wondered what he was doing wrong.

Surely the focus could not be necessary, since after all this was supposed to be one of the simplest spells that could be performed, and he had already performed some active (if accidental) magic already.

He thought back to the incident at the playground and the desperation and panic that had coursed through his veins as he had moved the trampoline. Could it be that the theory he’d read yesterday about dire circumstances allowing someone to do more magic than they should be capable of had some merit?

That…didn’t seem like it would be a healthy mindset to slip into every time he wanted to cast a spell, but perhaps it wouldn’t be required once his core had grown stronger or he had his own spell focus.

It was worth a shot; he decided and blew out some air from his cheeks and prepared to try again.

He pictured the moment from Friday, of looking at the world like it was moving in slow motion, Dudley’s face morphing from excitement to alarm, re-lived his own sense of horror and rising panic. Willed himself into feeling the same mix of emotions again and scrunched his eyes closed tightly.

“Lumos” he whispered for the third time in as many minutes.

At the center of his outstretched palm hovered a small pale green orb of pure light, no more than an inch across.

He stared at it in wonder before falling back onto his bed as exhaustion hit him like a freight train.

“Ha…ha-ha” he chuckled softly, too tired to sit up and heard a soft flurry of wings as the owl flew to him from its perch, clearly concerned by his antics.

“I did it…” he told it softly as it nudged his cheek, hooting softly as if asking if he was ok.

The answering hoot felt decidedly reproachful.

“Yes, yes…I may have overdone it a bit,” he conceded.

Silence. Probably because such an obvious statement required no response.

“You know what, I think I’m going to call you ‘Snark’.”

This time the hoot felt like the embodiment of a suffering sigh.

Chapter Text

June 1987

The next few days, developed into a steady routine for Harry. The initial sleep deprivation from having stayed up all night and then having exhausted himself further by casting magic unsupervised was extremely difficult to keep from his aunt and uncle.

He had managed to get through breakfast without letting his tiredness become apparent but was forced to confide in Dudley while on the way to school.

Dudley had come up with a solution almost immediately, reporting to the school nurse claiming a mild stomach bug. He convinced Harry that if he backed up Harry’s claim that his aunt and uncle already knew about this, he could spend most of the day laid up in the infirmary and catch up on sleep without so much as a note being sent to Petunia and Vernon.

To Harry’s surprise, it had worked. Nonetheless, he vowed to be more careful in the future.

So, until school had closed for the summer break at the end of May, he had exercised as much restraint as he had to not stay up any later than two in the morning, no matter how engrossed he was in learning more about magic.

Snark, whose name had stuck much to the owl’s disgust, was an amazing help in keeping to his routine. Unlike an alarm clock which could be reset, turned off or chucked out of a convenient window, an owl on a mission, especially one which had an axe to grind for its less than flattering name, brooked no arguments when it deemed the child it was baby-sitting was past his self-imposed bedtime.

Harry learned this the very next day when his attempt to shrug off the owl’s efforts to nudge him away from the table had been met with a feathery flap to the face.

Snark, who Petunia had mentioned had been described to be a male tawny owl back at the menagerie, seemed remarkably intelligent, far above and beyond anything that any of them could have expected. Dudley was still in awe that he had intercepted the kids on their way to school on the last day of summer carrying one of his homework assignments awkwardly in his talons. How he’d even figured out that there had been anything left behind was beyond anybody’s guess, and Harry resolved to investigate the intelligence of magical post-owls at some point in the future.

He really needed to start maintaining a to-do list at this point.

The only thing that Snark had been unable to do, however, was carry correspondence to anyone aside from the four of them.

As an experiment, they’d thought up amongst themselves, Dudley and Harry had gone to the park and stayed late on purpose to hang out around the swings. While Petunia, once it had gotten sufficiently dark had directed Snark to carry a note to them and had instructed him to be unobtrusive while delivering it.

Harry and Dudley hadn’t even seen the owl, just seen a note flutter down to them from a nearby tree and heard the faintest hoot in the darkness followed by a flutter of wings indicating that their messenger had departed.

But every time they attempted to contact either Dumbledore or just about anyone else, Snark would return to them a few minutes after taking off looking faintly puzzled.

The result was the same even when they attempted to contact any of his parents’ erstwhile friends.

It was baffling and maddening at the same time.

But even though Snark had been unable to fulfil the purpose for which he’d originally been brought, he was already an indispensable part of the family. Aunt Petunia was delighted that his hunting practices had already resulted in there being fewer rodents or lizards that dared to intrude on her garden, and Dudley had found a new and improved way to be woken up in time for school every morning.

For his own part, Harry had given more thought to how exhausted he had felt after both instances of casting active magic and had concluded that perhaps the effects would be much less extreme if he was in better physical shape. So, on the last day of school before the three-month summer break, Harry had sought out the sign-up sheet for various summer activities on offer to the kids and put himself down for early morning swimming lessons. He hoped it would help him improve his endurance and stamina.

So, once May turned into June, a skinny young child with unruly black hair could be seen jogging to his local pool from his home on Privet Drive every morning at dawn to spend the next hour and a half being taught how not to drown. A careful observer would be amused by how out of breath the kid would get when he first started out but would be forced to admit that the child was improving in leaps and bounds.

By the time Dudley’s birthday approached, Harry was hardly ever out of breath as he arrived at the pool in the wee hours of the morning and would still have energy left over to jog most of the way back home after the initially grueling swimming lesson.

With school being out, both Harry and Dudley had a lot more time at their disposal and they’d both unanimously decided to devote most of it to studying more about magic.

Harry had already shared his findings from the Mystical Origins with both his aunt and cousin and received mixed reactions. Dudley had been excited and wanted another trip to Diagon Alley to purchase potions ingredients to experiment with, while Aunt Petunia had been surprised and looked a little upset until Harry pointed out that this information originated from a book outside the Hogwarts curriculum, and it was unlikely that Lily had known about this. That seemed to help a little bit, but she still resolutely refused to allow either of them to experiment with any magical brewing until they were older.

It took a fair bit of effort to wear her down but having been shown excerpts from ‘Before You Begin to Brew’ she eventually allowed both Harry and Dudley to start assisting her as sous chefs in the kitchen since a lot of the techniques that went into brewing potions were somewhat similar to cooking.

She hadn’t been wrong, the slim book was a treasure trove of various techniques for preparing, storing and brewing potions and ingredients and was very helpful in understanding how even the most subtle differences between how an ingredient was readied could have a significant impact on the final product.

So, after returning from his morning swimming sessions and freshening up, Harry and Dudley would assist Aunt Petunia in the kitchen in preparing increasingly more elaborate breakfasts. While Vernon was excluded from taking part in their ad-hoc magic prep school, he cheerfully observed that he wasn’t complaining, given that he could just sit back and enjoy ever more delectable meals.

After breakfast, as Uncle Vernon prepared to head out to work, Petunia, Dudley or Harry would take turns clearing the table and doing the dishes before each spending time studying some of their books once Vernon had left the house.

Petunia seemed determined to be caught up on all key events in the magical world in recent years and was still focusing on the year in review books she’d picked up. Dudley seemed to be hell-bent on becoming an expert on magical creatures of all kinds and was trying to convince anyone who’d listen that Mrs. Figg’s cats were at least part-Kneazles.

Harry usually spent this time reading through either ‘Through the Looking Glass’ and attempting to understand magical society better or perusing ‘Magical Theory’ or ‘The Organized Mind’ and carefully making notes in his notebook for things to try out later at night.

After breaking for lunch, the three of them usually lounged around watching Telly or discussing some of the new things they’d discovered in their respective studies before heading out to Petunia’s meticulously maintained little garden to make sure it was kept in tip-top shape. Aunt Petunia had been hoping for a nomination for the ‘All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn’ competition for a few years now and they were all trying to do their part in helping turn her dream into reality.

Harry privately considered this to be a useful activity in preparation for Herbology at some point in the future but didn’t voice his thoughts out loud. He carefully listened as his aunt spoke about spotting leaf blights or plant diseases early, about the correct way of pruning a shrub to ensure it grows and flowers in the best possible manner and about identifying the best blends of fertilizers to aid in the growth of different plants which each had different ideal conditions in which they’d flourish.

Once done with their gardening, they’d usually have a spot of tea with Vernon, who returned home around this time before Harry and Dudley headed to the park to socialize with some of their friends from school or the neighborhood. Both Harry’s aunt and uncle had been insistent that discovering magic, i.e. a new hobby, was no reason to disregard their ties to friends who couldn’t share in this pastime. So, they spent the late afternoon to early evening playing around with the rest of the kids on the block before returning home to help with dinner, or as Harry, Dudley and Petunia had all begun calling it, ‘Beginner’s Potions’.

Uncle Vernon also spent some of his free time in the evenings tinkering in the shed on a variety of different little projects, and sometimes, if they were taking a break from cooking and had decided to order something in, Harry and Dudley would go to help him out. Mr. Dursley senior was a mechanically inclined man, Harry supposed he’d have to be, being the Regional Manager of a company that made drills, and they learned a fair bit about working with tools from watching him explain what he was working on.

One of the first things he’d helped set up was a swinging flap made of toughened glass that would allow Snark to enter or leave the house at will without requiring that a window be kept open for him. It didn’t particularly matter much in the summer months, but Harry recognized the wisdom in setting something like this up ahead of the winters.

Once they were done with both dinner and tinkering for the day, his aunt and uncle typically retired to the living room nursing a glass of wine while Harry and Dudley hit the study for another hour of uninterrupted studying of their magical books. Dudley usually spent this time browsing one of Lily’s old schoolbooks on Herbology, namely ‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi’ by Phyllida Spore. And Harry would browse either Slinkhard’s ‘Defensive Magical Theory’ or Bagshot’s ‘History of Magic’ in greater detail. He found the book on Defensive Magical Theory a bit strange in some ways but figured that concepts such as how to de-escalate a situation might be a good thing to know anyway and took just as meticulous notes as he did when going through one of his other, more exciting books.

Vernon and Petunia would knock on their door and let them know when it was time for bed, and Dudley would begrudgingly head off to his room for the night while Harry went through the motions of putting all the books away and getting ready for bed.

And once the house had settled and his aunt, uncle and cousin were most likely asleep, he got up and started on the areas of magic that they’d likely not want him to try and practice.

Excerpt from ‘The Organized Mind: Building the Basics for the Mental Arts’ by Sorrell Buttonwood

Chapter 3: Constructing Your Memory Fortress

The mind is a labyrinthine structure of thoughts, memories, and emotions. To master the psychic arts, one must first learn to navigate this labyrinth with precision and clarity. Occlumency, the discipline of shielding one's mind from external intrusion, begins with the construction of a memory fortress—an organized, mental landscape where each memory and thought has its designated place. This chapter will guide you through the foundational steps of creating your memory fortress, a precursor to mastering Occlumency.

The Concept of the Memory Fortress or the Mind Palace

Imagine your mind as a vast castle, each room representing a different aspect of your experiences and knowledge. The stronger and more detailed your mental fortress, the better you can control and protect your thoughts. This fortress is not just a place of storage but a dynamic environment where you can reflect, analyze, and compartmentalize your mental resources.

Step 1: Meditation and Mental Clarity

Before you begin the construction of your memory fortress, it is essential to achieve a state of mental clarity. Start with a simple meditation practice. Find a quiet space, sit comfortably, and close your eyes. Focus on your breathing—deep, slow inhales followed by steady, measured exhales. Allow your mind to quieten, letting go of the day's distractions and anxieties.

As you breathe, visualize a blank canvas in your mind's eye. This is the foundation upon which you will build your fortress. Spend at least fifteen minutes a day in this meditative state, gradually extending the duration as you become more comfortable with the practice.

Step 2: Creating the Central Keep

The central keep of your memory fortress is where your most vital memories and core aspects of your identity will reside. To construct this central keep, begin by selecting a few of your most cherished memories—those that define who you are. These should be vivid and detailed, imbued with strong emotional significance.

Visualize a grand hall within your keep, with high ceilings and walls lined with tapestries depicting these key memories. Each tapestry should be intricately detailed, allowing you to mentally 'walk into' these memories whenever you need to access them. The more vividly you can imagine this hall, the stronger your central keep will become.

Step 3: Building Wings and Towers

Once your central keep is established, you can begin to expand your fortress by adding wings and towers. Each wing can represent a different category of memories or knowledge. For example, one wing might house your academic learnings, with rooms dedicated to different subjects. Another wing could store personal relationships, each room containing the nuances of your interactions with friends and family.

The towers of your fortress can serve as places for introspection and emotion management. Dedicate each tower to a particular set of emotions—one for joy, one for sadness, another for anger, and so on. Within each tower, create spaces where you can safely examine and process these emotions without being overwhelmed by them.

Step 4: Regular Maintenance and Visualization

A memory fortress is not a static creation; it requires regular maintenance and visualization to remain effective. Spend time each day walking through your fortress in your mind, reinforcing the details of each room, wing, and tower. Add new memories and knowledge as you acquire them, ensuring they are stored in appropriate locations within your mental landscape.

Practice recalling specific memories or pieces of information by 'walking' to their respective locations in your fortress. This will not only enhance your recall abilities but also strengthen the mental pathways that make your fortress a formidable stronghold against intrusion.

Conclusion: Preparing for Occlumency

With a well-organized memory fortress, you will be better equipped to protect your thoughts and emotions from external penetration—a crucial skill in Occlumency. The foundation you build now will serve you well as you advance in the mental arts. Remember, the key to a successful memory fortress is consistent practice, detailed visualization, and a deep understanding of your own mind.

May your journey through the labyrinth of the mind lead you to greater clarity, control, and mastery.

Harry had initially struggled to sink into the calm meditative state the book had called for. It wasn’t helped by a sense of skepticism at the back of his mind that kept reminding him that both times he’d used active magic so far, it had been from a state of panic rather than calm.

Eventually after several weeks of dogged effort, and more than a few occasions of having dozed off after focusing on his breathing for too long, he was able to achieve and maintain a calm meditative state as described in the book and had finally started working on the central keep of the fortress.

He’d wondered for a long while what his key or defining memories were and had finally concluded that he didn’t need or have too many and would likely gain more as he grew older. For now, he’d attempted to build two tapestries that he felt were the essence of who he was.

The first was a memory of him lying on his bed, exhausted but delighted, moments after casting his first bit of non-accidental magic. The Lumos spell that had completely wiped him out and brought over a concerned Snark.

He’d taken a leaf out of the paintings and photographs he had seen hanging on the walls of the Leaky Cauldron and made the tapestry non-static. It now played a small loop of his memory, from him saying ‘Lumos’, all the way through to Snark’s reaction at being named. Harry had not exactly tried to ‘step into’ the memory just yet, but he’d laid his hand on it and thought that he’d been able to feel all the underlying emotions as vividly as his original experience.

The second tapestry he’d built was also a recent memory. It was a recollection of their journey back to Surrey after the visit to Diagon Alley and Gringotts.

This tapestry, also a mobile depiction of what Harry remembered experiencing, captured Uncle Vernon’s initial amusement at Aunt Petunia’s recounting of how the goblin-run bank had all but threatened a suspected intruder with literal axes, with an unbothered Dudley suggesting potential names for their new owl.

The memory contained Vernon’s initial reaction morphing into one of contriteness realizing his wife was far from amused. And went on with Aunt Petunia eventually calming down and Harry rejecting some of Dudley’s particularly outlandish name suggestions.

In a lot of ways, the second memory brought Harry just as much joy as the first.

He still had a very long way to go before considering his memory fortress finalized. For instance, he still lost his ability to visualize the structure if startled whilst meditating, such as when Snark gave him a soft warning hoot to indicate that either his aunt or uncle was coming to check up on him and he should pretend to be asleep, or at least in bed.

He also had a hard time entering his meditative state while doing something more than sitting still and focusing on his breathing. He figured he’d need to be able to conjure and navigate the pathways of his mind while going about his other daily activities, and so attempted to create and maintain the structure while jogging to the pool, swimming or jogging back.

He wasn’t foolish enough to try this while around his family, who’d be justifiably concerned if he started staring vacantly into space or if his eyes randomly glazed over during breakfast. But he decided that once he was able to enter this mind palace and maintain it at will whilst multitasking, he’d look into how to do so without any outward indication of what he was up to.

His to-do list was starting to grow longer and longer.

From further studies of mentions of the magical core, Harry was able to conclude that the reason he needed to feel desperate in order to reliably perform any kind of magic, was because the cores of magical children weren’t mature or stable enough to channel magic except in dire situations. While he was happy to know that he wouldn’t always have to induce an artificial panic attack every time he wanted to create a bit of light, he wasn’t happy with the present situation.

And after another bout of exhaustion followed by a panicked if successful casting of something called a levitation charm, he came up with a workaround.

If the tapestries already in the central keep of his mind palace could convey the same emotions as the original experiences, perhaps the same concept could be applied to a memory of panic.

With this goal in mind, he’d gone about setting up a third tapestry, embodying the emotions between the moment when Piers yanked away the trampoline, and the few heart-stopping moments of sheer fright at Dudley’s impending fall.

It worked.

Harry found that he no longer needed to spend several seconds dredging up the memory of the playground in order to cast the simple spells. Instead, he would simply conjure his fortress, something he was continually getting better at, and touch the necessary tapestry and attempt to cast his spell using those emotions.

It still tired him out but thanks to his jogging every morning and hours spent swimming, he no longer felt like he was close to passing out from exhaustion. He sincerely hoped that this was also an indication that his magical core was starting to grow.

The one area of his experiments with magic where he failed to have any success so far was his ability to sense magic around him.

He had gone over the comments in the M.O.M, and it was quite unambiguous in its assertion that anyone with a magical core could see as well as sense magic. It hadn’t led him astray yet, so Harry had no reason to disbelieve the book. But so far, despite his best efforts he was unable to sense any magic anywhere around him regardless of his state of mind or whether he was in a meditative trance.

He resolved to keep trying for now.

The other book that he kept perusing, especially after tiring himself out at night, or after breakfast was ‘Through the Looking Glass,’ and it was just as fascinating as the rest.

He learned about the Wizengamot, a forty-nine-member committee (or seven-times-seven, as the book insisted on referring to their number) that was a combination of tribunal and parliament for all magical Great Britain. Members of the Wizengamot came from three different backgrounds, namely inheritors of hereditary seats, senior elected or appointed officials of the ministry and holders of the prestigious Order of Merlin, the highest civilian honor that could be bestowed on an individual by the British Magical Government, colloquially known as the Ministry of Magic.

It turned out that originally after the old Celtic druid covens had diminished in power and influence to such an extent that they could no longer reliably intercede and settle magical disputes, the court wizard of the then-muggle king Arthur, who was growing tired of his magical subjects disrupting life for the common folk, was instructed to create a new and more stable method of governing the citizens of magical England.

His solution had been to create a governing body consisting of the heads of powerful magical families within the country and ritually bind them through voluntary and reciprocating oaths on their blood and magic to settle the disputes of a magical nature within the shores of the British Isles and at the same time provide guidance to citizens of magical Britain and lead them with wisdom and foresight.

The exact details of the ritual that was performed had of course been lost to the annals of time, save only that it required seven times seven witches and wizards to swear upon their lives, their blood and their magic to uphold the charge laid down upon them Merlin, the chief minister of the monarch and sovereign of the lands, and through him by the sovereign himself i.e. the king of Britain.

Through the passage of centuries since its founding, many of the original families who were sworn in as the Lords of the First Wizengamot, or ‘Wizard’s Meet’, had gone extinct. In their place, the surviving members raised new candidates to fill the vacated seats and maintain the magical quorum of forty-nine. Once the Ministry of Magic had been created, to better manage an ever-growing magical populace, some of the once family-held seats had been converted to be held by the appointed or elected members of the ministry for as long as they held their posts.

When line extinction reduced the number of surviving original families even further, prominent witches and wizards were brought in to make up the deficit in recognition of their contributions to magical society, and thus the seats held by Order of Merlin recipients were formed.

At present, or at least at the time of the publication of the book, there were thirty-four hereditary seats still active on the Wizengamot, while an additional five seats were held respectively by the Minister of Magic, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and the head of the Department of Mysteries.

The remaining ten seats were held by the ten seniormost currently surviving Order of Merlin recipients.

It appeared that it was permissible for someone to resign their seat on the Wizengamot on grounds of health so long as they presented their replacements for approval by the other members. For heads of houses, this usually meant that the family seat would be taken up by their heirs of a legal age, and for Order of Merlin recipients, it would mean that they’d present the next most senior candidate available. For department heads, the situation had not yet come to pass, but it would likely mean their replacement in office would also replace them on the Wizengamot, since it was unlikely that a person unable to discharge his duties on the Wizengamot, could discharge their duties as a Ministry or Department head.

Harry also learned that the Wizengamot was oath-bound to meet at least four times in a calendar year for Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasa and Samhain sessions, but could be convened at any other time as well at the behest of the Chief Warlock.

The Chief Warlock was selected from amongst the sitting members of the Wizengamot by a simple vote and would serve until death, dismissal from the role or resignation from the body. It was their duty to serve as an impartial overseer of all Wizengamot meetings during his tenure. Meetings where the Chief Warlock was unable to attend the proceedings were typically led by the sitting Minister of Magic.

It was possible for Wizengamot members to skip attending any sessions, even the mandated four, so long as they had appointed another member as their proxy. This system supposedly ensured that every Wizengamot session, attended by no matter how few actual people, still met the quorum of the forty-nine votes to be cast. In the case of seats without formally declared proxies, such as in the case of the only living family member being below the age of maturity, the vote was held by the Chief Warlock. The same situation applied to family seats where magic determined that a line was not extinct, but the whereabouts of the current Lord or Heir was unknown.

The book did not make a mention of how frequently the proxy needed to be renewed, and whether once granted the proxy vote of an extinct line could continue to be used even though no living descendant of the family was alive to reclaim it.

Apparently, the mandated Wizengamot sessions could be attended by other department heads at the ministry or their senior staff, living recipients of the Order of Merlin and by the heirs and consorts of all Wizengamot members who held a hereditary seat on the body. The list of who was allowed to attend the ad-hoc sessions was left up to the discretion of the Chief Warlock.

The book also contained a lot of interesting information about the organization of magical society in general. About customs and practices amongst various established magical ‘pure-blood’ families, about etiquette and greetings within the wizarding world that travelers from foreign lands or ‘muggle-born’ witches and wizards might be unfamiliar with.

The most common greeting among witches and wizards was apparently ‘Merry meet’ and the usual goodbye was ‘Merry part.’ Harry wondered, even as he noted this down for future reference, just how insular and set in their ways wizards or witches were.

There were even guides for wizarding children about the traditional ways to conduct themselves in a variety of different settings, from formal parties to classrooms. Harry was particularly amused to note that simply volunteering to answer a question in class was considered a breach of etiquette unless the teacher had specifically asked for a volunteer that is, since it implied that the volunteer believed that their peers would be incapable of answering whatever had been asked.

The other reason why this was discouraged was because it was assumed that the instructor had a specific person in mind when asking a question, and someone routinely volunteering to answer questions in their stead would prevent them from adequately assessing the performance of every student in class.

Well, when they put it like that, he supposed it made sense, Harry conceded.

Every night it felt as if he’d only just started reading or begun to try and cast a new spell when Snark interrupted him. The owl was an annoyingly efficient chaperone and no matter how much Harry grumbled at not being allowed to stay awake for a bit longer, he was appreciative of the diligence.

He’d already seen what overdoing it did to his body the next day and risking the ire of his aunt and uncle was just not worth it.

Somehow Snark even seemed to be able to tell when he tried practicing his meditation after settling in for the night and would hoot threateningly until he stopped.

As the end of June fast approached, Harry realized that he was quite literally having the time of his life and wondered if it was all a dream that he’d wake up from in the morning.

He couldn’t resist pinching himself to make sure and cursed in the darkness at the sudden stinging pain on his arm.

Right on cue, a reproachful hoot sounded from atop the cage in the corner of the room and Harry smiled under the covers.

“I’m not crazy, I’m just making sure it’s all real” he whispered into the gloom before falling asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

24^th June 1987

There were few events observed with greater excitement and enthusiasm among the denizens of Number 4, Privet Drive than the birthday of Dudley Dursley.

Christmas came a distant second and New Year’s Eve third.

Of the two children growing up in the house, only one had exhibited any fondness of large celebrations, and as such Harry was grateful that he was spared having to interact with a lot of people or really do much out of the ordinary when his own birthday rolled around.

As was tradition, the family stayed up late on the night of the 23rd and wished Dudley a happy seventh birthday at midnight. Gift exchanges, cake and other stuff would take place the next evening during the party which would include all of Dudley’s friends from school and their neighborhood, following a day spent at the zoo.

Although Dudley had cooled a little on regular animals following his introduction to ‘Fantastic Beasts’, he still enjoyed being regaled by amazing facts about any kind of wildlife and the zookeepers never failed to disappoint.

So, with the advanced knowledge of what the next day would bring, Harry wisely decided to forego his late-night studies and contended himself with focusing just on his meditative exercises. Snark gave him a quizzical look but didn’t react otherwise. He double-checked the present he’d made for Dudley over the last few days before turning in for the night and very oddly felt a sense of disquiet that he couldn’t quite explain.

After struggling with the thought for a while longer, he forced himself to stop dwelling on it and resorted to the meditative trance to calm his nerves and drifted slowly to sleep. After all, he reasoned, there was no point working yourself up into a state just based on a strange feeling.

Harry woke up a little later than usual, having already decided to skip his customary morning constitutional, to the sounds of an excited seven-year-old hammering at his door.

It was frankly baffling that the one day of the year where Dudley could get away with doing whatever he wanted, even more so than usual, he chose to be up at six-thirty in the morning.

Knowing it would be futile to resist, and mentally adding another new task on his to-do list (mastering something called a silencing charm) Harry got up, stumbled to the door of his room and opened it.

He was greeted by a face-full of water.

“What the-?” he spluttered.

“Water gun fight!” came Dudley’s gleeful yell accompanied by the sound of pounding footsteps running off downstairs.

Harry smiled to himself, equal parts indulgent and annoyed, and stomped over to his desk to look for his own squirt gun. Having discovered it, he prepared to head out but paused for a moment before exiting his room.

There would be a lot of excited children (Harry subconsciously excluded himself from the categorization) taking over the house this evening, and it seemed like a recipe for disaster to leave any of their new books lying around to be found. He sighed, and quickly began gathering up all the recent purchases and his notes on what he’d been studying and began packing them away in Lily’s trunk.

It was a tight fit, but he managed to get it all in there and then proceeded to latch and lock the container before laboriously dragging it into the very back of his closet where it was mostly obscured by his clothes.

This done, he felt ready to tackle the rigors of the day before pausing yet again.

Now that he thought about it, an owl in a cage was probably also going to require some explaining if it was found in the house…but unlike the books, Snark would probably not be easy to stuff into a trunk even if he were amenable to the idea, which Harry deemed unlikely.

He walked over to the owl, who had been watching his progress with studied disinterest.

“We’re going to have a lot of people over this evening, so I am going to need you to spend the day outside. Come back once they have all left.” He instructed the bird.

It spoke volumes about how the last month of his life had changed him that he didn’t think twice about speaking to a bird and fully expecting his instructions to be comprehended and followed. Snark gave him a look conveying deep disdain, but with an air of having better places to be anyway, hopped over to the window and having pushed past Uncle Vernon’s newly installed bird-flap, spread his wings and disappeared from his view.

Harry collapsed the cage, carried it into the closet and placed it carefully beside the trunk and satisfied with the ‘normal-fication’ of his room, finally left in search of Dudley to try and tag him back.

If the two responsible adults in the house had one failing, it was probably being unable to deny their son much, especially on his special day. As a result, the battle of Number 4 was a vicious four-sided winner-take-all contest with water balloons being used with just as much frequency as squirt guns.

Aside from the living room, which had been declared a no-splash zone on account of being carpeted, the rest of the house and grounds were all a theater of war. Thankfully, either Petunia or Vernon had had the foresight to move most electronics into the living room as well before locking it up. Harry briefly considered unlocking the door with magic and sneaking into the room to wait out the mayhem but ultimately decided to brave the chaos with a stiff upper lip.

No one was quite sure what spoils would be claimed by the victor once their epic battle was concluded, but Harry felt certain that everyone taking part would come out with less dignity than they had going in.

Finally, after what felt like ages to Harry, but had really just been an hour, they all decided to call it a tie between father and son and collapsed soaked and breathless into their seats at the kitchen table for a spot of breakfast.

“Can we have ice-cream for breakfast?” Dudley moaned as they tried to dry themselves with kitchen towels.

“Of course, popkins. We can have whatever you like.” Aunt Petunia crooned.

Once breakfast was concluded, with Harry trying not to imagine his swimming instructor’s look of incredulous horror if informed of the extent of deviation from his idea of a nutritious and healthy breakfast, Dudley scooted off to play some video games while Harry and the adults set to tidying up the house.

Vernon tackled the stairs and the upper floors while Petunia fixed the mess outside in the yard and the shed (there had been a desperate last stand there when Harry had run out of water and barricaded himself in). Harry was tasked with sorting out the kitchen and the entrance hall.

He worked quickly and efficiently, humming under his breath and refusing to acknowledge that despite his grouch he had secretly had just as much fun as everyone else. He started with the entrance hall, and once it was mopped up and no puddles remained he started cleaning the kitchen.

In preparation for the guests arriving later in the evening, Petunia had already brought out stacks of crockeries and cutlery and left them on the kitchen counter for easy access. The food itself would be ordered in since cooking for a dozen children was going to be too much work for them, especially as they’d be spending almost all day at the zoo.

Perhaps it was the preoccupation with pondering the plans for the day or it was the surprise at hearing Dudley’s voice from the door unexpectedly, but while making his way around the kitchen table, Harry somehow entirely missed seeing the pool of water that had accumulated right next to the counter.

He felt his feet begin to slide and his perspective rapidly begin to shift as his body began to tumble and instinctively he entered a trance.

“Ah damn it,” he thought in an eerily calm manner as the world slowed down, “I’m about to crack my head on the corner of the table.”

The follow-up thought of why he wasn’t panicking was suppressed for the moment on account of not being helpful in his current predicament.

“Do I have time to move my head away?” He found himself wondering as he began to fall with what felt like glacial slowness.

“Guess not”, he concluded after another instant. “Momentum is carrying me straight down; I can’t really change directions without something to brace myself against or push myself off.”

The thought that this was Dudley’s fault twice over surfaced and was promptly discarded as being unimportant too.

“Can I latch onto the kitchen counter and stop myself from falling? No…my arms aren’t strong enough.” Harry thought with continued detachment as his view of the kitchen kept tilting.

“But…I suppose I could push against it a bit, and move myself far enough that my had doesn’t hit the table?” He gave the idea some thought. “Well, I’m out of time and out of other ideas, so might as well try.”

He felt his arm extend to the side and make contact with something.

“This must look hilarious to anyone observing…all this flailing about.” Harry paused. “Why am I so cynical? More importantly, why does it feel like I’m forgetting something?”

Time sped up once more and Harry went crashing to the floor just as Dudley’s worried yell reached his ears.

“Whew…made it-”

An almighty crash sounded close at hand to derail the relief he had started to feel at having landed on his back without denting his skull.

“Ah, right…the plates stacked on the counter,” Harry thought dejectedly. “Knew I’d forgotten something.”

He sat up, his back a little sore from the fall and surveyed the abstract art created by shattered china on the hardwood floor.

“Harry! Are you alright?!” Dudley had rounded the table and was anxiously peering at him.

“’M fine. Help me up.” He mumbled extending a hand at his cousin.

Any moment now Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would be drawn to the sound of the crash. Harry winced at the amount of work he’d just created for them all, and on Dudley’s birthday too. Damn it, if only he could magic this right-

Ah, of course! He struggled to his feet taking advantage of Dudley’s proffered arm and shushed his cousin when he tried to suggest that they get Aunt Petunia to check him over to make sure he wasn’t bruised. He needed to concentrate for this to have any hope of working.

It was almost instinctive now to re-enter the meditative state necessary for him to access and channel specific emotions. Only this time he needed the panic that let him cast magic instead of the calm that let him react best to stressful or emotional situations.

He strode through the keep of his memory palace, vaguely aware that Dudley was still saying something and looking scared. He’d probably just seen Harry’s eyes glaze over and was worried all over again that Harry had concussed himself.

He reached the tapestry of desperation, as he’d taken to calling it and placed his hand flat against the portrait.

“Reparo” he commanded in real life, easily recalling the incantation he'd learned just a couple of nights ago.

He and Dudley watched, with satisfaction and wonder respectively, as the mess on the floor seemed to travel backwards through time and reassemble itself into a stack of white dinner plates that leapt up from the floor and jumped back onto the kitchen counter. They were perfectly ordered, neatly stacked and entirely un-smashed.

“It worked!” He grinned before his knees gave out again.

This time, Dudley was on hand to grab and steady him before he collapsed once more, or worse, smashed the plates all over again.

It’s not that Harry was opposed to visiting the zoo, quite the contrary in fact, he just didn’t think that banging on the window of every enclosure and yelling at the animals enclosed within, was a nice thing to do.

Unfortunately, most of Dudley’s closest friends were even more boisterous and hyperactive than the birthday boy, and as a result, the group of five (not counting Harry, who considered himself much better behaved) that Vernon was chaperoning through the Zoo was, frankly speaking, a nuisance.

He’d have quite liked to beg off the trip and help Aunt Petunia set up for Dudley’s party at home, or better yet, take a little nap to recover from the spell he’d cast to fix the broken plates. But he’d made a split-second decision to beg Dudley not to tell his parents about that and as a result, didn’t have a viable reason to skip the excursion.

They’d only had a few seconds between Dudley nodding his assent to Harry’s plea and his concerned parents arriving to see what the ruckus was. Harry had taken the lead, not trusting Dudley to pull out a plausible lie and had gone with the truth up to a point. He’d pointed out the water left over from their morning shenanigans and blamed his own inattentiveness for crashing to the ground. Dudley had claimed responsibility for distracting him that led to it all, and while both adults had looked a little skeptical about the story since the crash of broken crockery was unlikely to sound identical to the symphony of a tumbling seven-year-old, they’d focused more on making sure Harry was ok than cross-examining the witnesses further.

Harry had been grateful for the opportunity to sit still for a moment while he was looked over, to catch his breath, and once he’d been given the all-clear, had offered to resume helping with the cleaning.

He’d been ordered to take it easy and hang out with Dudley, and soon found himself playing ‘Asterix’ on his cousin’s Atari 2600.

He’d barely heard his cousin, in an odd display of subtlety, whisper the words “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Harry had looked back at the entrance to the living room to make sure they were well and truly alone before nodding in acknowledgement and giving Dudley a slightly tired grin.

“This is boring!”

Harry was jolted back to reality by Piers’ annoyed huff as he grew tired of rapping on the glass viewing pane into the encounter of a boa constrictor.

“C’mon, let’s go look at something else” Danny Sparks chimed in, and the group of boys, also including Shawn Hensley and Randall Erickson in addition to Dudley and Piers moved off to annoy some other poor animal.

Vernon followed them, doing his best to pretend that he was having a good time keeping the young hoodlums out of too much trouble.

Harry sidled over to the boa’s enclosure and took a closer look at its occupant.

It was a magnificent creature, currently basking in the little patch of sunlight from the skylight overhead and regally disregarding the gaggle of errant schoolchildren who seemed hell-bent on disrupting its siesta. As Dudley and his friends moved on, it raised its head slightly and flicked its tongue out as if testing the air and Harry could have sworn he heard it whisper: ₷Philisstiness₷.

Harry had to stop himself from nodding in agreement and contended himself with murmuring an apology.

₷Ssorry about that. They’re jusst very eksscssitable₷ he whispered, trying to be empathetic to the poor trapped creature.

The snake’s head turned towards Harry in a flash, and he found himself staring into shocked reptilian eyes.

₷You sspeak?₷

Harry’s own eyes widened in response. In the light of everything else that had been going on, he’d almost forgotten about the strange experience at Magical Menagerie.

The snake, realizing he’d shocked him to silence, spoke again.

₷Who are you sspeaker?₷

₷I…I am Harry₷ he found himself replying hesitantly. Unsure if this was normal for wizards, or if he was hallucinating.

₷How iss it that you can undersstand our tongue Harry?₷ the boa asked seemingly as curious about what was happening as Harry himself was.

₷I am a wisszard. Maybe that hass ssomething to do with it?₷

₷I know not what a wisszard iss…but I have never known one of your kind to be able to sspeak to one of uss₷ the snake hissed back now fully uncoiled and holding its head up from the ground to stare at Harry from eye level. ₷Where are you from wisszard Harry?₷

₷Um…Ssurrey. It’ss closse by₷ Harry responded, before adding ₷And you?₷

The snake jabbed its tail at the sign to the side of the enclosure not taking his eyes off him and Harry tore his eyes away from the creature to read it.

“This species is native to South America” he read. “Oh!”

He turned back to regard the reptile, that he could now see was easily ten feet from head to tail. ₷Wass it nicsse there?₷

The snake jabbed its tail at the sign again with a hint of impatience this time and Harry turned to read it once more.

“The specimen was bred in captivity” he finished and felt embarrassed.

₷Ssorry₷ he hissed.

₷Eh, it’ss warm here and I don’t need to hunt₷ the snake said. It should have been impossible for a creature with no shoulders to shrug, but the snake somehow seemed to manage to convey the gesture.

Before Harry could digest this the snake looked off to the side and hissed again in seeming displeasure.

₷One of thosse idiotss iss coming back.₷

Right on cue, Piers appeared again, apparently sent to hurry Harry along so the group could stay together. He saw the massive snake stretched out in all its glory and froze in place, eyes widening in excitement and let out a yell.

“Dudley! Mr. Dursley! Come check this out!”

₷How your kind became the dominant sspecssiess iss frankly beyond me₷ the snake remarked with an eyeroll.

Harry would have quite liked to spend a bit more time talking to the boa but once the whole group had got their fill of admiring it, he was forced to move along with the rest of the kids.

From that point on, the rest of the visit to the zoo, at least for Harry, was an exercise in surreptitiously determining which of the other creatures he could communicate with. It helped that Dudley, being the only one who was aware of Harry’s magic casting in the morning and his subsequent bout of fatigue, was keeping the rest of the kids engaged so that Harry didn’t have to socialize too much…and it gave Harry the perfect opportunity to lag just a little behind the group and mentally catalogue which animals responded to his attempts at talking to them.

It turned out he could speak to just about every snake on display. He could also speak to all the lizards except the iguana. Though he couldn’t be quite certain if that was because of a limitation of the magic or if the creature in question was simply too lazy to bother responding to him.

Most curiously, he felt that the hummingbirds could also understand what he was saying, although they turned out to be too hyperactive for him to be certain if their sudden curiosity in him was because they understood he was trying to communicate with them, or if it was mere happenstance.

When Vernon herded the children towards the zoo cafeteria, Harry, under the pretext of having to use the facilities, tracked down one of the zookeepers trying to find a common trait among the creatures he suspected of being able to speak to and understand in turn.

“That’s easy lad,” the blond young sunburnt man with a thick Australian accent drawled when Harry asked him the question. “They all have split tongues, don’t they? For different purposes it must be noted…but that’s about the only thing in common between a Hummingbird and an Iguana, I reckon. Bushbabies too, the little buggers that your lot here call Galagos I think, but theirs is more like a secondary tongue than one that is forked at the tip. But personally, I bet you’d find Crocs and Gators much more fascinating than Iguanas or some itty-bitty birds, in fact, those are the blighters I happen to specialize in myself. Lemme know if you fancy a closer look at ‘em, it’s almost feeding time!”

Harry politely thanked the man, who’d introduced himself as Steve, for the insight and frowned as he returned to the rest of the party. At this rate, he’d need a whole book to keep track of all the stuff he needed to perform additional research on.

The rest of the tour was uneventful in comparison. Vernon barely kept Dudley and Shawn from starting a food fight, afterwards, they explored the larger enclosures of the more dangerous animals in the zoo’s collections and watched as Steve put on a bit of a show of feeding the gators, and by the time it was time to head home, even Piers seemed to have burned off some of his near-constant exuberance.

After a brief stop at the zoo’s gift shop where they all picked up something to remember the outing, they piled into the station wagon that Vernon had rented to accommodate the large group and drove home still chattering happily about their experiences. Harry stared out of the window in contemplative silence, idly stroking the snake plushie he’d picked up. Although he very much doubted that he needed something to remember this day by.

The kids spent the rest of the afternoon playing video games and cavorting around the house on their return from the zoo, and shortly before evening the rest of the guests started turning up.

Most of the other invitees were kids of Dudley’s own age, a few neighbors like Mrs. Figg who stopped to drop off gifts and well wishes and Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge.

Harry had always had a terse relationship with Aunt Marge. From as far back as he could remember, he’d imagined that she didn’t like him very much. He’d thought he had spotted her sneering at him when he wasn’t looking or simply glaring daggers at him whenever none of the rest of the family were around, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what, if anything, he’d ever done to deserve her ire.

So, as soon as her booming voice sounded at the door loudly demanding to see her ‘nephe-poo’, Harry made himself scarce.

He took advantage of the commotion in the entrance hall created by the arrival of Marge and one of her bulldogs, that she bred as part of her business, and slipped out into the yard without anyone noticing and sought out a quiet corner below the Alder tree at the edge of the garden until it was time for the cake to be cut. Even out here he could hear the voices, especially Marge’s, carried on the breeze as she exclaimed how much her favorite nephew had grown and how she blamed Vernon and Petunia for not bringing him to see her more often.

His contemplation was disrupted by the sudden intrusion of a sibilant voice from somewhere very close by.

₷You’d think they’d keep it down a bit at leasst after dark, but no, darn two-legged freakss think they own the whole world!₷

Harry grinned despite himself and cast his eyes around looking for the source of the whisper. Here was another chance to try and understand this ability without fear of an interruption. He hadn’t thought there would be many garden snakes near his house now that Snark had turned this area into his hunting grounds, but clearly, the ecosystem was large enough to survive the arrival of one predator.

But before he’d found the source of the annoyed hiss, a new sound caught his attention.

It was a low growl but of the kind that immediately sets anyone who hears it on alert. Harry looked up and spotted a bulldog crouched low to the ground and slowly advancing towards him, its teeth exposed in a feral snarl.

“That does not look like an animal that wants to play ‘Fetch’” Harry mused even as his body reacted on instinct. By the time the dog lunged towards him, he was already clambering up the tree to seek refuge amongst its branches. He imagined that he felt the jaws of the vicious canine pass within inches of his feet, but before it could make a second attempt, he was safe.

He wondered dimly why Marge would bring such a violent brute of an animal to a children’s birthday party and then pondered how to extricate himself from his current predicament.

He didn’t much fancy calling for help, since it was quite possible that one of the other kids might be the first to heed his cry and then be attacked by the feral mutt in turn. The dog in question seemed to be circling the base of the tree, still uttering a low growl, and had its beady little eyes fixed on Harry.

Even when a squirrel bounded past a few feet away, the dog barely flicked an ear at the rodent and opted to focus on Harry as its primary quarry.

Harry was forced to speculate if Marge’s dog had somehow inherited its owner’s dislike for Harry.

A soft and wholly unexpected hoot from the branch immediately above him startled him so badly that he nearly fell off the tree. Having caught himself in time and focused on the shape above him, he realized he was staring into the round eyes of Snark, exiled to remain out of the house till all the birthday guests had departed.

“No chance you can do something about this little mongrel, is there?” Harry asked the bird with a dejected air. “I suppose you might be able to get Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia for help, so long as no one notices you of course.”

Snark gave him a look which Harry deemed to be a tad condescending, and he rolled his eyes in response. “It’s probably a blessing that we can’t talk to each other I guess. I doubt I’d be able to keep myself from going crazy with your constant Snark-oh!”

It was a long shot, and he really doubted that dogs had a forked tongue…but it was worth a try, wasn’t it?

He focused for a moment on the memories of various snakes while mentally resolving to add a tapestry of the boa from the zoo to his memory palace for ease of access in the future, and after a few heartbeats hissed: ₷Can you pleasse sstop trying to attack me?₷

There was a moment’s pause, and if anything, the growling grew louder.

₷Wait, did you jusst sspeak?₷

Harry nearly fell out of his branch for the second time as a small grass snake raised its head from among the leaves close to where he was holding onto the branch.

₷Jeessz-wait Ssnark no!₷ he was barely able to react in time before the tawny owl could snatch up the little snake in his talons and waved away his attempted attack.

“Snark, I can…talk to him. I need you to not attack any of the snakes nearby, ok?” He hissed in English this time, unsure if he’d be able to get the message across and even more unsure if his request would be enough to overcome the owl’s predatory instincts.

The owl hooted balefully and seemed to be glaring at him, but made no move to attack, at least for the time being.

Keeping a wary eye on the bird, Harry turned back to the little snake who seemed to have frozen in fear. ₷Um…ssorry about that. Are you alright?₷

₷Y-you can sspeak to uss in our tongue and you can control the monssterss of the air? Who are you sspeaker?₷

₷Er…I’m Harry. I can’t really control Ssnark, but he ussually lisstenss to my requesstss₷ he explained, while part of his mind wondered for the umpteenth time in the last month, what exactly his life had come to.

₷I owe you my life sspeaker Harry. If there iss anything I can do to return the favor, you have but to assk.₷

₷Uh, that’ss very generouss of you, but really not necssessssarry₷ Harry muttered. God, words with multiple ‘S’s in them were a pain to hiss. ₷Well, not unlessss you can help me undersstand why the dog below the tree iss out to get me, I ssuposse.₷

₷It wass given your sscssent sspeaker.₷

₷Yeah, thought not-wait what?!₷

₷The two-legged female that brought the four-legged creature here, gave it a bit of clothing to ssniff before sshe entered the sspacsse of wood and sstone.₷ the little snake explained to Harry’s growing astonishment and incredulity. ₷I wass jusst beneath the bussh with the red flowerss and the green thornss, closse enough to recognissze the sscssent. That piecsse of cloth carried the ssame sscssent ass you sspeaker.₷

Harry sat frozen on his branch as questions whirled through his mind. Was Aunt Marge seriously trying to sic her dogs on him? What had he ever done to her to warrant this? How would she have managed to get a hold of any of his clothes? Did he dare believe the words of a snake?

Almost as if it had read Harry’s thoughts, the snake responded to the last of his unasked questions, ₷I have no reasson to lie to one who hass ssaved my life sspeaker. And every reasson not to.₷

Harry nodded. It made sense, especially considering the earlier context of the dog refusing to so much as glance at a passing squirrel and opting to hound him instead.

₷I believe you. I only wissh I knew how to get away from it ssafely₷ he hissed.

₷Your monsster of the air can drive it away sspeaker. Creaturess of the ground are defencsslessss againsst predatorss that attack from the sskiess.₷

₷I already assked Ssnark, but I don’t think he can take on a bulldog.₷

₷The lassttime you assked your pet monsster, I think he undersstood you to mean that you wanted to drive off the four-legged mutt without damaging it. Now that you know it iss out for your blood, I think he might feel differently.₷

Harry mulled this over and turned his gaze upwards towards Snark who was watching him hold a lengthy conversation with what according to him was basically an annoyingly eloquent snack.

“Right, er, Snark. Apparently, the dog has been given my scent and that is why it’s specifically trying to hunt me. Is there any way you could drive it off…if you don’t have to, er, hold back from hurting it? If necessary of course. I just need to be able to get back to the house, so if you can distract it even for a minute, that should be sufficient.”

Snark seemed to peer into his soul for a long moment before uttering a soft hoot, that Harry interpreted as assent.

₷Er, thank you₷ he said turning back to the snake. ₷I’ll assk Ssnark not to hunt you or otherss of your kind. Um, if it issn’t too much trouble, would you mind coming to sspeak to me again ssometime? I would really like to know more about you and…about why I can even sspeak to you.₷

₷Your will be done sspeaker. Until neksst time.₷

Harry turned to Snark again and nodded and the tawny owl spread its wings and silently dropped from its perch. Perhaps it was because the dog was so fixated on Harry that it hadn’t been expecting an attack from a different source, or perhaps there was wisdom in what the little snake had advised, but mere moments later a suddenly scared bulldog was frantically retreating across the lawn while being harried by a determined owl that was flapping and scratching at its face.

Harry didn’t wait to watch the end of the encounter; he jumped down to the ground and made a run for it.

He’d barely made it back in and shut the door behind him when the shout of, “It’s time for cake!” rang out from the living room. Harry schooled his features and brushed the dirt off his clothes, and hoping both the little snake whose name he should have probably asked, and Snark were safe, quickly rejoined the party.

Maybe it was because he was steadfastly avoiding Marge’s eyes, but he clearly caught the moment right before Dudley blew out the candle. His cousin looked across the room straight at him, giving him a small smile when their eyes met and scrunched his face up in concentration before blowing out the seven candles on his chocolate cake.

Harry was pretty sure he knew exactly what his cousin had just wished for.

When Dudley opened Harry’s present, a small plushie in the shape and resemblance of a Hungarian Horntail, Dudley’s favorite type of dragon from the book, his grin grew ever wider, and Harry’s certainty only grew stronger.

Chapter Text

28^th August 1987

A collection of articles published in The Daily Prophet between 1980 and 1986 and detailed in Almina Almanacker’s ‘Your Year in Review’ books:

The Daily Prophet - January 3, 1980 – “Death Eater Activity on the Rise: Ministry Urges Vigilance”

Reports from various regions of Magical Britain have confirmed an alarming increase in Death Eater activities. The Ministry of Magic has issued a public statement urging witches and wizards to exercise extreme caution. “We are doing everything in our power to curb these threats,” stated a Ministry official. “It is imperative that the magical community remains vigilant and reports any suspicious activities immediately.”

The Daily Prophet - July 12, 1980 – “Trouble at Azkaban: Dementors Leave the Island”

In a shocking turn of events, several Dementors, the guardians of the Island Fortress of Azkaban that serves as the prison for the magical populace of Great Britain, have abandoned their stations and left the island entirely. The Ministry of Magic has launched an immediate investigation into how such a breach of security could occur. “We are employing all available resources to recapture the deserters,” declared the thirty-first Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold. The wizarding community remains on high alert.

The Daily Prophet - December 15, 1980 – “You-Know-Who Targets Prominent Families: Tragedy Strikes Again”

Last night, the well-known Bones family became the latest victims of You-Know-Who's reign of terror, with DMLE employee Amelia Bones and her niece being left as the sole survivors of the household. Bartemius Crouch Sr., head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has vowed retribution. “These acts of evil will not go unpunished,” he declared. The attack has sent waves of fear through the magical community, with many questioning how to protect their own families.

The Daily Prophet - January 5, 1981 – “Increased Security Measures: Ministry Takes Action”

In response to the escalating threat posed by You-Know-Who and his followers, the Ministry of Magic has announced a series of new security measures. These include increased Auror patrols, heightened protections around key locations, mandatory registration of werewolves, vampires and other dangerous creatures and allowing Aurors to use the unforgivable curses against suspected Death Eaters. “We must stand together against this menace,” stated Minister Bagnold in a joint press conference with Bartemius Crouch Sr., the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The wizarding community is urged to cooperate fully with Ministry directives. It remains to be seen if the Ministry’s decision to “fight fire with fire” as Mr. Crouch phrased it, shall bear fruit and help curb the Death Eater menace.

This announcement drew criticism from many well-known quarters of Magical Britain, including the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.

The Daily Prophet - November 1, 1981 – “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Vanquished: The Boy Who Lived”

In an extraordinary turn of events, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been defeated. The Dark Lord's downfall occurred last night in Godric's Hollow, where he attempted to murder the Potter family. Miraculously, their infant son, Harry Potter, survived the attack and is being hailed as “The Boy Who Lived.” Ministry officials are investigating the circumstances surrounding this miraculous event.

The Daily Prophet - November 5, 1981 – “Mystery Surrounds Potters' Fate: Godric's Hollow Under Investigation”

As investigations continue into the events at Godric's Hollow, the wizarding community is left with many unanswered questions. James and Lily Potter tragically perished in the attack, leaving behind their son, Harry. Rumors abound regarding how young Harry survived and the nature of the magic involved. The Ministry of Magic has pledged to uncover the truth.

There is a motion to be brought in front of the Wizengamot at its next scheduled session on Imbolc, to declare the ruins of the Potter’s home as a national monument.

The Daily Prophet - November 7, 1981 – “Sirius Black Arrested: Accused of Mass Murder”

In a stunning development, Sirius Black, a former friend of the Potter family and a well-known figure among the ministry’s hit-wizards, has been arrested for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggle bystanders. Witnesses report that Black and Pettigrew were involved in a confrontation that resulted in a massive explosion in a muggle street. Black was apprehended at the scene, laughing maniacally. He has been charged with mass murder, conspiracy with You-Know-Who and the betrayal of the Potters to their death.

The Daily Prophet - November 12, 1981 – “Brutal Attack on Longbottoms: Aurors Investigating”

In a shocking and brutal assault, Frank and Alice Longbottom, esteemed Aurors and Lord and Lady of the Ancient and Noble house of Longbottom, were attacked in their home. The couple, known for their bravery and service, were found in a critical condition, having suffered severe torture. The Ministry of Magic has launched a manhunt for the culprits, believed to be a group of Death Eaters still loyal to You-Know-Who. The wizarding community is horrified by this occurrence.

The Daily Prophet - December 5, 1981 – “Trial of the Century: Crouch and Lestranges Sentenced”

Bartemius Crouch Jr., along with Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange, stood trial today for their roles in the attack on the Longbottoms. The court heard harrowing testimonies of their use of the Cruciatus Curse. While the Lestranges showed no remorse and were sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, Crouch Jr. kept denying the charges but was unable to avoid the same fate. This trial marks a significant moment in the post-war justice process, bringing some measure of closure to the Longbottoms and the magical community at large.

Barty Crouch Sr., who presided over the case and sentenced the accused including his own son, is expected to step down from his position as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement following the scandal. Amelia Bones is likely to take his place.

The Daily Prophet - December 24, 1981 – “Boy Who Lived Disappears: Concern Grows”

Amidst the celebrations of You-Know-Who's defeat, growing concern surrounds the whereabouts of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Reports indicate that Harry has not been seen in the magical community since the night of the attack. Ministry officials are tight-lipped, but speculation is rife about the boy's safety and location.

The Daily Prophet - January 3, 1982 – “Longbottoms Still Hospitalized: The Aftermath of Terror”

Frank and Alice Longbottom remain in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries following the vicious attack they endured last November. Healers report that their condition is stable but critical, with long-term recovery uncertain. This tragic incident has sparked widespread fear and anger, underscoring the lingering threat of Death Eater reprisals even after You-Know-Who's downfall. The magical community stands in solidarity with the Longbottom family during this difficult time.

The Daily Prophet - January 20, 1982 – “Ministry Reforms: Post-War Security Measures Intensify”

In response to recent high-profile cases and ongoing Death Eater threats, the Ministry of Magic has announced a series of sweeping reforms aimed at bolstering magical security and law enforcement. Increased Auror training programs, stricter regulations on dangerous spells, and heightened security at Azkaban are among the measures being implemented. “We will not allow the shadow of You-Know-Who to linger,” stated Minister Bagnold.

The Daily Prophet - January 31, 1982 – “Family of Heroes: Neville Longbottom’s Brave Legacy”

In light of the Longbottom tragedy, attention has turned to young Neville Longbottom, the son and sole heir of Frank and Alice Longbottom. Though only a toddler, Neville's future has become a symbol of hope and resilience within the wizarding community. He is being cared for by his grandmother, and now Regent for the house, Augusta Longbottom, who has vowed to uphold the family’s proud legacy. The community continues to rally in support of the Longbottoms.

“We will not allow evil to diminish who we are,” she stated when asked to comment while leaving the ministry following the conclusion of the Imbolc session of the Wizengamot. “Neville will grow up to carry on his parent’s brave legacy.”

The Daily Prophet - March 17, 1982 – “Potter Family Mystery Deepens: Public Demands Answers”

The wizarding community's concern continues to mount regarding Harry Potter's disappearance. Various theories have been proposed, including suggestions that he is being hidden for his own safety. The Ministry of Magic remains silent on the matter, leading to increasing public frustration and demands for transparency.

The Daily Prophet - August 30, 1982 – “Death Eater Trials Begin: Justice for Victims”

The Ministry of Magic has commenced a series of high-profile trials for captured Death Eaters. This move is seen as a step towards justice for the countless victims of You-Know-Who's terror. Families of the victims have expressed a mix of relief and sorrow as the trials unfold. “We hope this brings some measure of closure,” stated an emotional relative of one of the victims.

The Daily Prophet - January 19, 1983 – “New Evidence in Godric's Hollow Incident: Ministry Reopens Investigation”

In light of new evidence, the Ministry of Magic has decided to reopen the investigation into the events at Godric's Hollow. Details remain confidential, but sources indicate that previously overlooked magical traces have been discovered. The wizarding community hopes this will shed light on the circumstances of that fateful night.

A ministry source revealed, on condition of anonymity, that it is now strongly suspected that the defeat of You-Know-Who can be attributed to a failed Killing Curse that rebounded on him after the dark wizard attempted to cast it on the young Harry Potter.

The Daily Prophet - January 10, 1984 – “Debate Over Slytherin House: Should It Be Abolished?”

Public speculation has been rife about the future of Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, following the defeat of You-Know-Who and the subsequent revelations of widespread Death Eater affiliations among its former members. Some vocal segments of the wizarding community are calling for the abolition of Slytherin House, arguing that its legacy of producing dark wizards poses a threat to future generations.

“Too many dark wizards have come from Slytherin. It's time we take a stand and ensure that Hogwarts remains a safe place for all students,” argued Joanna Brown, a concerned parent. Others have suggested that all former Slytherin members be placed on a watch list to prevent any potential resurgence of dark activities.

However, there are strong voices in defense of Slytherin as well. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has publicly opposed the notion of abolishing the house. “Slytherin House has produced many witches and wizards who have contributed positively to our society. It is not the house that makes the wizard, but their choices. Punishing an entire house for the actions of a few is both unjust and counterproductive.”

The debate continues to spark intense discussions throughout the wizarding world, with no clear consensus in sight. As the new term approaches, the future of Slytherin House remains a topic of great interest and concern for students, parents, and educators alike.

The Daily Prophet - July 14, 1984 – “Calls for Reform: Magical Law Enforcement Under Scrutiny”

Following public outcry over the handling of the Death Eater menace and the mysterious disappearance of Harry Potter, there are increasing calls for reform within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Critics argue that the Ministry has been slow to adapt to new threats and demand greater accountability and transparency.

The Daily Prophet - August 14, 1984 – “New Defense Initiatives: Strengthening Magical Britain”

The Ministry of Magic has unveiled new defense initiatives to further safeguard the magical community. These include enhanced protections for wizarding homes, improved detection spells for dark magic, and increased collaboration with international magical law enforcement agencies. The reforms come in the wake of ongoing concerns about residual Death Eater activity and the need for a vigilant and prepared society.

The Daily Prophet – September 3, 1984 – “Metamorphmagery: A Lost Talent Resurfaces”

Metamorphmagery, or the ability to transform one’s appearance at will, has been seen on full display at the annual Hogwarts Sorting feast. The young Nymphadora Tonks, daughter of Edward and Andromeda Tonks surprised all gathered students and faculty last Saturday with an unexpected display of her fledgling abilities as a reaction to being sorted into the house of Hufflepuff. The ability is considered a rare hereditary magical trait that’s not been seen for decades.

The Daily Prophet - September 7, 1984 – “Defense Against Dark Arts Post Cursed? Rumors Persist”

As another school year begins at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, whispers of a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position continue to circulate. For the eighteenth consecutive year, the esteemed institution finds itself welcoming a new professor to the role, fueling speculation that the position is jinxed.

The supposed curse first gained traction after a series of abrupt departures and mishaps befell previous occupants of the post. Some students and staff believe that the position is cursed, making it impossible for any professor to last more than a year.

“There's definitely something odd about it,” said a fifth-year student. “We just hope Professor Abbott has better luck this year.”

While the Ministry of Magic dismisses such talk as baseless superstition, the phenomenon has become a topic of considerable interest and concern within the wizarding community. Only time will tell if this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor can break the so-called curse.

The Daily Prophet - October 17, 1984 – “Old Families React to New Reforms: Tradition vs. Security”

In the wake of the Ministry of Magic's sweeping new reforms designed to enhance magical security, prominent pureblood families have voiced their concerns and objections. The Black, Malfoy, and Nott families, among others, have argued that some of the proposed measures infringe upon longstanding traditions and personal freedoms. Lucius Malfoy, a notable figure within the pureblood community, stated, “While we acknowledge the necessity of security, we must also safeguard our heritage and way of life. The Ministry's approach threatens to undermine the very fabric of our society.”

These sentiments are echoed by many in pureblood circles who fear that increased regulation and surveillance could lead to unwarranted intrusions into private affairs. Critics of the reforms argue that a balance must be struck between ensuring safety and preserving the cultural legacy of the magical world. Minister Bagnold, however, defended the reforms, emphasizing that they are essential to prevent a resurgence of dark activity and ensure the well-being of magical citizens.

The Daily Prophet - September 1, 1985 – “Wizarding World Moves On: New Era Dawns”

As the magical community continues to recover from the scars of You-Know-Who's reign, a sense of normalcy is slowly returning. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry reports record enrollments and Diagon Alley is bustling with activity. While the mystery of Harry Potter's whereabouts remains unresolved, the Boy Who Lived is in all our thoughts and prayers as the community slowly continues to rebuild and look to the future.

The Daily Prophet - September 22, 1985 – “Reflections on the Dark Times: Moving Forward”

As the wizarding world continues to heal from the scars left by You-Know-Who, reflections on the Dark Times are becoming a regular part of public discourse. Scholars and historians are documenting the events and their impact on magical society. Educational reforms at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry include a renewed emphasis on Defense Against the Dark Arts, ensuring that future generations are better prepared to face any threats that may arise.

The Daily Prophet - June 24, 1986 – “Barty Crouch Jr. Passes Away in Azkaban”

Barty Crouch Jr., one of the most notorious Death Eaters imprisoned after the fall of You-Know-Who, was found dead in his cell at Azkaban Prison early yesterday morning. The cause of death is believed to be the prolonged exposure to the Dementors, which has severely impacted the mental and physical health of many inmates over the years.

Crouch, the son of prominent Ministry official Bartemius Crouch Sr., was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1981 for his involvement in the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom, who remain permanently incapacitated. His trial, which included other high-profile Death Eaters such as Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange, shocked the wizarding world not only due to the heinous nature of their crimes but also because of the betrayal of trust it represented.

The younger Crouch’s fall from grace was a significant blow to his father, who had been a staunch advocate for justice and order within the Ministry of Magic. The elder Crouch has maintained a strict silence on the matter since his son’s incarceration, continuing to focus on his work, having moved from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Reactions to Crouch Jr.'s death have been mixed. Some in the wizarding community believe that his passing closes a dark chapter in the aftermath of the war against You-Know-Who. “It is a tragic end, but perhaps now there can be some measure of closure for the victims and their families,” said Amelia Bones, the current head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Others, however, express concerns over the conditions in Azkaban and the use of Dementors as guards. “While justice must be served, we must also consider the humanity of our prison system. Prolonged exposure to Dementors is a cruel fate, even for those guilty of the most serious crimes,” commented David Meadowes, a vocal advocate for prison reform.

The Ministry of Magic has not yet released an official statement on Crouch Jr.'s death, but it is expected that an internal review will be conducted to examine the circumstances leading to his demise. As the wizarding world reflects on the events of the past decade, the legacy of Barty Crouch Jr. remains a somber reminder of the dark times that once gripped the magical community.

The Daily Prophet - October 31, 1986 – “Five Years On: Remembering the Fall of You-Know-Who”

Today marks the fifth anniversary of the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Commemorative events are being held across the wizarding world to honor the victims and celebrate the triumph over darkness. The legacy of the Boy Who Lived endures, though questions about his fate continue to linger. As we remember the past, we remain hopeful for a brighter future.

“What do you think, Harry?”

Harry looked up from ‘Your Year in Review – 1986’ into Aunt Petunia’s concerned face and wondered what he thought.

It was the last Friday of August, and he had spent his entire summer learning as much as he could about the world of magic while his aunt had spent a comparable amount of time piecing together everything that had been going on in that same world in recent years.

The hour was pretty late, and Harry speculated if the weekend had already begun.

The family would be driving down to Godric’s Hollow the next morning so that Harry could finally visit the place his parents had once called home, so he was expecting to have been sent to bed as soon as dinner had concluded. But instead, while clearing away the dishes Aunt Petunia had announced that she had finally finished going through all seven of her books on recent events and she was ready to talk about what she’d learned with Harry in private.

Harry had felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine as he’d nodded quickly. Dudley had wanted to stay as well, but his mother had gently suggested that he let Harry learn about his past on his own before they filled him in. He’d conceded and had shortly afterwards, left the kitchen with his father.

Aunt Petunia had stuck brightly colored sticky notes throughout the books to enable him to easily navigate to the articles that she thought pertained directly to him or ones providing more details about the war and its aftermath and Harry had methodically perused them as she quietly brewed them some hot chocolate in the background.

“Harry?” she asked again, gently.

Harry put the book down again and rubbed his face.

“So…they really were murdered,” he said in a strangled voice. “And he tried to kill me too.”

Petunia hesitated a second before responding. “If these old news articles are to be believed…then yes.”

“But-but why?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know Harry,” she said even more softly, laying a tender hand on his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t aware that he was crying until the first tear rolled down his cheeks and dropped onto the page. Before he knew it he was sobbing uncontrollably as Aunt Petunia wrapped him in a warm embrace and stroked his hair, assuring him that everything was going to be ok.

He wasn’t even sure what he was crying about. He had long since made peace with the fact that his birth parents had passed away when he was a year old. He hadn’t reacted this way even when he’d learned that his parents hadn’t perished in a car crash, as he’d always been told, at the end of May.

Perhaps it was finally starting to hit him that not everything about this new world he’d discovered was exciting and magical. Perhaps reading the articles from the last year of the war that had claimed his birth family had helped him comprehend the terror and existential dread that seemed to have plagued so many of the people who had experienced those days firsthand. Reading about the deaths, the attacks, the tortures and the widespread panic made it real somehow, and for the first time, he was starting to understand just how dire things must have been for his family to have gone into hiding, and how futile it had still proved.

And he wondered how bad things were that even children were not spared from the horrors of that war. That he himself had supposedly been targeted. And he had no idea why.

He didn’t know how long it was that he sniffled into his aunt’s shoulder as she gently consoled him and whispered assurances to him. But by the time he finally wiped his eyes the mug of chocolate in front of him was far from hot.

He cradled it in his hands, more to keep himself from fidgeting than because he wanted to take a sip.

“At least I think I finally understand why this Dumbledore wanted to hide me somewhere safe,” he chuckled wetly.

Petunia nodded sadly, taking a sip from her own mug and grimacing slightly.

“It doesn’t have to be now, but-but do you think we could get some more books about who or what these Death Eaters were? I just, I just want to understand what they were after, or what this ‘Voldemort’ wanted. Or why it feels like the whole magical world was afraid of even referring to him by name.” Harry said after a bit of silence.

Petunia considered this request looking troubled once more. Her desire to shelter her family was warring with her own desire to understand more about what circumstances had led to the death of her sister.

“I-I’ll think about it Harry,” she promised eventually. “I’m not sure if reopening some of these old wounds is healthy for y-for either of us. But I know that you want…closure.” As do I, she added in the privacy of her own mind.

Harry nodded.

“Do you still want to make the trip to Godric’s Hollow tomorrow?” Petunia asked after a few minutes. “I know that this has been a lot, so there’s no harm in postponing the visit for another weekend.”

“No, I still want to go,” he responded immediately. “I want to see where they lived, where I was born…where it happened.”

Petunia sighed. “Very well then. In that case, it might be a good idea to turn in now. It’s going to be a long drive, so we need to start fairly early.”

Harry nodded, getting up slowly from his seat and started to reach for his mostly untouched mug of cold chocolate before Aunt Petunia interrupted him again.

“Leave it be, dear. I’ll clean up in here before turning in.”

Harry muttered a distracted “Thank You” and slowly climbed the stairs and headed into his room.

He didn’t even bother attempting to practice any magic tonight. It was already later than he would have liked, and there was another hectic weekend waiting for him in the morning. So, he quickly slipped into his pajamas and headed straight to bed.

As had become his custom, he reflexively began to focus on steadying his breathing as a prelude to entering a peaceful meditative trance before he nodded off.

His memory palace had grown in the last two months, and he had a separate annex from what he viewed as his central keep for memories which invoked each distinct emotion. The memory from tonight would go into grief.

He’d found that he was better at establishing connections and making logical deductions when he entered his trance. And tonight, as he vaguely wandered his fortress, waiting for sleep to find him, a few pieces of information and unanswered questions that he’d not immediately noted, floated unbidden to the surface of his consciousness.

The first was an absence of info rather than the presence of something that didn’t add up.

There had been several articles about the trials of the Death Eaters after the war had ended. Even an article on one of them, Crouch, passing away while imprisoned. Why then wasn’t there any article on Sirius Black’s trial following his arrest?

Also, while the article kind of answered their earlier question of why Harry’s parents’ friends had never tried to contact them, it only explained the absence of Black and Pettigrew, with one being dead and the other being a possibly incarcerated Death Eater. But what about the other one that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had mentioned, Remus?

He was also a little surprised that all the citations in the books had come from the same newspaper. Did magical Britain not have any other credible source of facts? Or did the author of the series merely have a tie-up with the Prophet? He’d heard Uncle Vernon rant about bias in various media outlets too often to think that relying solely on a single source of information was a good idea.

Why did it take almost two years after the disappearance of Voldemort for the ‘high-profile’ Death Eater trials to begin? Would that not have allowed suspects to mount a better legal defense that could help hide their potential guilt?

And finally, as he drifted off to sleep, he found himself thinking back to the question that he’d already asked Aunt Petunia, but she hadn’t had an answer for. Why had Voldemort targeted his parents, and why had he tried to kill a one-year-old child?

The drive to Godric’s Hollow, way off to the Southwest was a long one. They started the journey after a quick breakfast of bacon and eggs and made good time as they drove. Petunia had apparently filled in her husband on the details she had unearthed, and Dudley seemed to have temporarily forgotten about asking for the details of the conversation his mother had had with Harry the previous night.

Once again, Harry had the beanie, and the glasses close at hand as they made their way towards their destination. Petunia had observed that if the Ministry of Magic had gone through with declaring his parent’s house as a national monument, there was a possibility that they might run into tourists who might recognize him by sight. They hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but it was probably better to take precautions than to be caught unawares.

Harry thought back to the article he’d glanced at in passing last night about Metamorphmagery and wished he too had the ability to alter his appearance at will.

They stopped for lunch at Bristol, which wasn’t strictly on the way, but allowed for a little bit of sightseeing so long as they didn’t take too long.

So, after enjoying a slow lunch at the mazy St. Nicholas Market while admiring the historic architecture, they drove past the Cathedral, Bristol’s Museum and Art Gallery and Cabot Tower before exiting the city via the Clifton Suspension Bridge before resuming their journey towards Weston-super-Mare which Uncle Vernon mentioned was the closest landmark to the village.

This last leg of the journey saw them leave the highways behind in favor of narrower country roads, and Petunia suggested that Harry put on his disguise.

At around two in the afternoon, their Vauxhall finally pulled into a quaint little hamlet that seemed to have been forgotten by the passage of time.

Godric’s Hollow was a small community that seemed to be centered around a tiny village square comprising a steepled church, a tinier post office, a dilapidated pub and a small handful of retail shops. The few residential streets they slowly drove down consisted of quaint cottages inhabited by curious folk, for whom even the arrival of a vehicle they didn’t recognize caused a bit of curiosity.

They had already prepared a cover story in case any of the local residents approached them and wanted to know who they were. They’d claim to have taken a wrong turn while on their way to Weston-super-Mare, which they were heading to in order to enjoy the last day of the summer weekend at the Water Adventure Play Park. But now that they had in fact arrived at this little village, they’d decided to sightsee for a bit before resuming their trip.

To their relief, however, none of the locals approached them as they disembarked in front of a building that didn’t fit the rest of the neighborhood.

Uncle Vernon was the last person to have visited Godric’s Hollow, shortly after Harry had appeared at Number 4 back in 1981. And he’d been unable to even find the house where Lily and James Potter had been living. He would very likely have suffered the same fate this time had Harry, Dudley and Aunt Petunia not been expecting such an eventuality and had their eyes peeled.

“Vernon, over there! Stop!” she hissed suddenly as they were making their way down an otherwise unremarkable side street at the extreme edge of the village, causing her husband to slam on the breaks and look around in confusion.

His wife, son and nephew were all staring at something to their right with open mouths and following their gazes Vernon saw…absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

“You know,” he huffed. “Some of this magical trickery is starting to get a little old.”

Chapter Text

28^th August 1987

As Vernon carefully parked their car in the narrow street, Harry found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the ruins of what had been his childhood home.

The charred remains of what must have once been sturdy stone walls stood exposed to the elements in the space between two perfectly ordinary little cottages. The roof had been blown away, as had any door or windows, as if a massive explosion somewhere inside had demolished the structure from within.

They disembarked, with Uncle Vernon grumpily electing to lean against the driver’s door as Harry and Petunia crossed the street and made their way towards the ruins in silence. Dudley, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned against the car with his father.

In contrast to the soot-blackened walls of the main building, or at least its remains, the little shrubbery between the low garden wall and the ruins, was awash with colors. A vast swathe of lilies of every conceivable color swayed gently in the afternoon breeze like a last line of defense against the bleak reminder of the destruction that lay just beyond it.

Harry heard a small sniffle beside him and turned to see Aunt Petunia dab her eyes with a handkerchief.

“The cottage had been a gift to your parents from your grandfather, Fleamont. Lily once mentioned that the first thing James did on arriving here after their wedding was to charm every square inch of the grounds so they would bloom with lilies all year around…he was big on grand romantic gestures like that.”

She chuckled a bit at the memory and continued. “Except, she was positively furious about it. She had planned on growing some potions ingredients for her own brews.”

Harry turned back to the flowers in front of him and for a moment imagined he could almost see an irate Lily berating a sheepish James over his impulsive action. He smiled, a little misty-eyed himself before walking over to the wooden gate at the center of the outer stone wall.

He paused with his hand raised to push it open when the stones of the low wall almost seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun, causing him to regard them more closely.

The previously unadorned gray stones were now covered with graffiti.

Harry immediately felt a spike of anger at the vandalism of the place where his parents had died but quickly swallowed his initial reaction as he continued gazing at the words that had been painted onto the wall.

They were messages of support and solidarity.

“Potters, gone but never forgotten,” read one of them, while beneath it another proclaimed, “We stand with you, Harry.”

Harry felt touched by this outpouring of support from complete strangers. True, they had decided that in the absence of an actual Potter they could communicate their love to, they would simply deface the scene of their tragedy, but even so...it was moving. It was weird that the messages were all so haphazard and dismissive of the words other folks had left behind though.

He shrugged and put it out of his mind for now and slowly pushed the wooden garden door, which swung open soundlessly.

Taking a deep steadying breath, he stepped into the garden.

He was immediately aware of a strange tingling sensation on his skin as if a small discharge of static electricity had momentarily passed through him. He stopped, alarmed, and turned back to Aunt Petunia.

“Did you feel that?” he asked cautiously.

She raised an eyebrow at him in response. “Feel what, Harry?”

“Thought I felt a-no, never mind.”

He resolutely turned back towards the ruins of the building and began to walk up the little garden path through the vibrant Lilies towards where the front door must have once been.

Instead of a door, there was simply a rectangular hole in the wall, about seven-and-a-half feet high and about three-and-a-half feet wide. Harry stopped in front of it cautiously, attempting to peer into what lay beyond.

He seemed to be looking into what was once a cozy entrance hall. He could see a slightly damaged stone stairway on the opposite side of where he was standing, leading to what was left of the upper floors. Two separate doors extended to either side of the hall.

Harry took a deep breath and stepped into the house he had been born in.

Maybe it was the emotion of finally coming back to this place, but he fancied he could hear whispers at the extreme edge of his hearing. Forgotten memories of a happier time tried to clamor in vain for his attention as he stood staring at a place he should have grown up knowing but could barely remember. He thought if he really tried, he could pick out the tune of a Welsh lullaby crooned to him when he was still a baby in the crib, or the sounds of his own gurgling laughter as a baby as his father and his silly friends entertained him in front of their cozy hearth, of his mother’s enraged shriek as he floated his toy broomstick a little too far off the ground.

He sighed, he knew he was imagining it all, trying to pretend to himself that he remembered any piece of his childhood prior to being relocated to Privet Drive. But just for a moment, it didn’t hurt to indulge in what he hoped his life here had been like.

“Did grandfather Fleamont never live here then?” he asked his aunt in an attempt to break the silence in the house and quieten the whispers of imagined memories.

Petunia took her time to ponder the question before responding.

“I think the ancestral home of the Potters was somewhere to the North. James once mentioned that the Potter family had moved to this village many generations ago on account of being unable to maintain their larger estates from ages past. Apparently. your grandfather Fleamont, had been a remarkably successful businessman in his youth and had restored most of the family’s holdings and moved back into the ancestral seat before finally getting married and having James.”

“So, are there other Potters out there?” Harry asked curiously.

“I…don’t think so, Harry. James was an only child and I do not recall meeting any other direct relatives of his at their wedding. Except your grandparents of course.”

“Oh. What about grandpa himself, or grandma…Euphemia, right?”

“They both passed within a few days of each other about a year before you were born. They had long been suffering from some manner of magical illness and had looked frail even at the wedding.” Petunia said sadly.

Harry absorbed that as he carefully moved into the room to their left. The absence of windows ensured that plenty of summer sunlight was streaming into the dilapidated interior of the house, so it wasn’t difficult to see where he was going. But aside from the massive, almost man-high, stone fireplace off in the far corner, there was nothing left in this space to indicate what this room had originally been used for.

He raked his eyes across the empty space and could easily imagine a fire roaring in the hearth, gently warming the room on winter nights. Perhaps erupting into green flames like the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, as his father returned home from work to be with his family.

This raised an interesting question now that he thought about it, and it kind of embarrassed him that it wasn’t one he’d asked several years sooner.

“Aunt Petunia? What did um, my father and mother do for a living?”

“Oh, I think both James and er, Sirius Black,” he noted her slight hesitation on the second name but waited for her to go on, “worked as some kind of magical police people. I know Lily used to worry a lot about them getting hurt while on duty and kept berating them for having chosen a profession just because it had sounded ‘cool’ when they were kids.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “And mum?”

“Lily was always more academically inclined,” she answered with a small fond smile. “She was pursuing something called a ‘Mastery’, in Potioneering. I think she had to take a break around the time she had you, but she had resumed her studies by early 1981.”

Harry nodded. He could see that happening. If his mother’s meticulous notes in the margins of her various texts were anything to go by, she had most certainly taken her studies seriously. Harry supposed he himself wasn’t that much different from her in this regard and smiled to himself at feeling a connection to her beyond just sharing her blood.

He stepped back out into the hall and glanced through the doorway into the room on the other side.

The room was just as bare as the other one, but the scorch marks on the wall here extended even further up. Perhaps once there had been wooden shelves that lined the sides of this room before they’d gone up in flames caused by the explosion.

Had it been a library perhaps? Harry found himself wondering. Were the rest of his mother’s collection of magical texts proudly displayed in this room once upon a time, next to photo albums filled to bursting with pictures of him taking his first steps, or visiting the park for the first time?

Was this where his family had spent their evenings as they joked and laughed with their closest friends before it was all snatched away from them in the span of a single catastrophic night?

It was taking more and more effort to keep from succumbing to the onslaught of imagined memories. Harry quickly turned away and headed towards the stairs at the far end of the hall.

He gingerly tested his weight on the bottom step as Aunt Petunia looked torn between advising him to stop and wanting to venture up to the floor above herself, and once satisfied that the steps would not collapse under him slowly climbed up to the first floor.

This area was much brighter than the ground level on account of having no roof overhead. The stairs emerged onto a long hall that led to a small balcony that might once have had a glass French window to keep out the elements while letting in the sunlight. There were three doors on either side of the passage and Harry peered into them as he made his way to the front of the house.

“That’s strange,” Aunt Petunia said behind him.

He turned towards her with a questioning gaze as she continued.

“With no roof overhead, I’d have expected water damage from rain and snow…or something I suppose,” she said, frowning at the condition of the walls around her. “I mean the whole building is damaged, yes, but not from the weather or anything. In fact, now that I’m looking for it, shouldn’t there be dust or dirt all over the floors as well?”

Harry hadn’t considered this, but the more he thought of it the less it made sense.

“Maybe someone magicked it to preserve it just as it was after the-the attack?” he offered hesitantly.

She looked around some more uncertainly, unconsciously worrying her lower lip, before nodding.

“Perhaps,” she eventually conceded.

Harry investigated the first room on the left. Perhaps it had been a guest bedroom once, but there really wasn’t anything left to see here anymore. The first door on the right looked almost identical, but Harry for some reason imagined that this was the room where his favorite uncle would spend the night if he was staying over.

He shook his head annoyed at himself, these musings and wishful fantasies were starting to get out of hand. Casting a sidelong glance at his aunt he entered a trance as he headed to the next doorway, just to get his emotions under control.

As he peered into the second doorway on the left side of the passage, he froze.

This room was unlike the ones before it. The space was divided into three sections by stone counters that stretched almost all the way to the walls. But Harry, just for a brief moment, had seen the room not as the ruins they were now, he’d imagined them as they must have been six years ago.

Open shelves of wood lined the walls of the room from floor to ceiling and a row of cauldrons, sitting at exact intervals from each other, were arrayed on the stone counters. A little boy strapped into a high-backed chair looked on as a woman with bright red hair pulled back into a severe ponytail fussed around the only cauldron under which a flame crackled, chopping ingredients and occasionally pausing to add something to the pot or give its contents a stir.

She looked up at the child to make sure he was behaving himself and gave him a small smile and a wink.

Harry blinked as the vivid image faded. The room was back to being the abandoned ruin it had clearly been for some time.

Was that…a vision of some sort?

He realized with a start that he had dropped his trance in his surprise and making sure to have his back turned away from Petunia, entered the trance once more to better analyze what had just happened.

There must be some kind of magic at play here, he concluded instantly.

Those strange imaginings that he’d been discarding as wishful thoughts were glimpses of subconscious or repressed memories peeking out from deep within him, reacting to the magic of this house.

He had not had any luck in sensing magic so far despite his repeated attempts to do so, but here and now it felt so right that Harry instinctively tried to extend his senses as far outwards as they would go to see if he picked up anything.

The effect was instantaneous.

How he managed to not let out a yelp of surprise, he would never be able to explain even to himself, but the very walls of the ruins he was currently standing in were awash with a warm reddish glow that seemed to be reacting to his every movement.

Acting on an impulse, he laid his right palm flat against the closest bit of wall while trying to direct his senses into it and immediately opened his eyes wide in shock.

A circle of seven figures, naked save for their robes danced beneath a bright moon, holding silver daggers and dark wands in each of their hands. They ran the blades across the palms of their hands and appeared to squeeze a few drops of blood onto the ground beneath their bare, dancing feet. The land was thus marked as belonging to the family, and any structure ever constructed here would always sing to one of their own.

A somber meeting around the hearth. The last of their possessions had been moved from the Manor to their much smaller new home. They had to make peace with their reduced circumstances…but at least while they were here, they would be safe and protected.

The cries of a newborn babe pierced the silence of the hall, while in the room across, an old woman closed the eyes of her husband as he breathed his last. Birth and death, the rise of new and the end of the old…so long there was even a single Potter who bore the name and blood of their ancestors, the magic would persevere. For as long as there was even one of their blood left standing, the family’s magic would do its utmost to protect them.

Laughter and joy as one of the Potter children celebrated his wedding to a daughter of another family. The other family's magic was potent and had also been around for a long while. The union of the Peverells to the Potters would strengthen and help preserve both lineages.

Disbelief and outrage in the study. This was their home now, why bother to leave to try and reclaim what they’d lost over a century ago? The magic understood…it was its place to safeguard the family, not prevent them from seeking their fate and fortune.

The door being closed for the final time, decades, perhaps even centuries of silence would reign in the rooms that had been filled with both elation and tears for so long. But the magic would wait…for as long as there was a Potter by name and by blood.

The loud creak of a door being opened after a long passage of time. Joy, exultation, the house was to be prepared for the arrival of a new generation of Potters. The magic knew them without ever having seen them. They were coming home though they had never been here before.

Another Potter had come into the world. Another Potter to laugh and to cry and to learn to take his first steps in these halls. Another Potter to protect, and the magic would not let him down.

Danger in the night. What was this foul oppressive magic that was preventing the ancient rites from protecting its family? Despair as a dark curse claimed one of them…there was only one left now, the child upstairs. And if the child was taken, the Potters would be no more! And still, it could not react, it could see the end fast approaching in the cruel eyes and heartless laughter of this monster that strode up the stairs. But wait - the child’s mother had sacrificed herself to protect her son! The family magic had been paralyzed by something, rendered impotent when it came to protecting its family…but it could perhaps still pour its magic into a spell that was already there, channel all its accumulated energy into strengthening the protective spell that had just shimmered into existence around the last Potter. It could direct a century’s worth of ambient magical energies that had seeped into its stones and render the shield into something different. Something stronger. Something potent. Something…more.

Boom!

The threat had been vanquished, but now, a child lay unconscious in a house that had been set ablaze! No matter, the family magic would ensure that no flames would reach the baby who now carried the weight of centuries of Potters and all their love.

Memories…so many fragments of memories were contained in the walls of these ruins. Even when abandoned for decades after Fleamont had returned to wherever the Potter’s ancestral home had been, even after being nearly destroyed by the magical explosion caused by a rebounding killing curse and the fires that followed, even after years of neglect, the family magic had endured. It remembered, after a fashion, every moment that the Potters had lived in these walls, and it had waited patiently, knowing that somewhere out there, the child it had helped save had survived. And when he had finally arrived, it had known him instantly and welcomed him home.

And that child, finally broke down, and wept.

“Oh Harry!” Petunia exclaimed while wrapping him in a tight embrace as he finished recounting his experience.

They were sitting on the picnic blanket that was always stashed in the Vauxhall’s boot and was currently spread out on the grass about a mile outside the village of Godric’s Hollow.

Aunt Petunia had come rushing up to him when he’d burst into tears after experiencing the memories of the family magic. He’d barely managed to keep from bawling his eyes out and had promised to explain his sudden outburst once they were away from here.

The rest of their tour of the house had passed by in a blur.

Now that he knew these visions to be real and not figments of his imagination, he’d paid closer attention to everything around him.

He’d recognized what had once been his nursery and had seen vague impressions of doting parents and smiling visitors arriving with toys and presents. He had even seen a glimpse of his father’s rage as Harry’s first words had been neither his own name nor Lily’s (nor any variation of ‘mom’ or ‘dad’), but the nickname he’d given to one of his friends.

And throughout it all, he’d been aware of being watched over by the magic of his family that slumbered within these walls.

He’d become aware of a few charms resting over the whole property. Weaker and fainter in comparison, even though they had felt a lot more recent. Harry guessed they might be spells to keep non-magical people away and to preserve the place as it was.

But these spells were not meant to last, not like the magic that was already present within.

They’d left the property with Harry in a bit of a daze and had decided to pick up some snacks at the local pub and have a little impromptu picnic before visiting the cemetery where they suspected Lily and James would have been laid to rest.

As Vernon had gone to pick up the food and drinks and Petunia had kept an eye on the car, Harry and Dudley had strolled over to the strange statue that adorned the plinth at the center of the village square.

It had turned out to be a statue of his parents, holding a little baby who Harry assumed was meant to be him. The plinth, just like the walls around the garden from before, was adorned with years of supportive messages. Dudley had gazed up at it in wonder and Harry had the distinct impression that his cousin could see the statue, but not the scrawls.

They’d found a picturesque little meadow just outside the village and had rolled out the blanket, and Harry had finally shared what he’d experienced with them all as they sipped their sodas and munched on some crisps.

“I’m alright, Aunt Petunia,” he said gently. “It was just a lot to take in all of a sudden.”

“Woah!” Dudley said in an awed whisper. “That sounds intense!”

Harry gave him a small smile as his aunt slowly let go of him.

“Are you sure you’re ok dear? We can call it a day if you want to get some rest…” she trailed off.

“I’m sure, Aunt Petunia,” he said with a determination he didn’t really feel.

“Ok, then we’ll drive to the cemetery, pay our respects and start heading back towards Bristol,” Uncle Vernon announced. “But Harry, don’t hesitate to let us know if you change your mind, ok?”

Harry gave him a weak thumbs up in lieu of speaking, keeping up his faux-cheerful appearance and began helping clear the crisp packets from their unplanned picnic.

The cemetery was surprisingly large for such a small village.

They’d decided to split up so as to find the final resting places for James and Lily more quickly, and Harry had quickly become convinced that Godric’s Hollow had at one point been home to more magical folks than just the Potters.

He’d seen graves belonging to Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore, several folks with the last name ‘Bagshot’ that he recalled from his ‘History of Magic’ books, some centuries-old grave markers that were greatly eroded but had likely once borne the name ‘Gryffindor’ and even an entire row of old graves belonging to folks bearing the name ‘Peverell’ that he could have sworn he’d come across as well.

And finally, he’d heard Dudley call out as he’d found what they had all been searching for.

He walked over to where his cousin’s voice had sounded from and spotted a simple, yet elegant marble headstone read, “James Fleamont Potter & Lily Rose Potter 1960 – 1981.”

And beneath was the message: “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.”

There was no magic here in this quiet graveyard so far removed from the hustle and bustle of the world, just an insurmountable sense of loss and silent epitaphs to people who had left behind all mortal woes.

Harry stared at the graves in the silence of the graveyard as Dudley left to find his parents.

“Hi mum, hi dad,” Harry whispered.

The mood in the car was predictably heavy as they finally pulled out of the little village and got back on the road to Bristol.

Harry had asked if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon knew what the strange words on the headstone had meant, and they’d both confessed to their ignorance on the subject.

They hadn’t even known who had been responsible for putting it up since by rights the responsibility should have fallen to Petunia as Lily’s sister, as James had no other living relatives left aside from Harry.

Harry had filed it away as yet another unanswered question and had silently placed a single Lily on the graves of his parents, plucked earlier from their own little garden.

“You know we ran into this crazy old woman near the house while we were waiting,” Dudley’s voice suddenly interrupted the silence in the vehicle.

“What’s that honey?” his mother asked from the passenger seat, clearly broken out of her own reveries.

“When dad and I were waiting outside the house, this cooky old woman came up to us.”

“Oh?” Aunt Petunia asked, instantly on alert. “What did she want?”

It was her husband who answered this time. “Didn’t even bother with a ‘Hello’,” he grunted. “Said something like, ‘Huh, normally you damn gawkers only show up around Samhain. Nice to know that you’re going to be disturbing the peace at other times of the year too!’.”

He snorted. “It was the oddest thing. And before I could even ask what she meant, she said…she said, what was it again Dudley?”

“‘Mind you don’t try to get in now, you won’t like what happens if you try!’” Dudley responded in an odd high-pitched accent that Harry assumed was an imitation of this old lady’s voice. “And then she cackled, didn’t she dad?” Dudley finished.

“Aye, so she did son,” Vernon agreed. “And then she turned around and left while we were still trying to figure out what on Earth all that was about. She was still muttering something about vandals defacing the walls with graffiti, and that she knew they were there even though she couldn’t prove it or some such nonsense as she left.”

“Graffiti? In a tiny little village like this? We didn’t notice anything like that, did we?” Aunt Petunia asked with evident skepticism.

“She was crazy, mum!” Dudley reminded her.

Harry’s mind was racing.

“Dudley, I think she might have been a witch,” he said softly.

Dudley turned to him with furrowed brows and doubt in his eyes. “What-no! She was just some crazy old woman. Kind of like old Mr. Wilson over at Number 33 who’s always hearing things and thinks his furniture are whispering to each other when he isn’t paying attention.”

“Samhain is basically the same time as Halloween,” Harry explained. “She saw you parked near the house where-where it happened and assumed you were there to visit the site. I’m guessing what she meant was that people usually only come to visit on the anniversary of the…attack, which would be on Halloween.”

There was silence in the car as everyone processed this.

“But, what about that rot about graffiti or getting in?” Uncle Vernon asked.

“There was…some sort of magical barrier around the place that might have been designed to keep people out. I’m not sure if that would have been cast by whoever declared the place a monument, or if it was inherent to the magic of the house itself” Harry theorized.

“And you and I were able to walk in because we’re both blood-related to Lily?” Aunt Petunia ventured.

“Maybe?” Harry returned. “I’m just guessing,” he clarified. “But if a lot of people had been visiting, the place wouldn’t have been as clean as it was unless something was keeping all of them out.”

“But what about the stuff about vandalism? She was completely crazy about that, right?” Dudley practically whined.

“Um…Dudley, when we walked up to the statue in the town square, what did you see?” Harry asked in return.

“Oh, your parents’ statue? Well, it was just them and you, right? Was there anything else there?” Dudley asked with a puzzled frown.

“The pedestal it was standing on had a whole bunch of messages scrawled on it,” Harry told him. “Same with the wall around the garden of the house. I think, unlike the usual magical effects which prevent non-magical folks from seeing it, the messages were made to be only visible to the people they were intended for. Which I suppose just means me.”

He paused before adding, “Probably a way to prevent other magical people from reacting to it the same way as your old woman and trying to un-vandalize the place.”

“Oh! What did the messages say?” Dudley asked.

“They expressed support for the most part, I think,” Harry supplied. “‘Gone but not forgotten’ and other stuff like that.”

“Huh,” Dudley said, sounding contemplative.

Harry began to slowly count inside his head.

He got to two before the predictable shriek came from the passenger seat, indicating that his aunt had just arrived at the same realization as him.

“We came too close to an actual witch when we’re supposed to be keeping Harry hidden from people in the magical world!”

Uncle Vernon flinched as he too realized how close they’d inadvertently come to someone in the magical world seeing, and possibly, recognizing Harry.

“No, this is far too risky!” His aunt was still ranting. “We must stop doing things like this! We do not know who might be out to get you, and we have to stop driving off to places where there are chances of running into folks whose intentions-”

“I agree, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said softly.

“I’m sorry Harry. I know you want to know more about magic, but-”

“Aunt Petunia,” he tried again a little louder. “I agree with you.”

“It’s just far too-wait. You do?”

Harry nodded, meeting his aunt’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“I think it’s risky too.” He said simply. “I have plenty to study at home when it comes to magic. And I…I just wanted to visit the place where, you know, it happened once. I think I’m ok with not going on any more such trips for now.”

He hesitated and decided to forge ahead with his plea.

“I mean I would still really appreciate it if maybe, um, you could go into Diagon Alley and get me some more books once I’ve finished with everything I currently have?”

Petunia sighed and sagged in her seat.

“Fine, I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Text

July 1988

Harry smiled politely as Dudley, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia finished singing his birthday song and after a pause blew out the candles.

“What did you wish for?” Dudley asked immediately.

“Nothing,” Harry said simply, radiating sincerity. “I have everything I wish for right here.”

“That’s very sweet of you Harry,” Aunt Petunia smiled as Vernon and Dudley snorted in amusement.

The last year had irrevocably changed life at Number 4, Privet Drive. Theirs was by no means a normal family anymore.

It had taken both him and Dudley some time to establish the right balance between schoolwork and social life while continuing their largely clandestine pursuit of all things arcane. A balance made more difficult to achieve by the fact their respective arcane studies were growing further and further apart with each passing day. But they’d managed it.

And while it could not be denied that Dudley was starting to accept that active magic was a skill that would elude him, it didn’t make the disappointment any easier to bear.

For his part, Harry was acutely aware of how this same difference had pushed his mother and Aunt Petunia apart many years ago and was trying his best to prevent the recurrence of such a rift between himself and his cousin.

But these minor and inescapable complications aside, the household itself had changed drastically over the course of the last year.

And one needn’t look further than their kitchen to begin noticing the changes.

While they continued to keep up appearances in case normal mundane (they’d collectively decided that words such a ‘muggles’ and ‘squibs’ were derogatory and avoided using them) guests came by, someone who knew ‘what’ to look for would spot not one but three pewter cauldrons, balanced precariously on top of each other above the kitchen cupboard next to the cast-iron skillet.

If someone knew ‘where’ to look, then opening the tiny cabinet next to the sink marked kitchen supplies and taking down the false back panel would reveal a strange set of shelves containing the strangest ingredients in little glass vials.

Uncle Vernon had quite enjoyed that little project, he’d said that setting it up made him feel like ‘Q’ from the James Bond movies.

And finally, if someone knew ‘when’ to look, usually late in the evenings on a Saturday night, and was sneaky enough to creep to their curtained kitchen windows without alerting a silent watcher in the Alder tree in the garden and another in shrubbery bordering the building, they’d see the world’s most bizarre group cooking endeavor in progress.

Once they’d deemed themselves to have mastered all the basic techniques involved in the preparation of ingredients, they’d started attempting what the ‘Before you Begin to Brew’ book had called dry runs involving non-magical and therefore non-dangerous components.

And a few months after that, after spending a whole week identifying simple easy-to-brew potions that would not be risky if gotten wrong, Aunt Petunia had braved Diagon Alley once more to purchase the items necessary to brew the ‘Fire Protection Potion’, ‘Murtlap Essence’ and the ‘Germinating Potion.’

Once they’d sufficiently mastered these simpler brews, they had moved on to attempting to properly brew the ‘Vitamix Potion’ and the ‘Wiggenweld Potion.’

Harry was quite glad that Aunt Petunia had taken charge of their brewing curriculum.

She had started by having them focus on mastering brews that, in addition to being easy to make, would also help prevent burns or help heal cuts and scrapes, i.e. the most common injuries one might experience in the kitchen or a potions lab. And this logical approach to beginner’s potioneering was immediately rewarded when Harry’s silver dagger slipped while chopping the Murtlap Tentacles and he was left with a deep gash on his index finger. Ten minutes later, the potion had been brewed, strained, applied…and the cut was gone without a trace.

Dudley had started out a bit heavy handed in the initial days of their potioneering journey, but his skills had grown by leaps and bounds as time passed. While his knife-work wasn’t as clean as his mother’s he was at least as good as Harry when it came to the actual brewing. In fact, his second attempt at the Wiggenweld Potion was still the best they had brewed till date.

Harry had also been pleased to discover a whole series of helpful notes in his mother’s copy of ‘Magical Drafts and Potions’, which added interesting insights or alternatives to aid in his brewing. He was pretty sure that the various scribbled observations and instructions in the margins, and sometimes overwriting the published texts, were in more than one handwriting, but knowing that his mother had been a gifted potions mistress who was pursuing her own mastery, meant that he felt confident enough to try the suggestions offered in her textbook without too many reservations.

Overall, while it wasn’t his favorite branch of magic to practice, he was quite pleased with all the progress they were making. And it helped that the garden at Number 4 had never looked better, thanks to their collective efforts in brewing a few batches of the ‘Germinating Potion’.

Early in the school year, Harry had found his focus on his schoolwork starting to slip and had had to rely rather heavily on his ever-growing mind-fortress to keep his grades up. Dudley was struggling even more, and for a while Harry had started worrying that their lapses might cause Vernon and Petunia to make good on their threats from the summer.

Thankfully, a couple of new developments had kept school engaging enough that any potential crisis was averted before it was too late.

Halfway through September, the school had circulated a list of languages that interested students could sign up to learn, assuming a quorum was met.

Harry had stared at his form, ignoring the conversations around him, desperately trying to figure out how to ensure that he could get enough people to agree to try and learn Latin, since that was the language that most of the incantations of his active spells were in.

As far as he could tell, most kids were inclined to ignore the learning opportunity this presented since they, understandably, didn’t want the additional academic burden. A few of the more studious children were unsure if French, Spanish or German made the most sense, and they’d instinctively realized that they’d all need to come to an agreement to ensure that enough people enrolled to guarantee that even one of the languages were taught.

Since they’d have about a week to discuss the choices with their guardians before returning the signed forms, he decided to make the most of it and try influencing his peers…starting with Dudley.

He’d decided to adopt honesty as the best approach when it came to convincing Dudley, so as they set off towards home after school had closed for the day, he straight up told his cousin that most of the spells in the books they had were of Latin origin.

Dudley’s excitement was immediate.

He had initially, Harry suspected, seen the option to learn a new language as an unnecessary addition to the workload, but the link to the magical world had been enough to bring him over. Unfortunately, two prospective students were not enough to meet the quorum for the class.

So, Harry had suggested that Dudley try to convince some of his other friends as well.

It had been a bit of a hard sell, but eventually Piers, Danny and Randall had half-heartedly conceded that learning a dead-language could be fun, if only to be able to pass notes in class or otherwise have secret communications that most people would be unable to comprehend.

It was thin, but Harry didn’t need them to be genuinely interested in Latin…he just needed them to be curious enough to sign-up. He himself had focused on the students who had at least appeared to be truly interested in learning something new.

For them, the argument that learning the original language from which most of the other options on offer had eventually evolved would allow them to pick up all the rest with ease in the future, should they desire to do so, had carried merit.

And so, a week after the announcement was made, eight students turned in enrollment forms indicating their interest in learning Latin. Harry felt bad for Wasim, the boy whose family had emigrated from Afghanistan, for having been the only one to have wanted to learn Arabic.

When October rolled around, Latin classes were held twice a week at the Little Whinging Secondary school, by the ever-cheerful Mr. Dimitrius Chloros, retired Professor of Languages from the University of Athens who had recently moved to England to be closer to his daughter. He would regale anyone who would listen with little stories and anecdotes from ancient Rome and Greece in addition to teaching the basics of Latin. And Harry found himself enjoying tales of old Greek philosophers and Roman generals just as much as the actual language lessons.

In addition to the changes to his curriculum, Harry kept up with his early-morning swimming practice, albeit at a reduced frequency. He still tried to go every morning on weekdays, but on weekends he and Dudley headed to fencing lessons together.

It had been another offering that had come through their school’s physical education curriculum, and in stark contrast to the language classes, this had been an instant hit amongst all of the more outgoing children in their batch.

Unlike the other new optional subject, there were only a limited number of students who could be taught fencing as a sport due to limitations on space and equipment available in the school gymnasium. Harry would most likely have been unable to get into this course at all, if Dudley hadn’t signed him up.

Harry was initially ambivalent about yet another new thing to try and learn but hadn’t wanted to pass up an opportunity to have more things in common with Dudley before magic drove them further apart. To his surprise, he’d found that he wasn’t half bad at the sport but had to concede that it might only be because being smaller and skinnier than most of his group made him a little bit harder to hit.

His interest in fencing had only grown stronger, when a nightly reading of one of his ‘History of Magic’ textbooks had led him to a page about the legacy of ‘Dueling’ in the magical world, and he’d realized that at least some of the principles involved in these two combat-sports were quite similar to each other.

Additionally, their fencing instructor, a young woman named Anna Laurent, had started the class on a basic strength training course alongside the fencing lessons in order to, as she put it, to help them become quicker, and less injury-prone athletes.

None of them really knew if it was working, but they’d found the soreness after a supervised workout in their little school gym strangely pleasing and addictive. So, as much as they’d grumbled and complained in the initial days of the new activity, they’d all stuck to it.

But during the course of the last year, the most significant improvement Harry had made was in his mental discipline instead of his physical.

His memory-palace was truly starting to feel like a palace now. He’d added multiple wings to his central keep, a Great Hall to retreat to during particularly boring classes and even a set of dungeons to store memories that he wasn’t quite ready to process just yet. The recollection of the attack on his family, witnessed through the perspective of his family’s magic, was one of the things that were currently stored in his mental dungeons.

But more importantly, his continued study of ‘The Organized Mind’ had led him to discover, practice and attempt to perfect more advanced techniques relating to the mental and psychic arts, and left Harry to marvel at the potential created by the mastery of the mind and magic.

He had exercised extreme caution in his experimentation and had steadfastly refrained from attempting to cast any of the spells described in the text which may have expedited his progress, but he was still making very good advancement in his quest to have a perfect memory.

Excerpt from ‘The Organized Mind: Building the Basics for the Mental Arts’ by Sorrell Buttonwood

Chapter 5: Cultivating an Eidetic Memory

The cultivation of an eidetic memory, dear aspirant, is an endeavor of no mean significance. It is an art both subtle and profound, requiring a marriage of mental discipline, methodical practice, and the arcane assistance of certain magicks. Let us embark upon this journey with the gravitas it warrants, bearing in mind the precepts we have hitherto discussed regarding the construction of one's mental fortress.

The Foundation of Visualization

To begin, one must hone the faculty of visualization, for it is the cornerstone upon which an eidetic memory is built. Visualization, in this context, refers not merely to the act of seeing with the mind’s eye but to the conjuring of vivid, detailed images that are as clear as those perceived by the physical eye. This practice is akin to the casting of a spell, where intention and precision are paramount.

Initial Exercises:

Object Focus: Select a simple object—a quill, a vial of ink, or a wand. Observe it intently for several minutes, noting its minutiae: the texture, the hues, the shadows it casts. Close thine eyes and recreate the object in your mind with exacting detail. Open your eyes and compare your mental image to the object, refining it as necessary. Repeat this exercise with increasingly complex objects.

Environmental Recreation:

Room Reconstruction: Sit in a chamber and observe your surroundings. Close thine eyes and reconstruct the room in your mind, down to the placement of each piece of furniture and the play of light upon the surfaces. This practice, diligently applied, will enhance your capacity to retain spatial arrangements and details.

Methodical Memory Techniques

Having laid the groundwork with visualization, we now advance to the employment of structured techniques designed to bolster memory retention.

The Method of Loci:

Creating Memory Palaces (discussed in greater detail in Chapter 3): This ancient technique involves the construction of a mental edifice—a ‘memory palace’—wherein one places the items to be remembered. Each room or corridor within this palace represents a category or a sequence of information. As you traverse these mental spaces, the associations formed will anchor the information securely within your mind. Begin with simple palaces, such as a familiar house or the halls of Hogwarts, and gradually build more elaborate structures.

Mnemonic Devices:

Rhymes and Rhythms: Use mnemonic devices such as rhymes, rhythms, and acronyms to encode information. The rhythmic cadence of a well-constructed rhyme can make even the most elusive facts easier to recall.

Imaginary Associations: Forge connections between the new information and pre-existing knowledge through imaginative associations. For example, to remember a list of potions ingredients, envision a fantastical, difficult-to-forget narrative where each ingredient plays a pivotal role.

Augmenting Memory with Magicka

Certain potions and spells can augment the natural capabilities of the mind, though they must be used with discernment and respect for their potency.

Mnemosyne’s Draught:

Recipe and Use: This potion, named after the Titaness of memory, aids in the retention and recall of information. Its ingredients include a sprig of rosemary (symbolizing remembrance), a pinch of powdered billywig stings, and a drop of unicorn blood (a powerful magical conduit, though ethically contentious). Imbibe a small vial of this potion prior to a period of intense study to enhance memory retention.

The Spell of Perfect Recall:

Casting: The incantation “Memoria Perfecta” can be employed to temporarily enhance one’s memory recall. However, it requires precise enunciation and a focused mind. This spell should be cast sparingly, as over-reliance may weaken one’s natural mnemonic faculties.

Sustained Practice and Reflection

As with any arcane art, the cultivation of an eidetic memory demands sustained practice and reflection.

Daily Exercises:

Dedicate a portion of each day to memory exercises. This may include the recitation of historical facts, the memorization of spells and their effects, or the visualization techniques previously outlined. Regular practice is the key to gradual and enduring improvement.

Reflective Journaling:

Maintain a journal wherein you record your progress, reflections, and any notable successes or difficulties encountered. This practice not only aids in self-assessment but also reinforces the knowledge and skills acquired.

By adhering to these practices with diligence and patience, you shall find your memory growing ever more precise and reliable. The path to an eidetic memory is long and winding, but with steadfast effort and the guidance of these ancient techniques, the rewards are beyond measure. Proceed with confidence and the knowledge that you are continuing a grand tradition of mental mastery, essential to the higher arts of Occlumency and beyond.

Thus concludes our chapter on the cultivation of an eidetic memory. May your mind be as a fortress, unassailable and vast, capable of holding the entirety of your knowledge within its ever-expanding walls.

He’d also decided to spend a couple of nights a week delving into some of the less exciting aspects of the magical curriculum at Hogwarts, if his mother’s books and equipment were anything to go by. And frankly, the only reason he hadn’t given up on subjects like Astronomy entirely was because of his experimentation with mental organization.

Maybe it was because whatever charm on Lily’s telescope (Harry still thought of it as a spyglass in his head) had long since worn off, or it could be because a mundane suburban neighborhood was always plagued by far too much ambient light, but he had thus far been able to spot any single celestial object with any degree of clarity.

Some evenings, he was lucky to be able to catch a glimpse of Venus (which was supposed to be the brightest object in the sky around sunset) and often, the gloomy and overcast skies that were so typical of Britain prevented any astronomical pursuits entirely.

Harry wondered how students at Hogwarts reliably studied the night sky, and suspected that magic would be involved somehow.

But even though his practical stargazing remained largely nascent as a skill, his training with enhancing his abilities to recall information with clarity and perfection, meant that he was still able to study and memorize star charts and astronomical information with exacting precision.

All in all, he considered it sufficient for now.

Harry had also kept up his practice with the casting of active magic. He was now able to cast most of the spells described in the ‘Standard Book of Spells – Grade One’ consistently and in some cases up to seven times in a row before the drain on his core and his stamina forced him to take a break. There were some spells that still eluded him, such as the spell to make fire (which truth be told Harry had been very wary of putting too much effort into), which made him wonder if some spells simply had a greater magical requirement on the Flamel scale than others and were simply out of reach for him at his given age. He had very tentatively tried a few spells from the ‘Grade Two’ book of the series with mixed results, which gave credence to the theory.

He had tried, through Aunt Petunia, to find a book that listed the Flamel scale scores of various charms, spells, jinxes and curses, but with little luck. According to her, the assistant at ‘Flourish and Blotts’ had merely looked puzzled and had professed to have no idea what the Flamel scale was.

As such he was unable to conclusively prove that the only reason for his failure to cast some of the ‘Grade One’ spells was solely due to a lack of core strength. But, seeing as he was now able to cast the ‘Lumos’ and its counter ‘Nox’ spells several times without feeling as drained as he had when he’d first tried it, he was confident that his core had grown.

He was also forced to wonder how spells were classified into various grades of difficulty, complexity and suitability for various age groups, if it wasn’t because of the magical power requirement.

But without a doubt, the most fascinating revelation that he came across concerning spellcasting, was one that didn’t originate from the ‘Standard Book of Spells’ at all. It was found, once more, in a little excerpt from ‘The Mystical Origins of Magicka.’

On the Necessity and Role of Spoken Incantations in Spellcasting

Mentions of the art of spellcasting with verbal incantations abound in the annals of wizardry, their ubiquity attesting to their perceived necessity. Yet, upon closer scrutiny, it becomes apparent that the spoken word in spellwork serves more as a facilitator than an absolute requirement.

Spoken incantations, those mystical utterances that accompany the flourish of a wand or the steady arc of a staff, are, at their essence, tools to aid in the visualization of the spell’s intended result. The words themselves are imbued with no intrinsic power; rather, they function as mnemonic aids, guiding the caster's mind to the precise outcome desired. This mental image, vividly conjured, is what channels the magicka to the proper effectuation of the spell.

The careful recitation of incantations ensures that the wand or staff movements adhere to specific patterns and cadences, each motion tracing the ephemeral outlines of ancient glyphs and runes. These gestures, synchronized with the spoken word, form the architecture of the spell, an invisible matrix that channels and shapes the raw energy of magicka. The incantations, therefore, serve to harmonize the caster’s intent with the arcane geometry being sketched in the air.

Consider, for instance, the incantation "Lumos," which produces light at the tip of the caster's wand. The word itself is derived from the Latin for light, and its utterance aligns the caster's mental focus with the simple yet profound concept of illumination. Simultaneously, the associated wand movement—a gentle flick—traces a primordial rune for light, channeling magicka through this ancient symbol to bring forth the desired glow.

However, it must be acknowledged that the spoken word is but a crutch, albeit a potent one, for those in the nascent stages of their magical education. Experienced witches and wizards, having internalized the intricate dance of words and movements, often find that the incantation becomes superfluous. Their minds, disciplined and precise, can visualize the intended result with clarity, rendering the verbal component unnecessary.

Indeed, silent casting is a testament to the mastery of the spellcaster, a mark of their deep understanding of magicka's subtleties and unity between their mind and magicka. It is through rigorous practice and deep comprehension of the underlying principles that a practitioner may transcend the need for spoken incantations. In the absence of verbal cues, the mind alone directs the flow of magicka, and the wand or staff, now an extension of the caster's will, traces the runes and glyphs with flawless precision.

Thus, we conclude that while spoken incantations serve as invaluable tools for the novice, aiding in the swift mastery of spellcraft, they are ultimately dispensable. The adept wizard or witch, through disciplined practice and profound understanding, can cast spells with naught but their mind's eye and the graceful movements of their wand or staff. This mastery of silent casting stands as the pinnacle of spellwork, a testament to the practitioner's command over the unseen forces of magicka.

Harry did not, for a second, believe that he was close to mastering his control over magic to any reasonable degree that would let him experiment with silent casting, but the concept fascinated him immensely right away.

He made a mental note to focus on developing the ability to cast magic silently once he was older.

And speaking of his mental note, Harry was also left frustrated at his lack of progress on most of the items on his imaginary ‘To-Do’ list.

Apparently all information on the capabilities of Magical Post-Owls was so commonplace that there were no useful books published on the subject. Owls did not even feature in the ‘Fantastic Beasts’ book, which now spent more time in Dudley’s room than Harry’s. And as such, Harry still had no way to understand how Snark was able to understand them, and barring stumbling across a library dedicated to magical subjects or an errant Magizoologist, his research had stalled.

He’d also made very little progress on masking the glazed eyed look that seemed to be a side-effect of entering his meditative trance or his memory palace. He’d enlisted Dudley’s help for this exercise, and no matter how much Harry tried, his cousin was always able to tell the second Harry entered his trance.

He was hoping that further chapters in Buttonwood’s book would offer some advice on this subject, and for now wasn’t overly worried about it.

Harry had also decided to keep his ability to speak to snakes a secret.

He’d pieced together enough information from the books on history and theory, to realize that the ability to talk to snakes, or being a ‘Parselmouth’ as the ability was colloquially known, was considered a hereditary trait of Salazar Slytherin, one of the four founders of Hogwarts, and a divisive figure in British magical history.

Coupled with some of the anti-Slytherin prejudice prevalent amongst the magical community at large, that he’d been able to glean from articles referenced in the ‘Year in Review’ books, he’d decided that this skill was not something that would be wise to draw attention to.

So, in lieu of risking Aunt Petunia being asked prying questions by bookstore attendants about why she was interested in ‘Parsel’-stuff, Harry had decided to grill Slinky (which is what he’d decided to name the little garden snake he’d met during Dudley’s previous birthday) for what he could tell him.

Aside from being thoroughly unamused by his christening, Slinky hadn’t been a major source of information. He’d been just as surprised by the ability and had as many questions about it as Harry himself.

He had, however, in exchange for being allowed to sleep in Harry’s room during the winter months, quietly helped drive a lot of the rodents that normally were a menace to their little garden.

Snark had mostly come to tolerate the little snake, but Harry doubted that they’d ever become the best of friends.

He’d also been too unsure of the potential impact of having Aunt Petunia attempt to gather information pertaining to his parents’ friends to risk suggesting it to her.

Not only could someone potentially connect the dots from Sirius Black or Peter Pettigrew to the Dursleys and potentially track them back to Number 4 and Harry himself, but he also suspected that these weren’t subjects discussed in polite society when the people were still trying to put the effects of the war behind them.

Harry rather doubted if such a taboo on discussing history and facts was either healthy or conducive to uncovering and establishing truths of events in the past.

He had at least figured out that there were in fact other newspapers that were available to the population of Magical Britain outside of ‘The Daily Prophet’. However, considering that the two most prominent such publications were considered, respectively, a fashion magazine and a spreader of lurid conspiracy theories, it wasn’t much of a surprise that all the references in the ‘Year of Review’ series were from the ‘Prophet’.

Overall, even though he made lots of progress in the past year in his secret magical pursuits, there was still a lot he didn’t know and would have to continue to work on.

But for tonight, Harry stumbled into bed, feeling happily full of his birthday cake and idly began cycling through the ‘Lumos’ and ‘Nox’ spells as he wondered, like an ordinary eight-year-old, what presents he might be getting at tomorrow’s private pizza party with his family.

Elsewhere…

“That’s pretty much all there is to it, Eleanor,” Herbert, the world-weary senior ‘Watcher’ on the night shift at the Improper Use of Magic summarized, putting his mug of coffee on the table.

“Got it, I keep an eye on the enchanted map, and whenever there is a ping, I cross-reference it to the locations where we know wanded underage witches and wizards are situated, and if there is match I supply the details to Madam Hopkirk” the blonde young witch in dark blue robes seated opposite him recited dutifully, seemingly keen on making a positive impression on her first day at her job.

“Exactly,” Herbert agreed, running a hand through his thinning brown hair and vaguely pondering if he should get a toupee.

“But how do we know where underage witches and wizards are located?” Eleanor found herself wondering.

“Wand-makers,” her senior said in the way of explanation. “All wand-manufacturers and sellers in the British Isles are required by law to present to the ministry records of wands sold to minors. The department then collects the recorded address from the school of the young witch or wizard who has just purchased a wand and keeps a track of magic performed in the area. There’s usually a bit of delay for kids just about to start their magical education, so we aren’t quite able to track underage magic by children in the summer prior to them starting school. But after that, we’re able to track them fairly effectively.”

“But-but wouldn’t that create false alarms if an adult witch or wizard performed magic near their child?”

“Which is why, the map has been set up to make exceptions for known magical households and localities with magical businesses or enterprises. It mostly pings locations of magic being performed in areas where we do not expect magical folks to be.”

Herbert clocked the dubious expression of his newest colleague and sighed. “It sounds like we're specifically targeting muggleborn kids, I know...but look, no system is perfect, right? It’s better we do something than nothing at all, rather than risk young and unsupervised kids performing dangerous magic the second they have a wand and risk themselves, their loved ones…or worse, the statute of secrecy.”

Eleanor nodded slowly and noticed a series of flashes on the wall-to-wall enchanted map of Britain that they were standing in front of.

“Oh! There!” she exclaimed, pointing at a location somewhere in Surrey.

“Ah that one,” Herbert said, peering closely at the map and the area Eleanor had just indicated. “Yeah, we started getting pings a few times almost every night from there about a year ago. There’s no magical child living there who has a wand in their possession. So, we’re considering it accidental magic or some adult witch or wizard’s private getaway in the muggle world.”

“Accidental magic every night?” Eleanor raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been known to happen,” Herbert shrugged. “Magical children with a fear of the dark for example manifest low-powered light spells subconsciously, sometimes even while sleeping, to keep the darkness at bay.” He caught her expression and rolled his eyes. “It’s just a theory, ok? Besides, it might just as well be an adult who’s moved to a new residence. The only thing we do know for certain is that no wands have been sold to any kid who is registered to live near Little Whinging.”

He turned away from the map and picked up his mug. “If the frequency of the pings picks up any further, we’re probably going to send someone down there to confirm that it really is a magical residence of some sorts and have it added to our exception list.”

Chapter Text

June 1991

The Daily Prophet - June 24, 1991 – “The Boy Who Lived to Return to the Wizarding World?”

Whispers and murmurs have been steadily growing louder in the corridors of power and the bustling streets of Diagon Alley: could it be true that the Boy Who Lived, our very own Harry Potter, is poised to reenter the wizarding world? As speculation mounts, the Daily Prophet has been hard at work, delving into the heart of the matter to bring you, dear reader, the most tantalizing tidbits and intriguing insights.

It has been nearly a decade since that fateful night on Halloween in 1981 when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished by the infant Harry Potter. The dark wizard's reign of terror was brought to an abrupt end, and little Harry was (allegedly) whisked away into the obscurity of the Muggle world by the venerable Albus Dumbledore and the ministry. Since then, the wizarding community has been left to wonder and speculate about the fate of the child who saved us all.

Reliable sources (who wish to remain unnamed, of course) have revealed that Harry, now a strapping lad of ten, has been living under the radar with his Muggle relatives. Yet, as he approaches the age of eleven, the time draws near for him to receive his Hogwarts letter—a rite of passage that will surely catapult him back into the magical spotlight.

“He's a legend,” said Madam Malkin of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. “I've had more customers than ever before asking about what kind of robes Harry Potter might wear when he comes to Hogwarts. It's like the whole wizarding world is holding its breath!”

Indeed, the return of Harry Potter to our world is anticipated to cause quite a stir. Speculation is rife about which house the Boy Who Lived might be sorted into. Will he follow in his parents' footsteps and become a proud Gryffindor, or could he surprise us all with a different path?

“I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up in Slytherin,” opined Caractacus Burke of Borgin and Burkes. “There's always been something unpredictable about that boy's story.”

And it's not just the Hogwarts houses that have tongues wagging. Prominent figures in the wizarding community are considering the impact Harry's return might have on the socio-political landscape.

“He has the potential to be a unifying figure,” remarked Ludo Bagman, the youngest ever Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. “His very presence reminds us of our triumph over darkness and our capacity for resilience…kind of like how the Wasps came from a hundred and seventy points behind to cinch victory against Puddlemere in my final season with them back in Nineteen-Seventy-Seven.”

But not all opinions are so sanguine. Skeptics question the wisdom of placing such high expectations on a boy who has been out of touch with our world for so long.

“We must be cautious,” warns Lord Tristram Nott, the current head of the Ancient and Noble house of Nott. “The weight of our hopes and dreams rests on young Harry's shoulders. Can he live up to the legend that has been built around him?”

As the clock ticks down to the momentous day when Harry Potter sets foot once more into the realm of magic, one thing is certain: the wizarding world is on the cusp of a new chapter, and all eyes will be on the Boy Who Lived.

Stay tuned to the Daily Prophet for more exclusive updates and insights as we continue to follow this captivating story. Until then, keep your wands at the ready and your eyes on the horizon, for the return of Harry Potter is sure to be an event of unparalleled significance.

Rita Skeeter,

Special Correspondent for the Daily Prophet.

Three years of physical training had made a difference, Harry thought with amusement, dodging deftly away as his, admittedly still bigger, cousin attempted to grab him in a bear hug and mess up his hair even more than it already was.

A black t-shirt, bearing the bright neon green words ‘Squibs ‘R’ Us’ lay on the kitchen table between them as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon chuckled.

They had just finished celebrating Dudley’s eleventh birthday and had retired to the kitchen after cleaning up the mess left behind from the party with his friends.

Harry had held on to his gift until all the guests had left and had presented it to his cousin as they sat enjoying a mug of cocoa before bed.

Their lives had settled into a new normal in the last few years and they had all, more or less, made peace with how things were going to be. Dudley had given up trying to cast active magic sometime last year, and after a period of demonstrating sulky resentment, he had been sat down for a long conversation by Aunt Petunia that had ended in a kind of acceptance on his part. He still worked with Harry and his mother for their weekly potioneering sessions and was undoubtedly head and shoulders ahead of Harry in terms of his knowledge of magical flora and fauna and had even joined Harry on his preliminary studies of Runes and Arithmancy. For now, he’d decided that being able to spend his afternoons on his ‘Game Boy’ (a new invention from a year or two ago that allowed someone to play a variety of games on a little handheld device) was an acceptable consolation prize for being unable to make something glow just by muttering the word ‘Lumos’.

Harry was just really glad that they had been able to move past it to the point of being able to joke about the subject and had quietly promised Dudley that he would share every bit of potions, runes, history and creature-related notes with his cousin that he learned at school, assuming, of course, that he was actually able to attend himself.

They still had some lingering doubts as to whether Harry would receive a Hogwarts letter, and, more importantly, if said letter would even manage to find its way to him.

It had also helped a great deal that Dudley and Harry had both been accepted into Smeltings, which made Uncle Vernon beam with pride and wax eloquent about his alma mater to anyone who would listen. They still had a month before the deadline to accept their acceptance, so they were waiting to see how the other expected developments played out this summer before concluding if only one or both of the boys would be heading to the prestigious school.

“Alright, alright. Settle down.” Aunt Petunia called indulgently after watching for a few minutes as Dudley failed to seize Harry despite multiple attempts.

The boys settled back into their chairs, faces flushed, and Dudley stuck out his tongue at his cousin as he carefully folded up the shirt.

“Can you head to Diagon sometime soon, mum?” he asked Petunia as he set the T-shirt aside. “I need a dictionary of insults for annoying magical brats.”

Aunt Petunia looked thoughtful as Uncle Vernon laughed and Harry stuck his tongue out at Dudley in turn.

“Well, if a Hogwarts letter and shopping list arrives, I suppose we’ll have to go,” she said with a grimace. It wasn’t a secret that she didn’t like the trips to Diagon, even though she had gone several times a year for a while now. She had explained that she rather liked the Alley itself, it was just the visit to the bank that gave her the creeps. The memory of the goblins casually threatening people with axes or implying that the only reason they refrained from following through on them was because the mess left behind was annoying to clean up…was a difficult one to overcome.

“I suppose if a letter does arrive…I have to go with you this year?” Harry asked, watching her carefully over his vivid green cocoa mug, a gift from Dudley last Christmas.

“Yes, I believe so,” she sighed. “I can still do most of the shopping for you I think…but you will need to be measured for your school robes, and you’ll probably have to be there physically to buy a wand. But it might be a good idea to, you know, keep your disguise up just in case.”

Harry shrugged. He guessed his time hiding away from all things magical was going to end if he did end up getting a letter from Hogwarts.

“Oh no!” Dudley exclaimed suddenly.

“What is it, Dudders?” Aunt Petunia asked immediately.

“I…I won’t be able to keep practicing brewing or runes or anything at Smeltings, will I?”

“I suppose you won’t…” his mother said sadly after a second.

“So, guess I won’t be able to keep up with you two even in potions anymore,” Dudley whispered, looking down at the T-shirt again, and Harry felt immediately guilty.

“Nonsense Popkins!” Aunt Petunia announced with authority. “I’ll put a pause on any brewing while you two are off at school. And come summer, Harry will catch us up on everything he’s learned throughout the year while you teach him what you learned at Smeltings!”

Harry cocked his head to the side. He had been planning on passing on all his notes from various subjects to Dudley and Aunt Petunia anyway, but did he really want to spend all his summer cramming nine months of Smeltings curriculum?

Aunt Petunia caught his expression and gave him a smug look.

“It’s not like you’ll be able to do much else Harry, Hogwarts students aren’t allowed to practice magic in the summer.” She paused for a moment and added, “Besides, I want you to continue to keep up with your real-world education and take your GCSEs when it’s time. So, summer tutoring from Dudley would be vital for that.”

She turned back to her son and continued. “I’m not certain of how exactly it would work or where to enroll, but I have done some digging and I think it should be possible to take basic magic exams too at certain ages. So, with Harry’s tutoring in potions and the like perhaps you could take something called the OWLs, which are the equivalent of GCSEs and are taken around the same age. That way you both get the best of the curriculum from both worlds.”

“But only in subjects where no direct magic is required, right?” Dudley mumbled.

Aunt Petunia laid her hand on his son’s shoulders kindly.

“That’s true Popkins, but only a few subjects actually need magic casting, right? Just Defense, Charms and Transfiguration. All the other subjects, like Herbology, Potions, History, Care, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Runes, Divination and Theory do not require magic to be performed directly. So, you should be able to sit for all of those exams.”

Dudley looked up a little more hopeful, but some doubt still lingered in his eyes.

“Would they even let me, if I can’t make it into Hogwarts?” he asked slowly.

Petunia nodded affirmatively. “Based on everything I have been able to find, yes.”

Dudley seemed to accept that.

“But I’ll only teach you if you do a good job of teaching me,” Harry chirped, trying to lift Dudley's spirits. “So, your success in potions depends on my success in Calculus or something.”

“Well, that means we’re both screwed,” Dudley shot back as his mother chided him for his language, and both boys erupted into a fit of giggles.

“And in case Harry doesn’t go to Hogwarts, you can both go to Smeltings together…and more importantly, share that shirt!” Uncle Vernon smirked as he drained his mug as Harry scowled at him and Dudley laughed even harder.

The summer days that followed maintained their typical routine involving potions, magical studies, fencing and swimming. But there was an undercurrent of tension in the air as days continued to go by without any letters from Hogwarts arriving in the talons of an owl.

Harry exercised the discipline accorded to him by years of practice with the mental arts to keep his anxiety at bay and went about his usual activities without too much of an outward tell.

It helped that he genuinely enjoyed swimming and fencing. Years of routine exercise had transformed him from someone who could have been called skinny, to a child who would be better described as lean. Dudley too, while definitely heavy-set for his age and height, was no longer someone who could be perceived as overweight.

Perhaps it was because they were all subconsciously dreading the impending changes to their lives, but neither he nor Dudley spent any time talking about how things would be after the summer break ended. There were moments when Harry even found himself speculating if it wouldn’t just be simpler if he never received a communication from Hogwarts and he and Dudley could just head to Smeltings together and continue to practice magic over their vacations. These musings didn’t last long…because ultimately Harry’s curiosity about learning more magic won out over the very human trait of being averse to change.

For their part, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia seemed to find more and more reasons to organize family movie nights or sudden trips to the local water park and, on one occasion, a backyard barbecue. Harry quietly preserved the memory of his family laughing and joking as Uncle Vernon, for a change, worked on their meal while he and Dudley took turns tossing bits of bacon to Snark.

And so, on the morning of the last day of June in the summer of 1991, Harry found himself awash with mixed emotions, as he beheld an envelope made of thick parchment among the bills and pamphlets that had been crammed into the letter-box, while picking up the mail as he and Dudley returned from a grueling but exhilarating fencing lesson.

The four of them sat around the table staring at the envelope together, which simply read “Mr. Harry Potter, The 3^rd Bedroom, Number 4 Privet Drive.”

It had no stamps, no post office seals…and somehow it had been delivered to their letter box, instead of by an owl.

It was a Sunday, so Uncle Vernon didn’t have to go to the factory, Aunt Petunia had abandoned her planned work in the back garden and Dudley had followed Harry like a shadow as soon as he’d realized what had just arrived in the post. Harry really appreciated that they were all there to show support…while he dithered and hesitated.

“It’s alright Harry,” Aunt Petunia said gently. “It’s still entirely your choice if you want to accept or go to Smeltings. There are no wrong decisions.”

Harry nodded mutely but made no move to reach for the envelope.

“We’re going to be here for the rest of the summer, aren’t we?” Dudley stage whispered, causing Harry to throw him a dirty look which his cousin grinned unashamedly in response to.

With an inward sigh, Harry reached for the envelope with shaking fingers and using the letter opened Dudley had been kind enough to grab, cautiously slit open the parchment.

He held his breath as he turned over the whole thing and two folded sheets of paper fell out.

He reached for the smaller one and slowly opened it, suppressing a wince as he suffered a tiny paper-cut (or should it be termed a parchment-cut) and read through its contents, frowning as he did so.

“What is it?” Dudley enquired from across the table.

“I-I dunno. I was just expecting something less anti-climactic,” he said, holding the letter out to Dudley for his perusal as he reached for the other paper on the table.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1^st. We await your owl by no later than July 31^st.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress.

“Is this the same thing that Aunt Lily had received?” Dudley asked his mother.

“I think so, but it had been hand-delivered by a teacher from the school. Might actually have been the same one who wrote this,” she responded.

“So, why’d they not hand deliver Harry’s?”

Aunt Petunia thought about this for a moment. “Maybe because they know that we’d have told Harry about magic, which they weren’t expecting Lily to be aware of…”

“Huh. Makes sense, I suppose.” Dudley turned back to Harry. “The other letter isn’t an acceptance for me by any chance is it?” He smiled despite his feeling of disappointment.

Harry wordlessly held the second sheet of parchment out for them to read.

Petunia accepted it, scanned through it quickly and nodded, before passing the page on to Dudley. “Yes, that seems to be what I remember from Lily’s list.”

Uncle Vernon had picked up the acceptance letter and was scanning its contents silently.

“I think this is the first time I’m seeing the school’s coat of arms,” Dudley mused, peering at the crest at the top of each letter. “‘Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus’…that would be Latin for, um, something about a sleeping dragon?”

Harry scooted over and took a closer look at the motto himself and tried to work out its meaning.

“Never tickle a sleeping dragon?” he ventured hesitantly. “But never mind that, or the list…how are we supposed to send them an owl with an acceptance if owl-post doesn’t work from here?”

He was interrupted by the sound of an excited hoot behind him as Snark soared into the kitchen through the window.

They watched surprised as the normally stoic bird landed on the table, hopping from foot to foot and nipping at their fingers.

“I suspect,” Uncle Vernon observed, “that whatever was preventing owls from carrying correspondence to or from our house, has ceased to exist.”

“Only way to be sure, I guess.” Aunt Petunia added, with a meaningful glance at her nephew. “What do you want to do, Harry?”

“I think I want to do this,” he said quietly. Looking up at Dudley as he did so. His cousin nodded with a small sad smile.

“But…this is still weird, right?” Harry asked with a frown. “Assuming the owl issue is indeed resolved, it cannot be a coincidence that it happened just as the letter arrived. The only explanation is that whoever sent out that letter, which I suspect would be Dumbledore since he’s the one that had brought me to Surrey as a child and would therefore have known where I lived, was the one responsible for blocking our owls in the first place.”

He looked around the room and asked no one in particular. “Why would he do that?”

“You’re right…that doesn’t make sense.” Dudley was the first to agree.

“And after he’d put it in his first letter that we should reach out to him in case we needed assistance or guidance too!” Aunt Petunia added, sounding scandalized.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions here now,” Uncle Vernon said with his trademark calm (at least when he wasn’t driving). “We don’t know for certain it was Dumbledore, and we don’t know why, if it really was him. I don’t know about you all, but I’m quite glad that Harry didn’t jettison off to start learning magic as soon as he first displayed the gift…which may well have happened if we had been able to contact people back then.”

He waited a breath for the others to consider this and then continued. “Instead of being annoyed about what might have happened and drawing conclusions from our speculations, I suggest that Harry simply asks him when he gets the chance, and we can decide how we feel about it all based on what he has to say. Hmm?”

One by one, they nodded.

Harry made a mental note to ask his Headmaster to be what this owl-ward was about and tried not to speculate on the range of possibilities from it being an innocent mistake, to it being part of an elaborate plan to keep him safe and isolated.

“I’ll draft a response to this…” he looked at the parchment again, “McGonagall and send it out via Snark this morning.

He looked up at everyone again and felt a wide smile slowly start to break out on his face as the initial confusion and questions gradually gave way to glee. “So…when are we going shopping?”

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK.

As Uncle Vernon finished reading the whole shopping list aloud, Harry held up his hand and started counting things off on his fingers.

“Already have cauldrons, and several sets of phials, and scales. So, I’d just need a wand and a new telescope…since I really think mum’s old one is broken. I think I even have most of the books, though the last one sounded unfamiliar.”

“Yeah, about that.” Uncle Vernon interrupted. “Most children would only be beginning their magical education now, correct?” he asked, glancing at his wife.

“That’s what I remember from Lily’s time there. Why?”

“I think it might be a good idea not to make it too obvious that Harry has already been studying from most of the books in his curriculum, or brewing potions from a younger age” his uncle responded thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the parchment in front of him.

“But, why?” Dudley asked, confused.

“Two reasons. Number One: Nobody likes a know-it-all or an overachiever. It’s a recipe for getting stuffed into lockers, is what it is. And Number Two…well, there’s likely to be a fair bit of attention on Harry, right? It might be better to not advertise the fact that he might be a tiny bit ahead of his classmates when it comes to his curriculum.”

“But why does that matter though?” Harry asked frowning; not sure he understood the logic behind the second reason.

“Well, we know that there were people who were likely to be hostile towards you, at least in the past, correct? So, as long as there is still a chance of there being people, still out there who are going to be after you, it’s better if they underestimate what you know or how far along you are in your education.”

He saw the blank looks from all around the table being directed at him and sighed.

“You remember the book I read a few years back? The Art of War? Well, that had many interesting concepts applicable to not just war or management but most aspects of life that could be construed as conflict. And one of the key tenets explored there is ‘All warfare is based on deception’. You see now?”

Aunt Petunia’s eyes widened slightly, and she nodded very slowly. Uncle Vernon sighed and looked at the still blank stares from Harry and Dudley.

“If there are people out to get you, make them think that you are weaker, or more ignorant or less prepared than you actually are. That way, they underestimate you, and you have a chance to surprise them and turn the tables, if it comes to that,” he tried again.

“…”

“Let me try explaining again-”

“This makes no sense! When Mrs. Danvers had sent home that note comparing my reading skills to that of a toddler, you had given me an earful!” Dudley exclaimed. “How do you know that it wasn’t just me making her underestimate my true intelligence? Huh?”

“Er…”

“But Dudley! This is more like the time when Mr. Chloros set you and Piers an easier paper because he knew that you two would fail the test he had planned for the rest of the class. So, him thinking that you two were daft, actually helped save you!” Harry sniggered, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Huh?”

“Ah, makes sense then. So being thought dumb is a good thing!” Dudley nodded sagely.

“Wait, no-”

“Right! We should always go around acting even more ignorant than we actually are,” Harry agreed.

“Will you two stop and listen for a minute?” Uncle Vernon bellowed before finally catching a glimpse of his wife doing her best to keep a straight face and glared suspiciously at his son and nephew.

“Ah, you’re messing with me,” He finished with an annoyed huff as the table erupted into peals of laughter. “Ungrateful little brats,” he grumbled even as the corners of his mouth twitched.

But despite the levity, Harry did concede that there was value in Uncle Vernon’s advice. So, after a bit more discussion, once they had stopped giggling at his expense, he agreed that it was probably best to buy all new books and equipment, so as to appear unremarkable to anyone taking special interest in him or the extent of his abilities.

Plus, Harry mused, it was possible that some of the texts might have had newer editions published, which could contain corrections or amendments to what he had been studying from.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia both also suggested getting a second owl, to Snark’s indignant hoot. They hastened to explain that it might be best for them to have Snark stay here so they could contact Harry at Hogwarts, while Harry should have an owl with him so he could write back to them. Privet Drive would serve as the halfway point to forward communications between Harry and Dudley since they weren’t sure how the Smeltings students or staff would react to the sudden arrivals of letter-bearing owls.

Once the rest of the details were sorted out and Aunt Petunia had reminded him to enquire about what kind of cover story regarding his education would be provided to local authorities, Harry collected the letters and the envelope and headed to his room after instructing Snark to meet him there.

He sat down in his chair and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and slowly began to write.

“Dear Ms. McGonagall-”

Wait, he didn’t know if she was a Ms. or Mrs. He crumpled up the sheet of paper and pulled out a new one.

What would the correct form of address be?

“Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall-”

Nope, that was definitely too verbose. Hmm, maybe he’d come across something somewhere that spoke to how Hogwarts staff ought to be addressed? Oh! Of course, the articles about the cursed teaching positions in the Year in Review books!

He pulled a third piece of paper towards him,

“Dear Professor McGonagall…” he began.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I received your communication this morning about my acceptance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and would like to inform you that I would be delighted to accept this opportunity.

However, I am afraid I do not know where exactly Hogwarts is located or how to get there on September 1^st, which is when you mentioned that term was expected to begin.

Also, I am unsure as to what to communicate to the faculty and staff at my current school, Little Whinging Secondary, about this sudden change and would very much appreciate any input or insights on the matter.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter.

Harry watched as Snark left through the window and took to the skies, the letter firmly attached to his leg. He watched him grow smaller and smaller in the distance, half expecting him to turn around and return to him as used to be the case in the past, but finally breathed a sigh of relief once he disappeared from view.

He didn’t know how far Hogwarts was, or how quickly post-owls could cover the distance between the school and Privet Drive, so he decided to be productive with his time and start organizing which of his belongings he wanted to take to Hogwarts with him.

He kept glancing out of the window every few minutes just in case Snark was bringing him a response, or worse returning with his own undelivered reply to Professor McGonagall and was eventually forced to enter a trance to shelve his anxiety.

By lunchtime, his nerves had settled for the most part, and he and Dudley spent the meal speculating about what Hogwarts was going to be like and what kind of owl he should get while Aunt Petunia reminisced about what she remembered of the various term lengths at Hogwarts and how Lily would usually come home to spend Christmas with her family, except for her fifth and seventh years.

Harry rushed to assure her that he would most definitely do the same.

After lunch, Harry and Dudley decided (well, Dudley decided for both of them and merely alerted Harry of his decision) to play some games to keep him from wearing a hole through the carpet with his nervous pacing, and predictably Dudley spent the next few hours thrashing him soundly. Between the rounds of the games, Dudley whispered a small ‘congratulations’ to Harry with a slightly rueful smile that made Harry's heart clench as he thanked him.

He would not let his relationship with Dudley suffer the same way as his mother’s and Aunt Petunia’s had. And he felt frustrated by the fact that squibs were not allowed to attend Hogwarts even though only a small number of the subjects in the syllabus would be beyond them. If nothing else, he would make sure that Aunt Petunia’s plan to allow both of them to hold basic mundane and magical qualifications was successful.

He spent the evening distracted and unable to focus as well, and finally decided to give up on any further studies for the night and devoted his attention towards continuing to catalog various potions recipes in his mind palace.

He wouldn’t say his memory was quite perfect yet, but anything he spent time on committing to his mind, he was usually able to recall later in exact detail. Eventually, he hoped to be able to preserve everything he came across, even after an instant of exposure to them…but he wasn’t all the way there yet.

He had also, in a stroke of genius that he was rather proud of, figured out a solution to how he could keep any outward indication of accessing his mental fortress a secret.

After years of discussing the matter with Dudley, who was still the only one Harry had confided the extent of his advancement into this particular line of study with, Harry had realized that he could simply rub his temples, close his eyes, pass a hand over his face or merely turn away from people as if struggling to remember something and needing to focus so as not to be distracted by the people nearby (which, in a way, was similar to what he would really be doing) while he accessed his memory palace in public. These motions were natural enough to not be surprising to most casual observers, and with time Harry could pass them off as a force of habit.

As long as he didn’t spend too long in the trance, he figured he should be able to use these simple misdirection tactics and keep his skills with the mental arts a secret. He strongly suspected this would be another ability that might be frowned upon, seeing as how Buttonwood’s books were rare to obtain and the Hogwarts reading list or curriculum made no mention of any books dealing with the psychic arts.

He still intended to continue his attempts to find a more refined solution, but for now, he felt that this would suffice.

Since his potions review and organizing was an activity he was performing while sitting on his bed with the third-year potions book, he wasn’t quite sure when he had dozed off, but he was woken up in the early hours before dawn to see an exhausted Snark soar in through the window with a soft flutter of wings.

He rushed across the room to offer the grateful Snark a handful of nuts and some water and carefully detached the letter he was carrying from his leg.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Thank you for your prompt response confirming your acceptance of your enrollment at Hogwarts.

As part of the measures enacted by the Statute of Secrecy, a topic you will no doubt cover as part of your curriculum, members of the Ministry of Magic will be responsible for ensuring that the staff of your current educational institution, or any other muggle organization who might be curious as to your whereabouts, will believe that you have been accepted into a scholarship program at a prestigious and exclusive boarding school in the Scottish Highlands called ‘Howards Institute for Gifted Young Scholars’. They will also take steps to ensure that they do not try to contact you while you’re at your new school or seek more information about it.

As to how you may find your way to Hogwarts on September 1^st, the Hogwarts Express will depart from King’s Cross Station, London at 11:00 AM in the morning from platform nine-and-three-quarters. All Hogwarts students enrolled for the upcoming school year and their immediate magical relatives will be able to pass through the barrier separating platforms nine and ten and be able to board the train about an hour before its scheduled departure.

The exact physical location of Hogwarts is a closely guarded secret, and not one that we lightly divulge. I can only confirm that it really is located deep within the Scottish Highlands.

We hope to see you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress.

Chapter Text

6^th July 1991

After a lot of debate, they had concluded that the shopping trip to pick up Harry’s school supplies was best limited to as small a group as possible.

Their precautions, notwithstanding, they couldn’t be certain that Harry would not be recognized by people or what effect it might have. So, it was just Harry, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon (who would be driving them, since taking public transport was ruled out because of the strange nature of their shopping and the questions it might raise) who had made their way to London on a crisp July Saturday, while Dudley spent the day at Piers’ house.

From her previous trips to the place, Petunia was aware that most of the shops generally did not open before nine or nine-thirty in the morning, so they left home short after seven-thirty hoping to arrive just as the various merchants in the alley started plying their trade and hopefully conclude the shopping well before it got crowded later in the day.

This early on a Saturday, the traffic was light, and they arrived at Leadenhall around half-past eight. To add to the good fortune, they were having so far, Uncle Vernon found a parking spot practically opposite the ‘While You Wait’ and before they knew it, Harry, now in a dark maroon hat pulled low over his brow and dark colored contact-lenses masking the hue of his eyes, was waiting with Aunt Petunia, ready to head into the Leaky Cauldron.

“Ok, let’s do this then,” Aunt Petunia murmured. “Stay close, Harry. And let’s avoid crowds as much as we can.”

Harry nodded, and started to follow her in.

The interior of the Leaky Cauldron didn’t seem to have changed much from what Harry remembered. The odd mix of sounds, sights and smells was as fascinating as ever, and just like the last time he was here, the place was noisy and crowded even this early in the morning.

Harry wondered if wizards and witches had a collective drinking problem to be hitting the pubs this early in the morning.

The same, cheerful old man from four years ago was still manning the bar as they entered and seemed to recognize Aunt Petunia in an instant (Harry supposed it made sense since she had been coming through here a few times a year) and beckoning to them to follow, began to walk over to the rear exit of the tavern towards the backyard. Harry and Aunt Petunia made their way towards the same direction, walking past the various groups of chattering men and women, witches and wizards Harry corrected himself, trying not to draw too much attention.

Harry tried not to stare, as the fireplace (which he’d learned was something called a ‘Floo’ and apparently allowed people to communicate or even travel through them) erupted in green flames and the largest man he’d ever seen in his life clambered out of it, stooped low so as not to hit his head against the mantel.

The hairy giant with the bushy beard spotted Tom, gave him a cheery wave and hailed him from across the room. “Mornin’ Tom! Yeh alright?”

Tom smiled in response, gesturing at the bar. “Make yourself comfortable, Hagrid. I’ll be with you in a second.”

The giant named ‘Hagrid’, nodded and began to cautiously make his way towards the bar as Harry and Aunt Petunia followed Tom out into the backyard.

“Here we are then,” Tom said, pausing in front of the stone wall and tapping what he now knew to be his wand on a specific section of the wall which, just as Harry remembered, parted to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley.

As Aunt Petunia thanked Tom and he politely took his leave with a bow, Harry found himself wondering how someone not in possession of a wand might be expected to access the alley. On one hand, he supposed it made sense from the perspective of keeping non-magical folk from accidentally discovering the place, but how were magical people or beings who could not possess or use wands expected to find their way in without relying on the assistance or support of a witch or a wizard?

The thought was pushed aside as they made their way down the narrow winding streets with most of its shops still shuttered and the alley largely empty.

Not that Harry remembered every single detail from his previous trip, he hadn’t even started learning to organize his mind back then after all, but he felt that very little had changed in the last four years.

It kind of made sense, he supposed. Everything he had read thus far indicated that the magical world was deeply set in its ways and struggled to cope with change. So new businesses, or even remodeling and trying to grow one’s enterprise might not be as common an occurrence as it was in the mundane world.

As they walked past a robed man who began to wave his wand and roll up the blinds of his shop, Harry considered that even the way that witches and wizards dressed was indicative of how entrenched they were in their way of life.

Fashion and clothing choices that hadn’t evolved past the mid-seventeenth century, spell incantations that were somehow still mostly based on ancient Latin and a strange deep-rooted belief that the mundane world consisted solely of stupid and gullible idiots who were somehow beneath them.

This line of thinking wasn’t exactly something new that was only occurring to him now, he had had several similar conversations with Dudley, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon about this in the past as well.

While Dudley and Aunt Petunia agreed that there was something off about how change-averse and insular the magical world was, Uncle Vernon had had a different take.

“Being open to adopting new and better practices and principles is obviously a good thing,” he said seemingly mulling over the situation. “But so is understanding something thoroughly, before starting to suggest wholesale overhaul.”

Before anyone could protest, he held his palm up and continued.

“Hear me out here,” he said. “One of our branches, I think it was the one in Argyllshire, was approached a few years back by this smaller company who claimed to have enhanced one of the components of the assembly line with Japanese technology that would boost efficiency by fifteen to twenty per cent. The manager went over all the paperwork, all the data from previous implementations in a variety of other geographies and it all looked good to him. So, he shut down operations for a couple of weeks and had the existing assembly line overhauled to use the new components.”

Vernon paused and with a somber expression looked around at them all before continuing.

“Within thirty minutes of the new parts being turned on, one of them had been sheared through entirely, resulting in severe injuries to over a dozen assemblers. The reason for the mishap? The new components had all been designed to work on smaller on-site factories that primarily used Bloomery steel, Tamahagane and the like. Had the manager asked the question ‘will this innovation work for us’ instead of just being fascinated by the fact that it had ‘worked for someone else’, the whole disaster could have been avoided.”

He watched for a moment as the rest of the table considered it as added. “All I’m saying is, innovation, change and trying to improve things and make them better are great goals to have…just take the time to understand how things currently are and why they are the way they are, before deciding that it all needs to change.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure if he necessarily agreed with that viewpoint, but there was merit in learning more about why things were a certain way before attempting to reinvent the wheel…so he’d tried to theorize why the magical world (whose denizens seemed to generally refer to themselves as the ‘wizarding’ world, which in itself seemed to indicate a middle-aged set of mind) had changed so little with the passage of time.

He felt that the answer might be related to how, in the mundane world, the Chinese invention of porcelain had likely delayed their invention of glass, and consequently other scientific innovations.

The idea was that the innovations in society tend to focus on areas where there is a significant and identified potential for improvement. In other words, necessity, as the saying went, truly was the mother of all innovation.

Since ancient China had already been producing porcelain, there was no pressing need in its society to focus on refining or creating any other material that would fit in the same societal niche.

And since the magical world had an abundance of folks able to manipulate magic and create things from thin air or morph one object into another, it had never felt a need to understand the physical world or conduct experiments and research in the same way that the mundane world had.

Why would anyone need to understand how the cotton gin worked if the wave of a wand could change all your clothes to silk? Who would spend time working out the intricacies of a compressor, if warming and cooling charms could be cast by teenagers?

Consequently, after a few centuries of the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy, the mundane world had split the atom and sent people to the moon, while the magical world continued to argue about which broomstick was the fastest…while still feeling smugly superior to their non-magical peers.

Clearly, things weren’t necessarily better, just because they happened to be magic. If anything, it was a small mercy that the statute of secrecy, which had further increased the stringency of the division between the two worlds, had been enacted as late as it had been. Had it gone into effect before the invention of the printing press, for instance, he’d have had a much harder time learning anything at all.

But now that he thought about it more, some innovations had made it through the barrier, even after the law codifying the segregation of the worlds had been signed. Photographs, for instance…Harry had seen pictures, not sketches or illustrations or paintings, in some of his books. Which meant that there existed a magical version of the camera, a device that he was certain, had been invented relatively recently. Same went for the Hogwarts Express, he guessed. So perhaps, enterprising folks who had experience of the mundane world occasionally came up with borrowed ideas, that caught on among their magical counterparts.

Harry’s musings on his past musings were interrupted as they arrived at the steps leading up to Gringotts, and he turned to face his aunt who was looking a little unsure.

“Aunt Petunia, you don’t need to go in,” Harry offered. “I can handle the exchange by myself.”

She shook her head. “No, I can do this,” she said, exhaling loudly. “I’ve done it before. And I can do it again. Let’s get it over with.”

Harry followed her as she strode up the steps to the bank, both of them nodding at the goblin guard as he greeted them and entered the bank.

He may have forgotten how massive the space within was, and how impressive the décor and the furnishings had been…and he drew a sharp breath as he was reminded of the grandeur of Gringotts.

He had learned, through his texts on History, that Gringotts, in addition to Magical Britain’s sole bank, was in fact an embassy of the Goblin nation on British soil. The nation of Goblins, whose very location was apparently a closely guarded secret, had branches (which also served as embassies) in various capital cities around the world, and in all but a few cases, had binding magical contracts that effectively monopolized the production and flow of currency in various countries.

Harry hadn’t been entirely sure what that had meant, but it sounded to him that at some point in the past, witches and wizards in charge of Britain (and other nations he supposed) had signed a contract that effectively limited their own control of their nation’s economy.

It was baffling and puzzling, but thus far Harry hadn’t found any details pertaining to what the arrangement had entailed or what had possessed the government at the time (1474, if he recalled correctly) to become a signatory to such a contract.

Unlike the alley outside, which was only just starting to stir, Gringotts was wide awake and already bustling with activity. Figures of various Goblins, who sat hunched over ledgers or making notes on comically large scrolls of parchment, glanced up for only the briefest moment as they entered before returning to their work. After a quick exchange of glances, Harry and Aunt Petunia began to make their way across to the counter at the far left end of the hall.

Unlike the last time, the teller at the counter was already waiting for them with a smile that was all teeth, when they reached him.

“Welcome to Gringotts. The greatest and only bank of Magical Britain and all her denizens. How may I be of assistance?”

“We, er, need to exchange some money.” Aunt Petunia informed him.

Harry braced himself. Unbeknownst to Aunt Petunia, he had been meaning to do something for years now, and this would be the only chance he’d get.

He cast a glance around and dropped his voice to a whisper, “We would also like to ask if there exists, um, an account created by er, James and Lily Potter for their…son.”

The goblin didn’t hesitate for a second.

Even as Aunt Petunia’s eyes widened at the unexpected question voiced by her nephew, he was already answering, with no care for whispers or subtlety, “No such account exists. Gringotts has no accounts that were created by James and Lily Potter for anyone.”

Harry felt his heart sink. Ever since the revelations during the trip to Godric’s Hollow all those years ago, he had been so sure that his parents would have left something behind for him, at least to cover the expenses for his education.

His Uncle and Aunt had been nothing but kind to him in all the time that he’d known them, and he had really been hoping that at the very least he’d be able to pay them back for the cost of all the magical books and things that they’d had to purchase for him. And now, with the arrival of the Hogwarts shopping list, he was sure that the expenses were about to increase.

“Why would they,” their teller continued, unperturbed by their reactions, “when their family accounts and vaults would automatically be inherited by any child they had?”

Harry didn’t know how much time had passed, but he felt that they should soon consider going back out to mundane London to reassure Uncle Vernon that everything was fine.

He and Aunt Petunia were currently seated in comfortable leather-backed chairs in front of a polished mahogany table (on which rested a small obsidian bowl with intricate runes carved along its edge, a shiny knife made of some alloy Harry couldn’t recognize but he suspected wasn’t steel and a strangely shaped vial bearing a dark red liquid) opposite a goblin who had introduced himself as Griphook, the account manager for the Potter vaults.

“…so, Harry is technically a Lord?” Aunt Petunia asked in a daze, eyes focused on the swirling contents of the bowl where her nephew’s blood had just turned a shimmering white when mixed with the contents of the vial that supposedly contained James’.

“Not until he claims his Lordship,” Griphook clarified with a grin. “And as Lords of the Wizengamot can only claim their seats after attaining maturity, Heir-Apparent Potter would be unable to claim the title of Lord Potter until he is seen in the eyes of the government and of magic as an emancipated adult.”

“So, what does this mean for me right now?” Harry asked carefully.

“Several things,” the Goblin bared his teeth at him again. “Even though you will be unable to access the family’s two main vaults until you claim the Potter seat and the mantle of Lord Potter, all of your academic expenses would be paid for out of the Potters’ trust vault, which was set up for just such occasions. In addition, you will also be provided with an allowance of two hundred galleons per year for personal expenses, also from the trust vault. But perhaps most importantly, you are eligible to wear the signet ring identifying you as the Heir-Apparent to the Potter Lordship, which comes with a variety of benefits by itself.”

“Why is the ring more important than the fact that my school expenses will be covered?” Harry asked, puzzled.

“Mostly because all your tuition fees have already been paid up, making it a moot point.”

“What? Who paid them?”

“Your father did, back in 1980, shortly after you were born,” Griphook said with a surprisingly gentle cough. “Times being as they were back then, it wasn’t an uncommon practice to make sure that one’s children’s future was secured as soon as it could be.”

“Oh,” Harry said simply, touched and troubled by this. “I still don’t get why the ring matters though.”

“It’s not an ordinary ring or a fancy piece of jewelry,” Griphook explained. “The concepts of Lords and Heirs date back to feudal ages. An altogether more violent and brutal time of wide-spread and interconnected families and ambitious relatives keen on climbing social ranks. The simplest way to climb said rank was to ensure that one became the Heir-Apparent from being, say, merely the Heir-Presumptive.”

He paused at their blank expressions and smiled. “I’ll recommend a book to help you get caught up on the concepts. But in a nutshell, in a bid to protect one’s heirs from the daggers or poison of overambitious and morally bereft blood kin, most Lord and Heir rings are enchanted to a frankly ridiculous degree.”

Seeing understanding finally dawn on his client’s faces, he nodded with satisfaction.

“Once you put on the Heir’s ring and swear the necessary oaths, the ring cannot be removed from your finger even under duress. It will serve as proof of identity, replace your signature on magical documents and contracts and as already stated, warn you if you’re about to ingest poison. The exact nature of the additional enchantments varies from family to family, but for the Potter Heir ring they are largely protective in nature.”

“But wouldn’t it just draw unnecessary attention?” Aunt Petunia asked.

“The ring can be made invisible with a mere thought by the wearer. The lords of the past apparently agreed with the sentiment that subtlety could be invaluable in certain situations.”

Aunt Petunia nodded and turned her gaze to Harry.

“You’re not mad are you?” he asked her hesitantly.

“Oh, Harry! Of course, I’m not” she assured him immediately, laying her hand on his arm. “Of course, you would want to check if your parents left something for you. I just didn’t think of it myself, or else I would have suggested you enquire long before today.”

“You think I should accept the ring?”

“I don’t think it will hurt,” she said after a pause.

Harry turned to Griphook and nodded.

“Excellent, I shall have the ring brought to us momentarily. But in the meantime, I’ll have to ask you to provide us with a sample of your blood for our records too. In case, ahem, a descendent of yours someday comes along and may need to prove their identity in the same way that you have.”

A short while later, Harry, following Griphook’s instructions, placed the heavy silver ring on the little finger of his right hand and began to recite the oath he’d been taught.

"I, Harry James Potter, do hereby pledge myself as the heir of the House of Potter. I swear to honor the legacy of my ancestors, to protect and support my family, and to cultivate the winds of wisdom and strength within me. With this oath, I accept the responsibilities and privileges of my birthright. Custodia et Altitudo."

The ring flashed for a moment and seemed to shrink and tighten around his finger as he uttered the last words, which were the family motto. It now seemed to have a tiny, but detailed coat of arms inscribed into the large, previously blank oval space that he suspected was expected to be used on wax seals and the like. He tried to make out what the coat of arms contained but was interrupted.

“Congratulations, on confirming your heirship Heir-Apparent Potter,” Griphook said with a small bow. “Now that we’ve concluded that bit of formality, we can head down to the trust vault and withdraw the funds required for your school supplies.”

“Would I not have been able to access the vault before having sworn the oath?” Harry enquired, curious about the intricacies of this magic.

“The Potter trust vault is directly accessible by the Lord or Heir to the Potter seat and anyone accompanying them. In their absence, Gringotts can help with withdrawals from the account for children who have already been confirmed to be part of the Potter bloodline. So, had you elected not to claim the heirship, I’d have instructed one of our goblins to make the necessary withdrawal on your behalf,” he chuckled before adding “But, it’s always better to take a look at your assets with your own eyes, so I’m glad that you completed the oath.”

They were led down several flights of marble stairs and the atmosphere grew cooler and the light dimmer as they descended. At the bottom, they stepped into a cavernous space, crisscrossed by a complex network of tracks and tunnels. This underground expanse was filled with the constant clatter and whir of minecarts, each gliding along the tracks with uncanny speed and precision.

The sight of the carts and the tracks made Harry's eyes widen with curiosity. Each vehicle was a sleek, metal contraption, polished to a gleaming finish and adorned with intricate and indecipherable runes. They seemed to hover just above the tracks, propelled by some magical force that Harry couldn't quite fathom.

"These carts will take us to your family vault," Griphook explained, leading them to one of the empty vehicles. "Please, climb in and hold on tightly."

Harry and Petunia climbed into the cart, settling onto the cushioned seats. As soon as Griphook joined them, the cart gave a lurch and then shot forward, accelerating with astonishing speed. Petunia let out a small, involuntary yelp, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the cart.

The cart sped through the labyrinthine tunnels, twisting and turning at what felt like impossible angles. The air rushed past them, cool and slightly damp, carrying the faint scent of earth and minerals. The tracks below them were a blur of steel and stone, and the walls of the tunnel seemed to flash by in streaks of gray and brown.

Harry, despite the initial shock, found the ride exhilarating. The thrill of the speed and the sight of the endless network of tunnels filled him with a sense of wonder and adventure. He glanced at Aunt Petunia, who looked decidedly less enthusiastic, her face pale and her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, the cart began to slow as they approached a massive, ornate door set into the rock and adorned with a much larger and colorful version of the coat of arms inscribed on Harry’s new ring. Harry stared at what was surely the Potter family crest with wide, unblinking eyes: a silver phoenix, a golden wand crossed with a silver quill, a stylized gust of wind, and a towering tree, probably an oak, all depicted on a quartered shield encircled by intricate Celtic knots.

“We have arrived,” Griphook announced as the cart came to a smooth halt. He stepped out with the casual grace of someone well-versed with crazy subterranean roller coasters and motioned for Harry and Petunia to follow. “The Potter trust vault.”

“What do they mean?” Harry asked in a whisper, eyes still riveted to the coat of arms.

“The Potter family coat of arms embodies the family’s rich heritage and magical affinities. Each of the four quadrants that the shield is divided into represents a facet of the family's legacy” Griphook explained patiently.

“The top left quadrant depicts a silver phoenix, wings spread wide, soaring against a sky-blue background. The phoenix of course symbolizes rebirth and resilience, and its portrayal in silver is indicative of the protective nature of the Potters since silver helps ward against many dangers, magical and otherwise. Few families have been pushed to the brink as many times as the Potters and have come back stronger each time. The blue sky in the background hints at the desire of the house to be free and unconstrained.

“The top right quadrant bears a golden wand crossed with a silver quill, set against a backdrop of deep crimson. This represents the family's dedication to magical knowledge and the written word. The libraries at Potter Manor were rumored to have been amongst the most extensive repositories of arcane knowledge, rivaled only by a handful of such collections. The crimson backdrop and the golden color of the wand are comparatively recent changes, made in the last century, to indicate an affinity of the family towards the Hogwarts house of Gryffindor; another old and storied family that, sadly, went extinct a long time ago.

“The bottom left quadrant bears an artistic depiction of wind, painted in swirling silver and white, against a forest green field. This signifies the Potters' special affinity for magic related to wind and air. It’s possible that this affinity is why Potters, historically, tend to have a knack for Quidditch. If there exists any significance to the green setting of this particular quadrant, I’m afraid to say, that it is one that is not known to me. Maybe the past Patriarchs or Matriarchs of the family, back when the coat of arms was first designed, just liked how it looked.

“The bottom right quadrant denotes a sturdy oak tree with deep roots, all in gold, set against a black background. This symbolizes the strength and deep-rooted history of the Potter family in both the history of Wizarding Britain and the history of magic overall. The black background is also a change from how the coat of arms had initially looked, and it is rumored to symbolize ‘death’. Although this last supposed association is far from an accepted fact.

“And finally, encircling the shield is a border of intricate Celtic knots, woven with silver and gold threads, representing unity and the unbreakable bonds of family.”

Harry listened to Griphook with rapt attention as his eyes traced the family crest. He noticed that beneath the shield, on a flowing banner of blue and silver, was inscribed the Potter family motto in an elegant, archaic script: ‘Custodia et Altitudo’.

“Guardianship and Elevation,” he said softly.

Griphook paused in his monologue and nodded solemnly.

“The motto underscores the family's role as protectors of their own and their pursuit of lofty ideals and excellence.”

Griphook approached the door and ran a long, sharp nail over a series of runes. With a deep, resonant rumble, the door began to open, revealing a room filled with stacks of glittering gold coins, heaps of silver, and piles of bronze knuts. The sight of the treasure left Harry momentarily speechless.

“You may withdraw as much as you need for your school supplies, Heir-Apparent Potter,” Griphook said with a hint of a smile. “The Potter family looks after its own.”

Harry stepped forward, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and disbelief. Petunia followed more hesitantly; her eyes wide as she took in the vast wealth before them. Harry carefully scooped up a handful of Galleons before realizing he didn’t know how much he would need.

As if reading his mind, Griphook chuckled behind him. “In addition to your annual allowance of two hundred galleons, I would advise withdrawing about fifty or so galleons for your school supplies. And I’d strongly suggest investing in a high-quality trunk with expansion and featherweight charms along with a similarly enchanted backpack as your first purchases. That’ll make the rest of your shopping much easier.”

Harry thanked him for the suggestion and worked with Petunia to carefully count out and place two hundred and fifty galleons in her purse. He was relieved to find that the coins came in more than one denomination, meaning that they didn’t have to spend ages collecting and counting the coins to be sure of how much they were withdrawing.

Griphook nodded at them once they were done, but before leading them back out of the value he lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner.

“There is one other reason why I am glad that you took the oath which allowed me to escort you down to the vault.”

He paused and looked very serious.

“Goblin loyalty lies first to clan, then to law and finally to gold,” he said softly. “There is a matter that pertains to you over which the loyalty of my colleagues and I are likely to be divided, and as such I felt it most prudent to fill you in where there was no chance of being overheard.”

He took in Harry and Petunia’s slightly apprehensive looks and continued.

“You see, in addition to being the Heir-Apparent of House Potter, you are also currently the adoptive Heir of the Heir-Apparent to another magical family.”

“Really?” Harry said, surprised. “Of which house?”

“The house of Sirius Black, your godfather. The Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

“Sir-Sirius Black is my godfather?” Harry managed in a strangled voice as Aunt Petunia let out a squawk of surprise.

“Yes…let me explain.” Griphook nodded. “Sirius Black, the eldest son of Orion and Walburga Black, was the Heir-Apparent of Lord Arcturus Black III, at the time of Lord Black’s death, which occurred earlier this year. With Lord Arcturus’ passing, the Black Lordship is Sirius’ to claim…which, given your reaction, I suspect you might know he will be unable to do on account of being in the process of serving life imprisonment in Azkaban.

“As Sirius Black is not known to have any children or surviving siblings who still bear the Black name, as his godson you stand as his heir. Therefore, should Sirius Black ever take up the mantle of Lord Black, you would immediately become the Heir-Presumptive to the Black Lordship until such time as Sirius produces a child of his own or disinherits you in favor of someone else. Barring those two possibilities, in the event of his death, you would become the new Heir-Apparent and if you so choose, could become Lord Black, in addition to your Potter Lordship or Heirship.

“However, should Sirius Black pass away without ever claiming his Lordship, the title of Heir-Apparent, which is determined by proximity to the last Lord of the house, will pass to someone else entirely. A young wizard your age by the name of Draco Malfoy, the Heir-Apparent of the Ancient and Noble house of Malfoy. Of course, he would only be able to claim the actual Lordship if he chooses to adopt the Black name.”

“So…he would have to give up his current thing to be able to adopt the new one?” Harry asked slowly, sounding confused. All this Lord and Heir business was frankly medieval and convoluted as anything, and he wasn’t sure he was really following along.

“Not quite,” Griphook explained patiently, “different houses have different, unique charters that govern the rules and intricacies of successions and most family matters. The Potter family, among a few others, don’t set any restrictions on their members beyond the oath you have already sworn. The Black family charter however, demands, that in order to lay claim to the Black Lordship, one must be a male wizard, descended from a prior Lord Black who has attained his maturity and bears the family name. Consequently, when the time comes and depending on the circumstances, either you or Heir-Apparent Malfoy may lay claim to the Black Lordship, by changing your own name, without risking the loss of the other title that you are each likely to hold.”

“Harry’s not even eleven,” Aunt Petunia said weakly. “These…these sound like things we’re really not prepared to handle!”

“I apologize,” the goblin said. “It was not my intention to overwhelm you with this subject. I would not have done so, had the situation been different. But suffice to say, that while people have ended up being the Lord or Heir to multiple titles in the past, only the most insecure or vain have held on to them instead of abdicating in favor of a family member, or something similar. The burden of multiple responsibilities is one that is easily avoided by simply not taking up more than one mantle.”

“I see,” Harry said slowly. “But I don’t think I understand what this has to do with divided loyalties or any of that other stuff you mentioned.”

“Simply put, the Black family is one of the richest in Magical Britain and given that account managers are oath-bound to facilitate the welfare and growth of the family they are attached to, I believe that my esteemed colleague and account manager for the Malfoy account, Sharpclaw, may have strong vested interests in ensuring that Sirius Black is never able to take up his Lordship.”

He paused before adding, “There’s also the fact that Bloodletter, the account manager for the Black family was never able to find any records of a trial for Sirius Black when he searched for them after his incarceration.”

“You mean, he never received a trial?” Aunt Petunia asked with audible surprise in her voice.

Griphook nodded, “So it appears.”

“But what can we even do about it?” Harry asked.

Griphook smiled again, “You could perhaps read a particular chapter in a particular book that I can recommend to you, and we can then talk about what you think.”

Once they’d made their way back to the surface and exited Gringotts, their first purchase was a copy of ‘The Rituals that Bind Us’ by Baltair MacCathasaigh that Harry had already flipped open to the page for something called the ‘Godfather’s Oath’ and was furiously reading even as Aunt Petunia settled up at the counter.

Chapter Text

6^th July 1991

Excerpt from ‘The Rituals that Bind Us’ by Baltair MacCathasaigh

Chapter 17: The Godfather and Godmother Oaths

The nature of magically binding oaths is steeped in the oldest traditions of our magical heritage. These oaths, often sworn in moments of profound importance, harness the raw, elemental forces of magic to bind the swearer's life and power to their word. One such example is the Godfather's Oath, a pledge that intertwines the guardian's fate with the well-being of their charge.

Magically binding oaths are not to be taken lightly. When a wizard or witch swears an oath on their life and magic, they invoke ancient and potent forces that ensure that the vow is upheld. The consequences of breaking such an oath are severe and absolute. Depending on the nature of the oath and the strength of the magic invoked, a breach can result in the complete loss of one's magical abilities, severe physical repercussions, or even death.

The origins of these oaths trace back to the earliest magical societies, where spoken word and intent held great power. In those times, a person's promise, especially when sworn in the presence of witnesses and sealed by magic, was far more binding than any written contract. These oaths were used to ensure loyalty, protect the innocent, and uphold the values of the community.

The Godfather's Oath, for example, is a sacred pledge taken by an individual who commits to protect and nurture a child, often in the event of the parents' demise. This oath is binding upon the swearer's life and magic, ensuring that the godfather or godmother remains steadfast in their duty. The repercussions of betrayal are dire, as the magic of the oath will exact its toll upon the oathbreaker, stripping them of their powers and, in some cases, their very life.

It is for this reason that such oaths are invoked with the utmost solemnity and care. They are a testament to the weight of one's word and the unyielding nature of magical bonds. The power of these ancient magics serves as a reminder that the commitments we make are not merely words, but forces that shape our destinies and those of others.

In the modern era, the use of magically binding oaths remains rare, reserved for the most critical of promises and the most sacred of duties. Yet, their existence continues to be a cornerstone of magical tradition, a living testament to the enduring power of our words and the magic that binds them.

The words of the magically binding oath of the godfather are as follows.

In the name of the ancient magics and the bonds of kinship, I, [Name of the godfather], do solemnly swear:

By my life and my magic, I pledge to protect and safeguard [Name of the godchild], the child of [Name of godchild’s father] and [Name of godchild’s mother]. I vow to stand as [his/her] guardian, to shield [him/her] from all harm, and to guide [him/her] with love and wisdom.

I swear that I shall never, through action or inaction, break this trust bestowed upon me by [his/her] parents. Should I ever cause [him/her] harm or fail in my duty through either betrayal or apathy, may my magic be stripped from me and my life forfeit.

This oath is bound by the sacred forces of magic, witnessed by the spirits of our ancestors and the elements of the earth. Let this promise be sealed, unbroken, until my dying breath or until [Name of the godchild] reaches [his/her] majority and releases me from this bond.

So mote it be.

The oath of the godmother is similar in nature except it focuses on nurturing the godchild just as the godfather’s oath focuses on protecting them. The words of the godmother’s oath are also detailed below…

Harry read the words again, slowly and carefully.

“…never through action or inaction, break this trust bestowed upon me by his parents.”

“So, assuming of course, that the penalties of what has been described in that book are accurate, if Sirius Black is alive and still capable of magic, he did not betray Lily and James” Aunt Petunia murmured.

They were seated at a small table in the corner of ‘While You Wait’ along with Vernon, having decided to put a pause on their shopping and fill him in over lunch. The book recommended by Griphook, thankfully had a sufficiently mundane exterior that Harry had felt comfortable enough to pull it out and show his uncle the excerpt he’d already read a dozen times over.

“Well, Sirius was like a brother to James, inseparable those two were whenever we met them. I suppose it makes sense that they would have named him as your godfather,” Uncle Vernon mused as he chewed his steak and kidney pie thoughtfully. “But I’m surprised that they never mentioned it in any of the letters to you dear.”

Aunt Petunia frowned.

“Now that you mention it, that is a bit odd, what?” she pondered. “I wonder why they never said anything. Unless…you don’t suppose Lily thought we might be upset that they didn’t pick us as Harry’s godparents?”

Uncle Vernon nodded. “Could be…I mean I guess if it meant that they would have wanted Harry to be taken care of by Sirius in the event of something happening instead of us, I dare say I’d have felt a bit hurt. But hold on, Harry arrived the morning after Halloween…didn’t you say that Sirius was arrested about a week later? Why didn’t anyone consider Harry’s godfather as the person who he should be taken to, since for at least a week after everything happened, Sirius was still out and about? And for that matter, why didn’t he seek Harry out to claim him?”

“And then there’s the other reason why Sirius was arrested, the alleged murder of twelve people along with Peter,” Aunt Petunia said in a very hushed voice. “You don’t suppose he had, er, gone crazy from grief and was deemed unfit to take care of Harry or something?”

“Or…maybe people immediately suspected him of betraying Lily and James, him being one of their closest friends and all, and decided to keep Harry away from him. And maybe that drove him over the edge.”

“Or, he could be innocent of that accusation too,” Harry said quietly. “There were apparently no trial records to be found, remember? Maybe he was framed for this just like he was falsely charged with betraying mom and dad?”

Uncle Vernon nodded. “Some of the articles in those books did indicate that there were attacks taking place even after Halloween, like the Longbuttons for instance. So, someone could have attacked both him and Peter and framed him for all the death and destruction.”

“But what do we do about it all? And before we even ask ourselves that, do we believe everything we heard today? Do we trust the goblin?” Aunt Petunia interjected.

“Well, based on what you’ve described,” Uncle Vernon said slowly. “I don’t think the account manager has done anything suspicious. In fact, had he been just out for your money, he would simply have lied about Harry having inherited anything. The fact that he told you all of this in a manner where even his own co-workers couldn’t overhear him, makes it sound like he’s being very careful and cautious…which doesn’t sound like character traits of someone who would give credence to unfounded rumors. I would still be curious how he found out about the oath in the first place though.”

Having cleared his plate, he pushed it away from him and wiped his mouth with a napkin before adding.

“But what can be done about it? I am afraid I have no earthly idea.”

“Let’s go meet Griphook again after we’re done with the school shopping?” Harry pleaded. “He did ask us to go back to him, didn’t he?”

“I suppose we should.” Aunt Petunia nodded, sounding troubled, and pushed her own plate of largely untouched fish and chips away.

“Ok, take care you two,” Uncle Vernon said as Harry got to his feet as well, unabashedly pulling his wife’s plate towards him. He wasn’t a big fan of wasting food. “I’ll go find a phone in a bit and give the Polkisses a call mentioning we’re running a little late. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Harry and Petunia left the tavern and returned to the Leaky Cauldron. They had stopped to let Tom the innkeeper know that they would be back soon and to apologize for the inconvenience, to which the cheerful man had indicated that it was no trouble at all, and that helping folks access the alley was simply a part of his duties.

Within minutes they were back in Diagon Alley, which was now swarming with people.

Harry pulled his hat firmly down as he made his way down the alley beside his aunt. A large number of the people gathered here appeared to be with their children. A few seemed to be about Harry’s age, like a couple of girls with dark braided hair who seemed to be identical twins, while others seemed to be a few years older, like the stocky boy who seemed to be pleading with his mother outside the window of ‘Quality Quidditch Supplies’.

“Er…robes first?” Petunia asked. “While they measure you up I can go get the books. And then we can go get the potions stuff together and finally grab the wand.”

She paused for a second, “If I remember right, Lil-your mother took quite a bit of time choosing her wand. So, I can probably pick up an owl for you if it seems to be taking longer.”

Harry nodded mutely and the pair began to make their way towards a store called ‘Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions’, before he remembered something and stopped short.

“Griphook suggested we get a backpack and a trunk first!”

Aunt Petunia stopped as well and cursed under her breath. “Ok, so how about that shop over there?” She asked, pointing to a store with a large painted sign that read ‘Tumble's Trunks & Travel Gear’ above a window filled with handbags, backpacks and trunks.

Harry nodded and was soon being shown a variety of trunks by an enthusiastic salesperson.

"Ah, young master! You've come to the right place! Allow me to introduce you to our top-of-the-line travel trunk, the T-100! This beauty here has expandable compartments—perfect for all your Hogwarts needs. Need more space for books? Just tap this rune, and voilà, it expands! And it’s feather-light too! You won’t feel a thing, even if it’s filled to the brim. And here, this model has multi-compartment enchantments. Store your robes in one section, potions ingredients in another, and your Quidditch gear in a third—all perfectly organized. It's like having three trunks in one! And don't worry about theft—anti-theft charms ensure that only you can open it! Price? Oh, can you truly put a price on the ultimate convenience and luxury?"

Upon being informed by Aunt Petunia, that yes, they could, in fact, put a price on a damn trunk or she could find another shop that focused more on what the customer needed than delivering a sales pitch designed to upsell their products, the somewhat deflated wizard conceded that trunk would cost fifty galleons, where the regular ones with no enchantments would be around two.

Even without converting the cost to pounds in his head, Harry knew that it was a lot of money for a trunk. Heck! It was probably a lot of money for a return trip to Greece! But remembering Lily’s own trunk from her school days and how it had needed to be replaced less than a few years into her time at Hogwarts, he felt that this might be a worthwhile investment.

So, after fifteen minutes of spirited haggling, which was something of a hobby for Aunt Petunia, they left the store and began to head towards Madam Malkin’s, with the T-100 and an enchanted backpack in tow and their purse about forty-five galleons lighter.

There seemed to be a bit of a wait time at the robes shop, so while Harry waited for his turn to be measured for new robes, Aunt Petunia headed to ‘Flourish and Blotts’ to pick up the recommended books and to ‘Scribbulus Writing Instruments’ to pick up quills, ink and parchment. Harry had been surprised to learn that the magical world preferred to use quills and parchment for most of their correspondence, but upon giving it further thought had concluded that this too was because of the lack of advancements when it came to manufacturing newer materials and products. He and Aunt Petunia had decided that it was probably wise to take a couple of quills and some ink with him to school but enquire if it would be ok to use ordinary pens for most of his work.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting, Harry was asked to step onto the fitting stand, near where a plump, blond boy around his age was currently being measured.

“Alright, dear. Hogwarts was it? Do you want the standard mandatory set, or the expanded wardrobe that also includes two vests, one set of dress robes for special occasions and dragon hide boots that will match your dragon hide gloves for seven galleons extra?” A breathless witch with dark hair done up in a loose knot asked him as she began to measure him.

“Er…” Harry looked around hoping Aunt Petunia was back to either haggle or provide some guidance and ended up meeting the eyes of the boy across from him, who gave him a small shy smile.

“The expanded wardrobe sounds nice,” he answered, figuring the cost difference was minor enough. “Hello,” he said to the blond boy. “I’m Ha-Luke.”

“Neville,” the boy returned after a moment of hesitation.

Harry realized that his new acquaintance wasn’t much of a talker and decided to try again.

“First year at Hogwarts?” He ventured.

“Um, yeah. Y-you?”

“Me too. It’s all still very new to me.”

“I-I wasn’t really sure I would-would get the letter.”

“Oh? Why not-?”

“Alright, that’s you done my dear!” the witch who had been altering Neville’s robes interrupted and the startled boy nearly stumbled off his stand before regaining his balance and blushing crimson.

Shortly afterwards as he left the shop behind an old and extremely stern-looking witch, he turned to give Harry a small wave and received a smile in response.

By the time his robes were done, Aunt Petunia had returned. She had picked up not only the books and stationery but also a new cauldron from ‘Potage's Cauldron Shop’, Potions supplies along with vials and new scales from ‘Slug & Jiggers Apothecary’ and even a new telescope from ‘Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment’.

The only things left to be purchased were a wand and an owl.

The charms on the trunk made it easy enough for them to haul it around the Alley and soon they were standing in front of a narrow and shabby little store with peeling gold letters over the door that read: “Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.” and a display that consisted of a solitary wand laying on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

It seemed to be the only wand shop in all of Diagon Alley.

As Harry pushed open the creaky door to Ollivander’s, a tinkling bell somewhere in the depths of the shop announced his arrival. The shop was dimly lit, with narrow, tall shelves stretching up to the ceiling, each one crammed with long, narrow boxes. Dust motes floated in the air, illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of enchanted lamps.

The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of polished wood and the faint, tangy aroma of various magical ingredients. The countless wands that he could see, were each meticulously labeled and stored, creating an overwhelming sense of history and craftsmanship. The air seemed to hum with a subtle, almost imperceptible energy, as if each wand hummed with magic.

Harry felt a shiver of anticipation as he stepped further into the shop, Aunt Petunia following close behind, his eyes darting around, trying to take in every detail. The silence was profound, almost sacred, broken only by the soft rustling of parchment and the distant, almost inaudible ticking of an ancient clock.

Suddenly, from behind one of the towering shelves, emerged a tall, thin man with wide, pale eyes that seemed to pierce through Harry. His silver hair and the slightly ethereal quality of his movements made him appear almost ghostly in the dim light.

“Good afternoon,” said the man in a soft, almost whispering voice. “Ah yes, Harry Potter. I wondered when I’d be seeing you.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “You know me?”

“I know you by your magic,” the man almost whispered. “It feels like only yesterday, that I sold your father and mother their wands, and I sense their magic in you.”

“Er…”

“Ten-and-a-quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. It was a nice wand for charm work that your mother chose," Mr. Ollivander said as he turned and began to glide between the shelves, his fingers trailing lightly over the boxes, as though they held precious relics. “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration.”

Harry stood there, mesmerized by the rows of wands and the quiet, reverent tone in Ollivander’s voice. He felt a curious blend of excitement and nervousness as Ollivander continued to speak, pulling down a few boxes and examining them with a practiced eye.

“Of course, though I say he favored it, it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard of course. Every single wand is unique, Mr. Potter, as you will soon discover. Just as no two phoenix feathers or dragon heartstrings are the same. They all have their preferences, their temperaments, their own quirks,” he continued as he approached them bearing an armful of boxes. “The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter, always remember that. That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wand-lore.”

Harry watched, transfixed, as Mr. Ollivander opened a box and handed him a wand.

"Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible," said Ollivander.

Harry took it cautiously and at Mr. Ollivander’s suggestion gave it a swish.

A sound like a gunshot reverberated through the tiny shop and Harry thought he could hear the sound of glass shattering somewhere even as Mr. Ollivander was plucking the wand out of his hand.

“No, no! Absolutely not! Dragon heartstring wands help augment the power of a witch or wizard whose magical inclinations tend more towards subtlety. With a reaction like that, it’s safe to say your magical core’s strength needs no further amplification. How about…this one? Cypress and unicorn hair. Ten-and-a-half inches. Bendy.”

Before he could reach out and take this wand, Harry felt a strange pull on his senses from deeper within the shop. He hesitated and Ollivander immediately noticed.

“Did you feel something Mr. Potter? Perhaps a wand calling to you? How extraordinary, such a thing hasn’t happened in decades!” He gushed, withdrawing the wand he’d been holding out. “Try closing your eyes and describing what you felt.”

“Um, kind of like a pull. From somewhere over in that direction,” Harry offered hesitantly, pointing in the approximate direction he felt the tug from.

“Fascinating,” Mr. Ollivander whispered and waved his hand at the shop door, and Harry saw out of the corner of his eyes that a small ‘Closed’ sign was now hung on it. “You know how to try and consciously sense magic around you, yes? Try extending your magic and see if you can home in on the wand that pulled on your senses.”

“Er…ok.”

Harry closed his eyes and calmed his breathing before entering a meditative trance. Sensing magic was one of the areas he wasn’t very well-versed in. He had realized that Privet Drive simply did not have ambient magical energies or any real sources of magic (well...apart from his own self) that he could sense. In fact, aside from sensing the magic within the house at Godric’s Hollow, he had only been able to sense the magic within a few of their more exotic potions ingredients, as they blended with other items and changed while being brewed. And he honestly had no ideas on how to interpret that since even ‘Before You Begin to Brew’ hadn’t had any advice to offer on this.

Cautiously, he tried extending his senses outwards, in the direction of the wands on the table and the shelves deeper within the shop.

The entire shop was awash with vibrant, overlapping auras of magic of every conceivable color, hum and fragrance that he could imagine, each seeming to originate from one of the wands within.

“Whoa,” he said involuntarily, suddenly dazed by the sensory overload and unsure of how to proceed.

“Reach out to each of the auras you can sense and try to see if you can tell them apart,” Ollivander’s voice whispered, originating from the direction of what was best described as a soothing, pale aquamarine nexus to Harry’s immediate right, that he guessed was the man’s magical signature.

Harry nodded and tried to follow the wandmaker’s instruction and tried to magically touch the aura of one of the wands closest to him, which had a shimmering green and gold hue.

He received a strange assortment of impressions almost immediately. What the wand was, what the wand wanted and what the wand thought of him.

This one was the cypress and unicorn hair wand that Ollivander had been about to hand him. The wand sought a noble mage to bond with. One who would value honor, heroism and sacrifice. It would value loyalty too, and it would give the wielder its own loyalty in turn. It would aid the magic of those that its master, its friend and its partner considered their allies and struggle against being used by those they didn’t like. It regarded Harry as someone who had the qualities of being a good match for it, but it had sensed that somewhere in the shop there was another whose affinity for Harry was greater than its own, and slowly withdrew from Harry magic.

Harry spent God knows how long reaching out to the various auras of the wands around him, and even accidentally brushed up against Mr. Ollivander’s aura (decades of patience, creativity, curiosity, fascination and something approaching…regret), before remembering that he ought to try and find the aura of the wand that had called out to him, but not before making several mental notes on what he sensed.

It seemed that different types of wood had their own ‘personalities’ and thus wands were likely to choose a wizard with a matching vibe. For example, a wand of cypress wood was well matched with someone noble and willing to heroically sacrifice themselves for others, a wand of pine was likely to choose an independent and intriguing loner (Harry imagined that Mr. Ollivander’s own wand was likely to be made of pine), and a spruce wand would probably bond with a firm-handed wizard who was bold and had a good sense of humor. However, no two wands were the same, even when made from the same materials.

It also looked like some wand woods were better suited for certain branches of magic. Fir wands seemed to enjoy transforming things and thus were particularly good for transfiguration, yew wands were especially fearsome in the fields of dueling and curses, and alder wands worked better than any other wand wood with nonverbal spells. Alternatively, some woods were poorly suited for certain branches of magic. Acacia wands had a subtle nature and were not suited for ‘bangs-and-smells magic’, and apple wood mixed poorly with spells of a more violent or darker nature.

In contrast to the sheer variety of wood used in the thousands of wands in the shop, there seemed to be only three distinct cores within them.

The cores of unicorn hair were faithful and constant and were ready to pledge their lifelong allegiance to their first witch or wizard. The ones with dragon heartstring were much as Mr. Ollivanders had described, as both augmenting and valuing the power of its wielder. It would work well for someone who won it from a former master, bowing to a more powerful mage in the same manner in which a dragon might concede primacy to a stronger specimen in the wild.

And then there were the wands with cores of phoenix feathers.

These were available in far smaller numbers than wands with the other cores, and while each seemed to demonstrate a desire to master a wide range of magic, they were all incredibly picky. Harry felt fascinated, as each phoenix wand he reached out to recoiled almost instantaneously from his senses, apparently dissatisfied by something within him or deeming him to be incompatible without any specific discernible reason. Until he felt the tug on his senses again and zeroed in on the source.

Some wood, most likely holly, that valued and encouraged quick thinking and protectiveness. A core, a particularly vibrant phoenix feather, that was detached and would support and encourage a thirst for knowledge. A wood that sought adventure, especially in pursuit of grand designs. A core that valued independence and initiative over monkeying around at someone else’s behest. Individually, they weren’t a good fit for each other due to their differing tendencies, but combined they were much, much more than the sum of their parts, especially in the hands of the right wizard.

And for some reason, the wand had decided that Harry was that wizard.

Mr. Ollivander had apparently been closely following his voyage through the auras of his wands and Harry momentarily felt the wandmaker’s magic pulse (a jumbled impression of need, want, summons) and the wand he had been inspecting through his extended senses zoomed into the old man’s hands.

“Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple. Curious…curious…” Ollivander muttered as Harry opened his eyes again.

“Sorry, but what’s curious?” Harry asked.

Ollivander wordlessly held out the wand he’d just summoned to him, as if to say, ‘give it a try first.’

Harry took the wand and immediately felt a warmth rush up his fingers and travel through his entire body. He could tell without even needing to extend his senses that this was it. He could practically taste the approval and satisfaction from his wand that felt like an extension of himself and fit so perfectly in his hands that he wondered how he’d never realized how incomplete he had been before this moment.

“I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave another feather… just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother, why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry froze, feeling as if a whole bucket of ice had been dropped down his spine.

Mr. Ollivander, however, was already turning away. “You have a very strongly developed core and magical sense for one of your age Mr. Potter. And with that wand, I’m sure it’s safe to say that we may expect great things from you. After all, you-know-who did great things himself. Terrible, yes, but also great.”

Harry looked around for Aunt Petunia, ready to leave this strange shop before he began to hyperventilate and was surprised not to find her there.

“It was taking a while for you to find your wand, so I suggested that she use the time to complete any other shopping you had left. I promised her to make sure that you don't leave on your own until she returns…so, as we are waiting for her, what did you think of the wands you sensed?”

“Um, why are there so many types of wood in the wands but only three kinds of cores?” Harry asked, grateful for the change of topic and trying to distract himself from the strange revelation until he had a chance of processing it himself.

“After much experimentation and research, I concluded that only three substances produce wands of the quality to which I am happy to give the illustrious name of Ollivander: unicorn hair, dragon heartstring and phoenix feather,” Mr. Ollivander responded, seemingly delighted at the question. “Other wandmakers use a variety of different cores that work well enough for most cases I suppose. I’ve seen Veela hair, Thestral tails, Troll whiskers and Basilisk horns being used in wands across the world amongst many, many other cores.”

“Is your own wand-er, made of pine by any chance?” Harry asked carefully, trying to ascertain if his earlier hunch had been correct.

Ollivander beamed in delight. “Oh! Very good Mr. Potter! You might very well have all the gifts required to become a talented wandmaker should you ever wish to do so. My wand is indeed made of pine, as you no doubt guessed from my somewhat lonely little shop and personality. But, sometimes, it pays to remember that the combination of wood and core creates wands that are far removed from being just the product of their constituents. Certain wand woods react with some cores in unique ways, affecting the wand's personality and magical abilities. For instance, your own holly and phoenix feather is an unusual combination due to their opposite natures, but when such a wand finds its perfect match, nothing and nobody should stand in their way. A cherry wand with a dragon heartstring, to use another example, is ill-advised to be paired with a witch or a wizard who lacks exceptional self-control and strength of mind. And a wand of ash is wholly loyal to its one true original master and will lose power and skill if passed to someone else, especially if it has a unicorn hair core.”

Harry listened with rapt attention as the wandmaker waxed eloquent about the subtleties of wand-lore until the sound of the shop bell made him turn and he saw Aunt Petunia coming into the shop with his trunk behind her.

“I’ve sent your new owl home ahead of us,” she said with a smile in way of greeting. “She’s a beauty, and I can’t wait for you to meet her. Are you all done here?”

Once they’d settled up, apparently a wand cost seven galleons, which, to Harry, felt like a steal, they began to exit the little shop until Harry’s eyes landed on the single wand on the purple cushion in the shop window.

“I-I don’t think I felt any magic from the wand in the window, Mr. Ollivander,” he turned around to ask. “More than not feel anything…it seemed like a void while everything else felt vibrant and alive.”

“Hazel and unicorn hair,” the wandmaker murmured softly, gazing in the direction of the wand himself. “Ten-and-three-quarter inches. Extremely flexible. It was the wand of my father, and it wilted and died with his passing.”

He turned his large pale eyes at Harry once more.

“The wand chooses the wizard Mr. Potter…and sometimes it chooses not to outlive its wielder.”

Griphook had left instructions for them to be led directly to his private office as soon as they returned, so a few minutes after they walked back into a much more crowded Gringotts, Harry and Aunt Petunia found themselves seated across from the goblin once more.

“Having presumably read the details of the godfather’s oath, do you believe our conjecture about Sirius Black’s innocence?” he asked without preamble.

“We-we think there is a chance that he is innocent of betraying Lily and James,” Aunt Petunia began hesitantly. “But we’re not sure how you even know that he was-er, he is, Harry’s godfather?”

Griphook grinned. “Goblin magic far exceeds that of wizarding magic when it comes to monitoring and anticipating the flow of wealth. Once we had confirmation that Lord Arcturus Black had passed away and Sirius stood to inherit the title, our records indicated that the likely inheritor of all the Black vaults, properties and wealth was going to be you, should Sirius take up the Lordship and then die without producing an heir. A little more digging allowed us to conclude that this was because of active sworn oaths that bind both of you together…and finally, while you were seated in my office this morning, we analyzed the exact nature of the bonds and decided that the magic in question that connects the two of you arose through the invocation of the godfather’s oath.”

“Is he also innocent of the other things he's accused of?” Aunt Petunia asked as Harry considered this.

“No trial records, no eye-witness accounts except from folks who arrived on the scene after everything was done, no records indicating if his wand had even been used to cast an explosive spell…I would say there is very little actual evidence indicating he is guilty. In a time of great upheaval, it’s possible he was sentenced after trial at the court of public sentiment as opposed to trial in a court of law.”

“What can we do to help?” Harry asked, making up his mind.

“So, I take this to mean that you do want to help ensure that, if nothing else, Sirius Black gets a fair trial?” Griphook asked intently.

Harry nodded.

“Excellent!” Griphook exclaimed, clapping his hands together and surprising both Harry and Petunia. “Then allow me to introduce Bloodletter, the manager of the Black accounts, who I believe should be party to our planning of the next steps.”

The door to Griphook’s office opened right on cue and a much older goblin with wrinkled skin, and an old-fashioned suit hobbled in with a walking cane.

Harry got up immediately and offered his chair to the aged goblin and received a calculating look in return as Bloodletter settled into the seat.

“Merry meet, Heir Potter, madam,” the goblin rasped with an odd accent. “Your courtesy does you much credit. A few centuries past, most witches and wizards wouldst offer no more than a kick to any fellow magical beings they didst cross paths with.”

Griphook coughed, sounding a little embarrassed. “Bloodletter, Heir-Apparent Potter and his guardian have just expressed their desire to assist in obtaining a fair trial for Heir-Apparent Sirius Black. Since the subject most closely related to this discussion is your client, do you have any suggestions on how we should proceed?”

Bloodletter fixed Griphook with a steady stare that went on for far too long for the other goblin’s comfort, before finally responding.

“To declare Heir-Apparent Black innocent of his alleged betrayal of the Potter family, all that is needed is for Heir-Apparent Potter to allow himself to be examined by ministry mages who shall confirm that he is indeed the oath-sworn godson of Sirius Black. This wouldst be conclusive evidence that he couldst not have committed that particular crime without losing both his life and his magic. Once this is accomplished, we can bring the public’s attention to the fact that the Heir of an Ancient and Noble House was sentenced without so much as a trial. This shouldst galvanize both sects within the populace to demand that this miscarriage of justice be corrected. The traditionalists wouldst be horrified at the notion that one of their own couldst so easily be carted off to Azkaban without a chance to defend themselves, whilst the progressives wouldst be troubled that an innocent man might languish in prison. This, in turn, shouldst allow for a trial to be convened for his supposed crimes, where, given the lack of any meaningful evidence indicating his guilt, he shouldst be acquitted.”

After a second, Bloodletter added. “Of course, I shall leave naught to chance and shall hire the finest attorneys to represent him. The Black vaults can well afford it.”

Before Harry could weigh in on this course of action, however, Bloodletter was speaking again.

“Yet, I fear, if we pursue this course, Sirius Black may be found dead in his prison cell ere a trial date can be set.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, alarmed as Griphook stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Makes sense. There are people who are greatly interested in ensuring that Sirius never becomes Lord Black, so the easiest way of achieving their goal would be to pay for a little accident to befall him in prison.”

“A few galleons exchange hands, and a convict perishes in his cell after years of imprisonment. No one wouldst even be surprised.” Bloodletter nodded.

“So, we get him out first, get him to somewhere safe and then get him his day in front of the Wizengamot,” Griphook said casually, not sounding at all like what he’d proposed was a jailbreak.

“Aye,” Bloodletter agreed. “But be warned, should thy client, Heir-Apparent Potter waver in his resolve once the first part of the plan is enacted, matters shall become far more dire for his godfather. The instant he departs Azkaban, he will be a wanted criminal, with a kiss-on-sight order upon him.”

“A-a what order?” Aunt Petunia asked weakly.

“The guardians of Azkaban suck the happiness from those that are around. And, if allowed to do so, they can also suck the very soul out of a person. This is called the ‘Dementor’s Kiss’” Griphook explained.

“I won’t change my mind.” Harry declared. “If he’s innocent, he-he should not be in prison.”

Bloodletter gave him the same long look he had given Griphook when he’d first entered and Harry realized that the old goblin was searching his eyes for some kind of tell, an indication that he might be lying. He forced himself to withstand the scrutiny and eventually, the goblin turned away satisfied.

“We shall devise the initial steps amongst ourselves, Madam and Heir Potter. It may be best if thou art not privy to the conversation...plausible deniability and all such considerations.”

“We’ll get in touch once we’re ready with phase two,” Griphook added solemnly. “Of course, you will probably know when we’re getting close to that point from the tabloids. An Azkaban breakout is sure to make the headlines.”

As they prepared to take their leave, Harry recalled their earlier conversation. “Was it safe to speak here? Weren’t you hesitant to do so earlier for fear of being overheard?”

Griphook grinned. “Sharpclaw, the manager for the Malfoy account has been summoned to the family’s manor to be instructed to be ready for their son’s imminent shopping trip and associated withdrawals. Sometimes, I genuinely admire his loyalty despite what they put him through.”

The rest of the summer holidays were a mix of eager anticipation and impending homesickness.

Harry did in fact love the beautiful snowy owl (who he had named Hedwig from one of his history books) that Aunt Petunia had picked up for him from ‘Eeylops Owl Emporium’, and after he moved Snark into Dudley’s room, she seemed to get along fine with him as well. She did not seem to be warming to Slinky though, and Harry decided that it was probably for the best that Slinky had declined to travel to the cold Scottish Highlands with him.

His birthday came and went, and in a fit of preemptive nostalgia, Harry asked if he could invite all of his school friends to spend the day with them for a movie marathon. The children spent most of the afternoon and the evening with their eyes glued to the television and munching happily on pizza.

They had started letting people know that Harry would be leaving Surrey to attend Howards Institute for Gifted Young Scholars while Dudley would likewise be leaving for Smeltings. So, Harry’s birthday also felt like a bit of a farewell, even as the children all made plans to meet up over Christmas break and planned fun activities for next summer.

Every free moment they had, Harry and Dudley spent in each other’s company. This would be the first time they would be away from each other for any significant time, and subconsciously, they were both aware that given how different their lives were going to become, their relationship might be about to change as well. For the time being, therefore, they reveled in every normal thing they had grown up doing and savored every remaining moment of the summer.

Before they were ready for it, it was the last night of August and Harry would have to reach King’s Cross by 11:00 AM the following morning in order to catch his train. Dudley would be driven directly to Smeltings the day after, when his term began.

They had an unusually quiet dinner as they all dwelled on the looming departure of the children, and quietly retired to each of their rooms afterwards.

By the time Harry was ready to settle into bed, after checking for the umpteenth time that he had packed everything he needed in his T-100, there was a soft knock on the door.

Harry opened it to find Dudley standing in the corridor.

“Nothing’s gonna change, alright?” His cousin announced abruptly, holding his chin up in defiance. “And we’ll both be back here in just four months.”

“I-yes, of course.” Harry smiled as his eyes prickled as he got wrapped in a bone-crushing hug, and for once made no attempt to dodge out of the way.

“Nothing is going to change,” he kept repeating to himself over and over again as he lay in bed that night, trying not to weep in the darkness.

For once, they’d managed to leave at Uncle Vernon’s scheduled time, and consequently, they had arrived at King’s Cross at exactly ten on the dot.

After several more goodbyes, hugs and murmurings of endearment, he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer and forced himself to push his trolley away from where Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley stood and waved him goodbye and began his search for platforms nine and ten.

He’d elected to send Hedwig ahead of him to wherever Hogwarts was, deciding that a caged snowy owl would likely attract too much attention among the regular people of King’s Cross. So, he just had his trunk on his trolley which he pushed along slowly, trying to avoid bumping into people.

He had read the instructions in Professor McGonagall’s letter enough times to know it by heart, even without committing it to memory and felt like he knew exactly what needed to be done even though it still made him nervous to contemplate.

He was still spared having to decide which specific barrier separating the two platforms he should try and sneak through, when the loud hoot of an annoyed owl reached his ears.

He turned to see a dark-skinned girl with short black hair, a few years older than him, pushing a trolley carrying a very similar trunk to his on which was perched a bird cage containing an owl. Harry smiled in relief and immediately followed her.

She seemed to be by herself but appeared to give the impression of knowing where she was going. Harry watched as after a quick glance around she proceeded to speed up slightly while heading straight at one of the wide pillars that stood in the middle of platforms nine and ten, exuding an air of supreme nonchalance, which Harry immediately clocked as affected.

Just as she was a moment away from crashing, she disappeared.

Harry blinked twice, to make sure he hadn’t imagined it, and when the girl didn’t reappear, he sighed and decided to try and emulate her.

He cast a quick look around to make sure no one was paying any attention to him and began to push his trolley at the same barrier. He gritted his teeth slightly in trepidation as he picked up speed, sure that he was about to bounce off the barrier. Just as he was about to crash into the pillar, he shut his eyes, sure that this had been a terrible idea.