Archive of Our Own

Once upon a time, in an old village far away, there lived a boy named Harry, who owned nothing but the clothes on his back.

Although the place he called home was warm enough to keep out the winter chill, it was not a place of comfort. Instead, it was filled with endless chores, meagre amounts of food, and the constant reminder that he did not belong.

Harry had not always lived in misery. For you see, long ago, before misery had settled into his bones, Harry had lived in a small cottage with his two loving parents. His father was a cobbler, widely known for his ability to fix even the worst of shoes, while his mother was a seamstress who could hem almost anything. And though their little home had never been wealthy, it was rich with love.

But when Harry was still just a babe, tragedy struck. Both of his parents passed away, leaving him in the care of his only remaining family: his Aunt Petunia.

Now, Petunia Dursley was not a woman well known for being loving. Nor patient. Nor particularly pleasant. In fact, she had mastered the art of making life absolutely miserable for everyone, including those unfortunate enough to live under her roof.

Especially Harry.

To Petunia, her nephew was little more than an extra mouth and a pair of hands. From the moment he was old enough to hold a broom, Harry had been forced to undertake every household chore. He became the family servant, forced to scrub floors, cook every meal, wash mountains of dishes and run whatever errands Petunia had dreamed up that day. She insisted that clothing him, feeding him, and giving him somewhere to sleep, if you could call a cupboard underneath the stairs a bedroom, was more than enough kindness than he deserved.

Despite everything, Harry remained kind, for his heart was made of gold. He greeted others with a smile and rarely complained about his endless work. Yet no amount of optimism could change the truth. Harry was stuck in a life of servitude, never able to enjoy the luxuries his cousins took for granted.

Petunia’s sons, Vincent and Gregory, certainly weren’t helping matters. They spent their days lounging about the house while Harry did all the work. However, despite what most people assumed, they were spoiled but never intentionally cruel. Most of the time they simply copied whatever Petunia did without giving it much thought.

What Vincent and Gregory truly excelled at, however, was their astonishing ability to think exclusively about food.

Harry balanced a towering platter of fluffy pancakes, while carefully carrying bowls of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and buttery toast in the other. The rich aroma filled the dining room, making his stomach rumble despite knowing that there would be very little left for him once breakfast was over.

No sooner had the dishes touched the table than Vincent and Gregory appeared as though summoned by the smell alone. They hurried towards the table, practically climbing over one another in their eagerness to reach the food.

Harry couldn’t help but smile as he watched the two boys begin filling their plates. Whatever faults Vincent and Gregory possessed, they certainly weren’t shy about enjoying a meal.

“Leave some for the rest of us,” Harry reminded them as he reached for the toast.

The brothers paused as they both looked at each other.

Slowly, they looked back at Harry.

“We’ll try,” Vincent promised.

Harry knew immediately that this was not a promise he could trust.

Harry had only just begun washing the first breakfast dishes when a loud knock echoed throughout the house.

Petunia immediately abandoned her position in the sitting room, where she had been loudly critiquing Harry’s dishwashing skills, despite her inability to properly see what he was doing. She hurried to the front door, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from her dress before opening it with an elegant smile.

Standing outside was a postman, holding an ivory envelope adorned with silver trimmings and a dark forest green seal.

The Royal seal.

“Mrs. Petunia Dursley?” the postman asked politely.

After Petunia stiffly nodded, he continued, “By order of His Majesty, King Lucius Malfoy.”

At the mere mention of the King, Petunia’s eyes widened. She snatched the envelope from the postman’s hands.

“Thank you,” she said briskly before slamming the door in his face.

The man stood on the doorstep for a moment, staring at the closed door in surprise before slowly turning away.

Inside, Petunia wasted no time breaking the seal. Her eyes darted eagerly across the page, and before long, she gasped.

“VINNY! RORY! She shrieked, her voice echoing through the house. “Come here!”

Harry looked up from the sink as a muffled voice yelled out.

“C’n’t Mum! Haven’t fin’shed s’cond breakf’st yet!”

Another voice followed moments later.

“Yeah! We only just got to the sausages!”

“BOYS!” Petunia cried. “You will forget the sausages and come here this instant!”

A moment later, the two brothers came lumbering down the hall, still chewing enthusiastically. Harry watched as they wiped their greasy hands down the fronts of their shirts before looking expectantly at their mother.

Petunia recoiled with disgust.

For a brief moment she appeared ready to scold them, but one look at their innocent expressions told her the effort would be entirely wasted. Instead, she let out a long, suffering sigh.

“What happened?” Gregory asked, swallowing the last of his sausage.

Petunia dramatically held the invitation above her head, allowing even Harry to see what she was talking about.

“The King is hosting a Royal Ball!”

Gregory blinked before tilting his head.

“...Will there be food?” he asked curiously.

Petunia stared at him incredulously.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Of course there will be food. It is a Royal Ball. There will be roast meats, cakes, puddings, and important delicacies from neighbouring kingdoms. There will be enough dessert to feed an army!”

Gregory’s eyes grew wider with every word.

Vincent slowly turned towards him, his eyes sparkling.

No words were spoken between them. They were not needed.

“We’re going!” They said in unison, looking back at Petunia.

Petunia blinked.

“...You’re excited?” she asked hesitantly, confusion spreading across her face.

Vincent nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh yes! I’ve always wanted to meet the palace cooks," he said emphatically. “I wonder what they make.”

“I bet they make the most enormous pies ever,” Gregory added.

Petunia sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“The Prince will be there looking for a spouse!” she reminded them.

The boys stared at her blankly.

Gregory frowned, ready to start the meal related questioning again.

Harry quickly stepped in before that could happen, diverting the conversation back towards the actual invitation before Petunia could become more cross with his cousins.

“What does the invitation say?”

Petunia glared at him for speaking, but seemed too relieved to have the subject changed to punish him for it. She straightened her shoulders dramatically before reading aloud.

“By order of His Majesty, King Lucius Malfoy,” she cleared her throat before continuing, “Every eligible young man and lady throughout the Kingdom is invited to attend a Royal Ball celebrating the return of Prince Draco Malfoy.”

Her eyes gleamed as she continued.

“His Royal Highness shall meet with guests from across the Kingdom, with hopes of finding a suitable spouse.”

Petunia clutched the letter close to her chest when she finished, a wicked smile flickering across her face.

“This is our chance,” she murmured to herself.

“Yeah, our chance for unlimited food,” Gregory whispered to his brother.

“Our chance for royalty!” Petunia snapped.

The brothers exchanged another confused glance, clearly still more interested in the food than the Prince.

Before he could stop himself, Harry blurted out, “Can…Can I go too?”

The room fell silent.

Petunia turned slowly, her expression souring.

“You?” she repeated. “At the Royal Ball?”

Harry straightened his shoulders.

“The invitation decreed that everyone in the Kingdom is to attend.”

Petunia opened her mouth to refuse before pausing. Her eyes slowly travelled over Harry’s fraying clothes before drifting towards the endless list of chores on the wall, waiting to be done.

A smile spread across her face.

“Very well,” she said sweetly.

Harry’s face lit up

“Really?” he asked, just to make sure.

“Of course,” Petunia said as she folded the invitation neatly. “But only if you can finish every chore in the house before sunset on the night of the Ball…”
She gestured around the cottage before continuing.

“Scrub every floor, wash every window, weed the entire vegetable garden, polish every pair of shoes, clean the chimney, and prepare dinner before we leave.”

Harry’s small, hopeful smile slowly faded.

But Petunia wasn’t finished.

“Then,” she added, “If, and only if, you find something suitable to wear, I shall allow you to attend the Ball.”

Harry hesitated for only a moment before nodding sharply. His eyes burned with determination.

“I’ll do it.”

Petunia’s smile widened.

Harry could see the edge of her developing smirk as she swept from the room. Vincent and Gregory hurried after her, already theorising about which desserts the royal cooks might prepare.

Their voices faded down the hallway, leaving Harry alone in the kitchen.

He glanced towards the list of chores; it was already longer than his arm. And every single one of them had to be finished by sunset.

Harry drew in a slow breath as he rolled up the sleeves of his worn shirt.

Better get started, he thought.

The days leading up to the Royal Ball passed in a blur of endless work.

Each morning Harry rose long before the first rays of sunlight appeared in the sky. While the rest of the house remained quiet, he tended to the fire, kneaded bread for breakfast, and fetched fresh water from the village well.

By the time Petunia awoke, breakfast was already waiting on the table. And when Vincent and Gregory wandered sleepily into the dining room, Harry had already begun scrubbing the floors.

At first, Harry thought the list Petunia had given him would be enough. He quickly learned that she had no intention of making things easy.

As the week wore on, Petunia found more and more work for him to complete.

“If you’re cleaning the windows,” she called to Harry one afternoon, “you may as well polish the kitchen.”

Harry sighed quietly, but continued scrubbing

“And while you’re polishing it,” she added moments later, “don’t forget the silverware.”

Harry quietly nodded and returned to his work. Because, despite everything, he refused to give up. Every completed chore was another step towards the Royal Ball.

He scrubbed the kitchen floor until the wooden boards gleamed with lustre, polished every window until the glass sparkled like crystal, and weeded the vegetable garden beneath the hot afternoon sun. He cleaned the chimney until his face was covered in soot, and polished shoes until he could see his reflection in them

Every muscle in his body ached. His hands were blistered and stained with soil, and his clothes were damp with sweat. Yet he still smiled.
The Royal Ball was only a day away.

Finally, on the morning of the ball, Harry finished the final chore from Petunia’s list.

He stood in the kitchen, staring at the spotless floor with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. For the first time all week, there was nothing left on the list.

Or at least, there shouldn’t have been.

“There is one last thing,” Petunia hollered from the sitting room.

Harry closed his eyes.

Of course there was.

He turned towards the doorway.

“The spare candles,” she continued as she waved a dismissive hand, “fetch them from the attic. We’re almost out.”

Harry hurried upstairs.

The attic was little more than a dusty storage room. Slivers of the golden afternoon light made its way through the tiny round window, illuminating the thick dust that had settled over everything. Old furniture stood beneath yellowed sheets, broken toys were stacked inside wooden crates, and a broken picture frame leaned against the crusted walls.

Harry found the box of extra candles exactly where Petunia had said.

As he lifted it, however, something else was unearthed.

Half hidden beneath a faded blanket sat a small cedar chest. Carved into the wood was a familiar symbol.

A stag.

His breath caught.

Harry knew that carving. His father had used it whenever he repaired a pair of boots. He would carefully engrave the symbol into the leather as a mark of his craftsmanship.

With trembling fingers, Harry slowly lifted the lid.

Inside lay the few belongings Petunia had apparently deemed too worthless to sell.

Folded neatly on top rested a deep navy coat, embroidered with silver thread that curled across the cuffs and collar like ivy. Though the years had passed, the coat had remained here, preserved, as though it had been waiting for him.

Harry gently ran his fingertips across the soft fabric.

Beneath it lay an emerald waistcoat, almost the colour of his eyes, a pair of polished leather boots, and a silver cloak clasp shaped like a stag.

For a moment, Harry could almost picture his father wearing it, laughing in the village square while his mother adjusted the crooked collar with an affectionate smile.

Nestled beside the clothes was a small sewing kit. Inside, the thimble still gleamed, while neatly wound reels of emerald, navy, and silver thread sat alongside a tiny pair of scissors.

His mother’s sewing kit.

A deep longing travelled through Harry’s chest. For a long moment, Harry simply sat there, holding the memories of his parents close, wishing more than anything that they could have been there to see him grown.

Then, an idea struck him.

He lifted the coat from the chest and held it against himself. The sleeves were far too long and the shoulders too broad compared to his slim figure. But it was nothing a seamstress couldn’t have fixed.

Fortunately, Harry happened to be the son of one.

Harry stared incredulously at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging against the attic wall.

For the first time in years, he barely recognised the boy staring back at him.

The deep navy coat, once belonging to his father, had been carefully altered to fit his narrower shoulders. Harry had spent a few hours working on it, carefully unpicking old seams and stitching them back together with his mother’s thread.

The emerald waistcoat beneath it brought out the colour of his eyes, while his leather boots had been polished until they shone.

Harry began to smile as he focused on the old stag clasp that sat proudly against his chest.

While it wasn’t perfect, Harry didn’t mind. He had made it himself.

More importantly, he had made it from the things his parents had left behind.

Tonight, for the first time in a very long while, he wasn't going to be the servant boy, ordered to scrub floors or wash dishes. Tonight, he was going to be Harry.

And Harry was going to the Royal Ball.

Downstairs, the cottage whirled with activity.

Petunia rushed from room to room, checking and rechecking everything she had prepared for the evening. Her dress was an elegant shade of violet, decorated with enough lace and ribbons to make herself look as though she was wrapped in a curtain. In one hand, she carried a delicate wine glass, occasionally taking a small sip whenever the preparations became too stressful for her liking.

Vincent and Gregory were dressed in identical suits, though Gregory’s waistcoat was already beginning to strain around his stomach. He tugged at the fabric before turning towards his brother.

“Do you think I look royal?” Gregory asked.

Vincent considered him carefully, looking him up and down with the seriousness of someone considering an important matter.

“No.”

Gregory frowned. “Well, why not?”

“You look hungry.”

“I am hungry,” Gregory retorted, “Breakfast was hours ago!”

Vincent nodded solemnly. “Fair point.”

Petunia let out a long, exasperated sigh and took another sip of wine.

“Must you two discuss food at every opportunity,’ she said, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “Just try to behave yourselves tonight. We are going to the Royal Palace. I will not have either of you embarrassing me.”

Before either of them could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the staircase, catching their attention.

Everyone turned.

Harry stepped into the room and silence fell.

Vincent’s mouth dropped open. Gregory stopped halfway through reaching for a biscuit. Even Petunia stood, perfectly still, her wine glass hovering near her lips.

Harry stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand resting nervously against the banister. He shifted awkwardly beneath their attention. He had spent the last few minutes upstairs convincing himself that he looked perfectly respectable. Now, with three pairs of eyes fixed upon him, he suddenly felt far less certain.

Petunia slowly lowered her glass.

Her gaze travelled over him from head to toe. The navy coat. The emerald waistcoat. The polished boots.

The silver stag clasp.

Her eyes narrowed in recognition
.
“And just where did you get those?” she asked, her voice suddenly much colder.

Harry’s nervous smile faltered.

“They belonged to my father,” he answered.

Petunia’s expression hardened, her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass.

“I thought I threw those things away.”

“You didn’t,” Harry replied quickly. “They were in the attic, with the extra candles.”

Petunia stared at him.

Harry shifted his weight.

“I had to alter them a little,” he explained, “but Mum’s sewing kit was in the chest too. I thought…” He hesitated. “I thought it would be nice to wear something of theirs.”

For a brief moment, guilt flickered across Petunia’s face.

Then, it disappeared.

She lifted the wine glass to her lips and took a long, slow sip, as though the drink might soothe her building irritation.

It didn’t.

Finally, her eyes settled once more upon the silver stag clasp resting against Harry’s chest.

“And you intend to wear that?” she asked.

Harry glanced down at the clasp.

“Yes.”

Petunia gave a quiet scoff. “I see.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“You look ridiculous.”

The words were delivered so casually that Harry almost wondered if he had heard her correctly.

Vincent and Gregory exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

Harry frowned. He looked down at his clothes again. His mother’s thread, his father’s coat, the polished boots. He had thought he looked nice. He had even allowed himself to feel proud.

“I worked hard on them,” Harry said, his voice quieter now.

Petunia rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine.

“Oh, please. You found some old clothes in an attic and stitched them together. That hardly makes you suitable for a Royal Ball.”

“They’re my father’s clothes,” Harry reminded her.

“That doesn’t make them appropriate,” she retorted.

“I think they’re fine.”

Petunia’s eyes snapped back to him.

“They’re second-hand. You’re going to embarrass us,” she said, “So you can’t go.”

Her irritation was becoming more obvious. She swirled the wine in her glass, watching the dark liquid move around the bowl.

Harry took a breath before speaking again.

“You said I could go.”

Petunia’s hand stopped moving.

“I said you could go if you completed your chores and found something suitable to wear.”

“I did.”

Petunia stared at him as he gestured towards his clothes.

“I finished every chore you gave me. I scrubbed every floor, washed every window, cleaned the chimney, weeded the garden, polished all the shoes, and prepared dinner. I did everything you asked.”

His voice grew steadier as he spoke.

“And I found something suitable to wear.”

Petunia’s expression darkened.

“You are being incredibly ungrateful right now.”

Harry stared at her in disbelief.

“Ungrateful?” he repeated.

“Yes, ungrateful,” Petunia said sharply, “After everything I have done for you, you have the audacity to stand there and argue with me? I gave you a roof over your head. I fed you. I clothed you. I raised you when I had absolutely no obligation to do so.”

Harry’s face hardened.

“You gave me a cupboard under the stairs.”

Petunia’s grip tightened around the wine glass.

“And you should be grateful for it.”

“I’ve spent my entire life working for you, and I finished everything you asked me to do.”

Petunia stepped closer.

“That doesn’t mean you can suddenly parade around as though you’re royalty,” she said, her expression hardening. “You are not going to the Ball.”

Harry looked back at her.

“I am.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, as she took another step towards him, her wine glass still held firmly in one hand. “I said you are not going.”

Harry straightened his shoulders.

“And I said I’m going.”

“Stop arguing with me.”

“Then stop changing the rules!” Harry’s voice finally rose, echoing through the house.

Vincent and Gregory both looked at each other. Neither seemed entirely certain whether they should intervene, or quietly make themselves scarce.
Petunia, however, had stopped pretending to be calm entirely.

“You have always been difficult, but now you have become incredibly arrogant,” she snapped. “You find a few old clothes, and suddenly you think you’re better than us?”

Harry shook his head.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Take off the coat,” she demanded.

Harry stared at her.

“No.”

“Take it off now.”

“No,” he insisted again.

Petunia’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Give me that coat!”

Harry instinctively stepped backwards.

“No!”

Petunia lunged towards him, reaching for the front of his coat.

Harry twisted away, trying to keep her from grabbing the fabric.

“Aunt Petunia—”

“Hold still!”

“I said no!”

Petunia took another hurried step.

As she reached towards him, her foot caught on the edge of the rug. Her arms flailed dramatically, and the wine glass slipped from her fingers.

Harry’s eyes widened.

The glass tipped through the air, and a dark crimson stream of wine spilled from its rim. It splashed directly across the front of Harry’s carefully restored coat. The rich red wine soaked into the fabric, spreading across the silver embroidery and staining the emerald waistcoat beneath.

The glass struck the floor with a sharp crack.

Silence filled the room.

Harry stared down at himself, his mouth wide open. His fingers slowly rose to the ruined coat, his fingers trembling as they touched the wet fabric.

“No…” he whispered.

He had spent hours restoring it, carefully repairing every seam with his mother’s thread. He had polished the boots until they shone.

And now it was ruined.

Harry swallowed hard as he looked at the dark stain spreading across the fabric. He had imagined tonight so many times. Dancing beneath the chandeliers, walking through the gardens, seeing the castle from inside. All he had wanted was for one evening, one evening where he was something more than the servant boy from the cupboard under the stairs.

Now that dream was slipping away right before his eyes.

Petunia slowly regained her balance.

She looked down at the broken wine glass. Then at Harry. Then at the enormous stain covering his clothes.

For a brief moment, the corner of her mouth twitched, and a flash of a smirk covered her face, before an innocent expression overtook it.

Petunia sighed.

“Well, it seems you won’t be going after all.”

Harry’s face fell.

“You promised.”

Petunia straightened her dress and brushed an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve. Her lips curved into a small smile.

“I promised you could attend if you completed your chores and found something suitable to wear.”

She gestured towards his ruined clothes.

“Unfortunately, you don’t have anything suitable anymore.”

Harry stared at her in stunned silence.

Behind Petunia, Vincent and Gregory exchanged glances between themselves.

“Mum?” Gregory cautiously spoke up.

Petunia turned sharply.

“What?”

“Does this mean we can leave now?”

Petunia blinked.

“What?” she repeated.

“The Ball,” Gregory explained, pointing towards the door, “We’re going to be late.”

Vincent nodded.

“And you said the palace cooks start serving dinner at seven. What if they start without us?”

Gregory looked horrified at the very thought.

Petunia closed her eyes and took a slow breath.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

She swept towards the door, Vincent and Gregory hurrying after her.

Harry remained rooted to the spot.

As Petunia reached the doorway, she glanced back at him. For a moment, their eyes met.

Harry’s expression was devastated.

Petunia’s was cold.

Then, she turned away, slamming the front door shut behind them.

A moment later, the sound of carriage wheels rolling over the cobblestones echoed through the night.

Harry stood perfectly still.

He looked down at the ruined coat once more, his fingers gently brushing over the stainer silver embroidery.

A single tear slipped down his cheek and landed on the darkened fabric.

The Royal Ball was already beginning.

And Harry was going to miss it.

Harry remained standing alone, long after the sound of the carriage’s wheels had faded into the distance.

He looked down at his father’s now ruined coat, carefully touching the stained silver embroidery with trembling fingers. The wine had soaked through the navy fabric, leaving dark crimson patches across the front. Even if he managed to clean it, Harry knew the stain would never completely disappear.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat before wiping his eyes. He didn’t want to cry.

He turned away from the empty room and wandered towards the back of the house.

The garden had always been his favourite place.

It was the one part of the property that belonged entirely to him. Petunia rarely bothered coming outside unless she wanted to complain about weeds, and Vincent and Gregory had never shown much interest in flowers unless they could eat something growing from them.

Harry sank onto the old wooden bench beneath the large willow tree.

Above him, the evening sky was beginning to darken. The first stars appeared between the clouds. Somewhere in the distance, he could faintly hear music drifting from the village.

The Royal Ball had begun.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to imagine the palace. He pictured the grand ballroom, with its glittering chandeliers, polished marble floors and musicians playing from a balcony high above the dancers. He imagined people dressed in beautiful gowns and suits, while he sat alone in the garden wearing a ruined coat.

A bitter laugh escaped him.

What a stupid dream, he thought. I should have known better.

For several minutes, Harry sat in silence, listening to the distant music and the rustling leaves overhead.

Harry was taken out of his rumination by a blinding light.

Before he could investigate, a second flash of light erupted near the bushes.

This time, Harry jumped to his feet.

The golden glow burst across the garden, illuminating the flowers and trees as if someone had brought a miniature sun into the darkness. Harry raised an arm to shield his eyes while sparks of gold flitted through the air around him.

Then, the light vanished, and something landed heavily into the bushes.

There was a brief silence before the bushes began to move.

“Ow! Ron, move!”

“I’m trying!” another voice followed immediately.

“You’re standing on my dress!”

Harry watched in complete bewilderment as two pairs of legs emerged from the bushes. A young woman with bushy brown hair and an elegant lavender dress covered in leaves and twigs. She was attempting to brush the dirt from her sleeves with as much dignity as she could.

Behind her came a tall, red haired man, who looked considerably less concerned about his appearance. He had leaves tangled in his hair and a small twig sticking out from behind one ear.

Harry stared at them.

They stared back.

The red haired man finally removed the twig from his ear and examined it.

“Right,” he said.

The woman immediately straightened and attempted to regain some of her dignity.

“My apologies for the…unconventional entrance.”

The man brushed another leaf from his shoulder.

“We usually land somewhere a little less leafy,” he added.

The woman shot him an irritated look.

Harry looked between them, still completely confused.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The woman opened her mouth to answer, but the man spoke first.

“We’re your fairy godparents.”

Harry blinked.

“My what?”

The woman sighed.

“Ron,” she chastised.

“What?” Ron protested. “That’s what we are.”

She turned back to Harry and smiled apologetically.

“We’re your fairy godparents. I’m Hermione, and this is Ron.”

Harry looked at Hermione. Then Ron. Then back at Hermione.

“You’re my fairy godparents?” he questioned.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed.

Harry glanced at Ron’s messy hair, the garden’s leaves still caught in it.

“You’re a fairy godmother?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Technically, I’m a fairy godmother.”

Ron pointed proudly at himself.

“And I’m the fairy godfather.”

Harry smiled faintly, but it soon faded as he remembered why he had come outside in the first place.

“I can’t go to the Ball,” he said spontaneously.

Hermione’s expression softened.

“Why not?” she asked.

Harry glanced down at his ruined clothes.

“Because of this.”

He carefully explained everything that had happened, beginning with Petunia’s impossible list of chores and ending with the argument that had driven him into the garden. Hermione listened carefully, her expression becoming increasingly horrified as Harry described how Petunia had ruined his father’s coat.

Ron, meanwhile, looked down at the stained fabric with an intense expression.

When Harry finally finished, Ron folded his arms.

“Right,” he said. “We’re going to need a new coat, a carriage, and possibly a new aunt.”

Harry stared at him while Hermione sighed.

“Ron, we cannot simply replace his aunt.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how fairy godparents work!”

“Seems like a fairly obvious solution to me.”

Despite himself, Harry laughed.

The sound seemed to surprise him as much as it did the others. After the evening he had endured, he had almost forgotten what it felt like to laugh.

Hermione smiled before stepping closer and examined the ruined coat.

“Well, fortunately, I think we can fix at least one of your problems.”

Harry looked down.

“You can?” he asked hopefully.

Hermione nodded confidently as she drew her wand.

“Of course.”

Ron leaned over to Harry and whispered, “She’s very good at this.”

Harry watched as Hermione raised her wand towards his coat and gave a small flourish.

“Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo!”

Golden sparks burst from the wand and drifted across Harry’s clothes like fireflies. The wine stains began to shimmer, then slowly faded from the fabric. Before Harry’s eyes, the darkened navy cloth returned to its original colour. The silver embroidery repaired itself thread by thread, the tiny stitches weaving together. Even the emerald waistcoat was restored.

Harry looked down at himself in disbelief.

“You fixed it,” he said, his face revealing his shock.

Hermione lowered her wand with a pleased smile.

“Of course I did,” she replied.

Harry ran his fingers over the silver embroidery. It’s perfect, he thought.

Ron leaned closer.

“I was expecting more. Perhaps a ballgown or a pumpkin.”

Hermione looked at him incredulously.

“Why would I turn his coat into a pumpkin?”

“I don’t know. It seems like something a fairy godmother would do.”

“Honestly Ronald, that’s not how magic works and you know it.”

Harry looked between them.

“How does magic work then?” he asked.

Hermione’s face lit up as she explained, “Well, there are certain rules. Transformation magic is much more stable and best when you transform something into another thing of a similar nature. Living creatures should be transformed into other living creatures, for example. It’s safer, and the magic wears off much more naturally.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“So you can't turn anything into anything?”

“Not safely,” Hermione replied. “And certainly not without consequences.”

Ron pointed towards the hedge.

“Good thing we have some mice, then.”

Harry followed his gaze.

A small group of mice scurried beneath the bushes, their tiny bodies disappearing and reappearing between the leaves.

Hermione smiled.

She crouched down, holding out her hand expectantly.

The mice cautiously emerged from beneath the bushes. One by one, they gathered around her shoes.

Harry watched in fascination as she raised her wand again and repeated the words from earlier.

A bright light spread through the garden.

The mice shimmered, and their tiny bodies began to grow. Their little paws stretched into hooves as their fur changed into glossy coats. Within moments, four magnificent horses stood before Harry, their breath misting in the cool evening air.

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“They were mice,” he said faintly.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “And they’ll return to normal once the spell wears off.”

Ron nodded approvingly.

Hermione raised her wand once more, and suddenly two of the horses shimmered, their forms changing until one became a coachman while the other transformed into a driver.

Harry stared at them.

“Is that allowed?”

Hermione nodded.

“They are still living beings transformed into another living being. The magic is temporary, so there shouldn’t be any problems.”

Ron leaned towards Harry.

“She says that now. If anything goes wrong, we’ll be running.”

Hermione turned sharply.

“Ronald.”

“Oh, I’m only joking, Mione.”

Harry laughed again before he noticed something else.

Beyond the horses stood a magnificent carriage. Its emerald body gleamed beneath the milky twilight, with golden trim curled around its windows and doors. The wheels looked freshly polished, and lanterns hung from either side, already glowing despite the lack of flame inside them.
Harry approached it slowly.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said.

“Then I think we’re doing rather well,” Hermione replied with a smile.

Harry turned towards the pair.

“I don’t know how I could ever thank you.”

“You can start by enjoying yourself,” Hermione said.

Harry thought deeply about her words as he stared at his reflection in the carriage window. He could hardly believe that the person looking back at him was the same boy who had been sitting alone in the garden only moments before.

His fingers rose to touch the stag clasp.

“They would have loved this.”

Hermione stepped beside him, offering silent support.

“I’m sure they would have.”

Ron cleared his throat.

“Well, if we’re finished with this emotional part…”

Harry heard Hermione mutter something about a teaspoon beneath her breath before she turned towards Ron.

“Ron.”

“What?” Ron replied innocently. “We’ve got a Ball to get to!”

Harry glanced towards the castle in the distance. The palace lights were visible even from the garden, a bright beacon against the night sky.

Harry smiled; the night wasn’t over yet.

He turned towards the carriage and climbed inside, his heart racing fast with excitement.

Perhaps this really was the beginning of his happily ever after.

By the time Harry’s carriage reached the palace, any trace of sun had disappeared beyond the horizon.

The castle seemed even more magnificent at night. Its towering spires reached towards the sky while hundreds of glowing lanterns illuminated the pale stone walls. Music floated through the open doors, mingling with the laughter and conversations of guests inside.

Harry stared through the carriage window, completely in awe.

He had seen the castle from a distance many times, its towers rising above the village, but she had never imagined he would actually stand inside its walls. The thought made his stomach flutter with excitement.

“Here we are,” the coachman said as he opened the door for Harry.

“Thank you,” Harry replied earnestly.

He carefully stepped down from the carriage, smoothing the front of his navy coat before looking towards the grand entrance.

With a small smile, he walked towards the palace doors.

Inside, the ballroom was even more beautiful than he had imagined. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting hundreds of tiny reflections across the polished marble floor.

Harry stopped just inside the doorway, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people.

Everyone seemed to be dressed in magnificent gowns and finely tailored suits. The air was filled with the intense scent of flowers and expensive perfume.

Harry suddenly became very aware of his own appearance.

He touched the silver clasp at his chest, feeling less alone than before.

Before he could make his way further into the ballroom, a voice called out from nearby.

“Are you planning on standing there all evening?”

Harry turned.

A young man was casually leaning against one of the marble pillars, watching him with an amused expression. He was tall, pale, and strikingly handsome, with neat blond hair and sharp grey eyes. His formal black suit was decorated with subtle silver embroidery. On one of his hands was a silver ring bearing a serpent crest.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Are you planning on staring at me all evening?” he retorted.

The blond’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“You don’t seem particularly impressed by the palace,” the stranger observed.

“I am,” Harry replied honestly. “I’m just trying not to look like I’ve never seen anything this grand before.”

The blond looked around the ballroom before asking, “Have you?”

“No.”

“Then why pretend otherwise?”

The blond pushed himself away from the pillar and stepped closer.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Harry.”

The man smiled.

“Harry,” he repeated, as though testing the name.

There was something about the way he said it that made Harry’s stomach flutter.

“And yours?” Harry asked.

The blond paused for a moment before answering.

“Draco.”

Harry smiled.

“Draco,” he repeated.

“Do you know anyone here?” Draco asked.

“Not really,” Harry admitted, shaking his head. “I came alone.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Draco commented, “because I was going to ask you to dance, and now you’ll have no one to rescue you if I’m terrible.”

Harry laughed.

“Are you terrible at dancing?” he asked curiously.

Draco held out his hand.

“You’ll have to find out.”

Harry looked down at the offered hand before gently placing his own in it.

“Very well,” he said simply.

Draco led him onto the dance floor just as the musicians began another waltz.

Harry initially moved cautiously, afraid he would step on Draco’s feet or embarrass himself in front of everyone. However, Draco proved to be an unexpectedly patient partner, guiding him effortlessly around the ballroom.

“You dance quite well,” Draco remarked.

“Thank you,” Harry replied politely.

“You looked rather nervous when you came in,” Draco continued.

“I was.”

“Why?”

Harry glanced around the ballroom.

“Because I don’t belong here,” he said simply.

“That’s nonsense!” Draco retorted. “You don’t have to be born into wealth to belong somewhere.”

Harry studied him for a moment.

“That’s a surprisingly sensible thing to say.”

Draco scoffed.

“I am capable of being sensible,” he replied.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Draco laughed, and Harry soon found himself laughing with him..

“You know,” Draco said, “you’re rather honest.”

“I’ve never been very good at pretending,” Harry admitted.

“I like that.”

Harry looked at him.

“You do?”

Draco’s expression softened.

“Most people here spend all evening trying to impress one another. You’re the first person I’ve met tonight who simply says what he thinks.”

Harry smiled.

“I suppose that's a compliment.”

“It is.”

Their laughter blended with the music as they continued across the floor.

For the first time in Harry’s life, dancing didn’t feel like something reserved only for other people. He wasn’t worried about whether his clothes were expensive or whether someone would shout at him for stepping on the wrong floorboard.

He was simply enjoying himself.

As they danced together, the ballroom seemed to disappear.

Harry forgot all about Petunia. Forgot about the ruined coat. Forgot that he was supposed to be home before anyone noticed he was gone.
He was just Harry, dancing with a handsome stranger who made him laugh.

Eventually, Draco led him out onto the palace balcony.

The cool night air swept across Harry’s face, carrying the scent of roses from the gardens below. The music from the ballroom was softer now, replaced by the quiet sounds of the wind and distant voices.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” Harry whispered.

Draco looked at him, rather than the view.

“Yes,” he said.

Harry turned and caught him staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were staring,” Harry pointed out.

“I was,” Draco admitted, his cheeks colouring slightly. “I can’t help it.”

Harry’s own face warmed.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, a loud sound echoed through the air, startling Harry.

It was the bell strike for midnight.

His eyes widened as he looked towards the enormous clock tower.

Hermione’s warning suddenly rushed through his mind.

Be back before midnight.

Harry had forgotten. He had completely forgotten.

“Harry?” Draco said, confused by the sudden change in his expression.

“I have to go,” Harry said breathlessly.

Draco stared at him.

“Go?”

“Right now.”

Harry hurried back into the ballroom, with Draco following close behind.

“Wait! Why?” Draco shouted.

“I’ll explain later!”

He rushed through the crowd, barely noticing the confused looks from guests around him.

The second bell rang as he reached the grand staircase, but by then Draco had caught up to him.

“Harry, slow down,” he pleaded.

“I can’t!” Harry said as he turned towards him, heart pounding. “I promised someone I’d be home before midnight!”

“Who?”

“It’s complicated,” Harry insisted. “But I must go!”

Harry turned and ran.

“Harry!” Draco’s voice yelled out. Calling after him

He reached the palace entrance just as the third bell rang through the night. Harry heard Draco calling after him, but he didn’t stop. He rushed down the steps towards the carriage waiting at the end of the driveway.

As he reached it, Harry felt a tug against his chest.

He looked down.

The silver stag clasp was missing.

Oh, no, he thought.

He turned back towards the palace. Draco was standing at the top of the stairs. For one impossible second, Harry considered running back. Then, he remembered Hermione’s warning.

He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry!” Harry called out.

Harry climbed into the carriage and slammed the door shut before Draco could respond. The horses surged forward, carrying him into the darkness.
Draco watched helplessly as the carriage disappeared down the road.

As he slowly walked down the palace steps, something appeared in the corner of his eye. It glittered beneath the moonlight.

Draco bent down and picked it up.

It was a silver stag clasp.

His expression changed.

He knew that crest. Everyone in the kingdom knew it.

The Potter family.

Draco stared towards the road where Harry had disappeared.

Harry Potter, he thought.

The following morning, the house was unusually quiet.

Harry had barely slept. He had spent most of the night replaying the Ball in his mind, remembering Draco’s smile, his laughter, and the way he had looked at him beneath the moonlight.

Harry knew he would probably never see him again.

And somehow, that hurt more than he expected.

He was halfway through preparing breakfast when a loud knock echoed through the cottage.

Harry froze.

From the sitting room came Petunia’s voice.

“Harry! Get the door!”

Harry sighed and hurried towards it.

When he opened the door, he found himself staring directly into the grey eyes he had spent the entire night fantasising about.

Draco was on the doorstep.

Harry’s mouth fell open, and Draco smiled.

“Good morning,” he said simply.

Harry stared at him.

“You.”

“Me.”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked.

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver stag clasp.

“You dropped this.”

Harry’s hand immediately went to his chest.

He looked at the clasp, then at Draco, then back to the clasp.

Draco’s smile softened.

“I wondered if I might have finally found you,” he said.

Harry’s heart began to race.

“You knew?”

“I recognised the crest,” Draco explained. “The Potter family was one of the oldest families in the kingdom. Your father was quite well known.”

Harry’s expression softened. He looked down at the clasp Draco held out to him and carefully accepted it.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly.

Draco smiled.

“I believe I owe you another dance.”

Harry laughed softly.

“I think you do.”

Behind him, Petunia’s voice suddenly echoed through the cottage.

“Harry! Who’s at the door?”

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance in which Draco raised a singular eyebrow.

“Your aunt?” Draco asked.

Harry sighed.

“Unfortunately.”

Draco smiled.

Somewhere behind them, the sound of Petunia’s furious footsteps grew louder.

But for once, Harry wasn’t afraid of what was to come.

Because this time, he wasn’t alone.

And perhaps, after all those years of loneliness, Harry had finally found his happily ever after.