Chapter Text
Harry Potter used to dream about what it might be like to have a family.
They were small dreams, the kind of wishes that always felt too far away to ever come true.
He didn’t have a family. His mother and father had been useless drunks, killed in a car crash while high. He had never had a sibling—God knows they wouldn’t have taken care of another child anyway. His aunt, uncle, and cousin were never his family. They never wanted to be, and Harry was never allowed to think of them that way. He was alone. Always had been.
He had never been loved, never been valued.
He was just the result of two people who were too high to care about what they were doing.
Until now.
Now, he had people. He had those who loved him, those who stayed. He had relatives. He had the life he should have lived all along. A life that could have been filled with joy and warmth, a life where he could have grown up safe and happy—without ever having to suffer under the Dursleys.
But it had been taken from him.
Ripped away by a madman who had gone insane in his hunger for power.
Lord Voldemort, so obsessed with eliminating powerful people, had come for Harry’s family—just to get to him. And he had killed them.
But he hadn’t managed to kill the boy.
Harry had survived. He had become the first to ever live through that damned curse. And not only had he survived, he had destroyed the monster, stopped him before more lives were lost. Saved the world, she said.
But he couldn’t save his family.
And he hated everything for that. Hated it with every bone in his body, with every breath in his chest.
With everything he had.
But the worst part was this: Harry had never known any of it. If that stupid owl hadn’t shown up, or if Uncle Peter hadn’t given him one more chance to read that letter, he would have never found out. Might’ve gone his whole life believing his family were just awful people.
Those bastards—those cursed relatives—had lied to him. Hated him so much that his bloody aunt had lied about her own sister’s legacy. Lied her sister’s child.
Harry was devastated—more than he’d ever been before.
–
The days following Professor Faith’s visit passed in a blur.
Harry had no idea whether the school had approved his attendance or not. He was so overwhelmed by the truths he’d heard and the undeniable proof of magic that he barely registered his uncle arranging a second meeting. Not that he cared much.
Harry felt awful. As if his entire body had been so thoroughly beaten that every movement sent shocks of pain through his limbs. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time—and hadn’t missed at all.
He didn’t perform in any of the shows; his uncle had granted him permission. He didn’t do anything related to his training. He skipped meals, eating only what little he could stomach from what was brought to his room. He didn’t see anyone. He locked himself in. Laid in bed. Thought. Felt.
Felt what it might have meant, once, to have a family.
Tried to understand it, but couldn’t. After the Dursleys, the sense of being loved had dulled. Even though life with Medrano had begun to fill in the gaps, it still wasn’t enough for him to truly grasp the feeling. And Harry hated things he couldn’t understand.
—
The days went on. Harry withdrew even further.
His already fractured soul cracked deeper. A mind barely held together began to fall apart.
One day, Professor Faith returned and spoke with his uncle about what should come next. They had discussed many things, trying to figure out what might truly be best for him. His uncle had firmly said that a full-time boarding school wouldn’t be right for a child like him.
For a child like him.
Broken.
It was agreed that he would return home on weekends. Five days a week, he would study magic—away from everything, among people he should have always belonged with, in total isolation.
Harry gave a vague nod. Didn’t think much about it.
It was almost funny. There was a time, even while living with the Dursleys, when he still had the desire to get things right, to give the correct answers. But now, he didn’t care about anything. He was truly broken.
He made it until September 1st.
He started coming out of his room. Tried to commit to his training again—not as much as before, but it was something. He stayed away from the shows. He pushed himself in the training grounds until he was too exhausted to think.
Clint never left his side.
Sat in the corner while Harry studied. Trained with him. Ate with him. And when everything became too much and Harry’s breathing turned ragged, Clint simply smiled and gently patted his back.
It felt like family.
He’d told him so himself. “I am,” he’d said. “I never had one either.” He’d mumbled, “I get you.”
Clint had raged at the person who killed Harry’s family. Smashed things. Sure, he later asked Harry to fix them with his magic, but that didn’t matter. Harry understood.
That fury was for a child he now considered his own. For an eleven-year-old who missed a mother he’d never even known.
Clint had no family either. Abandoned, discarded. But Harry was different. Special. Not a weak mutant easily overlooked—he was a wizard who had saved the world. Special. And because of a madman who had fixated on that child, everything had been taken from him. Now he was left craving love. Clint couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t stand that a child so widely loved could have a past this dark. It drove him mad with anger.
And he swore: if anyone ever tried to harm that boy again, they’d have to get through Clint’s corpse first.
That child was his last remaining family.
—
August 30, 2001
Harry couldn’t sleep.
Ever since that day in July, everything had been a blur. Shock, denial, fury.
Grief, tears, the burning desire for revenge.
And now he lay in bed with his bags packed for tomorrow.
He was going to school—a school of magic. Uncle Peter had convinced him, made decisions for him. Said that if there was a community out there that he belonged to, he had to be part of it. Said that being close to people like his own would do him good. Maybe, Peter had said, being around people like your family might make you feel closer to them. But he hadn’t let him go entirely.
The school holidays were limited—only Christmas and Easter. Families rarely visited. Communication was limited to letters that took days to be answered, as technology didn’t work near magic.
Uncle Peter had never allowed that. (Though he was sure Harry would eventually solve that problem.)
Harry was special. The savior. An exception could be made. Peter insisted, even threatened to withdraw him if necessary. Professors and important people from the Ministry came to visit. Peter handled all of them, convinced them.
Weekends at home. As long as he remained wandless, he was even allowed to use magic during shows.
And that was how Harry learned he had been committing crimes for years.
Using magic openly in front of No-Majs was a major offense according to MACUSA. A clear violation of international secrecy laws.
He got away with it—and didn’t even know.
But what drew attention the most was his ability to perform magic without a wand. Apparently, wandless magic was something only a handful of highly trained and powerful individuals in the government could manage. Difficult, unforgiving. Required immense power and skill. And Harry had done it before even attending school, knowing nothing of the magical world. It was astounding.
It was confirmed that he could continue performing wandless magic under the label of a “mutant.” Completely legal and safe.
But Harry learned more.
His family was important. Not his mother’s side—his father’s.
A very old and powerful bloodline. For centuries, they’d held positions of power in the British government and magical governance. Originally migrated from India generations ago, and had earned themselves a name. (That explained the darker tone of Harry’s skin, too.) Older than even the Malfoys and Blacks, considered royalty in their own right. A Ministry official explained that the Potters were “one of the first families magic ever touched.” Among the first souls Hecate blessed. Practically sacred.
Normally, if a magical child’s parents died, they’d be placed with magical relatives. If none were available, then caretakers chosen by the parents. If even that failed, the government would assign a magical guardian capable of raising the child. Especially someone from a lineage like his. So much potential, so much power—he had defeated the darkest and strongest wizard in a century. He was meant to grow up in magic.
Instead, Harry had been abandoned with his mother’s No-Maj—Muggle—relatives. No magical relatives, no friends, no magical family. Sent to a family who despised everything abnormal. Who hadn’t even fed him properly. A child like Harry had been thrown into the hands of the kind of people who made others fear No-Majs.
Harry hated that too.
No one knew who had made that decision. But whoever it was had changed a noble’s life for personal gain. And it didn’t take a genius to see that.
Harry added that person to his list. The list of those he’d one day take revenge on. He didn’t know when he’d get the chance, but once strong enough, that would be his priority. No one discarded him.
After learning the basics of the magical world and what to expect, Harry went shopping with Professor Faith. When he offered to withdraw some of the money he’d saved from show performances, he learned one more thing.
He wasn’t just a noble, a savior, or someone with a family.
He was filthy, ridiculously rich.
Seriously.
They traveled to a street full of nothing but magical shops to buy his school supplies and everything else he’d need. If there was still a sliver of doubt left in his mind about the reality of magic, it disappeared the moment he stepped onto that street.
No tech, no illusion could create something like that.
Dear God. Magic was real.
Harry was magical.
Damn it.
And to top it off, he was loaded.
The wizarding world was… weird. Logic didn’t matter where magic ruled. Their banking system was a disaster, and none of them could do math to save their lives.
Which is why goblins handled it all.
Real goblins. Pointy ears, sharp teeth, dangerous-looking little creatures. At least they weren’t green like in movies.
And beneath the earth, one vault—no, vaults—were stuffed with his family’s gold. Not just gold, but history. Artifacts and books gathered by generations of Potters. Most of them stored in the British branch, but it didn’t matter.
He had lived in a cupboard under the stairs until age eight, and now he had more wealth than most of the wizarding world.
Fantastic.
He took the money, bought everything on his supply list. Got a wand too. Because damn it, wizards needed wands to do magic. Eleven inches, elder wood, dragon heartstring core, incredibly flexible and loyal. Perfect for Transfiguration and Charms.
He gathered the other books recommended by the professor—“Intro to the Magical World for No-Majs”—because despite his heritage, he’d grown up like a Muggle. Damn it. And he purchased tons of resources to learn the magical culture and history he should’ve known already.
Despite the shock and emptiness inside, Harry made one thing very clear when he picked up those books:
This was his legacy. It had been stolen. Stripped away. But it was his. His community. And he refused to remain ignorant. How late he came to magic didn’t matter. He had trained himself as a mutant despite every disadvantage. He would do it again as a wizard. And he would show the world who he was.
And now, dressed in a clean, perfectly tailored uniform, standing before the grand castle that was Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, next to Professor Faith—Harry stared at the gate with blazing determination in his eyes and fire burning in his chest.
Everything life had thrown at him, he had survived.
He’d survive this too.
–
Scotland, Hogwarts
Even for a world built on magic, Hogwarts was something extraordinary. The castle was alive in ways that defied description, almost sentient, welcoming, warm. Magic didn’t just exist there—it breathed, pulsed, wrapped around every stone and every shadow. Everyone who stepped through its gates found themselves awestruck.
The most perfect example of that was the school’s headmaster: Albus Dumbledore.
The great Albus Dumbledore.
The man who ended the First Wizarding War. Who had fought his old friend Gellert Grindelwald and defeated him, saving countless lives in the process. Possessor of a power most witches and wizards could only dream of. Charismatic, eloquent, a natural leader who knew exactly how to steer the masses. Every move he made had elevated him higher, every decision a masterstroke.
Until now.
If only he hadn’t been so arrogant, he might have noticed the signs. Might have paid closer attention to the protective enchantments he’d cast on the boy. Might have checked more often. If he hadn’t stopped checking a few years back, he might have realized the child was gone.
But he hadn’t. And now, the child was lost.
His failure.
Everything had gone so well at first. The moment he realized Tom had heard the prophecy, he’d placed the Potters in hiding. If Black hadn’t betrayed them, they could have stayed safe until the danger passed. But the curse of the Black family had won—he’d fallen into the darkness and handed over the people he once called family.
Ironically, that betrayal had become their salvation.
The child, through Lily Potter’s sacrifice, had managed to destroy Tom Riddle. But Albus knew better than to rest easy. He knew what the second half of the prophecy could mean. One day, the Dark Lord—or something worse—would rise again.
That was why the boy had been sent to the Muggles. Lily’s blood ran in her sister, and thus the boy would be protected. And more than that, growing up without any magical influence would allow the child to embrace his fate freely, when the time came. It was a brilliant plan, and Albus Dumbledore had been proud of it.
But now, it had all gone terribly wrong. Somehow, the Americans had gotten to the boy.
He was now a student of Ilvermorny. And Albus Dumbledore would never get the chance to guide him personally. It was horrifying. The worst-case scenario.
Albus had done everything he could to stop it. The moment he realized the Hogwarts letter hadn’t reached him and that his name appeared in Ilvermorny’s registry, he pulled every string he could at the Ministry. But no one could be convinced to bring the boy to Hogwarts.
Because technically, the child had been handed over by his aunt and uncle to a Muggle they didn’t even know—and that man had become the boy’s legal guardian. Albus argued that a Muggle couldn’t raise a magical child.
But to his utter shock, he was told that abusing a magical child was an even greater offense.
Despite his warning, the boy’s aunt had never treated him as family. Had harmed him. And the boy had later been taken in by an elderly American who had discovered the abuse and refused to look away. Albus had reached the limit of what he could do. In the magical world, children were sacred. Any form of mistreatment was absolutely unacceptable.
Now, the boy’s guardian wasn’t just a Muggle—he was a protector. The savior of the Boy Who Lived. And that gave him rights.
And so, Albus Dumbledore did what he always did: he adapted, skillfully and without complaint.
It wasn’t the end of the world. He would come up with a new plan, one that would still lead him to the success he needed.
He was, after all, Albus Dumbledore.