Chapter Text
Harry didn't think he was in Surrey anymore.
He stared up at the strange trees, ragged breaths stinging his throat. Sunlight scattered through the dense canopy of tangled branches, draped in gossamers of lichen. Giant fungi climbed in winding steps up the gnarled, massive trunks. The ground was uneven with exposed roots, matted with moss, detritus, and queer wildflowers. Here and there, narrow paths disappeared into the green gloom, and, in the deepest shadows, moved tiny dots of flickering light.
Harry glanced over his shoulder, the wild thumping of his heart slowing down. The shadowed woods went on behind him.
Just a second ago, he'd been at school, running from Dudley and his gang. Their favourite game during breaks was hunting Harry, but they didn't often catch him. He was too fast, and he knew the best hiding places, like the big bins outside the kitchen doors. He had been going to jump over them, but instead he'd landed here — wherever here was.
Harry supposed he should have wondered how he'd got there, but all he could really think of was how he was going to explain this funny business to the Dursleys or convince them to come pick him up. They'd probably prefer it if Harry got lost and starved to death in the woods somewhere.
He gave the giant fungi a despondent look, wondering if they were edible. With his luck, they were probably poisonous.
He was just thinking of what to do next when a sudden, cool voice drawled: "You're trespassing, you know."
Harry gave a startled yelp, his heart almost leaping up to his throat. He whirled around wildly, but there was no one among the trees. He stopped, then slowly looked up.
A boy his age was looking down at him.
And he was hovering on a broom.
He raised his eyebrows, and Harry realised belatedly that he was gaping and immediately shut his mouth.
"Sorry about that," he said dazedly. "This doesn't happen to be behind the rubbish bins at St. Grogory's, does it?" he asked without much hope.
The boy gave him a look as if he were insane. Harry couldn't really blame him.
"Right," he said, nodding vaguely.
He couldn't take his eyes off the broom. Harry didn't think there was a way to explain this one to Uncle Vernon without an entire year in the cupboard. He was sure this was the exact kind of "funny business" that his uncle and aunt always warned him about.
"Look," he went on a little desperately. "I didn't mean to trespass. I was trying to jump behind some bins when I was — here." He made a comprehensive gesture at the forest around them as if that explained everything — and inexplicably, it did.
The boy's expression cleared. "Oh," he said. "Apparition, then. That happens. I do wonder how you got past the wards, though. Only family should be able to do that," he added, quite nonsensically.
"App — what?" said Harry, but the boy wasn't listening.
He dropped down, the tips of his shoes grazing the mossy ground. "Hop on then," he said, nodding at the back of the broom. "I'll take you to Mother."
Harry stared blankly and abruptly decided that this had to be a very elaborate dream. He often saw strange dreams — dreams about cold green light, flying motorbikes, or shadowy, sinuous snakes. Any moment now, Aunt Petunia was going to rap on the door of his cupboard and order him to get up.
That, or Dudley and his gang had caught him and now he was lying concussed on the tarmac yard of St. Grogory's primary school.
Then Harry swung his leg over the broom and gingerly got on behind the boy.
"First time on a broom?" the boy inquired casually over his shoulder as they floated higher.
"Er — yeah," Harry said, distracted, his eyes fixed on the receding ground. His gut gave a funny, tremulous flip.
"Well, hold on," the boy drawled blandly, and then the broom shot off like a bullet.
Harry jerked backwards, his hands convulsing fast around the handle. Trees streaked past in a blur of green, the wind whipping his hair savagely in his face, snagging his breath.
They hurtled out of the forest, then soared high over vast, green grounds. Harry had enough time to catch a glimpse of a gleaming lake before the boy swooped the broom down in a free fall, spinning around in wide, spiralling loops. As the world turned over and over dizzily, an insuppressible pressure kept building in the pit of Harry's stomach until he had to let it out in great, wild whoops, clutching the handle tightly.
All too soon, the boy landed on a riverstone path lined with walls of green.
Harry staggered off. "That," he breathed fervently, "was the best thing ever."
The boy beamed. "Flying is the best thing ever," he drawled, and Harry grinned back.
"Where can you get these?" he asked, staring at the broom avidly.
The boy gave him a puzzled look. "From a shop," he said slowly as if it was obvious. He dismounted, eyeing Harry speculatively. "Was that really your first time on a broom?"
"I didn't even know brooms could fly," Harry said. The Dursleys certainly would have never let him know.
The boy blinked. "You didn't? But your parents are our kind, right?"
Harry faltered, his exhilaration deflating. He didn't know what the boy meant, but it made him think of Aunt Marge and how she'd drag on his parents or lack of them.
"I don't know. I didn't know them," he said flatly.
"Oh, sorry," the boy said, off-handedly. "Well, I'm sure they were our kind. You couldn't have got past the wards otherwise," he added as if to reassure Harry.
As they walked along the path, the boy kept talking about flying, brooms, and something about quidditch — a sport played up in the air on broomsticks.
"You can try out for one of the house teams if you come to Hogwarts. First-years can't play, but I'm planning to smuggle my broom in anyway. I'm going to play for Slytherin, of course. I'll be the youngest seeker since Berenice Garm!"
Harry didn't have the faintest idea what Hogwarts or Slytherin was, but it sounded brilliant — a place where you could fly all the time, and the boy seemed to think that Harry could go there too. He didn't care if this was a dream. He wanted to go, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but he didn't think Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would let him.
"I don't think my relatives would let me go there," he said.
The boy quirked his eyebrows, surprised. "Really? One of the other schools, then? Hogwarts isn't all that great anyway," he added. “Father says the place has gone to the dogs since Dumbledore became the headmaster. I'm only going there because Mother doesn't want me to go to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. She thinks they're too far. I don't see why, since loads of our family have gone to both. My cousin is currently at Beauxbatons."
Harry was so busy listening to the boy's idle chatter that he didn't notice they'd arrived at the house.
Then he stopped and stared.
It wasn't a house.
It was a castle of gleaming white stone, tall shimmering windows, round corner towers, parapets carved with hooded figures, letters, and symbols Harry didn't recognise. The door was polished wood with a stained transom window above, surrounded by a cloud of wisteria. It had a knocker in the shape of a dragon and, as the boy approached it, it opened its eyes, which were a pair of green glass.
"I'm back," the boy declared. "I have a guest with me."
The dragon seemed to look at him, then at Harry. He was suddenly acutely aware of his frayed shoes, baggy old clothes, and windswept hair. After a moment, the door swung soundlessly open.
The boy led him through high, cool corridors. The ceiling was covered in paintings that moved, and bas-reliefs on the walls rippled as they passed. Harry craned his head every which way, trying to see everything at once.
"Mother, look what I found," the boy said as they arrived in the sitting-room, surrounded by ceiling-high windows and a green abundance of plants.
A pretty woman was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, her long, blonde hair cascading down one shoulder. She looked up from the book she was reading, smiling at the boy. Then she noticed Harry and her eyebrows flicked up, her blue gaze sweeping over him once. Harry blushed and anxiously tried to flatten his dishevelled hair without anyone noticing.
"Oh, Draco," the woman sighed, placing a bookmark between the pages and closing the book. "What have I told you about bringing in strays?"
"He's not a stray, Mother," the boy — Draco — said, sounding amused. And then he gave Harry a look over as well. "I think."
Draco's mother turned towards Harry, regarding him with cool blue eyes. Her gaze paused on his forehead. "And who would our unexpected guest be?" she inquired.
Draco opened his mouth, then glanced at Harry inquisitively.
Harry cleared his throat, resisting the mad urge to bow. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter, I mean."
"Potter?" Draco asked, sounding intrigued. "The real Harry Potter?" He looked Harry up and down. "I always thought he'd be more—" He made a vague gesture.
"I suppose that explains how he got past the wards," Draco's mother said.
Harry darted his eyes between them, more bewildered than ever. Hundreds of questions crowded his mind all at once — who were they? why did they seem to know him? where could he get his own broom? — but what he blurted out was, "More what?"
"Oh, you know," Draco said. "Impressive. Taller, maybe."
Harry opened and closed his mouth, blinking.
"You look like an asphyxiating fish," Draco observed, then flicked a glance at Harry's hair. "With very bad hair."
“Pardon my son's manners," Draco's mother said gracefully. "He was raised by the house-elf. Feral things. Don't like strangers."
Draco snickered, like it was a long-standing joke.
She inclined her head. "I am Narcissa Malfoy. You've already met Draco. Welcome to our home, Mr Potter."
Harry made a nervous half-bow. "Thank you, Mrs Malfoy. And just Harry is fine."
She smiled, setting the book on the table. "My husband is currently away, but he should be back by dinner. He'll take you home once he arrives. Your family are muggles, as I recall?" Mrs Malfoy inquired. At Harry's confused look, she added, "They're not witches, I mean."
"Witches?" Harry repeated, dazed. "No, they're — er — muggles?"
Mrs Malfoy nodded. "Then contacting them with owls or the Floo is out of the question. We'll just have to explain to them what happened when we take you home."
She glanced at Draco. "You won't mind entertaining our guest while we wait?"
Draco's mouth crooked in a smile. "Sure thing," he drawled. "I know — I'll show him the family tree. Follow me, Potter."
He swept out of the room. Harry flicked a nervous glance at Mrs Malfoy, half-bowed, and hurried out after him.
"Family tree?" he asked.
"Sure," Draco said. "Your family should be there, too. Potters and Malfoys are like distant cousins or something. Mother's right — it probably explains how you got past the wards. I bet you'd like to see it."
Harry's heart gave a curious, almost painful flip.
Family.
Aunt Petunia didn't have any pictures of his parents, so he'd never seen them.
He followed Draco to a long gallery, lined with moving portraits, his insides twisting with something like dread and anticipation. Draco stopped in front of a huge tapestry, filled with faces and names that Harry didn't recognise. After a moment, he tapped one of the pictures and said, "Ah. There they are."
Harry leaned forward, barely breathing.
A young, handsome man stared out at Harry, his mouth crooked in a confident smirk. The same face. The same smile. The same messy, black hair. The only difference was the eyes — brown — and the lack of a scar on his forehead.
Then Harry looked at the small picture next to him. A young, pretty woman smiled at Harry. She looked a little like Aunt Petunia — the same long neck. She had red hair, but her eyes...
Her eyes were exactly like Harry's, almond-shaped and bright green.
Harry leaned forward until his nose almost touched the tapestry. He stared at the little pictures of his parents hungrily for an indefinite moment, then his eyes slowly moved up the tapestry, searching for other faces that looked like his.
Family.
He had a family.