Chapter Text
Minerva McGonagall was annoyed. A slight understatement perhaps, faced with the situation she was presently confronted with. When Albus had told her that the letter sent to the beloved son of James and Lily Potter had never been answered, she’d been perplexed. It was not usually done but she’d discussed it with the headmaster and they’d agreed to send another letter. After all, Harry Potter’s attendance at Hogwarts had already been paid for, and his parents were notorious war heroes, surely that deserved a little more effort put into the situation. So they had another letter sent. And another. After the third one, she volunteered to go herself and see what was going on in Privet Drive. Letter in hand, she’d apparated in a quiet corner and knocked at the Dursleys’ door. A tall woman with a long neck and a permanent scowl on her face answered, took one look at her pointed hat, and promptly slammed the door on her face.
So yes, Minerva was slightly ticked off, to say the least. She glanced at the letter in her hand to check if she had the right address, and promptly choked when she read it properly.
“Oh no, that won’t do. Alohomora.”
She let herself in, and tuned out Mrs Dursley's outraged screeching in favour of opening the cupboard door with another spell. Sure enough, it was locked, and a scrawny boy with messy dark hair and brilliant green eyes peeked out from under a rather large spiderweb. Minerva contained her growing fury and smiled politely at the boy.
“Mr Potter, is it? Nice to meet you. I am Minerva McGonagall, an envoy of Hogwarts.”
“Hogwarts?” he asked warily.
“The school your parents attended, young man. Your aunt hasn’t told you about it?”
She threw a venomous look at Mrs Dursley, who was still lamenting her presence, as well as muttering about how lucky it was that her husband and son weren’t there to see another freak. Minerva raised an eyebrow at the insult. She’d heard that sort of unpleasantness while visiting Muggleborns but never from someone already aware of the Wizarding World. Perhaps the woman was bitter, she thought.
“My parents died in a car crash,” Harry said with a blank look that had no place on a child’s face. “That’s all I know of them.”
The Transfiguration professor blinked.
“Pardon me?”
She turned to Mrs Dursley, took a deep breath. Her wand twitched with the desire to cast a few curses. She swore instead. The child looked vaguely impressed with her repertoire, and the Scottish brogue that slipped out due to her anger. Mrs Dursley’s ugly expression deepened.
“What was I supposed to tell him? That his parents were freaks who got tortured fighting in a freakish war and they’re in a long-term ward? And then, what would you have me do, visit them? We are decent people here, I refused to have any discussion of your kind’s abnormality in my house!”
“What?”
***
Harry trailed silently after the professor, his mind reeling. He’d known something would happen this summer. The scared expression Aunt Petunia had when he’d received his first letter and his being locked in the cupboard since the second arrived had announced that something unusual was happening, and it was well-known in the neighbourhood that the Dursleys abhorred anything unusual. He hadn’t expected this though. His parents were alive, though unable to care for him, and he was a wizard. The Orphan Relocation Bureau had dumped him at his aunt’s house many years ago, and an administration mistake had meant that he’d never been checked on.
Apparently it was illegal for Aunt Petunia not to tell him about magic and she would be fined a hefty amount, considering the money taken from his parents’ account for his care had never actually been allocated to him. Now he knew how the Durleys afforded his cousin's abondance of presents. The Transfiguration professor’s face when she’d found that out would have been hilarious if he hadn’t been so hurt at being simply forgotten by the society he should have grown up in. The Head of the ORB had scrambled to find him a wizarding foster family, looking through his father’s family tree to find some distant relatives who would want to take him in. Until then, he would be staying with the professor.
Professor McGonagall had taken him to the ministry first, then to Gringotts to talk to his account manager. Gringotts was beautiful, and the goblins were more polite than Harry expected from the professor’s warnings. A glance at her bemusement showed him that this was most unusual.
“Mr Potter here is a goblin-friend,” said Griphook as he led them to a private office. “His ancestor Peregrine Potter found the cure to the Carmine Plague which decimated thousands of the goblin population in the sixteenth century. My people have had a fondness for his House ever since, and they always held us in the same regard, even when it cost them a place among the Sacred 28.”
Harry brightened at hearing more about his family history. He asked a few hesitant questions as he was taken through maze-like corridors while professor McGonagall looked on, looking interested by the exchange. He learnt that another ancestor of his named Beatrice Potter wrote the treaty ending the last goblin-wizard war and that his grandfather Fleamont was a renowned potion master who made his account manager weep with joy with the profits rendered by the Sleekeazy Hair Potion, his most successful invention.
“It was originally invented to counter the curse on the Potter hair —you didn’t think your curls were this untamable for any reason other than magic, did you— but even it failed to make a single change on that terrible mane of his,” chuckled Griphook, before knocking on a door decorated with silver runes. “Your father’s hair was little better, though he managed to cut it shorter without the curse backlashing.”
Harry ran a nervous hand through the aforementioned curls. Aunt Petunia had never succeeded to cut his hair shorter than at his nape and his fringe was as untamable as Griphook described it. Said goblin opened the door and greeted his coworker with a stream of gobbledegook.
Harry was introduced to his account manager, a female goblin named Darkclaw, who presented him his family’s ledgers before assuring with a sharp smile that the Dursleys would get what they deserved for hiding him from the bank. They had apparently thrown away quite a few letters intended for him and the bank had been dismayed by the fact that they weren’t allowed to contact him directly until he received his Hogwarts letter.
“We were going to send a human employee to your address if we hadn’t received word by the fifth of August,” she assured him, before presenting him with a signet ring bearing a stylized P in royal blue and black. “The rings are more tradition than anything else these days, though they are enchanted with protections against common spells, potions and mind magic.” She paused, before looking at him with a pained expression. “You will be able to take the Lord ring off of your father’s finger by your seventeenth birthday, and will then be given full access of your accounts. James and Lily Potter will be named your dependents at your majority, unless they miraculously recover. Until then, I hope you can trust Gringotts to have your best interests at heart and manage it for you.”
Harry nodded dumbly and waited until his temporary guardian was done asking questions. The professor was taking notes so she would be able to transfer them to his foster family. Meanwhile, Harry’s mind whirled. The reality of his situation had finally sunk in. He had money and no matter what happened, he would never see the Dursleys again. His parents were incapacitated but alive, and he would meet them today. It was like a dream, a bittersweet dream he never wanted to wake up from.
He enjoyed the ride to his trust vault, though he was quieter than before. Darkclaw gave him a bag with family grimoires, heirlooms and three paintings from the main vault, one of which was a small portrait of Peregrine Potter. The others were both empty, though one was supposed to portray Lillian and Roman Potter, who had taught at Hogwarts during the 18th century and to whom he could ask questions to. The last one was Dorea Potter, his great-aunt and the only Potter of this century who had had her portrait painted.
He asked plenty of questions to the professor when they browsed Diagon Alley for clothes and toiletries —he would come back for his school supplies with his temporary guardian—, but his mind was elsewhere. They ate lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, where there was a commotion due to the Floo arrival of the Boy-Who-Lived, Neville Longbottom, and his grandmother. They greeted the Transfiguration professor briefly and Harry received a few envious looks for shaking hands with the famous boy. He didn’t think much of it; he’d hated being gawked at in Privet Drive, he didn’t want to do the same to a boy he barely knew. Professor McGonagall looked approving, which made him straighten up a bit. As the first adult who had ever been nice to him, he wanted to make her proud. She was a stern woman, not easily impressed, but he relished the rare moments of softness she showed.
They arrived in St Mungo’s at 1:30, and were let into the Janus Thickey Ward for permanent spell damage. A Healer took them to the appropriate room, and professor McGonagall withdrew to give him some privacy. Harry stepped closer to the beds his parents were on.
A woman with greying red hair was cradling an imaginary baby in her arms, humming a lullaby he recognized as one Aunt Petunia sang to Dudley sometimes. He shuddered and sat between her bed and his father’s, observing her silently. She had his bright green eyes, though hers looked too dazed to be aware. He stayed still, staring for long minutes before his mother blinked and turned her gaze to him.
“Harry,” she whispered.
His eyes filled with tears.
“Hello, mum.”
“Harry, shh, Harry,” she said, turning again to the empty space between her arms. “Shh.”
And she started humming again. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He looked at her for longer, searching a trace of awareness on her face before wiping his eyes and turning to his father. He seemed less aware than Lily, his gaze blank as he stared out the enchanted window, unreactive when his glasses slid out of his nose. Harry pushed them back on his face with careful hands before letting his palm touch his father’s forearm. He shivered. James’ arms were trembling from the aftereffects of the curse.
At some point, professor McGonnagal pressed a glass of water into his hands before telling him she needed to send a few letters and run a few errands. She only came back when visiting hours were over. She offered him a sad smile before leading him outside. They ate dinner at the Leaky Cauldron again. Harry was completely silent during the meal.
His parents were lost so deeply in their own minds there was no precedent for recovery, had said the Healer. Well then, Harry thought, resolved, he would make a precedent. He’d become a Healer, like Peregrine Potter, and cure his parents.
***
The next few days passed in a blur. Professor McGonagall was busy with the preparations for the next school year and she often left him alone to sort himself out. He was unsure of what to do at first in a wizarding house that cleaned itself, sleeping in a normal bed in a normal room. But he entertained himself by speaking to the portraits of the previous Potters and reading about the magical world. The professor had good recommendations for Muggle-raised students, and made a stop at a wizarding bookstore in Edinburgh to buy him introductory books.
Lillian and Roman Potter were fascinating. Lillian had been the Charms Professor at Hogwarts, and Roman taught History of Magic during the eighteenth century. They gave him tips about his future school years, and Roman told him about the history of their family.
“We were Peverells before being Potters,” he revealed after a captivating retelling of the tales of Beedle the Bard. “We changed our names after one too many attempts by another bold wizard to steal our cloak. We led the world to believe our line had gone extinct and hid under a common name the purists disdained for being too Muggle. Eloise Peverell married Graham Potter and adopted her younger cousins under his name, and thus ended the line of Ignotus Peverell.”
When Harry asked what became of the cloak, Roman had no answer. Peregrine Potter taught him about goblin culture and healing practices. A lot of the old healing jargon went over Harry’s head, but he dutifully took notes anyway, remembering his goal. Dorea Potter told him about his grandparents, Fleamont and Euphemia, his great-uncle Charlus, and a little of what she remembered of James Potter as a child. With this along with his future Transfiguration professor’s tales about his parents’ school years, he had more stories than he had ever hoped.
On the third day, professor McGonagall came back with good news.
“Your grandmother’s cousin owled the ORB demanding to meet you. His name is Ulrich Fawley. We’ll have lunch with him tomorrow, and you’ll decide if you want to stay with him.”
“I get to decide?”
“Of course, if you dislike him we won’t force you to stay with him. He’s a good man though. He was gone from Britain for a few decades, he worked as a wardmaker in several countries and retired recently—”
Having a choice, thought Harry. What a novelty.
***
Ulrich Fawley was nervous. He was an old man already, hardly fit for taking care of a child. But this was his dear cousin’s grandchild, who had little family left to care for him. He could do this.
Or so he thought, until he was presented with a tiny slip of a boy who fidgeted with his sleeves like he wasn’t used to having clothes that fit him. It was likely to be true, considering what the ORB letter he received implied.
“You have Euphemia’s nose and her cheekbones,” he said as he met him, a fondness in his voice he didn’t think was left in him. “The rest of you is all Fleamont.”
The boy looked happy about the comparison, at least, though Ulrich shouldn’t have disregarded proper introductions. He rectified that promptly, earning himself a wide-eyed stare from the boy who clearly hadn’t been around pureblood society. Nonetheless, he did an admirable job at returning the greeting and introducing his temporary guardian, the Hogwarts professor who had removed him from his home. Harry Potter was a sweet kid, he found out as they ate and chatted, a little rough around the edges and wary but polite and clearly intelligent. He was also surprisingly blunt, as Ulrich witnessed when he asked him if he was serious about taking him in.
“I am,” he said, though he wasn’t able to conceal his surprise. “I’m a Hufflepuff through and through, kid, loyalty is in my blood, and I want to take care of you. I don’t say that lightly. I know I am not anyone’s first choice for a guardian; I have no children of my own —I left this privilege to my older cousin Landon, who is Head of House Fawley— and I am 110 years old, but I loved Euphemia and I want to give her grandchild the chance to grow up happy and safe.” He paused. “It would just be for the summers, I know, but if you can bear with this old man—”
“I want to.”
Harry blushed, embarrassed.
“If you want me, that is.”
Ulrich smiled fondly.
“Of course I do.”
***
Life with Ulrich was even more awkward than the three days he had spent at his professor’s house, and that was saying something. They lived in a cottage in the south of England, close to the sea. It was a nice place, though a bit quiet. Harry didn’t quite know how to behave, but they settled on a few chores he could help with since Ulrich was so old, and hours for dinner and lunchtime. The man seemed completely out of his depths around a child, but it was obvious he did his best, which was more than Harry could say about anyone else. He had introduced him to his cousin Landon, who invited him to dinner with the rest of his family. Landon was a stern old man who reminded Harry of professor McGonagall. He seemed more interested in whether Harry could play chess than anything else. Apparently, his grandmother had been mighty good at it. His two sons were nice enough, though the youngest was a bit pompous. The only one around his age was Gemma, Landon’s granddaughter. She was a 5th year prefect at Hogwarts, a self-assured girl who was very patient with his questions. He thought she’d liked him, and she was definitely his favourite. Aside from Ulrich, that is. The Fawleys were nice people, overall.
They celebrated his birthday quietly, just Ulrich and him. Harry received a book full of pictures and accomplishments of his parents from his Transfiguration professor, along with a birthday cake and card from a man named Hagrid, who was the groundskeeper at Hogwarts and invited him for tea the first week of school. Ulrich knew Hagrid, he had written him a few letters about the wards around the Forbidden Forest and liked the man well-enough. He’d seemed pleased about the cake and muttered something about writing to the groundskeeper himself. Gemma sent him sweets from Honeydukes and a nice handwritten card. Ulrich bought him books on healing magic. He’d overheard him speaking with the portrait of Peregrine Potter. Harry had thanked him quietly, and tried really hard not to cry. Ulrich awkwardly patted his back. It was his best birthday ever.
The next day, they went to Diagon Alley. They had to take the Knight Bus, since Ulrich was too old to apparate. They first made a stop at Horizont Alley to buy him more winter clothes and to get his ears pierced.
“A Fawley tradition,” had said Ulrich, “For every Hogwarts age child of our Household. Your dad had it done too, though he gave it up because he kept losing his earrings. Euphemia was in a tizzy about it.”
“I won’t lose them, promise,” said Harry quietly, touching the golden hoops.
Ulrich chuckled and ruffled his hair.
“Good lad.”
Harry couldn’t quite hide how much that pleased him. They made quick work of the potions ingredients and supplies list, bought the textbooks then spent an additional hour at the bookstore to browse through Flourish and Blotts’ collection —Ulrich joked about him being a budding Ravenclaw, though Harry thought that was unlikely— before getting to Madam Malkin’s shop.
A blond boy was already getting fitted for his uniform when Harry entered.
“You go in alone, lad, I’ve got something to pick up around the Alley,” had said Ulrich before lightly pushing him in.
Harry let himself be led in by Madam Malkin’s and sat down next to the boy. He had a really pointed chin, noted Harry, it made his face look a little heart-shaped. As he observed the boy, he could see himself being observed in return. The blond’s gaze lingered a little on his signet ring, though Harry knew the insignia wasn’t visible at this angle.
“Was that your grandfather?” asked the boy.
“Er, no. Ulrich’s a distant relative. My grandmother’s cousin.”
The boy hummed a little.
“You’ll be a first year too, I’m guessing?” He paused long enough for Harry to nod and continued. “It’s a right shame we aren’t allowed our own brooms, though I’m sure I can convince Father to let me bring mine along. I do believe—”
Harry listened to the boy prattle on about his Father, his money, and his disdain for Muggles, his frown slowly deepening. He hadn’t been reminded of the Dursleys in weeks now, and he had been hoping that wouldn’t change, but that boy had Dudley’s sense of superiority and lack of subtlety down to an art, though he clearly had better manners. It came from the pureblood upbringing, he supposed, since the Fawleys were a bit posh like that too.
“—of course I’ll be in Slytherin. My whole family has been in Slytherin. How about you?” he asked, finishing his rant, completely oblivious to the way the shopkeepers were side-eyeing him.
Harry stood up at Madam Malkin’s behest with a polite smile as she took his measurements.
“It could go either way, but I think I might be more ambitious than I am brave, loyal or smart so far. I have goals,” he said, thinking of his parents. He remembered Lillian Potter’s enjoinment to “be better” when they spoke about unpleasant people and bit down on a sarcastic remark on his newfound reluctance to join the House of snakes. To be fair to Lillian, she was a Hufflepuff in her time.
The blond raised an eyebrow at that before standing up to pay.
“Well, I do hope to find you in Slytherin, it’s always good to find more wixen of the right sort.”
Harry chuckled, sitting back down as the seamstress left to arrange the garments that would make out his uniform.
“The right sort, huh? I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you,” said Harry softly. And he presented his hand for his future classmate to shake. “Well met, I’m Harry Potter.”
The blond flushed a dull red. It was well-known that the war heroes James and Lily Potter were respectively a blood-traitor and muggleborn. Harry was the heir of an Ancient and Noble House, yes, but he was still a half-blood.
“Draco Malfoy,” he said with all the grace he could muster, shaking the offered hand.
“I’ll see you at Hogwarts, then, Malfoy,” dismissed Harry before he turned away, ostensibly to ask a question to one of Madam Malkin’s assistants.
Harry was still shaking his head at the whole encounter as he waited for Ulrich outside the shop, the bags containing his uniforms and school supplies clutched in his hands. The old man arrived a few minutes later, levitating a cage in front of him. Inside was a beautiful snowy owl, blinking at Harry with mesmerising golden eyes.
“A gift from Hagrid,” explained Ulrich with a smile. “He bought her when he came to the Alley earlier and sent me a note about it so I’d know they’d set her aside for you.”
“She’s wonderful,” he breathed out.
“Isn’t she?”
They didn’t stop to buy a schoolbag or trunk, since Ulrich had perfectly nice warded ones at home, but did make a stop for the most important part of his supplies.
“Ah, Garrick, it’s been a while,” greeted his guardian.
The wandmaker’s eyes lit up, delighted to see his old friend.
“A few months, hasn’t it? The shop keeps me quite busy.”
“You’re not thinking about retiring yet?”
“Ah, no, I love my craft too much for that. Besides, I haven't chosen an apprentice yet and I still have a few years ahead of me.”
They chatted for a bit before the wandmaker turned to him.
“Your new ward, is it? You mentioned it in your letter. Nice to meet you, Mister Potter. I knew your parents, you know. They bought their wands in this very shop.”
His eyes became a bit distant as he rattled off what he remembered of his parents’ wands and Harry committed the information to memory. He wondered what had become of them. He’d have to ask the Healers at the Ward.
The three of them made idle talk as Ollivander rummaged for wands. It took two dozen tries before Harry managed to find one that suited him.
“Eleven inches, nice and supple, made of willow and phoenix feather,” he hummed. “An unusual combination, though quite suited for healing and defensive charms.”
He turned shrewd eyes towards Harry.
“I look forward to seeing what you make of yourself with such a wand, young man.”