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Chapter Text

Harry never thought too much about the strange things that happened to him. It was like avoiding a thought that seemed too good to be true. People didn’t look gift horses in the mouth, and Harry didn’t question the odd occurrences that always seemed to follow him.

Take the time Dudley and his gang were chasing him, likely to beat him up again. When miraculously, Harry had found himself upon the roof of the school kitchens, safe and completely out of reach. 

This instance had not fared well with the Dursleys, with chores being piled on thickly as punishment.

He had read somewhere that ignorance was bliss, so Harry had decided to forget about it. 

There was also the time Aunt Petunia had tried to make Harry wear one of Dudley’s old sweaters. The piece of material was decrepit and old, the wool looked to be thick and wiry. Harry wouldn’t have minded so much if the ugly sweater was to be worn in the house, but his aunt looked positively gleeful at the prospect of humiliating him in public, specifically in school. Harry, who was already teased and bullied relentlessly, decidedly, did not need anything else going against him on that front.

So when the sweater was jammed over Harry’s head it miraculously would not fit. What was once an overly large sweater was now a sweater only big enough to fit on a very small child or toddler. 

Luckily, Harry hadn’t been blamed.

Petunia had muttered furiously about the washer ruining everything and tossed the sweater aside.

Harry didn’t question it. He never did.  

These instances always happened, again and again, like some twisted cycle which Harry was seemingly trapped in. He promised himself he would ignore it, deny his reality if he must and he would tell himself he was succeeding. It was becoming more of a fruitless endeavour as time passed but no one could ever claim that Harry wasn’t persistent.

A couple years later his aunt had taken a vehement dislike to Harry’s hair. Which, no matter what she did, refused to lie flat or obey any brush or product.

His aunt had always been resentful of anything Harry related in general, and generally liked to alternate with what she hated most about him.

And right then, it was the hair. 

Multiple times his aunt had taken scissors to his hair until inches of hair pooled at their feet. But like clockwork, each morning his hair was back to its recognisable state and looked like it had been never touched at all, being as full and untamable as ever.

By the third time this event occurred, Harry was nine years of age and Petunia had resorted to a razor. She shaved away at his head without mercy, ignoring Harry’s pleading–his promises to fix it, to behave, to do better.  

When it was over, only one lonely lock of hair was left, strategically left to hide what she called his ‘frankly hideous’ scar. 

Dudley had collapsed in laughter at the sight of him, rolling on the carpet, overcome with wheezes of delight. 

Harry wasn’t surprised his cousin found joy in his predicament but he remembered how the fresh wave of anger and embarrassment had still stung him nonetheless.

His uncle had sat on the plush floral couch with a hand vaguely placed over his vindictive grin in a poor attempt at hiding the fact that he, too, was enjoying the spectacle.

Everything had then glazed over for Harry as the next thing he knew his legs had quickly taken him back to his cupboard where he reflexively slipped in and deftly shut the door behind him. Harry did not turn the light on, letting the dark shadows fall over him whilst finding himself mechanically sinking into the cot-like bed underneath him.

The last time this happened Harry’s hair grew back by the morning, which, on one hand, was reassuring as Harry would not have to suffer under the hands of humiliation. But on the other, daunting, as Harry knew punishment would be unavoidable. Harry did not know what to hope for.

Harry could not wait for secondary school when he would be sent away to a place where there was no Dudley and no one who knew him. But that time wasn’t now, and he knew something had to change if he was to come out of this situation unpunished and not humiliated.

Harry remembered how he drew in a shaky breath, trying desperately to focus on something other than the frantic pounding of his heart.

With the spiders and his tremulous heart for company, Harry found himself drifting off to sleep a short while later, unaware of the change that was coming. The last thing he remembered before sleep took him was an errant wish, a whispered plea, for everything to just work itself out.

Unbeknownst to him, forces as old as time stirred, and with them his path quietly shifted.

That desperate wish had been heard.

And it would change everything. 

Harry awoke to a quiet hum in the air. A strange, gentle buzz that seemed to settle around him. 

He blearily opened his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face where he found his glasses askew next to his ear on the pillow. In a fluid motion Harry gently grabbed the glasses and put them back on his face with as much care as he could manage, trying not to damage them any further.

With his hands still on his face, that’s when he felt it.

Hair. 

A whirl of emotions overcame Harry in that moment–starting with relief, then swiftly overtaken by a creeping sense of foreboding at the imminent prospect of what would come later .

With one hand still in his hair, Harry scrambled out of bed and fumbled around his little shelf for his mirror. It was not much of a mirror if Harry was to be honest, it was fractured and broken with a slight glint of rust framing the edges, but it was Harry’s, one of the few possessions that he truly owns, so he kept it.

After locating the deteriorating mirror, Harry angled it upwards towards his hair where a strange sight greeted him in return.

Harry expected the usual sight of dark hair to be gazing back at him.

While that was not entirely wrong to an extent, never in a million years had Harry expected minutely small streaks of soft red hair to be intertwined with the usual darker strands. They look like they should violently contrast one another with such opposing colours but Harry found he liked the way they intermingle with one another. Harry noticed that his face looked different with the addition of the new hair, with his green eyes being more accentuated and brighter in front of his two-toned hair.

This type of hair is the type his aunt and uncle would find appalling, although Harry finds that just makes him like it all the more.

Much like how his mirror and glasses would not be typically sought after by any conventional means. To Harry that’s okay, as these objects had survived their own fates and are still very much usable.

They had lived, in a way–as much as an object could at least.

Just like Harry had. 

The longer he looked, the more satisfaction curled through his chest. Quiet, warm and stubborn. His hair was defiant, sitting brazenly atop his head. And somehow, that made it his. 

A strange lightness crept into his chest. Confidence, maybe. Or perhaps something older than that. It spread slowly, chasing away the old weight of doubt. The more Harry focused on the feeling of the small hum in his chest, the greater the confidence grew. Slowly, oddly, Harry felt assured that he could handle the outcome of this situation.

The outcome of the situation was as predicted: frankly hideous, but admittedly could have been worse.

When Harry walked into the kitchen that morning with a full head of hair, his golden-red strands unknowingly hidden amongst the black, Petunia let out a gasp of outrage. She was upon him in an instant. A firm hand caught a fistful of hair in an unyielding grasp before Harry could utter a word of resistance. He let out a pained exhale but surprisingly, the pressure vanished almost as quickly as it appeared as though she had been burnt. What was more odd however, was the hurried scuffle of steps which Petunia retreated with.

Her face had become a chalky white as a horrified choked sound escaped her which was shakily covered by a trembling hand.

The distant droning of the television could be heard in the background, but that changed when a sharp, harsh, smash could be heard throughout the house as his aunt backed away and knocked a plate on the edge of the counter.

The fragments of ceramic were scattered undignified across the polished floor but Petunia didn’t give it notice.

Her terrified gaze was utterly transfixed on him.

Or more specifically his hair.

“No. It can’t–Oh good heavens! ” Petunia rasped out faintly in the most ungraceful manner Harry had ever heard from her.

The following utterances of "Get to your cupboard! Now!" which was quickly joined by a stuttered "Freak!" were abnormally frightful from his Aunt's typically haughty demeanour.

Harry, unsurprisingly, underwent a small mountain of punishments and chores for his aforementioned freakishness. However, what was surprising was just how bearable they were in comparison to the norm. For the following weeks, as Petunia could barely stand the sight of him, he had the small fortune of being able to complete his punishment in relative solitude.

As far as punishments went–Harry quietly thought that this one was rather tolerable.

Soon after that fateful day his hair shifted, Harry gradually started to acknowledge the ‘freakishness’ that accompanies him. Where he once overlooked the humming surrounding him, he now allowed himself to listen to their pleasant tunes.

The more he did it the less hesitant Harry found himself being. And it seemed as if his lack of denial allowed the gateway to open for more odd occurrences to take place. He could now distinguish between different types of humming which he noticed came from multiple different sources. 

Honestly, hearing new sounds?

Harry could admit to himself that it sounded rather insane when put like that. In another vein Harry found himself caring less for what his Aunt says. Sure, someone might try and ship him off to a mental hospital someday, but in his defence Harry thought this was a rather harmless form of psychological insanity. Truthfully, Harry does not think he could give it up now he’d acknowledged it, he simply did not think he could bring himself to do it. He’d grown fond of the song-like-humming rather quickly.

It felt natural. 

Weirdly natural. But Harry didn’t fight it, not like he did before.

The decision to fully accept it, however, came to him on one fateful afternoon in the midst of summer. Harry had been keeping to himself near the edge of the little stream that runs just past the park in Surrey. It gets too soggy in the later parts of the year to walk along. But in the summer the river drops and Harry found that the bank was a decent place to bask in the shade, a place to enjoy the quiet stream without the truly enjoyable company of his cousin. It was a wonderful reprieve from the confines of Privet Drive, and it was definitely one of Harry’s favourite spots to disappear to.

Harry had been quietly dozing off until he was brought back to reality by the harsh sound of pebbles scraping against one another.

It was footsteps, and a few sets of them as well.

Harry only had time to sit up before he was met with the grating voices of his cousin and his motley crew.

“I can’t believe this place has been here this whole time! Are you seeing this Dudley?” Came the sharp voice of Piers Polkiss, Dudley’s best mate.

"Of course I am!” Retorted Dudley with an indignant tone.

"This place is an utter bog most of the time. Bet no one would find us here.” Piers replied. 

Harry could just hear the smug grin in his voice and it grated on his nerves. He couldn’t see them from where he was and he couldn’t help but be thankful for that. He continued to stay silent, quietly hoping to himself that they would just leave. Harry knew he’d have to abandon his safe-haven, to suggest otherwise would be to deny the inevitable, but the thought curled unpleasantly in his stomach.

“Do you reckon anyone else even knows about this place?” Questioned an unfamiliar sniggering voice. 

What a stupid and self-absorbed question. Harry bitterly thought to himself.

Dudley had recently added a couple new members to his gang and Harry was pleased to say he had yet to be fully acquainted with them as of yet.

Harry knows he should leave.

He should know better than to confront them.

But the thought of just giving up this place to the hands of his cousin seemed to be a battle Harry was losing to, and since when did he ever do what he should do.

"Ah, yes. Because the mighty navigational skills which are held by, lets see, two and a half brains could possibly find such a hidden location.” Harry stated in what he hoped to be a bored tone.

The following sight was frankly marvellous. All three of them were heavily startled at the sound of his voice which sent an array of stones jerking away from their shoes. This wasn’t the first time Harry wished for a means to record moments like these to replay them later.

It took them a second but they quickly looked up to see Harry on the grassy bank above them. Normally, Harry would not go out of his way to aggravate them, but this is one of the rare occasions he paid the logical part of his brain no mind, it was weirdly exhilarating.

Harry supposed he had a long stretch of park behind him which gave him a way out and he was faster than them. What Harry also found was that the longer Harry Hunting lasted, the more likely Dudley was to call it off.

If the result is inevitably Harry being chased then what is the harm in him having a little fun?

It seemed to take Dudley a second to collect himself and yet another to respond.

”Well, well. Would you look at what we’ve found here,” Dudley stated, although not able to fully quell the unsteady edge to his voice. “I think you’d do better to not insult my friends, don’t you think, Potty?”

It seemed to get a rise out of his grunts, it wasn’t a particularly imaginative insult, but that fact never seemed to particularly bother his cousin. Dudley looked to be expecting some kind of reaction from Harry—It couldn’t be fear could it?

The only response Harry gave him was a raised brow and a quipped,

”Who said I was insulting them?”

The grunts simultaneously sent Harry frigid glares once they’d spotted the look of fury painted across Dudley’s face. Dudley’s face had curled into an ugly sneer whilst pink had spread from his cheeks to his ears.

”I’d watch what you say if I were you, Potter.” Polkiss sneered, “You look awfully outnumbered from where we are.”

At that comment the scowl on Dudley’s face seemed to slip away as he and Polkiss appeared to silently share a thought between themselves.

“I think my cousin needs to be introduced to this river, don’t you think Piers?” Dudley announced suddenly, with all traces of his previous scowl being replaced with a sickening look of glee.

“No one will hear him from all the way out here.” Polkiss added, his voice curling in malice.

All of a sudden Harry forgot that he could run. 

His blood turned to an icy sensation within his veins at the words and what they implied. Were they actually planning on drowning him in the river? They’d chase him through backstreets. Cornered him behind bins. Held him against brick walls. 

But this? 

This was uncharted territory.

Harry noticed the air had taken on a charged quality which appeared to sit heavily around him. It seemed to be clinging to him. Harry felt a tingling sensation in his fingers and on his clothes—even the air in his lungs seemed to turn to static.

It held for a moment.

And then continued on for another.

It seemed to be waiting. 

Coiled.

Anticipated.

But certainly ready.

The energy was so thick that Harry thought he could see it between one breath and the next. Time seemed fragile as Dudley took two steps towards Harry before something in Harry just snapped .

No.

Within the next instant the air stopped feeling constricting as it rushed outwards .

So why could Harry still feel it?

Or better yet, why did Harry feel like he was it?

He could feel the exact moment the energy reached Dudley. He could feel how it sent him careening back, how it forced him and the others down and into the river with a thunderous splash.

Wherever Harry–the energy was, it kept reaching outwards. Harry thought he felt a flicker of something deeply powerful, almost familiar, deeply beneath the earth for a moment before he abruptly came back to himself. 

Harry immediately noticed how ragged his breathing had become at the same moment he realised how a thin layer of sweat had covered him like a second skin.

It had all happened instantaneously, as soon as they were down they quickly found themselves scrambling up, sending an array of pebbles cascading away from them. They were completely soaked and Harry had the thought that he’d never seen them look quite as unthreatening as they did in that moment—their hair and clothes sticking to them in a way that made them look distinctly smaller.

”Why’d you let him push you Dudley?!”

"What happened—"

Realisation swiftly dawned on Harry that Dudley must have blocked the others’ views of Harry, they must not have seen what Harry and Dudley did. Shock bluntly hit Harry within the next moment as he silently watched Dudley back away, his terrified gaze never quite managing to leave Harry.

"I—" Dudley started hesitantly, before promptly tripping over one of the larger rocks behind him, his gaze still utterly transfixed on Harry—“Mum was right about you!”

Following that statement, his cousin abruptly spun on his heels and took off and once Dudley’s lackeys had sent Harry a brief look of confusion they quickly followed.

Harry didn’t pay them any attention as they began to run off, tripping and splashing as they did. Harry was thoroughly distracted as his mind was occupied with the previous events on loop.

What the hell just happened.

Harry took a breath.

Then he took another.

Somewhere between one breath and the next an idea struck him. It was so implausible it should frankly be impossible.

But the reality of what just happened was staring him in the face.

If it were any less real in that moment then Harry would have immediately dismissed the idea as one of absurdity.

But he couldn’t.

It was– 

No…

Yes.

It was like magic.

Slowly, ever so gradually, Harry felt a grin overtake his face. It was a pure and genuine one and Harry belatedly realised he couldn’t quite remember the last time he did. It was enough to make him forget about the fate that awaited him back at Privet Drive, at least for a moment.

This was the first time in memory that Harry could consciously, and truly, say that he was happy.

In a place hidden deeply below non-magical civilisation, within a department which bore little trace of its existence, two cloaked individuals lingered in the dark. Ancient wards sat heavily throughout the air, dense enough to warp the air itself. What should have been two shadows appeared, in the flicker of torchlight, to divide into eight.

“It seems there was an anomaly recorded on one of the south-west bound leylines,” murmured a soft feminine voice.

“Domestic or international?” a baritone, more masculine voice questioned.

“Domestic,” the former replied. “A momentary surge of magic.”

The latter hummed in acknowledgement.

“Odd, but not unprecedented. Make a note to have the leyline monitored.” the more masculine voice stated.

“Of course, Sir.” the softer voice said affirmatively, the words lingering in the silence only to be swallowed up by the hum of ancient wards, leaving only silence and the impression of more shadows than voices to fill them. 

Chapter Text

At least two weeks had passed since the incident with the river and the tension in the house hadn’t seemed to ease. In fact, Harry only thought it had gotten worse.

After the first week had passed in the cupboard Harry thought he felt a distinct shift in the atmosphere, specifically with his Aunt and Uncle. Weirdly enough, Harry had gathered that even Dudley wasn’t entirely spared from their ire. There had been multiple times when his cousin had demanded to know what was going on, only to be met with short, and often blunt, refusals.

Harry hadn’t quite believed his ears the first time he heard it.

The only time Harry had ever seen one of Dudley’s requests being refused was the time he demanded a treehouse for his eighth birthday. The request had only been denied by the simple fact that they didn’t have a tree for a treehouse.

This only led Harry to the conclusion that whatever had unsettled the Dursleys was not a small thing, which only made his banishment to the cupboard as much of a blessing as it was a curse.

One of the more irritating parts about being in the cupboard was the fact that Harry could hear barely anything now that his aunt and uncle seemed to share almost all of their conversations in hushed tones.

Surprisingly, it had been Dudley who had inadvertently given Harry the most information.

“It just isn’t fair! You both changed as soon as you opened that stupid letter with his name on it and now you’re not telling me anythin–"

What was more telling was the way his aunt immediately and vehemently cut Dudley off with a snapped,

“Don’t speak of that here!”

Within the following days Harry had mulled over that small snippet of conversation he overheard which only served to lead him to another question.

Was that stupid letter and his name referring to Harry?

It would make the most sense if that was, in fact, the case. It would certainly explain why Petunia would not want to have that conversation outside of his cupboard, and who else would “him” be if it wasn’t Dudley or Vernon?

However, if that was true, then it only prompted a new question.

Who would be writing to Harry, and why?

Within the following days Harry was finding himself more grateful for the fact that he was in his cupboard as that meant he wasn’t in the midst of the living nightmare that had become the Dursley household.

To state that Vernon’s sanity seemed to be deteriorating would be an understatement.

Harry had witnessed his uncle tearing up handfuls of what he glimpsed to be letters, which only heightened Harry’s interest.

Was this the same letter that Dudley had mentioned?

Had the original sender sent more of them?

His interest had been quickly overridden by dismay when he heard Vernon strike up a match.

This was not the first fire Vernon had lit in the last couple of days, which only added to Harry’s theory that his uncle was actually losing his mind.

If Harry’s vague sense of timekeeping was accurate then it would be around the end of June or the beginning of July, which meant Vernon was lighting fires in one of the hottest months of the year, and only for the satisfaction of burning what could only be Harry’s letters.

What really put this into perspective was the fact that Dudley—and to some extent his aunt— were steering clear of the man, so it would definitely not be wise for Harry to cross his uncle right now.

This wasn’t to say that Harry didn’t plan on getting his hands on a letter at some point. If the Dursleys’ thought they could keep what must be Harry’s letters from him…

No.

Harry couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen, the curiosity was simply eating him alive.

And… well?

Fortunately for Harry, he didn’t plan on getting caught.

Harry had grown used to the muffled noises under the cupboard door, but tonight their voices were sharper than usual. It was barely noticeable which made it even more interesting. Less than a moment later Harry had pressed himself to the door, getting as close to the conversation as he physically could.

”—It was gone, Vernon.” Petunia whispered, though her voice carried a tone Harry couldn’t quite place. Perhaps… fear?

There was a pause, then the scrape of Vernon’s chair against the floorboards.

”We saw it return, didn’t we?” She pressed, her voice having dropped in pitch, as if she were reluctantly admitting some shameful secret. “His hai—“

”Enough.” Vernon’s reply was immediate, clipped. “It was gone before, it can be gone again. We just need to try harder.”

The breath caught in Harry’s lungs upon hearing the words. That couldn’t possibly mean anything good.

A match struck, followed by an accompanying hiss of flames.

Wait… hair?

The realisation slowly, sickeningly, dawned upon Harry. Were they referring to how parts of his hair randomly turned red one morning?

But that would also mean his hair had been red before.

What…?

Moments later Harry heard his aunt and uncle exit the living room, which prompted Harry to detach himself from the door and sit back on the mattress.

It was only then Harry realised how on edge he had become as he uncurled his hands from their clenched positions.

Harry found he hated not knowing information. But what he hated more was not knowing information about himself. It was clear his aunt and uncle knew things about Harry and, seemingly, did not plan on telling him. It was slowly, but surely, driving him insane.

It seemed Harry was overdue on reading some letters.

Perhaps, it was time for a plan.

It was the very next morning when Harry decided to put his hasty plan into action.

It was simple in theory and somewhat less simple in practice.

He would—somehow—get out of his cupboard and get a hold of a letter, or preferably multiple, then quickly get back into his cupboard, all without being noticed.

The plan hinged on one detail, for that humming energy—magic—to cooperate with him.

Harry hadn’t felt it as strongly as he did in the river incident, but that wasn’t to say Harry was unaware of it. If he focused just right, it was like he could sense it at the edges of his perception. It was constantly around him. Clinging, but not overbearing, seemingly existing in its own kind of equilibrium. Conveniently enough, it had made his banishment to the cupboard much more tolerable.

Harry reached for it again at that moment.

He closed his eyes and simply let himself feel.

Instantly, Harry found—or more like felt—what he was looking for. It was there, like it always was. That all-encompassing hum in the air.

Harry opened his eyes and carefully made his way to the door. He placed a hand on it, feeling the smooth texture of painted wood beneath his fingertips. The lock was just through the wood and all Harry needed was for the bolt to move.

He focused on the wood, not quite knowing what he was supposed to do.

It just needed to ope—

Click.

Harry froze as shock coursed through him at the sound. It worked, the door was actually open.

Anticipation quickly overrode the shock as Harry quietly slipped into the hall. The first thing he noticed was the darkness. It was early, incredibly so, which was just what Harry needed. The silence was the second thing he noted. It was the type of quietness which held an eerie quality to it, the type which set Harry’s skin on edge.

Harry promptly ignored it.

There was definitely something to be said for the experience of being out of the cupboard, unrestricted. At some point Harry had lost track of the days, the sheer monotony of each hour being so dull they began to blur into one another before long. The only event which broke up Harry’s time was the daily trip to the bathroom, in silence, and no longer than strictly five minutes.

It wasn’t long before Harry noticed a creeping sense of satisfaction rise within him. It was small and could easily go unnoticed. It seemed that despite the Dursleys’ best efforts to let Harry have as little control on the matter of his own life, they could never have true control over him.

His magic ensured that.

But, there was always the promise of more control, and Harry was getting it, or more correctly, was going to get it, which depended solely on the contents of the letter Harry was looking for.

Now all he needed to do was to get his hands on a blasted–

What in the bloody hell—?

The thought was sudden–unbidden–as something in Harry’s blood froze when his eyes caught upon a moving shape in the darkness.

He instantly stilled, his breath coming shallower, shorter–quieter–it could almost be labelled as an unconscious reaction if Harry wasn’t attempting to be as unnoticeable as humanly possible.

His eyes locked onto the movement, watching the steady rise and fall.

Could that be …breathing?

Harry took a tentative step back.

The mass took up the hallway space just before the front door. It was large and it took Harry a moment to realise he was looking at a person in a sleeping bag.

He took another step back.

There was only one person in this house who was that large and it was most definitely not Petunia or Dudley.

Who Harry was looking at was Vernon, on the doormat, asleep.

So it seemed the man had lost his sanity.

Harry continued to retrace his steps back to his cupboard, ever so cautiously, it would be truly disastrous if his uncle were to wake up at that moment.

With thoughts running rampant in Harry’s mind, he quickly slipped into the cupboard, back into safety.

Was Vernon guarding the door from letters?

No, he couldn’t. That would be absurd, even for him.

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a loud creak, his heart immediately sinking when he registered that it came from his door.

Because that was just what Harry needed.

He stopped breathing, which allowed him to hear in perfect clarity the small rustle from the hallway. The rustle of a sleeping bag.

Shit.

The sound of footsteps followed, and Harry scrambled to get under the covers.

The noise came closer.

Harry shut his eyes, wishing that somehow, his uncle would believe that the door had just been, coincidentally, left unlocked. Harry knew in his bones it was hopeless.

The door snapped open and within the next moment there was only one thought that crossed Harry’s mind.

“BOY?!” Vernon bellowed, his voice a blunt contrast to the quietness of the early hour.

Harry was royally screwed.

One would think that being caught in the act of Vernon’s least favourite activity would earn Harry more cupboard time, not less. So it came to Harry’s immense surprise to find his cupboard door being opened not even hours after their earlier incident. However, it wasn’t the face of his uncle that met him, instead, Harry was looking at Petunia. Her expression was drawn tightly, so much so it frankly looked painful.

She was utterly furious.

“Clearly, it’s too much to expect you to remain in your cupboard!” Petunia started shortly, practically spitting the last words at Harry, “But it’s no matter, Vernon and I have made some adjustments.”

Well didn’t that just sound lovely.

“You will be out of the house today and you will return before seven,” She continued, but the immediate rush of pure shock led his thoughts to drift elsewhere, his aunt’s voice becoming a shrill, distant noise.

They were letting him out of the house?

Not just the cupboard, but the house. It was suspicious, incredibly so and it raised many questions which Harry knew better than to voice.

This was the opposite of a punishment.

So… why?

“–we will not have you traipsing back here at whatever god-forsaken hour that takes your liking!” Petunia paused, Harry simply stared blankly at her, in a state of complete, apprehensive shock. She didn’t seem to take a liking to it.

“Well? You heard me, unless you’re now deaf as well as blind! Take this.” She quickly stuffed a breadroll into his motionless hands which Harry hadn’t taken notice of, before tagging on a sharp, “And go!”

When Harry waited a beat too long to move, whatever it was Petunia had been holding back came to the surface as she appeared to visually snap.

“Now!” She exclaimed, her voice abruptly rising in pitch.

Harry didn’t think twice as he quickly made to stand, his aunt moving away from the doorway to allow him exit.

It wasn’t until Harry reached the end of the garden that he realised he had no idea as to where he was headed.

He turned left at the path, not putting too much thought into the decision and continued walking, aiming to put as much distance between himself and Number 4 as he could.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Mr Potter, would you?” An unfamiliar voice questioned from behind him.

Harry turned and was met with a middle-aged man with brown, slightly greying hair. He had a short beard, but what caught the focus of Harry’s attention was the clothes the man was wearing. They would have been considered as odd in every season but especially so in the summer heat. He looked to be wearing normal formal wear to some degree but the jacket–if it can even be called a jacket–was practically floor length, almost like a cloak. It would definitely earn the man a few unpleasant glances in this part of Surrey.

Harry was instantly wary of the man. His thoughts immediately leapt to the idea of running, but there was something about him which kept Harry where he stood.

“And if I was?” Harry replied, immediately stiffening. He internally kicked himself at the fact he had all but confirmed his name to the stranger.

“Suspicious, and perhaps rightfully so,” the man chuckled, however, not unkindly, “but I am sure that trait will serve you well as it has for many. In fact, I doubt it would go amiss within more of Wizarding Britain these days.”

Harry’s mind froze upon registering those last few words.

…Wizarding Britain?

“Peace, child. I mean you no harm.” The man continued calmly, his eyes flickering over Harry, like he was observing him. Analysing him, in fact. For a moment Harry thought he felt that flicker of something. Something, he recognised, before his attention shifted back to the conversation as the strange man continued. “I have something of yours.”

“Oh?” Harry inquired lightly, interest keenly overriding his wariness.

At Harry’s interest, the man swept a hand under his cloak-like-jacket and pulled out what Harry immediately recognised as a letter. He held out his arm in offering, clearly expecting Harry to come and take it from him.

Harry quickly collected himself from the moment of shock upon simply seeing the letter, a dozen questions quickly rose to his tongue but he suppressed the urge to voice any of them.

Harry stepped forward and nearly stopped again when he felt a small hum in the air. He knew what that meant. That something he recognised, that was magic.

Once Harry noticed the slight energy in the air he couldn’t quite unsee it. It felt different to when Harry was by the river, and different still to when he opened his cupboard that morning.

That’s because the energy wasn't coming from Harry.

No.

Instead, it was coming from the man.

Hesitantly–reverently–Harry reached for the letter, not quite believing what was beneath his fingertips.

“Thank you,” he murmured, slightly breathless.

Mr H Potter
The Pavement
Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey

One question came to the forefront of Harry’s mind above the others.

“Have you been sending these letters?” Harry asked, briefly tearing his eyes away from the letter to look at the man.

“Me?” the man asked amusedly, “Merlin no, I’m with the Ministry.”

He reached into his cloak again, this time presenting Harry with a badge. It was silver, and shaped in a circle, with two sticks crossed over an outline of what looked to be a clock. Harry was only shown it for a moment, before it was quickly hidden from view.

“No, that would be Hogwarts you’re looking for.” He continued casually.

Harry simply stared at the man in shock for a lengthy moment, his mind whirling with the new information.

“Hogwarts?” Harry questioned.

The man immediately shot him an inscrutable look. Harry couldn’t quite place it right away. His eyes had grown fractionally wider, almost as if he were shocked. But there was that heavier weight to his gaze, like Harry had just given the man some unexpected news. The look quickly shifted to something Harry could place, a look which seemed suspiciously close to interest.

“It seems as if the rumours were not unfounded then.” The man spoke carefully, his eyes losing some of their intensity, instead, turning to something more watchful and curious. “You were muggle raised, how very… unexpected.”

Some of the uneasiness that had left Harry returned in that moment. It felt like the ground had shifted at some point during their conversation and he felt oddly wrong-footed. There was so much–too much–he had yet to learn. It was a distinctly disconcerting feeling.

“Sir?” Harry inquired, slightly tentative.

It seemed to snap the man's attention away from his residual shock as his features shifted into something more collected, unreadable even, before he shifted his attention to the letter in Harry’s hand in a prompting manner.

Of course, the letter!

Within the next moment Harry’s fingers had opened the wax seal and he was staring at the first of two pages of writing.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Dear Mr Potter

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

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

Yours sincerely,

Minerva Mcgonagall

…

Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry?

That couldn’t possibly mean what it implied… could it?

No–

But… possibly?

If there were more people out there, people like Harry, could there actually be a school out there?

He quickly scanned over the second page in his letter, finding a list of books and supplies along with a couple notes on pets and… broomsticks?

Harry glanced up, only to find that the man was already looking at Harry, his gaze carrying that unfamiliar weight of quiet intensity.

“So Hogwarts is a… school,” Harry started cautiously, “for people like us?”

The intensity in the man’s eyes heightened, holding that edge of sharp curiosity, Harry couldn't help but find it mildly unnerving. However, it was the small tell of surprise Harry noticed which gave him pause.

“Forgive my interest, it is merely unusual for someone of non-magical upbringing to be so receptive to the idea of magic. Until now you were unaware of the existence of Hogwarts, but you did not question the existence of magic itself, which brings a question. Just how familiar are you with magic?”

Harry was taken aback by the question as the answer seemed rather… obvious. The man possessed magic himself so wouldn’t he know?

Harry was struggling to think of a polite way to word his answer. “Well, isn’t it…” everywhere? He mentally finished whilst giving an awkward gesture to their surroundings, not lingering on any particular place.

It seemed the man understood what Harry was implying as his features shifted into… recognition? That didn’t seem quite right. No, it was understanding, complemented by a brief flicker of other emotions which passed too quickly to place a name to.

“I think, Mr Potter, that you will be a rather interesting addition to the wizarding world,” the man stated carefully, as if he were taking care in which words he was using, before trailing off with a murmur, “Perhaps…”

“Perhaps, Sir?” Harry tentatively prompted.

The man appeared to come out of his musing, bringing his gaze back to Harry in a slow, thoughtful manner. “Perhaps, I could bring you to Diagon Alley.” Upon seeing Harry’s questioning look he continued with an added. “The place where you can acquire everything on your list.”

The words took a second to sink in, and another for Harry to realise what that meant. “So it’s magical?”

“Most definitely,” the man confirmed.

“I thought you worked with the… Ministry?” Harry prodded cautiously, “You won’t get in trouble for taking me there?”

“I should be returning shortly as I have completed my… objective.” The man seemed to pause on the last word, as though it didn’t quite fit. For the briefest second Harry thought he saw his gaze sharpen on him, but he continued before Harry could linger on it. “But, they won’t mind me taking a detour, not that they’ll know anyway.”

Harry mulled over the proposal, knowing that he should refuse. But the principle of the idea was tempting… too much so.

Harry then came to the sickening realisation that to buy these school supplies he would need to have money. Money that he didn't have.

“Is there a Wizarding bank?” Harry questioned, distantly hoping he didn’t sound too interested.

“That would be Gringotts,” the man said affirmatively, “where I’m sure you will encounter a sizable Potter vault to see you through.”

What…?!

There was a Potter vault. A Potter vault for Harry.

Harry, for lack of a better word, was frankly, incredulous. “And you would just… take me there?”

He took that moment to offer his right arm out. “I would apparate us… I think the muggle word for it is teleporting, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Are you serious?” Harry asked, utterly stunned. If this were true, it would mean it was something that Harry could learn.

“Completely,” the man said simply, as if it were a simple fact and an even simpler truth.

And against all of Harry’s better judgement, against all of his carefully honed instincts which told him this was a stupid idea, he reached out and firmly grasped the man’s arm. The only warning Harry received was the feel of the air growing taut, then immediately snapping around them both, causing a sharp pulling sensation in his stomach. His vision blurred into indistinct colours before the world abruptly righted itself.

Harry had barely registered the new surroundings before promptly doubling over, dizziness and nausea overcoming him in an instant. Beside him, the man stood casually, his posture loose, looking exceptionally composed in contrast to Harry.

“Well Harry, welcome to Diagon Alley,” the man said, but Harry wasn’t fully listening, his attention firmly set on the bright, crowded—alive—street he could glimpse around the corner. “I must leave you here, due to the nature of my work it would not be wise for you to be seen with me.”

Harry felt like he was physically tearing his eyes away from the street when he turned to see the man again.

“Thank you, Sir.” He said, entirely sincere, before remembering something he’d been meaning to ask, “Before you go… could I have your name?”

If Harry hadn't been looking in his direction he wouldn’t have spotted the brief twitch of a smile on the man’s lips. He moved away from Harry, turning his back to him. Harry could feel the air grow tense once again, coiling itself around the man like a second layer of clothing.

“Septimus Crowler,” he replied smoothly, disappearing in a whirl of black cloth and motion not even a moment later.

Harry simply stared at the place where he stood, not quite understanding why that feeling of general unease had arisen again. He paid it little notice however when his eyes drifted back to the street, taking in the new sights before him.

He could distantly feel that familiar hum which was practically emanating from every direction.

Despite the fact that Harry had never been there before, he could say for certain that this place held more magic than Surrey ever had.

It was certainly more interesting than a place like Privet Drive could ever be and Harry didn’t intend to take it for granted. He had the distinct feeling that now he was here, there was no turning back.

By some means of fate Harry had found his way into the magical world and he was here to stay.