Chapter Text
Pomona’s heeled boots click on the pavement as she makes her way along Privet Drive, counting the house numbers that she passes. Number 10, Number 8, Number 6 — only the numbers themselves serve to differentiate the houses meaningfully. They’re nigh identical, and the mundane conformity of it makes her shake her head. Though muggleborn herself and not unfamiliar with such suburbs, Pomona’s family was never the sort of cling to the ordinary, the boring. She hopes that the family that dwells within Number 4 disproves her expectations, or at least can benefit from the shake up that always comes from an introduction to the magical world.
And there it is: Number 4 Privet Drive. The front garden is immaculate, which she observes with a pleased expression for a moment before she steps onto the walk up to the door.
“Uh, excuse me? Ma’am?” says a voice from out of a bush at the side of the garden.
Pomona pauses and looks over. Crouched near the glorious roses lining the driveway is a scrawny little boy, practically drowning in his overlarge, dirt-smeared clothing. There is mud on his hands and he’s holding a trowel as if he knows what to do with it, which makes her smile. He looks well-equipped for weeding. “Good afternoon,” Pomona says. “And who might you be?”
The boy’s eyes, visibly green even through thick, smudged glasses, blink at her. “Harry Potter,” he says. “Who’s asking?”
“Oh, wonderful! I am Pomona Sprout, professor of Herbology and Head of Hufflepuff house at Hogwarts,” she says promptly, and offers her hand for him to shake. “Looking for you, in fact. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Potter. Are your guardians about?”
That gets his attention, and his eyes narrow. Something in his expression sharpens until Pomona feels pinned by it.
“They’re not much for uninvited guests,” he says. “But if you’d like to leave a message I’ll let them know you stopped by.”
Pomona hesitates. It’s certainly not unheard of for a child to pass a Hogwarts letter on to their parents without the professor speaking to them themself, and it’s even common in cases involving exceptional accidental magic. No fooling yourself about magic being real when you’ve seen your child levitate the family pet with your own eyes. And Pomona remembers Harry’s parents; she wouldn’t be surprised if he was one of those cases, given how powerful the both of them were. Their temperaments, too, were of the sort that tend toward accidental magic: bold, stubborn, and quite fiery. If Harry has inherited any of that, he’s certain to have had his fair share of outbursts. Adding to that, of course, is the fact that Petunia Dursley already knows of the magical world; she grew up with Lily, after all. But that doesn’t mean she’s told anything to the young Mr. Potter, and Harry’s knowledge is necessary for her duty to be discharged. So.
“Well, I suppose you could speak to your guardians,” she says, “but you’ll need to know what you’re talking about first. So, let us see, Mr. Potter: have you ever seen something happen that you couldn’t quite explain? Something you badly wanted, perhaps when you were scared or angry?”
Harry’s eyes widen again, his expression returning to that of a child, no longer hard and shrewd as it had been for that nerve-wracking moment. He thinks hard about it, and then says, “I... turned my teacher’s hair blue, once. I think.”
Pomona smiles encouragingly. “And I’ll bet that’s not the only time something odd has happened, hm?”
“I - I suppose not,” he mumbles.
“Well, congratulations, Mr. Potter: you’re a wizard!”
“I’m a what?”
So Harry has been told nothing about their world. A shame, truly, but Pomona supposes it can’t be helped, what with being raised by muggles — sister of a witch or no, perhaps Mrs. Dursley simply didn’t feel equipped to discuss the magical world with her ward. “A wizard,” she repeats, chuckling. “There’s a whole separate magical world out there, Mr. Potter, and Hogwarts can be your bridge to it, if you wish.”
“Hogwarts?”
Pomona pats her pockets for a moment, then produces a sealed envelope addressed to Harry in emerald ink and a copy of the pamphlet they handed out to all their muggleborn students. She offers both to Harry. “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is the very finest school for magical education in all of Europe. That envelope there has your acceptance letter and a list of supplies you’ll need for your first year.”
Harry brushes as much dirt off his hands as possible, then slowly reaches out to take the letter and the pamphlet from her. He tears the envelope open neatly and scans its contents. After a moment, he peers up at her over the edge of the sheets of parchment. “This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?” he asks. “I mean — there’s no way there’s a mistake?”
“Certainly not,” Pomona says cheerfully. “You said it yourself: you’ve done magic. And the Registration Book never makes mistakes!”
Harry looks back down at the letter, then sighs and says, “You’d better come in then. They’re not going to believe it if I tell them.”
Pomona blinks at him for a moment, then follows the boy to the door and inside. He takes his shoes off in the entryway, so she emulates him, and then from the den a male voice hollers, “If you’re coming in, those gardens had best be weeded to perfection, boy!”
“We have a guest, Uncle Vernon,” Harry calls back, and a moment later Pomona hears heavy footsteps as someone climbs out of a chair and comes to the doorway of the den.
The man who appears looks not unlike a tomato: round and red-faced. He has a bushy moustache with a deep scowl beneath it, and when his small, dark eyes fix on her Pomona finds herself thinking that she has never seen a less pleasant-looking person. Then she brushes off the uncharitable thought and steps forward, holding out a hand. “Mr. Vernon Dursley, I presume! A pleasure.”
He looks suspiciously at her, but reaches out to shake her hand. “Certainly. And who are you?”
“My name is Pomona Sprout,” she says. “I am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and—”
Before she can explain that she is there to speak with him about his nephew, he withdraws his hand sharply from hers, his face going even further red, closer to pomegranate colour. “There’ll be none of that in this house!” he shouts. “Magic is not real! The boy’s a liar, and he’ll certainly not be going off to any school.” As he speaks, he makes a grab for Harry, and the boy skitters back to Pomona’s side just in time to avoid having his arm snatched quite harshly.
“Well!” Pomona says, surprised. “Mr. Dursley, I can assure you that magic is quite real, and Harry here will be in need of a good education.” To demonstrate, she draws her wand, and with a flick turns his shirt from the light blue it was before to a red that matches his face. Beside her, Harry giggles quietly before slapping a hand over his mouth.
“Wh— undo it!” Mr. Dursley shouts. “Petunia!”
From down the hall, a thin woman with sallow cheeks and thin brown hair appears. She has a pinched expression, clearly having heard her husband’s earlier exclamations. “Magic is not welcome in this house,” she says tightly, coming to stand beside Mr. Dursley.
“I never,” Pomona says. “Magic will have to be welcome in this house, as your nephew is certainly magical. As was your sister, Petunia Dursley! I knew her quite well, and her son seems a fine young man; I’m sure I don’t understand what all this fuss is about.”
“He’ll not be going off to some ‘school’ to learn freakish things,” Mr. Dursley insists. “Petunia told me all about the strangeness her sister did when they were children; no surprise she went off to learn about all that and right away got herself sent mad, and that good-for-nothing husband of hers too.”
“Sent mad?” Harry says, from beside Pomona. When she glances down at him, he has that hard look on his face again, this time directed at his uncle. “You told me they died. In a car crash.”
“A car—” Pomona stops herself forcefully and takes a deep breath. “Mr. Potter, your parents put themselves in grave danger to fight a war against a very evil man, and were harmed deeply trying to protect you. They certainly did not die in a car crash.”
“You mean they’re still alive?” Harry whispers.
Pomona nods, and bends down briefly to say to him, in a private tone, “Yes, Harry. I’ll take you to visit them as soon as we can, yes? They’re in a magical hospital.”
Harry nods, and reaches his dirty fingers up under his glasses to wipe away the tears from his eyes. He leaves smudges of earth behind, but he doesn’t cry.
Pomona turns back to the Dursleys, and says to them, “Why on earth you would have told him something like that is far beyond me.”
“We wanted him to be normal,” Mrs. Dursley says. “No growing up dreaming about magic and flying like my sister did. She always had her head full of dreams, and look what it got her. As good as murdered. And her son left on my doorstep to be a burden on me and my husband, all because of magic, which certainly has nothing to do with me.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Dursley said. “We’ll be having nothing to do with your kind.”
Pomona takes a slow, steadying breath. They are simply ignorant, she tells herself. And in any case, hexing them would certainly be illegal, though I doubt there is a jury that would convict me. “Your nephew is one of my kind, sir. Thus he must receive an education, and his parents provided for him to be educated well. So he shall go to Hogwarts. He has in hand his acceptance letter and his list of required supplies.”
“We’re not paying for any of this!” Mr. Dursley immediately bursts out.
“I did not say you would have to,” Pomona says. “His parents willed him funds to pay for his education. I shall return a week hence to bring him to Diagon Alley to do his shopping. On that day, or some other if we do not have time, I shall also be taking him to visit his parents. It is clear to me that you will insist on doing the bare minimum, so this is what is required of you: you shall ensure he is dressed for a day out when I return. Then you shall deliver him to King’s Cross Station on September the 1st, so that he may take the train to Hogwarts. Other than that, I need you only to keep him fed and give him a place to sleep, as I assume you have been doing. Yes?” When she asks at the end, she looks down at Harry, rather than at the Dursleys. The boy is staring back at her, then shrugs and darts his eyes toward the door of the cupboard under the stairs. Pomona resists the urge to close her eyes for sorrow. This boy’s life, she knows now, has not been what it should have been. But she will do what she can. “If I return in a week,” she says, “to find that he has been poorly treated due to my visit and his future as a wizard, I shall have no choice but to report you to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, who I am sure will have no trouble sorting you out.”
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley exchange a nervous look, then both nod. “We’ll have him ready,” Mrs. Dursley says. “Now… now leave our home! … Please.”
Pomona pats Harry on the shoulder, and says, “I’ll be back this time next week. Save up your questions for then, and I shall take you to lunch and answer as many as you can think of, hm?”
Harry nods and smiles up at her. His bright, genuine smile is truly beautiful; beneath the smudged glasses and muddy hands is a charming, pretty child who she is sure has a bright future in the magical world. Now she only needs to ensure that he has the chance to access it.
As promised, Pomona returns a week later. Petunia Dursley answers the door and shouts for Harry (“Boy!”), then sends them off together without a word of goodbye. This time, at least, Harry comes down the stairs from above, and is dressed in clothing that fits him. At Pomona’s gentle prodding, he admits that this single set of clothes was bought for him solely for this outing, but they’d given him his cousin Dudley’s second bedroom, and it had some broken toys and things that he could play with, which was better than what he’d had before. Pomona squashes her fury and instead compliments the cartoon character on the boy’s shirt, which makes him smile.
For the sake of the experience, Pomona suggests that they take the Knight Bus. Harry’s face goes absolutely white when the purple monstrosity appears out of thin air with a bang, but the ride makes him laugh and cling to the seat, and Pomona places a hand on his back to steady him. When they get off at the Leaky Cauldron, he’s grinning widely up at her.
Pomona greets Tom pleasantly but doesn’t linger in the pub, though Harry is looking around wide-eyed at its patrons. Certainly more varied folk than he’d have met on Privet Drive, Pomona thinks, and cannot wait to see his face when the doorway to the Alley itself opens and reveals Diagon in all its glory. And, indeed, Harry’s expression of sheer wonder does not disappoint. All the hustle and bustle astounds him, the people in their colourful robes, the shouts of children and hooting of owls, the strange smells and occasional pop or bang of spellwork. Smiling, Pomona offers her hand, and Harry takes it unselfconsciously, too busy staring about to worry about looking childish. She guides him cheerily through the crowds until they reach the imposing facade of Gringotts Bank, and then she produces from her pocket a small golden key and leans down to look Harry in the eye.
“This is your key,” she says, handing it to him. “I retrieved it from Dumbledore, who was friends with your parents and has kept it safe for you since they were incapacitated. I believe that the vault it opens is a trust vault; you may ask the goblins when we get inside.”
“Okay,” Harry says and takes the key, holding it firmly in his hands, but with the air of a person who never once has touched something so valuable. He glances toward the doors and the goblin guards who flank them. “Those are goblins? They run the bank?”
“Yes, Harry. They’re strange creatures and don’t always much like wixen—that’s the word for magical humans, like us—but they are very good at managing money and guard what they have been entrusted with fiercely.”
Harry nods solemnly. He doesn’t retake Pomona’s hand when she offers it, instead seeming focussed on holding his key. As they pass through the first set of doors, his attention is caught by the writing on the second, silver set. Pomona watches Harry squint at it, and then says, “Can you read it, Harry?”
He flushes slightly, then pauses to pull his glasses off his nose and attempt to clean them. When he puts them back on, though, he’s still squinting; his eyes seem to track the words, at least, but he’s clearly having difficulty.
“Hm,” says Pomona, as if she were not all over again furious with the Dursleys. “Perhaps we’ll visit an optometrist in the Alley today and see about getting your prescription updated, hm?”
Harry nods, still flushed, and says, “I can read it now, it’s just a bit blurry.”
“Well, blurry’s no good. You’ll need to read the board in classes, after all.”
“Okay,” Harry says. Then they pass through the second set of doors and he’s gaping all over again at the alien faces of the goblins, their harsh voices and imposing desks, higher than his head.
They approach the nearest available teller, who leans over his desk to peer down at Harry through the small glasses set on his nose. “Key?”
Harry offers the key, handing it up to the goblin, who inspects it. After a moment, he gives a satisfied huff and then says, “A withdrawal today, Mr. Potter?”
Harry nods. Only his wide eyes give away how daunted he must be; his expression is remarkably calm. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I mean, Mr… um.”
“I am Griphook,” the goblin says. “I shall take you to your vault.”
“Thank you, Griphook,” says Harry, and he and Pomona follow Griphook along a passageway which leads to the track that will take them down to the vaults. The trip to Harry’s vault is whirlwind as always, and Pomona’s cheeks are flushed and she is laughing along with Harry when they arrive. Even Griphook’s grim expression seems to have softened slightly.
“Vault 687,” Griphook says, and opens the way for Harry.
The door creaks open to reveal a shining pile of gold, and Pomona’s gasp is fortunately disguised by Harry’s. A trust for school, yes, but also a small fortune. As Harry goes inside and began to fill a small pouch that Pomona had given him earlier, she turns and says quietly to Griphook, “Did the Potters have a second vault?”
He nods. “Indeed, Professor. It was sealed due to their… circumstances. The goblins are in possession of its key, to be surrendered to Mr. Potter on his seventeenth birthday.”
Sealed to keep out the Ministry; Pomona knew of such things having happened in the past. She had not been joking with Harry about goblins’ fierce defence of the gold that they protected. “Is there a way for Mr. Potter to get an accounting of its contents, or for him to see his parents’ will?”
Griphook gives her a shrewd look, then nods. “I can retrieve the documents when we return upstairs.”
“Thank you, Master Goblin.”
A moment later, Harry comes back out with a full pouch of coins and says, “I didn’t know how much to take. Are things very expensive?”
“Your school supplies will not be too dear, Mr. Potter,” Pomona says. “But it doesn’t hurt to have some extra money to hand, in case you wish to make additional purchases.”
Harry nods. “Okay.” Then he looks at Griphook and says, “Thanks for opening my vault.”
Griphook raises one eyebrow, then bows his head in acknowledgement before gesturing toward the cart. “We should proceed back upstairs.”
The ride back up is marginally less of a near-death experience, and Pomona touches Harry’s shoulder and leads him back toward Griphook’s desk as Griphook himself vanishes into some back passage. “I asked Griphook to fetch copies of your vault manifests and your parents’ will,” she says. “I thought you might like to see them.”
Harry swallows, but he nods and waits patiently for Griphook to return, which he does promptly, a thick envelope in hand.
“The manifests for vaults 831, 687, and 540, as well as a copy of the last will and testament of James and Lily Potter,” he says, handing it over. Pomona takes it, as Harry’s face has paled slightly and he does not immediately reach for it.
She tucks it into her robs and nods to Griphook, then says, “Thank you, Griphook, for your service today. I’m sure we’ll both be seeing you again, though probably separately next time.”
He simply returns the nod, and Pomona turns to leave, her hand resting on Harry’s shoulder. He comes easily enough, one hand clutching his small pouch of gold, and takes a deep breath when they emerge back out into the summer sunshine.
“Thank you, Professor Sprout,” he says, pausing at the foot of Gringotts’ steps. “For thinking about the will.”
“I know you don’t have much of your parents,” she says. “Legal language or no, these are their words. And there might be some idea of what else has been left to you of them in there.”
He nods, then turns to look out at the Alley. “Shopping now?”
“Shopping now,” Pomona agrees cheerfully, and guides Harry once more into the bustle.
She delights in Harry’s delight as they collect his school supplies. She points out some better-quality ingredients in the apothecary for him to add to his standard kit, and helps him choose his trunk, and beams as he totes a load of books—including a good few not on the required list—to the counter in Flourish and Blotts. She makes him laugh in Madam Malkin’s by making faces in the mirror as he tries to stand still for the seamstress, and his giggles make Malkin scowl jokingly as he moves, and then smile at his happiness. They buy more than just school robes there, picking up a few sets of clean, fitting shirts and trousers, as well as underclothes, which makes Harry blush. All the way along, Pomona answers Harry’s questions, most of which are variations on the theme of “What’s that?” His curiosity is keen, and as she observes him she wonders what house he might be sorted into; so far she’s seen flashes of a Ravenclaw’s mind, a Hufflepuff’s kindness, a Slytherin’s discretion, and a Gryffindor’s will. He could go any direction; perhaps he’ll be a hatstall.
She takes him to Fortescue’s for an ice cream once they’ve gotten most everything on the list, and then they go to the small optometrist’s office. The witch who is the primary Healer there tuts over the state of Harry’s glasses, but fixes him up right quick with new lenses for the frames he already has and a magical cleaning cloth beside that will also repair any scratches; she gives him a card and tells him to come back if his vision becomes blurry again, then sends them on their way, Harry beaming cheerily at the in-focus world around him. The optometrist is fortunately quite close to Ollivander’s, and as a wand is the last thing required, they head there next. Ollivander’s is as dusty and dim as she remembers from her own trip at the age of 11, with its towering shelves and dark wallpaper. Ollivander himself appears like a wraith from the back of the shop, and greets Harry with his usual canny gaze peering into the boy’s face as if to look under his skin. He talks about Harry’s parents’ wands, and Harry soaks in the information like a flower turning its face to the sun.
Then Pomona waits as Harry tries half the wands in the shop to absolutely no avail. Eventually Ollivander seems to resign himself to something, and he climbs up his ladder to pluck a wand box delicately from the shelf, carrying it as if he were holding some treasure — or an item with a dark curse. He opens the box to Harry and presents it, and Harry draws out the wand of holly and phoenix feather. Around him, the air lights up, his hair standing on end, and sparks trail from the end of the wand; Pomona can suddenly feel the weight of this young boy’s magic, and knows right away that one day he will be quite the wizard.
“Curious,” says Ollivander, and explains as Pomona listens, astonished, that this wand has a twin core to Voldemort’s. Pomona cannot picture the monster who slaughtered hundreds personally in the last war having ever been an eleven-year-old wizard, buying his wand at Ollivander’s like all the rest. But she supposes he must have been, for Ollivander says, “Its brother was wielded by the Dark Lord.”
Harry blinks at him. “The one my parents fought?”
“… Yes,” Ollivander says, and peers over Harry’s head at Pomona, as if to ask why the boy doesn’t know who Voldemort is. She tilts her lips in a wry expression.
Harry, meanwhile, has spun the wand in his fingers, then he says, “Okay. Well, I’m not planning to be much like him.”
“That wand will lead you to greatness, I suspect,” Ollivander says, turning his attention back to Harry. “But there are many kinds of great. Good luck, Harry Potter.”
Harry smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander.” Then he pays the wandmaker the seven shining Galleons that are his standard fee and walks out of the shop as if there have been no disturbing revelations at all. Out in the street, he looks up at Pomona and says, “Do you think I could get a pet?”
“Of course,” Pomona says, smiling. “As your letter states, you may get an owl, a cat, or a toad.”
Harry thinks for a moment, then says, “I suppose I’d like an owl — they carry post, right?”
“Indeed, Mr. Potter,” Pomona says, and takes him back to the North Side of Diagon, to Eeylopes. In the shop, Harry meets a snowy owl with a slightly standoffish attitude, who nonetheless warms up to Harry quite quickly. He promises to her in a low tone to find a suitable name for her in one of his books; something magical, he says. Pomona pats Harry’s shoulder and takes the shrunken bag of shopping, so that he can carry the owl’s cage.
She takes him to lunch, and over the meal they discuss, among other things, the possibility of going to visit Harry’s parents. Harry stares into his pasta for a long, long time, before he finally says that he doesn’t think he’s feeling up to it. Pomona reassures him that that is completely alright, and that he can visit them any time; she’s unsure she’ll be able to return again to take him herself, as she needs to begin prepping for the coming school year, but he can take himself. Now that he has a wand, she tells him, he can summon the Knight Bus to take him to St. Mungo’s—it doesn’t count as underage magic—and even unaccompanied if he tells the receptionist his name he’ll be directed to the ward where his parents dwell. He nods solemnly and seems to file the information away, and shortly after they get up and make their way back into muggle London, where they once more hail the Bus to take them back to Privet Drive. Harry seems to droop as they step out into the dull neighbourhood, and Pomona cannot blame him in the least. After Diagon, this place seems twice as bland. But Harry will be at Hogwarts in only a few short months, and hopefully away from this place forever.
At the last moment, before surrendering Harry back to his odious relatives, Pomona hands over the documents from Gringotts. “Keep these safe,” she tells him. “And if you have any questions about their contents, feel free to owl me, Gringotts bank, or both. I can be reached by telling your lovely owl to find Pomona Sprout, at Hogwarts, for that is where I will be.”
“Thank you,” Harry says, heartfelt, and accepts the parchment from her hands. “For everything. I promise to study very hard in Herbology!”
She smiles back at him and says, “I would expect nothing else, Mr. Potter! Oh, and one last thing — on September first, you shall have to board the Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross Station to get to school. The train leaves from Platform 9 and 3/4; to reach it, simply walk straight at the barrier between platforms Nine and Ten, and you will pass straight through. Now, let me walk you inside.”
And so she does. She sees his cousin’s second bedroom, in which he has now been installed, and finds that it is still a rubbish circumstance, but better at least than a literal broom cupboard. She feels no guilt at all in leaving him to examine his unshrunken things in his room and going downstairs to quietly but firmly inform his aunt and uncle in detail what will happen to them if Harry arrives at Hogwarts in ill shape, even if she must do it herself. The steely look in her eye and the way she twirls her wand between her fingers seem to convince them.
Pomona leaves Privet Drive feeling that she’s done a good day’s work, providing a child with plenty of resources to navigate his new world and to manage his family until things can be arranged to get him free of them forever. Certainly she will be reporting young Harry’s circumstances to Dumbledore in full. And as summer wears on and she does not hear from Harry again, she decides he must be finding all the answers he needs in his books, and is pleased for him; she’s excited to see him among all the other smiling young faces on September 1st.