Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

DISCLAIMER

Before we begin this wonderful story, I would like to preface something.

To create this story, I have copy/pasted a PDF of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (or Sorcerer's Stone if you are in the United States), and adapted it. The credit for the original work goes of course to J.K. Rowling.

However, this work is designed to be a safe space for Harry Potter fans in the LGBTQIA++ community, and allies, and I am doing my best to represent a large variety of people through my adaptations.

Most importantly - this is not serious! All of the adaptations I have made are done in good humour, and good will, and if I do offend anyone at all, please do let me know and of course I will fix it! I use the word 'queer' or 'queers' a lot to describe the general LGBTQ+ community in this world, for example 'lots of young queers' but this is absolutely not meant in any sort of offensive way of course!

I quite obviously do not support J.K. Rowlings disgusting transphobic views and decisions, however, we do not have the power to change that. This fic is my gift to the LGBTQIA++ members of the Harry Potter fandom - and I hope you enjoy every bit of it!

Happy Pride, and I am so proud of every one of you <3 <3

Chapter Text

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't have the brain cells for such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Groanings , which made sex toys . He was a beefy heterosexual with he/him pronouns and hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley, she/her , was thin, blonde, and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which would have bruises on it, but even though he owned a sex toy company, Mr Dursley knew nothing about good sex. Regardless, the Dursleys had managed to procreate a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere. 

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. 

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small child, too, but they had never even seen them. This child was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with someone like that and being converted. 

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most ugly-ass tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily with her bitches over the phone as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, green frog crawling past the window, with wings coloured in vibrant pink, yellow and blue.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his boring-ass cereal at the walls. 

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house, trying to pretend he had a functional family. He got into his shitty cybertruck and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a Vogue magazine . For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again, struggling due to the high amount of fat, which sat like one of those travel pillows, around his neck. There was a black-and-white cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a magazine in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. There were markings around its eyes almost in the shape of little hearts.   As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read magazines or signs. 

Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of cock rings he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, cock rings were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People with colourful makeup, glitter, and rainbow flags . Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. 

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and with painted nails and lip piercings ! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something… yes, that would be it. 

The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Groanings parking lot, his mind back on cock rings . 

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on sex toys that morning. He didn't see the frogs with brightly coloured wings swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as frog after frog sped overhead. Most of them had never seen a frog even on the ground. 

Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, frog-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He tested a vibrator. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a Ube cupcake from the Buttercup Bake Shop.

He'd forgotten all about the brightly dressed people until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large frosted cupcake in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard, yas , their child, Harry."

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He dashed back across the road as fast as his shitty cybertruck , hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. 

He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache creepily, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Shaniqua . There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sibling. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sibling like that... but all the same, those people in glitter …

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on sex toys that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing orange, tight fitting trousers, a mesh shirt, and a pink feather boa. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, 

"Don't be sorry, my dear person, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even CisHets like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a CisHet , whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his shitty cybertruck and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood -- was the black-and-white cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter who wanted to play football and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. 

When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's frogs have been behaving very unusually today. Although frogs normally appear at night and are hardly ever seen in the sky, there have been hundreds of sightings of these amphibians flying in every direction since

sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the frogs have suddenly appeared with wings , but none were able to be captured for study." The newscaster allowed himself a grin.

"Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of frogs tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the frogs that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've seen as many as ten rainbows in the sky at once, for over six hours ! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Rainbows all over Britain? Frogs flying? People dressed like glitter balls all over the place?

And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea spiked with herbs . It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your brother lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they never spoke about her brother.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. " Frogs... rainbows... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... his crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son – he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Shaniqua , isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there.

It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind.... 

He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them....

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two frogs swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver sparkle of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his silver studded belt . He was wearing long robes, which shone in all colours of sequins like rainbow Jesus over a white-and-pink geometric patterned tube top. He walked flawlessly in chunky black heels that added at least 5 inches to his height, and hot pink latex trousers hugged his legs. His blue eyes were light, bright, and framed by dramatic, pantomime-style makeup. His nose was very long and perfectly contoured, and his cheekbones were highlighted with more blush than Sephora had in stock. This fabulous Drag Queen's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his purse , looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. 

For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a carabiner . He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and whispered ‘Yas Queen’ . The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the carabiner , until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. 

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the carabiner back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the cat, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather iconic-looking middle-aged woman who was wearing black heart glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a fabulous outfit, a long black granny-square crochet cardigan that reached her knees, over a cottage-core sage green dress and a bright silver accent belt that matched the gleaming jewelry around her ears, nose and bottom lip.  Her black hair was falling out of a tight bun and had semi-permanent rainbow highlights sprayed into it. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit with such lesbian energy. "

" You're not much better. I had to put my glasses on just to avoid permanent retinal damage when you walked down the street ," said Professor McGonagall, “I’ve been waiting all day, you know?”

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen parades and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently, “You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the CisHets have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window, "I heard it. Flocks

of frogs... rainbows .... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Ten rainbows down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Deidre Diggle. She never had much sense."

" Oh, that’s their deadname, I thought you’d heard ,” replied Dumbledore, and at McGonagall’s expression of confusion he continued, “ They go by Dedalus now, they/them. ”

“Oh, I do beg their pardon,” chuckled McGonagall, “Doesn’t change how much trouble they’ll all be in if the CisHets truly do start to realise what’s going on.”

You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads.

People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in CisHet clothes, swapping rumours."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the CisHets found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a condom ?"

"A what?"

"A flavoured condom . They're a kind of CisHet sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for flavoured condoms . "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was

unsticking two flavoured condoms , seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- iconic to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my tongue piercing ."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore at the mention of her wife and said, “If you were blushing, I wouldn’t be able to tell beneath the mountains of fake stuff heaped on your face already,” she said, somewhat fondly, and the Drag Queen tossed his hair in response as she continued, "The frogs are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that

whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another condom and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Gaydric 's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on, "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's child, Harry. But -- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little kid. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed… he couldn't kill a little child?”

“It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her glasses, the fabric coming away with dark eyeliner stains. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little coloured flags were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was xe who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw

him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly, fixing one of his false lashes . "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall and creasing her skirt. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- an icon -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day. In the future -- there will be fanfics written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously despite his glorious makeup . "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! You see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it.”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his sparkling robes suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying xir heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend xe's not careless. Xe does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge BiCycle in purple, blue and pink with a comically large engine strapped to the back of it  fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the BiCycle was huge, it was nothing to the person sitting astride it. Xe was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. Xe looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of xir face, xe had hands the size of trash can lids, and xir feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In the basket attached to the front of xir giant bike , was a pride flag wrapped around something small.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that BiCycle ?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the BiCycle as xe spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the CisHets started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the pride flag bundle. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like the outline of a heart .

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of all the gay bars in London . Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. Xe bent xir great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the CisHets !"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large handkerchief in the queer pride flag colours and burying xir face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with CisHets -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's pride flag , and then came back to the other two. 

For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously , trying to ensure she didn’t lose any more eyeliner , and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping xir streaming eyes on xir jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung xirself onto the BiCycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver carabiner . He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bright bundled flag on the step of number four.

" Good luck, Babe ," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his pride flag without waking up. 

One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the child who slayed !"

Chapter Text

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the frogs . 

Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets -- but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Harry woke up with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again. "Up!" she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying bicycle in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," said Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Harry groaned.

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Dudley's birthday -- how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise -- unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. Generally, he was pretty mid. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a heart . He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

"In the cybertruck crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask questions." Don't ask questions -- that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put

together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way – all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel -- Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

" A million and three ," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, a million and four then," said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right''

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, "So I'll have a million and… a million and… "

" A million and six , sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the Discrimination Handbook for Kids, six Furbies, a remote control buffet complete with food, nine-hundred-and-eighty-four video games that were 2p each on Temu, and a year’s subscription to a weight loss class. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her arse . She can't take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction.

Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a crazy-ass old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of urine and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the dildos she'd ever owned.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her arse , but he really didn’t give a shit.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there -- or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like an aborted fetus.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?"

"On holiday in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley's computer).] Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just deep-throated a cactus .

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "...and leave him in the car...."

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone...."

Dudley began to bitch cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying -- it had been years since he'd really cried -- but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp- spoils everything!" He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang -- "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically -- and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy -- any funny business, anything at all -- and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly..

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen. Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." 

Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair grown and styled into a fabulous mullet. Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to say that he couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls) -- The harder she tried to put it on him, the more colourful and sparkly it seemed to become, all the puff balls turning into glitter balls , until finally it might have blinded someone. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have changed colour in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished.

On the other hand, he’d gotten into trouble at school when he had been running away from Dudley and his gang, and suddenly found himself in the curiosity shop down one of the alleys in town. It was the kind of place that sold crystals, quills, mood rings, jewelry, etc. Harry had no idea how he had got there - he supposed that he’d just got lost in his own mind whilst running and accidentally left the school. The Dursley’s had received a very angry email from the school about Harry running away, and he’d been locked in his cupboard for three weeks. 

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's urine -smelling living room.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was bicycles.

"... dragging along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as they overtook a bicycle . I had a dream about a bicycle ," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: " BICYCLES DON'T FLY!" 

Dudley and Piers sniggered. 

“I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream." 

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon -- they seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas. Crazy how adults think their children will gain traits from learning about them even though they are born with them and nobody who is gay has ever been turned straight by the suffocating amount of straight media- 

Sorry, went off on one there for a moment :)

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn't blond.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. 

They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first. 

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last.

After lunch they went to the petting zoo area. It was open and slightly overgrown, with various walk-through pens containing all sorts of animals from rabbits, guinea pigs, goats, sheep, and a couple of donkeys. Dudley and Piers were not so keen on this area once they found out that they couldn’t take any of the animals home, but they did stop by the goats. These goats were rather large and shaggy, with those creepy rectangular pupils that never seemed to be looking the same way.

Dudley stood hanging half over the fence, which was tall, but had gaps through which visitors can feed the goats. He was flapping his hands at the largest goat in the pen, but it didn’t seem to care. In fact, it was asleep. 

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon gave a quiet shout , but the goat didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon shouted a little louder, but the goat just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away. Harry moved over to the pen and looked intently at the goat . He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself -- no company except stupid people sticking their fingers through the fence trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house.

The goat suddenly opened its eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the goat and winked, too.

The goat jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then rolled its eyes. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:

"I get that all the time.”

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the goat could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The goat nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The goat  jabbed its hoof at a little sign next to the fence. Harry peered at it.

Mountain Goat, Northern America.

"Was it nice there?"

The mountain goat jabbed its hoof at the sign again and Harry read on:

This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see -- so you've never been to America ?"

As the goat shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS GOAT !”

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up over the fence, the next, they had fallen over with howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the fence in front of the goat enclosure had vanished. The great goat was getting up purposefully , striding out onto the path . People throughout the petting zoo screamed and started running for the exits.

As the goat brushed swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, grunting voice said, " America , here I come.... Cheers, bestie ."

The keeper of the petting zoo was in shock.

"But the fence ," he kept saying, "where did the fence go?"

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the goat hadn't done anything except grunt dangerously as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to crush him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy. Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had an iphone . He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food.

He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had died in that cybertruck crash. He couldn't remember being in the truck when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of white light and a burning pain on his forehead.

He couldn't remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tall man in a flowing summer dress had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. 

A wild-looking old woman dressed all in vibrant colours with a pair of grey ears sitting on her headband  had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A person, with such an odd style that Harry couldn’t tell whether they had been a boy or a girl, in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.

Chapter Text

The escape of the North American mountain goat earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control aeroplane, and, flat out refused to attend the weight loss class. 

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Gavin, Chungus, and Chadifer were all fucking morons , but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Heterous Hall. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Cischester High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Cischester, " he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?" 

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he'd said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Heterous Hall uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn 't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her arse trying to put a tampon in, having slipped and fell onto her toilet. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Heterous ' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh; Dudley looked like one of Aunt Petunia’s saggy bosoms when they were wrapped in her hideous orange tank top. 

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don’t be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things grey for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Cischester High -- like he was wearing bits of circumcised foreskin , probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Heterous stick, which he carried everywhere,on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke him with your Heterous stick, Dudley."

Harry dodged the Heterous stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and -- a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives -- he didn't belong to the library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

M. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of parchment that seemed to shimmer in different colours as the light hit it , and the address was written in holographic ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a rainbow wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a seahorse, a crow a frog and something that looked like a cat but with a shark tail and dinosaur horns, all surrounding a large letter F .

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the shimmery envelope.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny dic --."

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness -- Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Heterous stick.

"I want to read that letter," he said loudly. “I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move.

I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necksn and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address -- how could they  possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"

"Watching -- spying -- might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want --"

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....

"But --"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door.  "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er -- yes, Harry -- about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.”

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom.

It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out...."

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Heterous stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Heterous stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'M. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive --'"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him ( um excuse me child abuse???) , which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Heterous stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry.

"Dudley -- go -- just go."

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? 

And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first like a fucking rebel . His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door –

Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag like a pervert, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.

Harry could see three letters addressed in holographic ink.

I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him . Quite clearly a superior mind at work here, gays, gals, and non binary pals. 

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed " Sigma Sigma Boy " as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in amazement.

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today --"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and absolutely walloped him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.

"Out! OUT!"

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall ( child abuse part 2???) When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor. "That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up a minor on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and w ondering....

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you M. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."

She held up a letter so they could read the holographic ink address:

M. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.

"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled because he’s a fucking wimp .

"It's Monday," he told his mother. " Teletubbies is on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. "

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.

Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most rubbish depressing temu shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!" 

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of crisps each and four ancient pot noodles, even though there was no way of heating them . He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully. He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now. 

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of

letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten… nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three... two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

Chapter Text

BOOM. They knocked again. (I did not change that line - Ms Rowling actually used the singular they/them pronoun in her book?! But here I was thinking it wasn’t grammatically correct! ShOcKiNg) Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands -- now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them. I’m wondering how he also got a gun licence because I would never allow this moron to legally own a shotgun. 

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you -- I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then – SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a person was standing in the doorway. Xir face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out xir eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant squeezed xir way into the hut, stooping so that xir head just brushed the ceiling. Xe bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. Xe turned to look at them all.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

Xe strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear. "Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger.

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

"An' here's Harry!" said the giant. Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes, framed with dark mascara, were crinkled in a smile.

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh've got yer mum's eyes."

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; xe reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room, “An’ I’d appreciate if yeh lay off the ‘sir’. I’m not one of them gendered folk.”

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

"Anyway -- Harry," said the giant, turning xir back on the Dursleys, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here -- I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of xir black overcoat xe pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in rainbow funfetti icing.

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, "Who are you?"

The giant chuckled.

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Xe/Xir , Upkeeper of Phobarriers at Fagwarts ."

Xe held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.

"What about that tea then, eh?" xe said, rubbing xir hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

Xir eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled crisp bags in it and xe snorted. Xe bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see what xe was doing but when xe drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under xir weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of xir coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that xe took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as xe slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. 

Uncle Vernon said sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives you, Dudley."

The giant chuckled darkly.

"Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley, don' worry. An’ it’s xe , din’ I already tell yeh?"

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he still couldn't take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said,

"I'm sorry, but I still don't really know who you are."

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped xir mouth with the back of xir hand.

"Call me Hagrid," xe said, "everyone does. An' like I told yeh, I'm Upkeeper of Phobarriers at Fagwarts -- yeh'll know all about Fagwarts , o' course.”

"Er -- no," said Harry.

Hagrid looked shocked.

"Sorry," Harry said quickly.

"Sorry?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. "It's them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren't gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou' Fagwart s, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yet parents learned it all?"

"All what?" asked Harry.

"ALL WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!"

Xe had leapt to xir feet. In xir anger xe seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

"Do you mean ter tell me," xe growled at the Dursleys, "that this boy – this child! -- knows nothin' abou' -- about ANYTHING?"

Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after all, and his marks weren't bad.

"I know some things," he said. "I can, you know, do math and stuff." But Hagrid simply waved xir hand and said, "About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents' world." 

"What world?"

Hagrid looked as if xe was about to explode.

"DURSLEY!" xe boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like a slur . Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.

"But yeh must know about yet mum and dad," xe said. "I mean, they're famous. You're famous."

"What? My -- my mum and dad weren't famous, were they?"

"Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran xir fingers through xir hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.

"Yeh don' know what yeh are?" xe said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

"Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!"

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have shit himself under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, xir every syllable trembled with rage.

"You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?"

"Kept what from me?" said Harry eagerly.

"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Uncle Vernon in panic. Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry -- yer a homo ."

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

"-- a what?" gasped Harry.

"A homo , o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the shimmering envelope, addressed in holographic ink to M. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:

FAGWARTS SCHOOL of GENDER and QUEERITY

Headteacher: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (FLUID PRONOUNS)

(Order of Mercury , First Class, Drag Queen, League of R.P, Chief Icon , Supreme

Member of C.H.R.S. , International Confed. of Queers )

Dear M. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Fagwarts School of Gender and Queerity . Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your frog by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

(she/her)

Deputy Headmistress

Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and he couldn't decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered, "What does it mean, they await my frog ?"

"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to xir forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket inside xir overcoat xe pulled a frog -- a real, live, rather pissed looking frog -- a long quill, and a roll of parchment.

With xir tongue between xir teeth xe scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Harry his letter.

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather's horrible. Hope you're well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the frog , which clamped it in its mouth, went to the door, and threw it out into the storm. Harry was almost about to run out and save it, when he caught sight of some black and green wings unfurling from the frog’s back as it wobbled off into the sky.  Then Hagrid came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.

"Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

"He's not going," he said.

Hagrid grunted.

"I'd like ter see a great CisHet like you stop him," xe said.

"A what?" said Harry, interested.

"A CisHet," said Hagrid, "it's what we call non-queer folk like them. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest CisHets I ever laid eyes on."

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Queer indeed!"

"You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a -- I’m queer ?" 

"Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted brother being what he was? Dear Rowan, he-” 

“Don’t you dare,” scowled Hagrid, cutting her off, “Don’t you dare misgender Lily Potter. Get it right, Dursley, or it’ll be yeh getting chucked out in’a that storm. An’ it don’ look fun, do it?” Xe darkly cast an eye towards the storm outside the shack.

“Rowan was a freak,” Aunt Petunia declared, and Hagrid leapt up from xir seat with such force that Harry began to fear that maybe the rock underneath them really would break, and plummet them all into the sea.

“Lily,” Hagrid growled, “It’s. Fucking. Lily. Show some respect, for Bowie’s sake!”

Xir tone was so rageful that Petunia gave way.

“Lily,” she managed to force out from behind her teeth , “He got a letter just like you, and- um, she got a letter,” she corrected with a gulp after a glare from Hagrid, “ She disappeared off to  that-that school-and came home every holiday with his - her pockets full of glitter , turning teacups into stilettos . I was the only one who saw hi- her for what she was -- a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a queer in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as -- as -- abnormal -- and then, if you please, he went and got himself blown up and we got landed with you!"

Aunt Petunia was shaking so violently that Hagrid didn’t try to correct her on the last bit. 

Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, "Blown up? You told me they died in a cybertruck crash!"

" CYBERTRUCK CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!" 

"But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. Xe looked suddenly anxious.

"I never expected this," xe said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh -- but someone’s gotta -- yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'."

Xe threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

"Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh -- mind, I can't tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it...." Xe sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It begins, I suppose, with -- with a person called -- but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows --"

"Who? "

"Well -- I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Why not?" 

"Frogging heck, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this Drag Bitch who went... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..."

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

"Could you write it down?" Harry suggested.

"Nah -can't spell it. All right -- Voldemort. " Hagrid shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. We don’ know ‘is pronouns now, but las’ we did know, t’was he/him, so tha’s what everyone uses. Anyway, this -- this Drag Bitch , about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too -- some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange queers ... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him – an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Fagwarts . Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway.

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a pair as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before… probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side. Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an' -- an' --"

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew xir nose with a sound like a foghorn.

"Sorry," xe said. "But it's that sad -- knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find – anyway..."

"You-Know-Who 'em. An' then -- an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing -- he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh -- took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even -- but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived  to slay another day after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best alphabet mafia members of the age -- the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts -- an' you was only a baby, an' you lived to slay another day.”

Something very painful was going on in Harry's mind. As Hagrid's story came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of white light, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before – and he remembered something else, for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching him sadly.

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."

"Load of old tosh," said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

"Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured -- and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion – asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these queer types – just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end --"

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink parasol from inside xir coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, xe said, "I'm warning you, Dursley -I'm warning you -- one more word... "

In danger of being speared on the end of a parasol by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon's courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

"That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

"But what happened to Vol--, sorry -- I mean, You-Know-Who?"

"Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see… he was gettin' more an' more powerful -- why'd he go? Some say he died. Bullshit , in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don~ reckon they could've done if he was comin' back.

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on -- I dunno what it was, no one does -- but somethin' about you stumped him, all right."

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in xir eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. Queer ? Him? How could he possibly be? If he'd once defeated the greatest queer in the world, how come Dudley had always been able to kick him around like a football?

"Hagrid," he said quietly, "I think you must have made a mistake. I don't think I can be queer ."

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

"Not queer , eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?"

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it... every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry… chased by Dudley' gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach... dreading going to school with that ridiculous haircut, he'd managed to make it grow back into the queerest style ever ... and the very last time Dudley had hit him, hadn't he got his revenge, without even realizing he was doing it? Hadn't he set a mountain goat on him?

Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that xe was positively beaming at him.

"See?" said Hagrid. " That’s the magic. See, being queer, Harry, is such a magical thing, that when it gets beaten up, or pushed down, it fights back. That’s what makes us powerful. The queerness that has spent centuries being repressed has built up inside us, and now it flows out through a beautiful community of magic folk, who can do all sorts of things that the CisHets could never dream of!  Harry Potter, not queer -- you wait, you'll be right famous at Fag warts."

But Uncle Vernon wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to Cischester High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish -- spell books and wands and --"

"If he wants ter go, a great CisHet like you won't stop him," growled Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter's son goin' ter Fag warts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was born. He's off ter the finest school of gender and queerity in the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under the greatest headteacher Fag warts ever had, Albus Dumbled--"

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized xir parasol and whirled it over his head, "NEVER," xe thundered, "- INSULT- ALBUS- DUMBLEDORE- IN- FRONT- OF- ME!"

Xe brought the parasol swishing down through the air to point at Dudley -- there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at xir umbrella and stroked xir beard.

"Shouldn'ta lost me temper," xe said ruefully, "but it didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do."

Xe cast a sideways look at Harry under his eyebrows.

"Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at Fagwarts ," he said. "I'm -- er -- not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff -- one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job

"Why aren't you supposed to do magic?" asked Harry.

"Oh, well -- I was at Fagwarts meself but I -- er -- got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an' everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as Phobarrier-keeper .  Great one, Dumbledore."

 "Why were you expelled?"

"It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," said Hagrid loudly. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that." Xe took off xir thick black coat and threw it to Harry. "You can kip under that," xe said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

Chapter Text

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.

"It was a dream, he told himself firmly. "I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for queers . When I open my eyes I'll be at home in my cupboard."

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

And there's Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn't open his eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"All right," Harry mumbled, "I'm getting up."`

He sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid xirself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was a frog smacking its hand on the window, a newspaper held in its mouth. It had vibrant pink wings which hung loosely by its side. 

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large balloon was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window and jerked it open. The frog swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The frog then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat.

"Don't do that."

Harry tried to wave the frog out of the way, but it snapped its mouth fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

"Hagrid!" said Harry loudly. "There's a frog.”

"Pay him," Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

"What?"

"He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets."

Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets -- bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally, Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking stones.

"Give him a  smokey an’ a regular ," said Hagrid sleepily.

"Huh?"

“ One of the clear stones and a greyish clear one."

Harry counted out the right stones, and the frog held out his leg so Harry could put them into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

"Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school." 

Harry was turning over the stones and looking at them. He had just thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had got a puncture.

"Um -- Hagrid?"

"Mm?" said Hagrid, who was pulling on xir huge boots.

"I haven't got any money -- and you heard Uncle Vernon last night ... he won't pay for me to go and learn magic."

"Don't worry about that," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching xir head. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

"But if their house was destroyed --"

"They didn' keep their shit in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is Crystall’s . Queers' bank. Have a sausage, they're not bad cold -- an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake, neither."

" Queers have banks?"

"Just the one. Crystall’s . Run by goblins mostly, and the occasional gremlin.”

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.

"Goblins?"

"Yeah -- so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Crystall’s is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe -- 'cept maybe Fag warts. As a matter o' fact, I gotta visit Crystall’s anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Fag warts business." Hagrid drew xirself up proudly. "They usually gets me ter do important stuff fer them. Fetchin' you gettin' things from Crystall’s – know they can trust me, see. Got everythin'? Come on, then."

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

"How did you get here?" Harry asked, looking around for another boat.

"Flew," said Hagrid.

"Flew?"

"Yeah -- but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh."

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine xir flying.

"Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Harry another of xir sideways looks. "If I was ter -- er -- speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Fag warts?"

"Of course not," said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink parasol again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

"Why would you be mad to try and rob Crystall’s ?" Harry asked.

"Spells -- enchantments," said Hagrid, unfolding xir newspaper as xe spoke. "They say there's dragons guardin' the high security vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way -- Crystall’s is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh'd die of hunger tryin' ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat."

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read xir magazine, Attitude . Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, he'd never had so many questions in his life.

" Pink Pony Club messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

"The Pink Pony Club ?" Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

"'Course," said Hagrid. "The club wanted Dumbledore fer High Twink , O 'course, but they'd never leave Fagwarts , so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with frogs every morning, askin' fer advice."

"But what does a High Twink do?"

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the CisHets that there's still queers up an' down the country."

"Why?"

"Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we're best left alone."

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up xir newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Harry couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, xe kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that, Harry? Things these CisHets dream up, eh?"

"Hagrid," said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, "did you say there are dragons at Crystall’s ?"

"Well, so they say," said Hagrid. "Crikey, I'd like a dragon."

"You'd like one?"

"Wanted one ever since I was a kid -- here we go."

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand " CisHet money," as xe called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat crocheting what looked like an enormous yellow beanie . "Still got yer letter, Harry?" xe asked as he counted stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. "Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything yeh need."

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the night before, and read:

FAGWARTS SCHOOL of GENDER and QUEERITY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

One accessorial piece from the Fagwarts Collection bearing the school’s crest and official enchantment. Students are encouraged to choose a piece that represents their personal style and aesthetic. 

ALL OF THE FOLLOWING ITEMS ARE ACCEPTABLE IN ANY COLOUR, PATTERN OR STYLE, WITH THE EXCEPTION OF PUBLICLY INDECENT ITEMS OR ANY ITEMS THAT ARE DEEMED OFFENSIVE BY THE P.P.C.

At least four smart shirts.

At least three options of smart lower half dress, which include but are not limited to skirts, trousers, leggings and shorts. 

At least one option of smart footwear, which include but are not limited to shoes, sandals, heels (not exceeding 6 inch) trainers and wedges. 

At least one smart jacket or jumper for cooler months.

At least one appropriate swimwear option, which include but are not limited to bikinis, tankinis, swim shorts and rash vests. Speedos or bikinis which have a string based lower piece are not acceptable for any students in years 1-5. Further guidance is available if any students are unsure.

Any and all other necessary or unnecessary casual clothing and/or accessories. Students should account for all weather types. 

Any gender affirming items such as binders. If a student requires any such items then they will be provided by the school at no additional fee. 

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name and pronoun tags. 

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk (they/them)

A History of Queerness by Bathilda Bagshot (she/they)

Gender Theory by Adalbert Waffling (he/him)

A Beginners' Guide to Transgenics and Transfiguration by Emmett Switch (he/she)

One Thousand Magical Plants and Herbs by Phyllida Spore (she/her)

Elementary Crystal Currency by Arsenius Jigger (he/xe)

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander (they/them)

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble (she/her)

OTHER EQUIPMENT

Wand 

Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

Telescope set

Fagwarts basic crystal set 

Fagwarts basic cosmetics set

Fountain Pens/Long Life Enchanted Gel Pens

Other Stationary

PETS

Students may bring:

Any amphibian (frog, newt, axolotl, etc) that does not require a cage exceeding standard size.

OR

A cat. Cats must be free of fleas upon arrival. Cats must be of a domestic size.

OR

A reptile that does not require a cage exceeding the standard size. Young reptiles that will grow to above the size limit are not accepted. Any species of alligator or crocodile is not accepted. Komodo dragons are not accepted.

OR

Any bird, excluding birds of prey. Any bird larger than a raven is not accepted. Penguins or any birds requiring conditions other than the English climate are not accepted. Owls are accepted regardless of size. Bats are accepted.

OR

A rodent. Capybaras are not accepted. 

We encourage parents to send any questions or queries about students' pets by frog to Fagwarts at the earliest convienience.

ANY STUDENTS BRINGING VENOMOUS OR POISONOUS ANIMALS MUST ALSO HAVE SUFFICIENT SUPPLY OF THE ANTIDOTE FOR SAID VENOM/POISON AND KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO USE IT

ANY ANIMALS DEEMED TOO DANGEROUS BY THE HEADMASTER WILL BE TAKEN CARE OF OUTSIDE OF THE SCHOOL OR SENT HOME

ANY ANIMALS BROUGHT BY STUDENTS MUST HAVE RECEIVED THE STANDARD P.P.C. APPROVED VACCINE

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

"Can we buy all this in London?" Harry wondered aloud.

"If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where xe was going, xe was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. Xe got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

"I don't know how the CisHets manage without magic," xe said as they climbed a broken-down eskerlator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that xe parted the crowd easily; all Harry had to do was keep close behind xir. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of crystals buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? 

If Harry hadn't known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn't help trusting xir. 

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Wonky Lash . It's a famous place."

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Wonky Lash at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside.

On the inside, it wasn’t necessarily grand, but at least less shabby than the outside. There was quiet pop music playing and the walls were lined with faded posters of singers and other idols, some of which were wearing what looked like fabulous clown makeup . A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking from glasses that looked like they’d been melted and then re-solidified . One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in an orange top hat was talking to the old bartender, who had dark purple streaks in his greying hair. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at xir, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Fagwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping xir great hand on Harry's shoulder and making Harry's knees buckle.

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this -- can this be --?"

The Wonky Lash had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an honor."

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes. 

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, they/she , can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud. I’m Xander Filbert - any pronouns, I think you might have heard of me..."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle, they/them ."

"I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle's top hat fell off in their excitement. "You bowed to me once in a shop."

"He remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. "Did you hear that? He remembers me!" Harry shook hands again and again – Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young person made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

"Professor Queerell !" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Queerell will be one of your teachers at Fag warts. They/he,” xe added, with a gesture towards the quivering person.

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Queerell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you."

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Queerell?"

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Queerell, as though they'd rather not think about it. "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" They laughed nervously. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on g-goths , m-myself." They looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn't let Professor Queerell keep Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make xirself heard over the babble. "Must get on -- lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."

Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. Hagrid grinned at Harry.

"Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Queerell was tremblin' ter meet yeh -- mind you, they’re usually tremblin'."

"Is he always that nervous?"

"Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand experience.... They say he met transphobes in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a Karen -- never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject now, where's me parasol ?"

Transphobes? Karens? Harry's head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

"Three up... two across," xe muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry."

Xe tapped the wall three times with the point of xir parasol .

The brick xe had touched quivered -- it wriggled -- in the middle, a small hole appeared -- it grew wider and wider -- a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Polyam Alley ."

Harry had never seen a more colourful street. The buildings, painted in a rainbow of pastels, stretched upwards on either side, and from every window hung striped flags in all sorts of vibrant colour combinations. Bunting criss-crossed through the space above their heads, and every shop front had different displays spilling over with assorted items that Harry had never seen advertised before. And the whole place was milling with people who Harry could barely even describe - he just didn’t know the words. 

Hagrid grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons in various colours outside the nearest shop.

Cauldrons -- All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver -- Self-Stirring -- Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first."

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside a three-storey cat shop was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “A hundred and thirty carnelians for three kittens, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium -- Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand -- fastest ever --" There were shops selling clothes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with spiked combat boots and scary looking t-shirts, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, cases of tiny jewelry pieces in hoops and bars. He even saw a building bigger than the Dursley’s house that sold exclusively candles. 

"Crystall’s," said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing some incredibly smart looking dungarees (I’m not joking, you could wear these dungarees to an opera and be smarter looking than all the other guests), was -

"Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward them. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry.

It had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. It bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

People say we’re judgy

But our kink is watching 

You ruin your life

You losing your mind

You dying your hair

People say we’re bitchy

But our kink is watching

You crashing your car

You breaking your heart

You thinking we care

People say we’re Karens

But our kink is Karma

"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing gems in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter.

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta M. Harry Potter's safe."

"Do you have the key, Xir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and xe started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

"That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out xir chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully.

"Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside xir pockets, xe and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Harry asked. 

"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Fagwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh that."

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and what looked like a small orange, open-roofed car came hurtling up the tracks toward them, with a flagpole attached to the back boasting a bright rippling rainbow flag. They climbed in -- Hagrid with some difficulty -- and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling car seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering. Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late - - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

I never know," Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, "what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"

"Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it," said Hagrid. "An' don' ask me questions just now, I think I'm  gonna be sick."

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop xir knees from trembling. 

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of multicoloured smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of polished crystals. Piles upon piles of white stones, purple, red, and many, many others. 

"All yours," smiled Hagrid.

All Harry's -- it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't have known about this or they'd have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag. "The white is quartz, regular level stuff," xe explained. "The red are carnelians, the purples are amethyst, and the others yeh’ll pick up soon enough. The different crystals are used for different purchases, but most of the stuff yeh’ll need to buy at yer age won’t need anything fancy. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe for yeh." Xe turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

"If anyone but a Crystall’s goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.

"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked.

"About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least -- but at first he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a little package wrapped up in shimmering paper lying on

the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside xir coat. Harry longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

"Come on, back in this infernal car, and don't talk to me on the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid. 

One wild car ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Crystall’s. Harry didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many crystals there were in a pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life -- more money than even Dudley had ever had.

"Might as well get yeh some clothes," said Hagrid, nodding toward Mystery Myrtle's Emporium of Aesthetics, Vibery and Fashion. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Wonky Lash? I hate them Crystall’s carts." Xe did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Mystery Myrtle's shop alone, feeling nervous.

Mystery Myrtle was a squat, smiling person dressed all in black, with a pin that said ‘fae/faem’.

"Hogwarts, dear?" fae said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here -- another young person being fitted up just now, in fact. " In the back of the shop, a kid with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second store assistant pinned up their cropped blazer. Myrtle stood Harry on a stool next to the kid, and looked him up and down, “Do you know your aesthetic currently, sweetheart?”

Harry blinked at faem. 

“What?”

Fae winced.

“You from a CisHet family, huh?”

Harry remembered Hagrid calling the Dursley’s that once, so he nodded. 

“Ah, I see. Well, nothing’s stopping you from choosing a FAG at least.”

“A FAG?”

“A Fagwarts - Accessorial - Garment,” fae explained, “Should have been mentioned on your letter, but it’s basically one item that you choose from the range of FAGs that has the school crest and enchantment on it. You’ll need to wear that every weekday, just like you’d wear a school uniform normally.”

Fae gestured for him to step down from the stool, and he followed faem into a wing of the shop, which was filled with pale coloured items, “Each FAG comes white, or colourless, so then you can charm them to be whatever colour you want. You’ll notice each piece has the crest on it already, and that won’t change no matter what spells you try.”

Harry did his best to retain all of this information. Charming it to change the colour? He wasn’t sure how to do that - was he supposed to know some spells already?

“Which one should I pick?” he asked Mystery Myrtle.

To his surprise, fae laughed.

“I’m not gonna choose for you! As you don’t have an aesthetic yet, just choose one that you think you’d like to wear. You can always change it, so no pressure.”

Harry scrutinised the shelves, reading the labels of each item to find out what they were. There was a huge variety of FAGs, ranging from pendant necklaces, watches, glasses, scrunchies, belts, shoelaces, chokers, hair clips, every accessory you could think of. He eventually decided on glasses, as he wore them already it made sense. He watched in awe as Mystery Myrtle quickly did something magic to the glasses to make them the same prescription as his, before handing them back to him. 

“Okay, so what we’ll do now, is you get back on that stool and I’ll go fetch a few options out of the back for you so you can pick a starter set. If you figure out an aesthetic you like, we’ll do that, if not, you can always come back and we’ll sort something out for you. Sound good?”

Harry just nodded again, so fae shrugged and trotted out of the room as he made his way back to the stool. 

"Hello," said the kid next to him, "Fagwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the kid. They had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll sneak it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.

"Have you got your own broom?" the kid went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Drag Race at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth a Drag Race could be. "I do -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to race for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Lesbiryn, all our family have been -- imagine being in Frogglepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" 

"Mmm," said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting.

"I say, look at that giant!" said the kid suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show xe couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the kid didn't, "Xe works at Fagwarts."

"Oh," said the kid, "I've heard of him. Xe's a sort of servant, isn't xe?"

"Xe's the upkeeper of… something or other?" said Harry. He was liking the kid less and less every second.

"Yes, exactly. I heard xe's a sort of savage -- lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then xe gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to xir bed."

"I think xe's brilliant," said Harry coldly.

"Do you?" said the kid, with a slight sneer. "Why is xe with you? Where are your parents?" 

"They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this kid.

"Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were queer, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Fagwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old families. What's your surname, anyway?"

But before Harry could answer, Mystery Myrtle strolled back in with an armful of clothes and said, “Right, let's go through some of these.”

"Well, I'll see you at Fagwarts, I suppose," said the drawling kid, and stepped down from their stool to leave the shop.

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

"What's up?" said Hagrid.

"Nothing," Harry lied. It had taken almost an hour, choosing from all the options at Mystery Myrtle’s shop. He had ended up with various colourful shirts and some pairs of jeans, as well as various vouchers for other services, shoes and swimming trunks. Afterwards, they stopped to buy stationary and gel pens. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's a Drag Race?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know -- not knowin' about the Drag Race!"

"Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the kid in Mystery Myrtle's. "--and they said people from CisHet families shouldn't even be allowed in."

"Yer not from a CisHet family. If they'd known who yeh were -- they've grown up knowin' yer name if their parents are queer folk. You saw what everyone in the Wonky Lash was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what do they know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with queerness in 'em in a long line 0' CisHets -- look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

"So what is Drag Race?"

"It's our sport. Queer sport. It's like -- like football in the CisHet world, but obviously far better -- everyone follows Drag Race -- played up in the air on broomsticks and there's a lotta hair -- sorta hard ter explain the rules."

"And what are Lesbiryn and Frogglepuff?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Frogglepuff are a lot o' duffers, but --"

"I bet I'm in Frogglepuff" said Harry gloomily.

"Better Frogglepuff than Lesbiryn," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single queer who went bad who wasn't in Lesbiryn. You-Know-Who was one."

"Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Fagwarts?"

"Years an' years ago," said Hagrid.

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called BiPan Co. where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from Convert and Conquer: Intermediate Curses for Experienced Queers.

"I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley."

"I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the CisHet world except in very special circumstances," said Hagrid. "An' anyway, yeh couldn' work any of them curses yet, yeh'll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level."

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either, but they got a nice set of ‘basic crystals’ which Hagrid insisted were different to the ones in Crystall’s because they were ‘untumbled’, and a collapsible set of heels, much to Harry’s interest. Then they visited the Cosmetorium, which was fascinating. Cauldrons of colourful shimmering liquids sat around the huge room, which was full of shelves labelled all sorts of interesting things ‘mascara’ ‘lipstick’ and ‘contour’. Harry thought that he recognised some of the products from Mrs Dursley’s purse, but none of hers were nearly as vibrant as anything in this shop. While Hagrid asked the person behind the counter for a supply of some basic cosmetics for Harry, Harry himself examined silver false eyelashes at two carnelians a pair, and miniscule multicoloured facial gems at five clear quartz a scoop. 

Then they went across the street to Astra’s - The Home of Starmongery and Constellatories. Inside, it was like a witches' lair, charts of complicated stars and planets covering the walls, pendulums swinging and complicated metal instruments glinting. Hagrid guided Harry carefully through the maze of trinkets and glass ornaments, to the telescope display, and picked him out a nice bronze one. Harry got a bit preoccupied trying to look through all the lenses and seeing which one made Hagrid look the funniest. 

Outside Astra’s, Hagrid checked Harry's list again.

"Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

Harry felt himself go red.

"You don't have to --"

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Take a look at the list and let me know if anything catches yer eye.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Frogworks, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes and vibrant wings. Harry now carried a small cage that held a beautiful blue-green frog with iridescent wings, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn't stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Queerell.

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

A magic wand... this was what Harry had been really looking forward to. The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. 

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm w ork."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it -- it's really the wand that chooses the queer, of course."

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

"And that's where..."

Mr. Ollivander touched the heart shaped scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly.

"Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do...."

He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid.

"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again.... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

"Er -- yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling xir feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply.

"Oh, no, sir," said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed xe gripped xir pink parasol very tightly as xe spoke.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now -- Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand is made only of wood, elegantly carved, of course. But it’s the person’s inner magic that the wand uses. It provides a path for that magic to flow through, and that magic can do wonderful things. Some people’s magic is vibrant, some is calm, some have to spend a while looking for theirs, and some know right away. But the same thing goes for all magic - it is beautiful, and none is superior or inferior to any other. 

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and rosehip. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave." Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and dragon scale. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try --"

Harry tried -- but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere -- I wonder, now - - yes, why not -- unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head,  brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious... "

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious..

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"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 swallowed.

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

Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid six amethyst and two carnelian for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their way back down Polyam Alley, back through the wall, back through the Wonky Lash, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the winged frog asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up another eskerlator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. "Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," xe said.

Xe bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.

Harry wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best birthday of his life -- and yet -- he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words.

"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Wonky Lash, Professor Queerell, Mr. Ollivander... but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry -- I mean, the night my parents died."

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows xe wore a very kind smile. "Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Fagwarts, you'll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Fagwarts -- I did -- still do, 'smatter of fact."

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " xe said. "First o' September -- King's Cross -- it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer frog, she'll know where to find me.... See yeh soon, Harry."

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until xe was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.

Chapter Text

Harry's last month with the Dursleys wasn't fun. True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn't stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do anything, or shout at him -- in fact, they didn't speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry in it was empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.

Harry kept to his room, with his new frog for company. He had decided to call her Conchita, a name he had found in A History of Queerness. His school books were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late into the night, Conchita swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't come in to vacuum anymore, because Conchita kept bringing back moths. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first.

On the last day of August he thought he'd better speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to Queen's Cross station the next day, so he went down to the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the room. Fucking homophobe. 

"Er -- Uncle Vernon?"

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

"Er -- I need to be at Queen's Cross tomorrow to -- to go to Fagwarts."

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

"Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?"

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.

"Thank you."

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke.

"Funny way to get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?"

Harry didn't say anything.

"Where is this school, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket.

"I just take the train from platform nine and three-queerters at eleven o'clock," he read.

His aunt and uncle stared.

"Platform what?"

"Nine and three-queerters."

"Don't talk rubbish," said Uncle Vernon. "There is no platform nine and three-queerters."

"It's on my ticket."

"Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of them. You'll see. You just wait. All right, we'll take you to Queen's Cross. We're going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn't bother."

"Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to keep things friendly.

"Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to have that ruddy tail removed before he goes to Heterous Hall."

Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on one of his new pairs of jeans with a purple stripe running down the leg and a white and silver checked shirt. He checked his Fagwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Conchita was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off.

They reached Queen's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart  and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

"Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine -- platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?"

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

"Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth went rather dry. What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Conchita. He'd have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard, but didn't dare mention platform nine and three-queerters. The guard had never heard of Fagwarts and when Harry couldn't even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o'clock, but the guard said there wasn't one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying hard not to panic.

According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of crystals, and a winged frog. Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Polyam Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"-- packed with CisHets, of course --"

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's in front of him -- and they had an owl. 

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

"Now, what's the platform number?" said the boys' mother.

"Nine and three-queerters!" piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was

holding her hand, "Mom, can't I go... "

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first."

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. On the wall between them was pasted a large, faded poster of a person quite similar to some Harry had seen in the Wonky Lash, ‘RUPAUL’ he read off the bottom. He watched the oldest boy move towards it,  careful not to blink in case he missed what happened -- but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

"Fred, you next," the plump woman said.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I'm George?"

"Sorry, George, dear."

"Only joking, I am Fred," said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he had gone -- but how had he done it? Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier he was almost there -- and then, quite suddenly, he wasn't anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

"Excuse me," Harry said to the plump woman.

"Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Fagwarts? Ron's new, too."

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was thin and cheeky-looking, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Yes," said Harry. "The thing is -- the thing is, I don't know how to --"

"How to get onto the platform?" she said kindly, and Harry nodded.

"Not to worry," she said. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten, where that poster is. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

"Er -- okay," said Harry.

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into that barrier and then he'd be in trouble – leaning forward on his cart, he broke into a heavy run -- the barrier was coming nearer and nearer -- he wouldn't be able to stop -- the cart was out of control -- he was a foot away -- he closed his eyes ready for the crash --

It didn't come... he kept on running... he opened his eyes. A steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people, it looked silver but as the light danced over it, shimmers of rainbows and stars reflected off it at all angles like a CD. A sign overhead said Fagwarts Express, eleven O'clock. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Queerters on it. He had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats and rodents of literally every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls, budgies and crows squawked to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats.

Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, "Gran, I've lost my tortoise again."

"Oh, Neville," he heard the old woman sigh.

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

"Give us a look, Lee, go on."

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He put Conchita inside first and then started to shove and heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and twice he dropped it painfully on his foot.

"Want a hand?" It was one of the red-haired twins he'd followed through the barrier.

"Yes, please," Harry panted.

"Oy, Fred! C'mere and help!"

With the twins' help, Harry's trunk was at last tucked away in a corner of the compartment.

"Thanks," said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry's heart scar.

"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you-”

"He is," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.

"What?" said Harry.

"Harry Potter, "chorused the twins.

"Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am."

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating in through the train's open door.

"Fred? George? Are you there?"

"Coming, Mum."

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.

Harry sat down next to the window where, half hidden, he could watch the red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

"Ron, you've got something on your nose."

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose.

"Mom -- geroff" He wriggled free.

"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?" said one of the twins.

"Shut up," said Ron.

"Where's Percy?" said their mother.

"They’re coming now."

The oldest child came striding into sight. They looked far too important for their own good, and Harry noticed a shiny silver badge on their chest with the letter P on it.

"Can't stay long, Mother," they said. "I'm up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves --"

"Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea."

"Hang on, I think I remember them saying something about it," said the other twin. "Once --"

"Or twice --"

"A minute --"

"All summer --"

"Oh, shut up," said Percy the Prefect.

"How come Percy gets new clothes, anyway?" said one of the twins.

"Because they’re a prefect," said their mother fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term – send me a frog when you get there."

She kissed Percy on the cheek and they left. Then she turned to the twins.

"Now, you two -- this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more frog telling me you've – you've blown up a toilet or --"

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

"Great idea though, thanks, Mum."

"It's not funny. And look after Ron."

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."

"Shut up," said Ron again. His nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

"Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?"

Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn't see him looking.

"You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?"

"Who?"

"Harry Potter!"

Harry heard the little girl's voice.

"Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, eh please...."

"You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"

"Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there - like a heart."

"Poor dear - no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so p olite when he asked how to get onto the platform."

"Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?"

Their mother suddenly became very stern.

"I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school."

“All right, keep your hair on."

A whistle sounded.

"Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry.

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of frogs, or owls if we can be bothered.”

"We'll send you a Fagwarts toilet seat."

"George!"

"Only joking, Mum."

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn't know what he was going to but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded boy came in.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry, "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Harry saw he still had a black mark on his nose.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins were back.

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train -- Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley, he/him and he/them. And this is Ron, our brother, he/him. See you later, then.”

"Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

Harry nodded.

"Oh -well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got -- you know..."

He pointed at Harry's forehead.

Harry pulled back his fringe to show the heart scar. Ron stared.

"So that's where You-Know-Who-”

"Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly.

"Well -- I remember a lot of flashing light, but nothing else."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again.

"Are all your family queer?" asked Harry, who found Ron just as interesting as Ron found him.

"Er -- Yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mum's got a second cousin who's hetero, but we never talk about him."

"So you must know loads of magic already."

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale kid in Polyam Alley had talked about.

"I heard you went to live with CisHets," said Ron. "What are they like?"

"Horrible -well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Wish I'd had three queer brothers."

"Five," said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. "I'm the sixth in our family to go to Fagwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left -- Bill was head fag and Charlie was captain of the Drag Race. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old wand, Charlie's old heels, and Percy's old rat."

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep.

"His name's VaJJ and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff-- I mean, I got VaJJ instead."

Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, because he went back to staring out of the window.

Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, he'd never had any money in his life until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley's old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up.

"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn't know anything about being queer or about my parents or Voldemort"

Ron gasped.

"What?" said Harry.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people --"

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've got loads to learn.... I bet," he added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying him a lot lately, "I bet I'm the worst in the class."

"You won't be. There's loads of people who come from CisHet families and they learn quick enough."

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said,

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

Harry, who hadn't had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor.

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with crystals he was ready to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry -- but the woman didn't have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven clear quartz and seven tiny black stones that he didn’t know the name of.

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat.

"Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty.

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

"Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go on --"

"You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us."

"Go on, have a pasty," said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).

"What are these?" Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs, "They're not really frogs, are they?" He was starting to feel that nothing would surprise him.

"No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Spice."

"What?"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know -- Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside them, you know, to collect -- famous queers. There’s this duo, Sugar and Spice, and if you get both of them you can do some special magic with them. I’ve got about four of Sugar but no Spice."

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half- moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, dramatic eye makeup and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore (fluid pronouns).

"So this is Dumbledore!" said Harry.

"Don't tell me you'd never heard of Dumbledore!" said Ron. "Can I have a frog? I might get Spice -- thanks.”

Harry turned over his card and read:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (FLUID PRONOUNS)

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF FAGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest queer of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for their defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of  dragon’s blood, and their work on alchemy with their partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore's face had disappeared.

"He's gone!"

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Lady Gaga again and I've got about six of her... do you want it? You can start collecting."

Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

"Help yourself," said Harry. "But in, you know, the CisHet world, people just stay put in photos."

"Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded amazed, "Weird!"

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the frogs than looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn't keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only Dumbledore and Lady Gaga, but David Bowie, Ian McKellen, Circe, Kristen Stewart, Elsa, and Merlin from the BBC TV series.

He finally tore his eyes away from the cards, to open a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"You want to be careful with those," Ron warned Harry. "When they say every flavor, they mean every flavor -- you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and mar- malade, but then you can get spinach and suncream and armpit. George reckons he had a jizz-flavored one once."

Ron picked up a red bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a corner.

"Bleaaargh -- see? Fetus."

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, metal, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn't touch, which turned out to be grandmother.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on platform nine and three queerters came in. He looked tearful.

"Sorry," he said, "but have you seen a tortoise at all?"

When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"He'll turn up," said Harry.

"Yes," said the boy miserably. "Well, if you see him..."

He left.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a tortoise I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought VaJJ, so I can't talk."

The rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap.

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said Ron in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.

"Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway-”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again.

The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was wearing clothes not dissimilar to Harry’s, jeans, a t-shirt and a lilac knitted cardigan. 

"Has anyone seen a tortoise? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron, but the girl wasn't listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

"Er -- all right."

He cleared his throat.

"Girl in Red, dabbles in cello, make this rat a Girl in Yellow."

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. VaJJ stayed gray and fast asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's queer at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of queerity there is, I've heard – I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough -- I'm Hermione Granger, she/her, at least I think, I’m not really sure because obviously I haven’t had long to think, but anyway, who are you?”

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn't learned all the course books by heart either.

"I'm Ron Weasley, he/him," Ron muttered.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course -- I got a few extra books. For background reading, and you're in Modern LGBTQIA++ History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Gender Events of the Twentieth Century.

"Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed.

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," said Hermione, "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gayffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenqueer wouldn't be too bad.... Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's tortoise. I expect we'll be there soon."

And she left, taking the tortoise-less boy with her.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. 

"Stupid spell -- George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry.

"Gayffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mum and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenqueer would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Lesbyrin."

"That's the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?"

"Yeah," said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.

"You know, I think the ends of VaJJ' whiskers are a bit lighter," said Harry, trying to take Ron's mind off houses. "So what do your oldest brothers do now that they've left, anyway?"

Harry was wondering what a queer did once they’d finished school.

"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing something for Crystall’s," said Ron. "Did you hear about Crystall’s? It's been all over the Daily Vibe, but I don't suppose you get that with the CisHets -- someone tried to rob a high security vault."

Harry stared.

"Really? What happened to them?" (again here, I didn’t change this - our good friend J.K. Fucko used the singular they/them pronoun again! Scandalous, I tell you!)

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark Queer to get round Crystall’s, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a prickle of fear every time You- Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable saying "Voldemort" without worrying.

"What's your Drag team?" Ron asked.

"Er -- I don't know any," Harry confessed.

"What!" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best thing in the world --" And he was off, explaining all about the hairstyles and the positions of the seven players, describing famous races he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale kid from Mystery Myrtle's clothes shop. They were looking at Harry with a lot more interest than they'd shown back in Polyam Alley.

"Is it true?" they said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale kid carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

They turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some queer families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." They held out their hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly.

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in their pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," they said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up.

"Say that again," Ron said, his face as red as his hair.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Malfoy sneered.

"Unless you get out now," said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron - Ron leapt forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

VaJJ the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle - Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung VaJJ round and round, howling, and when VaJJ finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they'd heard footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.

"What has been going on?" she said, looking at the sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up VaJJ by his tail.

I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry. He looked closer at VaJJ. "No -- I don't believe it -- he's gone back to sleep-"

And so he had.

"You've met Malfoy before?"

Harry explained about their meeting in Polyam Alley.

"I've heard of their family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side." He turned to Hermione. "Can we help you with something?"

"You'd better hurry up and tidy the carriage, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

"VaJJ has been fighting, not us," said Ron, scowling at her. "Would you mind leaving?"

"All right -- I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by  the way, did you know?"

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down. He and Ron tidied up the coach and Harry dumped all the rubbish in one of the bins in the corridor. 

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Fagwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Harry's stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"

Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

"C'mon, follow me -- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his tortoise, sniffed once or twice.

"Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Fagwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over xir shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione. "Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to xirself. "Right then -- FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

"Oy, you there! Is this your tortoise?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, Oak front door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer tortoise?"

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

Chapter Text

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch with blackish-green robes and several pieces of facial jewelry stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry's first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys' house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches like the ones at Crystall’s, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right -the rest of the school must already be here – but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.

"Welcome to Fagwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Fagwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gayffindor, Frogglepuff, Ravenqueer, and Lesbyrin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding queers. While you are at Fagwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair. 

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall, "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole school? But he didn't know any magic yet -- what on earth would he have to do? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one she'd need. Harry tried hard not to listen to her. He'd never been more nervous, never, not even when he'd had to take a school report home to the Dursleys saying that he'd somehow turned his teacher's wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come back and lead him to his doom.

Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the air – several people behind him screamed.

"What the --?"

He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a flamboyantly dressed woman was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance --"

"My dear Frida, haven't we given Peebee all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost -- I say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost wearing a long coat and smart trousers had suddenly noticed the first years.

Nobody answered.

"New students!" said Frida Kahlo, smiling around at them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

A few people nodded mutely.

"Hope to see you in Frogglepuff!" said Frida. "My old house, you know."

"Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

"Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall told the first years, "and follow me."

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of colourful and weird candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with plates and goblets that were all patterned in different white-and-rainbow designs (white with rainbow dots, rainbow with white stripes, chequered, etc). At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. 

Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard Hermione whisper, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Fagwarts, A History." It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn't simply open on to the heavens.

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a huge platinum blonde wig, which was styled in a way that Harry didn’t know hair could be styled, all blown out and hairsprayed and unmoving. There were various colours of highlights running through the hair. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it in the house.

Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing -- noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at the wig, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. 

"So we've just got to try on the wig!" Ron whispered to Harry. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the wig was a lot better than having to do a spell, but he did wish they could have tried it on without everyone watching. He felt he would look extremely silly. 

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

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

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the wig, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moments pause -

"FROGGLEPUFF!" shouted the wig.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Frogglepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of Frida Kahlo waving merrily at her.

"Bones, Susan!"

"FROGGLEPUFF!" shouted the wig again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENQUEER!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenqueers stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

" Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenqueer too, but "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gayffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see Ron's twin brothers catcalling.

"Bulstrode, Millicent" then became a Lesbyrin. Perhaps it was Harry's imagination, after all he'd heard about Lesbyrin, but he thought they looked like an unpleasant lot. He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He remembered being picked for teams during gym at his old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not because he was no good, but because no one wanted Dudley to think they liked him.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"FROGGLEPUFF!"

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the wig shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. "Finnigan, Seamus," the sandy-haired boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the wig declared him a Gayffindor.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the wig eagerly on her head.

"Gayffindor!" shouted the wig. Ron groaned.

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts always do when you're very nervous. What if he wasn't chosen at all? What if he just sat there with the wig over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he'd better get back on the train?

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his tortoise, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. The wig took a long time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted, "Gayffindor," Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag."

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the wig had barely touched his head when it screamed, "LESBYRIN!" Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with himself.

There weren't many people left now. "Moon" "Nott" "Parkinson" then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil" then "Perks, Sally-Anne" and then, at last -- "Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"Potter, did she say?"

“The Harry Potter?"

The last thing Harry saw before the wig dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the blonde inside of the wig. He waited. “Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, A my goodness, yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting.... So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Lesbyrin, not Lesbyrin.

"Not Lesbyrin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Lesbyrin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that -- no? Well, if you're sure -- better be Gayffindor!"

Harry heard the wig shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the wig and walked shakily toward the Gayffindor table. He was so relieved to have been chosen and not put in Lesbyrin, he hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" Harry sat down opposite a ghost in a faintly yellow cropped blazer and tight trousers. The ghost patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he'd just plunged it into a bucket of ice-cold water.

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once from the card he'd gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore's silver hair was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts, and it was styled not dissimilarly to the Sorting Wig. Harry spotted Professor Queerell, too, the nervous young man from the Wonky Lash. He was looking very peculiar in a large purple turban.

And now there were only three people left to be sorted. "Thomas, Dean," a tall, dark-skinned boy joined Harry at the Gayffindor table.

"Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenqueer and then it was Ron's turn. He was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the wig had shouted, "Gayffindor!" Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to him.

"Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Lesbyrin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Wig away.

Harry looked down at his empty plate, patterned with pastel squiggles. He had only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago. Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Fagwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Yas! Diva! Slay! Queen! Thank you!"

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not.

"Is he -- a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly.

"Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best Queer in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"

Harry's mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he'd never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if It made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.

“Nice plates, aren’t they?” he remarked to Ron. 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed through a mouthful of bacon, “Loving the gold.”

Gold?

“Yours has gold on it?” Harry replied in confusion, trying to look beneath the food piled up on Ron’s plate.

“Yours doesn’t?!” Ron said, looking a bit worried, “All the plates and stuff are gold and copper, aren’t they?”

Harry looked around the tables at the plates, quite sure they weren’t gold or copper, and began to panic. Was his magic broken?!

“The plates are enchanted, obviously,” drawled Percy, “They appear however the person prefers them. To me they look carved from polished wood.”

“Ah, that makes sense…” said Ron, swallowing his potato whole. 

"That does look good," said the ghost in the blazer sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak,

"Can't you --?"

I haven't eaten for thirty-three years," said the ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Freddie Mercury at your service. Resident ghost of Gayffindor Tower. So -- new Gayffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house championship this year? Gayffindors have never gone so long without winning. Lesbyrins have got the cup six years in a row! Sappho is becoming almost unbearable -- she's the Lesbyrin ghost."

Harry looked over at the Lesbyrin table and saw a beautiful female ghost sitting there, in a flowy linen dress. She was sitting next to Malfoy, who was doing his best to ignore her. 

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding -- " As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.

"I'm half-and-half," said Seamus. "Me dad's a CisHet. Mam didn't tell him she was queer 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him."

The others laughed.

"What about you, Neville?" said Ron.

"Well, my gran brought me up and she's queer," said Neville, "but the family thought I was all- CisHet for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me -- he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned -- but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round fo dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced -- all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here -- they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my tortoise."

On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking about lessons ("I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult-"; "You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing -- ").

Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from xir goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Queerell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Queerell's turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.

"What is it?" asked Percy.

"N-nothing."

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look -- a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

"Who's that teacher talking to Professor Queerell?" he asked Percy.

"Oh, you know Queerell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches ACE, but he doesn't want to -- everyone knows he's after Queerell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape."

“ACE?” asked Harry.

“Active Creative Education. Sounds like art but it’s not, more like making and building equipment and potions and stuff. You’ll see later.”

Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again. At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. 

"Ahern -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Drag Race trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.

"He's not serious?" he muttered to Percy.

"Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere -- the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows  that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least." 

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

And the school bellowed:

"Fagwarts, Fagwarts, Faggy Warty Fagwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be gay and twinkish

Or six foot lesbian queens,

Our heads could do with filling

With some homosexual stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Like how to apply eyeliner right, you see

Because it’s real freaking hard,

Just like me!

Like MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Gayffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry's legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging pride flags. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt. A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him.

"Peebee," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist." They raised their voice, "Peebee -- show yourself"

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

"Do you want me to go to Sappho?"

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross- legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.

"Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What fun!"

He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.

"Go away, Peebee, or Sappho’ll hear about this, I mean it!" barked Percy.

Peebee stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Neville's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.

"You want to watch out for Peebee," said Percy, as they set off again. "Sappo’s the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are."

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very beautiful fat woman in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said. "Hozier," said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it -- Neville needed a leg up -- and found themselves in the Gayffindor common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs. On the wall there was a huge pinkish orange seahorse mural, with golden accents. 

“Those of you from cishet families may be expecting to have girls and boys dormitories,” began Percy, “At Fagwarts, we do not automatically separate by gender, but we understand that many people feel more comfortable only in a dormitory of a specific gender. In all, we have five options for you to choose from, but these can be switched at any time. The options are Mingenders, Fingenders, Off-Binary Genders, Multi and Fluid Genders, and the Mixed Gender option.”

“What’s a- a- wait, what is he talking about?” whispered Harry to Ron. 

“It’s just the dorms we choose,” replied Ron, “It’s basically boys, girls, and then all the other genders, but you might not know about them since you’ve been surrounded by cishets your whole life. Just go for the Mingender option, that’s where I’m going, and then you can figure it out later. 

After twenty confusing minutes, Percy had managed somehow to sort all the first year Gayffindors into their preferred dorms, directing the girls through one door to their dormitory, the boys through another, and then some of the other kids into other doors that Harry still didn’t understand. He just followed Ron. At the top of a spiral staircase -- they were obviously in one of the towers -- they found their beds at last: many four poster beds with different colours of drapes laid out in a circular room. Their trunks had already been brought up. They began to change into their pajamas, but Harry noticed something odd when Ron took his shirt off. 

“Hey, what’s that?” he asked curiously. 

“What?” 

“What you’re wearing under your shirt?” 

It looked like a nude coloured vest, but not like vests Harry had seen before. 

“Oh, that’s my binder. I need to change out of it for bed, hold on.” 

Ron disappeared into the bathroom, coming out after a few minutes with his pajama top on and now his chest was a little bit more… pronounced?

Harry’s mouth dropped open a little bit. This place was confusing enough - now Ron wasn’t even a boy?!

“Are you a girl?” he whispered like a conspiracist. 

Ron scoffed. 

“Of course not. I’m a boy, just like you. Or, I mean, you might not be a boy, you just haven’t had time to figure it out yet.”

“But, you have… a girl body?” 

“Well, I do now. But hopefully I can get transfigured soon, mum says if I do well at school then she’ll let me get top-refiguration at the end of it… we couldn’t afford blockers, so-”

“Wait, wait, slow down. What?!” Harry was beginning to lose his mind, probably due to lack of sleep. 

“I was born as a female human,” sighed Ron, “But on the inside, I’m a boy, right?”

“Right…?” 

“So I try to make the outside of my body look like the inside, to make me feel more comfortable. Normally people who know when they are kids get puberty blockers, but they’re kinda expensive and Mum couldn’t find cheap ones that wouldn’t make me ill. But I have Percy’s old binder now - it’s not the greatest but it works.”

“I see,” said Harry, who didn’t really understand, but maybe there would be a lesson on it? 

They finished getting ready, and climbed into their adjacent beds. 

" Great food, isn't it?" Ron muttered to Harry through his red drapes, "Get off, VaJJ! He's chewing my sheets."

Harry was going to ask Ron if he'd had any of the treacle tart, but he fell asleep almost at once.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor Queerell's turban, which kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to Lesbyrin at once, because it was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn't want to be in Lesbyrin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully -- and there was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it -then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold -- there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day, he didn't remember the dream at all.