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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

How to ruin an orphan’s life in under five minutes; 

a guide by Albus Dumbledore

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, are very proud of their mediocrity. They pride themselves on their normality and shun anything weird or mysterious . They think anything with slight abnormality is nonsense, and no one would have thought they would eventually house a boy who seems to be the furthest from normal a person can be. 

Mr. Dursley is the director of a firm called Grunnings, which makes drills. He is… a big man, to put it nicely. He hardly has a neck and most of his red, blotchy face is covered by a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was quite the opposite of him. She’s very thin with almost too much neck which comes in handy when she peers over her fence into her neighbors garden because she thinks everyone's business is also her own. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley also have a son, Dudley. They think he is the most perfect little boy the world has ever been blessed with. 

The Dursleys have everything they want, but they also have a secret . A secret they want no one to know about, the Potters. Mrs. Potter, Lily is, or well was Mrs. Dursley’s sister. Nowadays Mrs. Dursley pretends she doesn't have a sister because Mr. and Mrs. Dursley think that the Potters are quite frankly, freaks . Mrs. Dursley often lays awake at night, thinking about what would happen if this terrible secret were to get out. 

‘What would people think?’ She often wondered, staring at her ceiling, trying to drone out these thoughts with Mr. Dursley’s loud snoring. 

What also scares the Dursleys is the Potter's son and what would happen if their perfect Dudley mixed with a freak like that. 

Mrs. Dursley had a sleepless night with the same thoughts last night, regardless she gets up with Mr. Dursley on this dull, damp, and gray Tuesday, not knowing what strange and unusual things were to happen. Mr. Dursley is now picking out his most boring work tie as Mrs. Dursley is gossiping away on the phone, trying to wrestle a red, screaming Dudley into his highchair. 

None of them seem to notice a large, tawny owl flutter past their kitchen window. 

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picks up his briefcase, pecks Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tries to kiss Dudley good-bye but misses because Dudley is having a tantrum and is throwing cereal at the walls. 

“Little tyke,” Mr. Dursley chuckles as he leaves the house. He hobbles into his car and backs out of house number four´s driveway. 

It’s at the corner of the street where Mr. Dursley noticed a tabby cat, a tabby cat reading a map. For a second Mr. Dursley’s eyes gloss over the peculiar cat, then consciousness hits him like a truck. He jerks his head back to the strange tabby. Its still sitting on the corner of Privet Drive, but there's no map in sight. He stares at the cat, huffs and turns back to the road in front of him. 

‘Bloody rubbish I´m thinking of,’ He tries to rationalise as he turns the corner. He pushes the strange tabby out of his mind, replacing it with a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. 

These pleasant thoughts are once again pushed aside as he nears the edge of town. He sits in the usual morning traffic jam, when something from the corner of his eye catches his attention, a group of people. A group of people in strange looking clothes. Again, trying to rationalise, he thinks to himself that it’s a new weird fashion young people have taken a liking to, though he can’t imagine why. His attention is drawn to one of the strange huddles of people who are whispering excitedly. Mr. Dursley’s face twisted when he noticed that a few of these strangely dressed people were quite old, older than him! 

“Some silly stunt,” Mr. Dursley grumbles to himself, “Some rubbish for charity… yes, yes, that's it.” 

Slowly traffic moves along and Mr. Dursley arrives at the Grunnings parking lot, his mind going back to drill sales. 

Thankfully for Mr. Dursley´s sanity, he always sits with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If, for whatever reason, Mr. Dursley was to turn around, he would´ve seen owls swooping past his window. The people in the streets below, however, did see the owls, staring with their mouths open. Most have never seen an owl, even at night, but thankfully for Mr. Dursley had an owl-free morning, selling drills. He yelled at five different people, made several important telephone calls, and proceeded to yell a bit more. Now it is his lunchtime, and he is in a very good mood. He decides to stretch his legs and walk across the street to buy himself a doughnut from the bakery. 

His mind had completely forgotten about the strange people in cloaks until he passed a rather large group of them next to the baker’s. He eyes them angrily as he pushes the door open. Strange things and or people make Mr. Dursley uneasy, and these people are strange. These weirdos kept whispering excitedly, and his rational earlier is thrown out the window when Mr. Dursley notices that there is no collecting tin in sight. He comes out of his sweet refuge and passes the strange cloak-wearing people again when he overhears what they are saying.

“The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard-”

“-yes and their son, Harry-”

Mr. Dursley stops, dread creeping down his back slowly crawling, like a spider. He doesn’t dare look at the whisperers, and opts to keep walking instead. 

He hurries back across to the Grunnings building, walking faster than he’s ever walked before. He makes it to the ninth floor, face flushed red and barking at his secretary to not disturb him. He goes to his office telephone and almost finishes dialing his home number, but ultimately decides against it. He slowly puts the phone back on the receiver and grips the edge of his desk. 

‘No, no, Vernon, you’re being stupid. Potter isn’t such an unusual name. Yes, yes lots of people are called Potter who might have a son named Harry. You don’t even know if your nephew’s name is Harry, yes.’

He plops down on his office chair, coming to the conclusion that there’s no reason to worry Mrs. Dursley over something that probably doesn’t concern them. Not to mention she always got… sensitive of the mention of her sister . He doesn’t blame her, though, if he had a sister like that… But there’s no use of dwelling in the maybes or hypotheticals. 

Mr. Dursley leaves the building promptly at five o’clock, after struggling to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. He is so lost in his thoughts that he stumbles into a tiny man, a tiny man wearing a vibrant violet cloak. The tiny man turns around, not seeming angry or upset at all. Quite the contrary actually. The tiny man’s face splits into a bright smile and in a squeaky voice exclaims,

“Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Happy day! Happy day! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, happy day! Happy day!”

Then the tiny man hugs Mr. Dursley around his bulging middle and skips off, humming a happy tune.

Mr. Dursley stands rooted to his spot. He recounts the interaction he just had, he had been hugged by a stranger in weird clothing and then called a muggle, whatever the hell that is. He hurriedly waddles back to his car and drives quickly home. He hopes that he’s imagining things or forgot to take his medication this morning, this is the first time in his boring life he’s ever wished for something to be his imagination because to him imagination has no place in this world and he definitely doesn’t approve of it.

He pulls into the driveway of house number four and the first thing he sees as he hobbles out of his car is the strange tabby he saw that morning that is now sitting on his garden wall. 

“Shoo!” Mr. Dursley yells at the cat. It doesn't move, it just gives Mr. Dursley a stern look and turns back to watching the house.

Mr. Durlsey doesn't linger too long to think if that is how cats behave. He instead stands in front of house number four’s door for a moment, trying to pull himself together. 

Mrs. Dursley had a nice day, very normal too.  She tells her husband over dinner about the neighbors drama, how the next door neighbor and her daughter are having problems and aren’t on speaking terms and that Dudley learned a new word (“Won´t!”). Mr. Dursley tries to act as normal as possible, which wasn´t ever hard until this moment. He waits until Dudley is put to bed to sit in the living room and turn on the news. 

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster grins, “Most mysterious. And, now over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” The weather man chuckles, “I don´t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early- it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sits frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying in daylight? Strange people in ridiculous cloaks that seem to be everywhere? And whispers about the Potters… Mrs. Dursley walks into the living room carrying two cups of tea. Mr. Dursley tried to avoid it, but it was no use. He has to say something to her. He clears his throat nervously. ¨

“Er- Petunia, dear… You haven’t heard from your, eh, sister lately, have you?”

Mrs. Dursley freezes and frowns, then huffs and sits down, taking a sip of her tea. Her eyes sharply turn to Mr. Dursley. 

“No,” She huffs, “Why?”

“Rubbish on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbles. “Owls… Shooting stars… and many strange -looking people in town today…”

“ So?” , Snaps Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, dear, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… ah, you know… her crowd.”, Mr. Dursley mutters the last part, just in case someone might be listening. Although no one is, the Dursley’s are too boring, too drab to want to watch. 

Mrs. Dursley quietly sips her tea through her pursed lips. Suddenly she foresaw another sleepless night tonight while Mr. Dursley ponders telling her that he heard the name “Potter” today. He decides that he doesn't dare utter a word, instead he possibly makes a worse topic of conversation. 

“Their son- he’s about Dudley’s age now, yes?” 

“Yes he would be.” Mrs. Dursley says stiffly. Suddenly a horrible sinking feeling carves a hole through her chest. 

“What’s his name again? Howard, isn't it?”

Mrs. Dursley huffs, “Harry. Nasty name, if you ask me.”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Dursley shares this sinking feeling now, “Yes, I quite agree.”

He doesn’t say another word, neither of them do, as they go upstairs to bed. Mrs. Dursley is in the bathroom right now, but Mr. Dursley slowly hobbles over to their bedroom window and peers down into the front garden. The strange tabby cat is still there, staring, unblinkingly down Privet Drive, as if it is waiting for something. 

Mr. Dursley shakes his head, trying to gaslight himself into some kind of self assurance that this is nothing but rubbish, that maybe it is some kind of odd dream.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley both got into bed, neither falling asleep, Mr. Dursley turning over what has happened in his mind, and Mrs. Dursley with old memories of a sister with flaming red hair who got mixed into the wrong crowd, or at least that's what Mrs. Dursley believes. They both tried to rationalize that the Potters very well knew not to visit or even utter a word to the Dursleys, that the Potters could not affect them…

But oh how very wrong they are.

As the Dursleys were getting not even a wink of sleep, the strange tabby was still sitting on the garden wall as unmoving as a statue. The tabby kept staring at the corner of Privet Drive unblinkingly. It’s now midnight when the strange cat finally moves.

A man appears on the corner of the street that the cat’s eyes have been fixed on all day. He appears so silently and so suddenly that if there were any onlookers, it would seem as if he had just popped up from the ground. The cat’s tail twitches and its eyes narrow. 

He’s like nothing anyone has ever seen on this street before. He is very tall, thin and also very old with silver hair and beard so long that he could tuck them into his belt. He is wearing the same strange robes others were seen in today, a purple cloak that sweeps the ground, and heeled, buckled boots. He has twinkling blue eyes that sparkle beneath half-moon spectacles that sit on a long crooked nose that has perhaps been broken once or twice. This man's name is Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledoor doesn’t seem to realize (or perhaps he doesn’t seem to care) that he’s just arrived on a street where most everything about him is quite unwelcome . He is busy rummaging through his cloak, looking for something. He realises he is being watched, looking up at the cat, staring at him from across the street. For whatever reason the sight of this cat amuses him.

“I should’ve known.” He chuckles, finally taking what he needs out of his pocket. 

A silver cigarette lighter. He flicks it open and holds it up and clicks it, the nearest street lamp went out. He clicked it again– the next lamp went out. He clicks the Put-Outer twelve times until the whole street is engulfed in darkness and the only lights are two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which are the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone were to look out of their windows tonight, even nosey Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything of what was happening on the street below. Dumbledore slips the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and quietly makes his way to house number four. He sits on the wall next to the cat. He doesn't look at the cat, but after a few moments of silence talks to the cat.

“Fancy seeing you here, McGonagall.”

He turns to smile at the cat, but it’s gone. Instead a stern woman with square glasses was sitting where the cat once was. She, too, is wearing a cloak, an emerald one that match her eyes and her wavy brown hair drawn up in a bun. 

“How did you know it was me?” She asks. 

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

McGonagall rolls her eyes, “You'd be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” She huffs. 

“All day?” Dumbledore asks in disbelief, “All day when you could've been celebrating? I passed about a dozen parties and feasts on my way here.”

McGonagall sniffs angrily.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating,” She says impatiently, “You’d think they would be more careful too, but nooo - even muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She turns to the Dursleys´ dark living room window. “Flocks of owls, shooting stars, They’re not stupid , Albus, well… not completely . They were bound to notice something . Shooting stars down in Kent, I bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He’s never made much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” Dumbledore says gently, “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”

“I know that,” McGonagall says irritably, “But there’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless , out on the streets in broad daylight, not even trying to blend in with the muggles and swapping rumors.”

She gives Dumbledore a sharp, sideways glance, hoping for him to tell her something, but he doesn’t, so she goes on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, hasn't he?” 

“It certainly seems so,” Dumbledore says, “We have so much to be thankful for, care for a lemon drop?”

“A what? ”

“A lemon drop. A Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” McGonagall answers coldly, she certainly does not think this is the appropriate moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who is truly gone–”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible witch as yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort. ” McGonagall flinches, but Dumbledore, who is unsticking two lemon drops, seems not to notice. “It gets too confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who’. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.”

“I know you haven’t,” McGonagall says, sounding exasperated, “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Kno-, Voldemort, was afraid of.”

“You flatter me,” Dumbledore chuckles. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”

“Only because you’re noble to use them.”

“I’m lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

McGonagall shoots Dumbledore a sharp look, “The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. Do you know what they’re saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him? ” McGonagall whispers. 

This is the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day. She gives Dumbledore a piercing stare, she would not believe what everyone was saying, at least not until Dumbledore says it, until he says it’s true. Dumbldore, however, choses to eat another lemon drop and not answer.

“What they’re saying is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow,” She looks down and frowns, “They’re saying that he went to find the Potters and that… that Lily and Jame are-are- that they’re dead .”

Dumbledore bows his head. 

“Lily and James… I can’t believe it…I don’t– I don’t want to believe it, oh Albus…” McGonagall gasps. 

Dumbledore reaches out and lays a hand on her shoulder. “I know… I know…”He croaks.  

McGonagall’s voice trembles as she continues, “They’re saying he tried to kill their son, Harry… But– he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill him . No one knows why or-or how , but they’re saying he couldn’t kill Harry. Voldemort’s power somehow broke – and that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nods glumly.

“It– it’s true?” McGonagall falters, “After all he’s done, after all the people he’s killed , of all the things the-the people that could’ve killed him, a little boy, a–a baby killed him. How on earth did Harry survive?”

“We can only guess.” Dumbledore says, “We may never know.”

McGonagall pulls out a handkerchief and dabs her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore sniffs as he takes out a golden watch from his robes and examines it. It’s a very odd watch, it has twelve hands but no numbers, only little planets moving around the edge. He puts the odd watch back in his pocket and says, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose he was the one who told you I’d be here?” 

“Yes,” McGonagall says, “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?” 

“I’ve come to give Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left.” 

“No! You don’t mean- you can’t mean the people who live here? ” McGonagall cries and gestures to house number four, “ Dumbledore - you can’t . I’ve been watching these people all day. You can’t find two people less like us. And their son , I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, kicking for sweets. Harry Potter , come to live here?   No, I won’t allow it!”

“It’s the best place for him,” Dumbledore states firmly, “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written a letter.” 

“ A letter?” McGonagall repeats, “ A letter , really Dumbledore, you think a letter can explain all of this! These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous- a legend – I wouldn’t be surprised if today will be known as Harry Potter day- there will be books written about him– every child in our world will know his name! ”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore explains, “It would be enough to turn the boy’s head. Famous before he can talk . Famous for something he won’t remember. He will be better off growing up away from it all until he’s older and ready to handle it.” 

McGonagall opens her mouth, changes her mind, and slowly says, “Yes… yes, you’re right, of course. But how will he get here, Dumbledore?” She eyes his cloak as if he might be hiding baby Harry underneath its many velvet folds. 

“Hagrids bringing him.” 

“You think it’s– wise – to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?” 

“I would trust Hagrid with my life ,” Dumbledore replies. 

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” Mcgonagall acknowledged, “but you cannot pretend he’s not… careless. He does tend to— what’s that?”

A low rumbling sound breaks the silence around them. It steadily grows louder as they both Dumbledore and McGonagall look up and down the street for some sigh of headlights; the noise grows into a roar as they both look up to the sky— and a huge motorcycle falls out of the air and lands in front of them. 

The motorcycle is huge, but is dwarfed by the man riding it. He’s twice the height of a normal man and five times as huge. He’s simply too big to be allowed and so wild — long tangles of bushy brown hair and beard hides most of his face, and his hands the size of trash can lids. In his vast muscular arms he holds a little bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore greets, sounding relieved, “At last. Where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” The giant says, carefully climbing off the motorcycle. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.” 

“No problems, were there?” 

“No, sir— house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before Muggles started swarmin’. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.” 

Dumbledore and McGonagall bend forward over the small bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, is a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of get black hair from his forehead down to just under his eye, stretched to the bridge of his nose is a scar that is shaped like a bolt of lightning. 

“Is that where—?” McGonagall whispers. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore replies, “He’ll have that scar forever.” 

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars tell our stories. Well— give him here, Hagrid— we’d better get this over with.” 

Dumblesore takes Harry in his arms and turns towards house number four, the Dursleys’ house. 

“Could I— could I say good-bye to him, sir?” Hagrid asks. He bends down and gives Harry a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, Hagrid lets out a howl like a wounded dog. 

“Shhh!” McGonagall hisses, “you’ll wake the Muggles!” 

“S-s-sorry,” Hagrid sobs, taking out a large spotted handkerchief, burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it— Lily an’ James dead— an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles—”

“Yes… yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found.” McGonagall whispers, patting Hagrid on the arm as Dumbledore steps over the low garden wall and walks to the front door. He gently lays Harry on the doorstep, takes a letter out of his cloak, tucks it inside Harry’s blankets, and makes his way back to the other two. For a while they stand there, looking at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shaking, McGonagall blinking furiously, and the twinkling light in Dumbledore’s eyes seem to have gone out. 

“Well…” Dumbledore finally whispers, “that’s that. We have no business staying here. We may as well go join the celebrations.” 

“Yeah,” Hagrid mumbles, “I’ll be takin’ Sirius his bike back. G’night, Professor McGonagall— Professor Dumbledore, sir.” 

He wipes his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, swings himself onto the motorcycle and kicks the engine into life; with a roar it rises into the air and off into the night.

“I shall see you soon, Professor McGonagall,” Dumbledore says, nodding to her.

Dumbledore turns and walks down the street. On the corner he stops, takes out the Put-Outer, clicks it twelve times and street lamps come back to life. Privet Drive glows orange and out of the corner of his eye he could make out a brown tabby cat slinking around the corner at the end of the street. He can see the small bundle of blankets on the steps of house number four.

“ Good luck, Harry.” Dumbledore whispers, turning on his heel and with a swish of a cloak, he’s gone.

A breeze ruffles the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lays silent under the inky sky. It’s the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolls over inside his blankets, a small hand closed on the letter beside him, sleeping on, not knowing he is special, not knowing he’s famous. 

Not knowing that all over the country people meeting in secret, are holding up glasses and whispering, “To Harry Potter— the boy who lived!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The accidental snake liberation

“Up! Get up, now!” Aunt Petunia screeches, banging on the door to Harry’s cupboard. Harry wakes with a start. “Up!” 

Harry listens to her walking towards the kitchen and putting a pan on the stove. He’s tempted to roll over and cover himself with his ratty blanket, if you could even call it that. He was having a pleasant dream, no aunt to yell at him, no uncle to beat him, no cousin to run away from. In this dream there was a man and a woman, their faces hazy, but familiar and warm, as if he’d known them in another life. 

“Are you up yet?” Aunt Petunia demands, baning on his door once more. 

“Nearly.” Harry answers. 

“Well, get a move on, I want you to make breakfast, and don’t you dare try to ruin it! I want everything to be perfect for my Duddikin’s birthday.” 

Harry groaned, shoving his face into this lumpy old pillow. 

“What did you say, boy?” Aunt Petunia snapped. 

“Nothing, Aunt Petunia…”

Dudley’s birthday— Harry feels stupid for even daring to forget. He gets out of bed and starts looking for a pair of socks, having to pull a spider off of them to put them on. Harry no longer feared spiders like he did when he was little. He was now used to them, after being locked in his cupboard, sometimes for days, in punishment. 

He makes his way down the hall and into the kitchen. The dining room table is now almost completely hidden under all of Dudley’s birthday presents. Harry tries not to feel jealousy as he spots the computer Dudley wanted, the second television, or the racing bike. Why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry. Dudley wasn’t very athletic and his body reflected the years of coddling and over-feeding his parents allowed him. He hated exercise, unless of course, it was “Harry hunting”. Luckily for Harry, Dudley often isn’t able to catch him. He’s fast, and quite small due to his malnourishment and the humongous hand-me-downs he’s forced to wear that are about ten times bigger than Harry is because they were once Dudley’s. Harry has a thin face, knobbly knees, wild black curly hair, and bright green eyes, and dark skin that Aunt Petunia often said was out of place in a nice neighborhood like this . He wears round glasses that had to be held together by scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him in the nose. The only thing Harry liked about himself was his scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning. He’s had it longer than he can remember, and the first question he could remember was asking Aunt Petunia how he’d gotten it. 

“In the car crash that killed your parents,” She had said dismissively, “Don’t ask anymore questions.”

Don’t ask questions — Is the first rule for living an okay(ish) life with the Dursleys. He’d learn his rule the hard way after asking Uncle Vernon about his parents, never again will Harry make that mistake. 

Uncle Vernon waddles into the kitchen as Harry turns over the bacon.

“Comb your hair,boy!” He shouts at Harry. This happens about once a week, Uncle Vernon would look over his newspaper and shout that Harry needed a haircut or to comb it. The problem is, no matter how many times they’d cut Harry’s, it grows back quick and just as messy as before. 

Harry is frying eggs by the time Dudley decides to grace the family with his presence alongside Aunt Petunia. Dudley looks a lot like Uncle Vernon. Blond hair, watery blue eyes,  a large, pink face, not much neck, pretty round too. Aunt Petunia often says that Dudley looks like a little baby angel— Harry says that first, Dudley isn’t “little” and that he looks like a pig in a blond, greasy wig more than anything. 

Harry sets plates of bacon, eggs, and toast on the table, which is difficult because it was all over run by Dudley’s presents. Meanwhile, Dudley’ who was counting his presents (which Harry thinks is the only time he can do basic math), slowly twists his face, looking like he just bit into a lemon. 

“Thirty-six,” He says, looking up at his parents, “that’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present or Mummy and Daddy’s.” Aunt Petunia tries to reason with him.

“All right then, thirty-seven,” Dudley says, his face slowly turning red, getting wound up for his latest temper-tantrum. Harry starts to scarf down his breakfast, in case Dudley turns the table over or takes Harry's breakfast. 

Aunt Petunia also senses his tantrum coming on, quickly adds, “And we can buy you two more presents while we’re out today. That’s right, two more.” 

Dudley stops and thinks for a moment. Really hard work for him, he isn’t used to having to do things himself. Slowly he says, “So I’ll have thirty…thirty… um”

“Thirty-nine, darling.” Aunt Petunia finishes. 

“Oh,” Dudley sits down heavily, “that’s good. Yeah, thirty-nine.” 

Uncle Vernon chuckles, “Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father, ‘Atta boy!” he ruffles Dudley’s hair. 

The phone rings, cutting through the air like a sharp knife. Aunt Petunia goes to answer it while Uncle Vernon watches Dudley unwrap his gifts and Harry takes all the dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Aunt Petunia walks back into the living room with the telephone in her hand, covering up the transmitter, looking angry and worried. 

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia starts, “Mrs. Figg broke her leg. She can’t watch him.” Nodding in Harry’s direction. 

Dudley’s face falls in horror, almost as if you had just told him his whole family was brutally murdered, but Harry had a small sliver of hope. Every year, without fail, for Dudley’s birthday his parents would take him to fancy restaurants, amusement parks, or to the movies, while they left Harry with either Emilee, his old babysitter, who was French and would speak to baby Harry in her native tongue. They had to stop using her because Harry had also started to develop French as his native language and the Dursleys did not like that. Now they use Mrs. Figg, an old lady whose house smelled of cabbage and forced him to sit down and look at all of the photographs of cats she’s ever owned. She wasn’t all too bad, sometimes she’d give him sweets or let him listen to her records. 

“Now what?” Aunt Petunia asked, looking pointedly at Harry as if somehow this was a master plan of his. Harry knows he should feel mad about Mrs. Figg breaking her leg, but he really didn’t want to looks at Tibbles, or Snowy, or Tufty, or the other fifty-million cats Mrs. Figg owned. He would be absolutely fine for another year until he had to go back, although he wouldn’t have the chance to listen to Mrs. Figgs Edith Piaf records until the next visit. Sacrifices had to be made though. 

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggests.

“Vernon, you know she hates the boy,” Aunt Petunia counters. Harry also hates Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, their hatred of each other was mutual. 

But what Harry hates the most about this interaction is that they talk about him as if he isn’t there or some vermin, a bug, to squash or get rid of. He feels like an invasive species, like a piece of a puzzle that accidently got moved into the wrong box, like there’s something or someone out there waiting for him specifically. 

“What about your friend, uh— Yvonne?” 

“On vacation, Vernon,” Aunt Petunia snaps. 

“You could leave me here,” Harry quietly suggests, hoping to be able to watch television or maybe play a game on Dudley’s computer, or maybe eat a little extra while they’re out.

Aunt Petunia looks at Harry like he’s stupid for even suggesting such an idea.

“And come back to find the house in ruins? Ha!” She snarls.

“I wouldn’t blow up the house,” Harry pleads, but they weren’t listening. He doesn’t get why they won’t leave him alone, he knows that they hate him and also he’s the one taking care of the house anyway. 

“I suppose– we could… take him to the zoo… and leave him in the car.” Aunt Petunia says as if it’s the most painful thing she’s had to do in her entire life.

“That car’s new! He’s not sitting in it alone!” Uncle Vernon yells. 

Dudley begins to cry, well, not actually Dudley doesn’t really cry, he hasn’t in years— but he knows that if he screws up his face and makes his eyes tear up a bit, Aunt Petunia would give him anything and everything he wants.

“Duddydums, darling, don’t cry, Mummy will make sure he doesn’t ruin your special day!” She cries, flinging her arms around Dudley.

“I… hic… don’t… w-w-want… hic …him… t-to come!” Dudley yells in between fake sobs, “H-he always… hic … spoils everything!” Dudley gives Harry a nasty smirk over his mother’s shoulder. If Harry could roll his eyes, he would. 

Just as Dudley was winding up for more, the doorbell rang— “Good lord!” Aunt Petunia exclaims, frantically running to get the door. Dudley cuts the pathetic crying just as his best friend, Piers, a scrawny kid who was usually the one to hold Harry’s arms behind his back while Dudley punches him, and his mom walk into the living room. 

—

Harry can’t believe his luck, because half an hour later Harry is in the car with Dudley and Piers on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. Harry watches outside of the window excitedly, he’s never seen this much of Surrey before. His Aunt and Uncle couldn’t think of anything or anywhere else to leave him so they were forced to bring him along this time, but before they bought their tickets Uncle Vernon took Harry aside,

“I’m warning you, boy,” Putting his large, sausage-like finger in Harry’s face, “I’m warning you now, anything freakish, anything— and you’ll be in that cupboard ‘till christmas!”

“I promise, I won’t do anything,” Harry pleads, “honestly…” But it doesn’t matter, Uncle Vernon will never believe him, in fact no one does. Strange things just happen around Harry, things he can’t explain, but always gets blamed for. 

Like one time, after the barbers, Aunt Petunia was so frustrated that his hair looked like it hadn’t been cut at all, that she took a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald, except for his fringe, to hide his scar. Dudley had made fun of him mercilessly that night, it was so bad that Harry dreaded school more than he already did. He was already made fun of because of his baggy clothes and taped up glasses, the kids had already made fun of his hair before, but it was going to be so much worse now. However, the next morning, his hair was just how it had been before the awful cut Aunt Petunia gave him. He was given a week in his cupboard with little food for this, even though he tried to explain it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control how fast his hair grew. 

Another time, Harry had gotten in trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley and co. had been playing their favorite game of  “Harry hunting”, one second he was running and then the next he was sitting on the kitchen roof. Later the Dursleys had gotten a very angry letter from the school that said Harry had been climbing school buildings. He’d tried to explain that he was just trying to hide behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors, but Uncle Vernon had been even more displeased by his excuse, the bruises were worse that time.

But today, Harry vows, nothing will go wrong. Even if he had to spend the day with Dudley and Piers, he’s going to make the most of it. At least it isn’t his cupboard, is the mantra Harry repeats walking into the zoos with his family and Piers. 

It’s a very sunny day outside and the zoo is crowded with other families. The Dursley’s lead the boys to an ice cream stand close to the front of the zoo. They buy Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams. The Dursleys are forced to buy Harry a cheap lemon ice pop because the lady in the van asked Harry what he wanted before they could shove him away. Harry counts this as a small victory. 

Harry is having the best morning he’s ever had. Although he has to be careful to walk a little behind Dudley and Piers so when they get bored of the animals they don’t default back to beating up Harry. Harry gets to have Dudley’s unfinished knickerbocker at the zoo’s restaurante because he had complained that it didn’t have enough ice cream on top so Uncle Vernon buys him another. 

After lunch they head over to the reptile house. For Harry, it’s the coolest part of the zoo, it’s cool and dark inside with all kinds of lizards and snakes in the enclosures. There are huge poisonous, cobras, and man-crushing pythons. Quickly Dudley finds the biggest snake in the exhibit. It’s so large that it could wrap its body around Uncle Vernon’s new car and crush it like a soda can— but it isn’t in the mood, rather it’s asleep.

Dudley stood nose to the glass of the enclosure, breathing heavily, staring at the brown coils of the snake. 

“Make it move!” Dudley whines at his father. Uncle Vernon taps on the glass, but the snake doesn’t move.

“Again!” Dudley orders, again Uncle Vernon rapps on the glass with his knuckles, but again nothing. 

“This is boring!” Dudley huffs and stomps away, moving onto the next thing. 

Harry shuffles in front of the tank, leaning slightly on the rail. Resting his cheek on the palm of his hand, he silently admires the large snake. He wouldn’t be surprised if the snake died of boredom, it’s not like there’s any good company, only snotty-nosed kids putting their sticky fingers on the glass to its exhibit. Harry can understand, he feels the same way about his cupboard, but instead of snotty-nosed kids, instead it’s long neck-nosey Aunt Petunia yelling at him. At least he gets to see outside… occasionally. 

Slowly the snake blinks open its beady eyes and raises its head, until eye-level with Harry. Then it winks . 

‘I think the malnutrition is getting to me,’ Harry muses. 

Harry looks around quickly to make sure no one is watching, looks back at the snake and winks too. A small smile forming on his face.

The snake jerks its head towards Uncle Vernon and Dudley and does its best eye roll. Harry can’t help but to softly laugh. 

‘Is it concerning that I’m emphasizing with a snake?’ Harry ponders, questioning his sanity.

“I know,” Harry mutters to his snake-friend, “it must be really annoying, huh?”

The snake nods vigorously.

“Where do you come from?” Harry asks.

The snake gestures to the small sign next to the glass, it reads;

Boa Constrictor, Brazil

“Woah, was it nice there?”

Harry continues to read the small sign;

This specimen was bred in the zoo

“Oh–so you’ve never been there, to Brazil?”

The snake sadly shook its head, then a deafening shout behind made both Harry and the Boa Constrictor jump. 

“DUDLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!” Piers yells. 

Dudley fastly waddles over to the enclosure.

“Out of my way!” He shouts, pushing Harry hard on the floor. While Dudley and Piers were leaning over the railing, peering at the snake the glass disappeared. Jumping back and screaming as the large snake uncoils rapidly, slithering onto the floor. Chaos ensues and people all over the exhibit start running for the exits. 

Briefly the snake stops by Harry and hisses, “Thankssss, amigo… Brazil, here I come.” Although Harry can’t quite grasp how the snake would cross the Atlantic ocean, he hopes it makes it home.

The reptile keeper stands in shock muttering, “But the glass, how… Where did the glass go?” staring confusedly at the now empty tank. 

The zoo director keeps apologizing over and over again to Aunt Petunia and the boys. Dudley and Piers can only let out a mutter in response. On the car ride home Dudley is telling them about how the snake had nearly bitten his leg off, while in reality it had just playfully snapped at his heels. The worst is when Piers finally calmed down enough to say, “Harry was talking to it, weren’t you?”. Harry had never wished death upon someone as much as he did upon Piers in that moment. 

Uncle Vernon waits until Piers is safely out of the house before giving Harry the beating of his life and then angrily spitting out, “Go to your cupboard–stay, no meals!” Before he almost pops a blood vessel, he collapses into a chair while Aunt Petunia runs to get him a large glass of brandy. 

—

Now Harry lays in his dark, musty cupboard, pondering over the ten miserable years he's spent with the Dursleys. He’s been left here ever since that car crash that took his parents, but sometimes, when he’s laying in bed at night, he swears he has this strange memory of yelling and a blinding green light, then this burning pain on his forehead. He doesn’t know where the green light came from, which seems strange  to him. He doesn’t remember his parents, he’s forbidden to ask about them and there’s no photographs in the house. Almost as if trying to erase them from history. Harry dreams of an unknown person coming to take him away from the dreadful place, but he knows that will never happen, because the Dursleys are his only family. But sometimes the strange strangers on the street seemed to know him. A tiny man in a violet top-hat had bowed to him, a wild-looking old woman dressed in all green waved excitedly at him on the bus, a bald man in a long purple coat had shaken his hand once and then walked away without a word. Sadly, they all seemed to vanish the moment Harry tried to get closer. Eventually these strange strangers would all leave him too, and once again he was just a boy with knobbly knees, a strange scar and old clothes that were too big for him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

When someone wants to send you mail so bad 

your uncle becomes a schizophrenic

Harry had earned his longest punishment following the boa constrictor’s grand escape. On the bright side, he’s finally allowed out of his cupboard. On the dark side, it’s summer holidays and Dudley and Co. are just as inescapable as ever. Dudley’s stupid friends; Piers, Dennis, Malcolm and Gordon visit almost every day now. It’s like having Dudley, but four more times unbearable when doing chores. Out of these idiots, Dudley is the leader, he’s the biggest, meanest, and stupidest of them all. They follow him like racoons to a dumpster, especially when “Harry Hunting”. 

Harry spends as much out of the house as possible, preferably in places where Dudley and Co. wouldn’t think to look for him, like the library. Harry doesn’t think that any of Dudley’s gang has ever read anything other than the side of a cereal box. He spends hours in the stacks of books reading about anything and almost everything, mostly about plants and snakes, though he did find a really interesting book about India. The library gives Harry a tiny ray of hope for when September comes he won’t be going to the same school as Dudley. Dudley got accepted into Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings, along with Piers. Harry gets to go to Stonewall, a public high school which Dudley found very funny. It’s okay though, because Harry, knowing that Vernon went there (now Dudley too), knows the education there must not be amazing, seeing as anyone can get in. 

As Aunt Petunia takes Dudley to London to get fitted for a smeltings uniform, Harry is dropped off with Mrs. Figg. Apparently she’d broken her leg by tripping over one of her (many) cats, so instead of making Harry sit through at least a hundred-years of cat photos, Mrs. Figg gives him a piece of chocolate cake and lets him have free reign over the television. 

All in all, it was a pretty good day. Until now. Dudley prances around the living room in his new uniform; a maroon tailcoat, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried sticks, smelting sticks, other than to look more ridiculous than they already did, Harry bets that they also hit each other when the teachers aren’t looking. 

Uncle Vernon loudly declares that this is the proudest moment of his life and Aunt Petunia bursts into tears, crying about how her Dudleykins looks so handsome and grown up. Harry wouldn’t use either of those words to describe Dudley, but Petunia’s right, Dudley is pretty big now. 

The next morning, after Aunt Petunia practically drags Harry from his cupboard, there’s a horrible smell in the kitchen. It’s coming from a large metal tub that’s placed in the sink. It’s full of murky grey water and what looks like rags floating around in the disgusting water. 

“What’s this, Aunt Petunia?” Harry asks. Her lips form a tight line, an almost  sneer-like expression at Harry daring to ask a question.

“Your school uniform,” She answers curtly. 

Harry gets on his tippy toes to look at the metal tub again.

“Oh… Didn’t realize it had to be so wet .” 

Aunt Petunia scoffs, “Don’t be so stupid, I’m dying some of Dudley’s old clothes grey. It’ll look just like everyone else’s once I’m done.” 

Harry looks between the wet clothes and his aunt, seriously doubting that these parachute sized clothes will look anything close to the actual uniform, but he keeps his mouth shut for his sake. He shuffles over to the stove and starts to prepare breakfast, dreading the first day of school in his soppy, grey, parachute-like rags. 

By the time Harry is setting the table, Uncle Vernon and Dudley come stomping into the dining room. Uncle Vernon opens his newspaper, as usual, trying to ignore the horrid smell, and Dudley smacks his smelting stick on the table. 

“Get the mail, Dudley,” Uncle Vernon says from behind the paper as the click of the mail slot interrupts the banging of Dudley’s stick. 

“Make Harry get it.”  

“Make Dudley get it.” Harry mutters. 

“Dudley, poke him with your smelting stick.” 

Harry, dodging the stick, goes to pick up the mail. A postcard from Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon’s sister, a brown envelope that looks like some kind of bill, and— a letter for Harry . 

He picks up the letter and stares at it. Harry had never gotten much of anything, muchless a letter in his life. He had no other relatives or friends, no one he could write to or receive letters from, but in his hands there’s a letter addressed to him;

Mr. H. Potter

The cupboard under the stairs 

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging 

Surrey

The envelope is thick and heavy, made of a yellow-ish parchment, the address written in emerald green ink and no stamp. 

His hands slightly tremble, turning over the thick envelope. On the back, a golden wax seal. On it an eagle, a badger, a lion, and a snake, all surrounding a large H. 

“Hurry up boy!” Uncle Vernon shouts, bringing Harry out of his trance-like state.

He hurries back to the kitchen, staring at his letter. He hands Uncle Vernon the bill and postcard, sits down and begins to open the thick letter. 

Uncle Vernon rips open the bill and gives a nasty sneer. He tosses it carelessly onto the table, then turns the postcard over. 

“Marge is ill,” Uncle Vernon informs, “Ate a funny whelk…” 

“DAD! Dad, dad, Harry’s got something!” Dudley exclaims in the middle of scarfing down his breakfast, spitting food everywhere. 

Harry, about to take his letter out of the envelope, gets it ripped out of his hands by Uncle Vernon’s sausage hands. 

“Hey!” Harry shouts, trying to snatch it back, “That’s mine!” 

“Who’d be writing to you, brat?” Uncle Vernon sneers. He shakes the letter, his face going from red to green, like a traffic light. In seconds he goes from Christmas themed to ghost-like.

“P-Petunia!” He gasps.

Dudley tries to get a hold of the letter, but Uncle Vernon holds it out of reach. Aunt Petunia takes the letter and reads the first line before her eyes go wide and a little watery. She puts a shaky hand to her mouth and lets out a choking noise. 

“Vernon, oh my god! Vernon!” 

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stare at each other, forgetting the other two in the room. Not used to being ignored, Dudley gives his father a sharp wack with his smelting stick. 

“ I want to read that letter!” He whines loudly. 

“It’s my letter, I want to read it” Harry says furiously, “It’s mine. ”

“OUT! Both of you, out!” Uncle Vernon shouts, stuffing the letter back in the envelope. 

But Harry stays put. In Harry’s short eleven years, or at least all that he can remember, he’s accepted the abuse he’s put up with. He’s accepted having no friends and no real family left to love him. He’s accepted owning things that aren’t really even his and wearing the clothes of his cousin, eating the Dursleys scraps like a dog sitting under the table, being locked away because he reminds Petunia too much of her wayward sister and her nothing-but-trouble immigrant husband. Harry is used to the ridicule of the foreign way he looks, his “untidy” hair and dark skin and the strange scar that marrs his forehead. Harry is used to having nothing and being nothing and for the first time in his life he’s finally got something that is truly his, and he’s not ready to let go anytime soon.

“ I WANT MY LETTER!” Harry screams. 

The room falls silent. 

“OUT!” Vernon roars, taking both Dudley and Harry roughly by the arms and throws them out into the hallway, slamming the kitchen door shut. Harry and Dudley both scramble to listen through the crack in the keyhole, but Dudley taking up as much space as he does, leaves Harry to lay on his stomach and listen from the crack on the floor. 

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia murmurs, “The address, they know where he sleeps— how, how could they know? Do you think they might be watching us?” 

“Watching— might be following us too.” Uncle Vernon mutters.

“What should we do? Write back and tell them–”

“ No! No, we ignore it. If they don't get an answer, they won’t bother us… yes, we don’t do anything .” 

“But–”

“I’m not having one of those freaks in our house, Petunia. We are to stamp out this nonsense, that’s what we vowed when we took him in.”

—

That evening, after Uncle Vernon came home from work, Harry finds himself in Dudley’s second bedroom. Dudley’s second bedroom is where he keeps all of his toys, nearly everything is this room is broken; his month old video camera, a small working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog with, Dudley’s first television with a hole through it when Dudley had stomped on it when his favorite program wasn’t on, a birdcage which once housed a parrot that Dudley had traded for an air rifle, and many other things that look like they hadn’t been touched at all. 

From downstairs, came the sound Dudley bawling to his mother, “I.. hic .. D-don’t want him in… hic … there. I n-need that room… hic . Make him get out.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and stretches out on the old lumby mattress that’s supposed to be his bed. It’s a foreign feeling to Harry to be wishing to be back in his cupboard, he’d much rather be there with his letter than in this shitty little room without it. 

—

The following morning is quite quiet. This enrages Dudley to no end, he’s never been ignored or not the center of attention before and he loathes it. He’s whacked his father with his smelting stick, screamed at the top of his lungs, kicked his mother, and still hasn’t gotten his room back. Harry is sitting, bitterly thinking about how stupid he’d been not to open his letter in the hall, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon give each other dark looks from across the table. 

Mail arrives and with a strange streak of kindness to Harry, makes Dudley go and get it. The three of them sit around as Dudley bangs things with his smelting stick in retaliation along the way. Then, “He’s got another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The smallest bedroom, 4 privet-”

With a strange mix between a cry and scream, Uncle Vernon jumps up and quickly waddles down the hall, Harry close behind him. Uncle Vernon wrestles Dudley to get the second letter, which was made as difficult as possible by Harry who grabbed him by his fat neck from behind. After about five minutes of everyone getting hit by the smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightens out with Harry’s letter held firmly in his hand.

“ Go to your cup– bedroom!” Uncle Vernon wheezes, “And you Dudley, go, just go.” 

Harry shuffles up the stairs to his new room. Someone knows he’d moved rooms. Hopefully they’d try again, and if they did Harry is going to make sure that he’s getting that damn letter. 

—

Harry had repaired Dudley’s old alarm clock the night before and set it to ring at six. Harry quickly turns it off before anyone else can hear and quietly runs downstairs.

He’s going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four before anyone else can. He creeps down the hall, heart almost beating out of his chest, getting closer to the front door—

“AAAARRRGGH!”

Harry abruptly stops, he’d stepped on something big and squishy– something alive . 

Lights click on upstairs and to Harry’s horror, the “something alive” is his uncle. Harry’s uncle had been laying in a sleeping bag on the floor in front of the door all night, trying to make sure Harry didn’t do what he was about to do and to catch the mail before anyone else. He shouts at Harry for a good thirty minutes before almost breaking his nose and giving him a split lip. After Vernon orders Harry to make him some tea and to start on breakfast. Harry comes back to see the mail had arrived and was securely in Vernon’s lap. Harry contemplates throwing the piping hot tea at Vernon instead, but he just puts the cup down with a little more force than necessary, watching Vernon rip up the letters and throw them into the fire.

Vernon decides not to go into work today. Instead he stays home and nails up the mail slot. He looks proud of himself, whipping the sweaty sheen off of his forehead.

“See, if they can’t deliver the letters, they’ll just have to give up! Ha .” 

“Vernon, I’m not sure this will work.” Petunia mutters, grimacing at the sound of nails being hammered into the front door. 

“These people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia dearest, they’re not like you and me,” Vernon explains, hammering more nails into the door. Petunia just sighs and walks away, there’s no sense in trying to explain anything to that stupid man. 

—

On Friday, twelve letters arrive for Harry. They couldn’t go through the mail slot that Vernon had nailed up, so instead they were pushed under the door, slotted through the sides and forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Vernon stays home from work again. Burning all twelve letters with Harry silently watching from behind the half open door. Vernon boards up all the cracks in the front and back door, so much so that no one can get out. 

On Saturday, about twenty-four letters addressed to Harry make their way into the house. They’re all rolled up and hidden inside of two dozen eggs that the very confused milk man hands Petunia through the living room window. Horrified, Petunia shreds the letters in her food processor. 

On Sunday morning, everything seems to be peaceful, Vernon sits downstairs at the dining room table, looking tired and ill, but nonetheless, content. 

“No post on Sundays,” He mutters to himself smugly. His smugness is short-lived when something comes whizzing out from the chimney and smacks Vernon on the back of the head. About thirty or forty letters come flying out of the fireplace, quickly filling the room. Harry tries to dive and take a letter that landed on the floor, but Vernon is quick to catch him, and herd Petunia and Dudley out of the room. Vernon slams the door shut, the sound of letters pelting the walls muffled by Vernon’s frantic screaming;

“Everyone. Back. In. Five. Minutes. Pack clothes, no arguments!” 

Ten minutes later everyone is packed into the car, after hastily wrenching their way through the boarded up doors, speeding towards the highway. Dudley is sniffling in the back seat. Dudley had tried to take his television, VCR and computer with him, Vernon smacked Dudley hard in the head for this because it was stalling their speedy get-away. 

 Petunia, Dudley, nor Harry have any idea where exactly they were going. Every so often, Vernon takes a sharp turn and drives opposite for a while before going whichever route he’s actually taking, muttering;

“Shake ‘em off, shake ‘em off…” 

They don’t stop to eat or drink all day, by night Dudley is complaining so much that Harry is seriously thinking about jumping out of the car and onto the highway. Dudley had never had such a bad day in his life, he’d missed five television programs he wanted to see, had been ignored all day, and was starving . 

Uncle Vernon finally stops at a gloomy looking inn, close to a small town. He shoved Harry and Dudley into a damp room with musty sheets. This isn’t a problem for Dudley, after his very hard day, it takes all but five minutes to claim one of the twin beds and go to sleep. Harry, however, can’t go to sleep. Instead he sits on the windowsill, peering out into the street, watching cars go by. He leans his shoulder against the glass, silently loathing Vernon with everything in his small body. 

Stake cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast are for breakfast Monday morning. They finish as the owner of the inn walks over to their table. 

“‘Scuse me, is one of you a Mr. H. Potter? Got ‘bout a hundred of these at the front desk.” She holds up the letter for them. It’s the same letter as all the others before it;

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry goes to grab the letter, but Vernon is faster and knocks the woman's hand away. She stares at Vernon confused. 

“I’ll take them.” Vernon stands up quickly (well, as quickly as a burly man like him can) and follows the confused inn owner to the dining room. 

“Vernon, dear, can’t we just go home? No matter what the letters will find us.” Petunia tries to reason timidly. Vernon doesn’t seem to hear her, though. He’s driven them into the middle of the forest. He gets out, looks around (no one knows quite what for), gets back in and continues to drive. The same thing happens at the suspension bridge at the top of a parking garage. 

Now they’re parked at the coast. Uncle Vernon had gotten out of the car again, but locked them in, disappearing to who knows where.

“Has daddy gone mad?” Dudley asks Petunia. She doesn’t answer, just tiredly rubs her eyes and leans on the passenger window as rain pelts the car. 

“It’s Monday,” Dudley tells his mother, “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television .”

Aunt Petunia doesn’t answer again, just stares off into the distance with the watery look in her eyes, similar to when the first letter was delivered. 

However, it being Monday meant that tomorrow is Tuesday, Harry’s birthday. Not something he particularly looks forward to. He’s never gotten much, a coat hanger one year, a pair of old socks with holes in them another, but still, you don’t turn eleven everyday. 

“I found the perfect place!” Vernon exclaims, ripping the car door open and sitting down heavily. With him he has a long thin package and ignores Aunt Petunia asks what it is. 

Outside it’s very cold and very rainy. Vernon points at a large rock out at sea with a miserable looking shack on top. Too bad for Dudley because this place doesn’t look like it has cable. 

“There’s supposed to be storms tonight!” Vernon shouts, “This kind gentleman has agreed to lend us his boat!” 

A toothless old man with a wicked grin points at a rowboat, in the grey water below them. It reminds Harry of the grey water Aunt Petunia used to dye his school uniform. He grimaces at the thought, the putrid smell still haunting him. 

It’s freezing. The icy sea spray dampening their clothing and dripping down their necks while freezing winds whip their faces and freeze their hands. After hours of rowing, they finally make it to the sad little shack Vernon seemed so Happy about. It’s worse than it looked like from afar, the wood of the shack is molding, rain seeping in from cracks in the walls, and a damp fireplace which Vernon had tried to light a fire from one of their crisp bags, but it just shriveled up instead. 

“Could’a used some letters right about now- eh?” Vernon jokes. 

No one responds to him. He seems to be in a very cheerful mood and Harry wonders if he’s finally reached insanity. Obviously he thinks that no one would be able to deliver mail to them in this storm. 

The storm still rages on into the night, rattling the filthy windows of the shack. Aunt Petunia found moldy blankets and made Dudley a makeshift bed on the rotting sofa. Harry was left to sleep on the floor with a blanket as thin as paper. 

Much like the night before, Harry can’t sleep. Nothing he does makes the damp floor comfortable and he’s hungry, but it’s nothing he hasn’t been through before. It is worse, in a way. The little light of hope he had was now crushed and destroyed, not unlike his many letters had been. He’d hoped that someone out there cared for him, but maybe not. 

Harry turns to Dudley’s watch that’s fastened on his fat wrist. He lays on the cold, damp floor, watching his birthday get nearer and nearer, not caring if anyone other than himself remembers at all.

Five minutes till midnight. Harry hears a creak outside the shack, hoping that the roof wouldn’t cave in on them… well, maybe his family, just a bit. He hopes that four Privet Drive is filled with letters now, that maybe he can somehow steal one without Vernon noticing. 

Three minutes till midnight. The sea seemed to be crashing harder at the jagged rock, was it always that loud? What was that crunching noise? Was that a part of the rock falling into the rough sea? 

One minute till midnight… thirty seconds… twenty… ten, nine, maybe he should wake Dudley up to annoy him… three, two, one…

BOOM

The whole shack quakes, making Harry bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Hagrid drops heavy lore and Dudley’s calorie count

BOOM . They knock again. Dudley jerks awake. 

“Where’s the cannon?” He asks stupidly. 

A crash behind them shakes the house as Uncle Vernon clambers down the stairs and into the room, holding a rifle. Now they know what the long, thin package had been. 

“Who’s there!” He shouts. “I’m warning you, I’m armed!” 

There’s a pause. Then–

SMASH

The door is hit so hard that it swings cleanly off its hinges and lands on the floor with a deafening crash. 

A giant man is standing where the door previously was. His face is almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild tangled beard, but just barely, you can make out black, shiny eyes, under all of his hair. 

The giant squeezes his way into the shack, having to bend down so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. He picks up the door and fits it back into the frame, muffling the storm outside a little. Then he turns around to look at the frightened family. 

“Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not been an easy journey.” He chuckles. 

He strides over to the sofa where Dudley sits, frozen in fear.

“Get up, yeh great big lump.” The stranger says. 

Dudley squeaks and runs to hide behind his mother, who is crouching terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. 

“Ah! An’ here’s Harry!” The giant exclaims. “Las’ time I saw yeh, yous was only a baby. Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mother’s eyes.” 

Uncle Vernon makes a weird rasping noise.

“I demand you leave at once sir! You are breaking and entering!” 

“Ah, shut up, yeh great prune,” The giant says, reaching over the back of the sofa and ripping the rifle out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bending it easily as if it was rubber, then tossing it into a corner. 

Uncle Vernon makes another strange sound. 

“Anyway— Harry,” The giant turns back to him, “A very happy birthday to yeh. I got summat fer yeh here— I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste alright.” 

From an inside pocket of his overcoat the giant pulls out a slightly squashed box and hands it to Harry. Harry opens it with trembling fingers, no one’s ever got him anything for him before, let alone his birthday. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with pink frosting that said Happy Birthday Harry , in green icing. 

Lost for words, Harry looks up at the strange giant-man. He wants to say thank you, but somehow the words get lost on the way to his mouth, and what he says instead is;

“Who are you?”

The giant chuckles.

“Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He holds out an enormous hand and gently shakes Harry’s hand (and arm). 

“What about tea, eh? I’d not say no ter summat stronger if yeh’ve got it.” The giant's eyes fall on the shriveled up chip bags in the grate and snorts. He bends down over the fireplace; no one could see what he was doing, but when he pulls back a second later there’s a roaring fire, filling the damp shack with warmth. It feels like being in a hot bath, Harry imagines, although he’s never had one. All of his baths were lukewarm to not freezing at best. 

The giant sits back down on the sofa, causing it to sag under his weight. He begins to take out a copper kettle, a package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped tea cups, and a bottle of amber liquid that he takes a swig of all out of his coat pockets. 

Harry wonders what else he could be hiding in there. 

He starts to make tea while sliding the sausages onto the poker. Soon the old shack is filled with the smell of the cooking sausages. After a while the giant slides the six slightly burnt sausages off the poker. Dudley looks as if it physically pains him to sit there and look at the sausages without shoving them into his fat mouth. 

“Don’t touch anything he gives you Dudley.” Vernon whispers sharply. 

The giant chuckles at this.

“Yer great blubber of a son don’ need anymore fattenin’, don’ ye worry Dursley.” 

Instead, the giant passes the plate of sausages over to Harry who had never once eaten this much or has eaten anything so amazing. He usually just got the Durlsey’s cold scraps of the dinner that he made. 

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.” Harry says, eating the sausages like his life depends on it (because it actually might). 

“I’m Hagrid, an’ like I told yeh, I’m the keeper of the keys at Hogwarts– which of course yeh’ll know all about o’ course.” 

“Erm, what’s Hogwarts?” Asks Harry. 

Hagrid looks shocked.

“Sorry.” He quickly adds, looking down at his plate. 

“ Sorry? ” Hagrid parrots, he turns to the Dursleys, who shrink even farther into their corner of the room. “It’s them that should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t getting yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t know abou’ Hogwarts! Did you ever wonder where yer parents learned it all from?” 

“Learn what?” 

“LEARN WHAT?” He turns to the Dursleys, “You mean ter tell me that this boy– this boy – knows nothin’ abou’ – anything, anything at all?” 

Harry sits in silence, not really knowing what he’s talking about. He thinks this is going too far, it wasn’t like his marks were terrible, not on purpose, but Dudley would throw a fit if Harry got a higher mark than him and that causes so much trouble. 

“I mean, I know some things, like I can do math and stuff…” 

Hagrid looks back over to Harry and says;

“About our world, your world, yer parents’ world .” 

“ Our world?” 

Hagrid turns back around, looking as if he’s about to explode. 

“DURSLEY!” 

Uncle Vernon, who’s now very pale, mumbles something that no one quite understands. Hagrid turns to Harry again.

“But yeh must know abou’ yer mum and dad. They’re famous , you’re famous .” 

“My mum and dad were famous?” 

“Yeh didn’t know..?” Hagrid stares at Harry bewildered. “Yeh don’ know what yeh are ?”

Uncle Vernon somehow found his voice again.

“STOP!” He commands, “Stop right there! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would’ve quailed under the furious look that Hagrid gives him. 

“You never told him? You never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from him all of these years?”

“Keep what from me?” Harry asks. 

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” Uncle Vernon yells, panicking. 

Aunt Petunia lets out a gasping sound, clutching Vernon with white knuckles.

“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” Hagrid yells, “Harry– yer a wizard.”

There was complete silence in the shack, except from the storm still raging outside. Harry’s world felt like it was spinning, this felt like a cruel joke, something to play on his hopes again just to crush them.

“I’m a what? ” Harry asks. 

“A wizard, o’ course,” Hagrid confirms, sitting back down on the sofa, which groans and sinks lower than before, “An’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit. I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh red yer letter.” 

Hagrid takes out a letter, just like all the ones before it in a yellow-ish envelope, addressed in emerald green ink to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Shack on the rock, the sea. Harry carefully takes the letter out of Hagrid’s huge hands. He carefully pulls out the letter;

Hogwarts School of Spellcraft and Sorcery 

                                       –

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore 

(Order of Merlin, First class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, 

supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Spellcraft and Sorcery. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Questions swarm in Harry’s head like Dudley to a piece of bacon, he can’t decide which to ask first. A few minutes go by in silence, then he murmurs, “What does it mean, they await my owl?” 

“Ah, that reminds me,” Hagrid says, rubbing a big hand on his forehead, then he takes out an owl from another one of his pockets. A real, living owl who looks rather ruffled. Then he pulls out a quill and scribbles out a note, Harry reads from upside down;

Dear Professor Dumblefore,

Given Harry his letter,

Taking him to Diagon to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolls up the note and gives it to the owl, which clamps it in its beak. Hagrid gets up with a groan and throws out the owl outside. He comes back and sits down as if it’s normal, like it was talking on the telephone. 

“Where was I?” Hagrid asks, but Uncle Vernon, at that moment, still ashen-faced, moves into the firelight. 

“He’s not going,” Vernon declares. 

Hagrid gives him a dismissive grunt.

“I’d like ter see a muggle like you try to stop him.” Hagrid retorts. 

“What’s that?” Harry interjects. 

“A muggle is what us wixen, magical people, call non-magical people,” Hagrid explains, “It’s just bad luck yer stuck with the biggest family of  ‘em.” 

“We swore when we took him in we’d stamp out his freakishness.” Vernon yells.

Harry turns to face Vernon, looking shocked and a little betrayed (it’s not as if he’s ever really trusted him before, though).

“You knew? ” Harry asks Vernon, “You knew I was a wizard?”

“Knew! Of course we knew!” Petunia shrieks, her eyes slightly watery and voice shaky, “How could you not be? My dratted sister being what she was? Got a letter just like you and then just like that disappeared off to that– school – and came back turning teacups into rats and bringing pockets of frogs and other shit with her! And our parents loved her for it! But I knew, I was the only one who could see that it was no good!” Petunia draws a deep breath, clenching her fists and pushing Vernon to the side, taking a step closer to Harry. 

“Then she met that Potter, that no good man, and then they left, got married and had you. I wanted you to keep away because I knew you’d be just like her . It’s like seeing her reflection in your eyes every day! And of course you turn out to be just as freakish and abnormal as her! Then she got herself murdered!” 

Petunia lets out a breath, seemingly keeping that inside all these years, letting it boil over. Harry looks up at Petunia, shell-shocked. 

“You said my parents died in a car crash, you lied!” Harry shouts.

“A CAR CRASH!?” Hagrid roars, jumping up from the strained sofa. Suddenly Petunia loses all of her anger and huddles back in the corner with her husband and child. 

“How could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? This is an outrage! A scandal! Slander! Harry not knowing his own story when every wixen old and young in the world! There’s not one person who doesn’t know his name!”

“ But why? What happened, Hagrid?” Harry asks urgently. 

The anger falls from Hagrid's face, now looking anxious. 

“Well , it’s for the best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh– mind you there’s a great mystery to it, many parts of it…”

Hagrid gets up and crouches down in front of Harry, looking him in the eye. He looks nervous to say anything. 

“Well, it begins with a person– called– well everyone in our world knows his name, but we don’t dare to say it.”
“Who?”

“Well, no one says it unless you can’t help it.”

“Why?”

“ Sweet Circe , Harry, people are still scared of ‘em. See, there was a wizard who went… bad, but not just bad, worse than bad. As bad as you could go, worse than Morgana with power to match Merlin himself. His name was…” Hagrid gulps, face turning green. 

“Could you write it down?” Harry suggests. Hagrid shakes his head.

“Can’t spell it… His name was Voldemort. ” Hagrid shudders, “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway– this wizard, ‘bout twenty years ago, wanted radical change, change that would shake the foundation of our world, ‘e was able to sway people to his side. Some wanted his power, others were scared o’ ‘em. ‘E was close to winnin’ ‘Arry, dark days those were. Terrible things… Anyone who dared to stand up to ‘em ended up dead. The only person ‘e  feared was Dumbledore, didn’t dare try to attack Hogwarts. Yer mum and dad were a part of the resistance against you-know-who . No one knows why he was there at your village that night,what his goal truly was, but on Halloween ten years ago, ‘e came to your house an’...”

Hagrid pulls out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blows his nose. He dabs his eyes and continues.

“ You-know-who … killed ‘em– tried to kill you too, the real mystery is how you survived. Ever wondered where you got that scar, it’s no ordinary cut, it’s what yeh get when a nasty curse touches yeh– the killing curse, the worst of the worst. Kills instantly and it’s unstoppable, but it didn’t work on you. That’s why yer famous, Harry. No one’s ever lived after being hit with it, and he’s killed some o’ the best witches and wizards around. But you, you lived.” 

Harry sits on the sofa, shoulders sagging, eyes distant and unfocused. A bright green flash, a scream, and a cruel, deep, laugh he’s remembered. Hagrid watches him sadly, staying silent, giving Harry a moment to process.

“I took yeh from the house after, Harry. On Dumbledore’s orders, I brought you to this lot…”

“A load of tosh,” Vernon exclaims. Harry jumps slightly, almost forgetting the Dursleys were (unfortunately) in the room with them. Vernon is glaring at Hagrid, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles are stark white. 

“Listen here, boy ,” Vernon spits, “I know there’s something strange about you, nothing a good beating couldn’t fix– as for your parents, the world is better off without them, they asked for what they got, getting mixed up with freaks–”

Hagrid leaps up from where he’s crouched in front of Harry and leaps, drawing out a battered pink umbrella, pointing it at Vernon like a sword. 

“I’m warning you Dursley– another word and I swear…”

Again, Vernon’s courage fails him, being held at umbrella-point. He flattens his body against the wall and goes silent. 

“That’s better.” Hagrid spits at Vernon’s feet, then stomps back to the sofa. 

Harry had a hundred questions and now has a hundred more racing through his head. 

“But what happened to Voldem– sorry, You-Know-Who?”
“That’s a question all the wixen world wonders too, Harry. No one really knows, that night you-know-who just disappeared. Vanished the same night ‘e took yer parents. Some think he died, which is a load of flobberworm slime, if you ask me. I don’t think ‘e truly died. I think he’s out there somewhere, buying his time, getting ready to strike again. But for now, you stumped him.” 

Hagrid smiles warmly at Harry, staring in almost awe. Harry can’t feel anything but horrible though, as though there had been a mistake. He feels as if Hagrid had gotten the wrong Harry, confusing him for someone else. A wizard, him, Harry? He can’t believe it. His whole life he’d been abused and lied to by his aunt and uncle, bullied by his cousin, and ignored and made fun of by other kids. He’s bad luck, bringing trouble wherever he goes. Dudley’s minions had named him “Haz” as in hazard because having Harry around was bound to go wrong. Hearing that he’d somehow “defeated” the most powerful wizard in existence felt wrong. How could he have when he’s some skinny, bony kid who gets thrown around by normal, non-magical Dudley?

“Hagrid,” Harry whispers, “I think you’ve made a mistake. I can’t be a wizard.”

To Harry’s surprise, Hagrid just chuckles.

“Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you were scared or angry?”

Harry looks away, into the roaring fire because he knew he had made strange things happen when he was angry or upset or scared. All the times Dudley and his gang chased him… His hair growing back in one night… The boa constrictor. 

Harry looks back to Hagrid, smiling and faintly nodding. Hagrid was beaming at him, like he was someone amazing, someone worthwhile. 

“See?” Hagrid whispers, “Harry Potter, not a wizard– you wait, you’ll be one of the best ever known.”

But Vernon wasn’t about to let this just happen, he wasn’t going to let Harry just be happy for once.

“Haven’t I told you, he’s not going.” He hisses. “He’s going to the normal, non-freakish high school we’ve chosen and he will be grateful. No need for those spells– and that rubbish– wands and-”
“If he wants ter go a fat loaf like you won’t stop ‘em. Yer mad to want to stop him. These are his people, his name in our history books. He’ll be one of the finest wizards seen just you wait-”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR HIM TO LEARN SOME MAGIC TRICKS FROM YOU CRACKPOTS!” Vernon yells.

He’s finally gone too far because not a moment later Hagrid seizes his umbrella and whirls it over his head. He brings the umbrella down and with a flash of violet light he points it at Dudley who squeals and starts dancing, his hands clasped over his fatass. He howls in pain as he hops around stupidly. When he turns around Harry can see a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers. 

Uncle Vernon roars and Aunt Petunia shrieks. They pull a horrified Dudley upstairs and into the other room. Uncle Vernon casts one last terrified look at Hagrid before he slams the door behind them. 

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” Hagrid says, looking down ashamed, “didn’t work anyway, I meant to turn him inta a pig. ‘Supose he was already too much a pig to completely change ‘em, eh?” 

He gives Harry a slight smirk, then gets serious again,

“I’d be grateful if yeh didn’t mention this ter anyone at Hogwarts,” He pleads, “I’m not– er– supposed to do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed to do a bit to follow yeh an’ to get yer letters to yeh.”

“Why aren’t you allowed to do magic?”

“Oh, um, well I was at Hogwarts in myself, but got expelled in me third year. They snapped me want right in half. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man Dumbledore.” 

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s gettin’ late, lad. We’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,” Hagrid avoids his question, “Gotta get up ter town, get yer books an’ all that.”

Hagrid shakes off his heavy black coat and hands it to Harry,

“You can kip under that,” He says, “Don’ mind if it wiggles a bit… Think I still got a couple o’ dormice in one o’ the pockets.” 

Harry gratefully accepts it. At least tonight, we won’t go to sleep cold or hungry.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Generational Wealth, Nepo Babies, Wizard Capitalism, 

and Plot Relevance

The next morning Harry thinks what happened the night before was all just a dream, a really, really good dream. He feels warm and floaty, in between sleeping and awake. He feels as if the final piece of his puzzle has been put into place. He doesn’t want to wake up in fear that everything will be the same as it was before. Then scratching at the window. 

Harry sits up, the coat Hagrid gave him the night before falling off. He feels jittery as he walks up to the window, opening it for the owl. It swoops down and sits on Hagrid who doesn’t wake up. The owl begins to attack Hagrid’s coat. Harry tries to wave the owl away.

“Hey, don’t do that.” Harry whispers, trying to salvage the coat.

“Hagrid!” Harry yells, running away from the owl, trying to save his bony fingers, “There’s an owl–”

“Pay him…” Hagrid grunts into the sofa.

“What?” He says, still running around. 

“He wants payin’ fer deliverin’ the paper. Look in the pockets.” 

Harry rummages through the coat pockets. It seems like the coat is made of pockets– a lot of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally Harry pulls out a drawstring bag full of odd looking coins. 

“Give ‘em five knuts,” Hagrid grumbles.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Harry counts five little bronze coins. The owl sticks out its leg so Harry can put the coins into the leather pouch tied to it. Then it flies out the open window. 

Hagrid sits up, the sofa groaning with his weight, he yawns loudly and gets up.

“Best be off, lots ter do today. We gotta go ter London an’ buy all your school stuff.”

Harry hums in acknowledgment, turning the strange coins over and admiring them. Then a pang of disappointment, ruining his good mood. 

“Um– Hagrid…”

“Mm?”

“I haven’t got any money… And you know, last night my uncle said he wouldn’t pay for me to go…” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” Hagrid says, stretching, “D’yeh think yer parents didn’t leave yeh anything?” 

“But if the house was destroyed–”

“They didn’t keep their gold in the house, Harry! No, no, they kept it in Gringotts, a bank for magical folk. ‘S our first stop.” 

“Wizards have banks ?”

“Wixen, but yes. Run by goblins.” 

Harry drops the bit of sausage Hagrid gave him.

“ Goblins? ”

“Yeah– you’d be mad ter try an’ rob it. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything you want ter keep safe– ‘cept Hogwarts. Matter ‘o fact we both got business at Gringotts today.” Hagrid straightens up looking proud of himself. 

“Got everythin’? Come on, then.” 

Harry follows Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky is clear now, no clouds unlike last night. The sun is shining brightly making the sea gleam, the world seems as happy as Harry is today. The boat that Uncle Vernon made them row last night is still there, the bottom of the boat is now completely filled with water from the storm.

“How did you get here?” Harry asks, looking around for another boat.

“Flew.” Hagrid says nonchalantly.

“ ... Flew? ”

“Yeah– but we’ll have to go back in this. Not s’pposed ter use magic now I’ve got yeh.” 

They settle down into the boat, Harry still imagining how it would be to fly. 

“Seems a shame ter row, though,” Hagrid says, giving Harry a knowing look, “If I was ter– speed– things up, yeh wouldn’t mind not mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” Harry promises, smiling at him. In truth, he’s eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulls out his pink umbrella, tapping it twice on the side of the boat. With a jerk they speed off towards land. 

—

“Still got yer letter, Harry?” Hagrid asks when they get on the train. A lot of people stared at Hagrid on the way while Hagrid pointed at “silly muggle things” .

Harry nods and takes the envelope out of his pocket. 

“Good,” Hagrid says, “There’s a list of everything yeh need.”

Harry unfolds the letter and reads the second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed last night during all the excitement. 

Hogwarts School of 

Spellcraft and Sorcery 

Uniform

First-year students will require:

• Three sets of black robes 

• One plain pointed hat (black) for formal events 

• One pair of black boots

• One winter cloak (black)

Course Books

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

‘The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)’

By Miranda Goshawk

‘A History of Magic’

By Bathilda Bagshot

‘A Beginners’ Guide to Transformation’

By Emeric Switch

‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi’

By Phyllida Spore

‘Magical Drafts and Potions’

By Arsenius Jolins 

‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’

By Newt Scamander

‘The Light, Dark, and everything in between: A Guide to Self Protection’

By Quentin Trimble

Other equipment

1 wand

1 trunk (standard or other)

1 set of standard ink (red or green is optional for corrections)

1 spellbook stand (optional)

1 telescope and star chart

Parchment rolls or notebooks

A pair of protective gloves (Dragonhide or similar)

REMINDER: FIRST YEAR STUDENTS ARE NOT PERMITTED TO HAVE THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS, SCHOOL ISSUED ONLY

“Where are we going to find all of this in London?” Harry asks skeptically, looking up at Hagrid. 

“Don’t yeh worry. I know where to go. The world of magic is always there, if yeh know where to look.” Hagrid says, giving Harry a wink. However, the thought that a world where he’s accepted is everywhere is comforting.

—

Harry has never been to London before. The Dursleys have, but they’ve never taken him. To Harry it seems almost as if he’s visiting a new country entirely, somewhere new and different from the five places the Dursleys allow him to go. He’s practically jumping in his seat, eager to get off the train. 

When they get off the train, Harry lets Hagrid lead him blindly into the crowd of people at the station, opting to look around with child-like wonder instead. He’s never put this much trust in a person as he is right now. Hagrid seems to know where he’s going, though. 

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage like this,” Hagrid grumbles as he and Harry climb up a broken escalator. The crowd of people on the street part around Hagrid when they exit the train station. As they walk through busy London, Harry doesn’t see anything magical (literally). It’s all just bookshops, record stores, pubs and restaurants, even a cinema, but nothing like he’s hoped for so far. It’s just an ordinary street with ordinary people and ordinary shops. Harry can’t believe that there’s possible wixen and gold in vaults beneath their feet. As they walk farther and farther from the station, Harry feels as if this is one big prank the Dursleys set up, if he didn’t know that they have the sense of humor of a brick wall. 

“This is it,” Hagrid abruptly stops, causing Harry to slam into him, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a good place to come if you ever need somewhere to stay.” 

It’s a tiny stone, grubby-looking pub. It’s unassuming and if Hagrid hadn’t pointed it out, Harry wouldn’t have known it’s there. Harry looks around at the people passing and notices their eyes seem to slip over from the bookshop on one side and the post office on the other as if the building in the middle wasn’t there at all. Harry has a strong feeling that only people like him and Hagrid can see the grubby pub.

For a nice place, it sure is very dark and shabby on the inside. There are three old women sitting in a dark corner, drinking out of tiny glasses and passing around a long smoking pipe. At the bar, a very short man with a very tall top hat sits and talks to the bald bartender. Many of the patrons of this bar seem to know Hagrid and wave as they walk to the back door.

“The usual, Hagrid?” The bartender asks as they pass.

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts Business,” Hagrid replies, clapping a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, making his knees buckle. The bartender smiles down at Harry and then his face morphs into shock.

“Good Lord, is this–”

The pub goes completely still and silent with the bartender’s shock.

“By the blighted broomsticks! Harry Potter, what an honor.” The bartender whispers, staring at Harry in awe. 

He hurries out from behind the bar and rushes towards Harry. He takes Harry's hand in both of his and enthusiastically shakes it. His eyes are watery and he welcomes Harry back. The rest of the pub was openly staring, everything going completely still. The old lady who had the smoke pipe handed to her held it with loose lips, not realizing it had gone out. 

Then the scraping of chairs and the frantic shuffling of feel fills the pub. The patriots crowd around Harry, shaking his hand and introducing themselves. 

“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m  just so proud.” 

“Always wanted to meet you– I can’t wait to tell my wife about you.” 

“Delighted, Mr. Potter, so delighted to meet you, name’s Diggle, Dedalus Diggle,” The short man in a top hat introduces himself.

“I’ve seen you before, you bowed at me in a shop.” Harry says. The short man gets so excited his top hat falls off. 

“He remembers!” Dedalus Diggle cries, “Did ya hear that? He remembers me!”

Harry shakes hands with about every patron, some even twice, three times because Doris Crockford kept coming back. 

After around the fourth time shaking hands with Doris Crockford, a pale young man steps forward. 

“Professor Quirrell!” Hagrid greets, “Harry, this is Professor Quirrell, he’ll be one of yer professors.” 

“P-Potter,” The pale man stutters, grasping one of Harry’s hands. Harry does everything in his power not to take his hand back, the professor’s hands are really sweaty, “V-very p-pleased to meet you.” 

“What class do you teach, Professor?”

“Defence Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” The professor stutters, looking as if he’d rather not think about it, “N-not that y-y-you n-need it, eh, P-Potter?” He laughs nervously. 

It takes about ten minutes for Hagrid and Harry to finally leave the dingy pub after many more handshakes. Hagrid leads Harry out into the back. Outside is a small courtyard with nothing but a brick wall, a trashcan, and a few weeds. 

Hagrid smiles down and Harry.

“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Quirrell was tremblin’ ter meet yeh– mind you, he’s usually tremblin’. 

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was great studyin’ outta books, then he took a year to get some first hand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, e’s never been the same since. Scared of students, scared of his own subject– now, where’s me umbrella?”

Harry’s head is swimming with the thoughts of vampires and magical creatures. He wants to know what else is out there, what else he was told was fictional but is real. He decides he wants to explore the world and find out for himself one day. 

“Three up… two across…” Hagrid mutters, “Stand back.” 

Hagrid taps the brick wall three times with his umbrella. The bricks he tapped quiver and wiggle. In the middle of the wall a small hole appears– it grows wider and wider– not a second later they are facing an archway into a cobbled street that twists and turns. 

“Welcome,” Hagrid puts a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, “to Diagon Alley.”

He grins at Harry who looks at the buildings and magic in amazement. Diagon Alley is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen, Harry thinks. It’s colorful and bright and Harry swears he can feel the magic of the place wrap around him like a warm blanket after a storm. To him it feels like coming home, the missing piece of him finally found. 

There are people in flowy capes that Hagrid tells him are called robes, pointed hats, some even flying on brooms. Among the crowd are other creatures too; what Harry thinks are elves, tall with piercing eyes, long hair, and pointed ears. He thinks they’re beautiful. One of the elves turns to look at him, noticing his staring. He waves at Harry who flushes and dumbly waves back, following Hagrid through the street. 

They keep walking through the crowd of people, passing by an Owl Emporium and a store that’s displaying broomsticks. Around four kids Harry’s age have their noses almost pressed to the glass,

“Look, the new Nimbus Two Thousand– the fastest so far!” One of them exclaims. 

There are other shops too, selling robes, telescopes, about every magical ingredient you could imagine, parchment, ink, books (regular and magical), even things Harry has no clue what they are. 

“Ere we are, Gringotts,” Hagrid announces. 

Gringotts is probably the most intimidating, official, fancy building Harry has ever seen. It’s huge and made of white marble and pillars that look straight out of ancient Greece. It has an imposing dome roof with very tall arched windows and gargoyles on the ledges. The doors are also huge, just like the rest of the building. They’re a dull grey color with gold finishings and right above it, there are words engraved into the marble:

Enter, stranger, but tread with care,

For danger waits in treasure’s glare

Gold may glint and silver shine,

But take what’s not by rightful line–

Your fate is sealed before the night

So seek your fortune, if you dare…

But know: your grave may await there.

Harry looks at Hagrid and agrees with what he said earlier; you would definitely have to be mad to try and steal from Gringotts.

A pair of goblins in mulberry and gold uniforms open the doors for them. They’re about a head shorter than Harry with long pointy ears, sharp claws, and even sharper teeth, like sharks. 

Through the heavy doors a long hallway with marbled floors and even more pillars awaits. About a hundred more goblins are sitting behind counters on either side of the room. Hagrid leads Harry to the end of the hall where another ominous door is. The door opens on its own for them and leads to more counters and goblins, but this time there are stacks of scrolls on either side of their desks, almost like a library. They walk up to the counter at the end to a particularly intimidating goblin.

“Mornin’, we’ve come to take some money outta Harry Potter’s vault.” 

“Do you have the vault key, sir?” 

“Ah, got it somewhere–” Hagrid mutters, rummaging through his many, many pockets while Harry looks around at the other people and goblins. 

“Ah ha! Here,” Hagrid exclaims, pushing the key over to the goblin, “and also a letter from Dumbledore, about vault seven-hundred thirteen .”  

The goblin reads the letter carefully, not giving away what it might be. 

“Very well, everything seems to be in order, sir. I will have Griphook take you both down to the vaults.” 

The goblin hops off his chair and walks into the back. He comes back a few minutes later with another goblin, Griphook. 

Griphook comes from behind the counter and leads Hagrid and Harry into another, smaller door. They walk down a hallway and eventually down a set of steep spiral stairs to a huge cave dimly lit by candles. 

“What’s in vault seven-hundred thirteen, Hagrid?” Harry asks. Hagrid looks down at Harry with a look of confusion as to why he’s asking. 

“Can’t tell yeh. It’s Hogwarts business, not fer yeh to worry ‘bout.” He reassures.

They keep following Griphook to a rail track and cart that the three climb into. It hurls through the underground and jagged tunnels, it rattles and shakes, and oh my god is that a dragon, Harry can’t really tell because the cart is going too fast. He has to death grip the side of the cart and his glasses so they don’t go flying away. He turns to Hagrid who looks very green but also pale at the same time. How he can do that, Harry doesn’t know, but go multitasking I guess? 

After Hagrid recovers from the slightly traumatic cart ride, Griphook unlocks the vault door. In the vault are mountains of gold, silver and bronze coins and other items like paintings, jewelry, even a full set of armor. Harry stands there, taking in the amount of gold and riches that are in this vault. It’s at least the GDP of a small country. 

“All yours.” Hagrid smiles.

All his. It’s all his , the only thing that’s only his. The Dursleys' cookie-cutter house and brand-new car can’t compare. Suddenly all the jealousy he’s ever felt for other kids’ things and Dudley’s spoiling all goes away and is replaced with a feeling of pride for himself. He no longer has to wear clothes that don’t fit, he no longer has to tolerate the Dursley’s scraps, he no longer has to wear broken glasses, barely held together with a few pieces of tape.

Hagrid helps Harry scoop some Galleons into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” Hagrid explains, “4 sickles make a Galleon and 5 knuts make a sickle. This should last yeh a couple of terms, with some wiggle room, eh?” Hagrid then turns to Griphook, “Vault seven-hundred thirteen please.”

Griphook only nods and gestures back to the death cart. 

They clamber back into the cart and hurl deeper and deeper underground, gaining speed as they go. At one point Harry looks over the edge to see if he can see the bottom of the cave, Hagrid grabs him by the scruff of his neck like a scraggly kitten and pulls him back. He couldn’t see anything anyway.

They screech to a stop in front of vault seven-hundred thirteen. The vault has no keyhole, but Griphook commands them to stand back as he puts a clawed hand on the door for it to melt away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door to be trapped in there.” Griphook explains.

“How often do you check if anyone’s inside?” Harry asks.

“About once every ten years.” Griphook answers with an evil, toothy smile. 

Harry believes that there must be something truly amazing and special inside for the vault to be guarded like this. He imagines intricate jewelry– at least, but to his disappointment it’s just a musty brown package lying on the floor. Hagrid picks it up carefully and tucks it into his coat. Harry wants to know what’s inside the package more than he’s ever wanted anything, but he decides it’s best to not ask. 

“Come on, let’s go back. I just want the ride back to be over… Don’t talk to me, it’s best I keep my mouth shut,” Hagrid says and very unhappily gets back into the cart.

—

Now, back outside in front of Gringotts, Harry is having a crisis with where he should go first with his newfound money. He doesn’t know how many Galleons to a pound, but that’s okay because magical stuff seems cooler to have anyway. He just wants to know if he’s holding more money in his two small hands than Dudley ever has (he really hopes he is). 

“Best we start with yer uniform,” Hagrid suggests, pointing to Madam Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions , “Harry, do yeh mind if I slip away real quick for a pick-me-up in Leaky?” Hagrid still looks green and sick so Harry nods and wanders inside Madam Malkin’s alone. 

Harry, upon entering the shop, is feeling a newfound nervousness. He’s worried that he’ll sound weird to another wixen that’s not Hagrid. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” A plump woman asks. She smiles encouragingly at Harry who nods shyly. “Come, there’s another young man in the back also getting fitted.” 

In the back of the shop, a pale boy with platinum blond hair is standing on a platform while another witch is pinning his robes. Harry stands on the platform next to the other boy as the woman hands him a robe to put on. 

“Hello,” The pale boy greets, “Hogwarts as well?” 

“Oh– um yes.” Harry awkwardly answers.

“My father is next door buying my books and my mother is up the street looking at cauldrons,” the boy explains, “Then, after I get my wand, I’ll make them look at racing brooms with me. I think it’s absolutely ridiculous that first years can’t have their own. My father will buy me one, I know. I’ll somehow have to sneak it in.” 

It’s at this moment that Harry is reminded of Dudley, but worse and posh and actually rich. The boy keeps on talking though,

“Have you got your own broom?” 

“Um– no.”

“Do you play Quidditch?” 

“No…” Harry answers again, wondering what the heck Quidditch is.

“ I do– My father thinks it would be a crime if I don’t get picked for my house team, I agree. Do you know what house you’ll be in?”

“No,” Harry says again , starting to feel a bit stupid.

“Well, I guess that makes sense, no one knows until you’re sorted. I know that I will be in Slytherin, all of my family has been. Imagine being sorted into Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave for Beauxbatons or even Ilvermony in America, wouldn’t you?”

Harry just nods, wishing he could add something to the conversation. He just sits there as the pale boy keeps blabbering on. 

“Say, look at that man!” The boy exclaims, sneering at Hagrid who’s at the front window with two large ice creams in hand. 

“That’s Hagrid, he works at Hogwarts,” Harry says, finally being able to say something.

“Oh, I’ve heard of him. He’s a servant, isn’t he?”
“The gamekeeper,” Harry corrects. He’s starting to like the boy less and less by the second, hoping that whatever Slytherin is, he’s not in it because he wants to avoid him at all costs. 

“I’ve heard he’s a savage – He lives in a hut on school grounds. He got his wand snapped, good riddance because he’s probably a disgrace to magic.”

“I think he’s brilliant ,” Harry side eyes the boy next to him. 

“ You do? Is he with you? Where are your parents?” The boy looks at him disgusted.

“Dead.” 

A long stretch of silence settles between them. The pale boy looks like he doesn’t know how to respond to Harry’s deadpan and blunt response. The boy opens his mouth and closes it before saying,

“They were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were wixen if that’s what you mean.” Harry bluntly says, wanting nothing more than to leave and never talk to this boy again. 

The boy looks like he wants to say something further, but with the look Harry gives him, he keeps his mouth shut.

“You’re done my dear,” the seamstress tells the boy.

“Well, I suppose I’ll see you at Hogwarts,” He says.

Harry doesn’t respond as he hops down from the platform and pays for his robes, leaving the store. 

Harry happily and quietly eats the ice cream Hagrid bought for him, it’s chocolate and raspberry with hazelnuts. 

“Hey Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“It’s a wixen sport. Like football– in the Muggle world– everyone follows Quidditch. It’s played on broomsticks with four balls. Sorta hard to explain the rules.”

Harry nods and eats some more of his ice cream before asking another question,

“What are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“Hogwarts houses. There’s four, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. You get sorted based on personality or values. None are good and none are bad, they all have their ups and downs.” 

Harry hums and nods, wondering why the boy in the shop cares so much about what house he’s in if none are necessarily bad. 

Next they go get Harry’s school books at a store called Flourish and Blotts. The shelves are stacked high to the ceiling of books and other strange things. Some of the books are huge, like paving stones bound in leather, some with strange symbols and even a few with nothing in them at all. Harry loves it. It’s better than his local library that he hides in during the summer to avoid Dudley because as far as Harry knows Dudley is allergic to reading or anything remotely intellectual. What Harry wouldn’t give to get his hands on all of these books. Hagrid has to drag Harry away from Curses and Counter Curses; Bewitch Your friends and Befuddle Your Enemies. There’s probably great material for Dudley in there.

Harry struggles against Hagrid as he drags him away.

“I was trying to find curses to try on Dudley.”

“Not that that’s a bad idea, but yeh can’t use magic in the Muggle world, unless for certain circumstances,” Hagrid responds, slightly laughing at Harry, “Besides yeh probably couldn’t use most of them curses yet anyway. Yeh’ll need to learn the boring stuff before that.”

Hagrid also wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either (“It says pewter on yer list, Harry). Boo, he wants gold, he’s Indian damnit. Instead Hagrid lets him buy a nice set of scales and a collapsible golden telescope.

After the fight over bronze and gold telescopes they leave the shop. Hagrid checks Harry’s list again.

“Just yer wand left– oh an’ yer birthday present.” 

Harry flushes and stutters awkwardly. 

“You- you don’t have to.” 

“I know that, but by the looks of yer Muggles, yeh haven’t got a single nice present. Besides, yeh don’t turn 11 more than once. Yeh go get yer wand and I’ll get yer present, how does that sound?” 

Harry nods, still red and palms sweaty. He turns to where Hagrid points, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C . They part their separate ways and Harry wanders into Ollivanders . 

The bell on the door rings as Harry steps into the shop, once again alone. It’s a tiny shop, chaotic with long, slim boxes on the shelves all over. The magic feels like a warm blanket as it welcomes Harry inside, heavy but familiar in a strange way. Even the dust collecting felt magical.

“Good afternoon,” A soft voice says. Harry jumps, taken out of his trance.

An old man is standing in front of him with pale eyes that shine like the moon. He’s a kind of ominous presence as stands there and studies Harry. 

“Hello… sir.” Harry says awkwardly, fiddling with the end of his shirt. 

“Harry Potter… I thought I’d be seeing you soon… You look like your mother, though I suppose many will find more similarity between you and your father. I remember them buying their wands like it was yesterday. Ten inches and a quarter long, swishy, made of willow for your mother. Good for charm work.”

Mr. Ollivander walks around the desk and closer to Harry. 

“And your father, mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand, excellent for transfiguration. Peculiar how wands choose the wixen to give us what we need most.” Mr. Ollivander says ominously, standing closer to Harry now. His eyes are unblinking and creepy. He looks up to Harry’s scar.

“Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful, yes, very powerful indeed. The one that gave you your scar.”

Mr. Ollivander studied Harry again, letting an awkward silence fall in the empty shop. 

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander pulls out a measuring tape that looks like it’s been around for centuries, “Which is your wand arm?” 

“Erm– well, I’m left handed,” Harry says, a memory of Vernon sitting little Harry at the dining table and strapping down his left hand as he was forced to learn to write with his right hand surges forward, “But I can use both.” Harry quickly adds. 

Mr. Ollivander shakes his head. 

“Which do you prefer?” 

Harry goes silent for a minute. Even though he can write with both hands, his right always seemed foreign to him. Many people at school thought it was an unlucky sign to be left handed, although the belief was slowly fading away. The Dursleys, however, never allowed it. But the Dursleys aren’t here. This is his chance to be who he actually is and not be ashamed of something so little.

“Left, sir.” Harry says more confidently this time, but still quietly. Mr. Ollivander nods and motions for Harry to hold out his arm.

“Every Ollivander wand has a core, a powerful magical substance that help us use our magic, a conduit, Mr. Potter. Unicorn hair, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two wands are the same, not exactly, similar, but not the same. Just as two people can be. You will never get the same result from another wixen’s wand as you will your own.” Mr. Ollivander explains as the magical tape measure is measuring Harry on its own. 

“That will do,” Mr. Ollivander says, and the tape measure retracts and lands in his palm. Mr. Ollivander walks into the back of his shop and comes back with one of the many narrow boxes. “Try this one. Beech wood, dragon heart string. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just give it a wave.” 

Harry takes the wand from Mr. Ollivander and gives it a wave. Which he regrets because he sends boxes of wands flying and breaks a lightbulb. 

“Sorry sir I-”

Mr. Ollivander snatches the wand out of Harry’s hand and replaces it with another, looking unbothered.

“Ebony and unicorn hair. Eight and a half inches. Springy. Go on.” 

They try wand after wand, the boxes slowly build a mountain on the desk and the store looks more chaotic and messy than when Harry came in. Strangely, the more boxes and wands Harry tries, the happier Mr. Ollivander becomes. 

“Tricky, tricky. No worry, there’s a wand for everyone here. We’ll find the perfect match. I wonder…”

Mr. Ollivander wanders off into the back again and comes back about ten minutes later with a weathered red box. 

“An unusual combination– holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry takes the wand from the faded box. In that moment everything slows as time seems to stop. He feels warm magic wrap around him like a hug, not unlike what he felt when he first walked in. The wand in his hand feels like the last piece of a puzzle, like the other half of one of those crappy best friend heart necklaces finally placed together. He flicks the wand and this time, instead of chaos, red and gold whisps shoot out from his wand, like streams of sunlight peeking in through closed curtains. Mr. Ollivander stands there, his unblinking eyes staring in wonder.

“How very peculiar… How curious.” He mutters. He takes the wand and puts it back into the faded red and gold box and heads behind the counter to wrap it. 

“What’s curious?” Harry asks.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, every single one for nearly fifty-eight years. It just so happens that the phoenix feather in your wand gave another feather– only one other. It’s very curious that you are destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallows. 

“Yes, how strange this wand chooses you. Great things are expected from you, Harry Potter. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was great too… Terrible, yes, but great .”

Harry stands there, stunned. He isn’t sure he likes Mr. Ollivander too much. He pays the seven Galleons he owes and quickly leaves the shop to go find Hagrid. 

Hagrid stands outside the shop with a metal cage in his hand. Inside is a snowy owl resting her head underneath her wing. She lifts up her head and stares at Harry with brilliant, glowing yellow eyes. She tilts her head slightly, assessing him. Harry walks closer to Hagring and crouches down in front of her cage. He slowly sticks a finger in between the bars of her cage. She nips at his finger and hoots approvingly. 

“Thank you,” Harry says looking up at Hagrid with wide, teary eyes, “I love her.” 

Hagrid smiles down at Harry who seems to be enraptured by the owl. 

“No need ter thank me, Harry. She seems to like yeh too, eh?” 

Harry nods, not really hearing what Hagrid says. The only thing he can think of is now he has a friend.