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Chapter Text

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley seemed to shimmer in the summer sun, a river of wonder that left Harry Potter feeling more adrift than enchanted. He stood frozen amidst the swirling crowds, a lonely island in a sea of bustling witches and wizards. Hagrid's booming, "Welcome, Harry, to Diagon Alley!" still echoed in his ears, but the reality was a dizzying cacophony of sights and sounds. He had a list in his hand and a vault of gold, but no idea where to start, and the familiar, hollow feeling of being completely alone began to settle in his stomach

—when a bright, excited voice cuts through the noise.

"It's him! I told you, it's him—it's Harry Potter!"

Harry whips around so fast he nearly trips over his own feet.

The voice was polished, cheerful, and cut through the noise with effortless clarity. Harry turned to see three children approaching him, so unlike the other shoppers they might as well have stepped out of a catalogue. The girl who had spoken had caramel skin, long black curls that bounced with her every step, and a beaming smile that seemed to generate its own light. Behind her is a tall boy with calm eyes and an easy, steady charm, and a girl with a stoic expression, already immersed in a book whose pages were turning themselves not even bothering to look up.

You could take one look at them and know 'Yeah they're probably siblings.'

"Well, if it isn't the Cloverleaf cubs!" Hagrid greeted cheerfully. "Jackie, Thaine, Caroline. Yer parents around?"

The tall boy—Thaine—stepped forward and offered his hand to Harry.

"Father's at Ministry Meeting. Maman is getting books," he said easily. He looks at Harry with a calm smile. "I'm Thaine Cloverleaf. This is my sister Jacqueline—don't let her energy scare you—and our other sister, Caroline."

Harry reached for the handshake, still trying to understand why his fingers felt clumsy.

Jackie's grin widened impossibly. "It's so, so wonderful to finally meet you! I've heard so many stories about you but wow, you're really—"
She clamps her hands over her mouth. "Sorry! That sounded weird. I'm Jackie!"

Caroline finally looked up from her book long enough to examine Harry's scar with sharp, assessing eyes.
"The scar is consistent with the historical curse-scarring accounts. Spiraled patterning. Intriguing." After that she goes back to her book like what she said was easily comprehensible.

Harry's brain bluescreens for a full second.

They're not staring at him like a museum exhibit. They're not whispering. They're just... talking to him. Like a boy holding too-large clothes and too many worries.

"Oh! Is this your first time in Diagon Alley?" Jackie asked eagerly. "It's brilliant. There's this ice cream shop where the scoops never melt—never! And in Flourish and Blotts the books on the upper balcony try to read you, which is terrifying but fun—"

Thaine's chuckle was calm and grounding. "Ignore her. She hasn't learned how to inhale mid-sentence. Want us to take you to Gringotts? It's easy to get turned around." Thaine offered.

That's the moment—the first moment Harry feels something warm bloom in his chest.
These strangers... aren't treating him like a symbol.
They're treating him like a kid who needs a guide.

Harry nodded, unsure what to say—but certain of one thing:

He had made his first real friends in the wizarding world.

Chapter Text

Hagrid lumbered a few steps ahead, clearing a path through the bustling crowd with the natural ease of someone who had spent half his life escorting nervous first-years. Harry kept close behind him, still gripping his school list like a lifeline—until Jackie bounded up beside him again.

"Ready?" she chirped, her curls bouncing as brightly as her smile.

Harry didn't quite trust his own voice, so he nodded.

Hagrid gave the Cloverleafs a fond wave over his shoulder.
"Yer welcome ter tag along, if yeh'd like—but don' go wanderin' too far. Got ter get Harry some gold, we do!"

Thaine immediately fell into polite step behind Hagrid, acting like an additional escort rather than a replacement. Caroline trailed beside him, her book floating a few inches above her palm as she scribbled notes without looking.

Harry had to jog a little to match Hagrid's wide strides, but surprisingly... Jackie kept pace with him instead of her siblings.

"Okay, so," Jackie whispered conspiratorially, "Rule number one for Diagon Alley: always stay by the person who knows where they're going."

Harry blinked. "That's... Hagrid."

"Exactly!" Jackie said brightly, pointing both thumbs at the giant man ahead of them. "He's basically a walking lighthouse."

Hagrid turned at that, confused.
"A what now?"

"A lighthouse," Jackie repeated loudly, as if volume would clarify it. "Big bright thing that shows ships where to go!"

Hagrid's chest puffed in delighted pride.
"Well, tha's right kind of yeh, Jackie."

Thaine smiled over his shoulder.
"She's not wrong."

Caroline added, still reading, "Given his height and cloak coloration, Hagrid is indeed highly visually locatable in a crowd."

Hagrid blinked, unsure if that was a compliment.

Jackie stage-whispered to Harry, "Don't worry. That was her being sweet."

Harry snorted—actually snorted—and Jackie lit up like she'd heard music.

They passed the Apothecary, where foul-smelling fumes curled out into the sunlit street. Harry's nose wrinkled. Jackie's didn't.

"Oh! That's where Mum buys her Fluxfire salts," she said happily. "They smell like socks, but they make the coolest sparks—right, Thaine?"

"Only if you mix them correctly," Thaine answered. "Otherwise you get—"

Caroline: "A minor explosion."

Jackie raised an eyebrow. "Minor? Caro, you singed off your eyebrows."

"I adjusted for that in my notes."

Hagrid laughed so loudly that three nearby witches startled.
"Yer lot remind me of Fred an' George," he said cheerfully. "Always talkin', always plannin', always experimentin'. Except yeh don' blow thin's up quite as often."

Caroline looked faintly offended.
"We implement safety protocols."

Hagrid nodded solemnly as if this was the most reassuring thing he had ever heard.
"Well, tha's good. Don' want Harry's first day ter be a fiery one."

Harry flushed and stared at the stones beneath his feet, trying not to feel too seen—but Jackie reached out and nudged his elbow with hers.

"You're doing great, by the way," she whispered. "Most first-years get overwhelmed way faster. One girl fainted just walking past Madam Malkin's."

"Jackie," Thaine sighed. "Stop scaring him."

"I'm not scaring him—I'm encouraging him!"

Caroline, without looking up:
"Incorrect. The predictive odds of—"

"CARO."

She closed her book with a soft snap but didn't argue.

The white marble tower of Gringotts rose ahead, gleaming so brightly it was almost intimidating. Goblins stood like sharp-edged statues on either side of the doors, eyes glinting in the sunlight.

Harry froze on the steps.

Hagrid noticed immediately.

"Don' yeh worry, Harry," he said gently, placing a massive hand on the boy's shoulder. "I been comin' here fer years. Nob'dy's gonna bother yeh. Goblins are fair—strict, but fair."

Harry nodded, though his throat felt tight.

Jackie stepped closer—not in front of Hagrid, not instead of him, but beside Harry, like additional scaffolding holding up the same structure.

Caroline closed her book entirely, her eyes sharper now as she studied Harry's expression.

"You are anxious," she observed plainly.

Harry flushed miserably.

Caroline's voice softened—not much, but enough to notice.
"You will be safe."

Thaine added, "We'll wait right here until you're done."

Jackie grinned and threw in a thumbs-up for good measure.
"And if the cart goes too fast, just scream—it's tradition."

Hagrid chuckled. "It's not tha' fast."

"It's fast," Thaine corrected.

Harry looked between Hagrid—the one adult he trusted—and the three children who somehow, in the span of minutes, made him feel less alone than he had in years.

He nodded, heart a little steadier.

Hagrid opened the great gold doors.

"Come on then, Harry."

Jackie waved enthusiastically. Caroline nodded once. Thaine gave a reassuring smile.

And Harry walked into Gringotts with Hagrid by his side.

⸻

The doors of Gringotts swung open with a deep, echoing groan that felt like stepping into another world entirely. The marble floors gleamed like frozen water; the high ceilings vanished into shadow; and goblins perched behind ledgers, quills scratching with a sound like rustling beetle wings.

Harry instinctively stepped closer to Hagrid.
Not touching him—but nearly.

The half-giant noticed.

"Stay close, Harry," Hagrid whispered. "Goblins are sharp-eyed folk. They run a fair ship, but they like yeh ter know they're in charge."

Harry nodded, grip tightening on his school list.

A goblin with a razor-sliced expression raised his head.

"Vault key?" he asked crisply.

Hagrid rummaged in his pockets—past teacups, a half-squashed pasty, and something that squeaked—before triumphantly holding up a tiny bronze key.

"This one."

The goblin inspected it so thoroughly Harry half-expected him to lick it. Seemingly satisfied, he snapped his fingers. Another goblin appeared instantly.

"Griphook," the first said. "Take them down."

Griphook bowed stiffly and gestured.

"This way."

⸻

Harry climbed into the rattling iron cart behind Hagrid.

It jerked forward violently.

Harry's stomach dropped straight into his shoes.

"Told yeh it's not tha' fast," Hagrid shouted over the wind.

Harry's cheeks flapped.
His hair flapped.
His soul flapped.

The cart dove sharply.

Harry screamed.

And then—

He heard it.

Hagrid laughing.

Not mocking.
Not mean.
Just big and warm and alive, filling the cavern like sunlight.

Harry felt something loosen in his chest.

This... wasn't scary, not really.

It was freedom.

The cart jolted to a stop at Harry's vault.
Griphook inserted the key.

The door creaked open.

Harry's breath caught.

Gold.
Mountains of it.
More than he had ever seen. More than he ever imagined belonged to him.

For one dizzying, impossible moment, Harry felt like the world wasn't quite as cruel as he'd been taught.

Hagrid watched him quietly.

"Yer parents left yeh well," he murmured. "They wanted yeh looked after."

The words hit Harry harder than any cart drop.

His parents.
Had thought of him.
Prepared for him.

He swallowed.

"I—I didn't know."

Hagrid nodded gently.
"Lots yeh didn't know, Harry. But yeh're learnin' now."

Harry filled a small pouch with gold, carefully, almost reverently.
Then—

"Ready?" Hagrid asked.

Harry nodded again, firmer this time.

——

Jackie POV

Jackie sat on the marble steps, legs swinging rhythmically, humming under her breath.

"Do you think he's okay?" she asked for the fifteenth time in five minutes.

Thaine didn't look up from polishing his broom badge.
"He's with Hagrid. Nothing will happen."

Caroline, sitting beside Jackie with her book once again open, added, "Unless they crash."

"CARO!"

"Into a stalagmite," she clarified helpfully.

Jackie yelped, covers her mouth, and looks horrified.
"You said it was FUN!"

"I said statistically survivable."

Thaine sighed. "Caro, please."

But Jackie wasn't scared—she was anxious in the way she got when she cared too much.
She didn't know Harry yet, not really, but she already liked him. Already wanted him to feel welcome. Wanted him to feel less... alone.

She hugged her knees.

"I hope he's smiling."

Thaine glanced at her, his expression softening.

"He will," he said quietly. "With Hagrid? Definitely."

Caroline nodded.
"Hagrid's happiness aura has measurable impact on emotional distress."

Jackie blinked. "What?"

"He makes people feel better," Caroline said flatly.

"Oh! Yes. That." Jackie brightened. "Exactly."

A few shoppers passing by smiled at the sight: the tall, composed fourth-year Ravenclaw, the sharp-eyed third-year, and the tiny ball of sunshine in the center.

"You waiting for someone?" a friendly witch asked as she walked past with packages.

"Harry Potter!" Jackie replied with absolute confidence.

The witch froze.
"Oh. Oh my."

Thaine chuckled under his breath. "She means it literally."

Caroline turned a page.
"He seemed undernourished."

Jackie gasped dramatically.
"CAROLINE!"

"It's a factual observation."

But Jackie couldn't argue it—not when she'd seen how thin Harry's wrists were, how his shoulders hunched like he was always bracing for a blow.

She swung her feet harder.

"I'm gonna bake him something," she declared.

Thaine nodded. "Good idea."

"Cookies," Jackie added firmly.

Caroline sighed but did not argue.

⸻

The cart clanked to the surface.
The pair stepped into the sunlight.

Hagrid stretched. "Good trip?"

Harry managed a weak laugh. "Fast."

"Told yeh."

Harry walked beside him, still processing everything—the wealth, the cart, the vault, the fact that his parents had left something behind for him. Something meant for his future.

He wasn't used to that feeling.

⸻

Jackie spotted him first and sprang to her feet.

"There he is!" she squealed. "You survived!"

She didn't give him time to answer—she ran over and looked him up and down dramatically.
"Everything still attached? No lost limbs?"

Harry shook his head, still breathless.

Thaine gave him a respectful nod.
"Good. Vault go smoothly?"

Harry found himself smiling.
"Yes. Hagrid helped a lot."

Hagrid puffed out his chest, pleased.

Caroline studied him like a specimen.
"You appear stable."

Jackie huffed. "Caro. Compliment him."

Caroline paused.

"You... did not die."

Harry laughed. Out loud.
The sound startled him.

Jackie beamed like she'd won a medal.

"Okay! Onward! We still have a whole street of magic to explore!"

Hagrid chuckled. "She's right. C'mon, Harry—we got loads ter buy."

Harry's heart felt lighter than it had in years.

Chapter Text

The bell over the door chimed as Hagrid pushed it open, ducking to avoid taking the entire frame with him. Harry followed, taking in the soft velvet displays and floating pins that whirred through the air like beetles with impeccable fashion sense. The Cloverleaf siblings trailed after him, forming an accidental but unmistakable entourage.

Madam Malkin bustled over.
"School robes for Hogwarts? First years?"

"Jus' Harry and Jackie here," Hagrid corrected, patting Harry's shoulder so firmly he nearly folded in half. "Them two are just keepin' them company." He gestured to Thaine and Caroline.

Caroline, already inspecting a bolt of charmed, color-shifting silk, didn't look up. "We will be purchasing a set of robes for Jacqueline."

Madam Malkin brightened. "Oh! Of course. You know where the measuring wands are, dears."

Jackie, naturally, was already spinning in front of a mirror.

Then—

Her smile froze for half a heartbeat.

Her posture tightened ever so slightly.

Harry followed her gaze.

A pale, sharp-featured boy stood on a stool near the back, arms out as pins floated around him. His white-blond hair gleamed like polished frost. His cold grey eyes flicked toward Jackie and immediately narrowed.

He hadn't even finished his fitting, yet somehow he looked like a portrait already posing.

He sniffed.

"Cloverleaf."

Jackie's smile grew even brighter—blinding, defiant, sunshine sharpened into a blade.

"Draco."

Draco's brows rose, his chin tilting just enough to signal (politely, aristocratically) contempt.

"Last time I checked," he drawled, "we aren't on a first-name basis."

Jackie clasped her hands behind her back, rocked on her heels, and tilted her head like a cat planning the murder of a very expensive couch.

"Last time I checked," she chirped, "we aren't on a last-name basis either."

Thaine, standing behind her, closed his eyes and whispered, "Jackie... please."

Caroline didn't look up from the book she was reading in the corner. "Statistically, this will escalate," she murmured.

Draco blinked. "I call you Cloverleaf because that's your name."

"No," Jackie said sweetly. "You call me Cloverleaf because you heard your father call my dad that."

Even Madam Malkin paused mid-pin floating.

Draco's jaw twitched.

Jackie stepped closer—close enough he was forced to look down at her, which he clearly despised because Jackie Cloverleaf was too short to be an intimidation tactic... and yet she was making it work.

She tapped her chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

"What should I call you?" she said lightly. "Your middle name, maybe?"

Thaine whispered, "Jackie, no—"

"Lucius?" she decided brightly. "Suits you."

Harry was positive he heard a choked sputter from Draco's direction.

Hagrid coughed violently to disguise a laugh.
Caroline turned another page, completely unbothered.
Thaine stared at the ceiling and prayed for divine intervention.

Draco stepped down from the stool so abruptly the measuring pins scrambled to avoid stabbing him.

His voice lowered.

"I am nothing like my father."

Jackie's eyes softened for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Harry to see that she understood something about Draco he hadn't said aloud.

Then the sunshine snapped back on.

"Good," she said simply. "Then don't act like him."

Draco opened his mouth—
closed it—
opened it again—
and then shut it so tightly Harry thought he might crack his own teeth.

He turned sharply to Madam Malkin.

"I'll return for the finished robes later."

And he strode out without looking back.

The bell chimed behind him.

For a full two seconds, the shop was silent.

Caroline finally spoke.
"Objectively," she said, flipping a page, "that went better than expected."

Thaine pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jackie..."

Jackie shrugged innocently.
"What? I was polite."

Harry stared at her, awed and slightly terrified.

Hagrid clapped a gigantic hand to his shoulder again.
"Tha's Jackie fer yeh. She knows how ter stand her ground."

Jackie leaned in close to Harry, whispering, "He'll get nicer someday. Probably. Maybe. Eventually. If he stops being... Draco."

Harry couldn't help it—
he laughed.

The first real, effortless laugh of his new life.

And Jackie beamed like she'd just won the World's Championship.

The furious chime of the bell seemed to hang in the air for a moment after Draco's exit. Madam Malkin gave a flustered little sigh and bustled off to the back.

Into the void left by the blond boy, Jackie seamlessly stepped. She hopped up onto the stool he had just vacated, her cheerful energy immediately reclaiming the space.

"Alright, Harry, your turn!" she announced, as if the previous confrontation had been nothing more than a mildly interesting preview. "Up you go. Don't worry, the pins only prick a little. It builds character."

Hagrid, looking relieved by the change in atmosphere, nodded enthusiastically. "Go on, Harry. I've got ter pop next door ter the Leaky Cauldron fer a pick-me-up. You'll be alright with the Cloverleafs?"

"We will ensure he is delivered to you with the correct sleeve length," Caroline stated, not looking up from her book. It was the closest thing to a promise of safety Harry thought he'd ever heard.

As a flurry of pins descended upon him, measuring and pinning, Harry found his eyes drifting back to the door.

"Who was that?" he asked quietly.

"Draco Malfoy," Thaine supplied, his tone weary but not unkind. He was leaning against a counter, looking every bit the polished, prefect-in-training. "His family is... very old, very wealthy, and very particular about who they associate with."

"They're a bunch of ruddy—" Hagrid began, then caught himself, glancing at the children. "—a bunch of snobs," he amended gruffly. "Not a fan of them lot. Now, I won't be long."

With a final reassuring pat that nearly unbalanced Harry from the stool, Hagrid ducked out.

Jackie, from her own stool, picked up the thread of the conversation as if she were the official Malfoy historian. "His father, Lucius, and our father, Phillip, went to school together. They were supposed to be allies. Same social circle, you know? But Dad thought Lucius was a pompous, prejudiced bully, and Lucius thought Dad was a blood-traitor for being friends with Muggles and Muggle-borns. So now," she concluded with a theatrical sigh, "we have... that." She gestured vaguely toward the door.

"It is an inefficient perpetuation of a generational conflict with diminishing social returns," Caroline commented from her corner.

"She means it's stupid," Jackie translated brightly.

Harry absorbed this. It was a glimpse into a world he knew nothing about—a world of ancient feuds and social politics that felt both alien and strangely familiar, like a magical version of the Dursleys' obsession with normality.

"He seemed like he wanted to talk to you," Harry ventured, remembering the boy's intense, conflicted stare.

"Oh, he did," Jackie said, holding her arms out as a tape measure whizzed around her. "He just didn't know how to do it without sounding exactly like his father. So he settled for insulting me instead. It's his default setting."

"Don't encourage her, Potter," Thaine said, though a faint smile touched his lips. "She sees every social interaction as a puzzle to be solved, preferably by dismantling the other person's ego first."

"It's not my fault the solution is usually 'be less of a git'!" Jackie protested, laughing.

Harry tried—and failed—to smother a smile.

Madam Malkin returned with an armful of freshly pressed fabric and began pinning the hem of Jackie's robe. "Now, dear, no wriggling," she chided gently. "Unless you want your sleeves uneven."

"I like asymmetry," Jackie replied cheerfully.

"No you do not," Caroline said. "You cried when one of your braids was half an inch shorter."

"That was emotional symmetry," Jackie corrected, nose tilted proudly.

Harry looked between them—Caroline, dry as a desert spellbook; Thaine, the steady anchor; Jackie, a whirlwind wrapped in freckles and smiles—and marveled at how easily they filled the shop.

How easily they filled the silence.

How easily they kept loneliness away.

Madam Malkin floated a robe over Harry's head and tugged it down. "Straight back, dear. Arms out."

Harry did as told, still replaying Draco's cold stare in his mind.

Thaine noticed. "Don't worry about Malfoy," he said, tone softening. "He tries to intimidate everyone. He failed impressively today."

"He doesn't scare me," Harry said quickly—too quickly.
Jackie caught it instantly. Her expression warmed.

"He shouldn't," she said. "He's all talk. Like a peacock that thinks it's a dragon."

Harry snorted—a small, involuntary sound.

Caroline glanced up, eyebrows lifting the tiniest fraction. "Apt."

Jackie grinned. "Approximately one hundred percent accurate."

She leaned closer to Harry, lowering her voice. "He's been like that since we were little. My dad told me not to take it personally. 'Malfoy men are raised on pride the way other children are raised on porridge.'"

"Dad also said not to provoke them," Thaine reminded.

Jackie waved a hand. "He said that after I provoked them."

Harry hesitated. "So... you know him well?"

Jackie rocked her foot back and forth as Madam Malkin adjusted her hem. "We've crossed paths. Pureblood gatherings here and there, school visits, charity events. Our families are... complicated."

"Diplomatically incompatible," Caroline supplied.

"Star-crossed but without the romance," Jackie added.

Harry nodded slowly. "He seemed... angry."

Jackie paused.

For a moment—just a moment—her bright expression softened into something thoughtful, older than eleven, wiser than she should've needed to be.

"He's angry at a lot of things," she said quietly. "Sometimes it spills onto the people he knows can take it."

Thaine studied her, something protective and fond flickering in his expression. "Jackie sees the best in everyone," he murmured to Harry. "Even when they give her very good reasons not to."

"I see the potential!" Jackie insisted.

"You see the chaos," Caroline corrected.

"The potential for chaos," Jackie amended.

Madam Malkin stepped back from Harry. "All done, dear. Have a look in the mirror."

Harry turned.
And saw not just a lost boy with a lightning scar and oversized clothes, a wizard. A student. Someone with a future.

Jackie beamed. "See? Told you. Stunning. Completely professor-approved."

"You look like you're about to do something dangerous," Thaine added.

"That's just his default expression," Caroline said calmly.

Harry laughed again—he couldn't help it.
It bubbled up warm and real, something that hadn't existed for him in a long time.

Just then, the bell chimed again and Hagrid returned, his massive hands carefully holding five large cones of ice cream, each a different, magically swirling colour.

"Here we are!" he boomed. "Fortification!"

He distributed them: a chocolate-and-peanut-butter chunk for Harry, a raspberry-ripple-with-sparkles for Jackie, a plain vanilla for Caroline ("The most data-rich flavour," she'd stated), a caramel thunder for Thaine, and a truly enormous one with what looked like whole fudge flies in it for himself.

As Harry took his, the cold, sweet shock of it made him grin. He'd never been given ice cream so freely.

"Thanks, Hagrid," he said, and the others echoed him.

"Right!" Hagrid boomed, getting started on his ice. "All set? Robes are paid for. Next stop—Flourish an' Blotts!"

Jackie gasped loudly, swallowing her sparkles. "Books first?" She whirled on Caroline. "Caroline! This is your moment!"

Caroline closed her book with a reverent sigh, focusing on her ice cream cone.
"Yes," she whispered, a genuine, almost hungry light in her eyes. "My time has come."

Harry found himself smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

As they filed out into the sunlit street—Hagrid lumbering ahead, Harry following close, licking chocolate from his fingers, Jackie bouncing, Caroline gliding, Thaine steady as a lighthouse beam—Harry felt a shift inside his chest.

A small, warm, astonishing certainty.

He watched Jackie, who was now trying to explain to Hagrid why a book on advanced wandlore would be a better first purchase than a book on which cauldron thickness was best. She was small, but she hadn't backed down an inch from a boy who seemed to have all the confidence in the world. She'd just... reframed the entire battle on her own terms.

If she can do that, Harry thought, then maybe... just maybe... I can learn how to stand my ground, too.

And somewhere behind them, in a shop now quiet again, a blond boy on a stool tried very hard not to wonder why Jackie Cloverleaf's words had hit him like a spell he wasn't prepared for, and why the memory of her defiant smile was so much more persistent than the approval of his father.

Chapter Text

The cool, dusty silence of Flourish and Blotts was a stark contrast to the bustling street. Towering shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with books that whispered, rustled, and occasionally let out a small shriek. Harry stared, overwhelmed. He'd never seen so many books in one place.

"Right," said Hagrid, dusting sugar from his beard. "Yeh'll be needin' the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk..."

But Harry's attention was pulled away.

Across the shop, near a display of shimmering, aqua-colored books on advanced arithmancy, stood the most elegant woman he had ever seen. She had warm brown skin, long black curls that fell in a perfect cascade over her shoulder, and was dressed in robes of deep emerald green that looked both expensive and effortless. She was examining a book with a critical eye, her posture radiating a refined grace that made even the chaotic bookshop seem orderly.

Thaine, seeing where Harry was looking, gave a small, knowing smile. "Mother," he called softly, not wanting to disturb the sanctity of the shop.

The woman looked up, and her face—which had been a mask of polite analysis—transformed. A warm, radiant smile bloomed, and her intelligent brown eyes, so like Jackie's, crinkled at the corners.

"Mes chéris!" she said, her voice a melodic blend of French accent and English precision. She set the book down and glided towards them, her arms opening. "Thaine, Caroline. And Jacqueline, my little hurricane—I can feel the chaos you have left in your wake from here."

Jackie bounded forward and was enveloped in a hug that was both delicate and fierce. "Maman! We met Harry Potter! And we saw Draco Malfoy in Madam Malkin's and I called him 'Lucius' and he stormed out!"

Adeline Cloverleaf held her daughter at arm's length, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "Jacqueline," she said, her tone chiding but fond. "Must you poke the peacock with such... enthusiasm?"

"It was a very precise poke," Caroline interjected, materializing beside them as if she'd been waiting for this exact moment. "She correctly identified his primary insecurity and applied social pressure directly to the fault line. Strategically sound."

Adeline sighed—a sound that was more theatrical than weary—and released Jackie. She then turned her gaze to Harry. The warmth did not leave her eyes, but it was now tempered with a deep, perceptive curiosity.

"And you must be Harry," she said, extending a hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm, her touch warm. "I am Adeline Cloverleaf. It is an honor to meet you."

"Er—hello," Harry managed, shaking her hand. He was acutely aware of his own messy hair and second-hand clothes, suddenly feeling very small.

But Adeline's smile didn't waver. If anything, it deepened.

"I've heard stories about you," she continued, releasing his hand. "Though I confess, the reality is more impressive than the description."

"Maman," Thaine said with mild embarrassment, "you're making him uncomfortable."

"I am being kind," Adeline corrected, though her eyes twinkled with amusement. "There is a difference."

She looked back at Hagrid. "Rubeus, a pleasure to see you. Are you shepherding our new generation?"

"That I am, Adeline!" Hagrid said, beaming with genuine warmth. "Just gettin' Harry his school things."

"Then we must not delay you." Adeline's gaze swept over the list in Hagrid's massive hand with the efficiency of someone accustomed to logistics. "The Standard Book of Spells is just there. And I believe the Defence Against the Dark Arts text is this way..."

"The curriculum texts are logically grouped in the rear-left quadrant," Caroline announced, already striding in that direction without a backward glance. "I will procure a complete set for Potter. Efficiency is optimal." She vanished between two shelves labeled Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, leaving a faint impression of purpose in her wake.

"Don't mind her," Thaine said with an easy smile. "She's been mapping this store since she was six. She'll have your entire booklist compiled in under three minutes."

Harry wasn't sure if Thaine was joking.

He wasn't.

Caroline reappeared exactly two minutes and forty-seven seconds later, carrying a perfectly organized stack of books. She moved through the shop with the precision of someone who had memorized every shelf, every corner, every hidden alcove. She would pluck a volume from a shelf, glance at it with the intensity of someone reading an equation, and if it met her standards, hand it to Harry with a soft, clinical assessment.

"This one has a superior binding," she'd say, running her finger along the spine. "The pages won't separate after repeated use."

"Avoid this edition—the illustrations are subpar and historically inaccurate. The 1989 printing corrected the errors."

"This translation is more precise than the 1987 revision. The original French terminology is better preserved."

Within minutes, Harry's arms were filled with a stack of pristine, high-quality textbooks. He hadn't had to search for a single one. More than that, he had the distinct impression that Caroline had vetted each book as though she were personally responsible for his academic success.

"There," she said, adding 'A History of Magic' to the pile with a slight grimace. "The essentials. Though this particular text contains seventeen documented errors in the chapter on goblin rebellions. I've made a note."

She had. In the margin. In ink. With citations.

Adeline watched this display with an expression of fond exasperation. "Caroline, darling, you cannot annotate library books."

"It's not a library book," Caroline said reasonably. "It's Potter's book. I'm improving it."

"You're defacing it," Thaine corrected gently.

"I'm enhancing it," Caroline countered, which was technically the same thing but somehow sounded more defensible when said with such conviction.

Adeline turned to Harry, her expression apologetic but amused. "She means well. She simply has very strong opinions about accuracy. It's a family trait, I'm afraid."

She placed a hand on Caroline's shoulder—a gesture that was both affectionate and grounding. Caroline leaned into it slightly, a small acknowledgment of her mother's presence.

"Now," Adeline continued, gesturing to the sprawling, chaotic, wonderful shop around them, "is there anything that catches your eye? Something not on the list? A book is never a waste of time, Harry. Knowledge is the one thing no one can take from you."

Harry's eyes wandered, landing on a vibrant cover depicting a roaring dragon. Dragon-Breeding for Pleasure and Profit.

Adeline followed his gaze and let out a soft, melodic laugh. "A man after Rubeus's own heart, I see. An excellent choice, though perhaps one to read before you attempt to acquire the creature." She plucked the book from the shelf with the grace of someone who had performed this gesture a thousand times. "A gift. Consider it a welcome to the wizarding world."

She pressed it into his hands, and Harry felt something shift in his chest. Gratitude, mostly. But also something deeper—the unfamiliar sensation of being seen. No adult had ever bought him a book just because he looked at it with interest.

Caroline peered over his shoulder at the title. "Excellent selection. The chapter on dragon temperament assessment is particularly thorough. You'll find it useful."

"For what?" Harry asked.

"For not dying," Caroline said matter-of-factly. "Dragons are statistically one of the leading causes of wizard mortality. Understanding their behavior increases survival probability."

"Caroline," Adeline said gently, "perhaps not the most encouraging introduction to the subject."

"Accuracy is more important than encouragement," Caroline replied, but there was no malice in it—just a simple statement of fact.

Jackie, who had been trying to covertly slip a book titled 101 Hexes for the Easily Annoyed into the pile, froze mid-motion as all eyes turned to her.

"Jacqueline," Adeline said without even looking, "I can sense your mischief from here. Put the book back, mon amour."

"But Maman—"

"Back."

Jackie sighed dramatically and returned the book to its shelf, but not before shooting Harry a conspiratorial grin that promised future mischief.

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't quite name. For the book. For... everything."

Adeline's expression softened. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and it was warm, steady, real.

"You're welcome, Harry. Truly." She paused, her eyes moving to survey her children with the expression of someone taking inventory of her most prized possessions. "You will be in excellent company with my children. Thaine will be a Quidditch Captain, of course—he has the temperament for it. Caroline will know all the answers before the professors finish the question."

"And Jacqueline..." She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Jackie's ear. "...will ensure you are never bored. She has a gift for finding joy in unexpected places."

"Even when she's being a menace?" Thaine asked with a slight smile.

"Especially then," Adeline confirmed.

Hagrid approached the counter to pay for the rest of the books, and Adeline placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. It was warm, steady, real—the kind of touch that grounded him.

"All set for academic success," she said softly.

As they stepped back out into the sunlight, Harry felt a strange sense of completion settling over him like a warm cloak.

The encounter with Draco Malfoy had shown him a sliver of the wizarding world's darkness and complexity—the prejudice, the old families, the casual cruelty that lurked beneath polished surfaces.

But Hagrid and the Cloverleafs had shown him something else entirely.

They had shown him warmth, strength, and unwavering loyalty.

He had his books. He had his robes. He had a wand waiting for him at Ollivander's.

And he had a glimpse of the friends who would help him navigate the bewildering, wonderful, and sometimes frightening new world he was about to enter.

He looked at Jackie, who was now debating the merits of different quill types with Hagrid with the intensity of someone discussing matters of national importance. He looked at Thaine, who was quietly helping Hagrid carry parcels. He looked at Caroline, who was reading the back cover of Dragon-Breeding for Pleasure and Profit with the expression of someone analyzing a scientific paper.

And he felt a surge of gratitude so profound it nearly took his breath away.

The journey to the next shop felt less like a chore and more like an adventure. His new friends—bright, chattering, utterly themselves—formed a shield against the unknown. Not because they were perfect, but because they were real.

Because they saw him.

Chapter Text

The Apothecary was dim and pungent, the air thick with the scents of herbs, roots, and things suspended in murky liquids. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with bottles that glinted in the low light—some glowing softly, others swirling with colors that had no names. Harry had never seen so many strange ingredients in his life. He'd certainly never seen people navigate such a shop with the confidence of the Cloverleafs.

"Right then," Hagrid muttered, checking his list against the crowded shelves. "Basic potion supplies. Let's see here—"

But Caroline was already moving, her footsteps purposeful and precise. She lifted a brass scale from a middle shelf, inspecting the weights and gleaming pan with the focus of someone examining a scientific instrument. She nodded once—a gesture of approval—and placed it carefully in Harry's basket.

"This one," she said simply. "Accurate to within a thousandth of a grain. The school-issued models are far less precise. Variance of point-five grains or more. Unacceptable for advanced work."

Harry blinked. "You know all that just by looking?"

"She does," Thaine said, already comparing jars of dried ingredients with the methodical care of someone who'd done this before. He held up two containers of powdered moonstone, examining the texture and color of each. "Mother had us brewing from the time we could reach the counter. You learn to see the quality."

Adeline drifted between the shelves with elegant ease, her emerald robes brushing softly against the wooden displays. She paused at a shelf of rare ingredients, running her fingers along the labels with the familiarity of someone who'd visited this shop many times before.

"Potions are as much an art as a science, Harry," she said warmly, turning to face him. Her brown eyes held a depth of knowledge that made her seem far older than she looked. "One must understand the nature of the ingredients—how they behave, how they interact, how they transform under heat and pressure. It is a language, in its own way. And it is a family skill."

"Seven generations," Jackie chimed, appearing suddenly at a barrel of bat spleens. She poked one gently with her finger, watching it jiggle with unselfconscious delight. "Caroline knows everything, Thaine remembers everything, and I like seeing what things do when you poke them."

"Sometimes she learns," Caroline added dryly, still sorting vials into a careful arrangement.

"I learn a lot," Jackie insisted proudly, moving on to examine a jar of something that looked disturbingly like eyeballs. "Mostly how not to do things. Last week I learned that powdered dragon scale and essence of moonflower do not mix well. Very explosively."

"You nearly burned down the kitchen," Caroline said, not looking up.

"But I learned," Jackie countered.

Thaine selected a fresher jar of shimmering moonstone powder, comparing the granulation and luster to the one Hagrid had initially picked up. "This batch is higher-quality," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who genuinely knew what he was talking about. "Better for brewing, less chance of contamination. See how the particles are more uniform? That matters."

Hagrid blinked, impressed. "You lot know this place better'n I do."

"We've been coming here since we were small,"Thaine explained, selecting several more items with practiced efficiency. "Mother believes in understanding the tools of your craft."

Adeline gave Harry a small, reassuring smile—the kind that suggested she understood his overwhelm and found it endearing rather than troublesome. "They take care of those they consider part of their circle," she said softly. "And you are part of that circle now, Harry. That means they will ensure you have the best of everything."

Within minutes, Harry's basket contained the highest-quality starter kit he could imagine—all chosen with care, expertise, and a surprising amount of affection. Caroline had vetted each ingredient. Thaine had selected the finest specimens. Jackie had narrated the entire process with infectious enthusiasm. And Adeline had overseen it all with quiet approval.

"Blimey," Harry whispered to Jackie, staring at the collection.

Jackie grinned and nudged him with her shoulder. "Welcome to the Cloverleaf experience. Fair warning: they take this very seriously."

"We do," Caroline confirmed, handing the final vial to Harry. "Preparation is the foundation of success."

---

Cool air enveloped them the moment they stepped inside. The Emporium was quiet—a sanctuary of soft rustles and watchful silence. Dozens of owls perched on wooden stands and elaborate cages, their eyes tracking the newcomers with varying degrees of interest. Some were enormous, with wingspans that seemed to fill entire corners. Others were tiny, barely larger than Harry's hand. The variety was staggering.

"Right then, Harry," Hagrid said, his massive frame somehow gentle in this delicate space. "Pick whichever yeh like. A good owl is worth its weight in gold—reliable, loyal, intelligent. Yeh'll want one that suits yeh."

Thaine stood beside him, his expression thoughtful and measured. "Choosing a familiar is important," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of genuine understanding. "The right one understands you in ways you don't expect. It's not just about delivery or convenience. It's about partnership."

Harry swallowed, his eyes scanning the perches. There were brown owls and grey owls, spotted owls and striped owls. There were owls that hooted softly and owls that watched in complete silence. The responsibility of choosing felt suddenly enormous.

Then he saw her.

High on a perch near the back of the shop: a snowy owl, pure white as fresh snow, with feathers that seemed to shimmer in the light. She was regal and composed, her amber eyes ancient and knowing. She looked directly at Harry—not curiously, not casually, but with a directness that felt almost like recognition.

Something in his chest tightened.

"That one," Harry said, without thinking, without doubt.

The owl spread her wings—an elegant, deliberate gesture—and flew down to land on his arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She settled there with perfect balance, her talons gentle but secure. When she turned her head to look at him, Harry felt something shift inside him. This wasn't just an owl. This was his owl.

Jackie clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. "Harry—she chose you! Did you see that? She didn't even hesitate!"

"Snowy owls have exceptional navigational instincts and superior intelligence," Caroline observed, stepping closer to examine the bird with her usual analytical precision. "Excellent choice. Statistically, snowy owls have a 98.7% delivery accuracy rate. Highly reliable."

"Beautiful bird," Hagrid said, beaming with genuine warmth. "I'll get her for yeh, Harry."

Harry's throat tightened. "I... thank you, Hagrid. I don't know what to say."

"No need to say anything," Hagrid said kindly. "Yeh deserve it, Harry. More than yeh know."

Hedwig—for that was the name that came to Harry the moment he saw her—nudged his cheek gently but firmly, as if to say: Yes, you do.

"What are you going to name her?" Thaine asked.

The name surfaced like a memory resurfacing from a dream—a name from a book he'd read once, hidden away in the Dursleys' second bedroom, one of his few escapes.

"Hedwig,"Harry said softly.

Jackie lit up like a candle. "Perfect! It's elegant and knowing and just a little bit mysterious. Just like her."

"Efficient nomenclature," Caroline added. "The name suits her temperament."

As they left the shop, Hedwig's weight on Harry's arm felt grounding rather than burdensome. She shifted occasionally, adjusting her position, and each movement felt like a small conversation. She wasn't just an owl.

She was his.

---

Ollivanders appeared suddenly, squeezed between a dusty apothecary and a shop selling quills. The storefront was shabby, the gold letters above the door faded and peeling. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the window—just one, as if the shop had been waiting for someone specific to arrive.

The moment they stepped inside, Harry felt it. The air tasted like magic—sharp and electric and alive. Dust motes hung suspended in the dim light, and the shelves stretched impossibly high, crammed with thousands upon thousands of small wooden boxes. The hum of power was almost tangible.

A soft voice drifted from the shadows.

"Good afternoon."

Mr. Ollivander appeared silently, as if he'd been waiting in the darkness all along. He was an old man with silver hair and pale, luminous eyes that seemed far too large for his face. When he looked at Harry, those eyes widened with something like recognition.

"Ah... yes," he murmured, studying Harry with an intensity that was almost invasive. "I wondered when I would see you. Harry Potter."

Harry flushed, feeling suddenly exposed. "How did you—?"

"I remember every wand I have ever sold," Ollivander said quietly, his voice thin and reedy but somehow commanding. "Every single one. I remember them as a man might remember his children. And I remember the people who bought them. Your parents came to me, you see. Both of them."

He moved closer, his pale eyes never leaving Harry's face.

"Your mother—Lily Potter, née Evans—came to me when she was not much older than you are now. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy. A wand for someone with a gift for charm and an affinity for nature magic."

Harry's breath caught. He'd never heard anyone speak about his mother before, not like this, not with such specificity and care.

"And your father," Ollivander continued, "James Potter. Eleven inches, mahogany, pliable. A wand for someone with natural talent and a certain... flexibility of spirit."

He paused, as if remembering them both.

"Powerful wands," he said softly. "Noble wands."

Then he turned to the Cloverleafs, and his expression shifted into something almost reverent.

"And the Cloverleaf line," he said, his voice carrying the weight of history. "A remarkable lineage. Remarkable indeed."

His gaze landed on Thaine first, studying him with those enormous pale eyes.

"Red oak and unicorn hair—eleven inches, reasonably supple," he said, as if reading from a ledger only he could see. "A wand for balance and reliability. For someone who understands structure but knows when to bend. How has it served you?"

"Excellently, sir," Thaine said respectfully, inclining his head slightly. "It's responsive and steady."

"As it should be," Ollivander said, nodding with satisfaction. "Red oak is a noble wood—strong, but not rigid. It suits you well."

His attention turned to Caroline next, and his pale eyes seemed to grow even larger.

"Acacia with dragon heartstring," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Twelve and a half inches. Unyielding. A wand for someone who sees the world in precise detail, who understands the mechanics of magic itself. A wand for a mind that refuses compromise."

Caroline met his gaze steadily. "It serves its purpose," she said, which from her was high praise indeed.

"I thought it would," Ollivander said, and there was something almost tender in his expression. "An acacia wand for a brilliant mind.  You have a gift for seeing patterns others miss."

Adeline's hand found Caroline's shoulder, a gesture both protective and proud.

Then Ollivander faced Jackie, and his entire demeanor shifted. He smiled—a genuine, warm smile that transformed his austere features.

"Jacqueline Cloverleaf," he said softly. "I wondered about you. Something told me your wand would be waiting."

He moved to a high shelf with surprising speed, his fingers trailing along the boxes as if guided by instinct rather than sight. He paused, then withdrew a single box—slender and elegant.

"I had this one set aside," he said, opening it with reverence. "I had a feeling."

Inside lay a wand of warm, honey-colored wood, polished to a soft glow that seemed to contain captured sunlight.

"Applewood and phoenix feather," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of significance. "Ten inches. Surprisingly swishy. A wand that chooses the pure of heart—and refuses, absolutely refuses, to turn toward the Dark Arts."

Jackie took it with reverent care, her usual bravado stripped away, replaced by something more genuine.

The moment her fingers closed around it, the shop transformed.

Golden light erupted from the wand's tip—not sharp sparks, but a soft, radiant luminescence that filled every corner of the shop. The light was warm and gentle, like captured sunshine. It made the dust motes glitter like diamonds. A faint, sweet scent—like blooming flowers on a summer day, like hope itself—filled the air.

And then, impossibly, a single daffodil bloomed at the wand's tip. It was perfect in every detail—petals pristine, color vibrant. It floated for a moment in the golden light, suspended as if by magic itself, before it gently drifted to the floor like a feather.

Even Ollivander blinked, clearly impressed.

"A rare match indeed," he murmured, his pale eyes shining. "Applewood wands are drawn to charm, wit, and sincerity. They choose witches and wizards of great personal warmth. And phoenix feather cores..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Phoenix feathers choose with great care. They are selective. Particular. This is a match of genuine significance."

Adeline's breath caught. Her eyes grew bright, and she placed a hand over her heart. "Phillip would have loved to see this," she whispered, and there was such tenderness in her voice that Harry understood, without being told, that she was thinking of Jackie's father.

Jackie held the wand as if it weighed nothing, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. "I love it," she said softly. "I absolutely love it."

She looked at the daffodil on the floor, then at Harry, and her smile returned—brighter than the light she had just conjured.

"Your turn, Harry," she said gently.

Ollivander turned his full attention to Harry, and suddenly the old wandmaker seemed to become more focused, more intense.

"Now then," he said, moving swiftly through his shop. "Let us find your wand."

The fitting began in earnest. Ollivander moved with surprising speed for someone so elderly, pulling wands from shelves with the precision of someone who knew exactly where each one was. He handed them to Harry one after another, his movements becoming almost ritualistic.

Harry held the first wand. Nothing happened. Ollivander snatched it back.

"No, no... clearly not..."

The second wand sent sparks shooting across the room. Thaine had to duck. Caroline observed the trajectory with analytical interest.

"Hmm... no..."

A third wand produced a small cloud of purple smoke that made Jackie cough. A fourth made the temperature in the shop drop so suddenly that everyone shivered.

"Does this always happen?" Harry asked, growing more nervous with each failure.

"Only with interesting cases," Thaine said encouragingly, his voice steady and calm. "The right wand will feel different. You'll know when it's the one."

Jackie hovered nearby, whispering, "If a wand explodes, duck behind Hagrid. He's the biggest."

"The probability of combustion is low," Caroline said, though she didn't sound entirely certain. "Probably."

Pile after pile of tried and discarded wands grew on the spindly chair. Harry was growing more nervous with each failure, acutely aware that everyone was watching—Hagrid with patient encouragement, Adeline with quiet confidence, Thaine with analytical interest, Caroline with what appeared to be genuine curiosity, and Jackie with hands clasped, her expression one of intense, supportive focus.

"Curious," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "Very curious indeed."

Then he paused. His pale eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be listening to something no one else could hear. Without a word, he disappeared into the back room.

The silence that followed felt heavy with anticipation.

When he returned, he moved slowly, reverently. He carried a simple box—no more elaborate than any other, but somehow it seemed to glow with quiet significance. He opened it with care.

Inside lay a wand of pale wood—holly, though Harry didn't yet know the name. It was elegant and simple, and it seemed to contain an inner warmth, as if it had been waiting.

"Holly and phoenix feather," Ollivander said, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "Eleven inches. Supple."

Harry reached for it slowly, half-afraid it would be wrong like all the others.

The moment his fingers closed around it, he felt it.

Warmth surged through his arm—bright, certain, absolutely right. It was as if the wand recognized him. As if it had been waiting for him all along. He gave it a tentative flick, and a shower of gold and red sparks erupted from the tip, dancing through the air like tiny phoenix wings before fading into nothing.

Harry felt the wand hum in his hand—a perfect, seamless extension of his own arm. It felt like coming home.

Ollivander's eyes shone with something like satisfaction.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, that is the one."

But then his expression shifted. He reached out and gently took Harry's wrist, turning it so he could see the lightning bolt scar clearly. His pale eyes studied it for a long moment, and when he looked back at Harry, there was something almost sorrowful in his gaze.

"Curious," he said again, and this time there was weight behind the word. "Very curious indeed."

He released Harry's wrist and moved to a shelf, retrieving a small box. From it, he withdrew a wand that looked almost identical to the one Harry held—the same pale wood, the same elegant simplicity.

"You see, the phoenix feather in your wand," Ollivander said softly, holding up the second wand, "came from Fawkes. Albus Dumbledore's phoenix. And the phoenix feather in the wand that gave you that scar came from the same bird."

The shop fell completely silent.

Harry's scar prickled. "So we're connected?" he asked, trying to understand. "Me and... Voldemort?"

"In a way," Ollivander said, and his voice was gentle despite the gravity of the revelation. "But not in the way you might think. The wands chose to connect you. Magic has its own will, you see. Its own purposes. We are merely the instruments through which it works."

Adeline stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Harry's shoulder. Her touch was warm and grounding, and when Harry looked at her, he saw no fear in her expression—only quiet strength.

"This is not a curse, Harry," she said firmly, her French accent becoming more pronounced as emotion colored her words. "It is a connection, yes, but connections can be many things. This one is a reminder that you are stronger than the darkness that created that scar. Your wand proves it. Magic itself proves it."

Caroline, in her own way, added: "Statistically, the probability of two wands sharing the same phoenix feather core is approximately 0.003%. The magical implications are extraordinary."

"What she means," Thaine translated, his voice warm with understanding, "is that this is important. And that you're not alone in it."

Jackie squeezed Harry's other hand. "You're one of us now," she said simply. "Whatever that scar means, whatever that connection means—you're not facing it alone."

Ollivander wrapped Harry's wand in brown paper with practiced efficiency, his movements ritualistic and careful. When he handed it over, he met Harry's eyes one more time.

"Use it well, Mr. Potter," he said quietly. "The wand has chosen you. Trust in that choice."

"Seven Galleons," he said.

---

The golden evening light spilled over the cobblestones as they walked back toward the Leaky Cauldron. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, casting long shadows that made Diagon Alley feel both magical and somehow more real than it had that morning.

Harry held Hedwig's cage in one hand and his wand in the other. The wand felt warm, alive, like it was humming quietly in anticipation. Jackie stayed beside him, still admiring the soft sheen of her own wand, occasionally flicking it gently to produce small bursts of golden light.

"We're really going to Hogwarts," she said, almost in a whisper, as if saying it aloud might break the spell.

Harry nodded, still processing everything that had happened in the span of a single day. "Feels... unreal."

"But good," Thaine added, walking a step ahead, his red oak wand visible in his pocket. "The start of something new. Something important."

Caroline, nose still in a book she'd purchased at Flourish and Blotts, said without looking up, "Statistically, shared journeys foster stronger social connections. Approximately 73% higher success rate for students who arrive with established friendships."

"That's her way of saying," Jackie translated, squeezing Harry's arm, "we're glad you're with us."

Adeline looked back at them—all of them—and her expression softened into quiet pride. She was still wearing her emerald robes, and they caught the fading light beautifully. There was something almost ethereal about her in that moment, as if she were a guardian watching over them.

"Come along," she said warmly. "It has been a long day. We should rest tonight."

They walked together through the crowded streets of Diagon Alley, past shops closing for the evening, past vendors packing up their wares. The bustle of the afternoon had faded into a gentler evening rhythm.

Harry followed them, warm with a feeling he hadn't recognized in years—a feeling so foreign it took him a moment to name it:

Belonging.

A new world waited. Hogwarts Castle. Classes and challenges and dangers he couldn't yet imagine. But he would face it with a wand that had chosen him, an owl that had chosen him, and friends who had chosen him.

He was going into the unknown, with friends.

Chapter Text

King's Cross was chaos incarnate.

Harry clutched his trolley as he scanned the bustling station, trying to orient himself. The main concourse was a maze of rushing commuters, echoing announcements, and the constant hiss of steam from departing trains. Families embraced. Porters wheeled luggage. Children darted between legs. He'd never been here on his own before—and certainly not with a snowy owl in a cage, a trunk filled with spellbooks, and a wand that hummed quietly in his pocket.

"Platform nine and three-quarters," he muttered to himself, checking his ticket for the third time. "But where—?"

The Muggle platforms stretched before him—Platform 9, Platform 10. But there was no Platform 9¾. Just a brick wall separating the two.

Harry's stomach tightened. Had he misread the ticket? Was this some kind of test?

"Harry!"

The voice cut through the station noise like a bell—bright, unmistakable, and impossibly cheerful given the chaos surrounding them.

Jackie Cloverleaf barreled toward him through the crowd, a bouncing wave of black curls and emerald robes, her trunk rattling behind her on a trolley. She moved with the confidence of someone who'd navigated this station a hundred times before. Close behind her came Caroline, composed and methodical as always, pushing a perfectly organized trolley with mathematical precision. Thaine followed, wheeling his own trunk with practiced ease, his expression calm and reassuring.

Adeline appeared a moment later, serene and elegant despite the chaos, her emerald robes somehow pristine despite the jostling crowd. She moved through the station like someone moving through water—unhurried, graceful, utterly unruffled.

Harry nearly sagged with relief.

"You found us!" Jackie cheered, looping her arm through his like this was the most natural thing in the world. "We were worried you'd gotten lost in the Muggle bits. It's easy to do—Thaine once walked straight onto a train to Edinburgh by accident."

"That was one time," Thaine said calmly, not looking up from adjusting his trunk. "And I corrected my course before the train left."

"He was eleven," Caroline added, consulting a small notebook. "The probability of such an error occurring at his current age is negligible."

Adeline smiled warmly, placing a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. "We are glad you're here safely, Harry. The station can be overwhelming for those unfamiliar with it."

Before Harry could respond—before he could even process the fact that he wasn't alone, that he wouldn't have to figure this out by himself—another familiar burst of sound erupted across the station.

"Adeline! Adeline, dear!"

Molly Weasley bustled toward them through the crowd, her round face bright with joy and recognition. She was a plump woman with kind eyes and red hair that matched her children's, and she moved with the purposeful energy of someone used to managing chaos.

"Molly, chérie!" Adeline exclaimed, pulling her into the warmest hug Harry had ever witnessed. The two women embraced like old friends—which, Harry was beginning to understand, they were. "You look lovely today. How have you been?"

"Oh, you know—busy as always," Molly said, beaming. "The children keep me on my toes. But enough about me, how are your three?"

Harry blinked, processing this exchange. The Cloverleafs weren't just acquainted with the Weasleys.

They were family friends.

Very close ones.

The Weasley children spilled into view like a coordinated wave—Percy adjusting his prefect badge with self-important precision, Ron gawking openly at Hedwig ("Blimey, is that a snow owl?")Ginny hanging back shyly beside her mother, and—

Fred and George.

The twins moved with the synchronized ease of people who'd spent their entire lives finishing each other's sentences and completing each other's schemes. When Fred spotted Caroline, he abandoned his trolley mid-push and nearly clipped George's heel in his haste.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite genius," Fred said, leaning an elbow on Caroline's trolley with a grin too charming to be accidental. His eyes were bright with mischief and something deeper—genuine affection masked by layers of teasing. "Caroline Cloverleaf, breaker of hearts and bringer of logic. Did you miss me terribly during the summer?"

Caroline didn't even blink, her expression remaining perfectly composed.

"I missed the unpredictable chaos you bring," she said matter-of-factly. "It increases cognitive function. Boredom is statistically linked to decreased mental acuity."

George laughed, slapping his knee. "She got you there, Fred."

Fred pressed a hand over his heart dramatically. "Cruel. Accurate, but cruel. You wound me deeply, Caroline. Truly."

"You'll survive," Caroline replied, sliding a book into her satchel with the precision of someone placing a chess piece. "You always do."

"She always says that right before she lets you explode something," Thaine said with a smirk, his tone suggesting this was a well-established pattern.

"Ah," Fred said brightly, his grin widening. "So she did miss me."

Jackie snorted. "He's insufferable."

"He's Fred," Caroline corrected, in the tone of someone who has known him her entire life and has made peace with his fundamental nature. "The two are not mutually exclusive."

Harry watched the exchange with fascination, unable to look away. He'd never seen someone flirt with such confidence—and never seen someone shut it down with such effortless, affectionate precision. There was no awkwardness here, no uncertainty. Just the comfortable rhythm of people who'd known each other forever.

It was obvious this wasn't new.

It was them.

"Come on," Jackie said, tugging Harry forward with enthusiasm. "Harry, come meet the Weasleys properly! They're basically our cousins but without the blood ties. Which honestly makes them better cousins because we actually like them."

Molly Weasley turned to Harry, and her eyes softened instantly with a warmth that felt almost maternal. "Oh! You must be Harry Potter. Adeline told us about you, dear. Welcome, welcome."

Harry flushed, feeling put on the spot. "H-hello, Mrs. Weasley."

"Molly, please," she said kindly. "Mrs. Weasley makes me feel ancient."

Percy nodded politely from where he stood adjusting his prefect badge. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Potter. I'm sure you'll find the experience quite educational."

George gave Harry a friendly clap on the shoulder, nearly knocking him forward. "Don't let Percy bore you to death with school rules. That's what we're here for."

"To bore him?" Thaine asked.

"To save him from boredom," George corrected.

Ron stared at Harry like he'd grown a second head, his freckled face flushing slightly. "You're... you're Harry Potter?" he sputtered, his words tumbling over each other. "I mean—I knew—but I didn't—but—oh."

Jackie laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "He does that with everyone. Don't worry, he'll get words out eventually."

"Do not," Ron protested weakly.

"Do,"Caroline corrected gently, her tone suggesting she'd observed this pattern multiple times before.

Hedwig gave a dignified hoot from her cage, as if offering her own commentary on the situation.

"Wow," Ron breathed, stepping closer to examine the owl. "She's beautiful."

Pride swelled in Harry's chest. "Her name's Hedwig," he said, and was surprised by the confidence in his own voice.

Jackie grinned at him like he'd just passed a major test, her expression full of approval.

There was a little girl behind Mrs. Weasley—younger than the others, with bright red hair and an eager expression—who brightened when she spotted Jackie.

"Jax!" she called out, bouncing on her toes.

"Gingerbread!" Jackie cheered, abandoning Harry's arm to rush toward the girl. They locked hands, spinning slightly. "How've you been?! I hope Ronnie's not giving you much trouble."

"Oi!" Ron protested, but he was grinning.

"He's been fine!" the girl—Ginny, Harry assumed—exclaimed, her eyes shining. "I wanted to see you off! I can't wait to come next year!"

"Well I'm glad you're here!" Jackie said gleefully. "I can't wait to have you there next year! We'll cause absolute mayhem together."

"Jackie," Adeline said mildly, "perhaps not mayhem. Spirited fun, perhaps."

"Same thing," Jackie replied cheerfully.

Adeline exchanged a look with Molly that suggested this was a well-known aspect of Jackie's personality.

Jackie then turned back to Harry, her expression becoming more serious—or as serious as Jackie could manage.

"You'll sit with Ron and me on the train, right?"she asked. Her tone made it clear this wasn't really a question, but rather a statement she was phrasing politely. "The twins and Caroline will have their own compartment—they have some sort of project they're working on—and Thaine will most likely go off with his Quidditch friends. It'll just be you, Ron, and me. Unless you want to sit alone. But don't sit alone, that's depressing. Sit with us."

Ron looked suddenly nervous, his ears reddening. "Will you? I-I mean, only if you want to..."

"Proximity to familiar peers decreases first-day anxiety and improves academic confidence,"Caroline added from where she stood, not looking up from her book. "The statistical improvement is approximately 23%."

George nudged Harry with a conspiratorial grin. "That means you should sit with them in Caroline speak."

Harry smiled—genuinely smiled—for what felt like the first time since arriving at King's Cross.

"Yeah," he said. "I'd like that."

——

As the time to board approached, Adeline knelt to adjust Jackie's scarf, her movements graceful and practiced. "Remember—walk with purpose. Straight through the barrier. Do not hesitate. Hesitation creates doubt, and doubt creates resistance."

Jackie saluted with exaggerated formality. "Oui, Maman. Straight through, no hesitation."

"And keep your wand secure," Adeline added, checking Jackie's satchel. "The barrier is not gentle with careless magic."

Thaine went first with Percy, moving with calm confidence toward the brick wall between Platforms 9 and 10. Harry watched, holding his breath, as they walked straight toward what appeared to be solid brick.

And then they were gone.

Simply gone. As if they'd stepped through a curtain into another world.

Fred and George went next—George teasing Ron the whole time about his nervous expression, Fred making exaggerated predictions about what would happen if Ron hesitated.

"He'll bounce off," Fred said cheerfully. "Like a rubber ball. Very entertaining."

"You're not helping," Ron muttered.

Caroline paused beside Harry, her expression calm and analytical despite the magnitude of what they were about to do.

"It's simple physics," she said, her voice steady and reassuring. "Momentum minimizes the risk of injury. Walk straight and steady. The barrier responds to confidence and intention."

Fred leaned in, smirking. "Or you can do what Caroline did first year and sprint head-first into it before the rest of us were even ready."

"That resulted in minimal injury," Caroline corrected.

"Minimal dent in the wall," Fred said. "We're still not sure how you survived that."

"Adequate protective spellwork," Caroline replied simply.

Molly hugged each of the children in turn—a warm, encompassing embrace that somehow managed to be both brief and thorough. When she reached Harry, she held him for a moment longer than the others.

"Be brave, dear," she whispered. "And be kind. That matters more than you know."

Adeline approached Harry last, her expression warm but serious. "You are ready for this, Harry," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Trust yourself. Trust your wand. And trust your friends."

She paused, then added softly, "They will not let you fall."

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Come," Adeline said gently, extending her hand. "We'll go together. You and I, and then Jackie."

So Harry took a breath.

He gripped his trolley firmly. Hedwig gave an encouraging hoot from her cage. Jackie squeezed his other hand and waved goodbye to Ginny.

Ron nodded awkwardly from where he stood, his expression a mixture of nervousness and excitement.

And together—surrounded by new friends, old family, warmth he'd never known existed—Harry walked straight toward the barrier.

The brick wall seemed to rush toward him. For a moment, panic flared—this is wrong, this is a trick, you're going to crash—

But then Adeline's hand was steady on his shoulder, and Jackie's hand was warm in his, and he was walking through, not into, and—

—and then they were on the other side.

Steam hissed from the scarlet locomotive, so much steam that it obscured the far end of the platform. Owls hooted from cages, their calls echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Students shouted greetings to friends they hadn't seen all summer. Parents embraced their children one last time. The air smelled of magic and adventure and something indefinably other.

The Hogwarts Express stood before them—a magnificent scarlet steam engine with brass fittings that gleamed in the station light. The cars stretched back impossibly far, and Harry could see students already boarding, hanging out of windows, waving to their families.

"Blimey," Ron breathed beside him.

"Indeed," Caroline said, already moving toward the train with her trunk. "Remarkable engineering. The locomotive appears to be charmed for both Muggle and magical propulsion."

"Leave it to Caroline to analyze the train instead of just enjoying it," Fred said, but he was grinning.

Jackie tugged Harry toward the nearest car. "Come on! We need to find a good compartment. The popular ones fill up fast."

"What makes a compartment popular?" Harry asked, allowing himself to be pulled along.

"Proximity to the middle of the train," Caroline called back, already boarding. "Optimal for avoiding both the front—where the prefects congregate—and the back—where troublemakers congregate and cause chaos."

"We're troublemakers," George pointed out.

"Precisely," Caroline said. "Which is why we'll be in the middle."

Adeline stood on the platform, watching them board with an expression of quiet pride. When she caught Harry's eye, she smiled—a smile that somehow contained both goodbye and welcome, both protection and freedom.

"Go," she said softly. "Your adventure awaits."

Harry climbed aboard the train, his trunk secured in the luggage rack above, Hedwig's cage settled safely beside it. The compartment was small but comfortable, with plush seats and a window that looked out onto the platform.

Jackie immediately claimed the seat by the window. Ron settled across from her, and Harry took the seat beside Ron.

"This is going to be brilliant," Jackie said, her eyes shining as she watched the platform. "I can feel it. This whole year is going to be brilliant."

Caroline appeared in the doorway. "First years have a 67% chance of experiencing at least one significant magical incident. Prepare yourselves accordingly."

"That's not reassuring," Ron said.

"It's not meant to be," Caroline replied. "It's meant to be accurate."

Fred poked his head in. "Oi, Caroline, we need you for the thing."

"I'll be back before departure," Caroline said, already moving toward the door. "Don't start without me."

"The thing?"Harry asked.

"Best not to ask," Thaine said, appearing in the corridor with his trunk. "Trust me on that. Some mysteries are better left unsolved."

As the compartment emptied and filled again with the controlled chaos of students finding their places, Harry settled back into his seat. Outside the window, Adeline was still visible on the platform, watching the train with an expression of quiet contentment.

And now, as the Hogwarts Express prepared to depart, carrying him toward his destiny, Harry Potter, now more than ever, was excited to start this new journey with his friends.

Chapter Text

They found an empty compartment near the middle of the train—not the front, where prefects congregated with their rule books and self-importance, and not the back, where troublemakers gathered to plot their chaos. It was perfect. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

Jackie hauled her trunk inside with surprising strength, her small frame belying her capability. She immediately sprawled across one seat like she owned it, her black curls spreading across the red velvet cushion in artistic disarray. She sighed contentedly, as if she'd just settled into the most comfortable spot in the world.

"D'you think—do you think the food trolley comes early or late?" Ron asked, his stomach apparently already making its concerns known. He shifted nervously in his seat, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his robes.

Jackie gasped dramatically, sitting up suddenly with the theatrical flair of someone who had been waiting for exactly this opening.

"Ronald Weasley. Priorities!"

Ron blushed a deep crimson that nearly matched his hair. "I'm hungry!"

"It's fine," Harry said, surprising himself with how natural it felt to defend Ron. "I'm starving too. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

Jackie leaned over, whispering loudly to Harry in a conspiratorial tone that Ron could absolutely hear—which was clearly the entire point.

"He always gets hungry when he's nervous. Which is always. It's like his default state. Nervous and hungry. It's very predictable. Also very endearing, but don't tell him I said that."

Ron spluttered indignantly, his ears turning even redder. "Oi! That's not—I'm not—"

"You are," Jackie said cheerfully, patting his knee with the confidence of someone who had known him his entire life. "It's fine. It's endearing. Don't be embarrassed."

The train gave a great lurch and began to move, the platform starting to recede slowly. The sound of the locomotive's whistle echoed across the station—a long, mournful sound that seemed to mark the beginning of something momentous.

Jackie squealed like a child on Christmas morning, pressing her face against the window so hard her nose flattened slightly against the glass.

"We're MOVING! We're officially Hogwarts students! Harry, this is the moment your entire life changes. Are you excited? Are you dramatic? Be dramatic with me."

Harry laughed, feeling something tight in his chest loosen for the first time in weeks. "I—yes? I think so?"

Jackie beamed at him like he'd passed another secret friendship test. "Good. That's the right answer. Excitement is mandatory. Dramatics are encouraged."

Ron grinned, some of his nervousness fading as the train picked up speed and the countryside began to roll past in earnest. "So what house d'you reckon you'll be in?"

"Ravenclaw," Jackie said immediately, with absolute certainty. "My whole family's been Ravenclaw. My father is, my mother went to Beauxbatons but she's definitely a Ravenclaw in spirit—she's brilliant with research and theory. Thaine and Caroline are both Ravenclaw. It's practically genetic at this point."

"Beauxbatons?" Harry asked, surprised. He'd assumed all wizarding children went to Hogwarts. The idea that there were other schools, other options, had never occurred to him.

Jackie nodded, still watching the countryside roll past, her eyes tracking the trees and fields as they blurred past the window. "She's French, you see. There's Wizarding Schools all over the world. Beauxbatons is where people from France usually go. Durmstrang is up in the north somewhere—Scandinavia, I think. But Hogwarts is the best in Britain, obviously."

"Obviously," Ron agreed, though he sounded like he was repeating something he'd heard rather than something he truly believed. "My mum went to Hogwarts. She was in Gryffindor. My dad too. Along with my all my older brothers."

He said it with a mixture of pride and something else—something that sounded like pressure. "Isn't that a lot of pressure?" Harry asked carefully.

Ron's expression grew tense. "It is. What if I'm not brave enough? What if I'm a coward and get sorted into Hufflepuff?" His voice had taken on an edge of genuine anxiety. "Everyone expects me to be in Gryffindor. My whole family is in Gryffindor. What if I don't belong there?"

"Hufflepuff is not the coward house," Jackie stated firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "Plus, I'll still love you whatever house you get into—like family, of course. That doesn't change based on house placement."

Ron flushed considerably, but the tension in his shoulders eased. There was something about Jackie's certainty that was comforting. She didn't say it to make him feel better. She said it because she meant it.

"What about you, Harry?" Jackie asked, turning from the window to look at him directly. Her brown eyes were curious but not demanding. "Any idea what house you might be in?"

Harry shook his head slowly, feeling the weight of not knowing settle on his shoulders. "I didn't even know houses existed until a few weeks ago. I don't know anything about them, really."

"Well," Jackie said, settling back into her seat with the air of someone about to deliver important information, "there are four houses. Gryffindor values bravery and courage. Hufflepuff values loyalty and hard work. Ravenclaw values intelligence and wit. And Slytherin values ambition and cunning."

"Slytherin's where all the dark wizards come from," Ron added darkly, his voice dropping as if he were sharing a terrible secret. "Well, not all of them, but most of them. You-Know-Who was in Slytherin."

"That's not entirely fair," Jackie said, though her tone suggested she understood Ron's prejudice. "There are plenty of decent Slytherins. But yes, Slytherin has a... reputation. Caroline says it's because the house was founded by Salazar Slytherin, who was a bit of a purist about blood purity, and that legacy has stuck around like a bad smell. But she also says that judging an entire house based on historical precedent is statistically inaccurate, so."

"Caroline sounds intense," Harry said.

"She is," Jackie agreed cheerfully. "But she's brilliant. You'll like her. Everyone in Cloverleaf-Weasley orbit eventually likes her. Even when she's being insufferable. It's like a law of nature."

---

They'd been traveling for perhaps twenty minutes, the compartment warm with the easy comfort of new friendship, when the door slid open with a sharp, deliberate motion.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle like a king with his attendants. His pale blonde hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. His robes were expensive and pristine—clearly tailored, clearly expensive. His grey eyes swept across the compartment with cold calculation, lingering on Harry with an intensity that made Harry's skin prickle.

Ron stiffened immediately, his jaw tightening. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, and Harry could see the effort it took him not to say something. Harry felt his own stomach twist—there was something about Malfoy's presence that made the air feel colder, more hostile, as if the temperature in the compartment had dropped several degrees.

But Jackie simply looked up slowly, blinking once as if she'd been interrupted from something far more important than a pale blonde boy and his two oversized shadows.

Draco spoke directly to Harry, his voice carrying the weight of someone used to being listened to, used to being obeyed.

"So it's true, then. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts. I wondered if the rumors were exaggerated."

Ron bristled, opening his mouth to respond, but Jackie cut in first, her voice perfectly polite and utterly cutting.

"I'm sorry—who?"

Draco blinked, clearly not expecting to be addressed at all, let alone dismissed by a girl with messy black curls and an expression of polite confusion. "You know who I am—"

"Asked," Jackie said simply, the word hanging in the air like a blade.

The compartment fell silent. Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed to sense that something had shifted, that the dynamic had changed in a way they didn't quite understand.

Draco's jaw clenched. He ignored Jackie completely, turning back to Harry with the determination of someone used to being the center of attention, used to having his words carry weight.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, as if this should mean something profound. "My father is Lucius Malfoy. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

Jackie gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her mouth in exaggerated shock.

"Oh! Oh, I am so sorry. I thought you were mini-Lucius. The resemblance is uncanny. Like a cursed photograph come to life. Do you practice that expression in the mirror, or does it just happen naturally? I'm genuinely asking—it's a very specific look."

Ron bit his lip so hard Harry thought he might draw blood, clearly trying not to laugh. His shoulders shook with the effort of containing himself.

Draco's face flushed red, anger flashing across his features like lightning. "Look, Potter, some wizarding families are better than others. You don't want to make friends with the wrong sort."He gestured vaguely at Ron, his lip curling with disdain. "I can show you how things really work here at Hogwarts. My father has considerable influence. It would be wise to have me as a friend."

It was, Harry realized, an offer. A calculated, cold offer, but an offer nonetheless. A transaction. A bargain.

Harry thought of Adeline's warm hand on his shoulder in Ollivanders. He thought of Thaine's steady encouragement on the platform. He thought of Caroline's precise honesty about the world. He thought of Jackie's brightness, her refusal to be intimidated by anyone, her absolute certainty in her own worth.

He thought about what it meant to have real friends.

"No," Harry said quietly.

Draco's eyes widened slightly, as if he'd never been refused before. "What?"

"No," Harry repeated, more firmly this time. His voice was steady. "I don't think so."

Jackie waved a hand dismissively, as if shooing away an annoying insect.

"You heard him. Shoo. Off you pop. Run along to your father's reflection. Try not to practice your sneer on strangers—it's not becoming. And tell Crabbe and Goyle that lurking in doorways is a fire hazard. Very dangerous. Someone could trip."

Ron burst out laughing, unable to contain himself any longer. His shoulders shook with the effort of trying to muffle the sound, but it escaped anyway—genuine, unguarded laughter that filled the compartment.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, but he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. It felt like victory. It felt like belonging.

Draco glared at all three of them, his pale face now mottled with rage. For a moment, Harry thought he might actually curse them right there on the train. His hand moved toward his pocket, where his wand undoubtedly was. Then, with a sharp turn that sent his robes swirling dramatically around him, Draco stormed off down the corridor—Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him like obedient dogs, occasionally glancing back as if unsure whether they should be offended on their master's behalf.

When the door slid shut, Jackie sniffed triumphantly and settled back into her seat.

"He gets smaller every time I see him," she announced to no one in particular. "Does he shrink? Is it stress? I'm genuinely concerned about his physical wellbeing."

Ron wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're mental!"

"Thank you," Jackie said primly, as if he'd paid her the highest compliment. "I take that as a great honor."

Harry found himself laughing—hard. Not the careful, controlled laughter he'd perfected at Privet Drive, but genuine, unguarded laughter that came from deep in his chest. It felt strange and wonderful and terrifying all at once. It felt like freedom.

"That was brilliant," Ron said, still grinning. "Absolutely brilliant. Did you see his face? I thought he was going to explode."

"His face was very red," Jackie confirmed, settling back into her seat with the satisfaction of a job well done. "I think that's the most flustered I've seen him. Usually he's more controlled. Today he was very... splotchy."

---

As the afternoon wore on and the landscape outside the window grew increasingly rural, the food trolley arrived, pushed by a witch with a kind smile and an air of patient efficiency.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" she asked, her voice warm and welcoming.

Jackie bought nearly everything—Chocolate Frogs, Every-Flavor Beans, Pumpkin Pasties, Licorice Wands, Cauldron Cakes, Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor Beans (again, because she insisted the variety was important), and several packages of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. She piled them all on the small table between the seats like she was preparing for a siege, creating a veritable fortress of sweets.

Harry offered to pay, reaching for his coin purse, but Jackie smacked his hand away with surprising force.

"Nope. I like feeding people. It gives me power. Plus, my mother gave me extra money specifically so I could buy things for my friends. So you're not just eating sweets, you're fulfilling my mother's wishes. You'd be very rude to refuse."

Ron tore open a Chocolate Frog, watching it hop across the table with fascination before catching it with practiced ease. Jackie tried to trade him her Every-Flavor Beans, insisting that he'd get a good flavor. Ron was skeptical until he got a lemon one and declared it acceptable, though he approached the next bean with visible caution.

Harry stared in awe at his first Wizard Card—Dumbledore, looking dignified and wise, with a long silver beard and half-moon spectacles. The image moved, Dumbledore waving at him from the card.

"He's the headmaster," Jackie explained, noticing Harry's wonder. "Albus Dumbledore. He's supposed to be the most powerful wizard alive. My mother says he's also the kindest, which is a rare combination."

They talked for hours as the train carried them north toward Scotland.

Ron told stories about his brothers—Fred and George's various pranks, including the time they'd turned Percy's prefect badge into a toilet seat, Percy's obsession with rules and his dreams of becoming Minister for Magic, Bill's adventures as a Curse-Breaker in Egypt, Charlie's work with dragons in Romania. He spoke about his family with a mixture of exasperation and genuine affection that made Harry understand, for the first time, what it meant to have siblings. To have people who knew you completely and loved you anyway.

Jackie told ridiculous stories about Caroline—including the time she'd reorganized the entire Hogwarts library at age twelve because she'd found the Dewey Decimal System "inefficient." She talked about Thaine's natural talent for Quidditch, about how he'd caught the Snitch in his first Quidditch match as a Seeker. She spoke about her father's work as a Department Head for the Ministry, about her mother's research into advanced charms. She spoke about her family with pride and love, but also with the easy comfort of someone who knew them completely and accepted them anyway—flaws and all.

Harry shared things in small, careful pieces. He told them about the Dursleys—not everything, but enough. He talked about not knowing he was a wizard, about the shock of discovering magic, about feeling like he didn't belong anywhere until now. He talked about Hagrid's kindness, about Adeline's warmth, about the feeling of finally finding people who wanted him.

And Jackie never pushed. When he went quiet, she simply continued talking, filling the silence with her brightness. When he seemed ready to share more, she listened with complete attention, her brown eyes focused entirely on him. It was, Harry realized, exactly what he needed. Not pressure. Not pity. Just presence.

---

A little while later, after the initial adrenaline of the Malfoy confrontation had faded and the sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, the compartment door slid open again.

This time, it was a girl with bushy brown hair and an air of purposeful determination. She peered in, her brown eyes taking in the three of them with quick assessment. She was small, with prominent front teeth and an expression of intense focus.

"Have either of you seen a toad?" she asked without preamble. "A boy named Neville's lost one. I've checked six compartments already."

"No toads," Jackie said cheerfully. "But we do have Ron, which is close in terms of amphibian characteristics."

Ron groaned, rolling his eyes. "Do you ever stop?"

"No," Jackie replied with absolute certainty. "It's a character flaw I've made peace with."

The girl stepped in further, her eyes flicking between them with renewed interest. "Oh! You're Harry Potter! I've read all about you. 'The boy who lived.' And you're Jacqueline Cloverleaf. Your father was a significant figure in the First Wizarding War, a true war hero. I've read about that too."

Jackie jolted, clearly surprised. "You've already read about my father? We haven't even started school yet!"

Hermione sputtered, her face flushing pink. "Well, I wanted to be prepared. I've read all the standard texts, and I've been practicing spells all summer. I managed to make a feather float for three whole minutes yesterday."

She demonstrated, pulling out her wand and muttering "Oculus Reparo" at Harry's broken glasses. The tape holding them together dissolved, and the frames knitted themselves back together seamlessly.

Jackie offered over-enthusiastic applause, clapping her hands together loudly. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! You're going to do wonderfully at Hogwarts. I can already tell."

Ron muttered something about show-offs under his breath, but there was no real heat in it.

Harry found himself smiling too. Hermione was intense and clearly very clever, but there was something earnest about her that reminded him of Caroline—that same drive to understand and master everything, that same need to prove herself.

Hermione left after a few more minutes to continue her search for Neville's toad, her hair bouncing determinedly as she walked down the corridor. But before she went, she paused at the door.

"I hope we're in the same house," she said to Harry, and there was something almost vulnerable in her voice. "I'd like to be friends."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I'd like that too."

After she left, Jackie grinned. "She's going to be brilliant. I can feel it. She's got that Caroline energy—the intensity, the need to know everything. But she's also got something else. Something warm. I like her."

---

By the time the train began slowing as it approached Hogsmeade Station, the compartment was warm with the easy comfort of new friendship. Empty sweet wrappers littered the table in colorful disarray. Ron was dozing slightly, his head tilted back against the seat, his mouth slightly open. Jackie was braiding her own hair absently while looking out the window at the darkening landscape, watching as the countryside gave way to the outskirts of a small village.

Harry had forgotten to be afraid.

He had friends. Real friends. People who had chosen him, who wanted him, who made him laugh until his sides hurt.

He had a future. A real future, not the bleak existence he'd imagined at Privet Drive.

He belonged.

And as the train pulled into the station and the platform came into view, Harry Potter felt something he'd never felt before:

Hope.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express screeched to a slow halt, steam hissing around their feet in great billowing clouds as students spilled out onto the platform in a chaotic tide of trunks, owls, and barely contained excitement. Lanterns flickered along the darkening station, their warm glow cutting through the chilly evening air. The sky above had deepened to a rich purple-black, and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The moment Harry stepped down from the carriage, his feet touching solid ground after hours of travel, he heard it—

"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!"

Hagrid.

Harry's chest loosened with relief. There was something grounding about Hagrid's massive presence, his familiar voice cutting through the noise and confusion of the platform.

Hagrid stood at the edge of the crowd, his enormous frame silhouetted against the lantern light. He was holding a brass lamp aloft, its glow catching the silver in his beard. His face broke into a wide, genuine grin when he spotted Harry.

"There yeh are! Knew yeh'd make it! Come on now, firs'-years this way! No more'n four to a boat!"

Jackie waved both arms wildly like she was signaling an emergency aircraft, her black curls bouncing with the motion.

"HAGRID!!"

Hagrid's grin widened. "There's a Cloverleaf! Your father told me to keep an eye on yeh. Come on then!"

Ron hurried after Harry, still wrestling with his hopelessly jammed trunk. The wheels had somehow gotten caught during the journey, and no amount of tugging seemed to help. Jackie marched behind them, cheerfully kicking Ron's trunk wheels until they obeyed her with a series of reluctant squeaks.

"You're welcome," she announced, dusting off her hands.

Behind them, voices cut through the crowd in a symphony of first-year chaos:

"Neville, hold Trevor properly—oh no, not again—TREVOR—!" Hermione called out.

"Frogs escape containment 67% of the time. Your grip strength is insufficient," Caroline explained.

"I'm trying! He's very slippery!" Neville yelled out.

"Can someone do something about Trevor?!" Ron asked loudly.

"I volunteer tribute!" Jackie cheered.

She sprinted, her small frame allowing her to weave through the crowd with surprising speed. She caught the toad mid-hop with a gentle but firm motion, cradling him carefully before presenting him to Neville like a knight kneeling with a fallen treasure.

"There you go. Please keep your amphibians under control. Preferably with both hands."

Hermione blinked, her bushy hair slightly disheveled from the chase. "...How did you catch him?"

Jackie shrugged, handing Trevor over carefully. "I am small and quick and powered by spite."

Harry grinned. He didn't even realize he'd needed that moment—that small, ridiculous moment of normalcy and humor. It grounded him, reminded him that whatever strangeness lay ahead, he had people around him who could make him laugh.

Caroline appeared beside them, having somehow navigated the crowd with her usual precision. She was carrying her own trunk with ease and had somehow managed to keep her robes pristine despite the chaos.

"Neville Longbottom," she said, not unkindly. "You should consider purchasing a secure container for Trevor. A standard terrarium with reinforced latches would reduce escape probability by approximately 94%."

Neville looked both grateful and slightly terrified by this assessment.

"I—yes, that's—thank you?"

They filed down a steep, winding path toward the lake, guided by Hagrid's lamp and the smaller lanterns carried by older students. The path was narrow and treacherous, with ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of student feet. On either side, the darkness pressed in, broken only by the occasional glint of eyes from creatures in the forest.

Harry could hear the lake before he saw it—the gentle lap of water against stone, the creak of wooden boats.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called out, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "Come on now, don't be shy!"

The fleet of small wooden boats rocked gently on the dark surface of the Black Lake, their interiors lit by floating candles that cast dancing shadows. They looked ancient—weathered by centuries of use, their wood darkened with age and water.

Jackie immediately grabbed Harry's sleeve with the confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted.

"Come on! Harry, Ron—you're with me. Hermione! Come here!"

Hermione startled, her brown eyes widening. She'd been standing uncertainly at the edge of the crowd, clearly unsure where she belonged. "W-what? Me?"

"Yes," Jackie said firmly, looping an arm through hers with genuine warmth. "You're smart, you're organized, and you can read. You are absolutely coming in our boat. We need someone who can navigate if we get lost."

Hermione seemed torn between flattered and overwhelmed, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh. Well. Alright then. I suppose that's... logical."

The four of them climbed into a boat carefully, settling in as it rocked beneath their weight. The wooden bench was cold and slightly damp. Harry could feel the water lapping gently against the hull.

Ron looked around nervously. "How do these things work? Are they charmed?"

"Obviously," Jackie said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Everything at Hogwarts is charmed. The castle, the boats, probably the ghosts—though that's more of a curse situation for them, I suppose."

"The boats are self-propelling," Hermione said, reading from a mental list of facts she'd clearly memorized. "Enchanted to follow a specific route across the lake. It's quite ingenious, actually. The charm must be incredibly complex to account for—"

"Hermione," Jackie interrupted gently, "breathe."

Hermione stopped, looking slightly embarrassed. "Sorry. I get carried away."

"It's fine," Harry said, and meant it. "I like hearing about how things work."

The moment they pushed off, the little craft glided smoothly across the lake, carrying them toward the looming silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. It rose from the darkness like something from a dream—its turrets glowing golden against the starry sky, its windows alight with warm, welcoming light. The reflection shimmered across the still black water, doubling the castle's magnificence.

Hermione whispered, awestruck, her earlier nervousness forgotten:

"It's beautiful."

"It is," Harry breathed, unable to look away.

Ron leaned forward, his earlier anxiety giving way to wonder. "Y'think the ceilings inside are really bewitched to look like the sky? Fred says they are, but Fred also says he invented a spell that makes people's hair turn purple, so—"

"Fred says many things," Jackie cut in with affection. "Some of them are even true."

Harry laughed, the sound surprising him with its ease.

Hermione studied Jackie thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly.

"You're very... enthusiastic."

"Thank you!" Jackie said brightly, taking it as a compliment.

"No, I mean—"Hermione hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Most people I've met today seem nervous. Worried about the Sorting, about making friends, about whether they'll be good enough. You don't seem nervous at all."

Jackie looked out over the water, her smile warm but calmer now. The playfulness didn't disappear, but something more thoughtful emerged beneath it.

"Oh, I'm nervous," she admitted quietly. "Absolutely terrified, if I'm being honest. Thaine and Caroline set a very high bar. My father was brilliant. My mother is brilliant. What if I'm not? What if I get sorted into a house where I don't belong? What if—"

She stopped herself, took a breath.

"But I decided last year that if I'm scared of something, I'll go at it twice as loudly. Make it my choice instead of letting fear make it for me. Does that make sense?"

Harry understood completely. He'd been doing something similar—facing his fear by moving forward, by accepting the Cloverleafs' friendship, by allowing himself to hope.

"Yeah," he said softly. "It does."

Hermione nodded slowly, processing this philosophy. "That's... actually quite wise."

"Don't sound so surprised," Jackie said, grinning. "I have my moments."

They rounded a bend in the lake, and suddenly—

The castle.

Massive. Glorious. Impossible.

Lit from within, its countless windows glowing like stars. Its reflection shimmered across the still black lake, creating the illusion that they were sailing through the sky itself. Turrets and towers rose impossibly high, their silhouettes sharp against the starlit sky. Flags fluttered from the highest points, though Harry couldn't feel any wind.

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Ron swore, his eyes wide.

Harry's stomach lifted as though something inside him recognized this place. As though some part of him had always known it was waiting.

Jackie pressed her hands to her chest, her expression transforming into something almost reverent.

"There it is," she said softly. "Oh, Harry—you have no idea. You're gonna love it here. Hogwarts is... magic. Not just the spells and charms, but the place itself. It's alive, somehow. It knows you."

Harry stared at the castle, feeling something shift in his chest. A sense of coming home. Of finally arriving somewhere he belonged.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I think I will."

Jackie leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"And Ron will get lost seventeen times. Minimum. The castle has a sense of humor about it."

"I'm not going to get lost!" Ron protested, with a slight smile despite himself.

Hermione nodded with absolute certainty. "I can draw you a map. I've memorized the layout from Hogwarts: A History. I can create a detailed schematic with—"

Jackie clasped Hermione's shoulders dramatically, her eyes wide with mock awe.

"YES. Our group has a strategist. We are officially unstoppable."

Harry smiled, warmth pooling in his chest like something precious. A makeshift group. His group. People who had chosen him, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

"We're going to be outstanding," Jackie announced to the lake, to the castle, to the stars themselves. "I can feel it."

Hagrid guided the boats through a concealed entrance—a dark cavern mouth that opened in the cliff face beneath the castle. Cold air rushed around them, carrying the scent of ancient stone and deep water. The boats glided smoothly into the darkness, their passage guided by some invisible charm.

"Mind yer step now," Hagrid called from the lead boat. "Through this way—yep—mind the drop—there yeh go."

The cavern opened into a vast underground harbor, its ceiling lost in shadow. The boats came to a gentle stop at a rocky shore, their magical propulsion ceasing as though they'd been released from an invisible leash.

Jackie grabbed Harry's elbow whenever the path narrowed, her grip steady and reassuring. She tossed Ron cheerful but slightly condescending reassurances whenever he stumbled over the uneven stone.

"Watch your step, Weasley. You're all elbows and feet."

"I'm doing fine!"

"You just walked into a wall."

"It was dark!"

Hermione muttered illumination spells under her breath, her wand casting a soft glow that helped light their way. Her lips moved silently as she practiced the incantations, clearly determined to get everything right.

They followed Hagrid up a set of ancient stone steps, their footsteps echoing off the walls. The stairs seemed to go on forever, climbing higher and higher into the castle. The air grew warmer as they ascended, and Harry could hear the distant sound of voices—older students, perhaps, or the castle itself.

Finally, they reached a vast oak door. It was enormous—at least twenty feet tall—and carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the lamplight.

Hagrid raised a massive fist and knocked—

BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.

The sound echoed through the corridor like thunder.

The door swung open immediately, as though it had been waiting.

Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway, tall and stern, her pointed hat perfectly positioned on her head. Her expression was severe, her lips pressed into a thin line. She wore emerald robes that matched her eyes, and there was an air of absolute authority about her that made even the most confident first-year straighten up.

Her expression softened just a fraction when her eyes landed on Jackie.

"Miss Cloverleaf," she said, her Scottish accent precise and clipped. "Please tell me you have not already caused trouble."

Jackie gasped like she'd been accused of treason, her hand flying to her chest.

"I would never, Professor. Did my siblings warn you of me or something?"

McGonagall's eyebrow rose—a single, eloquent gesture that suggested she knew exactly what Jackie was capable of.

"You could say that," she said, which somehow conveyed both skepticism and affection.

Harry tried very hard not to laugh. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral.

McGonagall's gaze swept across the rest of them, assessing, cataloging, understanding in a single glance.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said formally. "In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates. But first, you will be sorted into your houses. The four houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Your house will be like your family while you are here. Your triumphs will earn you points. Any rule-breaking will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins the House Cup."

She paused, letting the weight of this information settle.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few moments. I suggest you make yourselves presentable."

With a sweep of her robes, McGonagall stepped aside, revealing the entrance to the Great Hall beyond. Warm light spilled out, along with the sound of hundreds of voices.

Jackie squeezed Harry's hand—quick, bright, and steady.

"This is it," she whispered. "Oh, Harry—this is really it. Ready?"

Harry looked at his friends—Ron, nervous but determined; Hermione, practically vibrating with anticipation; Jackie, bright and confident and somehow making him feel brave just by standing beside him.

He nodded.

"Yeah," he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being. "I think I am."

As Professor McGonagall ushered the first-years into the antechamber just outside the Great Hall, the low hum of whispering filled the space like an electric current. Students craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of the hall beyond the great double doors. Harry could hear the distant roar of hundreds of voices—the older students, already seated, waiting for the Sorting to begin.

Harry shifted nervously beside Jackie, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Ron was fidgeting with the hem of his robe, pulling at a loose thread that had come undone during their journey. Hermione stood perfectly still, her lips moving silently as she rehearsed spells under her breath, her bushy hair slightly disheveled from the excitement.

The air was thick with anticipation and anxiety. First-years whispered to each other, asking questions they'd already asked a dozen times. What if the Hat couldn't decide? What if you didn't fit into any house? What if—

Then—

A familiar, elegant drawl sliced through the buzzing crowd like a knife through silk.

"Potter."

Draco Malfoy slid through the cluster of first-years like he owned the place, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had never questioned his right to occupy space. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered after him with all the grace of large furniture being pushed across gravel, their heavy footsteps causing other students to step aside.

His blond hair gleamed almost unnaturally in the torchlight, perfectly styled despite the boat ride across the lake. His grey eyes found Harry with the precision of a predator locating prey.

He took one look at Jackie—

—and visibly tensed, his jaw tightening as if he'd bitten into something sour.

Jackie's face lit up as if someone had turned on an entire chandelier behind her eyes. Her expression transformed into one of absolute delight.

"Oh good," she sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "More entertainment. I was worried this would be boring."

Draco's jaw flexed, a muscle working beneath his pale skin.

"Cloverleaf."

He said her name like it was an accusation.

Jackie clasped her hands over her heart in exaggerated reverence.

"Oh Draco, you survived the boat. Shocking, really. I assumed you'd melt in the water. You know, given your delicate constitution and all."

She squinted at him, tilting her head as if examining a particularly interesting specimen.

"Your hair looks like vanilla frosting."

Several students burst into quiet laughter, their hands flying to their mouths to stifle the sound. Even some of the older students who had wandered into the antechamber seemed to be struggling to maintain composure.

Draco stared at Jackie as if she'd personally delivered him a Howler from his mother.

"I don't understand why you insist on—"

Jackie cut him off with a gasp of theatrical revelation, her eyes widening as if struck by sudden inspiration.

"You're right! It's not frosting. It's... meringue."

She tilted her head critically, studying him with the intensity of an art critic examining a painting.

"Very stiff. Very delicate. Collapses under pressure. One strong wind and you'd just... crumble."

Harry choked, trying to turn it into a cough. Ron wheezed, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. Hermione pressed her knuckles to her lips, her eyes dancing with amusement despite her earlier nervousness.

Even a couple of older Ravenclaw boys snorted before pretending they hadn't heard anything at all.

Draco's ears went slightly pink—a faint flush that crept up his neck and spread across his pale cheeks.

"Some of us don't need to pretend we belong here," he said, lifting his chin with an air of wounded dignity. "We already know our House. We already know where we fit."

Jackie clapped, genuinely impressed by his confidence.

"Oh yes, absolutely. Straight into Slytherin. Congratulations on fulfilling your family legacy so thoroughly. I'm sure your father will be thrilled. Another Malfoy in Slytherin. How original."

She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, though she was still loud enough for half the antechamber to hear:

"Try not to faint when the Hat touches your hair gel. I hear it's quite the shock to the system."

Draco made a sound like a teakettle about to blow—a sharp, indignant hiss that suggested he was barely containing his rage. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He spun sharply, his robes swirling around him in an attempt at dramatic exit, and marched away down the corridor. Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind him like confused stone statues, occasionally glancing back at Jackie as if unsure whether they should be offended on their master's behalf.

Jackie watched him go with an expression of serene satisfaction, then turned to Harry with a smile that suggested she'd just completed a particularly enjoyable task.

"As I was saying—before we were interrupted by a walking shampoo commercial—Hogwarts is incredible. And the Sorting is about to be even more incredible."

Ron grinned. "That was magnificent."

"I know," Jackie said, without a trace of false modesty.

The Great Hall doors swung open.

Professor McGonagall led the first-years into the vast chamber, and the effect was immediate and overwhelming.

The ceiling—

"It's real," Jackie whispered, her voice filled with wonder. "Oh my gosh—Father always said the ceiling matches the sky outside—Harry, look!"

Harry barely heard her. He was too busy staring upwards in awe himself.

The ceiling stretched impossibly high above them, a perfect replica of the night sky. Stars glittered like diamonds scattered across black velvet. Clouds drifted slowly across the expanse, and the moon hung low and luminous. It was so realistic that Harry had to remind himself they were indoors, that there was actually stone and magic above them, not open air.

"It's bewitched," Hermione whispered, her voice filled with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. The ceiling is charmed to reflect the actual sky outside. It's one of the most complex spells ever created."

"It's beautiful," Harry said simply.

The Great Hall itself was enormous—far larger than seemed physically possible. Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, filled with students wearing robes in the colors of their houses: scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, yellow and black for Hufflepuff, blue and bronze for Ravenclaw, and green and silver for Slytherin. At the far end of the hall, the staff table sat on an elevated platform, with Professor Dumbledore at its center.

The walls were lined with torches that cast a warm, golden glow over everything. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air above the tables, creating the illusion of dining beneath the stars.

Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool in front of the first-years and set a worn, patched wizard's hat upon it. The hat was ancient, its fabric frayed and faded, and it looked like it had been through centuries of use.

Then the hat opened a long rip near the brim—and sang.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm a Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell
Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;

Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Hufflepuff
You'll find your real home,
Where loyalty and patience
Are never left alone;

So put me on! Don't be afraid!
Don't get into a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

Jackie swayed along to the rhythm like it was an absolute banger, her shoulders moving in time with the Hat's song. Her face was alight with joy and amusement. Ron grinned beside her. Even Hermione seemed to relax slightly, her earlier anxiety easing as the Hat's song continued.

Up at the Ravenclaw table, Caroline sat perfectly still, watching the performance with analytical interest. But when the song ended, she blinked slowly—her version of applause, Harry realized. A small gesture that somehow conveyed both appreciation and approval.

When the singing ended, the Great Hall fell silent. Professor McGonagall unrolled a long scroll—the list of first-year names.

"When I call your name," she said, her voice carrying easily through the vast space, "you will put on the hat and sit on the stool. The hat will announce which house you belong to."

She cleared her throat and began to read.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A nervous girl with blonde pigtails hurried forward. The hat barely touched her head before shouting:

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The Hufflepuff table erupted in cheers. Hannah practically floated to her new house, relief washing over her face.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

More cheers.

The Sorting continued. Students were called one by one, the Hat making its decisions with varying degrees of speed. Some students were sorted almost immediately—the Hat seemed to know exactly where they belonged. Others sat for several minutes, the Hat apparently deliberating, before finally making its choice. Then suddenly—

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione practically ran to the stool, her bushy hair bouncing with each step. She sat down, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on her head.

The hat seemed to deliberate for a long moment. The Great Hall held its breath.

Finally, it shouted:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Jackie punched the air with genuine delight.

"YES! Hermione, you're brave! Also organized! PERFECT!"

Hermione glowed, her face flushing with pleasure and pride. She hurried to the Gryffindor table, waving shyly at Jackie as she sat down beside Ron's older brother, Percy.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

A round-faced boy with a nervous expression made his way to the stool. He tripped slightly on the way, catching himself with an embarrassed flush. The hat was placed on his head.

It took several minutes. The Great Hall was silent except for the occasional whisper. Finally:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Jackie tutted fondly, though her expression was warm.

"Ron, you better help him if Trevor escapes again. He seems like he needs a friend."

Ron nodded solemnly. "Always. He seems nice."

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Draco strode to the stool with the confidence of someone who had never questioned his place in the world. He sat down, and the hat was placed on his head.

It barely touched his scalp before shouting:

"SLYTHERIN!"

Jackie delivered a slow, deliberate clap—the kind of applause usually reserved for particularly impressive performances.

"Shocking," she said loudly enough for several tables to hear. "Truly. No one could have predicted this. Another Malfoy in Slytherin. How original. I'm sure the Hat was absolutely torn."

Up at the Slytherin table, Draco stiffened like someone had frozen his spine. He didn't look back at Jackie, but his ears flushed red again.

"Weasley, Ronald!"

Ron's face went pale. He stood up slowly, as if moving through water, and made his way to the stool. His hands were shaking slightly as he sat down.

The hat was placed on his head.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. Ron's older brothers—Percy, Fred, and George—all stood up, clapping loudly. Percy looked particularly pleased, as if Ron's sorting into Gryffindor validated something important.

Jackie whooped loudly, her voice carrying across the Great Hall.

"YES RON! Go be lion-y! Be brave! Be noble! Be everything!"

Ron flushed red but looked delighted as he hurried to the Gryffindor table, taking a seat near his brothers.

Jackie leaned toward Harry, whispering, though her voice was still audible to anyone nearby:

"You're next or close. Don't worry—I'll cheer obnoxiously. It's my specialty."

Harry's stomach twisted. He was next. Or close to it. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

More names were called. More students were sorted. The list seemed endless.

Then—

"Cloverleaf, Jacqueline!"

Jackie stood up, bouncing just once on her toes before McGonagall gave her a look that stopped further bouncing immediately. She practically skipped to the stool, her black curls bouncing with each step.

The hat was placed on her head.

The Great Hall fell silent, waiting.

Seconds passed. Then more seconds.

Jackie sat very still, the hat covering her entire head. The silence stretched on.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, the hat shouted:

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Gasps rippled through the Great Hall. Then applause—loud, enthusiastic applause from the Hufflepuff table.

A girl with dark skin and braids shouted, "Come sit with us!"

Another called, "We LOVE chaos energy!"

A third simply yelled, "YES!"

Jackie froze for just a moment, her expression shifting from confident to shocked to absolutely delighted. Then she beamed—so brightly the entire Hufflepuff table seemed to glow with reflected joy.

"Oh my GOODNESS. I love honey and plants and friendship—YES! This is perfect! This is amazing! I'm so happy!"

She practically danced to her new table, high-fiving students as she passed them. The Hufflepuff students welcomed her like she was a long-lost friend, making space for her at their table.

Thaine, sitting at the Ravenclaw table in his prefect robes, applauded politely, pride glimmering in his expression. He nodded at Jackie in acknowledgment.

Caroline, also at the Ravenclaw table, nodded once—a small, precise gesture that was her version of a victory dance. Her lips curved slightly upward in what might have been a smile.

The list continued. More names. More students. The Great Hall was filling with the sorted, and the number of first-years waiting grew smaller.

Finally—

"Potter, Harry!"

The entire Great Hall went silent.

Harry felt his stomach twist violently. Every eye in the room turned toward him. He could feel the weight of their attention like a physical force. Whispers rippled through the tables—excited, curious, awed.

Jackie made a heart shape with her hands from the Hufflepuff table, her expression fierce and supportive.

"You've got this!" she mouthed, nodding emphatically.

Harry took a deep breath and made his way to the stool. His legs felt unsteady, as though they might give out at any moment. He sat down slowly, aware of every eye still fixed on him.

Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

Darkness.

Then—a voice, ancient and wise, spoke directly into his mind.

"Hmm," it murmured thoughtfully. "Difficult. Very difficult indeed. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. Talent—oh my goodness, yes, very much so. And a thirst to prove yourself, to show the world that you're worthy of the name you carry."

Harry tensed. What house would it choose?

"Slytherin would help you on your way to greatness, no doubt about that. You have ambition. You have cunning. You could be great in Slytherin. Your parents would have—"

"Not Slytherin," Harry thought desperately, his mind screaming the words. "Please, not Slytherin. Not with Malfoy. Not with—"

"Are you sure?" the Hat asked, sounding almost amused. "You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, there's no doubt about that."

"Not Slytherin," Harry thought again, more firmly this time. "Anything but Slytherin. ANYTHING."

The Hat seemed to consider this for a long moment.

"Well... if you're sure. Better be..."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Great Hall exploded in applause and cheers.

The Gryffindor table stood up as one, clapping and cheering. Ron whooped loudly, jumping to his feet. Hermione beamed, clapping enthusiastically. The twins—Fred and George—stood and applauded with exaggerated ceremony, as if welcoming royalty.

And Jackie—

Jackie stood on the Hufflepuff bench, her small frame somehow commanding attention despite the chaos around her. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across the Great Hall:

"YEEEES HARRY!! GET OVER THERE AND BE A LION KING!!"

Professor McGonagall snapped sharply, "Miss Cloverleaf, sit at once!"

Jackie sat immediately, her expression unrepentant, still beaming.

Harry blushed deeply, his face burning as he hurried down from the stool. But he was grinning—genuinely, uncontrollably grinning. He made his way to the Gryffindor table, where Ron immediately scooted over to make room for him.

"That was incredible," Ron said, clapping him on the back. "Did you hear the whole hall? Everyone knows your name now. Well, they already knew it, but now they know you're here."

Hermione smiled warmly. "Welcome to Gryffindor, Harry."

Harry sat down, still feeling the weight of attention from the rest of the hall. But it didn't feel threatening anymore. It felt like acceptance. Like belonging.

He looked over at the Hufflepuff table, where Jackie was already deep in conversation with her new housemates, gesturing animatedly about something. She caught his eye and winked, giving him a thumbs up.

Harry smiled back.

Chapter Text

As the last of the first-years were sorted and took their places at their respective tables, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat at the staff table. The Great Hall fell silent immediately—a respectful hush that suggested the students knew better than to speak when the Headmaster was about to address them.

Dumbledore was tall and thin, with a long silver beard that reached nearly to his waist. He wore deep purple robes embroidered with silver stars, and his half-moon spectacles caught the candlelight as he surveyed the hall with eyes that seemed to see everything.

"Welcome," he said simply, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vast space. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts."

Harry watched him, fascinated. This was the man Ollivander had mentioned—the man whose phoenix had given feathers to both his wand and Voldemort's.

"Before we begin our feast," Dumbledore continued, "I have a few start-of-term notices. First-years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students. Similarly, the third-floor corridor is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the hall.

"Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house team should contact Madam Hooch."

He paused, his expression becoming more serious.

"Finally, I must tell you that this year, the Philosopher's Stone has been moved to Hogwarts for safekeeping. It is hidden in a secure location, and I would advise all students to stay away from it. Attempting to find it would be both dangerous and foolish."

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron. The Philosopher's Stone? Here? At Hogwarts?

"Now then," Dumbledore said, his tone brightening, "let us begin our feast."

He sat down, and immediately, the tables before them filled with food.

It was the most magnificent meal Harry had ever seen.

Roasted chickens, glazed ham, platters of vegetables, baskets of bread, bowls of soup, and dishes of every kind imaginable appeared on the tables as if by magic—which, Harry supposed, they had been. The food was still steaming, fresh and aromatic, and it smelled absolutely incredible.

Ron stared at the spread with wide eyes.

"Blimey," he breathed. "Have you ever seen so much food?"

Harry shook his head. At Privet Drive, meals had been sparse and carefully rationed. The Dursleys had made sure he never had quite enough. This—this abundance—was almost overwhelming.

"Come on then," Ron said, already reaching for a chicken leg. "Eat up. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks."

Harry didn't argue. He filled his plate with chicken, potatoes, vegetables, and bread, eating with a hunger he hadn't realized he possessed. Around him, other first-years did the same, their earlier nervousness giving way to appetite and the simple pleasure of good food.

Hermione ate more delicately, but with obvious enjoyment. She kept glancing around the Great Hall, taking in every detail—the floating candles, the enchanted ceiling (which now showed a clear night sky full of stars), the older students, the teachers at the staff table.

"This is incredible," she said between bites. "I read about the Hogwarts feasts in Hogwarts: A History, but reading about it and experiencing it are completely different things."

"It's brilliant," Ron agreed, his mouth half-full of food. "My brothers told me about it, but I didn't believe them. I thought they were exaggerating."

Harry looked over at the Hufflepuff table, where Jackie was in the middle of what appeared to be an animated conversation with her new housemates. She was gesturing enthusiastically about something, making the other students laugh. She caught his eye and grinned, raising her goblet in a silent toast before turning back to her companions.

"Your friend's settling in well," Hermione observed, following his gaze.

"She's brilliant," Ron said. "Absolutely mental, but brilliant. She's been friends with my family for years. Her whole family is."

"How does that work?" Hermione asked. "I thought wizarding families were usually isolated from each other."

"Some are," Ron said. "But the Cloverleafs and the Weasleys have been close for ages. My dad and Jackie's dad went to school together—though her dad was a bit younger. Her dad, Uncle Phil, defended my dad when he was getting teased about his obsession with Muggle artifacts. You know how some pure-bloods can be about that sort of thing."

Harry listened, learning more about the intricate web of wizarding society. It was complex in ways he was only beginning to understand.

"So they've been friends since school?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah," Ron said. "And then when my dad was married to my mum,  Uncle Phil wanted to introduce his girlfriend to my dad. They decided to have dinner at the Burrow—that's our house. It was absolutely mental, though. Bill and Charlie were just toddlers at the time, so it was chaos. Mum answered the door in an apron with Charlie on her hip, and the kitchen was a complete disaster."

He laughed at the story. "But Aunt Addie didn't seem to mind at all. She just jumped right in, helped Mum with dinner, played with the boys. By the end of the night, you'd have thought she'd known the family forever. That's when Uncle Phil knew he was going to marry her, or so my dad says."

"That's lovely," Hermione said softly.

"It is," Ron agreed. "And now Jackie's basically like a cousin. Which is why she's brilliant—she's got that Weasley chaos energy mixed with Cloverleaf brains. Dangerous combination."

As the main course was finishing, the plates cleared themselves and were replaced with desserts. Chocolate eclairs, strawberry tarts, ice cream in every flavor imaginable, treacle tart, and dozens of other sweets appeared.

Ron immediately reached for the treacle tart.

"My favorite," he said contentedly, loading his plate.

Harry tried a bit of everything, enjoying the sweetness after the savory main course. The ice cream was particularly good—better than anything he'd ever tasted at Privet Drive.

As the desserts were finishing and students began to slow their eating, Professor McGonagall stood and began collecting the Sorting Hat and stool. The enchanted hat was placed back in its box, and the stool was carried away.

Dumbledore stood once more, and the Great Hall quieted.

"Now that we are all fed and sorted," he said, "I have a few more announcements. The caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that magic is not to be used between classes. Additionally, students are reminded that Hogsmeade visits are a privilege reserved for third-year students and above."

He paused, his expression becoming grave.

"I must also inform you that there will be increased security measures in place this year. The Philosopher's Stone, as I mentioned, is now housed within Hogwarts. While it is well-protected, I would urge all students to exercise caution and good judgment. Wandering into restricted areas could result in serious consequences."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. There was something in Dumbledore's tone that suggested this was more than a casual warning.

"Finally," Dumbledore continued, "I would like to welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrell."

A thin, nervous-looking man with a large turban stood and gave a small wave. He seemed uncomfortable with the attention, and he sat back down quickly.

"Now then," Dumbledore said, "off to bed. Prefects, please lead your houses to their dormitories."

Percy Weasley, resplendent in his prefect badge, stood and called out, "First-years! Gryffindors! This way, please!"

The first-year Gryffindors gathered around Percy, who began leading them out of the Great Hall. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed, along with the other new students—Neville, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and several others.

The castle was vast and confusing. They climbed staircases that moved, walked through corridors lined with portraits (which Harry found deeply unsettling—the paintings seemed to watch them pass), and navigated passages that seemed to shift and change.

"Stay close," Percy called back. "The castle can be confusing if you're not familiar with it. And watch out for Peeves."

"Who's Peeves?" Hermione asked.

"A poltergeist," Percy said importantly. "He's been here for centuries. He likes to play pranks on students, particularly first-years. If you see him, the best thing to do is run."

They climbed higher and higher, the corridors becoming narrower and more winding. Harry's legs were beginning to ache from the long day—the journey from King's Cross, the boats across the lake, the Sorting—it all seemed to be catching up with him.

Finally, they reached a portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she asked, her voice surprisingly sharp.

"Caput Draconis," Percy said.

The portrait swung inward, revealing the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.

The common room was warm and welcoming, with a roaring fire in the fireplace and comfortable-looking armchairs scattered around. The walls were hung with scarlet and gold tapestries, and the windows looked out over the grounds toward the Forbidden Forest.

Several older students were scattered about, reading or playing chess. They looked up as the first-years entered, their expressions ranging from curious to amused.

"Right then," Percy said, standing in front of the fireplace. "Welcome to Gryffindor Tower. This is your common room. You'll spend a lot of time here during your years at Hogwarts. The dormitories are upstairs—boys to the left, girls to the right. Your trunks have already been brought up."

He gestured to the staircases on either side of the room.

"Curfew is nine o'clock on school nights for first through third year. You're expected to be in your dormitories by then. Breaking curfew will result in house points being deducted. Any questions?"

Neville raised his hand nervously. "What if we can't find our dormitory?"

"The staircases are charmed," Percy said with the air of someone explaining something obvious. "They'll take you to the right place. Just think about where you want to go, and they'll get you there. Eventually."

"Eventually?" Hermione asked.

"The castle has a sense of humor," Percy said. "Sometimes it takes longer than others. Now, off to bed, all of you. We have a full day tomorrow."

The first-year girls headed up the right staircase, while the boys headed up the left. Harry found himself in a circular dormitory with five four-poster beds, each with scarlet hangings. His trunk was already there, waiting at the foot of one of the beds.

Ron claimed the bed next to his, and Neville took another. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan took the remaining two.

"Blimey," Ron said, flopping onto his bed. "What a day."

"Indeed," Seamus agreed, his Irish accent thick with exhaustion. "I thought I was going to be sick in that boat."

"I nearly was," Neville admitted. "Trevor was so slippery, and I kept thinking he was going to fall in the lake."

Harry unpacked his trunk quickly, finding his pajamas and changing into them. The bed was incredibly comfortable—far more comfortable than anything he'd ever slept on at Privet Drive. The sheets were soft, the pillows were plump, and the mattress seemed to adjust itself to his body.

"Goodnight," Ron called from his bed, already sounding half-asleep.

"Goodnight," Harry replied, settling into the warmth of the blankets.

As he lay in the darkness, listening to the soft breathing of the other boys, Harry found himself thinking about the day. About the Sorting Hat's temptation. About Jackie's cheerful support from the Hufflepuff table. About Ron and Hermione and the new friends he'd made.

He thought about Ron's story—about how Jackie's father had defended Ron's father at school, and how that friendship had led to Phillip meeting Molly at the Burrow, with Charlie on her hip and the kitchen in chaos. It was a reminder that friendships could last, that they could grow and deepen over time, that they could become family.

For the first time in his life, he felt safe. Truly safe. Not just physically, but emotionally. He had a place where he belonged. A house. Friends. A future.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Harry woke early on his very first morning at Hogwarts, long before Ron stirred. The dormitory was still quiet, the other boys sleeping soundly in their four-poster beds. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like tiny stars.

He lay in bed for a moment, simply listening. The castle was alive with sound—distant footsteps, the creak of ancient wood, the flutter of wings from the owlery somewhere above. It was nothing like Privet Drive, where silence was enforced and any noise was considered disruptive.

This silence was different. It was peaceful.

Harry got up and dressed quickly, making his way down to the Great Hall. The castle corridors were less crowded at this early hour, and he found himself wandering slightly, taking in details he'd missed the night before. Portraits watched him pass, some nodding in greeting. Suits of armor stood silent sentinel along the walls.

The Great Hall was filling slowly for breakfast, students trickling in as the morning progressed. Harry, Ron (who'd finally woken up), and Hermione found seats together at the Gryffindor table, the sunlight pouring in from the enchanted ceiling, which now showed a clear, bright blue sky.

Harry was loading his plate with eggs and bacon when he spotted Jackie making her way through the hall toward the Hufflepuff table. She was still in her pajamas—clearly having rushed down—and her hair was only partially braided. The moment she caught sight of Harry, her entire face lit up.

She gave him a bright wave and an encouraging double thumbs-up, as if telling him silently that he would survive his first real day of classes. Her Hufflepuff tie was slightly crooked—likely from having been rushed by the prefect—but she carried herself with the confidence of someone who'd been at Hogwarts for years, not hours.

"Morning!" she chirped as she swept by their table, nearly tripping over a first-year from another house.

"Morning," Harry called back, feeling oddly steadier after seeing her.

Ron yawned beside him. "How is she so awake? It's too early for optimism."

Hermione huffed. "Some people simply like mornings. And some people are naturally energetic. It's not a character flaw."

Ron didn't look convinced.

——

Professor McGonagall's classroom was on the first floor, a spacious room with high ceilings and tall windows that looked out over the grounds. The desks were arranged in neat rows, and on each one sat a small, ordinary matchstick.

Harry and Ron sat side by side, staring at their matchsticks with a mixture of determination and anxiety. Around them, other first-years were doing the same—some looking confident, others looking terrified.

"Now then," Professor McGonagall said, standing before them in her emerald robes. "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Therefore, I must insist that you pay close attention."

She gestured to her desk, which was a perfectly ordinary wooden desk. Then, with a wave of her wand and a sharp word, the desk transformed into a living, breathing pig. The class gasped. The pig squealed indignantly.

Then, just as quickly, McGonagall transformed it back into a desk.

"That," she said calmly, "is what we are aiming for. Now, your task is far simpler. You are to transform your matchstick into a needle. It is a small change, but it requires precision, concentration, and a clear understanding of the object's essential nature."

She returned to her desk and began circulating around the room, observing students' attempts.

Harry was determined to make something happen—anything—but his matchstick remained stubbornly matchstick-shaped. He concentrated hard, visualizing a needle, feeling the magic in his fingertips, but nothing happened.

Ron's matchstick turned slightly silver at one end, which was something, but it remained fundamentally a matchstick.

Hermione, of course, managed a near-perfect needle on her first try. It wasn't quite complete—there was still a slight wooden grain visible—but it was unmistakably a needle.

"Excellent, Miss Granger," McGonagall said approvingly. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

Hermione flushed with pleasure.

By the end of the class, Harry's matchstick had made no progress whatsoever. He felt the familiar sting of failure, but he comforted in the fact that most of her peers were just as confused as he was.

As they filed out of the classroom, Hermione was already discussing the theory behind the spell with Ron, who looked thoroughly confused.

"The key is understanding that the matchstick isn't just changing shape," Hermione explained. "It's changing its fundamental nature. You have to really visualize what a needle is, not just what it looks like, but what it means to be a needle—"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted gently, "you're making my head hurt."

Harry barely heard them. He was lost in his own thoughts, wondering if he'd ever be able to do real magic, or if he'd somehow fooled everyone into thinking he belonged at Hogwarts.

——

Between Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry nearly collided with Jackie as she barreled through a corridor with another Hufflepuff first-year at her side. They crashed together with enough force that both of them stumbled backward.

"Oof!" Jackie exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders so neither of them toppled over completely. "Harry! The castle tried to eat me."

"Pardon?" Ron asked, appearing behind Harry with Hermione in tow.

"The staircase moved while I was walking up," Jackie explained, gesturing wildly. "I almost fell straight down. Ernie saved me."

Ernest Macmillan, a round-faced boy with an air of self-importance, lifted a polite hand in acknowledgment.

Hermione jumped in immediately, her tone matter-of-fact. "Staircases move here. It's normal. They're charmed to change position throughout the day. It's part of the castle's security system."

"Normal," Jackie repeated flatly, looking at Hermione as if she'd just suggested jumping off the Astronomy Tower was a reasonable form of exercise. "You mean daily unnecessary cardio? Without warning? That seems like a design flaw."

She squinted at a nearby moving staircase as if preparing to file a formal complaint with the castle itself.

"You get used to it," Ron said, grinning. "Eventually."

"I'm not sure I want to," Jackie muttered, but she was smiling. "Anyway, I'm supposed to be heading to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Have you lot had Quirrell yet?"

"Not yet," Hermione said. "He's our next class, actually."

"Well, prepare yourselves," Jackie said ominously. "I heard from a seventh-year that he's absolutely terrified of everything. Apparently, he spent the summer in Romania warding off vampires, and it's made him incredibly jumpy."

"Vampires?" Ron's eyes widened. "Actual vampires?"

"That's what I heard," Jackie said. "Though knowing Quirrell, he probably ran away screaming and called it 'warding off.' Either way, it sounds like he had a rough summer."

A Ravenclaw prefect appeared at the end of the corridor and gave Jackie a pointed look.

"I'm going, I'm going," Jackie said, waving her hand dismissively. She gave Harry a quick pat on the shoulder. "Good luck with Quirrell. Try not to let him faint on you."

She jogged off down the corridor, her tie flapping behind her and her hair escaping her braids in wild tendrils.

Harry watched her go, feeling oddly reassured by her presence, even in its brevity.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was on the third floor, a circular room with high windows and shelves lined with curious objects—bottles of strange liquids, jars containing what looked like preserved creatures, and books that seemed to shift and move on their own.

Professor Quirrell was already there when they arrived, standing nervously at the front of the room. He was a thin man with a turban wrapped around his head, and he kept glancing around as if expecting something to jump out at him at any moment.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Come in, come in. Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts."

He gestured for them to sit, and they did, taking their usual seats—Harry and Ron together, Hermione nearby.

"Now then," Quirrell continued, wringing his hands. "This year, we will be studying the various dark creatures and forces that exist in our world. We will learn how to identify them, how to protect ourselves against them, and how to—how to—"

He paused, seeming to lose his train of thought.

"How to what, sir?" Hermione asked helpfully.

"How to survive encounters with them," Quirrell finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

He moved to the front of the classroom and began writing on the blackboard in shaky handwriting: *Vampires. Werewolves. Boggarts. Dementors.*

"I spent the summer in Romania," he said, turning back to face the class. His expression grew distant, haunted. "Researching dark creatures. Specifically, I was studying the vampire populations in the Carpathian Mountains."

He paused, as if gathering his courage.

"Vampires are extraordinarily dangerous creatures," he continued, his voice gaining slightly more confidence as he fell into lecture mode. "They are nocturnal, they feed on blood, and they possess strength far beyond that of ordinary humans. They are also highly intelligent, capable of complex thought and strategy."

He began pacing back and forth, his turban slightly askew.

"During my time in Romania, I encountered several vampire nests," he said. "I was conducting research on their behavioral patterns, attempting to understand how they organized themselves, how they hunted. It was... enlightening. And terrifying."

He paused, seeming to relive the experience.

"One night, I was observing a nest when I was nearly discovered," he said quietly. "I had to use every protective charm I knew—every ward, every barrier—to keep them at bay. It was only through quick thinking and a fortunate escape route that I managed to flee."

He touched his turban self-consciously, as if it held some significance.

"The point is," he said, "that dark creatures are not to be underestimated. They are not creatures to be played with or investigated carelessly. They are deadly, and they must be treated with the utmost respect and caution."

He spent the rest of the class discussing various protective charms and wards, though his delivery was somewhat disorganized and he kept losing his train of thought. Several times, he seemed to be listening to something no one else could hear, his eyes going distant and unfocused.

By the end of the class, Harry had learned very little about actual defense, but he had learned that Professor Quirrell was deeply unsettled by something—whether it was simply his experiences in Romania or something else, Harry couldn't say.

At lunch, Harry caught sight of Jackie laughing with Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, and Susan Bones at the Hufflepuff table. She was gesturing wildly as she recounted something—probably the staircase incident—and her new housemates were in stitches.

Every so often, she leaned back to catch Harry's eye and gave him a goofy little salute, as if silently cheering him through the school day. Once, when Hermione was in the middle of a particularly intense explanation about the history of Transfiguration, Jackie mimed falling asleep face-first onto the Hufflepuff table, her tongue lolling out.

Harry nearly snorted pumpkin juice through his nose.

Ron grinned. "She's mental."

"She's brilliant," Hermione corrected, though there was affection in her tone.

——

Harry's nerves roared back to life when they descended into the dungeons after lunch.

The stone corridors grew colder and damper as they went deeper into the castle. Torches flickered lower, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air smelled of damp stone and something else—something chemical and vaguely unpleasant.

Ron muttered how wrong it felt to start the year underground, especially so close to Slytherins. "It's like they want us to be miserable," he said darkly.

Harry wished—not for the first time—that at least Jackie was with them. She'd make the gloom seem less oppressive, would probably make some joke about the dungeons being "very dramatic" and "exactly what you'd expect from Slytherins." But Hufflepuffs had Potions with Ravenclaw that afternoon, so she was somewhere in a brighter corridor, definitely not about to suffer under Snape's stare.

The Potions classroom was a large, dungeon chamber with a low ceiling and walls lined with shelves containing hundreds of glass bottles filled with strange, glowing liquids. The air was thick with the smell of various potions—some pleasant, some decidedly not.

Professor Snape was already there when they entered, standing behind his desk like a dark, predatory bird. He was a tall man with black hair and a sallow complexion, and his black robes seemed to absorb the light around him.

The moment they entered, Snape's black eyes swept across the room, cataloging each student. When his gaze landed on Harry, it lingered—cold, calculating, hostile.

Harry felt his stomach clench.

Draco Malfoy was lounging with Crabbe and Goyle behind him like a smug little prince in his throne room. When Draco caught sight of Harry, his eyebrows shot up in satisfaction.

"Oh look," Draco drawled, loud enough for half the room to hear. "It's Potter. Shame there's no Cloverleaf around to throw herself between you and disaster. She might actually make this class bearable."

Harry felt Ron stiffen beside him. He forced himself not to react, but his hands clenched into fists.

But then—

A sharp peep came from the corridor just outside, followed by Jackie's unmistakable voice:

"—no, we're definitely going the wrong way. This staircase is conspiring against me—ERNIE, STOP LAUGHING—oh. Oh no. Why does it smell like misery? Are we near the dungeons? Please tell me we're not near the dungeons—"

Before Harry could say a word, Jackie poked her head through the doorway. She wasn't supposed to be there—she wasn't in this class—but she spotted Draco and immediately grinned.

Draco froze like prey spotting a predator.

"Oh good," Jackie said gleefully, her eyes bright with mischief. "The temperature dropped ten degrees. Must be the Slytherins. And Malfoy specifically—you're like a walking air conditioning unit."

"Why are you here?" Draco snapped, his pale face flushing with anger.

"I got lost," Jackie said simply, stepping fully into the doorway. "Ernie and I were trying to find the Ravenclaw common room, and apparently the castle has a sense of humor about directions. But now that I see your face, the dungeon makes perfect sense. It's dark, drafty, dramatic, and vaguely threatening—just like you."

Several students snickered. Crabbe blinked slowly, as though processing the insult one word at a time. Goyle looked confused.

Jackie turned to Harry, her expression softening slightly. "Good luck down here. Don't let Snape bite. And if he does, bite back."

"Cloverleaf!" a Ravenclaw prefect's voice echoed down the hall, sharp with disapproval.

Jackie winced, whispered "I'm fleeing the crime scene," and vanished back into the corridor, her footsteps echoing as she ran.

Harry wished desperately that she could have stayed.

Because the moment Snape turned his full attention to the class, everything turned to ice.

Snape's voice filled the room like poisonous fog, smooth and dangerous.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he said, moving slowly between the desks. "As I do not expect many of you to understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."

He paused, his black eyes sweeping across the room.

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

He reached his desk and looked directly at Harry.

"Ah yes," he said, his voice dripping with false pleasantness. "Harry Potter. Our new—celebrity."

The way he said the word made it sound like an insult.

Harry tried to follow along as Snape began the lesson, but Snape's words felt directed solely at him. Even when Snape wasn't looking at him, Harry felt watched—judged—as if Snape was waiting for him to fail.

They were to brew a simple Cure for Boils, Snape explained, writing the ingredients on the blackboard in his spidery handwriting. It should be straightforward enough, even for first-years, though he clearly didn't believe they were capable of it.

"You will work in pairs," Snape announced. "And do try not to poison anyone."

Harry was paired with Ron, which was a relief. At least he wouldn't have to work with a Slytherin.

They gathered their ingredients—powdered snake fangs, peppermint essence, crushed nettles—and set up their cauldron. Ron was nervous, his hands shaking slightly as he measured out the ingredients.

They were doing reasonably well until Snape suddenly appeared beside their cauldron.

"Potter!" he barked. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry's stomach clenched. He had no idea. He'd never heard of either of those things before coming to Hogwarts.

He tried. "I... I don't know, sir."

"Fame clearly isn't everything," Snape said coldly, moving away.

Harry felt a hot prickle behind his eyes. He wished desperately that Jackie were here—her energy, her loudness, her natural instinct to throw a verbal punch back when someone went too far. But instead, all he had was Ron simmering beside him and Hermione (working with another Gryffindor girl) nearly vibrating with the desire to answer the question herself.

Class dragged on. Harry messed up chopping his daisy roots—they were too fine, and they dissolved in the potion instead of maintaining their structure. Ron's cauldron began to hiss ominously, and they had to add more peppermint essence to try to salvage it.

Draco, working with Crabbe, produced a perfect potion. Snape examined it with what might have been approval.

"Well done, Malfoy," he said. "Ten points to Slytherin."

By the end of the lesson, Harry's potion was a murky brown color that definitely wasn't supposed to be brown, and it smelled vaguely of burnt hair. Ron's had turned a sickly green.

"Abysmal," Snape said, sweeping past their cauldron without even stopping. "Absolutely abysmal. Minus five points from Gryffindor for your incompetence, Potter."

Harry felt humiliated, furious, and exhausted all at once.

When Harry and Ron finally escaped into the corridor, Harry rubbed his forehead. "He hates me."

"He really does," Ron agreed bitterly. "And I didn't even do anything! My potion wasn't even that bad!"

"It was green," Hermione pointed out gently. "It was supposed to be blue."

"Well, it was a nice shade of green," Ron muttered.

A sudden burst of motion appeared ahead, and Jackie jogged down the hallway toward them, her tie now fully crooked, hair escaping everywhere, parchment tucked under her arm. She'd clearly been waiting for them.

"There you are!" she said, slightly out of breath. "I waited outside the whole time. How was it? You look... um... very pale. Both of you. Ron, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Snape was awful," Harry muttered, not wanting to talk about it.

Jackie stopped dead. Her eyes went wide with outrage.

"He bullied you? Already? On day one? That's so rude. Did he at least bully Ron too? Spread the suffering a bit?"

Ron raised his hand. "Present. He deducted points from us for having bad potions."

"Good," Jackie said with satisfaction, though her tone suggested she meant it as a dark joke. "Shared trauma builds lifelong friendships. Scientifically proven by... well... me."

Harry laughed—really laughed—for the first time all afternoon. It was a genuine, unguarded laugh that seemed to release some of the tension he'd been carrying.

Jackie brightened immediately. "There it is! I knew you'd survive."

"Thanks," Harry said quietly.

"No problem," Jackie said cheerfully. "Come on—Hufflepuff common room has better snacks. I can probably smuggle you something. We've got treacle tart today, and it's actually good."

She marched off toward the stairs with such chaotic determination that Harry and Ron instinctively followed half a step before remembering they weren't Hufflepuffs and didn't know where the Hufflepuff common room was.

Harry watched her waving her arms as she talked to a confused Ernie Macmillan waiting around the corner, explaining something with great enthusiasm and hand gestures.

And he realized something important:

Jackie Cloverleaf didn't just brighten rooms.

She rescued people from dark hallways—literally and metaphorically. She appeared exactly when you needed her most, said exactly what you needed to hear, and made the unbearable seem manageable.

And after a day like this one—a day that had started with hope and ended with humiliation—Harry was profoundly grateful she'd wandered into his life.

Chapter Text

The morning of flying lessons arrived with a mixture of excitement and dread. Harry had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else—the one thing he felt confident about, the one area where he might actually excel.

But the Gryffindors would be learning with the Slytherins.

At breakfast, the mood was mixed. Seamus and Ron were practically vibrating with excitement, talking over each other about Quidditch and aerial maneuvers. Hermione was quieter, picking at her toast with obvious unease. Flying wasn't something you could learn from a textbook, and that made her deeply uncomfortable.

Neville was nervous—genuinely nervous. His hands shook slightly as he reached for his pumpkin juice.

Then an owl arrived, dropping a small package directly in front of Neville. His face lit up.

"From Gran!" he exclaimed, carefully opening the wrapping.

Inside was a Remembrall—a small glass ball filled with swirling red and white smoke. Neville held it up to the light, watching the smoke dance.

"It turns red if you've forgotten something," Neville explained, reading from the accompanying note. "Gran says I'm always forgetting things, so..."

He trailed off as Draco Malfoy appeared at their table like a dark cloud.

"What's that, Longbottom?" Draco drawled, snatching the Remembrall from Neville's hand before anyone could react.

Neville's face went red—not from the Remembrall, but from embarrassment and anger.

"Give it back!" he said, his voice wavering.

Draco held it aloft, examining it with exaggerated interest. "A Remembrall. How fitting. You'll need it to remember what a real wizard looks like."

The Gryffindors bristled. Ron started to stand, but before he could move, another figure was already in motion.

Jackie Cloverleaf glided over from the Hufflepuff table with a kind of serene purpose that cut through the noise of the Great Hall. She didn't storm or shout. She simply appeared between Draco and Neville, placing herself squarely in the path of the Remembrall—not that Draco would dare throw it and risk hitting a Cloverleaf.

Her voice was clear, sweet, and carried an edge of polished steel.

"Having trouble remembering something, Malfoy?" she asked pleasantly. "Here, let me help."

She held out her hand, palm up. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of how this was going to go.

Draco blinked, his sneer faltering for a second. He was used to defiance from Gryffindors, but this—this polite, unnerving intervention from a Hufflepuff he barely knew—caught him off guard.

"I don't need help from a blood traitor's daughter, Cloverleaf," he said, recovering with his usual drawl. "I'm just reminding Longbottom of his place."

Jackie didn't drop her hand. Her smile didn't waver, but it cooled from sunny to glacial.

"His place is right here, with his property," she said calmly. "And your place, if you've forgotten the rules about stealing, is in detention. But," she continued, her tone lightening back to that terrifying cheerfulness, "if you're the one who's forgetting things—like basic manners, or the fact that picking on people smaller than you is the saddest hobby I've ever heard of—I'd be happy to help you remember. Free of charge."

The entire Great Hall had gone quiet. Even the Slytherins were staring. This wasn't a shouting match; it was a surgical dismantling.

Draco's cheeks flushed. He was trapped. If he handed it over, he looked weak. If he didn't, he was openly defying not just her, but the unspoken rule she was invoking: Cloverleafs protected their friends, and you didn't want to be on the wrong side of that.

With a final, venomous glare, he dropped the Remembrall into her waiting palm. She caught it with effortless grace.

"There we are! All sorted," Jackie said cheerfully. She turned and handed the glass ball back to a stunned Neville with a warm, genuine smile. "Here you go, Neville. Maybe keep it somewhere extra safe."

Then she turned back to Draco, leaning in just slightly, lowering her voice to a tone only he and the closest Gryffindors could hear.

"And Draco?" she said, her cheerful tone laced with something darker. "The next time you forget your manners, I won't ask nicely. I'll just take what you've stolen. And we both know I could."

She gave him a final, blindingly polite smile, then walked calmly back to the Hufflepuff table as if she'd just gone to fetch more toast.

The moment Jackie sat down, the Great Hall erupted into whispered conversation.

Neville Longbottom looked at Jackie with something approaching religious devotion. His earlier nervousness seemed to have transformed into quiet determination—if Jackie Cloverleaf believed in him, then surely he could manage flying lessons.

The Gryffindors were in awe. Ron whispered, "Blimey, she just... handled him. Completely handled him."

"She's brilliant," Hermione said softly, watching Jackie with new appreciation.

The Slytherins were furious and confused. Pansy Parkinson hissed about "insufferable do-gooders," but even she seemed wary.

Draco Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, his face still flushed with humiliation. He had been bested. Again. By the same Hufflepuff. The embarrassment for him must've been astounding.

And Professor McGonagall, from the High Table, allowed herself a small, satisfied sip of tea, having witnessed a true Hufflepuff demonstrate that loyalty and fairness could be the most formidable weapons in the hall.

——

That afternoon, the Gryffindors and Slytherins made their way to the Quidditch pitch, where Madam Hooch was waiting. She was a short woman with sharp, hawk-like eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor.

"Right then," she called out, gesturing for them to line up. "Everyone stand by a broom. Go on, don't be shy."

Harry stood by his broom, feeling a flutter of anticipation in his chest. This was it. This was what he'd been waiting for.

"Now," Madam Hooch continued, "when I blow my whistle, you will mount your brooms. But first, you need to get them to come to you. Hold out your hand and say 'UP!' Firmly. Confidently. The broom will respond to your command."

She demonstrated with her own broom, which immediately jumped into her hand.

"Your turn," she said.

Harry held out his hand. "Up!"

His broom jumped into his palm immediately, as if it had been waiting for him.

Around him, other students were having varying degrees of success. Ron's broom took a few tries. Hermione's came reluctantly. Neville's seemed to resist entirely until Madam Hooch helped him.

Malfoy's broom came immediately, of course. He smirked at Harry, as if this proved something.

"Now," Madam Hooch said, "mount your brooms. Grip firmly, but not too tightly. Keep your elbows bent. Feet off the ground on my whistle."

Harry swung his leg over the broom, settling into position. It felt natural—more natural than anything he'd ever done at Privet Drive.

Madam Hooch raised her whistle.

"Three... two... one..."

She blew.

Most of the students rose smoothly into the air, hovering a few feet above the ground. Harry felt a surge of joy—this was it, this was flying, and it was everything he'd hoped for.

But Neville—

Neville pushed off too hard. He rose too quickly, his face pale with panic, his hands gripping the broom so tightly his knuckles went white.

"Come back down, Mr. Longbottom!" Madam Hooch called, but Neville was already losing control.

He rose twenty feet, thirty feet, his broom wobbling dangerously beneath him.

Then he fell.

It happened so fast—one moment he was in the air, the next he was plummeting toward the ground. He hit hard, his arm bending at an unnatural angle.

His scream echoed across the pitch.

Madam Hooch rushed to him immediately, her expression shifting from stern to deeply concerned.

"Don't move," she said, examining his arm carefully. "It's broken. Come on, up you go. We're going to the hospital wing."

She helped Neville to his feet, supporting his injured arm gently.

Before she left, she turned to the assembled students, her voice sharp and commanding.

"No one is to fly while I'm gone. Not one inch off the ground. Anyone who does will be expelled. Understood?"

"Yes, Madam Hooch," they chorused.

She led Neville away, his face twisted in pain.

The moment Madam Hooch disappeared into the castle, Draco Malfoy began to laugh.

"Did you see Longbottom?" he called out, his voice dripping with mockery. "Fell right off. Pathetic. That's what happens when you let someone like that on a broomstick."

The Slytherins laughed with him.

Harry felt anger rising in his chest. Neville had been nervous, yes, but he'd been brave enough to try. That was more than Malfoy could say.

Then Draco spotted something on the ground—the Remembrall, which must have fallen from Neville's pocket during his fall.

Draco picked it up, holding it aloft with a triumphant grin.

"Look what I found," he said. "Longbottom's precious Remembrall. I wonder if he'll remember how to find it."

"Give it back," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Make me, Potter," Draco sneered. He swung his leg over his broom. "Come and get it."

He kicked off the ground, rising smoothly into the air. He hovered about fifteen feet up, dangling the Remembrall from his fingers.

"Come on, Potter," he taunted. "Or are you too scared?"

Harry looked at Hermione. She was shaking her head, her expression pleading.

"Don't," she said. "You'll get expelled. Madam Hooch said—"

"I know what she said," Harry replied.

He grabbed his broom and kicked off.

The moment he was in the air, he understood. This was what he was meant to do. Flying wasn't just natural for him—it was instinctive. His body knew what to do before his mind caught up.

He rose smoothly, easily, his broom responding to his slightest touch.

Draco's expression shifted from triumph to uncertainty.

Harry climbed higher, matching Draco's altitude, then surpassing it. He could feel the wind rushing past him, could feel the broom responding to his will, could feel something inside him that had always been waiting for this moment finally awakening.

"Give it back," Harry said, his voice steady.

"Come and take it," Draco replied, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice now.

Harry urged his broom forward, closing the distance between them. He reached out his hand, threatening silently.

Draco panicked. Instead of handing over the Remembrall, he threw it high into the air—a desperate, panicked move designed to distract Harry.

The Remembrall spiraled upward, tumbling end over end.

Without thinking, Harry dove.

The world blurred around him. The ground rushed up to meet him. The Remembrall was falling, falling, falling—

And Harry's hand closed around it.

He pulled up on his broom at the last possible second, skimming just inches above the ground before landing smoothly.

The assembled students gasped. For a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then—

"POTTER!"

Professor McGonagall came running across the Quidditch pitch, her face flushed with anger. Behind her, several other teachers were emerging from the castle.

Harry's heart sank. He was going to be expelled. He was absolutely certain of it.

"Follow me," McGonagall said, her voice clipped and furious.

Harry followed her back toward the castle, acutely aware of every eye on him. Draco looked smug—he'd gotten Harry in trouble, which was apparently victory enough.

——

McGonagall led him back to the castle in silence. Harry's mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Expulsion. A letter to the Dursleys. Back to the cupboard under the stairs.She took him to a classroom and retrieved Oliver Wood from his Charms class. Wood was a tall, athletic-looking boy with the bearing of someone used to authority.

"Wood," McGonagall said, "I have found you a Seeker."

Wood's eyes widened. "A Seeker? But—the rules say first-years can't—"

"I am aware of the rules," McGonagall said crisply. "I am also aware that I have never seen anyone as naturally talented on a broomstick as Mr. Potter. I will speak to Dumbledore about bending the rule. We need a better team than the one we had last year."

She turned to Harry, and her expression softened slightly.

"You showed remarkable flying ability out there, Potter. Reckless, certainly, and you broke a direct order from Madam Hooch. But you also showed courage and natural talent." She paused. "Your father was an excellent Quidditch player too. I think he would have been proud of you."

Harry felt something shift in his chest at the mention of his father.

"However," she said with warning, "I expect you to work hard. I want to hear that you are training diligently. If I don't, I may reconsider my decision not to punish you for breaking Madam Hooch's direct orders. Understood?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Good," McGonagall said. "Mr. Wood will explain the position to you. Now, off you both go."

——

At dinner that evening, Harry told Ron everything that had happened.

"You're a Seeker?" Ron practically shouted, drawing looks from nearby tables. "Harry, that's brilliant! That's absolutely brilliant!"

"The youngest in about a century," Harry said, still somewhat in shock. "Wood said so. He's the captain."

"Fred and George are on the team," Ron said. "They'll be thrilled. They've been complaining about how weak the team is."

As if on cue, Fred and George appeared at the Gryffindor table, their expressions excited. But they weren't alone.

Caroline Cloverleaf walked between them with the precision of someone accustomed to navigating crowded spaces, her Ravenclaw robes neat and her expression composed. Thaine Cloverleaf followed slightly behind, his prefect badge glinting in the candlelight, a rare smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Is it true?" Fred asked, his eyes bright with excitement. "Are you really the new Seeker?"

"Wood told us," George added. "He's been looking for someone all year. Says our team's been rubbish."

"We heard you did a dive," Fred continued. "Caught something mid-air?"

"A Remembrall," Harry confirmed.

Caroline stepped forward, her analytical gaze fixed on Harry with the intensity of someone examining a particularly interesting theorem.

"That was statistically improbable," she said matter-of-factly. "The angle of descent, the velocity of the falling object, the reaction time required—the probability of success was approximately 23%. Well done."

"Thanks," Harry said, slightly uncertain how to respond to Caroline's particular brand of compliment.

"Your father was also a Seeker," Thaine added, his voice calm and measured. "James Potter. The school will benefit from having someone of similar caliber on the team."

"We heard you nearly died catching it," George said cheerfully. "Pulled up about two inches from the ground?"

"Something like that," Harry admitted.

"Brilliant," the twins said in unison.

Caroline nodded once—her version of enthusiastic approval.

Thaine gave Harry a small, encouraging nod.

They clapped him on the back and disappeared back to their own sections of the tables, already discussing strategy with the energy of people who took Quidditch very seriously.

Harry felt a warmth spreading through his chest once again from all the support he was receiving.

Until Draco Malfoy appeared at the table, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like always.

"When are you taking the train home, Potter?" Draco asked, his voice dripping with false concern. "I assume you've been expelled by now?"

Harry looked at him calmly. "I haven't been expelled."

"Yet," Draco said with a sneer. "But it's only a matter of time. You broke Madam Hooch's direct orders."

"And I caught a Remembrall that you threw into the air," Harry replied. "Which was impressive enough that Professor McGonagall didn't expel me."

Draco's sneer faltered slightly.

"In fact," Harry continued, "I'm now the Gryffindor Seeker. The youngest in about a century."

Draco's face went pale, then red.

"You're lying," he spat.

"I'm not," Harry said calmly. "Ask Wood. Ask McGonagall. Ask anyone who was on the Quidditch pitch this afternoon."

Draco opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"That's impossible," he said finally. "First-years don't get on the House teams."

"I did," Harry said.

Draco's hands clenched into fists. For a moment, Harry thought he might actually curse him right there in the Great Hall.

Then Draco seemed to collect himself. He drew himself up to his full height, his expression shifting into something colder, more calculating.

"You think you're special," he said quietly. "You think because you can fly, because McGonagall likes you, that you're better than me. But you're not, Potter. You're nothing. And I'm going to prove it."

He paused, his grey eyes glittering with malice.

"Midnight," he said. "Trophy Room. Wizard's duel. Just you and me. Unless you're too much of a coward."

Harry felt Ron tense beside him. Hermione looked worried.

But before Harry could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"Oh, is that so?" Jackie appeared beside their table, her expression pleasant but her eyes sharp. She wasn't alone—she'd clearly been heading back from the Hufflepuff table when she'd caught the tail end of Draco's challenge. "A midnight duel? Draco, you're like a broken record. Do you have any other ideas besides sneaking around, or is this just your default when you're upset?"

Draco's jaw clenched. "This doesn't concern you, Cloverleaf."

"Really?" Jackie tilted her head. "Because my friends told me all about what happened on the Quidditch pitch this afternoon. How you threw the Remembrall into the air and then panicked when Harry actually caught it. How you got shown up by a first-year. And now you're trying to challenge him to a duel in the middle of the night? That's not a duel, Draco. That's a tantrum."

Several students nearby snorted.

"And besides," Jackie continued, her tone becoming almost conversational, "if you want to duel someone, you should duel me. I'm much better at it than Harry. I've had more practice."

Draco's face flushed. "I don't duel girls."

"Well you're going to duel this one," Jackie said dryly. "Unless you're too much of a coward." Jackie mocks as she repeats his words back to him.

"I'm not a coward," Draco snapped.

"Then duel me," Jackie said simply. "Right now. Here. In front of everyone. Let's see how good you really are."

Draco looked around the Great Hall. Every eye was on him. Every student was watching to see what he would do.

"I don't need to prove anything to you," he said finally, his voice tight.

"No," Jackie agreed cheerfully. "You really don't. Because we all already know. You're good at bullying people smaller than you, you're good at running away, and you're good at making excuses. But actual dueling? Actual courage? That's not your strong suit."

Hannah Abbott, sitting nearby at the Hufflepuff table, clapped quietly.

Susan Bones whispered, "She's terrifying. I like her."

Malfoy made a strangled noise and stormed off, Crabbe and Goyle following after him like nervous puppies, clearly relieved to be escaping.

She turned away, linking her arm through Harry's.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go get some dessert. I hear they have treacle tart today."

Harry watched him go, then turned to Jackie with a grateful expression."Thanks," he said.

"No problem," Jackie said cheerfully, sitting down at their table uninvited. "Someone had to save you from a midnight adventure. Besides, Neville's already had enough excitement for one day. He doesn't need you getting expelled on top of it."

"How did you know he was going to challenge me?" Harry asked.

"Because Malfoy's predictable," Jackie said, reaching for a piece of bread. "He's angry, humiliated, and desperate to prove he's not a coward. Challenging you was the obvious next move. But I wasn't going to let him get away with it."

Ron grinned. "You're brilliant, you know that?"

"I know," Jackie said, without a trace of false modesty. "It's a burden I bear with grace."

——

There was no midnight duel.

No sneaking out.

No meeting Peeves.

No stumbling into the forbidden third-floor corridor.

At least not that night.

Harry went to bed after finishing his homework, his mind still buzzing with the day's events. He was a Seeker. He'd caught a Remembrall mid-dive. He'd faced down Draco Malfoy and won.

And Jackie Cloverleaf had made sure the whole thing didn't end in disaster (Jackie also made sure they didn't forget about Neville so he was safe and sound in the dormitory).

He fell asleep thinking about flying, about the feel of the wind rushing past him, about the moment when everything had clicked into place and he'd understood, finally, that he was good at something.

Chapter Text

The morning after Draco's failed challenge, the Great Hall buzzed with a different kind of energy than it had the previous evening. There was no hushed, guilty conversation about three-headed dogs or forbidden corridors. Instead, the talk was of flying and the upcoming Quidditch season.

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, still somewhat in shock that he hadn't been expelled, when Hermione appeared beside him with an armful of books. She set them down with a decisive thump.

"I've cross-referenced the library's Quidditch section," she said, her tone brisk and businesslike. "Quidditch Through the Ages is the foundational text, but The Noble Sport of Witches and Wizards has a better chapter on Seeker-specific positioning. I thought you might find it useful."

"Hello to you too, Hermione," Jackie said cheerfully, appearing at the table with a plate of toast and jam. She'd clearly migrated from the Hufflepuff table for a chat, a habit that was becoming increasingly common. "Nice to see you too. How are you this morning?"

Hermione flushed slightly, realizing she'd launched into her explanation without preamble. "Oh. Yes. Good morning, Jackie. I was simply trying to help Harry prepare for his training."

Harry, a bit overwhelmed but grateful, looked at the stack of books. "Thanks, Hermione. Really."

Ron, who was working his way through a plate of sausages, spoke through a mouthful of food. "Blimey, you sound like my mum when Charlie was made captain. It's brilliant, Harry! Wait 'til Malfoy sees you on a proper broom!"

Jackie leaned forward conspiratorially. "He'll be green with envy. Slytherin green, but greener. You'll be fantastic, Harry. Just remember to tuck in your elbows on sharp dives. Thaine says it's the first thing beginners forget."

"Your brother gives Quidditch advice?" Ron asked, looking impressed.

"Thaine gives advice about everything," Jackie said. "Whether you want it or not. But he's usually right, which is annoying."

When the Nimbus 2000 arrived that morning via owl post, the scene was one of pure, uncomplicated joy and rivalry.

Harry held the broom in his hands, marveling at its sleek lines and perfect balance. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever owned, besides Hedwig. The handle was smooth and warm beneath his fingers, and the twigs at the end were bound so tightly they seemed almost metallic.

"Blimey," Ron awed at the broom. "Is that a Nimbus 2000?"

"It is," Hermione confirmed, examining it with interest. "Top of the line. Extremely expensive. Only the best Quidditch players have them."

Jackie practically levitated out of her seat. "Oh, that's gorgeous! Professor Gally must have convinced Dumbledore! Harry, you're going to be unstoppable!"

But it was Draco Malfoy's reaction that was most telling. Draco Malfoy appeared at Harry's  shoulder, his expression a complicated mask of conflicted awe and irritation. He stared at the broom in Harry's hands, his face a mask of conflicted awe and irritation. For a moment, his usual sneer faltered, replaced by something almost vulnerable—the look of someone who'd always expected to have the best of everything, only to discover that someone else had gotten there first.

"A Nimbus 2000," Draco said, his voice tight. "How did you...?" He couldn't finish the accusation, because he knew. Jackie's intervention the previous evening had been legendary—already spreading through the school like wildfire. He sneered, but it lacked its usual fire. "Enjoy it while it lasts, Potter. It won't make up for a lack of talent."

"Don't listen to him, Harry!" Jackie exclaimed cheerfully. "It's beautiful! Oh, Wood is going to weep with joy!"

And indeed, when Oliver Wood saw the broom later that day, his reaction was exactly as Jackie had predicted. He actually did tear up a little, holding the Nimbus 2000 as if it were made of spun glass.

"This is..." he said reverently, "this is the finest broom I've ever seen. Potter, do you understand what this means? This is a professional-grade broom. This is what the Holyhead Harpies fly on. This is..."He seemed unable to complete his sentences, overcome with emotion."This is going to help us win the House Cup," he said finally, his voice thick with determination.

Later that afternoon, on the rain-washed Quidditch pitch, Harry's first real practice unfolded under the guidance of two competing experts.

Oliver Wood stood before him, his eyes shining with fanatical zeal as he held the Golden Snitch aloft. The small golden ball glinted in the afternoon light, its delicate wings fluttering with an almost hypnotic rhythm.

"This, Potter, is the Golden Snitch," Wood said, his voice reverent. "It's the heart and soul of Quidditch. You catch this, we win. You don't... well, let's not think about that. I've waited four years for a Seeker like you."

Harry watched as Wood released the Snitch, and it immediately began to dart and weave through the air with impossible speed and agility.

"Your job," Wood continued, "is to catch that. Before the other team's Seeker does. It's worth one hundred and fifty points, and catching it usually ends the match. Everything else—the Chasers, the Beaters, the Keeper—they're all supporting players. You're the star."

Harry felt the weight of that responsibility settle on his shoulders, but it wasn't crushing. It was exhilarating.

Then a familiar voice drifted across the pitch.

"He's not wrong, Harry. But speed isn't everything."

Thaine Cloverleaf was leaning against the goalpost, having drifted over from Ravenclaw practice. He spoke with a calm, easy confidence that contrasted sharply with Wood's intensity. His Ravenclaw robes were slightly damp from the rain, and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead, but he looked completely at ease.

"It's about anticipation," Thaine continued. "The Snitch has a pattern, a flutter. Watch the air, not just the gold. The way it moves tells you where it's going to go next."

Wood's head snapped around, his expression darkening.

"He's not wrong," Wood said, his tone sharp. "But speed isn't everything. It's about anticipation. The Snitch has a pattern, a flutter. Watch the air, not just the gold." Wood added with a friendly smirk directed at Thaine.

"However, knowing all that won't stop Ravenclaw from winning a third year in a row. My Chasers, including me, are very fast." Thaine's lips curved into a smile that was equal parts amusement and challenge.

"Don't you have a library to haunt, Cloverleaf?" Wood said, glaring at Thaine with competitive fondness. "This is a Gryffindor practice."

"Just giving the competition a sporting chance," Thaine replied, pushing off the post and clapping Harry on the shoulder. His grip was warm and encouraging. "Good luck, Harry. You'll need it."

He gave Wood a salute and blurred back across the pitch in a streak of blue and bronze, his movements fluid and practiced.

Wood turned back to Harry, grinning fiercely.

"See that?" he said. "That's the arrogance we're going to smash this year. With you, Potter. With you."

As the weeks progressed, Harry began to understand the strange, intricate dance between Oliver Wood and Thaine Cloverleaf.

For instance, after particularly grueling practice, where Wood had pushed the entire team through drill after drill until Harry's arms felt like jelly, the Gryffindor team was wrapping up. Sweat-soaked and tired but buzzing with the kind of exhaustion that only came from pushing yourself to your limits, Harry was nursing a water bottle when Oliver Wood stood before his team, his usual fiery intensity softened by a sliver of paternal pride as he looked at his new Seeker.

"You handled that well, Potter," Wood said, his voice low and intent. "But remember, being Seeker for a Hogwarts team comes with a lot of attention. Newspapers, scouts in the stands, whispers in the corridors. Don't let it get to your head."

He didn't turn his head. His eyes stayed fixed on Harry, but a competitive, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

As if on cue, a familiar, easy laugh echoed from the sidelines.

Thaine Cloverleaf was leaning against the Ravenclaw equipment crate, having just finished his own team's practice. He was chatting with a group of admiring students from three different houses—a mix of ages and houses that seemed to gravitate toward him naturally.

Without looking away from Harry, Oliver bent down, picked up a slightly deflated practice Quaffle from the grass, and with a casual, powerful flick of his wrist, sent it whistling directly at Thaine's head.

"Unlike pretty boys like some people," Oliver said, his tone sharp but underpinned by a deep, familiar fondness, "who seem to thrive on attention. Distracting the entire female population of Hogwarts from their studies is hardly a recognized team strategy, Cloverleaf. Some of us are here to win cups, not popularity contests."

The Quaffle flew true. Thaine, without breaking his sentence to the group he was with, simply raised a hand and caught it one-handed. The impact made a soft thump against his palm, but he didn't look startled. He looked amused.

He turned the ball over in his hands, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face as he finally met Wood's gaze.

"Prejudice like that isn't very becoming of you, my friend," Thaine said, his voice carrying easily across the pitch. "Jealousy is an ugly color, even in Gryffindor scarlet."

Harry watched this exchange, his gaze darting between his fiercely scowling captain and the effortlessly cool Ravenclaw rival. A grin spread across his face. This wasn't hostility. This was a ritual—a dance they'd performed countless times before, and would perform countless times again.

"You two... really get along, don't you?" Harry asked.

Both older boys turned to look at him. Oliver's scowl deepened, but there was a spark in his eyes. Thaine's easy smile widened.

"NO," they said in unison, their voices overlapping.

Thaine pushed off the trunk, slinging his broom over his shoulder. He gave Harry a friendly smile.

"He's a territorial badger with a one-track mind," Thaine said. "But he's right about one thing, Harry. Keep your head down and your eyes up. Can't wait to try and beat that Seeker's speed of yours."

He nodded once at Oliver. "Wood."

Oliver grunted in acknowledgement. "Cloverleaf."

They watched as Thaine walked away, joining his Ravenclaw teammates who were waiting for him. Oliver's fierce scowl melted, replaced by a grudging, proud smile as he watched his rival go. He bent to pick up the Quaffle Thaine had returned.

"He's annoying as a jinxed Sneakoscope," Wood said. "Talks like a textbook. Thinks he's ten steps ahead of everyone."

He hefted the Quaffle, his smile turning into something genuine and fiercely competitive.

"He's also the best Chaser I've ever played against. The only one who can consistently break my defenses. I can't stand him."

The message to Harry was clear: this was the standard. This level of skill, this intensity of competition, this strange, grudging bond of respect—this was what it meant to play Quidditch at Hogwarts. And Harry, still grinning, knew he wouldn't want it any other way.

___

The following weeks became a blissful, exhausting whirlwind that Harry embraced completely.

Mornings began with breakfast in the Great Hall, where he'd sit with Ron and Hermione, and Jackie would invariably appear at some point with news, encouragement, or stolen toast. Hermione would present him with carefully researched notes on whatever subject she thought would benefit him most. Ron would tell stories about his family or complain good-naturedly about his classes.

Mid-mornings were spent in classes—now that he had mastered the basics of magic—the fundamental spells, the basic theory, the essential knowledge—his classes became genuinely interesting rather than overwhelming.

In Transfiguration, McGonagall began teaching them more complex transformations. Harry found himself fascinated by the theory, by the way she explained that successful transformation required not just will and magic, but a deep understanding of the object's essential nature.

"You must think like the object," McGonagall explained, demonstrating by transforming a teacup into a saucer and back again with effortless grace. "You must understand what it means to be a teacup, and then you must convince it to become something else. Magic is not force, Mr. Potter. It is persuasion."

Harry began to see the parallels between Transfiguration and Quidditch—the way you had to understand your broom, had to work with it rather than against it, had to anticipate rather than react.

In Charms, Flitwick taught them increasingly sophisticated spells. The Patronus charm was mentioned as an advanced spell, far beyond their current level, but Flitwick spoke of it with such reverence that Harry found himself curious about it, wondering what it would be like to produce a Patronus.

Even Potions began to make more sense. While Snape remained as cold and critical as ever, Harry realized that beneath the cruelty was actually a genuine understanding of potion-making. If you could get past Snape's personality—which was admittedly difficult—there was actually a lot to learn.

His afternoons belonged to the pitch.

Wood was a demanding but brilliant coach. He pushed the team relentlessly, drilling them on formations and strategies until they could execute them in their sleep. But he also genuinely cared about their improvement, offering constructive criticism alongside his fierce demands for perfection.

Harry's natural talent blossomed under the structured drills. He practiced catching the Snitch until his reflexes became almost instinctive. He learned to read the wind, to anticipate the Snitch's movements, to trust his body to do what his mind was still learning.

Occasionally, he'd see Thaine observing from the stands, offering a cryptic but useful tip shouted across the field: "You're leaning left on your turns, Potter! Compensate!" or "The wind shifts at sunset near the western hoop!"

Wood would glare at Thaine, but he'd incorporate the advice into the next drill, grudgingly acknowledging that his rival was right.

Evenings were divided between homework and relaxation. He'd spend time in the library with Hermione, who seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of every book in the place. He'd play wizard's chess with Ron, who was surprisingly strategic despite his casual demeanor. He'd sit by the fire in the common room, simply existing in the comfortable presence of his friends.

One evening, Harry stumbled into the common room after practice, muscles aching, hair plastered with sweat, a smear of mud on his glasses. He'd collapse into a squashy armchair by the fire where Ron and Hermione were usually playing wizard's chess or working on assignments.

"Rough one?" Ron would ask, barely looking up from the board.

"Wood had us practicing Wronski Feints until I nearly swallowed a bug," Harry would reply, his voice hoarse from shouting across the pitch.

Hermione would look up from her notes, her expression thoughtful. "I've charted your flight patterns from my window," she'd say. "Your rotational speed has improved by nearly fifteen percent. It's very efficient."

Harry smiled at her, grateful for her particular brand of support. Hermione couldn't fly herself—it wasn't something you could learn from a textbook—but she'd found her own way to contribute, analyzing his performance with the same intensity she brought to her studies.

Jackie would walk over from wherever she'd been—usually helping another first-year with homework or engaged in some elaborate prank with her Hufflepuff friends—and plop a Chocolate Frog into his lap.

"For the Seeker who seeks!" she'd announce cheerfully. "You look like you've been chasing Snitches through a hurricane."

It was during that evenings, smelling the peat smoke of the fire, hearing the comfortable crackle of the flames and Ron's groan as Hermione took his knight, that the realization struck Harry with the force of a gentle, warm wave.

Two months. He'd been at Hogwarts for almost two months.

The dread of the Dursleys felt like a story about someone else—a distant, unpleasant memory that had no power over him anymore. The gnawing loneliness that had been his constant companion, the sense that he didn't belong anywhere, had vanished completely.

In its place was something he'd never experienced before: contentment.

The chatter of the common room, the roar of the Quidditch stands, the quiet concentration of the library with Hermione, the steady loyalty of Ron, the chaotic energy of Jackie—these things had woven themselves into the fabric of his daily life so completely that he couldn't imagine Hogwarts without them.

The castle, with its shifting staircases and whispering portraits, with its secrets and its soaring, thunderous sport, felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had. More like home than anywhere he'd ever been.

The lessons were puzzles to be solved, fascinating in their complexity. The corridors were adventures to be had, full of mystery and possibility. And the future was not a fearful mystery, but a thrilling match, waiting to be played.

Harry Potter was not just surviving. He was living. And he was happy.

Chapter Text

On Halloween morning, first-year students filed into Professor Flitwick's classroom with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. The diminutive Charms master was perched on a stack of books behind his desk, his pointed hat slightly askew, his expression bright with enthusiasm.

"Good morning, good morning!" he squeaked. "Today, we shall be learning one of the most fundamental spells in all of magic. Wingardium Leviosa—the levitation charm. A spell that will allow you to make objects fly!"

"Observe the wand movement," Flitwick continued. "It is a swish and a flick. Swish and flick. Everyone,"

He calls for class to repeat after him. The class choruses swish and flick.

"Good. And enunciate Wingardium Leviosa. Off you go then."

Harry found himself next to Seamus Finnigan, a cheerful Irish boy with a tendency toward accidental explosions. Ron was next to Hermione, much to his visible dismay.

"Right then," Seamus said enthusiastically, picking up a feather. "How hard can this be?"

Very hard, as it turned out. Seamus's feather remained stubbornly earthbound, despite his increasingly frantic wand movements and his increasingly creative pronunciation of the spell.

Ron was having similar difficulties.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he said, waving his wand around carelessly.

The feather didn't budge.

Hermione, who had been watching with growing frustration, finally couldn't contain herself.

"You're doing it wrong," she said, her voice sharp with exasperation. "It's Levi-O-sa, not Levi-o-SAR. You have to pronounce it correctly."

She looked at her own wand and demonstrated, her wand movements precise and controlled. The feather rose smoothly into the air, hovering perfectly.

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together delightedly.

"Excellent, Miss Granger! You have the hang of it perfectly!"

Ron's face flushed a deep red. Without a word he turned away, his jaw clenched.

Harry, watching from where he was sitting, felt a flutter of sympathy for Ron. He knew what it was like to feel inadequate, to have someone else's success highlight your own failure. But he also understood that Hermione hadn't meant to be cruel—she'd just been trying to help.

By the end of the class, Ron's mood had deteriorated significantly. As they filed out of the classroom, he was muttering darkly.

"...and she just had to show off, didn't she?" Ron was saying as they walked toward the Great Hall. "Like anyone asked! 'It's Levi-O-sa, not Levi-o-SAR.' She's a nightmare, honestly. A walking library with a superiority complex. It’s no wonder no one else can stand her."

Unfortunately for Ron, Hermione was just behind them in the corridor. She heard every word. Her face crumpled, and without a word, she pushed past them and hurried away, her shoulders shaking.

Harry felt a twist of guilt in his stomach. "Ron, that was—"

"What?" Ron said defensively. "It's true! She was showing off!"

But even as he said it, Harry could see the doubt flickering across Ron's face.

Hermione didn't show up for their next class. In the afternoon, a rumor began to spread through the corridors—whispered from student to student like a game of telephone. Hermione Granger had been crying in the girls' bathroom all day. She'd been so upset by Ron's comment that she'd locked herself in a stall and refused to come out.

Harry felt the guilt deepen. He should have said something. He should have defended her.

Ron's expression had shifted from defensive to guilty."She's probably just being dramatic," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

They were still discussing this when Jackie appeared in the common room that evening, her expression uncharacteristically serious. She must’ve found out.

She made a beeline for Ron, who was slumped in an armchair by the fire.

"Ronald McDonald," she said, her voice carrying a note of disappointment that somehow cut deeper than anger. "Please tell me I'm wrong when I hear that the brightest witch in our year is crying in the bathroom because of something you said."

Ron's face flushed. "What did you call me? And how do you even know about that?"

"Hogwarts walls have ears, Ronald," Jackie said, sitting down across from him. "And they gossip to me. Calling Hermione a 'nightmare' because she knows more than you? That's classic clown behavior. Hence, Ronald McDonald."

"She was showing off!" Ron protested, his ears turning red. "Making me look stupid!"

"She was trying to help," Jackie said, her tone brooking no argument, "and you reacted like a startled flobberworm. How do you think Caro would have handled it if she saw someone struggling in class?"

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. The mention of Caroline seemed to have struck something in him.

"It's not the same," he said finally, his voice quieter. "You don't get it. If it were Caroline correcting someone, it'd be different."

Jackie tilted her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Oh? How so? Because Caro's my sister, and she corrects people with all the warmth and charm of a sentient icicle."

"That's not—!" Ron sputtered. "I mean, yeah, but she's... she's Caroline. She's always been like that. It's just how she is. And she's..." He gestured vaguely, his face flushing a deeper red. "...fit. And she'd just say it cold, like a fact. 'Your method is inefficient, Weasley. The wrist movement is a waste of energy. It is Levi-O-sa.' Not all... smug about it."

He attempted to mimic what he imagined was Caroline's flat tone, then Hermione's higher, earnest one, failing spectacularly at both.

Harry couldn't help it. He started laughing—really laughing—at the sheer absurdity of Ron's impression and the realization that had just dawned on him.

Jackie's eyes lit up with unholy glee.

"Hold on," she said, her voice taking on a dangerous quality. "Are you saying Hermione isn't fit? Because I've seen her. She's got lovely hair and a very determined chin. I think she's quite pretty. Are you saying Hermione isn't pretty, Ron?"

Ron's face went from red to purple. "I didn't—! That's not what I—! I mean she's not unpretty—! I—" He flailed helplessly. "Stop putting words in my mouth!"

He was completely flustered, trapped in a semantic nightmare of his own making.

"Ronald McDonald, you're digging yourself deeper," Harry observed cheerfully still laughing.

It was at that moment that Fred and George tumbled out from behind a tapestry they definitely weren't hiding behind, Fred and George tumbled out, having overheard everything. Fred's usual grin was a bit too fixed, his eyes a bit too sharp.

"Whoa there, ickle Ronnie!" Fred said, his voice taking on a joking lilt that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Back away from the older genius witches. That's advanced-level appreciation. You stick to admiring from your own year, leave the complicated, brilliant ones to the experts."

His gaze flicked unconsciously toward the Ravenclaw tower visible through the common room window.

George, instantly picking up on his twin's rare, unguarded moment, pounced with the precision of a predator.

"Oho!" George exclaimed, his grin widening. "Sounds like someone's proprietary! What's the matter, Freddie? Worried the Baby Boy is developing a type? And that type is 'scary-smart and could probably turn you into a teacup'?"

He slung an arm around a frozen Ron with theatrical flair.

"First Caroline, now Granger... our little brother's got a brainy streak! Who knew?"

Fred's forced chuckle sounded slightly strangled. "Don't be ridiculous. Just saving him from embarrassing himself. It's a brotherly duty. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a pressing engagement with a dungbomb that needs planting."

He retreated, uncharacteristically flustered, his ears nearly as red as his hair.

The common room, which had been listening in with rapt attention, erupted into barely suppressed snickers.

Ron looked like he wanted the sofa to swallow him whole. The combination of Jackie's moral dressing-down, the public dissection of his accidental crush on smart witches, and his brother's barely-veiled warning about Caroline was too much.

Harry's laughter slowly subsided. "Well, this has been a learning experience," he said, speaking for both himself and Ron. He'd never seen family banter quite like this, and he was grateful to be witnessing it firsthand.

"For all of us," Jackie said with enthusiasm, then turned back to Ron, her expression softening back into its usual kindness. "Apologize to her, Ron," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Properly. Not because she's 'fit' or 'smart,' but because you hurt her feelings. She's just trying to get it right, same as you. And for Merlin's sake, if you're going to have a crush on geniuses, learn to take criticism with a bit more grace."

She stood to leave, then threw over her shoulder, perfectly replicating Caroline's deadpan drone:

"Your emotional response was inefficient, Ronald. Your apology protocol is overdue. Get on with it."

She swept out, leaving a scandalized, thoughtful, and thoroughly teased Ron with Harry, while Fred and George continued their silent, brotherly standoff—one joking to hide his nerves, the other teasing to expose them, both orbiting the unspoken fact that Caroline Cloverleaf had already, unknowingly, become the axis of their world.

Jackie POV

Jackie found Hermione in the first-floor girls' bathroom, exactly where the rumor mill had placed her. The sound of muffled sobs echoed off the tiles as Jackie entered quietly, her usual boisterous energy tempered by genuine concern.

"Hermione?" she called softly. "It's Jackie Cloverleaf. May I sit?"

The sobbing stopped. A sniffle came from behind one of the stalls.

"Go away," Hermione's voice came, thick with tears. "I don't need anyone to... to gawk."

Jackie slid down to sit on the floor, her back against the stall door, ignoring the slight dampness. She spoke to the door, not through it, her voice soft but steady.

"I'm not here to gawk," Jackie said, speaking to the door rather than through it. "I'm here because Ronald Weasley has the emotional range of a teaspoon and a unique talent for putting both his feet in his mouth simultaneously."

A watery, half-choked laugh came from the stall.

Jackie sighed, a genuine, unguarded sound. "You know... I heard what you did in Charms. Levitating that feather on the first try. And the way you answered Flitwick's question about the fundamental laws of charm theory... It was brilliant. Honestly, it made me a bit jealous."

The stall door unlocked with a soft click. Hermione cracked it open, her face puffy and red, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"You?" Hermione said, her voice hoarse. "Jealous of me? That's ridiculous. You're... you're Jacqueline Cloverleaf. Your family is legendary. Everyone knows you. People like you. You walked into the Great Hall on the first day and just... started talking to people like it was nothing."

Jackie met Hermione's gaze, her own brown eyes earnest and vulnerable in a way Hermione had never seen before.

"And you can dissect a complex transfiguration theorem in your head in under a minute," Jackie said quietly. "That is nothing to you. For me... the social part, it's like breathing. But the theory? I have to work for it. I have to study for hours with my sister Caroline just to keep up. What comes easily to you is a mountain for me to climb. And what comes easily to me..."

"...is a mountain for me," Hermione finished, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she'd just had a revelation.

There was a long, quiet moment. The unspoken hierarchy of worth they had both built in their heads—books versus popularity, theory versus social grace—shattered between them like glass.

"They all think I'm a nightmare," Hermione said, her voice small and broken.

"Then they're fools," Jackie replied with absolute certainty. "And frankly, their opinion is irrelevant. You are the brightest witch of our age, Hermione Granger. And one day, they will all be begging for a job at your ministry office. Until then... you have a friend in me. If you'd like one."

Hermione didn't answer with words. She simply opened the stall door fully and sat down on the floor beside Jackie, their shoulders touching. They sat there in comfortable silence, talking quietly about everything and nothing—about classes and fears and dreams for the future.

They were so absorbed in their conversation that they didn't notice the time passing. They skipped dinner entirely, unaware of the chaos that was about to unfold in the Great Hall.

Harry POV

At dinner, the Great Hall was transformed. Jack-o'-lanterns floated in the air, their candles casting dancing shadows across the walls. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and the long tables were laden with a spectacular Halloween feast—roasted chicken, glazed ham, pumpkin pasties, and an array of sweets that made even the most jaded student's mouth water.

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, still worried about Hermione's absence. Ron was beside him, looking miserable and guilty in equal measure.

"She'll come around," Harry said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Once you apologize properly."

"If she'll even talk to me," Ron muttered.

But before Harry could respond, the doors to the Great Hall burst open with a bang.

Professor Quirrell stumbled in, his turban askew, his face pale with terror. He was gasping for breath, his eyes wide and wild.

"Troll!" he shrieked. "Troll in the dungeon! Troll in the dungeon!"

He staggered forward, his hand clutching at the air as if seeking support.

"Thought you ought to know," he managed, before his eyes rolled back and he fainted dead away, collapsing onto the stone floor with a sickening thud.

For a moment, there was absolute silence in the Great Hall.

Then chaos erupted.

Students screamed and jumped to their feet. Everyone tried to run for the doors, only to be blocked by other panicking students.

Dumbledore stood, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. "Silence!" he commanded, and the hall fell quiet.

"Prefects, lead your houses back to their dormitories. Immediately. Teachers, come with me to the dungeons."

Percy Weasley appeared, his prefect badge gleaming, his expression a mixture of self-importance and genuine concern.

"Gryffindors! This way! Quickly now! Stay together!"

Harry and Ron started to follow, but then Harry's eyes widened.

"Ron," he said urgently. "Hermione. She wasn't at dinner."

Ron's eyes widened. "And neither was Jackie."

Ron's face went pale. "The bathroom. They must still be in the bathroom."

Without hesitation, they slipped away from the crowd of students being herded toward the dormitories and ran in the opposite direction, toward the girls' bathroom on the first floor.

Harry and Ron ran through the corridors, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. As they rounded a corner near the first floor, they saw something that made their blood run cold.

Professor Snape was heading toward the third-floor corridor, moving with unusual urgency. But before they could process why, they saw it.

The troll.

It was enormous—at least twelve feet tall—with a lumpy, grey body and a small, bald head that seemed far too small for its massive frame. It was holding a wooden club the size of a tree trunk, and it was peering into a doorway with what could only be described as dim curiosity.

The doorway led into the girls' bathroom.

"Oh, Merlin," Ron whispered.

The troll grunted and pushed its way through the doorway, ducking its head to fit through the frame.

Without thinking, Harry and Ron ran forward and slammed the door shut behind it, throwing the bolt home with shaking hands.

For a moment, they stood there, breathing hard, feeling triumphant.

Then they heard the screams.

"Oh, Merlin, no," Harry said, his stomach dropping. "We just locked it in with them."

They fumbled with the bolt, their hands shaking, and threw the door open.

The scene inside the bathroom was chaos.

Hermione was pressed against the far wall, her face white with terror. Jackie was standing in front of her, her eyes wide, her body tense.

"EWWW, IT'S SO UGLY!" Jackie shrieked, her usual composure completely shattered.

"THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT?" Hermione yelled, her voice rising to a pitch of pure panic.

The troll turned its massive head toward them, its small eyes focusing with dim intelligence. It raised its club.

"Run!" Harry shouted, but there was nowhere to run. The bathroom was a dead end.

The troll took a step forward, its club raised high.

Then Jackie moved.

It was like watching someone flip a switch. One moment she was terrified, the next she was moving with a speed and grace that seemed impossible for someone her size. She grabbed a sink—an actual porcelain sink—and ripped it from the wall with a sound of screaming metal and shattering pipes.

Water sprayed everywhere as she hurled it at the troll's head.

The troll staggered backward, dazed, its club falling from its hands.

"Harry! Ron! Hermione! The club!" Jackie shouted.

They didn't hesitate. They ran forward and grabbed the massive wooden club, struggling under its weight. Together, they managed to lift it and swing it toward the troll's legs, knocking it off balance.

The troll crashed to the ground with a sound like thunder, the entire bathroom shaking from the impact.

"Again!" Jackie yelled, and they swung the club again, connecting with the troll's side.

The creature roared—a sound of pain and fury that echoed through the bathroom. It thrashed on the ground, trying to get up, but Jackie was already moving again. She grabbed a toilet seat—actually tore it off the toilet—and hurled it at the troll's head with the kind of force that should have been impossible.

The troll's eyes rolled back. It went limp.

For a moment, there was silence except for the sound of running water and everyone's heavy breathing.

Then the door burst open.

Professor McGonagall rushed in, her wand raised, followed by Snape and Quirrell. McGonagall took in the scene—the unconscious troll, the flooded bathroom, the four first-year students standing in the middle of it all—and her expression darkened with fury."What on earth were you thinking?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "A troll in the castle, and you four decide to confront it? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could have been killed!"

Jackie stepped forward, her mind working at lightning speed. She was soaking wet, her hair plastered to her face, but her expression was calm and calculated.

"It's my fault, Professor," she said, her voice steady and apologetic. "I get lost around the castle all the time—the moving staircases confuse me terribly. Hermione offered to help me find the bathroom. Harry and Ron got worried when we didn't show up for dinner and came looking for us. We didn't know about the troll. We were just trying to help each other."

It was a lie, but it was a good one.

It was a lie, but it was a good one. And it was delivered with such confidence that it almost sounded like the truth. It also relieved all of them from the worst of the punishment—they hadn't been wandering where they shouldn't, they hadn't been breaking rules, they'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But Snape's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Interesting," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "A story that relieves all of you from trouble. How convenient."

Hermione stepped forward, her voice steady despite her fear.

"Professor, Jackie does get lost," she said. "She complains about the moving staircases every day. What she said is the truth."

Harry and Ron nodded in agreement, not knowing what else to do.

McGonagall's expression didn't soften, but her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"That was extremely foolish," she said coldly. "You should have gone directly to a teacher instead of wandering the corridors. However..."

She looked at the destroyed bathroom, at the unconscious troll, at the four students who had somehow managed to defeat it.

"...your bravery cannot go unnoticed. Despite your foolishness, you worked together and managed to subdue a fully grown mountain troll. That is no small feat."

"Five points to each of your houses," she continued. "Now, all of you, head to your common rooms at once. And not another word of this to anyone, understood? We will be telling the school that the troll was dealt with by the teachers."

"Yes, Professor," they chorused.

They hastily moved out of the bathroom and walked back through the corridors toward the common rooms, Hermione fell into step beside Jackie, her mind still reeling from everything that had happened.

"How are you so strong?" she asked quietly. "I mean, you ripped a sink off the wall. An actual sink. With your bare hands."

Jackie was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful.

"Does it change your opinion of me?" Jackie asked, a hint of vulnerability in her voice that was rare for her. "Knowing I'm stronger than I should be?"

"No," Harry said immediately, and Hermione nodded in agreement.

"We just found it fascinating," Hermione added, her expression one of pure scientific curiosity rather than judgment. "How did you do that?"

Jackie took a deep breath as they walked, her expression becoming more serious than they'd ever seen it.

"The story begins long before our time," Jackie said quietly, her voice taking on a different quality—something older, more serious. "It begins with the Cloverleaf family and a choice that was made generations ago. A choice that changed everything."

Ron, who had been walking ahead with Harry, turned back at the sound of her voice.

"You're going to tell them?" he asked, something in his tone suggesting he already knew the answer. Harry wondered how Ron already knew.

"They deserve to know," Jackie said. "They fought a troll with us. They're part of this now."

Harry had forgotten they were family friends, the adrenaline of the troll made that memory slip.

"My family isn't just magical," she continued. "We're something more. Something that most people don't know about, and something that we don't talk about lightly. But if you want to know... I'll tell you. Just not here. Not now. When we're somewhere safe, somewhere private, I'll tell you the whole story."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, their curiosity burning bright.

"Tomorrow?" Hermione asked.

"Tomorrow," Jackie confirmed. "In the library, after classes. I'll tell you everything."As they reached the point where they had to split up. Jackie heading toward Hufflepuff Basement, Harry, Ron, and Hermione heading toward Gryffindor Tower—Harry couldn't help but feel that something fundamental had shifted.

They'd faced a troll together. They'd worked as a team. And now, there was a mystery waiting to be revealed.

Whatever the Cloverleaf family secret was, it was clearly important. And tomorrow, they would finally learn the truth.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light filtered through the library windows in golden streams, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily through the air. Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way to a quiet corner tucked behind a towering shelf of books on Advanced Magical Theory. Jackie was already there, sitting cross-legged in one of the comfortable armchairs, a cup of tea cooling on the small table beside her.

She looked up as they approached, and something in her expression shifted—becoming more serious, more intentional.

"Right then," Jackie said, gesturing for them to sit. "Before I start, I want to be clear: this isn't something we talk about lightly. The Cloverleaf family history is... well, it's complicated. But you three deserve to know, especially after yesterday."

She took a deep breath, as if gathering herself, and set down her teacup with deliberate care.

"The story begins long before our time," she said, her voice taking on that older, more serious quality they'd heard in the corridor. "It begins with the Cloverleaf family and a choice that was made generations ago. A choice that changed everything."

Ron settled into his chair with the ease of someone who'd heard this story before. He caught Harry's eye and gave him a knowing nod, but he remained quiet—letting Jackie tell it her way.

Jackie leaned back in her chair, her eyes distant, as if she were seeing something far away and long ago.

"Centuries ago," she began, "during a time when the boundaries between magical and mundane worlds were thin, the founder of our line was a wizard named Cillian Clover. He wasn't a king or a warrior. He was a Horticultural Mage—a keeper of sacred groves and magical flora. A man of profound peace and connection to the earth."

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. "A Horticultural Mage? I've never heard of that classification before."

"It's an old discipline," Jackie said. "Not many practice it anymore. But Cillian was exceptional. He could speak to plants, understand their needs, coax them to grow in ways that defied normal nature. His grove was legendary—a place where magic and life were so intertwined that the two were almost indistinguishable."

She paused, letting them imagine it.

"The trees there were ancient," Jackie continued, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "Some of them had been growing for thousands of years. The flowers bloomed in colors that don't exist anywhere else in the world. The magic was so thick you could almost see it, shimmering in the air like heat waves. It was a place of perfect balance, perfect harmony."

Ron nodded along, clearly familiar with this part of the story, but he let Jackie continue without interruption.

"Then," Jackie said, and her voice dropped, becoming darker, "a great darkness came."

The casual afternoon atmosphere of the library seemed to shift. Even the dust motes seemed to still.

"It was a creature of pure entropy and despair," Jackie said quietly. "A primordial thing, something that existed before even Dementors were thought of. It swept across the land, withering life and hope wherever it went. Crops died. Animals fled. People fell into despair so profound they simply... stopped. Stopped eating, stopped moving, stopped living."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. There was something deeply unsettling about the description, something that made him think of the Dursleys' house—that particular kind of grey, suffocating despair.

"It came to Cillian's sacred grove," Jackie continued, her voice steady but weighted with the gravity of the story. "The heart of his power. And it began to drain the life from it. The trees withered. The flowers died. The magic that had taken centuries to cultivate began to unravel like a tapestry being pulled apart thread by thread."

She paused, letting the weight of that sink in.

"Cillian stood before the ancient, central tree—a massive, silver-barked thing known as the Heartwood," Jackie said. "It was the oldest tree in the grove, the source of all the magic there. And he knew something that most people wouldn't have understood."

"What?" Hermione asked, completely absorbed.

"He knew he could not destroy the darkness with force," Jackie said. "He could not fight it with spells or strength. Force doesn't work against entropy. It just feeds it, gives it more to consume. So, he made a different choice."

Ron leaned back in his chair, a slight smile on his face. "This is the good bit," he said to Harry, his voice low. "Wait for it."

"He channeled all of his own life force, his magic, and his unwavering spirit into the Heartwood," Jackie said, her voice growing quieter, more intense. "He created a shield of pure, stubborn life against the consuming nothingness. Not through aggression, but through absolute, unshakeable presence."

"He didn't die?" Hermione asked, her voice uncertain.

"No," Jackie said. "But he stood there, rooted—literally rooted, his feet sinking into the earth, his body becoming part of the tree—for three days and three nights. A lone man holding back the tide of despair through sheer will. Through sheer love for what he was protecting."

Harry found himself thinking about the weight of responsibility, about standing alone against something overwhelming. He understood that, in a way that made his chest tight.

"For three days," Ron said, his voice filled with wonder even though he'd clearly heard this before, "just standing there. Not moving. Not sleeping. Just... holding on. Mental, innit?"

"It's extraordinary," Hermione breathed.

Jackie nodded slowly. "The darkness tested him. It tried to break through his shield, to find cracks in his resolve. But Cillian didn't waver. He thought of every tree in his grove, every flower, every creature that depended on that magic. And he held for them."

"On the third night," Jackie continued, "something changed. The darkness, which had never encountered anything it couldn't consume, began to recede. Not because Cillian defeated it—he couldn't have. But because his refusal to break, his absolute commitment to protecting what he loved, was something the darkness couldn't understand. It couldn't consume something that wasn't afraid of it."

She paused, letting them absorb this.

"His act of ultimate self-sacrifice and guardianship did not go unnoticed," Jackie said. "The Fates, or perhaps ancient nature spirits that pre-dated even wizardkind, took notice. They saw a heart that was not just good, but steadfast. A will that was not just strong, but enduring."

"The Fates?" Harry asked. "Like the ones from Muggle mythology?"

"Similar concept," Jackie said. "Whether they're the same entities or just similar manifestations of ancient power, I'm not sure. But what matters is that they saw Cillian's choice, and they were moved by it."

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with the wonder of the story.

"As the darkness receded, broken by the immovable object of Cillian's love, the spirits came to him," Jackie said. "They appeared in the grove as light—not harsh or blinding, but warm and alive. And they blessed him. They infused his bloodline with their essence, granting his family a permanent connection to the fundamental forces of reality. A magic that was innate, physical, and reflective of the spirit."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Hermione asked, her analytical mind already working through the implications.

"It means," Jackie said slowly, "that the magic we carry isn't something we learn or develop through study. It's something we're born with. It's part of our very being, woven into our DNA as surely as the color of our eyes. It's not magic we do—it's magic we are."

Ron nodded enthusiastically. "My dad said it's like... it's not magic you do, it's magic you are. That's how he explained it to me, anyway."

"That's actually a perfect way to put it," Jackie said, smiling at Ron. "The name 'Cloverleaf' was adopted to symbolize this new chapter. The Clover for Cillian's humble beginnings and its association with luck—his fortune in surviving. And the Leaf representing growth, family, and the unique path each member would take."

Harry noticed something in her tone—a deliberate emphasis on the word "unique."

"Did other families know about this?" Hermione asked, her mind already jumping ahead. "About the blessing?"

Jackie nodded. "They knew about Cillian Clover and his sacrifice. It's part of wizarding history—the Horticultural Mage who stood against the primordial darkness and won through sheer will. There are texts about it in the restricted section, actually. But what they don't know—what they can't know—is the inheritance law. The structure of how the blessing works, how it manifests in each generation."

"Why not?" Harry asked, his curiosity heightened.

"Because," Jackie said carefully, "if that information got out, if other families knew exactly how our magic worked, what we were capable of, how it was distributed... it would make us targets. It would make us vulnerable. So we keep it secret. We let people know we're powerful, but we don't explain why. We don't explain how."

Hermione's expression shifted as she understood the implications. "That's why you don't carry written records of it around."

"Exactly," Jackie said. "This story, this knowledge—it's passed down orally, from parent to child, from trusted friend to trusted friend. The only written records are securely kept in Cloverleaf Castle. I'm telling you because you've proven yourselves trustworthy. And because you deserve to understand."

Hermione nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of that trust.

Jackie settled back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap.

"But the blessing came with a structure," she continued. "A magical law woven into the very fabric of our bloodline. It's called the Inheritance Law, and it governs how the magic manifests in each generation."

She looked at each of them in turn before continuing.

"The Firstborn Child inherits the 'Guardian's Power,'" Jackie explained. "The established, foundational ability of their Cloverleaf parent. This ensures that the lineage's core strength and knowledge is preserved and passed down, creating a continuous line of protectors. They are the Stem—the continuation of what came before."

"So Thaine inherited something from your father?" Hermione asked.

"Exactly," Jackie said. "Our father was extraordinarily fast—not just on a broomstick, but in everything. Enhanced reflexes, accelerated movement, the ability to perceive and react to things faster than normal wizards can. Thaine inherited that. It's why he's such an exceptional Chaser. The speed is in his blood, passed down from father to son."

Ron grinned. "Your dad is mental fast. I've only seen him a few times, but Merlin, he can move."

"He can," Jackie agreed. "And Thaine has that same gift. But Caroline and I..." She paused, her expression becoming more thoughtful. "We're what's called the New Leaves."

"New Leaves?" Harry asked.

"Subsequent children—children born after the first—don't inherit the Guardian's Power," Jackie explained. "Instead, the magic within us manifests a new, unique ability that is a direct reflection of our own nascent personality, spirit, and potential. We expand the family's reach and understanding of magic in unexpected ways."

She leaned back in her chair, her expression becoming more animated as she described her sister.

"Caroline has telekinesis," Jackie said. "Or more accurately, wandless magic. She can cast spells with her hands, but a wand is better for precision and control. It's an expression of her nature—she's always been independent, precise, methodical. Her magic reflects that. She can move objects, manipulate energy, all without ever touching her wand."

"That's incredible," Hermione said, her eyes wide.

"And me," Jackie continued, "my ability is different. I have superhuman strength. I'm more durable physically and magically. My spells are stronger, though that's not always a good thing in some cases. It can be... excessive."

She flexed her hand, and Harry could almost see the power thrumming beneath her skin—not threatening, but present. Real.

"It reflects my nature too," Jackie said. "I'm protective, physical, direct. I solve problems by moving through them rather than around them. My magic is the same way. I'm strong because I need to be strong—to protect the people I care about, to move through obstacles rather than around them."

Ron leaned forward. "It's cool, innit? I thought so myself when I heard for the first time! Your dad explained it to me like this: Caroline's magic is like a scalpel—precise and controlled. Jackie's is like a hammer—powerful and direct. And Thaine's isn't magic at all, really, it's just... him, but faster. All three of them are expressions of who they are."

"That's a good way to think about it," Jackie said, nodding at Ron appreciatively. "My mum used to say that the blessing doesn't create abilities out of nothing. It amplifies what's already there. It takes who you are at your core and magnifies it, gives it magical expression."

Harry found himself staring at Jackie with new understanding. She'd just described the burden of inherited power, of being born with something that defined you, that you had no choice in.

"So Thaine," he said slowly, "he inherited the responsibility of being the Guardian? Of carrying on what your father had?"

"In a way," Jackie said. "He inherited the power, yes. But more than that, he inherited the expectation. The knowledge that the family's primary line of defense, the core of what makes us Cloverleafs, rests on his shoulders. He has to be good enough. He has to be strong enough. Because if he's not, the family's foundational magic weakens."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, processing this. "That's... that's a lot of pressure."

"It is," Jackie said simply. "Thaine handles it well—better than most would. But it's there, always. The weight of knowing that your power isn't just yours, it's your family's legacy."

Harry felt something shift in his chest. He understood that weight. He lived with it every day—the knowledge that he was Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the one who defeated Voldemort. He'd been born into a responsibility he'd never asked for, and it defined everything about him.

"And you and Caroline?" Hermione asked. "You didn't inherit that responsibility?"

"We inherited a different one," Jackie said. "The responsibility to discover who we are, what our magic means, how we can use it in ways that haven't been explored before. In some ways, that's harder. We have no template, no precedent. We have to figure it out ourselves."

Ron nodded along. "Your mum told my mum that it was actually harder for you and Caroline in some ways. Because Thaine knew what to expect, but you two had to find your own path. She said Caroline took it very seriously—spent hours in the library figuring out the theory behind her abilities. And you just... started throwing things around and figured it out as you went."

Jackie laughed, a genuine, warm sound that seemed to ease some of the weight in the room. "That's a fair assessment. Caroline approached it academically. I approached it... more experientially."

"You threw things?" Hermione asked, her eyes wide.

"I threw a lot of things," Jackie admitted. "Furniture, mostly. My poor parents. But that's how I learned. I had to understand my own strength by testing it, by pushing it, by seeing what I could do. Caroline read about wandless magic theory. I just... did it."

As Jackie finished the story, Harry found himself looking at her differently. Not just as his friend, not just as the chaotic, protective girl who'd defended him from Draco and Hermione from Ron's thoughtlessness.

But as someone who understood, in a way that few people could, what it meant to be born into something larger than yourself.

The library had grown quieter as they talked, the afternoon light shifting toward evening. Other students had drifted away, leaving them in their small pocket of relative privacy.

"Thank you," Hermione said quietly. "For telling us. For trusting us with this."

"You earned it," Jackie said simply. "Yesterday, when we faced the troll together, you became part of something. You became part of our story. And I wanted you to understand what that means."

Later, after Hermione had peppered Jackie with questions about the mechanics of wandless magic, and Ron had shared a few more anecdotes about his family's friendship with the Cloverleafs, Harry offered to walk with Jackie to Hufflepuff Basement as the others went back to Gryffindor Tower.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, moving through the quiet corridors of the castle. The torches had been lit as evening fell, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.

"You're thinking very loudly," Jackie said eventually, a slight smile in her voice. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head."

Harry hesitated, unsure how to articulate what he was feeling.

"The story," he said finally. "About Cillian, and the responsibility, and being born into something you didn't choose..."

"Yeah?" Jackie prompted gently.

"I think..." Harry paused, choosing his words carefully. "I think the Cloverleafs might be the only ones who could really understand what it's like. To be born with something that defines you. Something that makes you responsible for more than just yourself."

Jackie was quiet for a moment. Then she reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

"You're right," she said softly. "We probably are. And Harry? For what it's worth, I think you're handling it better than most would. Better than I would, probably."

"You handled a troll yesterday," Harry pointed out.

"With help," Jackie said. "That's the thing about being born into something big—you don't have to carry it alone. That's what Cillian learned. That's what the blessing was really about. Not just power, but connection. The ability to stand with others."

She stopped walking and turned to face him, her expression serious but warm.

"You're not alone in this, Harry," she said. "You have us. You have Ron and Hermione and me. And if you need to talk about the weight of it all, about what it means to be born into something you didn't ask for... we're here. We understand."

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence, and Harry felt something settle in his chest. A sense of being understood, of not being quite so alone in the weight he carried.

The Cloverleafs might be extraordinary, but they were also, in their own way, just like him.

And somehow, that made everything feel a little bit lighter.

Chapter Text

November crept over Hogwarts with a sharp chill that seemed to settle into the stones themselves. Frost clung to the edges of the courtyard each morning, and the sky often hung low and gray, promising snow that never quite arrived. For Harry, November meant only one thing.

Quidditch.

The realization hit him fully one evening as he lay sprawled across his bed in Gryffindor Tower, Quidditch Through the Ages open but unread on his chest. In just a few days, he would be flying in front of the entire school—against Slytherin. Against people who would love nothing more than to see him fail.

He swallowed, staring up at the canopy. He'd faced trolls and terrifying teachers already, but this felt different. This wasn't about survival. This was about proving something.

Thankfully, Hermione had become his academic lifeline.

"You're going to fail Transfiguration if you keep thinking a broomstick excuses you from homework," she said briskly one evening in the library, though there was less sharpness in her voice than there had been weeks ago.

"I'm not excusing it," Harry said weakly. "I just... haven't had time."

Hermione sighed but slid his parchment closer anyway. "Fine. Show me what you've done."

She spent the next hour patiently explaining the concepts, breaking them down into manageable pieces, asking him questions to make sure he understood rather than just memorizing. By the time she was done, Harry had a decent draft of his essay and a much clearer understanding of the material.

"Thank you," Harry said, meaning it deeply. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably fail most of your classes," Hermione said with a slight smile. "But you're welcome. That's what friends are for."

Ron, who was sprawled across an armchair nearby, grinned. "Blimey, Hermione, you're getting soft. A month ago you would have lectured Harry for two hours about time management and the importance of keeping up with his studies."

"I still believe in that," Hermione said primly. "But I also believe in being reasonable. And Harry is doing something extraordinary. The least I can do is help him manage the academic side of things."

"Speaking of extraordinary," Jackie appeared then, flopping into the armchair beside Hermione with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested she'd been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.  "Hermione Granger. Savior of grades. Patron saint of overworked first-year athletes."

Hermione flushed faintly but smiled despite herself. "I'm just helping a friend."

"You're being brilliant, is what you're being," Jackie said, sitting up and studying Hermione with the intensity of someone examining a particularly interesting puzzle. "Though your hair is absolutely tragic."

Hermione's hand flew to her head self-consciously. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," Jackie said, standing up and moving toward her. "But it could be so much better. Come here. Let me show you something."

Before Hermione could protest, Jackie had her sitting in front of the fire, armed with various hair products and enchantments that she'd somehow acquired. She worked with surprising skill, taming the frizz, adding shine, arranging the curls into something that was still distinctly Hermione but somehow more polished, more intentional.

Harry watched, fascinated, as Jackie worked Hermione's hair into something neat and intentional—pulling sections back, twisting and braiding in a way that made the bushiness look less like a flaw and more like a feature.

When Jackie finished, she stepped back with a satisfied grin. "There. Perfect. "

Hermione hesitantly touched her hair, then caught sight of her reflection in a darkened windowpane. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she breathed. "It's... it's actually staying. It looks..."

"Beautiful," Jackie said simply. "Because it is. You just needed someone to help you see it."

Ron, who had been pretending not to stare, very obviously stared. His ears went bright pink.

"You look—uh—different," he said, eloquently.

Harry smiled, warmth spreading through his chest as Hermione straightened a little, shoulders squaring with newfound confidence.

"How did you do that?" Hermione asked.

"Trade secret," Jackie said with a grin. "Though it helps when you've got bushy hair yourself." She tugged her own hair back, revealing intricate braiding woven through with small silver charms that glinted in the candlelight. "We've got to stick together. Bushy-haired witches unite."

Hermione laughed, and Harry thought she looked happier than he'd ever seen her.

The next day, the cold was biting enough that Harry's breath fogged the air as they sat in the courtyard during break. Hermione, Jackie, Ron, and Harry huddled close together, their cloaks pulled tight.

"I'm going to freeze," Ron complained, hugging himself. "Why did we come out here?"

"Because it's nice," Hermione said simply, her new braids catching the pale sunlight. "And because we needed a break from the castle."

Hermione glanced around, then flicked her wand. A small, controlled flame sprang up between them, warming the air instantly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "When did you get so good at rule-breaking?"

Hermione flushed slightly. "I'm not breaking rules. I'm just... being practical. It's not like we're doing anything dangerous."

"A month ago, you would have been horrified at the thought of conjuring unauthorized fire," Ron pointed out, but he was grinning.

"A month ago, I didn't have friends who made me realize that sometimes the rules are less important than people," Hermione said, glancing at Jackie. "Besides, it's just a small fire. No one will even notice."

But someone did notice.

Snape emerged from the archway, black robes billowing, his face pinched with irritation—and pain. Harry noticed it immediately: the way Snape favored one leg, the slight hitch in his step.

Snape's eyes landed on Harry's book.

"Quidditch Through the Ages," he sneered. "Library books are not to be taken outside the school. Five points from Gryffindor," Snape said, snatching the book from Harry's hands. "For carelessness."

Harry's fists clenched. The accusation was absurd—he'd seen dozens of students carrying library books in the courtyard. It was a transparent excuse to punish him, and they all knew it.

Jackie, however, tilted her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at Snape's limp.

"Professor," she said, brightly concerned, "are you alright? You're limping. Do you need help getting to the hospital wing? I'm quite strong—I could carry you if needed."

For a split second, Snape looked genuinely stunned. His sneer faltered, and something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. Something that looked almost like pain, but not the physical kind.

"That will not be necessary, Miss Cloverleaf," he said coldly. "And I suggest you refrain from such inappropriate sentimentality or else I'll take points from Hufflepuff."

But he didn't actually deduct the points. Harry watched as Snape seemed to reconsider, his hand hovering over his wand before dropping back to his side. He limped away without another word, still clutching Harry's book.

"Well," Ron said into the silence that followed, his voice uncertain. "That was weird."

"He's clearly injured," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Did you see how badly he was limping?"

But Harry wasn't thinking about that at the moment. He sat seething, anger burning hotter than Hermione's fire. "He made up that rule just to take points from me. I've seen dozens of students with library books outside."

"You're right," Jackie said. "That was completely unfair. But we should find out what's wrong with his leg. It looked serious."

That evening, Harry decided he needed to get his book back. He'd been using it for research, and he needed it for his Quidditch preparation. More than that, he was angry at the injustice of Snape's arbitrary punishment, and the anger was driving him forward, overriding his usual caution.

He crept down the corridor toward Snape's office, moving as quietly as he could. His footsteps echoed softly on the stone floor.

As he approached Snape's door, he heard voices—Snape's and Filch's.

Snape and Filch were inside alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages.

"Blasted thing," Snape was saying. "How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?"

Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but –

"POTTER!"

Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped.

"I just wondered if I could have my book back."

"GET OUT! OUT!"

Harry bolted, his mind spinning.

Back in the common room, Harry told Ron, Hermione, and Jackie everything in a rushed whisper, huddled in the corner by the fire.

"Three heads?" Ron said, his eyes wide. "What kind of creature has three heads?"

"A Cerberus," Hermione said slowly. "From Greek mythology. But those are Muggle stories. There's no such thing as a magical three-headed dog."

"There is," Jackie said, her expression thoughtful. "I've read about them. They're rare, but they exist. Extremely dangerous. Extremely valuable."

"What's a three headed monster doing at Hogwarts anyway?" Harry asked warily, his mind already spinning with possibilities. "Why would Dumbledore have something like that?"

They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, the implications hanging heavy in the air.

"We should ask Caroline," Jackie said suddenly. "She hears things. Percy tells her things because he respects her intelligence. She's a close family friend, and he trusts her. If anyone knows what's going on, it's her."

So, that same evening, they found Caroline in the library sitting at a table with Fred and George, who were clearly being forced to do their homework. Caroline sat between them like a stern governess, occasionally pointing at their parchments and making corrections with the kind of authority that would have seemed comical if it wasn't so effective.

"You're doing it wrong," she said coolly, tapping Fred's essay with her wand. "Again. The properties of moonstone are not interchangeable with those of starlight. They have fundamentally different magical signatures."

"Right, yeah, of course," Fred said, though he looked more interested in watching Caroline work than in actually understanding the material.

George caught sight of them approaching and grinned. "Oi, Jackie! Come to rescue us from the tyranny of academic excellence?

"Actually," Jackie said, sitting down across from her sister with practiced casualness, "I came to ask Caroline something."

Caroline looked up from Fred's Potions essay, one eyebrow arching with perfect precision. "Jackie. What brings you to the library? And why do you have that expression? You only get that expression when you want information."

"Caroline, my lovely sister," Jackie said, her voice taking on that particular tone she used when she wanted something. "Do you know anything about a three-headed dog at Hogwarts?"

Caroline's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes—a recognition of the question's importance.

"Percy mentioned it," she said calmly.
"Apparently, Dumbledore acquired it over the summer. It's being kept in a locked room on the third floor as part of some sort of... security measure. Why?"

"Just curious," Harry said, but his eyes were sharp, his mind already working through the implications.

Caroline's eyebrow raised and her mouth opened as if she going to ask a follow up question but fortunately Fred got to it first.

"A three-headed dog? That's brilliant!" Fred's eyes lit up with the kind of mischievous glee that suggested he was already planning something elaborate. "Imagine the pranks we could pull with something like that! We could—"

"Absolutely not," Caroline said flatly, not even looking at him. "That information is not to be used for pranks. If you even think about going near that dog, I will personally inform Dumbledore, and he will ensure you spend the rest of the year in detention."

George grinned. "Sounds like someone's protective of school property. Or maybe protective of something else?"

He glanced meaningfully at Fred, who suddenly became very interested in his essay, his ears turning a brilliant shade of red.

"Not a word to anyone else about the dog," Caroline said brushing over George's comment with the efficiency of someone who'd dealt with twin nonsense her entire life. "I know exactly what you would do," Caroline said. "And Percy would stop telling me valuable information ahead of time if he knew I'd shared it with you two."

"We promise," George said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Besides, Freddie seems way more interested in staring at you than orchestrating a prank right now."

"Shut up, George," Fred said, his voice strangled, his face now matching his hair in terms of redness.

"If you continue to tease your brother instead of doing your homework," Caroline said, her voice taking on that glacial quality, "I will also inform Percy that you've been neglecting your Potions homework. I believe he takes academic standards quite seriously."

"Right then," George said quickly. "I'm done teasing. Absolutely finished. Back to work."

Jackie grinned at her sister, who simply returned to her work as if the entire exchange hadn't happened.

"Thanks, Caro. Love you!" Jackie called as they walked away.

"...Love you too, Jackie." Caroline responded, her voice low and barely audible, but warm.

"So Snape must have tried to steal whatever the dog is guarding," Harry said as they walked back to the common room, his voice low and urgent.

"Snape must've tried to steal it," Ron said assuredly, his expression darkening. "That's why he was bitten. He was trying to get past the dog."

"But that doesn't make sense," Hermione said, frowning. "A teacher wouldn't try to steal something from Dumbledore. That's... that's treason. That's unthinkable."

"I wouldn't put anything past Snape," Ron said darkly. "He's always been dodgy. I've never trusted him."

"But what would he risk his job for?" Jackie asked, her practical nature cutting through the speculation. "He's a teacher. He has security, a position, a place here. What could possibly be worth risking all of that?"

"Something important," Harry said. "Something valuable."

They stew in silence for a moment wondering what it could be.

"We need to find out what's on the third floor," Hermione said finally. "Behind that locked door. If we understand what the dog is guarding, we might understand why Snape wanted it."

"That's insane," Ron said immediately. "We can't go near that thing. Did you see what it did to Snape?"

"I know," Hermione said. "But we need to know. For Harry's sake, if nothing else. If Snape is planning something, if there's something dangerous at Hogwarts, we need to understand it."

"If you guys are planning something, don't keep me out of it," Jackie said, her voice firm. "You could use some muscle if things go south. And I'm not letting you three walk into danger without backup."

They all nod understanding, the weight of the mystery settling on their shoulders like a cloak. Jackie and three split up, heading to their respective dormitories, each having their mind on the mystery.

Harry went to sleep that night with the question still echoing in his mind. What could possibly be important enough for Snape to risk everything? And what was Dumbledore protecting with a three-headed dog?

The mystery gnawed at him, keeping him awake long into the night, his mind spinning with possibilities and fears.

The next morning, Harry felt terrible. He hadn't gotten much sleep, his mind too full of questions and speculation. At breakfast, he could barely choke down a piece of toast. His stomach was tied in knots—partly from worry about the match, partly from the mystery of the three-headed dog.

Ron noticed immediately.

"You alright, mate?" he asked, pushing a plate of eggs toward Harry. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Didn't sleep much," Harry admitted. "Too much on my mind."

"The match?" Hermione asked gently.

"Everything," Harry said. "The match, Snape, the dog, all of it."

"You're going to be brilliant," Hermione said firmly. "You've trained harder than anyone I know. You're ready for this."

"She's right," Jackie said, appearing beside them with a plate piled high with food. "You're going to go out there and catch that Snitch before the Slytherins even know what's happening. And then we're going to celebrate properly."

By eleven o'clock, the whole school was at the Quidditch field.

The stands were packed with students, their house colors bright against the grey November sky. Gryffindor supporters were everywhere, waving scarlet and gold flags, their voices raised in excited chatter.

Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Seamus had painted a banner—"POTTER FOR PRESIDENT"—in bold letters, and they'd strung it across the Gryffindor section of the stands. When Harry saw it, he felt a small flutter of something warm in his chest despite his anxiety.

And then he saw Jackie.

She was wearing a cheerleader outfit—scarlet and gold, fitted perfectly to her frame, with her hair pulled back in an elaborate braid woven with silver charms. She was grinning widely, clearly ready to lead cheers for the Gryffindor team.

"Come on, Gryffindor!" she called out, her voice carrying across the field. "Let's show Slytherin what we're made of!"

Harry couldn't help but smile brightly when he saw her. His friends were there for him and that lifted his heart.

In the locker room, Oliver Wood gave his pre-match speech. His voice was intense, his eyes burning with the fire of competition.

"This is it," he said, looking at each of them in turn. "This is what we've been training for. Slytherin thinks they can beat us. They think they can take the Quidditch Cup. But they're wrong. We're faster, we're stronger, and we're better. And with Potter as our Seeker..." He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "We're unstoppable."

The team walked onto the field, and the crowd roared.

Madam Hooch stood in the center of the pitch, her whistle in hand, waiting for both teams to take their positions. The Slytherin team emerged from their locker room, their green and silver robes gleaming.

Harry mounted his Nimbus 2000, his hands steady despite the butterflies in his stomach. He could see the banner—"POTTER FOR PRESIDENT"—fluttering in the stands. He could see Jackie in her cheerleader outfit, her face bright with encouragement.

He could see Hermione and Ron cheering, their voices lost in the roar of the crowd but their enthusiasm unmistakable.

Madam Hooch raised her whistle to her lips.

Harry took a deep breath, positioning himself high above the field. Below him, the Chasers were taking their positions, the Beaters were checking their bats, the Keeper was settling into place.

This was it. His first real match. His chance to prove himself.

Madam Hooch blew the whistle.

The Quaffle was released, and the match began.