Chapter Text
The sizzling of crispy popping bacon on a pan—pop, pop, pop—sizzle—and he stirs again, awakening another roar of furious sizzles— Grasping the bowl of lightly whisked eggs, seasoning it, and pouring it into the pan with the pieces of bacon. Letting it simmer. Stirring again as the eggs begin to solidify.
Had a Dursley been in the vicinity, he’d have the comfort of no chance of getting his hand or head slammed into oily, searing bacon now that he’s added the eggs—it’d still burn, but not as much—but why would that matter now?
Switching off the stove and dragging the pan to an unused stovetop with a lid on top, he finishes up squeezing the oranges in a manual juice press until a jug is half full. The maple syrup is in the top right pantry cupboard, isn’t it? He checks and finds it hiding behind a couple of other items, and then he begins picking out the utensils— Three sets of a fork and knife— Unless the Dursley’s are in an especially good mood and let him eat too—or an especially bad mood and want him to eat at the table with a mockingly small amount of food just for their own amusement— Not likely though; they’d rather he didn’t eat at all—
“Good morning.” And that doesn’t sound like Petunia… or any other Dursley for that matter, not even Aunt Marge— He whips around with wide eyes— It’s—...
It’s Theodore Nott, in a navy-blue set of silk pyjamas, with ruffled curls and a well-rested pair of eyes. Of course it’s him; why would anyone else be here, in his Residum? What had he been thinking?
The Dursleys don’t matter anymore—and it’s not like anyone can force him to go back there. Except for maybe Dumbledore—but Harry wouldn’t make it easy for the old bugger to do so. In fact, he has many means and forces to ensure he remains safe wherever he is and never ever has to return. Ever. And sure, that is completely despite how much the old wizard insists he must go back to the Dursley’s every school year and the fact that he doesn’t and always returns the next term utterly unharmed.
So why can’t he just let go of that stupid family?!
He hadn’t seen them in what—? Two years?
And yet, like weeds, they remain.
Over the years since he left the Dursleys, he’s occasionally had small episodes where he believes he’s back there, but he usually doesn’t fall too deeply into the mindset before someone breaks him out of it.
But he supposes he can also blame it on the rough night.
Sleep had come easy but ultimately fruitless. Like the slow slipping of claws around his neck patiently waiting for him to let down his guard and strangle him with nightmares of Sirius slipping through the veil, and Voldemort, and Bellatrix, and of his store burning to the ground with all his reptiles—his only family—
So he’d risen in the wee hours of the morning, much before the sun, and quietly snuck out of the house and into the dome, whispering meaningless but comforting conversations with the nocturnal and crepuscular snakes until late dawn. Florence had awoken and searched for him in the first few minutes of sunrise and effortlessly joined in conversation until the other snakes resigned to their own companies, and the two of them chattered until maybe 7:45.
Basil, who is transitioning into adolescence, has been undergoing something like mini hibernations that tend to last a couple days at a time, meaning he is due to wake later in the following day. It also means Harry has only recently started to get used to his absence.
A small gush of wind breaks him out of his stupor, and it’s no wonder Nott is eyeing him abnormally—
“Sorry—I zoned out. Good morning to you too, though,” he says with an awkward smile before sighing and falling back into the routine of serving the plates. Behind him, Nott shuffles around, so he quickly adds, “You can take a seat wherever. I hope you like pancakes and eggs, or if—well, if you don’t, just let me know and I can cook up something else for you, alright?” He belatedly realises his sudden resemblance to Mrs Weasley and smiles at the thought of the warm memory.
“Thank you. For the offer. But I’m really not that picky…” The teen assures politely a few seconds later when Harry carries and sets the plates down on the table.
He watches the sleep-kissed boy intently as he sits down, “You’re welcome,” –and notices the surprise and strange look at the cutlery as he picks it up. It vanishes too soon for the host to linger. Instead, he floats over the butter, maple syrup, cheese and cups of orange juice, having forgotten about them seconds ago.
Two minutes into eating in the slightly uncomfortable silence of drinking, chewing, and swallowing, Nott has equipped his cheek with a drizzle of syrup and is currently covering the slip-up with a hasty hand and searching desperately for a cloth napkin, probably. Harry doesn’t exactly have that, but he does have baby wipes and disposable napkins, so he sends a wipe the other’s way.
He hears a muffled “thank you”, sees the suspicion glaze over the boy’s eyes and makes the wild guess that magical children and specifically pureblood children aren’t very familiar with wipes or disposable napkins. Nott cleans his cheek with it nonetheless, like the aristocrat he once was, and all judgement quickly fades away. He uses a touch of magic to bring over the napkin stand and then an individual serviette directly into Nott’s hands and decides to test the teen.
“They’re muggle—I hope you don’t mind—and disposable, so I charmed them to disappear after use.” He explains innocently and is glad to see absolutely no offensive or defensive reaction come from the latter. “So you can just drop them wherever you’d like once you’re done with them.”
“Oh.” Nott’s most casual sound yet. A handful of seconds later, he curiously drops the two off to the side of the table and almost gasps when they transfigure into small fireballs and then those into miniature dragons for a few cute seconds that fly around Nott’s very still hands. The boy eyes them with bright eyes and a small smile until they spark out of existence.
Satisfied. If Harry had to choose one word to describe the boy as he sinks back into his seat, it would be that, and also a bit redder on the cheeks if he had to describe him more explicitly. A single honest exchange of glances at each other cues the continuation of their breakfasts.
This time, marginally less awkward, Harry is relieved to find.
That is, until Nott asks, “I had thought you had a house-elf to do the cooking? Can it not get in here?”
It seems drawn from innocent curiosity, but Harry—maybe because he’s tired or maybe because it’s not the first time he’s been judged for certain habits he can’t break out of because of the Dursleys—looks at the questions from the worst angle possible.
He sighs and drops his cutlery in a way that would’ve probably made Vernon’s face turn purple with rage and would’ve earned him more than a couple bruises.
The justification that rolls from his mouth is petty, admittedly, but the truth, “I like cooking.”
Unlike Ron and Hermione—the ones who’d usually call him out on his strange behaviour but are used to letting it go—Nott tenses and hides his gaze in favour of looking at his food.
Harry feels a wound of regret reopen and bleed out from a dissipating wall of defence.
“Oh. I see.” The pureblood replies quietly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—…” With a defeated expression, the boy stops and says no more.
The visual representation of Harry’s regret at this point would be rather gory.
“No. Nott, there’s nothing for you to apologise for—you know—I should be the one apologising.” He begins tiredly, squeezing his temples for a moment. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m just tired—and I know that’s no excuse; it’s just why. And I—… I have a habit of getting defensive about some things—so really, I’m sorry.” He tries his best to maintain eye contact to reassure his sincerity, and luckily, it seems to come through.
“Okay…” Nott mumbles, directing his eyes elsewhere again, “I understand. But you really didn’t do anything wrong—how I see it, at least—so there isn’t anything to forgive you for. I didn’t take it personally; you seemed rather exhausted in any case.” The teen winces at his own choice of words and reconnects with the green eyes bravely.
In response, Harry smiles weakly, expresses his relief and, for the rest of the day, makes an effort to drop his defences and act like an actual human being.
─┉┈┈◈❖◈┈┈┉─
His attempts at regaining his humanity after breakfast are as follows: he sends off some magic to clean up the kitchen and everything else used to consume and cook breakfast, and, after informing Nott, he takes the time to have a shower. The other teen has one too, and Harry would know because the teenager finds him in the dome half an hour later.
“Hey.” Harry throws a quick glance at Nott’s perfectly groomed figure from his high position in a tree. Citrus, a magical Eyelash Pit Viper, has been giving him a lot of trouble recently ever since she got a noncontagious (thank Merlin!) virus and has obviously needed daily medicinal potions. Turns out, she’s quite a feisty bugger because she’s all for biting him in order to protect herself from getting better, and turns out, climbing trees can get quite tiring when he’s running on 4.5 hours of sleep.
Nott’s face and small jump upon noticing him tell Harry that he hadn’t expected to find him there, but honestly, how could he? The Gryffindor whips back at the culprit slumped on a branch a couple arms from reach.
'Citrus.' He narrows his eyes at the bright yellow snake.
'What.' She hisses back, sounding a lot like a toddler (mind you, she’s well into adulthood).
'If you do not come down within the next 10 seconds…' He threatens, trying to put a more serious emphasis on it, '—you will leave me no choice but to forcefully bring you down.'
She lets out a noise almost identical to a 'hmph!' and snaps, 'Why don’t you go on and try!'
He can hardly believe her attitude towards him, but maybe he shouldn’t take it to heart since she’s physically ill. With his hands too preoccupied holding onto the tree, it’d be difficult to even bother using his wand, so wandlessly and silently, he wills his magic to grasp her—and his attempt is very nearly successful, but somehow she manages to slip out of its hands because—
She can fly—?!
That’s her ability?!
Well—maybe he should’ve expected it since he’d known that she could perform basic levitation, but of course she’d hidden this part of it, being the cunning little thing she is.
Harry groans for a second, watching the yellow thing float towards the top of the dome, very well out of reach. It doesn’t take him long to come up with a plan however.
With only the double crack sound of Disapparition and Apparition, the Gryffindor pops onto the roof of the dome upside down, instantly charming his feet to stick to the glass tiles, and creates a hollow sphere of magic to trap a startled Citrus within its harmless but effective walls. Victory is indeed sweet, especially when he gets to experiment and test his magical capabilities.
He tends to get restless when he doesn’t use enough magic. And he hasn’t really had the time or place to do so for a while; having a job, and his busyness at Hogwarts or other places where he can practise underage magic.
'You. Are. Being…' He frowns, poking the magical sphere after each word, ‘—ridiculously dramatic, I hope you know. Do you want to stay sick for weeks? Risk dying, even?'
'Unfair!' Citrus cries. And she continues to moan as he lowers the two of them slowly to the ground and levitates her ever-persisting complaints all the way up the stairs of his new home, next to Theodore’s room and into his personal potions laboratory. There, he administers the necessary potions rather forcefully, and he certainly will not feel at all sorry, thank you very much.
Releasing her, he packs up his supplies in an organised manner and turns around—and comes to a halt.
Theodore Nott is standing at the door, tense now upon sudden scrutiny, and like clockwork, the teen looks away, patting down his robes awkwardly.
“Hey, Nott,” He starts up in an attempt to ease the silence, “Did you need anything?”
“No.” The Slytherin quickly answers.
“You sure?”
His guest lifts his head and nervously meets Harry’s gaze, “Yes, I’m quite alright, thank you… I was simply…”
A minute later, there seems to be no hope of the boy continuing, so Harry steps in and offers, “Did you want to follow me around? Help me feed some snakes? I can teach you some Parseltongue if you’d like.”
He’d been worried that the boy would go along with it only to be polite, but fortunately, he’s guessed correctly; Nott’s eyes brighten, and the tension leaves his body.
“Yes, I’d quite like that, thank you.”
“Great.” Harry smiles as they begin retracing their steps, “And I’m sure I can arrange morning tea in the dome later on as well.”
It becomes clearer than ever to Harry that evening that Nott is a rather quiet fellow. Unlike Blaise. Unlike Parkinson. Unlike Millicent Bulstrode, he believes. And very much unlike Malfoy.
Unlike most aristocratic Slytherins, is what he’s trying to get at. Most of them seem to know how to start a conversation, how to keep it up and grasp their victim’s attention, and how to subtly and effortlessly end any conversation.
Nott is… different in that sense. He doesn’t act aristocratic to an extent. He’s formal, yes, much better mannered than him, yes, a much better writer (font-wise and literacy-skills-wise) than him, definitely, but doesn’t seem as socially skilled as his other fellow classmates. In fact, he almost seems stunted in that area. Like how Harry himself had been and can still be from time to time.
Harry Potter had never had friends as a child, not really, or at least nothing more than an acquaintance or two. He’d also lived in a cupboard for most of his childhood. He’d also been beaten and starved and hated and left to his own lonely accords.
Honestly, Nott acts a lot like he did before he started working at The Serpent’s Den.
Mind you, he’s not sure how much of the boy’s personality right now is affected by the disownment or—
Hang on.
“I almost forgot—where’s Iuitl? Did he…?” Nott flicks his head anxiously towards Harry as though surprised by the sudden question or the question itself. They’re in the dome now, where the Gryffindor is searching for the snakes which are due to be fed.
The teen’s face falls quickly, and he mumbles guiltily, “I… there wasn’t enough time. I packed what I could, and I couldn’t find him before…” He trails off but continues belatedly as if he owes it to Harry, “Before it was too late…”
“Oh—sorry for bringing it up… But I’m sure he’ll be alright. He’s pretty bloody strong, you know?” Harry lightly chuckles, trying to lighten up the mood he’d accidentally completely soured.
He’s successful in his attempt, thank Merlin, because Nott half-smiles and glances at Harry’s genuinely forgiving face. “Yeah… He is.”
─┉┈┈◈❖◈┈┈┉─
Theodore Nott turns out to be another great distraction from thoughts of the calamities in his life, just as much so as the snakes and cooking and cleaning. Speaking of, he ends up teaching his guest plenty of Parseltongue and even more so clarifying certain words. And also, his guest, for some reason, decides to spend the entire day accompanying Harry. He assists Harry with feeding a couple snakes. He reads a book about Parseltongue from underneath a nearby tree (while eating from a bowl of sliced mango with a fork, which Harry had offered and insisted the boy accept) as Harry picks out some weeds from the garden in front of his home (which he then charms to repel weeds from growing ever again). And he sits elegantly in the lounge and continues reading silently and quite peacefully as his host prepares lunch a couple metres away.
With lunch settled, a new line of conversation emerges from none other than the quiet Theodore Nott himself.
“I… would like to explain myself to you, Potter…” The statement comes out of the blue after a couple minutes of silent eating. And Nott looks, well, a bit concerned—nervous really. Similar to how he’d been the night before at the Leaky Cauldron.
“Call me ‘Harry’.” He pauses and watches Nott swiftly look at him as though surprised he could even do such a thing despite literally living in the same house as Harry. He smiles at the shy boy and adds, “If you want, I mean.”
Nott returns the smile and tilts his head slightly, timidly perhaps, “Okay… in that case, you can call me ‘Theodore’ or ‘Theo’.”
It doesn’t take the Slytherin long to return to whatever is making him worry his lower lip.
“So… Harry, I—… I have this condition.” Harry nods patiently, face as least judging as physically possible, even if he is a bit surprised by the turn of events. “In which I… have moments of… distortion or, I mean, these moments where I get really overwhelmed and panic for no apparent reason, and occasionally I can enter these states of… psychosis.” The teen swallows without food in his mouth and looks down at his plate, a bit—well, maybe ashamed.
“I see.” Harry answers quickly, “Well… Is there anything I can do to help you with it?”
Below his eyelashes, the boy’s eyes shine and stare at him as though he’s never seen the other famous teen before. “Well…” He’s almost whispering with the volume. “I would usually have to take some potions for it, but after… the…”
“I understand.” He cuts in with a small smile, encouraging Nott—Theo—to move on.
“Right. Well, now I don’t have access to an apothecary to buy it. I have the instructions for it, but not the ingredients, so I was wondering if… Well… honestly I’m no good at Potions either way—”
He tries not to leap from his seat with eagerness. “Don’t worry about it—um, Theo—I don’t mind making it for you; I’m sure I have most of the ingredients in my stores.”
Theodore flushes and he hunches, this time, very much ashamed, “No, Harry—thank you, but no, I couldn’t possibly let you do that without being able to repay you—”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you,” Harry is not sorry at all; he’s even smiling. “—but I’ll do it anyway, and you really don’t have to repay me; honestly, I don’t care.”
But Theo is not having it. From the moment Harry insisted on helping, he pretty much knew that the Slytherin would not let this go unpaid. “No, Harry, I cannot physically accept your help without repayment. So, how can I repay you?”
Potter sighs and sinks into his chair in thought, “Well, let’s make it easier, shall we? You owe me: when I think of some way for you to repay me, you can, alright? Are we even now?”
Nott nods slowly, eyes narrowing deep in thought.
The deal is done, and Nott—well, Theo hands over the instructions for his potion medication after lunch, and Harry doesn’t waste any time gathering the ingredients to brew it.
“But you couldn’t possibly have all of the ingredients—could you?” Nott adds doubtfully.
“Well, no, but I can still make them.” He answers with little explanation. Theodore turns his head Harry’s way and opens his mouth to throw in some questions—but then stops when Harry gestures him closer to a book he levitates from a nearby shelf.
The two stand around the potions bench, three books wide open, as the green-eyed boy guides the other through the process of creating something from nothing. The key? Learning the specific elements it’s made out of, what activates it, what creates a chemical reaction, what makes it a solid, what makes it a liquid, what makes it a gas, how it feels at room temperature, etc. Basically, trying to retain as much information as one can gather about the object and then, well, using magic to do the rest.
The rest he’s not quite sure how to explain, because he doesn’t use a wand or a spell or a certain movement or a word or anything but a specific pull of magic. He demonstrates it a few times in front of Nott for the necessary ingredients, and the teen looks beyond impressed, nonetheless.
“That’s impossible.” The teen breathes despite having seen it happen before his eyes. “I… I don’t understand your magic, P—Harry, I mean—half of what you do with it shouldn’t even be possible…” He finishes with a loose jaw.
Harry isn’t sure how to respond to that, but respond he does, “It’s—… been getting stronger. My magic—that is. Do you know if... if that’s normal?”
Theo looks at him through his eyelashes before looking down at the books with a slight frown, “Stronger how? Because it is normal for one’s magic to grow somewhat during adolescence, yes, but… would you mind explaining how it feels to you?”
“It…” Harry tilts his head to a corner of the room. “It kind of feels like if I… like if I don’t use enough magic—it… feels restless—and then I start to feel restless. It… feels like static electricity—do you know what that is?” When Nott shakes his head, Harry adds, “Charged, I feel charged—like I could shoot lightning from my hands or something.” He smiles at the attentive and concentrated boy.
“Or, when it gets really bad,” he decides to add, “I feel like I could… explode, you know?” He laughs, but the nerves find their way in.
The silence that fills in the minute gap of speech makes him actually take the time to consider his magic and wonder again if the Dursleys had been right. That he really is different, not just from them but from everyone. He’d thought he fit into the wizarding world, that his magic didn’t make him a freak or—or… something dangerous.
Theodore interrupts his darkening thoughts, though, which he is glad for.
“Honestly, Harry, I have never heard anything like that before. What has Granger said about it? Have you told any of our professors?”
“Not really. I mean… I thought it was normal, to an extent.” He admits, “Well, I know Hermione has told me that my magic is a bit different or something and that some of the things I can do with it should be impossible. But I haven’t even shown her that half of it either because I don’t want to come off as—I don’t want to boast or anything. Or make her concerned or something, you know?”
“… Well, yes, I understand.” Nott—or Theo, mumbles a bit shyly. “I can do some research on it, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Oh.” Harry fixes his seating into something more proper, never really having thought of researching it—stupid of him, really. “I mean, that’d be great; I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“Then I will.” The walnut-haired boy smiles lightly.
Harry smiles back, and the name finally slips out from his tongue comfortably for the first time that day, “Thanks, Theo.”
“My pleasure. Harry.” Maybe it isn’t so natural for Theodore quite yet, but Harry finds he doesn’t care all that much.
─┉┈┈◈❖◈┈┈┉─
Two letters filter into the Residum after lunch, both written from the same elegant hands, the ones belonging to Blaise Zabini. The letter addressed to Harry, in summary, pretty much informs him that Blaise is free all week, and with as little as an hour’s notice, he would be at their doorstep (obviously the Slytherin doesn’t know where that is exactly, but that’s beside the point). As a side note, he also mentions that Harry will have to explain how and where on earth he learnt to produce a full corporeal Patronus.
Harry thinks the teen is eager enough and sends a letter offering lunch or tea the following day, as well as a meeting spot near Grimmauld Place. This then reminds him of Ron and Hermione and the fact that they have no idea of the shit that’s occurred over the past couple of days.
He gets to writing those without further ado.
Later that day, Nott enlightens him of the protective charms placed on the Lily charm Annahstasia had gifted him. A bit surprised, but perhaps he shouldn’t have expected any less from the expert warder. Among them, though, the most shocking is a rare charm some pureblood families have gifted their sons and daughters through heirlooms, which discreetly removes the trace against underage magic when worn. As simple and as inconsequential as that.
Weight lifted, shackles gone, bars torn, a new kind of freedom belongs to him, just like that.
Merlin—! All he wants to do is hug and thank Anna 100 times over for how tremendously grateful he is for not only giving him an aesthetically pleasing artefact that will at any time remind him of his mother’s love but also a practical and game-changing one. Life-changing, more like. Almost or even equally as precious as his father’s cloak.
Honestly.
He considers hunting her down just to thank her. Had he known the extent of the charms, he’d have done so straight away. Maybe he should stop by with some home-made biscuits and a gift of gratitude, surely. It’s the least he can do, right?
He decides to sleep on it to consider timing and safety.
The remainder of the day flies by rather pleasantly, if he does say so himself, in which Harry continues thoroughly cleaning the house, introduces a few hanging plants to its interiors, checks up on each individual snake and finally, finishes off Theodore’s potion medication. As for the quiet boy himself, he follows, observes and/or reads a book silently nearby during each and every one of the tasks. Eventually Harry gets used to his presence and can picture himself finding comfort in it within the near future, being as trusting as he usually tends to be.
Technically though, the potion needs to sit overnight exposed to room temperature, and then Harry can officially give it to the Slytherin who had explained earlier on that he would be taking it daily but that the effects tend to last up to a couple days. Personally, Harry thinks that makes sense because, besides the little episode on and off the Knight Bus, Nott hasn’t shown any really open symptoms of panic or anything.
In the end though, the potion looks pitch perfect, and a part of Harry wishes he could shove it in Snape’s face and force the man to admit that he is not some incompetent fool at Potions anymore, thank you very much.
To give the man some credit though, he could quite literally count on one hand the number of times the man had yelled at him last year. He’s even come close to praising Harry’s efforts, and Harry had literally managed to get a few O’s and even more EE’s in the subject. Although the man has seemed confused by Harry’s eagerness and improvement, he has yet to pull Harry aside and ask where it came from. Harry’s fine with that. Great with that, actually.
And—you wouldn’t believe it, but Harry’s even started to look forward to the lessons and brewing. Pretty crazy, right?
But seriously, he does now.
By 9pm, Harry and Theo sit in the lounge with chamomile and honey tea in hand, Blaise having already confirmed the visit for tomorrow.
‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’
Theo shifts in his armchair with a frown. A few seconds, and he hisses with a steadily improving accent, ‘Can you repeat? Please?’
‘Of course,’ Harry smiles, turning slightly towards the fireplace where Florence lays half-asleep, half-listening to the two of them speaking in the same tongue, ‘It’s difficult, so don’t worry if you don’t get it much.’
The other relaxed teen nods and waits patiently.
Harry repeats the line from the famous book “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald and recalls the first time he went on a shopping spree in the same summer he’d started working at The Serpent’s Den, where he bought a bunch of cooking and potions-related books, as well as plenty of other popular fictional books he’d heard of but had never had the chance to read beforehand.
Theo responds in English like he usually does after trying to decipher Harry’s Parseltongue. “All I got was “So we… something” … and then “boats” and a “contradiction”, maybe … and “back” or “return” … and “into the past” at the end, I believe.”
“You’re correct about some.” Harry grins appraisingly like at the boy, “It’s a line from a book: The Great Gatsby. Muggle, I believe, ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past’. It makes sense that you couldn’t translate ‘beat on’ since it can have several different meanings, and ‘against’ can certainly mean some sort of contradiction. So, really, you did quite well for a sentence like that.”
A deep red blooms across Nott’s pale skin, but he smiles anyway. Harry’s gotten used to seeing the colour popping in from time to time, and it’s something that he tries not to stare at since Nott clearly can’t control it.
They stay up late talking about nothing very important. Just some Parseltongue here and there, and the possible reasons behind Harry’s strangely powerful magical core. They talk until the conversation comes to a very natural halt, an unspoken agreement of sorts. Perhaps they’re just too tired to continue.
Yes, that’s exactly why because Theodore is fast asleep within minutes in front of the fireplace.
Silently and wandlessly, he finds himself burning off as much magic as he can to transfigure the teen’s chair into a bed with plenty of pillows and blankets while also ensuring he is completely unaware of the movement with a bit of levitation.
Florence then insists on the idea that the three of them sleep down there, and Harry thinks—why not? —gives in and transfigures his own armchair. He realises very quickly and with sudden frustration, that the cottage is too small for all this furniture— and so in response to Florence’s quiet joke of an idea that he just expand it, Harry does in fact expand it.
He supposes then, finally lying in bed with Florence wrapped around him (giggling and praising his powers), that his magic really is different.
Convenient, nonetheless.