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Chapter Text

        The moment Lily heard that cold, high laugh, she knew they had made a mistake. Why did they change Secret Keepers? Why? Why? Why?! Sirius would have died for them. Peter was a rat, in more ways than one. Even before he had fur, he had been a rat. Why did they trust him to be their Secret Keeper?

        But she didn't have time to think about that. James was shouting over those horrible, singsong taunts. "Go, Lily! Take Harry! I'll hold him off as long as I can!"

        In the years to come, she would regret that she had listened. She should have stood by her husband - maybe together they could have held him off. But in the moment, she had faith in the love of her life. James Potter was the strongest man she knew.

        But she heard those horrible green words as her first foot reached the second floor. As she threw open the door to the nursery, she heard the thud of her James - her darling wonderful James - hitting the floor.

        She should have ran. She should have taken her baby boy and apparated away. She should have feared, and fled, and cried. She should have, but she couldn't. She would have time to cry later, when she wasn't so angry.

        So angry. So mind-numbingly, blood-boilingly angry. Angry at Voldemort, angry at Peter, angry at herself.

        She turned then, not giving herself the chance to hesitate. She turned before her eyes even set on her son. If she had seen him, seen those green eyes like her own, that black hair like her husband's, she might have mellowed, might have lost her edge.

        She could not allow that. She turned and walked back the direction she came.

        If there was one thing that she would remember about the Dark Lord, she would remember his showmanship. His slow stroll, his grand speeches. He offered her her life. Her life for her son's. Her life for the only thing left worth living for.

        She didn't give the thought the time of day. She didn't give any thought the time of day. She just acted. Her mind was somewhere else, somewhere shadowed, hiding behind her blind, animalistic rage.

        This creature had taken her husband. This creature didn't deserve to live. She wanted it dead,

        She didn't remember raising her wand. She didn't remember opening her mouth, but her mouth spoke. That voice that still shook like it had on a train so long ago, that voice that had screamed and cried in pain and joy as she brought life into the world, that voice spoke the Dark Lord's favorite words.

        She hadn't made a choice. There was no choice to make.

        "Avada Kedavra!" she screamed. Such a beautiful green, like her baby boy's eyes.

        Two more bodies hit the floor, one cold and clammy and horrible in every way, one still warm and nearly ready to break down in tears.

        But the body that still drew breath came to its senses. Red hair fell around its shoulders as it kissed the cooling lips of a black-haired cadaver. Then it stood, and walked back up the stairs.

        Lily would never quite know how she held it together as long as she had. She would never quite know what part of her had said those horrible, wonderful words. But slumped shoulders pulled high as she saw her beautiful baby boy, her little Prongslet. She could hold together just a little longer. For him.

        As the dawn broke over her shattered sanctum, Lily Potter stood, a widow, a savior, her infant son cradled in her arms.

        "You're still here," she whispered to her baby, her Harry James. "That's all that matters."

* * * * *

LILY POTTER LIVES: YOU-KNOW-WHO DEFEATED

by Miras Phlaras

        In a stunning turn of events late last night, Lily Potter, previously believed to be a casualty in You-Know-Who's reign of terror, emerged as a heroine who brought the dark wizard's tyranny to an end. Sources confirm that You-Know-Who met his demise in the quiet village of Godric's Hollow, not at the hands of Albus Dumbledore or any other celebrated wizard, but a young mother and wife who decided that enough was enough.

        Eyewitness reports state that the Potter estate, which Lily shared with her husband, James Potter, and their infant son, Harry, was the scene of what some are calling the most dramatic confrontation in wizarding history. Tragically, James Potter was found dead, having bravely attempted to stall the Dark Lord to protect his family.

        In an unbelievable display of courage and desperation, Lily Potter faced You-Know-Who herself. The aftermath left You-Know-Who's cold body on the floor. Aurors arriving on the scene were greeted by the sight of Lily Potter, clutching her son, standing resilient at the second-floor window of her home.

        However, the tale took a darker turn upon the examination of her wand. The Ministry of Magic has confirmed that the spell that ended You-Know-Who's life was none other than the Killing Curse. The use of such an Unforgivable Curse has sparked a wildfire of controversy across the wizarding community.

        The Wizengamot, already in an emergency session, is fiercely divided over the fate of Lily Potter. On one side, voices like Bartemius Crouch Sr. argue that the law is clear: "Unforgivable means Unforgivable." They call for her immediate incarceration, despite her role in ending You-Know-Who.

        On the other, more lenient members plead for mercy, urging their colleagues to consider the extreme circumstances under which the curse was cast. "What can be forgiven, if not the actions taken in desperate defense of one's child?" argued Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, highlighting the extraordinary situation that might justify the otherwise indefensible.

        The debate rages on, with the wizarding world holding its breath. Can the use of the Killing Curse ever be truly justified? Is Lily Potter a savior, or has she merely exchanged one dark deed for another? As the case unfolds, the community watches, waits, and wonders about the nature of justice in such unprecedented time.

        For now, Lily Potter remains free, her fate hanging in the balance as legal minds wrestle with a case that could change the interpretation of magical law forever.

* * * * *

PETER PETTIGREW: THE BETRAYER BEHIND BARS

by Verity Burdock

        In a shocking development that has left the wizarding community reeling, Peter Pettigrew, previously a friend and confidant to the tragic Potter family, is now in Ministry custody, facing serious charges, including conspiracy with the Dark Lord and illegal use of animagus transformation.

        Pettigrew, who was publicly named by Lily Potter in the immediate wake of the tragedy, had been entrusted with the immensely sensitive role of Secret Keeper for the Potters. He is accused of betraying James and Lily Potter to You-Know-Who, directly leading to James's death.

        Further complicating matters, Pettigrew is accused of attempting to frame Auror Sirius Black for the betrayal and subsequent crimes, including the murder of several Muggle bystanders in an explosion that Pettigrew allegedly orchestrated to fake his own death and escape justice. Sirius Black, previously held as a suspect, has been released and is currently cooperating with Ministry officials.

        The Ministry of Magic has also confirmed that Pettigrew was apprehended in his animagus form of a rat - an ability he did not register with the Ministry, violating the regulations that govern the declaration and use of animagus transformations. This illegal act has added a significant charge to his upcoming trial.

        Currently held in high-security Ministry custody, Pettigrew awaits a trial that promises to be one of the most followed in recent history. The charges against him include treason, murder by proxy, resisting and evading arrest, and violations of the animagus registry.

        "The evidence against Mr. Pettigrew is overwhelming," stated an anonymous source within the Ministry of Magic. "Between Mrs. Potter's testimony and the corroborating magical traces, it's hard to see a future outside of Azkaban for him."

        As the wizarding world watches on, the question remains: Was Pettigrew a mastermind in his own right, or merely another pawn in You-Know-Who's cruel game? His trial, expected to commence shortly, will undoubtedly be a pivotal moment, offering a chance for justice for the Potters and for Sirius Black, whose only crime may have been trusting an old friend.

* * * * *

LILY POTTER: THE WOMAN WHO DARED

by Miras Phlaras

        In a landmark decision that has reverberated through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic and the homes of wizards and witches nationwide, Lily Potter, the woman who single-handedly defeated You-Know-Who, has been formally acquitted of all charged related to the use of the Killing Curse on the night that saw the Dark Lord's downfall. The trial, which captured the attention of the wizarding world, ended yesterday with a verdict that not only frees Lily Potter but also sets a precedent in magical law. In a historic ruling, the Wizengamot has redefined the legal standing of the Killing Curse, decreeing that its use can be forgivable, depending on the circumstances surrounding its invocation.

        This ruling came after heated debates within the Wizengamot, with many members arguing that traditional interpretation of the Unforgivable Curses needed revision in light of recent events. "Today, we recognize that the law must serve not only to govern but also to protect," stated Lady Augusta Longbottom.

        In addition to her acquittal, Lily Potter has been invited to take up the seat on the Wizengamot previously held by her late husband, James Potter. As Lady Potter, she will have a voice in future legislative sessions, marking her as a key figure in shaping future magical law.

        Despite public and legal vindication, Lily Potter remains focused on the personal ramifications of her actions and the loss of her husband. When approached by the Daily Prophet of a statement, she offered a poignant reflection: "It won't bring him back." This statement resonates deeply, reminding many of the personal losses overshadowed by the political and legal uproar.

        As Lady Potter, the Woman Who Dared, prepares to take her place among the wizards and witches who govern our society, she carries not only the legacy of her tragic confrontation, but also the hope of many for a more just and compassionate wizarding world. Her future contributions to the Wizengamot will be watched closely, both by those who see her as a symbol of change and those who caution against the dangers of precedent she now represents.

* * * * *

PETER PETTIGREW SENTENCED TO LIFE IN AZKABAN

by Verity Burdock

        In a somber yet decisive ruling, the wizarding world watched as justice was served with Peter Pettigrew receiving a life sentence in Azkaban for his crimes against the Potter family and the wizarding community at large. The verdict, delivered late yesterday amidst a crowded courtroom, marks the end of a trial that has gripped the nation with its revelations and betrayals.

        During the trial, the courtroom was filled with tense and emotional onlookers as details of Pettigrew's betrayal were recounted by the prosecution. The defense argued for leniency, citing coercion and fear of You-Know-Who as factors influencing Pettigrew's decisions. However, their please fell on deaf ears as the severity of Pettigrew's actions and their catastrophic consequences were deemed unforgivable.

        As the verdict was read, a collective sigh was heard throughout the courtroom. Many who had personally felt the tremors of Pettigrew's betrayal expressed their relief. "Justice has been served," stated one member of the community outside the courtroom. "It doesn't undo the past, but it reassures us that no one is above the law."

        The sentencing also raises questions about the measures in place to prevent such actions. In response, the Ministry of Magic has announced plans to overhaul the animagus registration process and increase security measures for the protection of key individuals.

        As Pettigrew begins his life sentence in Azkaban, the wizarding community hopes to close this dark chapter and move forward, though the scars will not soon be forgotten.

* * * * *

        Lily needed friends more now than ever, so when she went to talk to Alice Longbottom, only to find her and Frank spasming and muttering incoherently from Cruiciatus exposure, it was all she could do to hold together long enough to summon the aurors. She spent that night sobbing uncontrollably under the arm of Sirius, while Remus rocked Harry James to sleep.

        Harry James. She loved that name. The two people she loved the most all rolled into one chubby little package. It was Harry James who gave her the strength to keep living. It was Harry James and his oblivious, gurgling, happy little laughs. It was Harry James and the way Sirius tried desperately to get him to say "Padfoot". Sirius didn't understand babies, and Harry James didn't understand Sirius, but the boy would laugh and laugh and laugh as Sirius chanted his own nickname. Was she jealous of her son? Maybe just a bit.

        Lily needed friends now more than ever, so when Severus came knocking on her door, she let him in. He had been a Death Eater, but he wasn't evil. He was her oldest friend, before Hogwarts, when they had been just Lil and Sev. He had said some things out of anger, and she had pushed him away. But who had never said something they would regret? Headmaster Dumbledore vouched for Severus. Severus wasn't evil. Severus had been his agent. Severus had been her friend once, so why not give him another chance?

        Sirius and Remus didn't want Severus near Harry James, but Severus was her friend, and they were James'. When they weren't there, she would pull Harry James from his playpen and let him crawl all over Severus. When Harry James, two years old, said his first word, it was "Sebuh". Severus's face had lit up with conflicted joy. When Sirius heard him say it, Lily had a lot of explaining to do.

        Lily still cried herself to sleep most nights, but she had her Harry James, and that was enough.

Chapter Text

        Harry James Potter's earliest memories were filled with laughter, spells, and the warm glow of his mother's love. He grew up surrounded by the echoing charm of magic in every corner of his home, where portraits whispered and chuckled, and the air shimmered with the residue of protective enchantments.

        The young Harry James was often found toddling through the hallways, a plump little boy with his mother's bright green eyes and his father's unruly black hair, which seemed to mock any attempt to tame it. His laughter - a clear, bubbling sound - often filled the rooms, especially when he was chasing a dropped chocolate frog.

        The cupboard under the stairs was nothing more than a treasure trove of snacks for Harry James. He knew exactly which squeaky board to step over to avoid making noise as he raided it for biscuits and cockroach clusters. His mother caught on quickly, and sometimes left little notes in the cupboard, along with new treats, making each midnight visit a discovery.

        When his mother was called to the Wizengamot, Harry James was whisked away to the wonderful world of Ottery St. Catchpole to spend a day with Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. It was common to find them giggling in the garden, pretending to be daring explorers in the jungles of the Amazon or fearless knights in some enchanted realm. They spent hours fighting the "naughty knaves" Fred and George, atop their trusty steeds, Bill and Charlie.

        Even the youngest Weasley, Ginny, was fun to play with - for a girl. She concocted elaborate plots for their games, involving dragons that needed taming or secret missions that only they, the bravest wizards and witch of their age, could undertake. On windy days, Ginny and Harry James would dash outside, cloaks billowing behind them like the muggle superheroes in the "karmic books" his mother liked to read to him at bedtime.

        Then there was Ginny's friend Luna. Luna was strange, and she said funny things. Ron didn't think much of her. He called her Loony. But Luna was funny, and funny was fun, and fun was good. With Luna, their grand adventures began to include Wrackspurts and Nargles and Blue-Footed Boobies.

        Inside the house, the atmosphere was just as lively. The Weasley kitchen was a hub of constant activity where pots and pans cleaned themselves and knitting needles clacked together of their own accord. Here, Harry James learned the joys of Molly's cooking, his eyes growing wide at the sight of a freshly-baked apple pie or the sizzling delight of a Sunday roast. At times, he'd pull up a stool to the counter, eager to help - or more accurately, to sneak a taste of whatever was bubbling on the stove.

        On Harry James's eighth birthday, a sunny, blustery day, his mother was called to the Wizengamot in the middle of the party. Harry James moped and cried until Mr. Weasley decided it was high time the boys were introduced to the thrilling heights of broomstick flight. With a mischievous twinkle that would put his twin sons to shame, he threw open the shed doors and unveiled a trio of dusty, cobwebbed brooms. The sight was met with wide-eyed wonder and eager squeals. Harry James was the first to grab a broom, his heart pounding with excitement.

        In the large garden, he soared. The broom carried him with a jerky enthusiasm, as though it too had been waiting for a chance to stretch its twigs. He zipped through the branches of the towering oak tree, leaves fluttering in his wake, shouts of exhilaration escaping his lips. Every swoop and dive brought a new thrill, and he imagined himself a famous Quidditch player, the crowd roaring his name.

        Ron, whose initial attempts at flight were marked by a certain cautious determination, soon found his rhythm. His ascent wasn't as swift or confident as Harry James's, but he handled the broom with a growing adeptness that promised he'd be a fine flier in his own right.

        Poor Neville, however, struggled to even get his broom to acknowledge him. He'd say "up," and it would twitch or roll away, as if playing a cruel joke only it was in on. The other boys tried to help, their encouragement loud and genuine, but Neville's brow furrowed deeper with each failed attempt. There were whispers, some quieter than others, about Neville possibly being a squib.

        But Harry James saw a different future. He imagined Neville, not as a squib, but as the most magical among them, in ways not measured by a wand or broom. In Harry James's mind, Neville's true magic lay in his kindness, his loyalty, and his unyielding courage, traits no spell could conjure.

        "If Hogwarts doesn't send you a letter, I'll smuggle you in myself," Harry James declared one dusky evening, their silhouettes outlined against the fading light. "And I'll duel anyone who tries to stop us!" Neville's grateful smile, though tinged with worry, was enough to seal this pact between them.

        But it wasn't just his peers who shaped his childhood. Harry James had three father figures who were as different from each other as day and night.

        Padfoot was the embodiment of reckless fun. He was always ready with a new prank or a secret adventure, his eyes twinkling with mischief. His visits were always a source of excitement for Harry James, filled with tales of his school days, of his father, of daring and humor, and with lessons on how to fly a broomstick as recklessly - and as safely - as possible.

        Moony, on his monthly visits, brought stability and stories to Harry James' life. His gifts were books and puzzles, and his presence was soothing, often marked by quiet afternoons spent reading or learning about the magical creatures that roamed the wider world. Remus not only taught Harry James to read, but to think and to question, to look beyond the surface.

        Then there was Severus, who simply called him "Harry". His visits were the most complex, marked by a stern demeanor that could swiftly change to reluctant affection. Severus showed his care through lessons in potions, the delicate art that required patience and precision. It was demanding, grueling at times, and Severus would open his mouth to scold, but when his eyes met Harry James's, they would soften, and kindly ask him to start over. Under his guidance, Harry James learned to recognize the subtle shift of colors in a simmering cauldron and the precise moment to add an ounce of crushed beetle eyes.

        The days when his mother wasn't sitting on the Wizengamot were treasured, golden times when Harry James felt like the luckiest boy in the world. He would eagerly await her return, eagerly run and suffer through her kisses until he could finally invite his friends over to his house instead of theirs. Without fail, they would crowd in front of the television in the living room, a Muggle luxury that Ron and Neville didn't have at home. They would watch their favorite cartoon, X-Men, entranced by the mutants' abilities to control elements and conjure powers.

        With each episode, the boys' imaginations grew wilder. They sprawled on the rug, extending their hands toward the screen, mimicking the characters, trying to manipulate metal or change what they looked like.

        "Come on, you've got to really feel the metal, like it's part of you," Harry James coached, his eyes locked on a spoon that lay uncooperatively on the carpet.

        "Let me try some ee-leck-tri-city," Ron chimed in, his fingers twitching as he aimed them at the lamp. The lamp remained steadfastly unresponsive, but the boys dissolved into giggles.

        Their failed attempts never dampened their spirits. If anything, they fueled their imaginations further. Each cartoon episode inspired new games and fresh challenges. They weren't just watching superheroes - they were training to be them.

        As the credits rolled, his mother called them for dinner, and they bounded to the kitchen, their minds still buzzing with ideas of heroism and magic. Dinner was a boisterous affair, filled with chatter about mutants and magic, the lines between reality and fiction delightfully blurred.

        Neville's grandmother never quite forgave Harry James when Neville, having just watched a scene with Nightcrawler and being challenged to a race to the kitchen, arrived first, without passing through the space between. It was Neville's first magic, the first sign that he was not a squib.

        Neville had always been the gentle, quiet one among them, often left in the dust as the others dashed about. But that evening, inspired by the teleporting mutant they had just watched, Neville had shouted "Watch this!" and then, with a determined squint, vanished from the living room and reappeared in the kitchen, beaming proudly as he stood beside the refrigerator. He would later tell them that he hadn't expected it to work - he had just been trying to distract them long enough to get ahead. But work it had.

        The room had fallen silent, the only sound the echo of Neville's triumphant laughter bouncing off the walls. Harry James and Ron had stared in awe, their mouths agape. It was Ron who recovered first, his voice a mix of excitement and disbelief.

        "You did it, Neville! You really did it!" Ron had exclaimed, rushing over to clap him in the back.

        Harry James's mother, having come to the doorway just in time to witness Neville's feat, had smiled broadly, her eyes sparkling with tears of joy. "Neville, that was wonderful!" she had praised, rushing over to envelop him in a warm, proud hug.

        But the news had not been received by such joy to all. When Harry James had later recounted the event to Neville's grandmother, her reaction had been complex. There had been a flash of pride, quickly overshadowed by a flicker of resentment.

        "To think I missed it," she had murmured, more to herself than to anyone else, her voice tinged with regret and subtle accusation directed at Harry James, as if his presence had somehow stolen this milestone from her.

        With Neville's display of magic came a new burst of confidence. He wasn't the first to show signs of magic, but had Harry James or Ron ever teleported across a room? No. No they had not. He, Neville Samwise Longbottom, was a wizard, and a bloody good one at that.

        The broom in the Weasleys' shed started to listen to him. Soon, he was chasing Harry through the air, laughing as he passed Ron and squeezed through the smallest gap he could between branches. He couldn't quite make the maneuvers that Harry James could - he was chubbier still than the pudgy Potter - but he was a bloody good flier.

        Harry James's ninth Christmas brought a different kind of magic, one less welcome but memorable nonetheless. For the first time, he was introduced to his Muggle relatives, the Dursleys. His mother had always spoken about them - her sister Petunia, mostly - with a mix of frustration and longing that Harry James didn't fully understand. The visit was supposed to be a bridge-building exercise, a chance for Harry James to know every part of his family, not just the portraits of his grandparents in the hall. But from the outset, it was clear that the Dursleys didn't care for the world Harry James came from.

        Uncle Vernon's face turned a remarkable shade of puce when Harry James enthusiastically recounted his recent escapades in flying. Dudley, his cousin, seemed more interested in bullying Harry about the size of his glasses than listening to his tales of magical bravery. Aunt Petunia, her lips pursed in a tight light throughout dinner, finally lost her composure when Harry James asked if she had ever seen a real spell.

        "Magic!" she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Your father was obsessed with that... that nonsense, too. It's no wonder he ended up the way he did."

        The table fell silent. Harry James felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He looked up to see his mother's face, usually so calm and controlled, not tight with barely suppressed anger. "Petunia," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "you have no right to speak of James that way."

        The argument escalated quickly from there. Voices were raised, and ugly truths tossed like bitter confetti. Harry James sat, stunned and silent, watching the adults forget about him. It ended with his mother grabbing him by the arm, her eyes fiery with indignation. "We're leaving," she hissed, and with a sharp twister and a sudden squeeze, they were spinning away from Privet Drive, leaving behind the harsh words and cold stares.

        Back at home, the warm glow of the hearth and the familiar ticking of the family clock brought little comfort. His mother paced back and forth, her anger slow to ebb. When it finally did, it made way for tears. Harry sat down with her on the couch, her tears cold in his hair, and thought about his father, about bravery, and about the kind of person he wanted to become.

Chapter Text

        Harry James's eleventh birthday was as loud as any other. For years now, he and Neville had celebrated their births together. Neville was fine with waiting a day, and it made the party only more festive. Harry James's mother was able to be exempt from the Wizengamot for the day, as was Neville's grandmother, so the two Potters, one Black, one Lupin, one Snape, eight Longbottom relatives, three Lovegoods, and seven Weasleys - Bill and Charlie had graduated and moved away - all stood and sat and talked and played in the Longbottom Manor.

        None of them but Harry James's mother were familiar with the Muggle Happy Birthday song, but that was okay. Harry James much preferred the long, meticulously-crafted wizarding odes that he was used to.

        As the daylight faded into a soft twilight, after the children had all played and tired themselves out for the day, the chatter subsided, and all gathered in a wide circle around Harry James and Neville. The air was filled with the scent of blooming nightflowers and the distant hoot of owls. Torches floated above their heads, casting a gentle glow on the faces of the assembled friends and family.

        Luna stepped forward, a scroll of parchment clutched in her hands. She had been chosen to write this year's ode, and her eyes sparkled out through her wispy hair. The gathered circle hushed, expectant, as she unrolled the scroll, her voice lifting into the evening air.

"Here we gather, friends of old,

To sing of adventures brave and bold,

Of Harry James and Neville true,

The ones who are our Chosen Two

A duo bound by fate and chance,

Who in gardens dared to dance

With Wrackspurts and Nargles too,

And have grown before our view

Yet, who is to say what beasts may hide,

In the thickets where secrets bide?

For on this day, we claim with cheer,

creatures far and those quite near.

Like the rhinoceros, stout and grand,

Whose horn points to a distant land.

Though Harry James thinks it not real,

In out hearts, its horn can feel.

Together may you find the might,

To hold infinity in your sight,

To grab the moon and ride the night,

In the palm of your hand a radiant light.

And so we chant with love and glee,

For boys who turn age eight plus three"

        As Luna's voice faded, applause erupted from the surrounding friends and relatives, though from Neville's aunts and uncles it was mainly just polite, as they all tried to figure out what Nargles and Wrackspurts were.

        Then came the gifts. Harry James did so love gifts. His mother gave him a fresh new batch of - not "karmic" books, he had learned - comic books, which he promptly found himself loaning to Mr. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley gave him a new sweater. He had plenty of those, but they were comfortable enough. Ron gave him a chocolate frog. Luna gave him a stuffed approximation of what a Nargle was supposed to look like - somewhere between a fairy, a house elf, and a graphorn, not at all what he had imagined. Mr. and Mrs. Lovegood gave Harry James a cork necklace to ward off any real Nargles. Padfoot gave him dungbombs, which his mother promptly confiscated. Moony gave him a nice new wizards chess set that he probably couldn't afford. Severus gave him a potions kit and told him rather sternly that he expected to see him using it in class.

        Then came cake. Harry James did so love cake. His was red velvet, and Neville's was lemon. They sat and ate, and Harry James argued with Luna - rhinoceros were a myth, just like turkeys.

        "Some Muggle must have seen a graphorn and gotten confused!" he insisted, chunks of red cake somehow in his eyebrows.

        Luna just smiled.

        Luna did that a lot - get Harry James worked up and then just smile. Luna never got worked up. She was just so wispy . If it had been possible, he would have thought that she was part hinkypunk.

        Harry James had seen the owl coming earlier in the month. He had been so excited then, but somehow, in all the commotion, he had forgotten about it. When his mother and Neville's grandmother each produced a wax-sealed envelope, the excitement - aided by the sugar rush - came back in full force.

        Both boys jumped to their feet, running over to hug their guardians and eagerly snatching letters from their hands. Both boys tore through the wax seals, slightly crumpling the parchment in their excitement. Both boys read loudly, in unison.

“Dear Mr. LPoontgtbeorttom,

        We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Unintelligible excitement noises “Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

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

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress”

        Harry James and Neville panicked. 31 July! That was today! The boys' faces drained of color as they scanned the letters again, their eyes wide with the realization that they might have missed their chance to confirm their places at Hogwarts.

        "Today? But it's today!" Harry James gasped, his voice breaking with fear.

        Neville clutched his letter close, his usual confident calm shattered. "What if they don't let us in now? What if it’s too late?”

         Seeing the distress of the two boys, Harry James's mother quickly intervened, her voice calm and soothing. "Boys, boys, it's alright," she said, reaching out to gather them both into her arms.

        "We’ve handled it," Neville's grandmother added, her tone firm yet gentle as she joined Harry James's mother. "We sent the owls when we first got the letters. It’s all been arranged, you’re both going to Hogwarts, as planned."

        Harry James and Neville exchanged a look, the panic subsiding as relief washed over them. They released a simultaneous, audible sigh, their bodies relaxing as the tension drained away.

        Luna, still holding onto her parchment scroll, smiled her serene smile and chimed in - truly chimed, "See, the Nargles didn’t get your letters after all."

        This brought a small chuckle from those in the crowd who knew what Nargles were. Harry James grinned at her, shaking his head. "I still don’t believe in Nargles, Luna, but thanks."

        Luna tilted her head to one side. "You don't believe in rhinoceros either, Harry James."

        Harry James huffed. He crossed his arms. He stomped one foot in a way that was definitely not childish - he was a young man.

        "Rhinoceros aren't real!"

Chapter Text

        Diagon Alley was - well - Diagon Alley. The same cobbled street, the same leaning buildings packed tightly together, and the same bustling crowd of witches and wizards of all ages. It was a place woven into the fabric of Harry James's earliest memories, each visit layered upon the last until they all blurred into familiarity.

        As they walked, Harry James's mother guided them with a practiced ease, weaving through the crowd toward their first stop. "Remember, boys, we need to pick up your school supplies first. Cauldrons, robes, and then your books."

        Neville nodded earnestly, his list clutched tightly in his hand, but Ron’s gaze wandered to every colorful window display they passed. "I heard they've got the new Nimbus 2000 on display," Ron said, a note of longing in his voice. "Can we, maybe, stop by? Just to look?"

        Harry James’s eyes lit up at the mention. "Oh, can we, Mum? Just a quick look?" he asked, turning to where his mother was examining a list of school supplies.

        She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Perhaps a quick look won’t hurt," she conceded, leading them to the store. The bell above the door tinkled merrily as they entered the realm of every Quidditch player's dream.

        Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fresh polish and new wood. Rows of brooms of all makes and models lined the walls, but the Nimbus 2000 had a special place at the front, roped off with a plush red velvet rope.

        "Blimey," Ron breathed out, his eyes wide as Galleons. "Look at it. Just look at it!"

        "It says it can go from zero to seventy in ten seconds," Harry James read aloud from the small placard next to the broom. His fingers itched to feel the balance of the broom in his hands, to test the truth of those words.

        Harry James moved closer to the Nimbus 2000, his gaze fixed on its sleek, polished handle and the perfectly aligned bristles. He could almost feel the wind in his hair, could almost hear the crowd cheering as he darted through the air, chasing the Snitch. The fantasy was so vivid, so alluring, that it pulled a wistful sigh from his lips.

        "Wouldn't it be brilliant to have one of these?" he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

        Catching his longing look, Neville nudged him, whispering, "Go on, ask her. Maybe she’ll say yes."

        With a mixture of hope and hesitation, Harry James turned to his mother, who was admiring the craftsmanship of a more modest broom. He made his eyes as wide as he possibly could, the very picture of youthful yearning, and pulled at his lower lip just enough to make it tremble. "Mum, can I get one? Please? I'll be the best flier at school, promise!"

        His mother turned, her smile indulgent yet tinged with amusement at his antics. She crouched down to his level, her warm hands cupping his cheeks. "Oh, Harry James," she said with a laugh that filled the shop around them. "You know first years aren't allowed their own brooms. It’s the rules."

        "But Mum-" Harry James started, his voice a blend of protest and disappointment.

        She ruffled his hair affectionately, standing back up. "Rules are rules, love."

        Harry James's shoulders slumped a bit, his dreams of the Nimbus 2000 fading as quickly as they had come. "Yeah, I know," he said. He watched wistfully as another young wizard eyed the broom with the same longing he felt.

        "Come on then," his mother said, her voice bright and encouraging. "Let's get those cauldrons and other boring bits sorted out, shall we?" She led them out of the shop, the bell tinkling again above their heads.

        As they stepped back onto the street, the disappointment clung to Harry James like a chilly shroud. Neville and Ron, chatting animatedly about what spell books they hoped to find, followed closely behind Harry James's mother.

        The group made their way to Potage’s Cauldron Shop. Inside, cauldrons of all sizes and materials lined the shelves, from small pewter ones suitable for beginners to large, sturdy copper models that shimmered under the store’s enchanted lights.

        Neville immediately went to inspect the stack recommended for first-year Hogwarts students, checking each item against his list. "Gran said to get a pewter one, Size 2," he muttered to himself, lifting a cauldron to examine its bottom for the maker's mark.

        Ron was less methodical, wandering from one shelf to another, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Hey, look at this one!" he exclaimed, pointing at a shiny gold cauldron that was clearly out of their required specifications. "It says it improves potion consistency by itself!"

        Harry James, having no need for a new cauldron, hung back a little. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kicked at the ground lightly, his mind still on the sleek lines of the Nimbus 2000.

        His mother chuckled softly at Ron's excited discovery and guided the boys back to the task at hand. "That would be wonderful, wouldn't it? But let's stick to the list, shall we?" She picked up a standard pewter cauldron, checking it over before handing it to Neville. "This looks like a good one."

        With the cauldrons finally secured, they made their way to Flourish and Blotts. The bookstore was a maze of towering shelves, crammed with books that whispered secrets of magic and history. Harry James's spirits lifted a bit as he wandered through the aisles, pulling out texts and flipping through pages filled with diagrams of spells and enchanted creatures.

        "Here we are," his mother announced, pulling down several volumes from the shelf. "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, Magical Theory, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration... all set?" She glanced at the boys, who nodded, their arms already loaded with books. Ron scrunched up his face - he didn't like books.

        Their next stop was the Apothecary, where the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and bubbling concoctions. Harry James trailed behind as his mother discussed potion ingredients with the shopkeeper, listing off items from their school supply list.

        Ron wrinkled his nose at the pungent smells that met them, but Neville seemed intrigued, peering closely at jars filled with strange and colorful substances. "What's this one?" he asked, pointing at a jar filled with swirling, luminescent dust.

        "That, young sir, is powdered moonstone," the shopkeeper explained, his voice a soothing rumble. "Used in several potions, including the Draught of Peace. Very useful, but quite delicate."

        Harry James hovered near the door, his interest only half-piqued by the array of potion ingredients. He did enjoy making potions, but his thoughts were firmly on the Nimbus 2000.

        Once they had gathered all the necessary ingredients, including lacewing flies and dried leeches, which Ron wanted to put in his sister's hair, they moved on.

        As they left the Apothecary, Harry James's mother checked her watch and then glanced around the bustling street of Diagon Alley. "I need to check on something briefly," she said, her tone casual but her eyes scanning the crowd. "Why don't you boys go ahead to Madam Malkin's? I'll meet you there shortly."

        "Sure, Mum," Harry James replied, still distracted by the thoughts of the broom he couldn't have. He and his friends turned towards the direction of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

        The bell above the door chimed softly as they entered. The inside of the shop was cool and smelled faintly of lavender. It was quieter than usual, the usually bustling atmosphere subdued, leaving the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of a measuring tape the only sounds filling the air.

        Madam Malkin, a round, cheerful witch with in mauve, bustled forward to greet them. "Here for Hogwarts, I presume?" Her voice was warm, her smile wide as she ushered them towards the fitting area.

        She directed each boy to a different attendant, who promptly began the meticulous process of measuring. Harry James was guided to a stand near the back by a petite blonde witch with a kind smile. "Let's get you fitted, dear," the attendant said, draping a length of black fabric over his shoulders.

        As the attendant adjusted the robe, tugging gently here and adjusting there, Madam Malkin made her rounds. As she passed Harry James, she paused, squinting at him a bit before her face brightened. "Oh, my! You're Lily Potter's boy, aren't you?" she exclaimed, not waiting for an answer. "I'd recognize those eyes anywhere! Such a spitting image of your mother's. And that hair! Just like your father's, bless his soul."

        Harry James felt a lump form in his throat. He knew he resembled his dad. The photographs that waved at him from beside his bed every night were proof enough. The thought of his father, so full of life in those pictures, and yet so absent in reality, made his eyes burn with the threat of tears.

        He blinked rapidly, fighting back the moisture. I won’t cry, he thought fiercely. I’m not a baby.

        Harry James stood a bit straighter, trying to seem unaffected, but the attendant noticed his change in posture and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

        Madam Malkin continued enthusiastically, oblivious to Harry's struggle. "Your mother, dear, she’s a remarkable witch, so brave and kind! And what she did - well, it's nothing short of heroic." Her voice took on a somber tone as she added, "And your father, such a dreadful thing that happened to him. He was a fine man, very respected. It's truly heartbreaking."

        Harry James blinked rapidly, focusing on a spot on the wall behind her, trying to steady his emotions.

        "I remember when your mother first came into my shop, many years ago," Madam Malkin went on. "Such a bright, eager young witch she was. Took to magic like a niffler to gold. She bought her first set of Hogwarts robes from right here, and now here you are, her son, all ready for your own adventure. Time really does fly, doesn't it?"

        As she moved away to check on Ron and Neville, Harry James took a deep breath. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, noting the shimmer at the corners of his eyes and blinking harder. The rest of the fitting passed in a blur, with Madam Malkin bustling about, ensuring each robe was perfect. When Harry James's mother arrived, she found them all nearly ready.

        "All set, boys?" she asked, her gaze sweeping over them with a proud smile.

* * * * *

        Ollivander's was one of the very few shops in Diagon Alley that Harry James had never stepped into. Percy Weasley had told him it was tradition, to keep an air of intrigue around receiving one's first wand. Well, Percy had just been introduced to the works of William Shakespeare and was having a phase, so what he had actually said was, "'Tis a custom, a venerable observance, purposefully designed to preserve a veil of enigma 'round the inaugural bestowment of one's wand." Harry had needed Moony to translate.

        But Harry James didn't think the shop looked very intriguing. It was a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, with the red paint on the door peeling and cobwebs festooning the windows like old lace curtains. The wooden sign above the door, which read "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.," was faded and barely legible, and the shop itself seemed to sink slightly lower than its neighbors, as if it were tired of standing upright for so many centuries.

        Ron, peering over Harry James's shoulder, whistled lowly. "Looks like no one's cleaned it since 382 B.C., too," he joked.

        Harry James's mother chuckled softly, her gaze sweeping over the shop's exterior with a hint of nostalgia. "It may not look like much, but Ollivander's is the oldest and most respected shops in all of Diagon Alley," she said, her voice tinged with reverence.

        Harry James glanced up at her, catching a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. It was hard not to smile back, even if the shop looked like it belonged in one of the ghost stories that Padfoot liked to tell in the dead of night.

        The bell above the door gave a weak, rusty jangle as they entered, the sound lost quickly in the hushed, thick air of the shop. Inside, the narrow space was even more cramped than it appeared from the outside. Walls lined with shelves reached up to the ceiling, each crammed with wand boxes that varied in size, color, and state of repair. The air was thick with the scent of wood, varnish, and something faintly metallic, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. The dim light from the dusty windows barely penetrated the gloom, casting long shadows that danced on the walls as they moved.

        They waited. The shop was so still, Harry James thought he could hear the dust settling. Neville shuffled his feet, the soft scuffing sound seeming disproportionately loud. Ron kept glancing around, his eyes wide, taking in every shadow as if expecting a specter to leap from the racks. The air hung heavy, as though the very atmosphere were holding its breath. The silence stretched on.

        When Mr. Ollivander finally appeared, he seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves, his presence as sudden as it was silent. The man was a walking relic. From the look of him, Harry James figured Mr. Ollivander might have been there when the shop first opened. His hair was wispy and as white as the cobwebs adorning the corners of the shop. His skin, translucent and papery, stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones, made him look more like a skeleton than a man. His eyes, though, were the most unsettling part - piercing and pale, almost ghostly, as if they could look right through you. Harry James couldn't help but think that Mr. Ollivander resembled one of those ancient, forgotten books on the top shelf: rarely read and slightly moldy. It was a wonder he didn't just vanish into a puff of dust as he moved.

        "Ah, Lily Potter, back again after all these years," Mr. Ollivander said, his voice crackling like dry leaves. He reached out a hand as if to shake hers, but instead, his fingers hovered momentarily over her arm, a gesture both familiar and oddly distant. "Ten and a quarter inches, swishy, willow, excellent for charm work. And a single phoenix feather, if memory serves - and it does."

        Harry James's mother smiled warmly at Mr. Ollivander. "It's good to see you, Garrick," she said. "It's been too long."

        "Indeed, it has," Mr. Ollivander replied, his gaze drifting over to the boys. "And who might these young gentlemen be?"

        "This is my son, Harry James," Lily introduced, gesturing towards Harry James, who gave a shy nod. "And his friends, Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley."

        "Ah, the next generation of wizards," Mr. Ollivander mused. "Well, let's see if we can't find a perfect match, shall we?"

        As Mr. Ollivander moved behind the counter to retrieve his measuring tape, Neville spoke up. "Actually, Mr. Ollivander, I'll be using my father's old wand. It’s…" Neville hesitated.

        "Ah, yes, thirteen and a half inches, cherry wood, dragon heartstring core - a wand of power and courage. It should serve you well, Mr. Longbottom"

        Ron, not to be left out, chimed in eagerly, "And I’ve got my brother Charlie's old wand, sir. It’s-"

        "Ash and unicorn hair, twelve inches," Mr. Ollivander interrupted. "A solid combination for loyalty and strength."

        Mr. Ollivander turned his piercing gaze to Harry James. "But for you, we shall need something... special." His voice trailed off as he set a self-measuring tape into the air. It whirred through the air around Harry James, measuring the length of his arms, the distance between his shoulders, and even circling his head. Harry James stood as still as he could, watching the tape measure do its work.

        Finally, the tape measure snapped back into Mr. Ollivander's hand as he nodded, apparently satisfied with the results. He turned away and started to browse through the multitude of wand boxes piled high on the ancient shelves. Each step he took sent a small puff of dust into the air, which glittered in the shafts of light streaming through the windows.

        He pulled out a box, long and slender, and carefully opened it to reveal a wand made of what looked like gleaming ebony. "Try this one," Mr. Ollivander suggested. "Ebony and dragon heartstring."

        Harry James reached out and took the wand, feeling its weight in his hand. He gave it a tentative wave, but nothing happened. No sparks, no warmth - it felt just like a stick in his hands.

        "No, no," he muttered, taking the wand back and replacing it in its box. He disappeared into another aisle, then came back with a different box. "Here, pear wood, unicorn hair core, ten and three-quarters inches."

        Again, Harry James waved the wand through the air, this time with a little more confidence. A few weak sparks emitted from the end, but they fizzled out as quickly as they had appeared.

        "Closer, but still not quite right," Mr. Ollivander said, a hint of challenge in his voice as if the right wand was a puzzle he was determined to solve. He replaced the wand and pulled out several more, each different from the last in wood, core, and length.

        With each unsuccessful attempt, Harry James's excitement turned to frustration, then to anxiety. What if none of the wands chose him? What would he do then?

        As Mr. Ollivander handed him another wand - holly and phoenix feather - Harry James took it with a trembling hand. He gave it a swish, more out of desperation than hope.

        Nothing. Not a spark.

        He handed it back, the knot of worry in his stomach tightening. Each failed attempt felt like a verdict on his worth as a wizard. Was there something wrong with him? Was he so different, so odd that no wand in this vast collection could possibly choose him? What if, despite everything he knew of his family, of his mother's strength and his father's bravery, it had somehow passed him by? He thought of his mother, her stories of Hogwarts - her adventures, her challenges, her triumphs. How could he tell her that he might not be a wizard after all? The thought twisted in his gut like a knife. He felt utterly alone.

        As Mr. Ollivander rummaged through another stack of boxes, Harry James's thoughts spiraled. He glanced at Neville and Ron, who seemed so certain of their places in the wizarding world. Neville with his father's wand, already laden with history and strength; Ron, casually inheriting Charlie’s, as if good fortune were a family trait he'd simply inherited. Harry James felt a pang of envy - not for their wands, but for their certainty.

        The shop felt like it was closing in on him, the walls lined with silent, watchful wands that whispered of adventures and deeds he might never be worthy of. Every shadow seemed to stretch towards him, every flicker of light a reminder of the spark that he couldn’t produce. Time stretched, pulling each second into eternity, as he waited for Mr. Ollivander to find the one wand that might see something in him.

        Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mr. Ollivander returned with yet another box. This time, the wand inside was different from all the others. It was sleeker, somehow more commanding in its presence. “Here,” Mr. Ollivander said, his voice carrying a new note of certainty. “Mahogany, dragon heartstring, eleven inches. Quite unyielding. Give it a wave.”

        Harry James reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the wood. It felt warm to the touch. He took a deep breath, raised the wand, and waved it through the air. Instantly, the shop was filled with a warm, golden light. Sparks flew in brilliant arcs, showering down like stars, bathing the dark corners of the shop in a soft glow. A surge of warmth filled him, a feeling of rightness that was almost overwhelming. With rightness came relief and excitement, power and potential. "It's perfect," he breathed out, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face.

        Mr. Ollivander watched him closely, a thoughtful expression creasing his aged features. "Curious," he mused, "very curious."

        "What's curious?" Harry James asked, the sparks of his new wand still dancing as he swung the wand around.

        The wandmaker leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This wand is the exact make as the one your father possessed," he revealed. "Mahogany and dragon heartstring - the same dragon's, eleven inches, unyielding. It seems the apple does not fall far from the tree."

        Harry James held the wand up, watching the light play along its length, feeling a new sense of identity and purpose swelling within him. The doubts that had clouded his mind vanished, replaced by confidence.

        He was Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, and he was a wizard.

Chapter Text

        Harry James thought his mother was acting quite strange. She labeled the second floor closet off limits, casting locking charms on top of the several new Muggle combination locks.

        It was unusual, extremely out of character, for his mother to restrict any part of the house, especially something as trivial as a closet. The matter settled oddly with him, a stew of curiosity and concern.

        A week passed, and the mystery only deepened when Harry James awoke to find the closet door slightly ajar. The locks and charms had been removed overnight, as quietly as they had appeared. He opened it, expecting to find some clue as to what secret it had held. It was odd, then, in its lack of oddity. It was exactly as he remembered it - spacious and echoing slightly, filled with games from floor to ceiling.

        Harry James peered inside, his eyes scanning the shelves that were crammed with a mixture of wizarding and Muggle games. The familiar boxes of Exploding Snap and Snitch Snatcher shared space with less magical games like Trouble and an old set of Bible Trivia, a peculiar inheritance from his great grandmother. He stood, rooted to the spot, puzzling over his mother's secretive behavior about such an ordinary closet.

        As Harry James was about to turn away, a flash of yellow caught his attention, wedged between the game Trouble and an old wizard chess set, barely peeking out. He reached for it and plucked the small, bright object from its hiding spot. It was a sticky note, the kind he’d only seen in Muggle stores, its texture oddly smooth and flimsy compared to the parchment he was used to.

        Harry James turned the sticky note over in his fingers, its surface catching the early morning light streaming through the window. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother's, elegant and precise, the ink a stark black against the pale yellow. He read aloud, his voice low but clear:

"In the morning light, secrets take flight,

Find the lone howler who greets the day bright.

Amidst the sizzle and warm kitchen cheer,

Your next clue waits with a friend so dear."

        Harry James furrowed his brow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his confusion. A riddle from his mother. The first line was easy enough, 'morning light' obviously meant the clue had something to do with the start of the day. But a 'lone howler'? That part puzzled him.

        Harry James decided it was time to ask his mother about the riddle. With the scent of bacon guiding him, he made his way down to the kitchen, expecting to find her amidst the morning bustle.

        Instead, it was Moony who stood at the stove, flipping bacon with a practiced flick of his wand. The realization dawned on Harry James - 'the lone howler,' Moony, a werewolf, 'amidst the sizzle' of bacon.

        Harry James approached Moony, who greeted him with a warm, if somewhat tired, smile. "Morning, cub," he said, not missing a beat as another slice of bacon landed perfectly on the growing pile on the plate.

        "Moony," Harry James started, hesitating as he took in the homely scene. "I found this," he continued, handing over the sticky note. He watched Moony’s expression carefully as he read the riddle.

        Moony's eyes twinkled with amusement as he finished reading. "Ah, your mother and her love for puzzles," he chuckled, setting down his wand and pushing a bowl of oatmeal and a plate piled high with bacon and eggs toward Harry James. "Eat up, cub. Sometimes, a full stomach aids the thinking process better than a furrowed brow."

        Harry James took the plate, his mind still racing. "Do you know what it means?" he asked, hoping for more than just a nudge in the right direction.

        Moony tapped the side of his nose with a knowing smile. "I might," he admitted. "But where’s the fun in solving all the mysteries for you? Enjoy your breakfast first. The next clue may come quicker on a full stomach."

        Harry James settled into the chair with a sigh, the comforting aromas enveloping him like a warm hug. He reached for the scones first, their buttery scent too tantalizing to resist. As he ate, his thoughts meandered, but his taste buds fixated on the scones. Moony had once attempted to teach him the secret to their fluffy, buttery perfection. Despite his best efforts, though, Harry couldn’t quite replicate the results that Moony effortlessly achieved.

        Finishing the scones, he moved on to the bacon, appreciating its crispiness, and then to the eggs, savoring their creamy consistency. Finally, he turned his attention to the oatmeal. It was warm and comforting, a simple pleasure that rounded out the meal. As he scooped up the last few spoonfuls, Harry James noticed something peculiar at the bottom of the bowl. Curious, he quickly spooned away the remaining oatmeal, revealing words etched into the porcelain.

        He leaned closer, squinting to make out the message clearly etched in a fine, curling script: 

"Beneath the house where secrets dwell, in plum shadows lies your next spell."

        Harry James set the spoon aside, his breakfast forgotten as he pondered the words. His thoughts whirled like leaves in a storm, trying to piece together the clues his mother had left him.

        Beneath the house - that must mean the basement, he reasoned, a place rarely visited and often forgotten. But what of the plum shadows? His mind raced through possibilities, discarding them as quickly as they came, until a vivid image settled at the forefront of his thoughts. The plum shadows - the deep, rich color of his mother's Wizengamot robes, which she kept carefully preserved and rarely discussed. The connection clicked like a lock opening.

        Harry James sprung up from his chair so abruptly that his plate nearly crashed to the floor. He caught it just in time, pausing for only a moment to steady it. The clatter drew a soft chuckle from Moony, who was still eating his own breakfast across the table, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement.

        The boy scrambled toward the door, his mind racing ahead of his feet. The hallway seemed to stretch longer than usual as he dashed through it, the early morning light casting long, dancing shadows through the tree outside the window.

        As he reached the top of the basement stairs, his foot missed the first step and he stumbled, tumbling down the stairs with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. He lay there for a second, the cold musty smell of the basement filling his nostrils. Pushing himself up, he shook off the pain. This mystery had chosen this morning, and he wouldn't wait.

        Harry James crossed the basement to the old wardrobe that stood against the far wall. He pulled open the doors with more force than necessary, the hinges groaning in protest.

        His fingers dove into the sea of plum robes, grasping, exploring. Once more, a Muggle sticky note revealed itself, fluttering down to the wood beneath, where he gave it not a moment to rest.

        Harry James snatched it up, smoothing it between his fingers as he scanned the hastily written message. The note was succinct:

"Ascend to where hearth fires burn bright, find what battles darkness with light."

        His brow furrowed in thought, the 'hearth' was obviously the fireplace. Pushing through his lingering discomfort from the fall, he climbed the stairs two at a time, the thrill of the hunt propelling him forward.

        Harry James burst into the sitting room, his eyes scanning for the next clue in the tantalizing treasure hunt his mother had concocted. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire that always burned, now cold for the summer. His gaze wandered, considering what 'battled darkness with light.' The fire? No. A lamp, perhaps? No, that was too simple, too mundane for his mother's intricate puzzles.

        Then his eyes landed on the mantle where his father's wand rested in its usual place, protected by a faint shimmering charm that made it seem as if it were lit from within. A realization clicked into place. Of course, the wand -  a literal and metaphorical fighter against the darkness. Harry James stepped on his tiptoes, reaching for the wand. As his fingers brushed the charm, another piece of yellow paper caught his eye, tucked next to the wand's stand.

        He carefully took the note, balancing precariously for a moment before his feet found solid ground again. He unfolded the note with an eager flick of his wrist.

"In hallowed frames, history watches with eyes of old, speak "Mischief Managed" to the guardian bold."

        Harry James spun on his heel, the note clenched in his hand as he thundered up the hallway. The portrait of his grandmother jolted awake with a snort, her eyes snapping open just in time to scold.

        "Merlin's beard, Harry James! Must you thunder through the house like a rampaging hippogriff?" she exclaimed, her voice raspy with sleep.

        From the opposite wall, the portrait of his grandfather stirred, his eyes twinkling beneath bushy brows. "Now, Euphemia, let the lad be. A bit of haste hasn't hurt anyone," he chided gently, his speech tinted with the formal cadence of his time.

        Harry James paused, panting slightly. "Sorry, Grandmother. It's just - there's a clue hunt, and I need to-"

        "That's it!" Harry James exclaimed, causing his grandmother to jump again. "The guardian bold... could that be you, Grandfather?"

        His grandfather chuckled, giving Harry James a nod of approval that seemed to echo through the gilded edges of his frame.

        "Mischief Managed," Harry James declared with a grin.

        "Very well done, Harry James," his grandfather smiled. "Now, for your next clue: Travel through the emerald flames to where weasels roam, gather friends and tell them well of what brought you from home."

        Harry James blinked, absorbing the words. The emerald flames were the Floo. The phrase "where weasels roam" puzzled him momentarily until a laugh escaped his lips - Weasleys, of course.

        "Goodbye Grandfather, Grandmother." Harry James tumbled as he rushed back into the sitting room. He grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, cool and gritty between his fingers, and threw it into the flames, jumping readily after it with a "The Burrow!"

        As the world spun green and his ears filled with the roar of a thousand fires, he rehearsed what he'd say to the Weasleys.

        The Burrow's sitting room materialized around him as he tumbled out of the fireplace with a less-than-graceful thud onto the hearth rug. The warmth of the room, filled with the familiar scents of the Burrow - spiced tea, wood smoke, and something sweet baking - wrapped around him like a welcome hug as Harry James clambered to his feet, dusting soot from his hair.

        Ron, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley were already there, their attention snapping to him as he stumbled through. Harry James straightened up, catching his breath.

        "Blimey, what a morning," Harry James exclaimed, his words tumbling out in a rush as he straightened his clothes. "So Mum set up this wild scavenger hunt, right? Started with a note hidden in our games closet, of all places." He paused, brushing a smudge of soot from his sleeve before continuing. "There was a riddle about 'morning light' and a 'lone howler,' which turned out to be Moony, you know, because he's a werewolf. Then, another clue in my oatmeal led me to the basement - to Mum's Wizengamot robes for another hint."

        He paused, catching his breath, and looked around at the attentive faces before him.

        "That one took me straight to Dad’s old wand. Then I had to say 'Mischief Managed' to my grandfather's portrait. Grandfather gave me another clue about traveling through emerald flames to 'where the weasels roam' to gather friends. That's why I'm here."

        "Well, that sounds like a proper adventure!" Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly at him, the lines around her eyes crinkling with affection. "And you've been doing splendidly. But it seems you're in need of the next clue, aren't you?" Her voice had a playful lilt as she reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled piece of parchment.

        Harry James took it quickly, unfolding it to read aloud. The words were written in the same elegant handwriting as the previous clues:

"Seek the friend of Mr. Frodo, as loyal as he's true, a gardener in nature with a grand quest to pursue."

        Harry James frowned, completely at a loss. Ron scratched his head, equally baffled. They exchanged puzzled glances, thoughts running in circles.

        It was Ginny who broke the silence, standing up with an exaggerated sigh. "It's Samwise," she said, raising an eyebrow as if the answer was obvious. Harry James looked at her blankly, still lost.

        "You two are hopeless," Ginny rolled her eyes, delivering a swift whack to the back of Harry James's head, harder than strictly necessary. "Neville Samwise Longbottom, dummy!"

        Harry James rubbed the back of his head, shooting the youngest Weasley a glare. “You could’ve just said it, you know.”

        Ginny crossed her arms, her bottom lip pouting in mock frustration. “And miss the chance to knock some sense into you? Never.” She turned to her mother. “Mum, we need to go to Neville’s. He’s the key to the next part of the hunt.”

        “Well, off you go then," Mrs. Weasley chuckled. "And be nice to each other, no more hitting,” she added, giving Ginny a pointed look.

        Harry James, Ron, and Ginny dashed towards the fireplace, each grabbing a pinch of floo powder from the ornate tin on the mantel. With a shout of "Longbottom Manor!" they were swallowed by green flames and whisked away. The familiar whirl of colors blurred around them until they tumbled out into the stately sitting room of the Longbottoms, coughing slightly as they regained their footing.

        Neville was there, seated his hands occupied with holding back a large, overly excited toad that seemed determined to escape his grasp. He looked up, a broad grin spreading across his face as his friends appeared through the fireplace. "You made it!" he exclaimed, letting the toad hop away.

        Harry James brushed the soot from his jumper.

        "Your mum said to head out to the garden when you got here," Neville said before standing. He brushed crumbs off his trousers, visibly eager to lead the way.

        The manor's corridors gave way to the brightness of the outdoors as Neville pushed open a pair of French doors, stepping out into the garden. The garden was a riot of color, with late summer blooms nodding gently in the soft breeze. The air was thick with the sweet fragrances of roses and jasmine, enveloping the group as they made their way along the winding path.

        Tall hedges lined the route, interspersed with flowering shrubs that brushed against their legs as they passed. As they rounded a particularly dense cluster of foliage, they came upon a sculpted pair of snoring leafy lions, their heads resting gracefully on crossed paws, guarding the entrance to a more secluded part of the garden.

        Beyond the lions, the path opened up to a wide clearing dominated by an imposing blue wisteria tree. Its branches stretched wide and high, far larger than any wisteria had any right to be, draped heavily with clusters of pale blue blossoms that swayed gently in the breeze. Neville's grandmother often boasted about this tree when guests were over, a pride for both its beauty and its magical enhancements, which allowed it to bloom year-round.

        Neville looked around, his expression indicating he was checking for a specific something. "This is the place," he declared, a bit impatiently, as he glanced about the garden.

        The four of them stood there for a moment, the awkwardness of the pause palpable in the air. Ron's foot tapped an uneven rhythm on the soft earth, while Ginny pulled at a strand of her hair, her gaze darting around the lush garden.

        "Any second now," Neville said rather loudly, scanning the area as if expecting something to emerge at any moment.

        Harry James bent down to admire a particularly large Harmony's Red Robin begonia, marveling at its vibrant color. Just as he was reaching out to touch the soft bloom, he heard a whisper of incantation "Retiarius Ensnareo," it floated.

        His feet swung out from under him, and he found himself hanging upside down, a few feet off the ground. His glasses slipped askew to the tip of his nose, and he quickly reached to catch them. Startled, he whipped his head around, trying to grasp what had happened. To his left, then his right as he rotated, Ron and Ginny were caught in a similar predicament, their legs kicking at the air. Neville, however, stood below them, a broad grin spreading across his face.

        "Well, well, well," a man's voice boomed from behind the tree. "What be we havin' here? A trio of treasure-seekin' scallywags aimin' to pilfer me booty?"

        Padfoot sauntered theatrically from his hiding spot, adorned in an extravagantly detailed pirate outfit - gold-trimmed red coat, a large, feathered hat perched jauntily over an eyepatch, and a fake parrot perched on his shoulder. He struck a pose worthy of a swashbuckler from the tales of old.

        Ron snorted, even as he was turned away. "Booty," he chuckled.

        Harry James, still dangling upside down, laughed so hard that his glasses finally slipped off his nose, falling silently onto the grass below. He managed to catch his breath and said, "Padfoot, you're the least intimidating pirate I've ever seen."

        The auror - pirate - feigned a hurt look, placing a hand over his heart. "Arr, but which o' ye landlubbers has the guts to face the fearsome Black Shuck, scourge o' the seven seas?" His voice boomed in mock severity, breaking only slightly as he fought back his own amusement. He strutted forward with an exaggerated swagger, waving a mock sword made of wood.

        "Arr! Face him?" Harry James responded with a grin, thrusting his hands on his hips in a pose that might have been heroic if he weren't suspended upside-down. "I reckon I am - I be more 'n ready to take on the mighty Black Shuck... arr!"

        With a swish of Padfoot's wand, Harry James, Ron, and Ginny dropped to the ground. Harry James popped up with grass in his hair but a grin on his face. Grinning broadly, the pirate picked up another wooden sword from the brush near the tree and tossed it to the boy.

        "Ready yerself, ye scurvy dog," Padfoot bowed theatrically, his feathered hat sweeping down. "Ye be 'bout to cross swords with the fiercest buccaneer this side o' the Atlantic!"

        Harry James responded by twirling the wooden sword in his hand. "En garde, you fearsome pirate!" he declared, a little wobbly but determined.

        Padfoot laughed heartily and lunged forward, his sword pointing straight at Harry James. The clack of wooden swords echoed around the garden as they crossed blades, Padfoot leading with exaggerated, theatrical thrusts that Harry James parried with growing confidence. Laughter mingled with the sounds of their duel, Harry James' tentative moves blossoming into more daring swings.

        Padfoot deftly maneuvered around a particularly enthusiastic swipe from Harry James, tapping him lightly on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. "Fine form, laddie! But guard yer flank!" he teased, easily stepping aside from his godson's counterattack.

        The duel danced around the garden, between the blooming flowers and under the arching branches of the wisteria tree. Padfoot's attacks were relentless but always controlled, pushing Harry James to his limits without ever crossing the line into actual combat.

        "Come on, Harry James!" Ginny cheered. Neville clapped along, his laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves and the sharp clacks of their swords. Ron only whooped.

        Harry James matched his godfather's energy as he ducked another playful jab. "You'll have to do better than that!" he called out, his voice bubbling with laughter. They circled each other, their footwork as lively as their banter. "Aha! Almost had you there!" Harry James exclaimed as he narrowly avoided a gentle swipe at his arm.

        Padfoot's eye sparkled with mischief under the brim of his hat.  "Almost don't cut it, matey!" he retorted, his voice deepening in his best pirate growl. He lunged again, this time with a dramatic flourish that made Ginny and Ron laugh from the sidelines.

        As Padfoot feinted to the left, Harry James parried. "I'm learning your tricks, old man!" he laughed, the thrill of the game bright in his eyes.

        Padfoot gave a dramatic groan, his movements exaggerated as he spun around, brandishing his wooden sword with a flourish. "Ye may think ye know all me moves, laddie, but I've still got a few surprises up me sleeve!"

        He lunged forward with renewed vigor, swatting the sword from Harry James's hand and sweeping the boy’s legs from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. He then pointed his sword at Harry James’s chest. "Yield, ye scallywag, or face the wrath of Captain Black Shuck!" Padfoot declared, his voice booming in mock severity.

        Harry James sat back on the grass, panting from the exertion and excitement, his hand raised in mock surrender. But before he could utter a word, Padfoot gave a rather doglike yelp. The man fell dramatically to his knees, clutching his chest as if struck by a mortal wound. "Betrayal! Oh, the cruel sea o' fate has turned 'gainst its captain!" he gasped theatrically and then collapsed sideways onto the grass.

        Behind him, Neville stood, grinning as he held another wooden sword. "I guess the crew's mutinying today, Cap'n."

        Harry James burst into laughter and prodded Padfoot's cheek with the tip of his finger. "Are you dead then, mighty pirate?" he teased.

        With a sudden snort, the animagus opened one eye and stuck his tongue out, playing dead for a moment. "Aye, struck down in me prime by mutinous dogs!" he groaned, then scrambled to his feet, brushing off his costume with a laugh.

        "Alright, lads and Ginny, back to your stations!" Padfoot announced, clapping his hands as if to clear the stage of a play. "There's treasure to be had, and no true pirate ever spent long in the doldrums." 

        Padfoot flicked his wand, and from a second-story window, a large roll of parchment soared into the air before gliding down to the garden, landing gently in his hand. He unfurled it across the grass and spread it out, revealing its contents to the eager eyes of the children gathered around.

        "It's a map," Ginny observed, her voice tinged with excitement as she leaned over to get a better look.

        Indeed, it was a map - though Harry James had to squint to see that for himself - despite the absence of the maze-like hedges that characterized the actual garden. Various plants were marked in black ink around a central, crudely drawn tree in blue ballpoint. Foxgloves, sunflowers, hydrangeas, and fanged geraniums sat in four separate places around the otherwise blank parchment.

        At the top of the map, a riddle sprawled across in an inviting script:

"Trace the path of blooms so bold, from fanged flowers to sun's gold. Where X marks the root, a secret blooms; find the path through floral rooms."

        Neville squinted at the map, his finger tracing a line from the foxgloves to the sunflowers. "We've got to find each flower in the maze, then? That's clever."

        "Divide and conquer. Each of us can take a flower to find. It'll be faster that way," Ginny bossed from over his shoulder. "Ron, foxgloves. Neville, hydrangeas. Harry James, fanged geraniums." She pointed at each of the boys in turn. "I'll take the sunflowers."

        "Why do you get the sunflowers?" Harry James increduled at being assigned the only flower that could bite. "And who put you in charge?"

        Ginny cocked an eyebrow, the sunlight catching the fiery glints in her hair. "Someone has to manage you boys." she quipped, turning up her nose, "And unlike someone, my sunny personality brightens everyone's day."

        Ron snorted dismissively, his eyes wide with skepticism, just as Padfoot, with a deft flick of his wand, duplicated the map. Ginny shot Ron a sharp glance. "Shut it, Ron."

        Ginny spun around, pointing at each of them in rapid succession. "Foxgloves, hydrangeas, fanged geranium," she ordered. With a confident nod, she snatched up her copy of the map and strode off toward the section of the garden marked by vibrant sunflowers, her figure quickly swallowed by the greenery.

        Harry James opened his mouth to say something derisive, but before he could utter a sound, Ginny's voice carried back through the garden, "Shut it, Harry James."

        Padfoot clapped Harry James firmly on the shoulder, chuckling heartily. "Best heed the lady's advice," he says with a wink. "Keeping the women in your life happy is a wise man's game."

        Harry James made a face, his ears burning slightly. "She's not one of the women in my life," he muttered under his breath, a bit louder than he intended.

        "Whatever you say," Padfoot snorted, nodding sagely.

        Harry James scowled as he snatched up his map and stomped off through the garden.

        As he stomped, he glanced down at his map. With each step he took, the lines of the hedge maze drew themselves, the ink dark and sure. He could see, too, where Neville, Ron, and Ginny ventured, their own paths drawn on his map.

        As he ventured further into the garden, he found himself engrossed in the map, tracing his fingers along the paths drawn in inky lines. Every few steps, he caught himself just in time as another plant or garden feature loomed unexpectedly. At one point, he nearly stepped on a cluster of daffodils that, startled by his near misstep, emitted a chorus of indignant honks. Chastened, he muttered an apology to the flowers, their petals still quivering from the scare.

        Harry James adjusted his pace, giving more attention to the vibrant world around him. His focus shifted back to the map as a new line formed, snaking its way toward the sunflowers. A small flag popped up next to it, signaling Ginny's success. Moments later, another line extended toward the hydrangeas, and a second flag appeared - Neville had found his target. A minute later, a third path curved toward the foxgloves, ending with Ron's flag materializing beside them.

        The fanged geraniums, he finally found, were nestled in a particularly shady nook of the garden, their jagged leaves rustling softly as if whispering secrets to one another. Harry James approached cautiously, remembering all too well the last time he'd gotten too close to one. A fourth flag drew itself onto the map.

        He glanced around before checking the map again. The paths of his friends began to converge back at the center of the garden, where a large x now appeared, pulsing lightly on the parchment.

        Harry James quickened his steps, heading towards the designated meeting point marked by the pulsing X on his map.

        As he rounded the last corner, he spotted the distinct figure of Padfoot lounging in a lawn chair, a flamboyant red X spelled onto the patch of dirt beneath him. The older man's eyes twinkled mischievously as he surveyed the children. "Took you long enough," Padfoot teased, his voice carrying easily over the gentle rustle of the garden.

        The animagus lazily waved his wand, summoning a set of shovels from a nearby shed. The tools soared through the air, landing noisily in the hands of Harry James and his friends.

        Padfoot rose from his seat with a flourish, swinging the lawn chair aside from the X. "Dig here, if you please," he directed, pointing emphatically at the spot with his wand.

        Harry James stabbed his shovel into the soft earth. The soil was loose, perhaps because this spot had been prepared in advance. Ron, a little clumsier, jabbed his shovel into the ground with less precision but equal enthusiasm. Ginny and Neville joined in.

        After several minutes of vigorous effort, Harry James's shovel struck something solid. He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow as he knelt down to clear away the loose dirt. His fingers brushed against something cool and hard - metal, perhaps.

        Harry James and Neville exchanged a quick, curious glance before both boys doubled their efforts, scraping away the remaining dirt with more urgency. Together, they revealed a long metal box, its surface dulled by the dirt but otherwise untarnished.

        With a concerted effort, they tugged at the box, heaving it out of the dirt. It landed with a sharp thud on the soft grass, the impact stirring a small cloud of dust around them. Catching their breath, Harry James and Neville exchanged excited glances before they set about opening the mysterious container. They pried at the lid with their fingers at first, and then, finding a pair of garden trowels nearby, used them to lever the stubborn lid open.

        Finally, the lid gave way.

        Inside, nestled in a bed of dark velvet, lay an object of exquisite craftsmanship. The polished mahogany gleamed under the garden’s dappled sunlight, each curve and line reflecting the care and precision with which it had been shaped, catching the light and throwing it back. Harry James’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he traced his gaze along the sleek, elegant form. Its handle was smooth, tapering elegantly from a thick, sturdy base to a fine point, promising perfect balance. The twigs at the end were meticulously aligned, each filament catching the light to shimmer like threads of gold.

        It was only as his eyes caught the glint of gold lettering embossed along the side that he realized what he held before him. Harry James traced the letters with his fingers, feeling the slight raise of the gold as he spelled out the words. The realization hit him with a rush - a broomstick, and not just any broomstick, but the finest. "Nimbus 2000."

        It was a whole minute before Harry James could tear his eyes away from the broom to notice there was a note affixed to the inside of the lid, and even then it was only a cough from Padfoot that freed him. His hands trembling slightly with excitement, he reached for it, his fingers brushing the cool paper. He unfolded the note, his gaze flicking over his mother's handwriting, which flowed across the paper with elegant urgency:

"To my dearest Harry James,

        May this broom lift you as high in spirit as it does in flight. Remember, true courage isn't about flying the fastest or diving the steepest, but in rising every time we fall.

With all my love,

Mum

P.S. Share."

        He could feel it already - the wind in his hair. He could hear the air howling past, and the crowds roaring his name. He could -

        "I call second ride!" Ginny squealed, though she would deny squealing later. Harry James blinked. Second ride. Second ride meant there would be a first ride.

        He didn't have to imagine.