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Chapter Text

The way it started

As always, when trapped in a desperate situation, only then did Harry truly force himself to think.

“What I want more than anything right now is to find the Stone before Quirrell does,” he thought, staring up at the heavy mirror frame towering over them. “ From the looks of it, that’s exactly what Quirrell wants too, but somehow he can’t… But how can I look in the mirror without him noticing?”

Harry shifted, testing his bonds, but the ropes only cut deeper into his skin; he stumbled and fell back, helpless. Quirrell took no notice. He was still muttering feverishly to himself.

The silence stretched on as the man paced around the silver frame, circling it like a restless predator, as though hoping to find an opening in the dull, clouded surface of the glass. Harry prayed desperately that Quirrell would not glance back – that he would forget about him entirely, just long enough for a chance.

“If only my wand were close by… I could do something.”

The thought had barely flickered through his mind when a warmth pulsed unexpectedly in his fingertips – thin, taut, and impossibly alive. A thread of magic. It was so real he could almost see it, and pulling on it felt easier than trying to explain its existence.

Harry grasped at it with all his will, tugged gently, and a heartbeat later a warm piece of wood pressed into his palm. The wand’s familiar pulse of accepting magic surged through him like a breath of fire, filling every nerve.

He darted a feverish glance at the man, who still whispered to himself, oblivious, his back turned. Harry raised the wand, pressing its tip to the ropes biting into his arms. His breath caught; the spell rose in his throat like a prayer.

“Diffindo…!”

A dim ray of the spell sliced through the ropes and tore the sleeve of Harry’s sweater, grazing his skin. The sudden sting made him flinch and loosen his grip. In the same instant, the newly regained wand slipped from his trembling, damp fingers, and with it vanished the invigorating warmth that had surged through him.

The soft clatter of wood on stone tiles echoed around the rounded chamber, inevitably drawing the attention of the professor Harry had prayed to be forgotten. Quirrell stirred, turning sharply, his cold gaze spearing the cowering boy.

Then it came as an icy wave of dread that washed over Harry as the most repulsive sound he had ever heard hissed through the chamber.

“Use… the boy.”

The hoarse whisper seemed to seep directly from beneath Quirrell’s tightly wound purple turban. At once, the man inclined his head in a servile nod, like a dog bowing before its master, then lowered his gaze back to Harry. He stepped closer and seized the boy’s shoulder with a rough, unceremonious grip.

Harry winced, shuddering as a burst of cold, mirthless laughter rang from the unseen speaker. Pain prickled across his nerves. Instinctively, he wrenched and twisted, desperate to break free. Quirrell clearly hadn’t expected such ferocity from a scrawny, terrified student - so much so that, for a heartbeat, he seemed to forget Harry was supposed to remain bound.

A sudden scuffle broke out. Harry fought with every ounce of strength, shoving against the slower professor and tearing himself free. He lunged toward his wand, which lay just beyond reach on the shallow step before the mirror.

Quirrell noticed almost instantly where the boy was heading. He lunged forward, stamping his heel down upon the slender length of wood just as Harry’s fingertips managed to graze it. With a desperate hook of his fingers, Harry tugged, dragging the wand toward himself with the last of his strength.

For some reason, in the noise of this struggle, the wooden crunch sounded incredibly loud. 

This shouldn’t have happened.

“Stupid boy... It’s only your fault…”

Harry barely registered the mocking, unfamiliar voice; all he could do was shove the professor away and collapse to his knees, convulsively pressing the fragments of his wand to his chest in grief.

Somehow, Quirrell hesitated.

“Fool, the Stone! We don’t have much time!” the invisible man rasped at last, and Quirrell finally tore his gaze from the shreds of a scarlet phoenix feather on the floor. The feather immediately burst into flames and crumbled to ash, just as a phoenix would.

Wincing, the man seized the now completely unresisting student by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back to the mirror.

“Potter! Listen carefully. What do you see in the mirror?” His fingers dug into Harry’s shoulders, forcing him to face the glass. “Look in the mirror and talk to me, brat!”

But the boy was too afraid to look up, far too lost in his grief.

Thoughts flew through his childishly naive mind, each more terrible than the last.

“What if I don’t see anything—would he kill me? … Would it even matter now? Without a wand... will I even be able to study at Hogwarts at all? … Am I even a wizard anymore?” Harry’s thoughts spiraled into a full-blown panic as he clutched the useless fragments of wood in his cold fingers.

He was so tired and scared, and ever so cold.

“Cold. I am very cold.”

Harry forgot his tears for a moment and froze on the spot.

This was new – different. The voice didn’t sound like Quirrell’s furious roar, nor like the quiet, raging hiss from his turban. This one was ringing and soft, yet frightened, just as Harry was. It seemed to come from directly before him - and at the same time, from within.

Harry shuddered and slowly lifted his gaze to the mirror, forgetting his fear as he stared at the shadowed reflection before him.

It was himself he saw: the wounded arm, the tear-stained face, the pitiful fear in his eyes. But unlike Harry, the reflection did not cower beneath the professor’s hand. Instead, it sat on the dusty floor, hugging its knees and clutching something tightly.

Harry blinked angry tears away and realized he had been mistaken. The boy in the mirror only looked like him at first glance. His hair was lighter, curling slightly at the ends; his frame was a little larger. And when the reflection suddenly raised its head, Harry caught his breath at the amber-scarlet eyes, the face a little older than his own.

Was this the mirror’s magic again? Wasn’t he supposed to see his parents?

The reflection must have felt the weight of his bewildered gaze, for it rose to its feet at once. It stepped closer to the glass and glared at Harry curiously, lips moving in silence.

“Can you hear me?”

Harry only nodded, trying to do so as discreetly as possible. The reflection’s face lit up. It came nearer still, studying the disheveled boy before it.

“If you can see and hear me, then you can take me. You will not leave me here!”

Harry involuntarily leaned forward, feeling the grip on his shoulders suddenly weaken. The world around him blurred and grew alien as the reflection beckoned him closer, as if reaching out. All the noise and sound drained away for Harry alone, leaving only the quiet, mesmerizing whisper of the reflection, urging him to stretch out his hand.

Potter slowly extended his left, wounded hand toward the alien yet familiar face, as though compelled to stroke its cheek. Fragments of his broken wand slipped from his weakened fingers and struck the stone floor with a loud, hollow thud. The boy’s reflection trembled, then reached out to meet him. Its lips twisted - not in kindness, but into a sharp, uncontrollable grin that split its face too wide. Potter’s fingers shook only when they brushed the reflection’s cheek, cold and unyielding as glass.

His scar flared instantly, searing red-hot with pain. The boy in the mirror snarled a curse and recoiled as though scorched. Harry staggered and screamed, clutching his bleeding scar with his good hand while the other pressed helplessly against the mirror, magic bleeding out at his touch.

The teenager on the other side of the glass froze, head tilted as if in thought, then raised his palm to match Harry’s. The tips of his fingers pushed unnaturally through the heated surface, stretching toward Harry until they rested against his palm. The mirror pulled, dragging him closer, its ghostly fingers clawing into Potter’s and twisting together. The spectral haze writhed up his wrist like smoke, biting deep and seeping beneath his skin.

Harry Potter let out one final, broken cry of pain, slammed his forehead against the heavy mirror frame, and his consciousness slipped away, consumed by the merciful blackness of a faint.

*** 

Quirrell stared and then cursed, torn between joining the fury of his Lord and checking on the boy.

All year long, like a bloodhound, he had been tracking this child's every step, obeying the will and desire of his Lord. But with all his loyalty to his master and alien hatred for this boy, today he felt... Pity. 

When the dark wood crunched under his boots, it seemed to Quirrell that with one easy movement he tore Potter's heart out of his chest. Watching him feverishly try to fix up the shaft of his wand, as it was crumbling from the discarded magic, Quirinus remembered how many years ago, at Ollivander's, his own wand had chosen him. Mechanically, he stroked the piece of aspen with the dragon string in hand and breathed out with relief, realizing that if something happened to it, he would be choking on bitter tears, just like the kid. It was not unusual to break a wand or lose one, but the first wand always held a special bond.

However, the Lord would not allow him to fully sympathize with the brat any longer. There was a goal for this night, inexplicably more important than childish grievances. 

“That's right, the Philosopher's Stone. Immortality for my Lord,” Quirrell mused through somewhat dulled down emotions. 

Potter had proven himself insignificant and weak, and it was only his fault. When Quirinius had grabbed him earlier and dragged him to the mirror, he hadn’t believed the artefact could do anything. He had already studied it up and down. Still, he followed the Lord’s order and watched as the boy stumbled after him, limp as a doll, clutching the broken pieces of wood to his chest.

Oh, the pitiful, hopeless child… That wood without a core was as useless as you are.

It was easy enough to force Potter to face the Mirror of Erised. The boy was so lost in mourning his own worthlessness that he barely even heard commands. But the moment the Lord’s agitation sharpened, Potter suddenly froze and lifted his eyes, staring into nothing.

Quirrell automatically glanced into the mirror as well, wondering if anything had changed. But all he saw was himself - holding out immortality to his Lord, being praised, whole and healthy, free of the migraines and the curse’s torment.

What was Potter seeing? Quirinus never found out.

The boy suddenly reached forward, and under the Master’s impatient pressure, Quirrell released his shoulders. Potter shuffled a few steps closer to the ornate frame and, as if entranced, laid his fingers on the mirror’s surface.

To Quirrell’s surprise, the glass seemed to ripple and blur at the boy’s touch. The air itself rang with the sheer amount of magic spilling from him, each second heavier than the last. The sound made Quirrell’s gut twist with unease.

A strange sensation crawled from the back of his skull through his entire body. It hurt Him. Moments later, Quirrell’s mental shields buckled and fell under an overwhelming wave of pain. He dug his nails deep into his scalp, desperate to hold back the scream - or at least keep his skull from splitting apart.

Remarkably, Potter screamed first.

His deafening roar could probably have reached the upper floors of the castle, despite all the wards surrounding this place like a tight cocoon. Quirrell could feel the Lord screaming at him – or rather calling for him – but strangely, he could no longer hear the voice as clearly as before.

With a trembling hand, Quirrell raised his wand and shakily aimed it at the mirror, which was distorting before his eyes. One blasting curse was enough: the glass stopped writhing and immediately shattered into a cobweb of cracks, raining shards across the floor.

Potter screamed one last time and collapsed. His Lord also fell silent.

For a blessed moment, it felt like the pain was finally receding. Quirrell barely had time to steady his breathing before a voice cut through the silence, sending an uncomfortable chill down his spine.

“You… Was it you?”

The voice was unnaturally calm, yet threateningly cold. If Quirrell hadn’t known better, from personal experience, he might have thought it was Harry Potter speaking. But when the boy rose from the shards of glass and slowly turned toward him, Quirrell instantly knew something was very wrong.

His face was vacant, blank, eyes eerily stone-like, lacking even the familiar bulky frame of his glasses.

“Was it you…” The boy tilted his head slightly, as if seeing Quirrell for the first time. “…Was it you who harmed my new Master?”

Quirrell frowned, a creeping dread pulling at his stomach.

“My Lord?” he called hopefully, but only silence answered.

His own Master was no longer with him.

The boy smiled.

Quirrell choked, overcome by primordial horror and an instinctive, irrational urge to flee. Illogical dread spread through him – the smile on this boy… or rather this creature, no longer resembled the one he sometimes saw on Potter’s face. It was now a mockery of life, hollow, lifeless, and dangerous in a way that made the air itself seem wrong.

What was wrong with this child? And why did he, an adult man, feel so impossibly small, so unreasonably shaken?

The creature calmly raised its left hand and began inspecting it as though it were a curious artifact, utterly indifferent to the chaos around it. Quirrell winced, noticing the ghastly cut across its palm – likely from a shard of the shattered mirror. Or so it seemed, until the creature shifted its hand slightly. Quirrell’s stomach dropped: embedded in the back of the hand was a piece of scarlet amber, slowly burrowing deeper as if it were alive, seeking a permanent home inside flesh.

The flickering light made the stone seem to “blink,” like an eye. Quirrell forced himself to move.

“Stupefy!”

But the stunner, cast in panic, collapsed into a scattering of writhing threads. They erupted from the amber like a cobweb of tight strings, twisting and writhing to envelop the creature entirely.

“Oh… you shouldn’t have done that.” Potter – no, the thing that wore his face – sighed, detached, as if bored by the human’s frantic efforts, a fake sorrow curling in the corners of its mouth. With a flick of its wrist, the threads struck back.

One shot forward and wrapped around Quirrell’s wand hand, pulling it with a terrible, deliberate strength, leaving a bleeding stump in its place. The man’s knees trembled, his mind screaming to run while his body betrayed him.

A chilling, carefree laugh, impossibly childlike yet hollow and echoing, filled the chamber as the threads coiled around Quirrell’s body, turning him like a toy toward the creature.

No. This was definitely not Potter.

The threads tightened slowly, unnervingly, cutting through skin, flesh and bone with surgical precision. Quirrell could only stare into the creature’s face, amber eyes glinting with cold, uncanny intelligence. As his muscles tore and warm blood spilled, all he could do was whisper in morbid, stunned realization:

“Eyes… they are a different color.”

A cruel, flickering mockery danced in those amber eyes and in the creature’s voice:

“Well, aren’t you clever?”

The threads snapped once more with a sudden, unnatural howl of wind, silencing the rounded chamber completely.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry felt when he woke up was the faint fragrance of some medical herbs and, weirdly, oranges. His ears caught the distant trilling of birds and, much nearer, the steady sound of breathing. His body was slowly awakening from its long sleep, answering with a dull ache in his arms. He had no desire whatsoever to open his eyes. It seemed as though he hadn’t slept this well in ages. But if he didn’t wake now, Aunt Petunia would surely disapprove of such behavior and it would only lead to a longer list of chores.

“I’m up, Aunt…” Harry muttered drowsily, shifting as he opened his eyes - only to be instantly blinded by the light. Odd… Had he fallen asleep out on the lawn again? His memories sluggishly returned along with his sight. He flinched, startled, and shot upright in bed, only for a wave of nausea to crash over him instantaneously.

“Mr. Potter, you must not attempt to sit up. Lie down,” a pair of steady, but somehow gentle hands eased him down onto the pillow again, and moments later his glasses were settled onto his nose. The world swam into focus along with the anxious face of Professor McGonagall.

“Professor?” Harry blurted. Of all the people he might have expected, his Head of House in her familiar emerald robes - though without her hat - was certainly not one of them. 

“Harry, hem, Mr. Potter, you are not yet fit to be out of bed. Madam Pomfrey will be here shortly to check up on you, so try to relax until then. How are you feeling?” she asked, her tone firm though edged with concern, her wand already moving over him in what Harry could assume was some diagnostic spell.

“Alright… just a bit dizzy,” Harry said, embarrassed under her scrutiny. His expression darkened suddenly, and the change did not go unnoticed by Professor McGonagall’s sharp eyes.

“Mr. Potter? Is something the matter?”

The boy looked very much like an angered sparrow, his dark hair sticking up wildly after sleep. He shook his head slowly and whispered something so faintly that Minerva had to lean forward to catch it.

“My wand…I think it broke.” 

McGonagall  let out a stifled breath of relief and gently smoothed down his hair, an unexpectedly warm smile softening her usually stern features.

“Mr. Potter, that is an easy thing to fix. I daresay Mr. Ollivander will be able to find you a new wand. You need not trouble yourself about it. I myself broke two wands at your age. It is among the smallest misfortunes that might have befallen you lately.”

Harry could not tear his astonished gaze from his normally strict and rather reserved professor, marveling at how well such a smile suited her. “I never seen her so informal before,” crossed his mind, and he found himself smiling back. Yet almost at once his smile faded into worry.

“Professor! I need…”

“... to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore about the Philosopher’s Stone, is that it, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall finished for him, still smiling albeit slightly more reserved. Harry must have looked utterly dumbfounded, for the stern Transfiguration professor allowed herself a quiet chuckle. “Unfortunately, he has once again left the castle and will not return until the feast this evening.”

“But… why? What happened to the Stone? Did he manage to save it?” Harry burst out, sitting up more carefully this time, a frown of anxious curiosity furrowing his brow.

At once, Professor McGonagall raised a hand in silence and sighed.

“Not all at once, Mr. Potter. One question at a time, if you please. I am not your reference book.”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, flushing red with embarrassment, before hastily correcting himself. “I thought headmaster just returned?”

“He did. But whatever happened tonight required some…Paperwork, that he would need to file.” Professor looked somewhat angry at this answer for some reason. “But he did want to talk to you about what happened. A shame he had to leave, but I would hope he is not going to press. You need rest, Mr. Potter.”

Harry frowned a bit, feeling weirdly… Unsatisfied for some reason. But still decided not to press.

“The Stone. What happened to it? Did Quirrell get it?”

The professor sighed, realizing she would not be rid of the boy’s anxious questions so easily. With a flick of her wand, she transfigured a couple of pillows from the oranges piled among the sweets on the bedside table. Only now did Harry notice the lavish assortment, and he shot his Head of House a questioning look. She sighed again, but this time with a hint of a smile, and explained:

“These are from your friends, Mr. Potter. The Weasley twins were reprimanded for blowing up the girls’ lavatory on the sixth floor, again mind you. They had intended to present you with a toilet seat, I suppose. Though I daresay you have little need of such a gift.” She gave a sharp little snort, for a moment looking very much like her Animagus form. Yet her expression soon sobered as she turned back to his question.

“Whether for good or ill, the Stone was destroyed. But that was in keeping with Mr. Flamel’s own wishes. He had come to understand just how dangerous such an invention could be, and he did not grieve its loss.”

“Lies.” Harry felt a strange shiver go through his left, bandaged hand. This conviction felt entirely unprovoked and foreign, as he really had no reason to not believe what McGonagall was saying. Yet, he felt absolutely sure of it.

“But… Won’t he die?” Harry tried to dig into it once more, unable to comprehend how such a thing could be accepted so calmly. The professor’s smile was warm, though tinged with sadness, as she answered simply:

“All things must come to an end. No potion endures forever, no transfiguration holds for centuries, and no man can escape death. As Professor Dumbledore is fond of saying: ‘Death is but the next great adventure.’ I believe Mr. Flamel and his wife have lived a long enough life. Now they may embark on that ‘new adventure.’ There is no cause to mourn what is already past.”

She picked up another orange, peeling it carefully as she continued:

“Besides, Mr. Potter, if you let me get a bit more frank with you, I think that would be for the best. I believe muggles hold an old belief: that before a soul comes into this world, it stands before its Creator. They speak together of the life ahead, and the soul chooses three wishes it longs to fulfill. When those wishes are completed, the soul returns to its Maker, ready to be born anew. But when we are born, we forget what we chose - and the fulfillment of each wish is what brings us happiness. From all I have heard, Mr. Flamel adored his wife beyond measure. Perhaps his wish was simply to live a long, joyful life by her side… and I believe he achieved it.”

For a while, the professor remained quiet, lost in her own thoughts. Only when she looked at him again and offered a peeled orange did Harry find the courage to speak.

“I never heard wizards talking about religion. But it looks like they follow the same holidays and calendar? Weren’t wizards against the Church? There were the times of the Inquisition - I read about that in norm… in muggle school.”

Professor McGonagall gave him a surprised look and nodded.

“Yes, the Inquisition happened, and those were dark times. But wizards are not opposed to religion. We simply see it differently. Some do prefer to follow the normalised muggle traditions, while the others prefer celebrating the Old Ways. It depends on one’s upbringing and family. Most pure-blood families raise their children with Old Way traditions. Those being Yule and more magical celebrations, even if with time those became rather archaic or illegal. The School uphold the traditions of the majority, tending to follow the more neutral grounds. Occasionally, we do have complications arise in Muggle-born families. But nowadays, devout families are rare – even among wizardkind. Faith has never been forbidden; it is simply a human right to believe in miracles. But… It simply evolves.”

Harry fell silent, trying in vain to recall a single occasion when the Dursleys had attended church. They did, didn’t they? Aunt Petunia was happier around Christmas every year, putting Dudley into some choir attire and praising him looking like a cherub with angelic voice, when he was younger. Harry personally thought she was overreacting: Dudley looked more of a very plump cartoonish cherub than anything. But, to be fair, Harry never went with them, so he couldn’t judge his cousin’s singing abilities.

To think about it, Harry never actually thought about faith before, but now he was curious. Of both the magical and muggle traditions. He nodded more to himself, promising to visit such a place over the summer and maybe looking up a book on wizard kind. 

After finishing half of his orange, he offered the professor some sweets from his pile. After a brief hesitation, she picked out a packet of gingerbread men, tapped the bedside table, and summoned a house-elf. Harry had read about these comical creatures in books, but he was unprepared for one with ears as large as cabbage leaves. The elf prepared tea for two, vanished, and the conversation resumed.

“And what about Professor Quirrell?” Harry asked.

The question clearly unsettled McGonagall, but after a heavy sigh, she answered.

“As Headmaster thinks, Professor Quirrell was possessed by some evil spirit and perished in flames when his life force ran out. Though, of course, Professor Dumbledore has his own grim view – he believes the You-Know-Who himself hid within Professor Quirrell. And do not think too much into it, Mr. Potter.” she warned, noting Harry’s startled expression. “The Headmaster often speaks in peculiar ways. You may choose to believe him or simply ignore him on this matter. I would rather have you not stressed over an adult's beliefs. Finish your tea, and I will summon Madam Pomfrey. If she finds you well, you may join your friends for the feast.”

Harry simply nodded and buried his nose in the cup, savoring the lightly lemon-scented tea. He did not mention the strange dream or the boy in the mirror. Quite honestly, it didn’t feel like something the Headmistress would be interested to hear. Instead he and the professor chatted for another half hour, shifting to lighter topics, such as the house competitions. By all accounts, Slytherin had won and it was a fact that did little to lift the Head of Gryffindor House’s spirits.

When Professor McGonagall finally left the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey appeared. She was a cheerful, energetic woman with an almost maniacal determination to heal her patients. Only after an hour of examinations, half a dozen potions, and a mountain of pleading did she finally relent, reluctantly letting Potter leave her hospitable office.

In the common room, Harry was greeted with chaos of typical Gryffindor. Were it not for Hermione, he might have slipped back to the hospital wing within twenty minutes. 

She quickly led him to the farthest corner of the room and quietly asked how he was feeling. Satisfied with his answer, she hugged him impulsively. When Ron - unharmed and singing ballads of their nightly exploits - joined them, Hermione leaned closer to listen, and Harry told them everything. About Quirrell, the strange vision, Dumbledore’s and McGonagall’s guesses by his bedside. His friends listened intently; Ron didn’t interrupt him once.

“So the Headmaster thinks the You-Know-Who was there that night? What nonsense!” Hermione muttered, frowning as Harry paused to catch his breath. Ron, meanwhile, mumbled something enthusiastically while chewing one of the chocolate frogs Harry had immediately shared.

“And the Stone… Nicholas Flamel really intended something like this?” Hermione asked, worry creasing her brow. Harry smiled with a hint of affection - felt nice to be supported in his worries.

“Well, Professor McGonagall said he wasn’t opposed to the Stone’s destruction. She also told me…” Harry continued, recounting their conversation about religion and faith. Hermione listened with keen interest, nodding occasionally, while by the middle of the story Ron was already snickering with obvious skepticism.

“Who cares for religious aspect? Holiday is a holiday. And nobody likes fanatics anyway,” Ron said with a shrug.

“Ron, religion is an important part of upbringing. Those are traditions, its not always something extreme,” Hermione replied firmly.

“That doesn’t matter. Traditionalists and muggle believers were the same. They all were quick to justify the murder of the opposing group so they killed. Some out of envy, some out of bigotry. Muggles just were a bigger group in old times, and back then with Inquisition they profited off killing wizarding families,” Ron muttered, unconvinced.

“Nonsense, Ron,” Hermione said, lifting her head proudly and lowering her voice to continue. “They wouldn’t have done it without good reason. There’s an old edition of the Third-Year History textbook in the library. I read it carefully and it turns out it all started with a wizard trying to reclaim an estate he’d lost in a card game. He bewitched a priest to condemn his rivals in exchange for half the property, but he ended up harming himself. Later, the Muggles simply picked up the idea and began punishing wealthy feudal lords. Claiming witchcraft was just a way to start the wave.”

“They still killed innocent people! The Muggles reported anyone they disliked. And then they took all the money,” Ron grumbled.

“Ron! The wizards only suffered because of the actions of one man. Without him, the idea wouldn’t have appeared so early,” Hermione said, her face flushing as she hissed at the redhead in her usual half-steps of indignation.

No argument could change Ron’s mind or rather, he just wasn’t in the mood for deeply ethical debates with Hermione, who was happy to argue for the sake of it now. He soon scowled and eventually ran off to play chess with the older students, leaving the two alone.

Hermione sighed heavily, rolling her eyes at his behavior, then leaned slightly toward Harry and asked timidly:

“But Harry… that vision. I’m curious about this boy… You’re certain you’ve never seen him before?”

Harry shrugged, rubbing at his suddenly aching left hand.

“Maybe it’s because I’ve always dreamed of a family? First time I saw my parents, now an older brother?” he said, shrugging again. “Besides, I’m not even sure it really happened, or if I just imagined it. The last thing I remember is the pain in my scar, and then… darkness. Enough about that. How did you manage to get away?”

Hermione immediately launched into their part of the story, painting every detail of their adventures. They spent the remaining time before dinner like Harry had with McGonagall earlier - simply enjoying the conversation.

Dinner went splendidly. The Headmaster had indeed returned from London in time and now sat in his usual place at the staff table, his spectacles gleaming cheerfully. Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief when the elderly wizard smiled and discreetly raised his glass to him. Somehow, Harry was certain the gesture was meant for him.

The Gryffindors’ spirits lifted further when their house was awarded an additional 170 points for the trio’s - and oddly Neville’s - midnight escapades, putting them far ahead. As the Great Hall’s decorations shifted to scarlet and gold, Harry glanced at the staff table, hoping to catch that familiar smile on the face of their stern Head of House. But Professor McGonagall did not look especially pleased with this “victory.” Scanning the other tables, Harry realized not everyone was happy with the judging.

“Slytherin must have worked hard all year… and we just overtook them in no time because of our foolishness,” he thought, unable to shake the idea until the very end of dinner. By the time everyone was leaving, he could not bring himself to meet the eyes of his classmates from other houses. Hermione, hearing his thoughts, unexpectedly offered her quiet support.

That night, Harry could not sleep, gazing over the castle grounds from the window in his dorm and mentally preparing himself for the summer ahead. The knowledge that he would be able to return eased the sting of losing his wand, though a lingering sense of vulnerability gnawed softly at him from within.

In the morning, the lazy ones who hadn’t packed earlier hurried to gather their things, and after breakfast, all the students were sent in groups to the scarlet, steaming Hogwarts Express. On the platform, Harry was met with yet another surprise - Hagrid, stumbling over his words and clearly embarrassed, handed him an early birthday gift. 

Harry turned the small red book over in his hands, unsure what it was at first. But when his parents smiled up at him from the first pages in the photographs, the boy could not hold back his tears and tried to hug the half-giant, wordlessly thanking him for such an invaluable present. The gamekeeper’s own eyes nearly welled up, and he hurried off to help the other first-years, dabbing at them with a crumpled handkerchief that looked more like a small pillowcase.

On the train, Harry and Hermione simply sat together, gazing at the moving photographs and discussing their summer plans, while Ron, Neville, and Dean entertained themselves with a game of Gobstones.

At the end of the journey, right on the Platform the trio was practically smothered in the warm, boisterous hugs of Molly Weasley. The woman bustled around them like a mother hen all the way out the magical platform to the muggle one, only breaking off when the bulky figures of the Dursleys appeared in the distance. She sure was… A lot to handle. 

Sighing, Harry grabbed his trolley and rolled it toward Uncle Vernon’s gleaming car. The large man started grumbling something about his kind and their inability to behave like normal human beings, but weirdly fell silent right in the beginning of his tirade. 

Odd. Harry was almost expecting to be on the receiving end of a long thread of warnings and threats, but… Uncle looked almost weirdly uncomfortable.

Vernon glanced over the boy’s thin frame, scratched his moustache and then nudged him toward the back seat, choosing to hoist the heavy trunk into the car himself.

Again, odd.

When the door closed behind him and the engine turned over, Harry cautiously thanked his uncle, but Vernon seemed lost in thought, completely missing it. Aunt Petunia, seated in the front, cast nervous glances in the rearview mirror, as if she wanted to say something, but each time she merely shut her mouth silently and looked away. Harry could do nothing but stare at his relatives, wondering what had died today in the Forbidden Forest to explain… Frankly all of this intensity. 

Their journey to Surrey was far too quiet. But Harry found himself leaning to the car window and looking out in somewhat lifted spirits.

Summer may have arrived faster than expected. Even the magic use ban issued before his departure and the Dursleys’ openly odd behavior could not dampen his mood. In the end, he only needed to survive for several weeks before he would be back at school and his friends promised to write him letters. 

Harry set off for his summer holidays with a childlike, happy smile.

Chapter Text

The drive from London turned out to be unexpectedly long and a little nerve-wracking. With every mile, Harry grew more and more anxious, as his muggle relatives went more and more awkward and stiff. Uncle Vernon not once even raged at the drivers cutting in front of them, but instead kept silently exchanging glances with aunt Petunia as if trying to keep up with some wordless discussion that Harry was not a part of. 

This was unnerving. Potter watched as another car honked at their slower speed and cut them in a line, guessing if they would actually make it back to Privet Drive, or end up wrapped neatly around some picturesque tree? In the end, his worries proved needless.

When the car finally pulled up and he and his uncle stepped out, Harry looked up and raised his brows in shock and a touch of unease at the sight of the house. No longer Dursley’s little home looked in line with the dozen others on the street. It looked like they'd redone the second floor entirely… and the roof looked different too? 

“I’ll have to ask Hagrid if there have been any more mass deaths in the Forest. Because really, that’s what this feels like—if the Dursleys have gone so far as to change their house, it’s no longer even like the others on the street..” Harry thought to himself, staring a bit too long, frozen to a place in front of the gates. 

Vernon once again hefted Harry’s trunk without a word and carried it inside. For some reason, Aunt Petunia stayed in the car behind, letting men go first.

At last, his uncle managed to force some words out once they reached the familiar staircase and Harry moved forward to stand on the higher step of the stairs. Vernon sighed and rubbed his slightly sweaty face. It was obvious every syllable cost him effort, so Harry waited patiently while he pieced his thoughts together.

“Boy… There were renovations carried out in this house due to… certain circumstances. You will not be living in Dudley's old room anymore.”

Harry sighed and glanced at his familiar cupboard under the stairs. “Why not just say I’m back in there straight away? We’re only wasting time…” He thought bitterly, though not with much surprise. Honestly, his expectations were already low enough that the cupboard seemed like one of the better options. For all he knew, they could have shoved him into a garden shed - or out of the house entirely - after what Hagrid had done to Dudley. But before he could take a single step toward the cramped little space, Vernon spoke again.

“We gave it some thought and decided moving houses wouldn’t suit us. So we renovated and prepared a new room for you in the attic.” He rubbed his hand nervously along his neck and started lugging the trunk toward the stairs and past frozen Potter. “You’ll be staying up there.”

Harry could hardly believe his ears as he followed the portly man to the new addition to the hall: a narrow but sturdy staircase that led to a wide attic hatch. Vernon, of course, made no attempt to squeeze through – nor could he have managed it if he did try. With visible effort, he shoved Harry’s trunk and empty cage through the opening and then moved aside, letting Potter climb through. Harry had been carrying the cage himself until then - he’d released Hedwig back on the magical side of the station so as not to upset his relatives with her presence.

Under Uncle Vernon’s watchful eye, still standing at the foot of the stairs, Harry carefully climbed the wooden steps and slipped past his trunk, glancing around.

The attic had changed a great deal since the last time Harry had been here, back when Aunt Petunia had ordered him to clear out the heaps of old junk piled in the cramped little room. Now that the mountains of boxes were gone, the space seemed to have grown almost magically. The slanted walls were lined with plain but freshly fitted wooden panels, and the new floorboards creaked softly underfoot. There wasn’t much furniture, and half of it had clearly been hauled from Dudley’s second bedroom: the same wooden desk, bookcase, chest of drawers, and bed, all crumpled up close together, but not in a way that felt suffocating. Harry hadn’t expected anything new or particularly fancy. Honestly, if the Dursleys had surprised him with luxury furniture, he’d probably have needed a doctor on the spot to check if he had a seizure or somthing.

But when he tilted his head up, he was surprised all over again. Directly above the bed hung a set of curtains, pulled across for convenience, shading a medium sized, rectangular window.

For several minutes Harry simply stood there in disbelief, taking in the room, until a discreet cough from his uncle reminded him of the time. Harry crept back down the stairs and hesitated in front of the still-silent man.

“Th-thank you, Uncle Vernon. But can I really live up there?”

The man gave an irritable huff, nodded, and turned quickly away.

“Yes, boy. Why else would we bother with the renovations?” he muttered under his breath with a more familiar biting tone, then, louder as he reached the ground floor, added: “This evening we need to have a talk. Be at dinner at six o’clock, understood?”

His heavy footsteps faded, followed by the slam of the front door, leaving Harry in complete silence and confusion. He climbed back up to his new bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, pushed aside the curtains, cracked the window open, and then flopped backward, staring up at the clouds drifting slowly across the sky.

“Madness…” He mumbled to himself dumbly.

Too many questions and far too few answers. Harry rubbed his forehead wearily and shut his eyes, trying to make sense of his uncle’s sudden change in behavior, but every attempt at thought drifted away. 

Dursley’s never treated him like this. To be fair, he might not have been the easiest kid to live with, but they were never like this: familiar, accommodating or kind. They treated him, as Harry was: a child not of their blood nor of their want, provided with bare necessities, as though they expected him to vanish one day and never come back. So why change now? Why the sudden care, the strange effort? After nearly ten years, it didn’t feel like kindness. It felt like a trap or a start up for a rather cruel joke. And what felt even worse… Part of him still stupidly walked right into it, hoping for some blasted miracle.

Was it pitiful?

In the end, having come up with nothing, Potter rose from the bed and set about unpacking his things, still wondering how they even allowed him to have those here. An hour later, with everything in order, he spent the remaining time before dinner writing an ordinary Muggle-style letter to Hermione about his relatives’ strange behavior.

“In the end, Uncle said something about an important talk…Hopefully, this prank will get clearer,” Harry muttered, glancing at the clock and deciding he had just enough time to change. He tugged off his school shirt and only then noticed the bandages dangling from his left wrist. Every so often the hand gave a burning throb, as though from a half-healed burn. “ Right… Madam Pomfrey said I’d be able to take them off in a couple of days,” he thought, carefully undoing the knot and checking for scars. There were none. “ Strange…”

Pulling on his usual baggy jeans and a T-shirt, Harry carefully climbed down from the attic and descended the stairs. The rest of the household was already in the kitchen, so he paused at the doorway and gave a quiet knock against the frame, asking permission to enter. Once it was granted, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The polite smile and apology he’d prepared in the corridor froze in his throat. His eyes flew open in shock as he stared at Petunia - more specifically, at her rather unmistakable bump - while scrambling for words. She smoothed down her lengthened hair, nodded toward the empty chair beside a subdued Dudley, and, as she adjusted the hem of her loose maternity dress, said softly:

“Sit down, Bo-.. Harry.” She corrected herself quickly, lips pressed into a thin line, and cast a tentative glance at her husband. “Vernon…”

“Potter. Well then. Over the past half-year we had time to think about some things…” Vernon fussed with his mustache and gave a gruff little huff. “…We’ve somewhat reconsidered our view of… this situation with your peculiarity . So first of all we wanted to… well, try to straighten out.”

At last, Harry tore his gaze from his aunt’s fuller figure and slid into the seat beside a jittery Dudley. His cousin gave him a nervous once-over and shifted to the very edge of his chair, which groaned miserably under the weight. Vernon fell silent, taking a couple of gulps from his glass.

“As I understand it, they’ve taught you the basics of biology at your school. So you know what pregnancy is.” The big man was clearly struggling with the subject, and Harry, crimson to the ears, nodded quickly, determined not to hear any further explanations and urgently switch the topic to anything but Dursley’s presumably non-existent-proved-wrong love life.

“Excellent,” his uncle sighed in somewhat relief and pressed on. “As you’ve noticed, your aunt is expecting. She’s already quite far along, which means this summer we’ll be having an addition to the family.”

Harry blinked, and for a brief, foolish instant, a tiny spark of hope flickered: maybe, just maybe, they weren’t entirely impossible to deal with after all. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Either way, it was hard not to feel… slightly curious. This all made a bit more sense now. The renovations, the reshuffling of rooms. Though… the Dursleys with a baby? Harry snorted inwardly and went on listening attentively.

“But that isn’t the point. The point is… Fine, we have reason to believe the baby might turn out like you,” Vernon finally blurted, forcing Harry to respond automatically:

“But you’re Muggles… Why would you think that?”

That might have been a bit too forward and rude, as Vernon’s face turned red, veins flashing in his forehead. Yes, he could provoke them . Harry felt a flicker of triumph, despite how idiotic and foreign this thought felt. Why would he lash out or even long for conflict if he knew it wouldn’t feel like victory. It was heavier than that, just a strange sinking weight in his chest, making him shut his mouth with a snap and physically bite into his tongue. He was his own enemy, truly.

“Because pots have flown around my house and glasses have exploded when Petunia’s been in a foul mood!” Vernon barked, a little too sharply, then quickly corrected himself under his wife’s warning look. “But however… strange this may be, this is my family and my child. And if they do end up with the same frea… Oddities , I won’t be turning my back on them. I still hope the normal genes will win out and they’ll grow into respectable member of society. But if not… Well, then they will be a respectable Dursley .”

Harry swallowed down hard, his throat tight with emotion he never expected to feel. The clarity stung, but not in the way he expected it to. So was it always just a blood issue? Could they really become this… accepting? The faintest flicker of longing sparked somewhere deep in his chest: maybe, just maybe, they could treat him like family too. But then the edge of reality cut in. 

No. 

Despite whatever people thought of him, he was not an idiot. This house was always designed with two children in mind. Dudley’s room and a smaller room next to his, ready to become a nursery at any point was a sign enough. That was likely a reason why he was never allowed to occupy it - it was not his to begin with. They were waiting for him to disappear to finally fill the room with someone they actually wanted. 

He couldn’t really blame them, even if he longed to feel vindicated. Potter was a hindrance to their family. They didn’t see him as family. Not truly. Not like Dudley. Not like the baby in Petunia’s belly. 

He was never supposed to live here in the first place. 

His stomach churned with bitter awareness.   

And yet… a tiny, stubborn spark of hope lingered. An annoying little voice, trying to coax him into accepting the truce. A voice whispering that maybe he could earn a place here now, seeing as he could become finally useful. Harry swallowed down hard again. He hated that he wanted to believe it. He hated that he needed to believe it.

After all, if Mirror of Erised was true and if that vision of his was really a longing… Harry Potter always just wanted a Family. 

So he sat there, quiet, gripping the edge of the chair, torn between bitter clarity and foolish hope. Between the knowledge that they would never fully see him as more than “the boy-who-isn’t-theirs” and the fleeting, maddening thought that maybe, this once, they might.

“I understand, sir. But what exactly are you telling me?” He asked cautiously.

“Boy, we’ll need to visit your… magical side,” Petunia cut in, speaking with the same deliberate restraint. “I remember my sister, your mother, mentioning some bookshop where one could find answers to any question. I want to be able to manage these… outbursts. If the child is like you, we’ll have to keep it hidden from the neighbors. I remember how Lily used to pull stunts as a child, never giving a thought to who might see.”

Huh, so that was his role now? To actually walk them into a world they hated and be useful by helping to deal with possibly magical child. Weirdly, this set his nerves to rest. This was an actual tangible plan and something Harry could deal with.

“Yes, of course… but in your condition, can you really—?”

“The birth is still a month away. I can manage a bit of shopping.”

Harry nodded slowly, and for a time silence settled, giving each of them room to think. At last, Harry decided to take the first tentative step toward the fragile neutrality that seemed to be forming in the household. To becoming what they wanted him to be for the sake of peace.

“Thank you for the room. It’s very nice.” He said awkwardly.

Petunia looked at him with as much of stiffness and awkwardness as Vernon had hours earlier, then gave a faint smile. As if she actually longed to hear this.

“You’re welcome. We owed you a lot more. But for now, so think of it as… a gift.”

The uneasy silence returned, broken only by a quiet suggestion that they begin dinner. This time Harry wasn’t left with the cold scraps, but given an equal portion of the same food everyone ate. By now, though, he was past being surprised. These Dursleys he liked far better even if semblance of peace came with a weird price. And though some part of him knew that true closeness would never take root between them, Harry could admit with certainty that this new version was enough for him for now.

Vernon Dursley proved himself a man of action. As soon as the meal was done, he set a date for the trip and pressed Harry to recall as precisely as possible where the Leaky Cauldron was located so he could plan the outing properly and scan the area for parking next time he would be in London. Having extracted what information he wanted, the stout man ushered his wife off to the living room for the evening news. Harry volunteered to help with the dishes and settled at the sink as he always had. It was something of a habit at this point.

To his surprise, Dudley lingered in the hall, watching him sidelong as though expecting an attack the moment he turned his back. It would clearly take time for the boy to grow used to his favorite punching bag becoming something different. Harry, for his part, ignored his cousin’s sulky glare and, once the kitchen was clean, slipped away to his attic.

The room was pleasantly cool, the curtains stirring in the breeze to reveal a slice of evening sky. The day had drained Harry thoroughly, so after taking a shower upstairs - something the relatives now allowed - he collapsed onto the bed. Gazing at the starry expanse, his thoughts wandered from one topic to another, dutifully filling his head with the comforting buzz of… Something. He’d had more than enough information for one day. Before long, after a few turns on his new mattress, Harry drifted into a deep sleep.

At the same time, in the shadowed reaches of distant land, an aging man rubbed his hands together and bent over a cauldron, watching the fumes curl upward like whispers. Only days ago, an old friend had owled him a letter full of agitation, speaking of the disappearance of a certain entrusted object. Against his better judgment, he had tried to reach for it with his mind.

And now, as the potion simmered, he asked himself why he had said there was no response. The truth was subtler, stranger: the thread of connection was not gone, only… altered. Fractured, yet persistent. Such a shift should have signified destruction - but the thing still pulsed faintly, as though reborn into another form. But to his friend - he just confirmed the artefacts full destruction, letting man leave in elated spirits and with calmer thoughts.

He didn’t feel bad about lying. That man’s enthusiasms had always carried shadows.

With careful hands, an aging man ladled the shimmering draught into crystal flasks, the surface reflecting his lined face in wavering fragments. Perhaps the new hand upon the artifact would not break beneath its weight. Perhaps it would be for the best to let things be. The time had a way of testing both wisdom and folly alike.

Nicolas Flamel drew a long, quiet breath. Balancing two vials of the Elixir of Life upon a tray, he hummed an old, half-forgotten tune, and drifted toward his wife’s chamber. The sound was soft, but behind it lay thoughts best left unspoken.

Chapter Text

…He watched in silence as the walls of his spectral prison shimmered, like the surface of a lake under rain. He did not need to keep track of physical time to know how long he had kept silent already. In the desolate chamber he remained alone, bound and hidden from human eyes by magic itself.

His personal Purgatory. 

It is endless, frozen solitude - with no one to share it. He lifted his hands and swept them through the air, as if trying to tear away the veil from something unseen, but nothing ever happened. From time to time he liked to imagine that someone would step into his voiceless cell and carry him away as if by miracle. It did not matter where - his daydreams always ended at the moment when he and his rescuer crossed the cursed threshold. He would lie down on the phantom floor, spread his arms wide, close his eyes, and dream that he might be needed by someone in a completely different kind of sense. 

He was always needed for something material. For in that lay the meaning of his existence.

If there ever was any other meaning - he no longer remembered…

Harry woke with the first rays of sunlight slipping through the curtains he had forgotten to draw the night before. Sleep still clung to him, but he could no longer recall what he had been dreaming about. What remained was the unpleasant chill in his chest - that all-too-familiar aftertaste of loneliness and desperate waiting that refused to leave his mind. 

Those feelings were quite familiar to him.

Lately, those dreams had begun to trouble him more and more. Harry could describe every corner of that ghostly little room with unsettling clarity, yet he could not remember why he was there. Perhaps it was some echo of his childhood imprisonment in the cupboard under the stairs? But deep down, Harry could not bring himself to believe that the dream was a memory - at least, not his memory.

His left hand itched unpleasantly, but the Gryffindor brushed it off as the result of sleeping in a bad position and shuffled downstairs.

In the few days it had taken him to adjust to life with the “new” Dursleys, Harry had already learned their rhythms and adapted to their wary manner of going about things. For their part, they treated him with almost exaggerated caution, which seriously unnerved him at times. Though a kind of fragile peace had settled between them, they still did their best to keep out of his way, leaving Harry to seek out his own contact when he was ready for it.

It was kind of… Nice.

He woke up early today. The rest of the house on Privet Drive was still asleep, though not for much longer. Moving almost by habit, Harry took a pack of bacon and a carton of eggs from the fridge and set about making breakfast. The kitchen, after all, was where he felt most at ease, and cooking helped him focus (Snape, you git, may you stay healthy) and helped him shake off the last of sleep. No one asked him to do chores anymore, but he insisted on helping Petunia nonetheless, often badgering her with requests for anything he could help with until she surrendered. It was almost fun to see the feeling of awkwardness in her compete with her newly insistence to try and straighten things with him. 

But he eventually had to cut down on pressure when once his persistence had finally provoked a small, startling meltdown from Petunia and a burst of magic from… However the pregnancy worked. Eventually, when he cleaned the broken glass from the floor, she finally gave up; now, each morning, a neat list of tasks waited for Harry on the table - anything to keep him busy, and to keep that weird hype under control.

So when Vernon came into the kitchen, smiling contentedly beneath his mustache, breakfast and a steaming cup of coffee were already waiting for him. Pleasantly surprised, he even greeted Harry before sliding into his chair. As always, uncle and nephew ate in silence, Vernon disappearing behind the rustle of his freshly unfolded newspaper while Harry finished crisping the last of the toast. Their relationship did not change much. 

Dudley was the next to appear, stumbling in with heavy steps and flopping onto a chair with equal grace. Muttering a drowsy good morning, he dragged a plate toward himself, then reached for the remote to flick on the little television perched above the fridge, switching it to a boxing channel. Harry could never quite reconcile his cousin’s fascination with the sport and his own sheer bulk. Arguably, whatever he had to go through to get rid of the pig tail last summer played a good part in his new obsession with fitness, even if dietary habits died hard. Still, Dudley had been spotted more than once in his room with a new punching bag or dumbbells or running around the yard on a sunnier day. Evidently, he had resigned himself to the fact that harassing his cousin was no longer worth the effort and had settled into a new tactic: leaving Harry alone, except for the occasional half-hearted jab or retort.

Their relationship was starting, oddly enough, to feel almost normal – until the day Dudley, watching Harry trim the rosebushes, finally broke the silence and blurted out in a half-skeptical, half-whining drawl:

“Oi, you’re a magic, yeah? Why don’t you just wave your little stick thing and be done with it faster?”

“A wizard,” Corrected Harry and snapped his clippers a bit too rushly on one of the branches, as if it personally offended him. Harry said nothing about his broken wand to anyone; there was no point giving up the advantage of mystery when his cousin still loomed over him in size. Nor did he care to mention the ban on underage magic. Instead, he told Dudley simply that this wasn’t taught how to slay rosebushes in his spare time. Even if some plants in Herbology could use some slaying.

After that, things changed ever so slightly. The outside chores became their shared project: Dudley would laze around with his endless, nosy questions about magic while Harry worked and answered some as best he could, spinning little stories of the wizarding world. 

Quidditch went right over Dudley’s head, but the story about a dragon’s egg and the detention in the Forbidden Forest left him so stunned that, for several days afterward, he trailed after his father, begging to be taken along on the “book-buying trip” in hopes of getting himself some sort of beast as a “far more cooler pet than Polkiss’s mad hamster”. In the end, Vernon gave in - though only on the trip and on the strict condition that no creatures of any kind would ever set foot, hoof or “whatever else” in his house.

In a way, those talks were fun. But they raised an issue in Potter’s mind that he honestly hoped to avoid. 

The issue, as always being his face.

And so the date of the outing drew near, while Harry still struggled to figure out how best to explain to the family just what role Diagon Alley played for wizards, and what they could expect from its impressionable, eccentric folk. (He still hadn’t forgotten how, on his first visit, it had taken nearly twenty minutes to get strangers to stop trying to shake his hand clean of his body.)

The chance came after yet another silent dinner, when the whole family migrated to the sitting room for the nightly news. With seeing Dudley deciding, for once, to join his parents, Harry knew he couldn’t let the moment slip. He would have to explain it all to them now.

“Uncle Vernon and, well, I need to talk to all of you,” Harry began uncertainly, following the Dursleys into the sitting room and waiting until they had settled on the sofa. He lowered himself into an armchair, drew a steadying breath, and then forced himself to speak.

“Aunt Petunia… what do you know about the state of things in the wizarding world?”

“What do you mean?” Petunia looked at him in puzzlement, lips pressed together. “Why would I..?”

“Didn’t my mum ever tell you about the war? About the Dark Lord?” Harry cut in.

Vernon’s shoulders stiffened; he shot Harry a wary, heavy stare, his brows knitting. His hand eventually found its way on aunt’s shoulder.

“What’s this about a war? You mean there’s fighting going on even now? Petunia, we are not going anywhere!”

“No, no… it ended. Around ten years ago,” Harry said quickly. “But… Aunt Petunia?”

Petunia was quiet for a moment before answering, her voice softer than he expected. 

“I hadn’t spoken to Lily since she finished that school of yours and married Potter and the last time I actually saw her was at Vernon and I’s wedding. By then things between us were already strained, and I never tried to mend them. I always thought it was pointless by then.” Petunia shifted in her seat, as if the memory alone made her uncomfortable. “But… I do remember her saying something about a war getting closer and the dark side getting stronger. She came home after what I think it was her fifth year -- and she looked so… defeated and saddened? I asked her what was wrong, and she told me about a friend who had betrayed her and joined some “other side”.”

Harry stiffened, listening intently to what may have been one of rare pieces of his Mom’s life.

“He lived not far from us.” Petunia continued, showing a bit of tamed disgust on her face as she remembered. “The scrawny little brat insulted her or something, bad enough she finally had to draw a line. He kept coming round, again and again, trying to make amends that summer. Lily had to beg our parents to take us away to the relatives, just so she wouldn’t deal with all of it. I thought she was being a bit overdramatic with this. It got better. And then, the next Christmas, it happened all over again. She hadn’t even unpacked before she burst into my room in tears. I had to help her calm down with some dreadful potion she carried in her trunk.”

Petunia took a moment to sigh about something on her mind, looking almost regretful.

“I should have listened to her more and now I don’t even remember the full story. Only that I was confused by most of it. Lily talked about some prejudice to her being from our world and how she must have lost that boy entirely. She said he’d joined some gang with a ridiculous name and had started turning to “dark magic”. Whatever that means. That boy… Snape was his name. He was never an easy one to be around - sullen, withdrawn and quite rude for a child of his upbringing. But still… I was surprised. For all his oddness, he cared for her a great deal. You know, like a duckling – he followed her everywhere. How he could have turned against her..” She broke off, shaking her head. “I never understood it.”

“What…? What did you just call him?” Harry stared at her, stunned, almost rising from his seat.

“I don’t remember his first name. But he was a Snape. Always snarky, always with shadows about him…Little brat,” Petunia hesitated, then let out another sigh. “Still, Lily trusted him from day one. And for him to betray her like that, well, it haunted her. That’s all I know.”

Harry sank into the chair and stared at his hands, ruffling his hair as he muttered under his breath:

“There is one of the teachers in my school… Severus Snape. He fits that description perfectly and seems to hate me a great deal.  Could it be because of mom?”

Petunia shrugged and gave a faint, almost apologetic smile, squeezing her frowning husband’s hand:

“I don’t know, boy. Sure, they had their falling out, but… that boy couldn’t have hated my sister. You could see it in his eyes. Whatever happened there - Lily likely wasn’t the cause.”

Harry was too stunned to continue. The Dursleys didn’t press him, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. Somehow, Quirrells mocking taunts came to mind. 

“…The heavens bear witness — he hates you…”

A sudden memory of his conversation with the late Quirrell flashed in his mind. The voice was so clear it seemed to whisper directly into Harry’s ear:

“…He studied at Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you know? They couldn’t stand each other. But Snape never wished you dead. Still you kids never seem to grasp it.”

“So that’s what it means… He hated my father, and my mother had nothing to do with it.” Harry frowned, murmuring to himself. “ And he’s a Death Eater… I wonder if the headmaster knows about this?”

The Dursleys exchanged a confused glance, clearly unsure what to make of that revelation. Harry caught their reaction out of the corner of his eye, lifted his head, and began to explain further.

“Sorry… I’ll continue,” Harry said quietly. “That ‘gang’ aunt mentioned. They're called the Death Eaters. They were wizards who followed a dark lord calling himself Voldemort. He was the most terrifying dark wizard in the last fifty years, they say. He gathered an army of followers and waged a war… I don’t really understand who he was fighting against, really. Some people say the Ministry was already filled with his supporters and he was fighting for the sake of it with anyone who dared to oppose him. Some claim, he was trying to purge muggles entirely.”

Harry awkwardly shrugged, trying not to stray from the topic.

“Anyway, around ten years ago, he came to my parents’ house… He killed them as they were trying to keep me safe. But when he tried to kill me, well, for some reason it didn’t work. The deadly curse bounced off me, leaving the scar on my forehead, and struck him instead. Well, ending him. So it apparently was because of me - the Dark Lord fell. And every wizard knows this. I’m… sort of their symbol, the Boy Who Lived, a savior from darkness and what-so-ever. So I really just wanted to warn you that… People are going to get weird and you should prepare yourself mentally or sometihng…”

He paused, looking carefully at the silent Dursleys, giving them time to absorb what he’d said. Petunia pressed her hand to her lips and looked even paler than ever. She didn’t cry, yet she looked like she was close to it. Harry figured she never really learned what happened to her sister aside of “she died saving her son”.

Vernon awkwardly put an arm around his wife and looked thoughtfully at Harry, the boy he had considered a burden in his house for ten years. It didn’t quite make sense in his head as the story seemed almost unbelievable. Yet the boy held their gaze, serious and steady. 

Unwavering, honest.

Dudley, who had been sitting quietly the entire time, initially refused to believe Harry. But seeing his parents’ reaction, he fell silent. To him, Harry had always been the punching bag, the boy to tease… yet in this insane new context, Harry was some kind of a comic book style  chosen hero and he was… Well, a bully who the reader learns to hate.

When Petunia had calmed slightly and Vernon nodded at him.

“All right, Potter. Thank you for telling us,” he said with a stiffness to his voice. “Petunia, let’s go… you should probably lie down. You mustn’t get stressed like this.”

The stout man carefully helped his wife to her feet and guided her toward the door. As they passed Harry, who had risen from his chair, she hesitated for a moment and extended her hand. The tips of her fingers brushed his hair before she pulled it back, as if afraid of the sudden impulse. When they left, Harry blinked in puzzlement. Had she meant to comfort him like that?

Dudley remained in his seat for a few moments, staring at his cousin before asking skeptically,

“So… you’re, like, a hero-hero?”

Harry flinched slightly and shrugged, forcing a tight smile.

“Something like that.”

“But, like, you are you… So scrawny, I mean. Are you even strong at magic?”

“Well, you know, Dudley… I am what I am,” Harry said with a half-laugh, shrugging again. “People say I’m strong. Hard to judge for myself.”

“I think you do that a lot. Judge yourself, I mean. I think... you’re quite alright.” The hefty blond finally blurted out, awkward, yet weirdly blunt. For a brief moment, Harry felt a faint, almost imperceptible connection between them – a thread that seemed to settle lightly on his fingers.

“So… I get a choice, huh?” Harry thought with a small smirk, cautiously clenching his fist. He decided he wouldn’t waste the chance to make a friend out of his cousin. Whatever was before, Dudley was stupid. But he learned to be like that from others. Something had shifted in all of them today, and it was clearly for the better.

Harry smiled at Dudley and settled back into the chair, beginning to speak:

“Well, if you say so, Big D.”

*****

The next morning, the Dursleys arrived for breakfast a little earlier than usual, and once again, Harry found himself surprised. Dudley, after hearing Harry’s stories about magic and the Forbidden Forest, had developed a sort of grudging respect for him and now greeted him without awkwardness. It looked like Harry earned a place in the “my kind of pal” category.

Vernon, too, was beginning to regard the boy differently, though more subtly. He still grunted and watched Harry a bit cautiously. Vernon Dursley remained a man wary of anything strange, and changing so quickly wasn’t in his nature.

Petunia arrived last for breakfast. She looked somewhat better today, with no trace of yesterday’s stress. She gently pulled Harry aside, away from the men glued to the morning news, and hesitantly said:

“I… I wanted to apologize to you, Harry. I was always jealous of Lily because she was a witch, unlike me. And now she’s gone, and holding on to that resentment is foolish. I truly regret that I never managed to apologize to her. But… maybe you could forgive me? For my bitterness and envy.”

For the first time, Harry gave his aunt a warm smile and gently squeezed her hand in reassurance.

“Would you like me to show you her photographs later? They’re magical — they move. A friend of mine gave me a whole album before I left.”

Petunia reached toward his face, as she had yesterday, and carefully smoothed back his messy hair. She smiled uncertainly but genuinely, giving a small nod.

“You know,” Harry added as he returned to the men at the table, “I don’t think Mom was ever angry at you. So neither will I. It’s all in the past.” Harry turned away, unaware that his aunt’s expression had softened again before she quickly left the kitchen.

By the time the family gathered near the car, it was already an hour later. At Harry’s request, Vernon and Dudley had changed into neutral shirts and simple trousers – nothing that would draw the attention of the magical world with jeans or Vernon’s usual imposing suits.

The journey took just over an hour, so the time passed almost unnoticed. Near the correct subway station, they stopped, parked the car, and followed Harry’s hazy directions. The closer this strange little group approached the worn sign of the Leaky Cauldron, the more nervous Harry became. It had only just occurred to him that he was about to lead three Muggles, to the very core of magical London, practically on a guided tour – and all that without a wand to open the brick archway. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine and tightened the knot of anxiety in his stomach.

“This is the pub we go through to get to Diagon Alley,” Harry said.

“Potter, what pub?” Vernon frowned, staring at a pair of derelict buildings with a narrow gap between them.

“Erm… I guess it is warded against muggles, maybe just take my hand or…”

Aunt Petunia squinted at the gap. 

“I… I can see it, Harry. But very faintly, like through thick water.”

“Good,” Harry thought. He tugged his cap down a little further to hide his famous scar and cautiously reached for the pub door.

It was late morning, around ten, so unsurprisingly the pub was nearly empty, with only a few people scattered at tables, speaking in hushed tones. Probably some kind of silencing charm was on each table. Behind the bar stood a tall, unattractive wizard, polishing glasses with a rag - Tom didn’t seem to change slightly with time. Dudley and Petunia went in first, following Harry into the spacious interior, while Vernon lingered outside, still unable to see the bar at all. For him his companions were nearly invisible in the narrow gap between buildings. The sight unnerved him.

Harry quickly realized what was happening and extended his hand to his uncle, practically dragging him inside. Vernon muttered under his breath but was clearly stunned by the process.

The bartender barely glanced at the group. “So far, so good,” Harry thought, relief creeping in. He tapped on the bar to attract attention.

“Excuse me, sir. We need to get to Diagon Alley…”

Tom reluctantly looked at the boy, then set aside the glass he had been polishing and stepped from behind the bar. He had pointedly made it look like he did not notice the Muggles at all. Without a word, he gestured for them to follow him, muttering under his breath. Harry found it hard to believe this was the same bartender who had shaken his hand last time, bursting with pride.

“Blasted Muggle-borns. Fifth time this morning. World’s going downhill…” The bartender grumbled and led the Dursleys into the small courtyard beyond the pub door, ignoring Harry’s attempts to speak. The Dursleys looked outraged, yet it was clear they were keeping it down. 

The solid brick wall before them was decidedly unimpressive.

“Potter, you’re certain this is the right way? I hope you’re not pranking us…” Vernon frowned, glaring at the cracked bricks. Typical Muggle, not an ounce of imagination, Harry thought, and immediately felt bad about it. That was weird.

He carefully stepped forward and tugged down his cap. With so many people on the Alley, he’d blend right in.

“I… don’t have my wand. Broke it earlier this year. But I think if I do this…” Harry frowned, counted the bricks, and tapped them gently with his knuckles, trusting his instincts.

For a moment, nothing happened. Dudley stared blankly at his parents, silently asking what was going on. Harry, slightly worried, stepped back. Might need to ask the bartender for help… Hopefully the Dursleys don’t think I’m mocking them…

But as soon as he took a step back, the bricks trembled, shifting with a quiet rumble, forming a wide, beautiful archway that opened onto the magical streets of London.

Harry couldn’t hold back a smile in equal parts from awe and relief. He stepped forward, motioning invitingly to the stunned Dursleys. “Welcome to Diagon Alley!”

Vernon swore under his breath. If he had secretly hoped it was all some trick of his imagination, that hope was gone. The ordinary, normal world he clung to was collapsing, and he was powerless to stop it. He remembered the first time Petunia shocked him with the truth about her sister, the scandal at their tiny wedding, and all the years he had hated anything that disrupted his carefully ordered life. He remembered resenting Harry for his mere existence, for the owl letters, for the pig’s tail on his son.

Yet he also remembered Petunia’s excitement about her pregnancy, the exploding lamps in the fifth month, the malfunctioning appliances, and the disappearing foods she didn’t like to smell. He remembered her glowing smile when he realized some spark of magic had passed to her own child. He recalled their arguments, the drafted divorce papers he found in the trash, and the night Petunia, happy, had embraced him and whispered for him to feel the baby’s first kick.

Vernon remembered, too, the gentle pulse of something under his hands as he felt the first movement of their child. He had set aside his foolish prejudice and did what he always had done: commissioned a reconstruction project to make their home perfect again. 

Call him what you want, but he would do anything for his family.

“To hell with it. This is my child. And if they’re not like other kids, it just means they’ll be better. Magic or not, they’ll be a Dursley,” he thought, stepping forward into the unknown.

Petunia, for whom this Alley held little shock (with her having visited in her own childhood once) gave Vernon a stern look and nudged Dudley along. Despite herself, she felt like the twelve-year-old girl who had come here with her sister again. 

Vernon studied his wife’s expression, gently wrapping one arm around her waist, comically enough. His other hand rested lightly on Dudley’s shoulder. With a deep breath, he looked at Harry, already striding confidently toward the bustling crowd, and followed his nephew into this mad world of living imagination.

Chapter Text

As soon as they all stepped through, the bricks shifted back into place, sealing the archway and leaving behind nothing but a solid wall. The witches and wizards bustling along the Alley paid no attention to the odd-looking group of four as clearly, they were used to such things.

Harry led the way confidently, then turned back to point at the great white building towering above the small shopfronts. The Dursleys automatically followed his finger, while Dudley finally tore his eyes away from his frantic study of the bustling street.

“First, we’ll have to go to the bank,” Harry said. “I want to withdraw some money, and we can also ask the goblins if there’s anything in my vault that might be useful to you. After that, we’ll stop by Ollivander’s. I kinda need a new wand. I don’t have the list of supplies for next year yet, but the wand is something I want to sort out as soon as possible.”

Noticing Dudley’s and Uncle Vernon’s faces twitch at the word, Harry hurried to add, “Don’t worry, we’re not allowed to use magic during the summer. It’s just that the wand might have to be made to order, and I don’t want to waste time.”

“Ah. I see,” Vernon muttered, clearly appreciating the forethought. He cast a wary glance at a pair of robed wizards passing nearby. “Let’s hope it doesn’t take too long.  Wouldn’t want to overstay… Here.”

Potter shook his head and gave an uncertain nod forward, urging them to follow. Diagon Alley looked much the same as ever: crowded streets, shop windows spilling over with magical oddities he still was not used to seeing: cauldrons of every size, stacks of moving books, and crates filled with potion ingredients. The Dursleys took it all in with equal measures of wonder and disgust. The sight of dragon liver or wriggling flobberworms wasn’t particularly appetizing, especially after a heavy breakfast. Dudley, however, found absolutely everything fascinating. The boy moved with surprising energy, managing both to gawk at every stall and to keep track of Harry’s thin figure in the crowd. Still Vernon had to actually pull him away from “Magical Menagerie” at some point.

By the time they reached the bank, Dudley was already snapped at and had started to lose steam a little bit - that was until he spotted the goblin doorman in scarlet and gold uniform. Harry gave him a sharp cuff to the head and muttered a warning under his breath.

“Yes, that’s a goblin. They don’t like attention, so please behave. And Merlin help you if you so much as joke about their height or their names. Got it, Dud?”

Dudley straightened up at once, nodding seriously, his chin lifted in exaggerated dignity as he followed his cousin inside. He didn’t, however, stop staring around in open fascination.

When the group reached a tall counter, Harry cleared his throat politely and addressed the goblin.

“Good afternoon. I’d like to withdraw some money from my account, but… I don’t have the key.”

The goblin raised his hooked nose from his papers and studied Harry in silence, his gaze lingering on the scar before he gave a soft, mirthless chuckle.

“I see, Mr. Potter. Could you present your wand?”

“N-no, it was broken a month ago. I haven’t replaced it yet,” Harry stammered, frowning under that piercing stare. “Is it impossible without one, sir?”

The goblin’s expression tightened, and he set aside his quill, giving the boy his full attention. He inclined his head stiffly.

“In turn, my apologies, Mr. Potter, but do you truly believe I can grant you access with no proof of your identity? Without a key, you must present a wand for verification. You have neither. That leaves me to question whether you are, in fact, Mr. Potter.”

“Well, I… I’m sorry. There’s no other way to confirm who I am?” Harry’s nerves were showing now; his brow furrowed as he tried to keep his voice steady.

“Well…” The goblin tapped his clawed fingers on the counter, studying the boy intently. “You may submit to a standard blood test. The fee is fifteen galleons, paid in advance. If the results do not confirm your claim, I will be obliged to summon Aurors.”

“Aurors?”

“Magical law enforcement, Mr. Potter,” the goblin replied with another faint grimace, his fingers drumming faster, his sharp eyes never leaving Harry’s face.

Harry hesitated. The test didn’t scare him and he was certain it would prove his identity, but the cost did. He had no money left on hand. Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, he saw Aunt Petunia observing the other customers with a pinched expression, while Dudley watched a nearby goblin weigh glittering sapphires with wide-eyed fascination. They won’t help… so that means…

Harry turned back, ready to swallow his pride and ask Uncle Vernon for a loan. But to his surprise, the man, who had been listening closely the entire time< was already reaching into his wallet, nodding with rare approval.

“Must say, that’s a fairly sound precaution. Excuse me, sir,” Vernon addressed the goblin directly, drawing the creature’s sharp gaze. “What is the equivalent in pounds sterling and would you take pounds?”

“We accept anything that converts to value.” With a dismissive air, the goblin calculated the sum, accepted Vernon’s notes, and handed over a receipt.

“Proceed with me, Mr. Potter,” the clerk announced, closing his ledger and stepping out from behind the counter. “Your companions may accompany you.”

Harry quickly called his aunt and cousin, relieved when they fell into step. The goblin gestured for them to wait outside a side chamber, but Harry spoke up at once: “They’re family… I trust them.”

The goblin’s brows rose faintly, but he made no objection. Harry exhaled in relief; the last thing he wanted was Dudley pestering that poor jeweler.

Inside, the goblin led them to a broad table in the corner, retrieving a tightly sealed packet from a drawer. With a flick of his hand, four chairs appeared, and he placed the bundle before Harry.

“Sit, Mr. Potter. Open the envelope and take out the Verification Parchment. To complete the test, you need only press the middle finger of your left hand to the bank seal. It will draw the necessary blood. Painless.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said quietly, sitting at the edge of his chair. He slit the packet open with the offered dagger and pulled out what looked like an ordinary sheet of parchment. Vernon leaned forward with renewed interest, his eyes gleaming with curiosity, as did the others.

“Why the middle finger?” Harry asked, raising his hand above the thick red wax seal embossed with the bank’s crest.

He pressed down gently and soon gasped, more from shock than pain, as the seal came alive, biting the tip of his finger and drinking several drops of blood before releasing him.

“The middle finger of the left hand, Mr. Potter, is where the family signet ring is worn,” the goblin explained patiently, reaching out his long fingers to claim the parchment. Thin, ornate lines were already curling across the page in a language Harry couldn’t read. Noting the boy’s baffled look, the goblin continued, his sharp eyes scanning the text.

“All information revealed by the test is recorded in our script, Heir Potter.”

“Heir?” Harry echoed blankly, turning to glance at Uncle Vernon as if he might have an answer. Vernon was stroking his moustache, gaze fixed on the parchment, clearly deep in thought.

“Yes,” the goblin confirmed with a short nod. “Upon the passing of your father - may his ashes rest - in your twelfth year you inherit the title of Heir Potter and one third of the estate. The remainder will be released upon your majority, which is seventeen.” He waved a clawed hand over the parchment; the script shimmered and vanished. “The results are archived. Should you wish, you may commission a translated copy.”

Harry still looked completely lost, struggling to process what he’d just heard.

“But… why only a third?”

“Boy, are you even listening?” Vernon suddenly huffed, startling him so badly he almost leapt from his chair. “From twelve you receive a third, to use at your discretion. Since, in your case, the head of house passed away, they cannot entrust you with managing the full estate. It is a basic rule of gradual financial responsibility before full adulthood. So they grant you a portion - enough to learn responsibility. To open ventures, invest, grow your instincts. That way, when you inherit the rest, you’ll know how to manage wealth instead of squandering it. Very clever. Very sound strategy.” Vernon’s eyes gleamed. “I wouldn’t be wrong to assume the Potters hold shares in some businesses? There must be something to keep account of certain stagnation.”

The goblin blinked, clearly surprised at the sudden shift in tone from the heavyset man. His interest sharpened.

“You are correct, sir. The Potter estate holds controlling shares in several workshops, currently yielding up to twenty percent profit, with authority over product decisions. These workshops are among the leading names in magical Europe. Their only significant rivals are Italian and Swiss, though those have been established longer. Furthermore, shortly before his death, the previous Lord - your grandfather - invested in a chain of apothecaries. Presently, the estate receives fifteen percent of their annual revenue. There are additional holdings, though their returns are less remarkable.”

“How about the normal world? Do Potters hold any business there?”

“You mean among Muggles, sir? Yes. Lady Euphemia practiced potioneering and managed to build a small business producing perfumes in the non-magical market. At present, the business is frozen, as she did not have time to appoint a successor. Would you like a report on this matter? You may choose and install a manager yourself, and even invest funds into reinstating it. A fine starting point for you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry watched the exchange with mixed feelings, only half-understanding what they were really asking of him, and offering no input at all. One thing, however, was painfully clear - Uncle Vernon was finally on the other side of the barrier, moving as smoothly as a fish in water.

Half an hour later Harry found himself the reluctant inheritor of his grandmother’s Muggle business, and in possession of a very eager financial advisor in the form of Uncle Vernon. Once both man and goblin concluded their negotiations and Vernon received a folder of papers, Harry remembered the original reason they had come to the bank.

“So… may I withdraw a little money from the vault now, sir?”

The goblin, still in good spirits after his talk with Vernon, nodded and even allowed himself a thin grin.

“Yes, yes, of course, Heir Potter. Might I ask why you did not have your key?”

“Well, Hagrid said it was with Professor Dumbledore. For safekeeping.”

“Ah. Perhaps Heir Potter would be willing to assist the bank, then?” The goblin seized on the remark instantly and hurried to explain. “We intend to update our high-security measures. Keys are too easily lost or stolen, even imitated with certain charms. We are testing a new system - one we are borrowing from the Muggle world - fingerprints. Impossible to forge, impossible to misplace and is not as legally complicated as blood wards. How would you feel about us converting your vault as part of this experiment? At no cost to you, naturally.”

“Er, I don’t know…” Harry began, but Uncle Vernon’s foot nudged him firmly under the table.

“Potter agrees,” Vernon said smoothly. “It would be foolish not to seek innovation when it sounds so much more reliable than a key that isn’t even in his possession.”

Harry could only sigh and give in. By the looks of it, until he came of age, Vernon was ceasing to be merely a relative and was well on his way to becoming something else entirely. The man was visibly pleased with himself - less out of greed, perhaps, than out of self-importance and the thrill of business.

Harry also arranged with the goblin to ensure his new “advisor” would be paid for his efforts. After signing several documents - skimming them at best, as he did not understand the lingo - he followed the account manager alone toward the carts. Vernon declined, insisting that the vault was Harry’s personal property, and went off instead to share the news with Petunia and Dudley.

After the familiar breakneck descent, Harry found himself before his vault. The goblin  instructed him where to put his palm and then brushed a clawed hand across the door, and it swung open. Before stepping inside, Harry turned back and asked:

“Are there any books or artifacts stored here?”

“Why, yes,” the goblin muttered distractedly while adjusting the new wards, pointing a long finger toward a small recess in the stone wall. “You will find all non-monetary belongings in the repository.”

Harry nodded and stepped inside, quickly filling a new coin purse (A seven Galleons deal: feather-light, capable of holding up to a thousand, and enchanted to return to its owner if stolen) until it bulged with gold. Tucking it into the pocket of his jeans, the boy moved to a wall repository and opened its doors.

On the stone shelves stood vials of some potions, caskets of jeweled artifacts and ornaments, and books. Many books, he must notice, carefully sorted by subject. After fifteen minutes of searching, Harry finally found a single volume on “Blood and Heritage”, which turned out to be a simple book on child upbringing and some traditional rituals.

“Strange… almost as if it knew I’d need it,” Harry thought, about to close the cabinet door when his eye caught on a particular casket. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, lay a pair of massive pendants and a plain silver cross inlaid with three black stones. The simple ornament drew his gaze at once.

Harry tucked the book under his arm and gingerly lifted the cross, glancing at the partially corroded plaque and murmuring the strange inscription:

“Mental Magic. Artifacts. Date of manufacture: 1881 (approximate).”

He shrugged, intending to put the trinket back, but it seemed unwilling to leave his hand. So Harry slipped it over his neck, hearing the clasp click shut of its own accord, and hid it beneath his loose T-shirt before turning back to the shelves.

When he emerged from the vault, the goblin had already finished with the door. He closed it and asked Harry several times to test it, pressing his palm to a round disk in place of the lock. Satisfied it opened and closed without trouble, he escorted Harry back to the cart and out to meet the Dursleys.

The moment he saw his uncle, Harry carefully counted out fifteen gold coins and held them out.

“Thank you for lending me the money, sir. Buy something for the baby. I think Madam Malkin has a line of children’s pajamas charmed to grow with the child… I think you would approve the practicality more.”

Vernon gave a faint smile and simply nodded, slipping the coins into his own newly-purchased wallet (he rather liked the self-returning feature). Then, with equal solemnity, he inclined his head to the goblin and strode proudly out of the bank, forcing his companions to scurry after him. Harry just managed to hurry to the front and steer his uncle’s dignified march in the right direction - toward Ollivander’s wand shop.

The old wandmaker, spotting Harry the moment he entered, greeted him warmly and stepped forward.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. What brings you today to my shop and…” His sharp eyes flicked toward the Dursleys trailing behind, “…your companions?”

The boy shifted uneasily and began cautiously:

“You see, sir, I accidentally broke my wand, and Professor McGonagall said it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What a pity, Mr. Potter. It always grieves me, as a craftsman, to hear of one of my creations meeting its end.” The elderly wizard’s expression grew somber, and he sighed. “I trust it managed to accomplish some good before its passing?”

“I think so, sir,” Harry answered, though he decided against mentioning the troll’s nostrils incident.

“Good. Then you, Mr. Potter, come to the table, and your companions may take a seat.”

Over the next half hour, Harry lost count of how many wands passed through his hands. Some shot jets of water, some exploded at the slightest provocation, and others remained nothing more than cold pieces of wood. He even learned that not all wands were carved from wood - some used the bones of magical creatures. And he could have sworn one had been forged of something resembling metal.

“That one is certainly… ahead of its age,” Ollivander muttered, whisking it away before Harry could study it further.

The wands kept coming, and Harry at last stammered a half-hearted suggestion that perhaps none of them would suit him. At that, Ollivander looked positively offended, waving an arm dramatically as he disappeared into the storeroom.

“Do not dare to doubt me, Mr. Potter. I know I have the one for you.”

Meanwhile, the Dursleys were not exactly bored. Dudley watched the magical sparks fly with wide-eyed delight, several times trying to grab a wand himself, only to be restrained by his paling father. Vernon, on the other hand, eyed every wand Harry picked up as though it were the trigger of a bomb. He was ready, by the look of him, to throw himself over his family the moment something else went off.

Petunia, however, was acting strangely. The child in her womb, stirred awake by the constant flood of magic, responded eagerly to each shift in the magical field. Ollivander puzzled over the disturbance for a long while, until at last he drew closer and gave her a long, searching look.

“Oh! Pardon my eyesight. Madam is expecting. Wonderful, wonderful news.” He beamed, leaning in to study her features. “If I’m not mistaken, I have seen you before in my shop… ah yes, little Lily Evans! You must be her sister. How very glad I am…”

Bowing slightly, he went on with childlike enthusiasm:

“This will be a remarkable, powerful girl. Her aura - ah, it so resembles that of the late Lady Potter. The very color and shape of it… splendid, splendid. I shall look forward to seeing you again in eleven years’ time, when she comes for her first wand, my dear.”

Petunia exchanged a bewildered glance with Vernon and whispered:

“But the ultrasound showed it was going to be a boy.”

“My dear,” Vernon murmured, shaking his head, “at this point I can be certain of nothing in this world. But if it does turn out to be a girl, I can’t say I’d be surprised. It won’t be long now - we’ll see soon enough whether our science is sharper than their intuition.”

“Feels like Lily, you say…” Petunia breathed thoughtfully, running her hand across her stomach and feeling the faint kicks.

Harry could not spare much attention for Petunia and Ollivander’s exchange. Disappointment was pressing harder with every failed attempt. Each time a wand rejected him, a chill settled deeper in his chest. His right wrist already ached from the endless swishes, but that felt like nothing compared to the gnawing sense of futility. Still, Ollivander would not relent.

“Oak and hair? No… very well, yew and hippogriff feather. Away with it, at once! Dragon bone, needle fish splin? No… patience, it will come…” the old wandmaker muttered feverishly, hands darting across boxes on the shelves.

Harry was just about to repeat his offer to order a wand specially made when suddenly his left arm’s fingertips tingled with a stream of magic. It felt warm, insistent. He froze, leaning unconsciously toward it. The strange sensation returned: as though heavy, spectral threads stretched out from his fingers. 

“A wand calling me? It must be. This doesn’t happen by chance…” Harry closed his eyes, focusing on that pulse. The thread tightened and slackened with each beat, magic flowing like blood through a vein. Smiling faintly at the thought, Harry took a careful step toward it, feeling the current throb in his left hand.

When the thread at last felt almost tangible, something he could grasp, Harry curled his fingers and gave a sharp tug.

There was a crash. His eyes flew open just in time to see a box hurtling straight at his face. Reflexes honed as a Seeker saved him; he twisted aside and caught it before it struck. From behind came Dudley’s awed gasp - and Vernon’s loud sigh of relief.

Ollivander, his wand flicking to hold back the tower of boxes Harry had disturbed, stood watching him with a curious mixture of interest and melancholy.

Harry lowered his gaze to the old looking box in his hands. With trembling fingers, he lifted the lid. Resting on violet velvet lay a long, slender wand of pale, nearly white wood. Delicate engravings spiraled around it, forming the suggestion of a grip.

Breathless, Harry traced the lines with his fingertips and lifted the wand. At once a wave of warmth coursed through him, as if encouraging him, urging him forward. He raised the wand and gave it a tentative swish. A burst of amber sparks erupted, shooting to the ceiling and cascading down like a shower of fireworks. Relief surged through him. Smiling, Harry lowered the wand and glanced at the pensive wandmaker.

“It’s the one, sir.”

“Yes… yes, it is, Mr. Potter.” Ollivander’s eyes lingered on the wand. “Still curious… This is a very old wand. My grandfather’s work, in fact. I must check its number.” He drifted to the counter, rifling through his clutter. “Not that this makes it extraordinary. My grandfather specialized in bespoke wands - this was likely a commission never collected.”

“But… I can buy it?”

“Of course. If a wand goes unclaimed for a hundred years, it is moved into storage.” With a flick, Ollivander opened a great ledger and inscribed the box’s number. “Here we are: twelve inches, cedar and runespoor skin. Quite whippy, but opinionated. Its true strength will be invention, planning and strategy. Without that, it will not yield easily. Which is… Quite interesting. Cedar wands are not rare, but follow people of high perception. As my father liked to say “You may never fool the cedar carrier”, and with runespoor core? That’s a wonder of a Planner. Whoever it was bespoken too… Must have been a character. But I guess, it is all yours now.”

Harry only nodded, stroking the pale wood as though it might vanish. After counting out fifteen galleons, he turned to rejoin his stunned relatives - but something tugged at him.

“Sir, can you tell me who it was meant for? Or is that confidential?”

“What? Oh no, Mr. Potter.” Ollivander sighed and gave a weary shrug, levitating the fallen boxes back into place. “This is a very old wand. Whoever that person was - they long since passed away. I think there’s no need for you to know more.”

“I understand, sir.” Harry sighed with slight disappointment. Ollivander knew how to hype something up for no reason, truly. 

“I hope I won’t be coming back here for a new wand anytime soon,” the boy said, smiling as he opened the door for the Dursleys and stepped outside after them.

“You’d better not change your wand again, cause I might not have one to impress you more than that one,” the wandmaker chuckled, winking at Petunia. “I’ll be expecting you in eleven years, madam.”

The woman blushed and hurried out of the welcoming shop, holding back the initially flustered Dursleys by the hand.

By now, it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and the streets were growing busier by the minute. But the Dursleys gradually stopped feeling embarrassed as they were completely absorbed in eating ice cream at Fortescue’s, where Harry had led them straight after buying his wand. Dudley looked endlessly pleased with his cone, and Harry could barely hold back his laughter at the sight. The boy’s sweet tooth was insatiable.

Once they sat down it was decided to visit Madam Malkin’s next and then go for books afterward. Harry didn’t understand why Vernon motivated this order, but he didn’t question it.

Madam Malkin’s shop wasn’t far from the café, just off the main alley. The windows displayed robes and other clothing, just as before. Harry had long been thinking about getting a decent set of pajamas. He had seen most of his fellow students wearing them - the patterns moved across the fabric however the wearer wished. Girls bragged about kittens, boys about dragons, lions, and other creatures Harry had barely heard of. The desire to have something like everyone else outweighed practical considerations, reminding the Gryffindor that he already had one pair of pajamas. So buying a new, “fashionable” set was unquestionable.

Harry initially wanted to ask the Dursleys to wait in the café, but Dudley’s large foot under the table gave him a gentle shove, and the boy, obsessed with everything magical, refused to skip the shop. Limping slightly from a minor ankle twinge - more out of stubbornness than pain - Harry opened the door, only to be nearly swept away by what appeared to be a whirlwind of older students. On closer inspection, it was just a group of upper-year girls. Once the path cleared, Harry hurried inside with the Dursley’s.

The shop was as  large as he remembered, so much more spacious than it looked from the outside. As soon as Harry opened his mouth, a young female assistant, flying on high energy, jumped in:

“Good day! Welcome to our shop. How can I help you? Hogwarts robes?”

“No… I need…” Harry began, but the energetic woman had already spotted Petunia. Muttering something, she led her toward a small counter with catalogs. Vernon sighed and followed, barely hearing his wife’s enthusiastic exclamation. Harry and Dudley only shrugged and went further into the store.

In another room, cabinets were stuffed with clothing, several curtained fitting areas, and familiar stools. Madam Malkin herself stood by a large table piled with fabric. With a single flourish of her wand, she cut the cloth according to the patterns, sewed it, and pressed the finished garments at the same time. Only here was Harry able to calmly discuss his order.

“All right - first we’ll take measurements, then you can try on the garments in the fitting room on the right. The left one is currently occupied by another customer,” she said. “Please.”

Harry climbed onto the stool and endured the measuring process patiently.

He was just about to step into the indicated fitting room when the curtain of the first room shifted, and a familiar voice drawled, stretching the vowels lazily:

“Everything that fits me is on the small table; remove the rest,” came a proud, blonde head emerging from the room. It was Draco Malfoy himself. His gray eyes slowly scanned Dudley before settling on Harry. In that instant, Harry blushed and exclaimed in confusion, stumbling back as if stung:

“Potter?!”

“Some events are surely created by destiny you cannot change…” Harry thought wryly, forcing a strained smile.

“Sup, Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

“What's the matter, Potter? Came back for another batch of hand-me-downs? Tough luck - this shop only carries decent quality clothing. You won’t find any rags to fit you here,” 

Malfoy’s smug little voice had been teasing the deadly calm Harry for several minutes now, while the boy waited patiently for permission to enter the fitting room. Of course, he longed to wipe that Malfoy smirk off his face, but he kept his temper in check – for now at least, not with his relatives present. Besides, he had already noticed that Dudley had lost interest in the magical seamstress and had turned his attention to the quarrelsome pair. Judging by the slow reddening of his face, Dudley clearly did not like that some scrawny prat was putting his “all-time hero cousin” in his place.

Malfoy, however, seemed completely unaware of the danger emanating from the slowly boiling Muggle, and continued his mocking, proudly raising his chin:

“Why so quiet, Potter? Don’t be shy. If you want, I can ask my father to give you all the useless pillowcases from the house-elves. They’d be better than that nightmare you’re wearing. Did you take it off an elephant or something?”

Finally, a patience unusual even for the Dursleys snapped, and Dudley stepped forward threateningly, rubbing his sizable fists. Malfoy may have been scared, but he didn’t show it. Still, visually speaking, in both height and width, Dudley clearly had the advantage – and from the glance he shot at Harry, Malfoy knew it perfectly well. The Slytherin sneered, then, with equal pride, strode past Dudley and gave Harry a sharp glare as he caught up:

“So, Potter, Weasel’s too expensive for you now, and you hired ‘this’?”

“Don’t judge by yourself. I don’t buy friends, Malfoy, unlike some,” Harry said, catching Dudley’s twitch with the corner of his eye and carefully stopping him. “Dudley, he’s not worth it.”

The Dursley boy opened his mouth to argue, but Madam Malkin, reappearing with several samples for Harry and a pile of clothes obviously for Malfoy, defused the situation. Both rivals turned away from each other at the same time and entered the fitting rooms next to each other, each receiving their garments from the seamstress. The conflict was temporarily postponed.

The fitting room was small and rectangular, its entrance draped with a curtain. Inside was a full-length mirror, a bench, and several hooks on the walls. So nothing extraordinary.

Harry stepped in and laid both received samples on the edge of the bench. He calmly stripped off his baggy shirt and let out a quiet sigh, pressing a finger to his ribs under his T-shirt. “Am I really this puny? Maybe I should eat more or exercise? Even that blasted Malfoy looks bulkier than me,” the Gryffindor wondered, staring at the mirror and preparing to “maturely” mock Slytherin's grimaces from a few minutes ago.

But all his planned faces dissolved in genuine horror, and a wave of cold ran down his spine when he finally looked at his reflection.

From the mirror, a pair of scarlet-amber eyes stared back at him, unblinking and intense.

“What the..!”

Harry’s first instinct was to check his own eyes. He took a step back and peeked out from behind the curtain into the main room, only to come face-to-face again with the recoiling Malfoy. “This is my fate…” Without a word, Harry quickly drew the curtain aside and pulled the stunned Slytherin into his fitting room with enough force to make blond let out a startled gasp.

“Malfoy, no screaming. Not going to hurt you, stop wiggling!” Harry whispered, while trying to physically restrain and turn the boy to the mirror. “Just tell me… What do you see in this mirror? Quick!”

The blond boy looked at his classmate with confusion and a fair hint of fear, then cautiously glanced at the mirror as if there could actually be something strange or dangerous. But after a few moments, he exhaled in relief and slight disappointment, wriggled free from Harry’s grip, and tossed a contemptuous remark over his shoulder.

“Me and you, you lunatic. Unhand me immediately!”

Harry stared at the same stranger reflecting in the mirror and back at Malfoy, finally letting him go.

“Are you sure? Have you actually looked in?” He tried to confirm again, frantically waving at the slightly offended and mostly unimpressed reflection of a stranger.

Draco scrunched his nose and glanced at the mirror one more time before slowly backing away and out of the dressing room.

“Honestly, Potter. Saint Mungo. Give it a go.”

Malfoy dashed away faster than Harry could force himself to apologize. The Griffindor slowly drew the curtain back and approached the magical mirror again. The boy in the reflection had stayed perfectly still all this time, his unimpressed gaze drilling into Harry with an intensity that was downright unnerving. The scene immediately brought to mind the childhood ghost stories Harry had overheard in Gryffindor common room – tales of vengeful spirits and demons.

And Quirrell. God, he hoped to never remember Quirrell.

“I think I’m losing it…” Harry whispered, waving a hand cautiously, though he wasn’t sure why. The boy in the mirror slowly raised his own hand and mimicked the motion, just repeating Harry’s movements. The Gryffindor frowned and ruffled his hair thoughtfully, completely forgetting about the fitting.

The boy in the mirror was only a few inches taller than Harry – about half a head – but just as thin, way more pale, and more distinctively fragile-looking. His dark chestnut hair was slightly tousled, framing his face in neat curls. His facial features vaguely reminded Harry of himself, yet they were far from identical. He wore a simple shirt and knee-length trousers and looked about twelve or thirteen, but Harry wasn’t certain. Right now, what puzzled him most was why this vision even appeared here.

And why did he look so familiar?

The boy in the mirror slowly raised his hand and began tracing shapes in the air, as if writing some invisible message. When he lowered it, a faintly glowing inscription appeared on the mirror’s surface:

“Do not be afraid.”

Harry stared at the message in confusion. It appeared and vanished almost immediately. He exhaled quietly and stepped closer to the mirror, his courage growing.

“Who… what are you? Why are you silent this time?”

The boy didn’t break his piercing gaze from Harry and slowly raised his hand again:

“Give me permission, and I will be able to speak with you.”

Harry raised an eyebrow in confusion, hesitating. On one hand, the whole situation felt like something out of a psychiatric ward in a London hospital; on the other… “I’m just going to find out what’s happening. If I ask, nothing bad will happen, right?”

“Uh… I give you permission to speak with me… or something like that…”

A brief magical pulse ran through his body, and a wave of relief washed over him, as if a tight band had been lifted from his head. The boy in the mirror exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, massaging his throat.

/Thank you, master./

“What?” Harry was immediately taken aback by the address and flailed his hands. “No, no… I’m Harry. Just Harry. No masters! I don’t even know you.”

/No, thou are the master. I am not allowed to call you by thou name./

“I allow you to call me by name!”

/I cannot. I may call you – Adept. But that would signify my mentorship over you./

“What? Mentorship…Hold on, I don’t understand anything,” Harry muttered, shaking his head and pressing his temples to concentrate. He started to feel a familiar buzz in his ears. “Again… who are you?”

/ Did thou not wish to steal me? In the dark room? / The boy raised his eyebrows in surprise, his mask of indifference slipping for a moment.

“I don’t understand what you mean…” A sudden realization made Harry lift his eyes in astonishment and clamp a hand over his mouth. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me… you’re the thing in the mirror?”

/I have many names. Magisterium, Fifth Element, Rebis, Son of Fire, Lord of Philosophers, Dragonstone, the Church’s Coarse Heart, Pandora, Chaos, Divine Quintessence, King of Kings, and many more names across the world… Yet, for some reason, you English continue to call me the Philosopher’s Stone. But if Adept prefers, he may call me that too,/  the boy inclined his head respectfully, hand brought to his chest.

“Wait. You mean you are that millennia-old artifact? That’s impossible.” Harry was clearly overloading on the information, feeling a familiar sinking feeling in his temples. And then a sudden wave of relief. “Wait, it means the stone was never destroyed! Good, that’s good.”

The reflection raised his eyebrow with clear confusion, but gave Harry a moment before continuing.

/Adept is mistaken. I am only six hundred twenty-two years and five months old. I am far above the level you imagined. I am neither a demon nor a ghost, /  The stone smirked with mild disdain and shrugged.  /And neither was I destroyed. That feels like a fate above my means despite how less and less of me is left…/

The Stone continued his fairly confusing monologue, as Harry’s head started spinning. Bits and pieces of that memorable night flickered through his memory: the conversation with the mirror, the touch, the headache, something red on his hand. But he couldn’t piece it together – everything at once felt awfully loud and fuzzy at the same time. He knew every piece of information the stone was sharing right now was likely important, but despite that – he couldn’t hear much, instead now thinking how much he missed Hermione. Did she ever reply to his letters, by the way?

The soft voice of Madam Malkin behind him cut through his thoughts. Harry flinched and peeked out from behind the curtain, trying to keep the mirror out of anyone’s eyes.. There stood the slightly worried shopkeeper, Dudley and, of course, the ever-present Malfoy.

“See? I think he’s not all there.” Malfoy blurted with an almost vindicated retort, as if he had to actually try to make the adult come in. 

“His eyes… they’re unfocused.” Noted Dudley with curiosity. “Aye, Potter, something wrong?”

“Mr. Potter, are you alright?” the seamstress asked cautiously, sneaking a glance into the fitting room.

“Y-yes. I’ll try on the second set of pajamas now and be out in a moment, Madam. Sorry for the delay,” Harry said politely, ducking behind the curtain. Soon, footsteps faded away, meaning he had been left alone for a while. Potter exhaled with relief and turned to the mirror, meeting the gaze of the slightly concerned “Stone.”

/Don’t be afraid. They won’t see me unless you wish to./

“Wait. Okay, I understand, but how did you get here? Why… Why do you look human? You’re just a stone.”

/I am not just a stone,/  the artifact drawled druly and offended, touching its hand to its chest and bowing its head again. /I am the repository of my Creator’s knowledge. And I look like this because the Creator willed it. You, the Adept, accepted me.. so I was able to merge with your body. If you wish, I can become a stone again./

Harry groaned quietly and sat on the bench next to the two packages. His head was pounding. Believing such madness was utterly illogical. “I need to write to Hermione immediately. Maybe she knows something about this?” He thought, only to receive an immediate mental reply:

/Don’t you want to ask me? I certainly know more than an twelve-year-old witch./

“You… you can read my thoughts?”

/Apologies. If thou do not want me to, I won’t./

“Decide already how you want to address me. ‘You’ or ‘thou’? I prefer the first,” Potter exhaled quietly and leaned against the dressing room’s wall for a moment. 

Of course, nothing could have been easy and he managed to contract some curse from the mirror or a ghost from Quirrell. For now, this was a theory Harry would be sticking to in order to bring some rest to his mind. Cause, Godric the witness, he needed it.

He really needed a breather. Harry waited for the buzz of thoughts to get calmer, then he picked up the parcels on the bench, deciding not to waste time on trying them on and just buying both sets. Approaching the curtain, he looked into the mirror one last time and sighed softly.

“Explain later, alright? I need to think.”

/As you command, Adept./

Their conversation ended there, and Harry could finally breathe a little easier once he saw his own reflection again. It took a few more minutes for him to calm down somewhat.

At the counter, Madam Malkin waited, draped in the Dursleys’ packages and (when would he finally leave him alone?) Malfoy, looking at him with suspicion. Harry paid the seamstress calmly for both pajamas and turned to the Dursleys.

“I see you’ve been using your time wisely, Aunt,” Petunia replied with a surprisingly content smile, adjusting a few packages that had slipped from her forearm. “Then we only have the bookstore left?”

After receiving a nod, Harry took a few bulky packages from Petunia and headed for the door. Already in the doorway, he turned to thank Madam Malkin for her work, and in that split second, he stumbled and collided with someone standing there. Feeling himself losing balance and about to fall, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating embarrassment and a fresh round of Malfoy’s taunts, when suddenly…

Soft, broad – but not overly warm – hands settled on his shoulders, catching him from falling and providing a new point of support. Harry stumbled again, instinctively ramming his forehead into someone’s robe smelling of fine liquor and a good cologne. Surprisingly, the smell immediately evoked a sense of quiet authority, as if fitting some checkbox. Unlike Vernon, who also seemed solid, this person carried something akin to… more cultivated sophistication.

It was only when a soft chuckle came from above that Potter realized he’d been standing like this for a moment too long. The Gryffindor recoiled sharply and quietly stammered, raising his hand to fix his glasses and raise his eyes to his unexpected helper:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, sir.”

A pale, sharp-featured face, cold gray eyes now observing Harry with interest, and long blond hair falling neatly over the shoulders… Harry barely managed to keep from groaning aloud. At first, the man had even seemed rather good looking. But from what he had heard from other people - the first impression was folly.

“Are you okay, Mister Potter? Not every day a national hero may fall in my hands. It’s a novelty,” Lord Malfoy said slowly, his restrained smile softening as he carefully removed Harry from his hold, brushing the robe of invisible dust. Harry watched the movement cautiously, instinctively stepping back and letting the aristocrat pass. The man nodded slowly and proudly strode forward toward the snickering Draco.

“Be more careful, Mister Potter. It would be unbecoming if I hadn’t had the chance to offer my hand.”

Standing beside his son, he quickly scanned the Dursley company with a smirk that Harry found completely displeasing. But Potter didn’t provoke a scene for once; waving his relatives along, he led them out of the shop. From behind came a quiet, calm voice:

“Until next time, Mister Potter. I wish you a pleasant summer.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then turned and instinctively mirrored the bow he had recently seen in the mirror, quietly and calmly replying:

“Thank you, Lord Malfoy. See you at school, Draco.”

Turning back, Harry strode proudly out the door, suppressing a laugh. That brief little performance had been entirely worth the expression on Draco’s face as he remained in the shop. Even if appraising look of Malfoy senior seemed to dampen his mood for a bit.

Their trip to the bookstore, fortunately, passed without incident. Each member of the Dursley family quickly found books that suited their interests. Petunia picked up Guide for Young Mothers: How to Raise a Wizarding Child and, after a moment’s thought, also chose a hefty volume titled Secrets of Healthy Beauty. Vernon was more practical – he simply skimmed the shelves and paid for his wife’s and son’s purchases.

Dudley, as usual, didn’t hold back: in his hands books about magical creatures, knightly legends, and a small guide on building inner strength quickly found a rightful home. Harry, on the other hand, took a little longer to make his selections. By the time the Dursleys had paid and were standing by the door waiting for him, he held “Possessions: Everything You Should Know” and “The History of Hogwarts”, which he decided to buy after remembering Hermione’s lectures.

Once the books were paid for and packed, the weary but generally satisfied group spilled out onto the street and slowly made their way toward the exit of Diagon Alley.

Thus, their long, eventful day drew to a close, and the long, uneventful weekdays returned to the norm.

Or sort of.

Chapter Text

~Some time later.~

“Oh, for heaven’s sake… I just cleaned that!” Groaned a voice from the second floor.

Harry only snorted and went on working in the flowerbeds, pulling weeds from Aunt Petunia’s roses. The groans had been repeating for two days now, almost like clockwork every four hours, and by this point he was used to them.

The source of Uncle Vernon’s torment was perfectly simple and was at this very moment innocently watching her chubby brother run in circles while a diaper crawled creepily after him.

Harry sighed and tried to remember when exactly it had all begun. August was already drawing to a close, and yet it felt as though barely a month had passed since the holidays started.

After that memorable trip to Diagon Alley, life on Privet Drive had returned to its usual rhythm. But that lasted only a week - until Petunia had to be rushed into hospital. Vernon took indefinite leave from work, dumping everything onto his deputy, and briefly tried his hand at playing “house husband.” Still, he was rarely free to do any of those, leaving most of the household chores to Harry.

And then, only a couple of days later – exactly a month ago, on the twenty-third of July – Olivia Dursley was born.

29 July – was the day Petunia returned from hospital and the new resident arrived at Number Four.

Harry remembered how he shifted uneasily by the doorway with an equally nervous Dudley at his side, both waiting for permission to enter. When Petunia’s voice finally called them in, the boys squeezed into the sitting room and looked timidly at her.

She looked surprisingly refreshed, a pleased smile on her face as she gently rocked a small bundle of blankets. Stepping closer, they could make out a tiny scrunched-up face, fast asleep and snuffling softly.

“This is Olivia. The girls in our family have always been given flower names. She was named after our great-grandmother,” Petunia said quietly, turning the bundle toward the boys. “This is your sister, Olivia. Olivia, this is your brother Dudley, and your cousin…”

The baby kept dozing peacefully, unaware that she was being introduced to new relatives.

When the boys stepped back out into the hall, Dudley shuddered and whispered confidentially to Harry:

“Are they all that ugly when they’re little?”

At that point Harry didn’t answer. He only rolled his eyes. To him, Olivia was already the most precious, adorable creature on the planet. And this didn’t change much since.

The Gryffindor let out a quiet sigh and reached for the hose, turning it on to water the flowerbeds. Who could have guessed that such a tiny person would become the switch that controlled the peace of the entire house? The usual baby cries and wails were now accompanied by very rare magical surges, and the unfortunate victims were always the other residents of the second floor.

Harry wasn’t even sure if this was deemed normal. Such an open demonstration of accidental magic and at such a young age… Though muggleborns talked about their parents' memories of their first accidental magic, Harry never yet heard of anyone having one as early as this. But the book he got from the vault actually mentioned something like this being possible in magically intense households. Was Harry’s existence next to Olive enough to trigger those? Or was it something different entirely?

As always, his plan to research it further kind of fell off his radar, as the family quickly got used to hovering diapers.

Still Harry kept sending letter after letter to Ron and Hermione – thinly veiled pleas to come and get him out of there as soon as possible or at least ask parents about the topic. But no reply ever came, which frustrated the young Heir more than he cared to admit.

Yes, Heir. This year, his birthday hadn’t passed in lonely silence but in the company of the very relatives he had once despised. The celebration itself had been modest – just a “Vernon-prepared” dinner, a store-bought fruit cake (Aunt was still too weak to cook) and tea – but it had been more than enough for Harry.

Vernon had given him a businesslike “Happy Birthday, young Heir” that morning and had spent the rest of the day jokingly addressing him by his title. As it turned out, Vernon’s sense of humor was as horrific as his attempts at cooking anything aside from the grill. His antics had driven Harry nearly to the point of snapping at the man, but he restrained himself – just barely – thanks only to the endless distraction of cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner. (At least his knifework was getting better, thank you, Snape, may he choke on it.) 

He hadn’t expected presents from the Dursleys, but they had surprised him. Right after breakfast, Harry had been handed a modest, yet respectable sum for a boy his age and sent to a small local clothing shop. As it turned out, Vernon thought it over and simply couldn’t allow his “charge” to keep wearing those rags any longer. Whether he ought to laugh or take offense at that as uncle was partially a reason for the rugs existing, Harry never decided. He just waved it off and bought a few simple, affordable clothes that actually fit him. And a couple of funny yet slightly rebellious loosefitted T-shirts, as he honestly got used to wearing clothes that didn’t stick to skin and did not make him feel suffocated. 

Weirdly, when Vernon wanted to argue about those, it was aunt Petunia, who calmed the man down and reminded that this preference of his existed before the hand-me-downs happened.

And so his twelfth birthday had come and gone. The only thing that weighed on him was the continued silence from his friends.

As it turned out, there were reasons for that too.

It happened maybe a week ago.

A few days earlier, the Dursleys began bustling about, preparing for some important dinner tied to Vernon’s business. The man grew more irritable with every passing hour, his nerves fraying until he barked and snapped at Harry whenever the boy got in the way. But if it stung at all, it was only a little. Vernon was mostly annoyed with the prospective business partner than Potter himself. Harry heard quite a few choice words that Vernon had for the man still demanding a “show of hospitality” despite being warned of a newborn addition to the family. Harry had learned to take these outbursts in stride – just a small price to pay for how much better things between him and his relatives had grown overall.

On the evening of the grand dinner, Harry was unceremoniously sent up to the attic. Not because the Dursleys were ashamed of him – no, this time the reason was Olivia. Every time Harry came near, the baby would squeal with delight and occasionally make things around her levitate up to an inch or five. So, for everyone’s sanity, Harry was banished upstairs, which suited him just fine. He’d planned to use the time to finish the Potions homework Snape had assigned for the summer.

He had just dipped his pencil to the page when a loud crack echoed in the room, followed by the creak of his bed. Harry jumped up at once, clutching the pencil like a weapon. Perched on his mattress was a creature with enormous green eyes, each the size of a tennis ball, and long, drooping ears. He had seen one of those in the Medical wing. A house-elf.

For a full two minutes, they stared at one another in total silence, as though trying to bore holes through each other with their gazes. Then the odd little creature in the filthy pillowcase broke first. It collapsed onto spindly knees, pressed its nose into Harry’s blanket, and wailed loudly:

“Harry Potter! This is Harry Potter. Dobby has so longed to meet you, sir… such an honor… truly, Mister Harry Potter!”

Harry flinched and, edging back to the far side of the desk, lowered his “weapon.”

“Er… hello. You’re…?”

“Dobby!!! Dobby the house-elf, sir! Dobby is so happy, so very happy!” The creature cried so loudly that Harry worried the racket might carry down to the dining room.

“Shhh… please, quiet! Sit down and keep your voice down! I’ll be in trouble if they hear.”

The elf blinked watery eyes at him, then with realisation snatched a lamp off the table and raised it high. For one horrifying instant Harry thought the thing was about to wallop him with it. He moved before he could truly think about it. With indignified cry Harry lunged forward, wrestled the lamp away from the elf and clutched it to his chest. 

He quite liked this lamp, honestly.

“What are you doing?! Stop that, right now! Where on earth did you come from..”

From below came the sound of a pop and hurried footsteps clattering up the stairs. Harry blanched, grabbed the elf by the scruff, and in blind panic considered hurling it out the roof window – until he remembered this was the third floor now. He shoved Dobby instead at the wardrobe door, but the elf clung tightly to his shirt, refusing to let go.

The attic hatch creaked open, and Dudley’s head popped through, clearly about to speak – only to freeze at the sight before him. His beady little eyes flicked from Harry to the house-elf and back again. After a long, baffled pause, Dudley puffed out his cheeks and muttered with aggrieved disappointment:

“Potter, you prat. Why didn’t you tell me you had your own house-elf? You could’ve invited me up!”

“Dudley, no! He’s not mine, he just showed up out of nowhere…” Harry finally pried the creature loose and plunked it down firmly on the desk. The elf immediately tried to bash its head against the wood, but Harry shoved him back far less gently, mainly from quickly learning anything more gentle would only result in Dobby’s self inflicted punishment. “And where, by the way, did you learn about house-elves?”

“Read it,” Dudley said smugly, hauling himself into the attic. “In your book. The one with the films instead of pictures.”

“They’re moving photographs, not films, and please stop reading,” Harry sighed, dropping back onto his chair and keeping one wary hand on the elf. “So… what do you want here, Dobby?”

The creature’s ears flapped wildly as it shook its head like a drenched dog.

“Dobby is a bad elf, Harry Potter, sir. But Dobby knows a secret! Dobby must tell Harry Potter, sir, that he must not go back to Hogwarts this year!”

Dudley shuffled closer, taking position on the elf’s other side. The creature trembled harder at being cornered.

“What do you mean, not go? Of course I have to. Hogwarts is my home. And frankly, my only escape,” Harry muttered under his breath, “Olivia’s already turned my hair ash-blond twice, trying to much me with the family. I’m not using those Muggle dyes again. And I’m not going back to school looking like Malfoy.”

At the name, Dobby gave a violent shudder and made another attempt at self-punishment, but one glance at Dudley cracking his knuckles made the elf fall still, clutching the edge of his pillowcase with teary awe. Finally, he drew a shuddering breath and looked up at Harry.

“Sir cannot return to Hogwarts – there is grave danger there. Someone is plotting, even now!”

“Voldemort?” Dudley blurted before Harry could, which made both Potter and Dobby freeze for long enough for the muggle to wrestle them apart. He quickly shoved the elf back into his seat as it gave a terrified leap. 

“Quiet. Alright, not him… We get it. Then who?”

“I cannot say, sir. Just,Harry Potter, sir, you must promise Dobby that you will not return to Hogwarts!”

“Listen, Dobby,” Harry said firmly, turning the elf to face him. “I have to go back. My friends, my teachers are there and..”

“Friends who do not write to you, sir?”

“It’s not like tha.. Wait,” Harry didn’t get to finish, because the realization hit him like a blow to the head. “How do you know about the letters?”

“Dobby did it for the best. If Harry Potter, sir, promises he won’t go back to school, then Dobby will return every single letter,” the elf snapped his fingers and appeared at the other end of the room with a heavy folder of letters in his hands.

For the first time Harry went white with rage and would have lunged at the elf, if not for a sharp jab from Dudley, who stepped forward.

“Aye, Dobby. Potter can’t make that promise. But I can make sure he doesn’t get to Hogwarts.”

“What?!” Harry looked at his cousin in shock and hissed, hurt, but Dudley only ignored him. “Traitor! He stole my post!”

In that instant the stocky boy gave his cousin a sideways glance and a quick wink, taking advantage of the fact that the elf was too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Harry froze, frowning, lowering his hands for the moment. Did he actually have a plan?

“Dobby isn’t sure he can trust,” the elf frowned and climbed down from the bed.

“I’m his cousin. I’ll tell our parents, and they won’t let him go anywhere,” Dudley smirked, as though he could already picture it. “But you’ll hand me the letters here and now.”

“Hm... Dobby must think...”

Harry kicked Dudley sharply in the knee, yanked him closer by the shoulder and hissed under his breath:

“You idiot, what are you doing?”

“Shut up, Potter, don’t get in the way. I am testing things,” Dudley muttered and with one strong push forced Harry back into a chair.

The elf didn’t think for long. A couple of minutes later he came up to Dudley, narrowed his huge eyes at him, and finally held out his hand.

“Does mister Dudley promise?” A thick bundle of letters landed in Dudley’s palm, and the pudgy boy gave a nasty little grin.

“Yes. I promise I’ll talk to my parents so Potter doesn’t go back to his school. Don’t worry, Dobby.”

The elf still hesitated for a moment before handing them over and stepping back. His expression showed pure confusion – as if he did not expect to actually succeed and had no idea what to do next. Then he simply snapped his fingers and vanished, giving Harry one last guilty look:

“Forgive me, sir. I had no choice.”

Barely a minute passed after his disappearance before Dudley let out a sigh of relief and tossed the letters back at Harry with a yawn:

“Next time, bring something more interesting. A troll, maybe, or at least a hippogriff. That elf didn’t impress me. Completely barmy...”

“Dudley, what the hell was that stunt?” Harry muttered, already rifling through the letters.

Dudley just shrugged and brushed off his fancy dinner jacket.

“The book said they’re very naive, but can use magic. He could’ve done something and, honestly, dad would not have enjoyed it. So it was easier to play along with the demands.”

“Dudley, thanks, I guess... But one thing.”

“What?” Dudley frowned, puzzled.

“Stop reading my books. You’re scaring me.” Harry said honestly, gripping on the cousins shoulders.

This time Dudley couldn’t help it and burst out laughing, holding his shaking belly.

“What, jealous? I can be the clever one sometimes too. You’re not the only one going to a private school.”

“Right. They’d have thrown you out on the first day if you were really as thick as you look,” Harry mimicked Malfoy’s tone and snorted.

“Oi, I can still smack you.”

“Yeah, yeah. By the way, what are you even doing up here? Aren’t they looking for you downstairs?”

Dudley’s face suddenly fell. He smacked his forehead, groaned, and hurried to the open hatch.

“Damn, I was only supposed to tell you to keep it down. I hope I don’t get in trouble. That Mason bloke is even duller than your elf. At least there’s food.”

Always about food... Harry sighed, gathering up the letters and settling on his bed. That evening he finally felt he could breathe again. Everything was fine, as he still had his friends.

But honestly, back to the present.

“Still I don’t get how that even worked...” Potter muttered bitterly, tossing his gloves onto the bench and heading back inside. Yes, he had managed to wriggle out of the situation, but thanks to whom? Dudley had changed a great deal lately. Magic had become some sort of strange obsession for him. He devoured the books he’d bought in Diagon Alley, sometimes even forgetting about food and television. Which, needless to say, delighted Mr. Dursley.

Dudley also never missed a chance to stuff Potter with extra food and make him practice the exercises from his book on building strength. “We’ll test it on you first, then I’ll do it myself if it works,” Dudley would always say, forcing Harry to run laps around the park and spend hours on something that vaguely resembled yoga.

The Gryffindor washed his hands in the bathroom and quickly slipped upstairs to his now almost-familiar attic, carefully shutting the hatch and straightening up.

But Dudley wasn’t his only helper. There was another. Very strange, hard to understand, and hopelessly inconsistent in his choices.

Harry walked quietly over to his chest of drawers and gently opened its doors. Instead of a wooden back panel, a wide mirror gleamed within, the feature that he learned to truly appreciate recently..

Potter sighed softly when all he saw was his own reflection. “So either he is sleeping or ignoring me again..” he thought with a dry little snort, then tapped lightly on the glass with his knuckles.

A ripple ran across the mirror, and soon, instead of Harry’s tousled reflection, there appeared a thin, pale boy with burning amber eyes. The boy stretched his shoulders, flexing, and gave the faintest smile. In all the weeks they’d spoken, this was the only kind of smile Harry had ever managed to draw from him.

/ Good meet, Adept. /

“And to you as well, Phil,” Potter smiled back, dragging a small chair up to the mirror and settling into it. Behind his phantom companion, an identical chair appeared. The reflection gave a weary sigh and brushed his hand across it. The image shivered, dissolved into smoke, and vanished. The boy then sat cross-legged directly on the floor, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

/ What do you wish to learn today? /

“The same as before.”

/ Very well. /  The boy sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a moment before beginning, slowly and thoughtfully, to explain traditional methods of cutting potion ingredients. Harry leaned on the armrest, chin propped against his hand, and studied his ghostly interlocutor closely, committing every word to memory until his focus would eventually slip.

Phil’s calm, measured voice (he had never accepted the name, but had no choice except to tolerate Harry’s insistence on using it) had spoken in his mind for the first time two days after their trip, when Harry had been struggling to draft a letter to Hermione. All Phil had said was a quiet and frankly jealous reminder that he knew much more – and then he’d gone silent for hours, until Harry called on him again.

Harry read the book about possessions from front to back several times, but the book couldn’t explain how this even happened.

The book itself was written meticulously, if not exhaustingly. It divided possessions into three neat categories: parasitic intrusion (a foreign will overriding one’s own, often temporary and painful), soul-binding contamination (the model, which invariably corrupted and eventually consumed the host), and artifactual resonance (magical objects exerting compulsions or imprints on the wielder). The tone was academic, clinical and frankly way too complex for Harry to understand in its entirety. It honestly felt like a Binns lecture in a book format.

So Harry soon gave it up. None of the listed options fit his situation entirely. Parasitic? Phil didn’t wrestle control from him, rather preferring Potter to confidently establish the authority and actually wield him instead. Contamination? Phil wasn’t some fragment of a stranger that would try and poison Harry's mind – he was way more complex than that and clearly had some “other space” he retreated to when not in use. Resonance? That made it sound like Phil was no more alive than a piece of cursed stone. Yet he had a voice, a mind of his own, a choice in when to speak or keep silent and one hell of a temper.

Possession, the book insisted, was always harmful to the host, yet Harry didn’t feel any less than usual. So what did you call this? Cohabitation?

By now they had fallen into a routine of daily meetings, going on three weeks. It felt more and more like some strange game of twenty questions. Usually Harry was the one asking  and Phil had to answer. This felt like the best use of their time; it was as if the Stone simply knew everything. Or at least most of it. Listening to him day after day, Harry regretted only one thing – that Phil couldn’t simply push all that knowledge straight into his head or keep it from spilling out again.

But there were questions Phil refused to answer. Questions about himself.

“Phil, wait.” Harry asked, interrupting stone going on some potions tirade again.

The boy in the mirror stopped at once, opening his eyes and fixing Harry with a clear, calm look. His lips moved soundlessly, as his voice rang directly in Harry’s mind.

/ Yes, adept? I see you have a different question… /

“I know, we talked about it, but… What are you, really? None of the books say more than a few vague things about the powers you supposedly have. You’re... It’s like you’re just some fairy-tale artifact, something that doesn’t really exist in this world.”

/Adept… / Phil exhaled softly, lifting his gaze with a shadow of melancholy. / Whatsoever mortals may write of me... I do not spin gold out of void, nor do I breathe life from naught. I am but a vessel of knowledge and a keeper of the paths by which such things may be achieved. Immortality, yes, it may be grasped through me, but only by means of the draught brewed from my own dust. Gold will answer to my touch, yet only where metal already lies and I could simply pull it out. These are the boundaries of my craft. Thus it is that many call me fable, no more than whispered legend. And in this, they are not wrong as I am one of the kind. /

“Then tell me about your past, if it’s not that important,” Harry said.

 / I cannot. It is not knowledge I am permitted to share. Otherwise, there could be more stones and more problems, /  Phil replied.

“I’m not going to…”

/I know you aren’t looking for a way to create one of mine. But as I told you, I am forbidden from speaking about those secrets plainly. Think of it, like a confidentiality clause. I would not talk about my prior masters or Creator without there being a need or permission to do that. But I would gladly answer any other of your questions. Potion making, Spell Craft, History, Theory of Magic itself – you have so many things you may ask me. I am simply perplexed as to why I would be a topic you chose to return to so often. /

The reflection gave a faint grimace and stretched a hand to the glass, just as he had done before. Harry stared silently for a moment, then pressed his own hand against the same spot and smiled back.

“Okay, fine. I will keep myself in check if this is something so forbidden. I just never expected to see something like, well, you. Even in my book on possessions - you don’t fit any case described even if you are clearly one of them.”

Stone didn’t argue, which in its own way was telling. Harry fiddled nervously with his glasses and ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the soft chair. Phil watched, calm and understanding, then suddenly spoke, changing topic to asking questions himself.

 / Do not bore your mind with problems you are not destined to resolve, Adept. Now, tell me why you are happy this morning. Did a letter from the young witch bring any good news? /

Harry actually smiled and moved a bit closer.

“Yeah. Hermione wrote that we’ll see each other soon. She’s at Ron’s house now. They wrote the letter together and promised they could finally pick me up tomorrow. And I’ll stay with them the rest of the time before school.”

/ I am glad, Adept, that you take pride in this. That Ron… was that the Weasley? Do they still own a manor? /

“Enough. I’m tired of explaining that he’s my friend and his status doesn’t matter to me. He’s a good person,” Harry said, frowning as he reached for the wardrobe doors.

/ I would not argue. But my previous owner held an unflattering opinion of this family. I use only the knowledge I have, Adept, even if outdated. No reason to be angry at me for this, / Phil replied, voice calm as ever.

“No reason? You judge him without even knowing him. So what if he’s a ‘blood traitor’? Who made up that nonsense? Because of these labels, the Weasleys suffer. He’s loyal, smart, and kind. He’s always helped me, trusted me and my judgment. It’s a shame you don’t understand that, or at least try to. You act exactly like… Malfoy!”

Phil remained still, his piercing gaze fixed on Harry. Something subtle shifted in that gaze with each word, though externally nothing changed.

/ And what is wrong about being “a Malfoy” kind? Aren’t you also quick to judge the whole lot just on impressions of one? / 

Harry froze, hand still on the wardrobe handle. His mouth opened, then closed again, because Phil had struck too close.

“That’s different,” he muttered. “Malfoy had proven it, again and again. Sneering, hexing, and the stunt with Neville’s Remember Ball…” Harry’s throat tightened. “I don’t have to make things up. He shows who he is every day.”

/ And yet, /  Phil’s tone remained quiet, steady, / you claim the virtue of seeing past surface, of weighing heart and deed rather than family name. You give that courtesy to your Weasley… but not to your Malfoy. /

Harry glared at the mirror, at the figure watching him with that maddeningly serene expression. He wanted to argue, to insist that it wasn’t hypocrisy, but the words tasted sour. The stone wasn’t wrong and it somehow made Harry even more annoyed.

Phil’s voice, softer now, threaded into the quiet. 

/ You may judge me if it steadies you. Judge my opinion if it comforts you. But know this: I exist to aid you and not to shape you. Anything I have to say about the Weasleys is coming from my own experience and you should treat it as a simple passage in the book and not an order to follow. I have my means to think this way, the means that I might voice or keep to myself and stay silent. It all relies on whether you wish to hear them or not, Adept./

Harry let the words sit. He wanted to shout back, to demand proof, confession, a beating heart to press his palm to. Instead he pushed his chair back, stood, and walked to the wardrobe again. For a moment he looked at Phil’s reflection, annoyingly flat and void of something that could make him more human in Harry’s eyes. Something that could help Harry see or hear him differently and transfer the pain of ugly truth onto him.

Yet, nothing changed. Harry kept thinking until he felt the impossible smallness of himself and the impossible expansiveness of the thing inside him were too much to bear any longer.

“Fine,” he said at last, not daring to be softer. “Then be silent.”

Potter slammed the wardrobe doors and stormed down the stairs, looking for distraction or a moment to think. If he had waited, he might have noticed the fading reflection change. If he had been less angry, he might have heard the answer to his unspoken question.

 / You keep looking for a soul in me, as if I hadn’t lost mine long before I came to be what I am. /  Phil whispered to no one, his lips moving silently before the reflection faded completely into nothingness.

That night, Harry could not sleep. He laid awake, listening for the soft quiet buzz of his conscience slowly erasing the context of the quarrel yet carving shame he felt from the word he said into his memory for years to come.

Chapter Text

It was already late morning. The sun, peeking through the uncovered window above his head, struck mercilessly right into his eyes, nudging him awake. Harry frowned, shielding his face as he turned onto his side and half-opened his eyelids.

“Feels like I only fell asleep at dawn… and I think I’ve slept right through breakfast,” he noted to himself distantly, rubbing at his sleepless, reddened eyes as he sluggishly got out of bed.

The morning shower, breakfast cooking, the usual jog around the house – Harry had shamelessly skipped all of it, stubbornly lying in bed and trying to catch even a little more sleep. But every time he closed his eyes, unpleasant thoughts began to swarm in his head, and his conscience gave a low, constant wail, as if one night of so-called “soul-searching” hadn’t been enough. 

In reality, Harry folded way too fast. Mostly due to the annoying truth of Phil actually being right. Potter may be stubborn and quick to act of his temper, but should he get a moment to think the situation through – he was amicable to admitting his defeat.

He was a bigot. It felt disgusting to actually acknowledge, but Harry was getting there.

After two hours of fruitless attempts to fall asleep, Potter let out an exasperated sigh and began packing his trunk, recalling that the Weasleys had promised to collect him at three o’clock today.

“I wonder how they plan to do it? Probably with a car, I doubt it would be brooms or public transport… Honestly, I don’t know any magical ways of traveling, and asking… asking is out of the question.”

As his trunk slowly filled with clothes and books, Harry’s eyes kept drifting back toward the wide chest of drawers in the corner. He had never really known how to make amends, as his quarrels with Dursley’s in the past never ended in sincerity and Ron with Hermione were equally fast to forgive.

This would not work here.

Time crawled on. The clock’s hands inched closer to three. The trunk was packed and hauled downstairs, the Dursleys warned, and Harry himself stopped in front of the tall wardrobe. With a heavy sigh, he carefully pulled the doors open.

The mirror shimmered faintly and showed Harry his own uneasy reflection. The Gryffindor ruffled his hair with one hand, let out a quiet breath, and, very carefully, reached out to knock against the mirrored surface.

A minute, two, three… The quiet tick of the clock sounded thunderous in the heavy silence. But the mirror still showed only Harry. He frowned and tapped again, adding, “Phil… show yourself.  Whatever I said yesterday, well… I am sorry.”

The reflection didn’t change, and the sense of someone else’s presence didn’t arrive as it usually did. The artifact refused to respond.

“I said I’m sorry. I mean it,” Harry pursed his lips nervously, the same absent little habit Petunia showed when she was annoyed. Time was running out; he even heard a few muffled bangs downstairs, but Phil remained silent.

At last Harry’s patience snapped. He snorted childishly, slammed the wardrobe doors, and made for the hatch. 

“Fine… if you don’t want to talk, then don’t. As if I’m the only one who needs this…” He went down the stairs and paused in the hallway to listen. An aria from some opera drifted from the sitting room – so Petunia had left in a hurry, probably when those bangs sounded outside. From the kitchen came clatter and Vernon’s grumpy muttering. Harry headed that way, trying to put any emotion aside.

In the neat kitchen a small, very red-haired crowd had gathered. Among the Weasleys present that day were a slightly balding man in a curious suit (presumably Mr. Weasley himself), the twins, and Ron.

The moment Ron spotted his friend in the doorway he waved wildly and shouted far too loudly, making Petunia jump and glance at the ceiling. Olivia was sleeping peacefully in their bedroom upstairs, but any noise could wake her.

“Harry!!! Hi, mate! How are you? Don’t worry, you’ll spend the rest of the summer with us,” the red-haired boy clapped Harry on the back, clearly happy to see him. Then he leaned in and whispered into Harry’s ear, “Don’t worry, dad will speak to your Muggles. They’ve no right to keep you grounded.”

Before Harry could question, why would he even think that, he looked a bit to the side. Mr. Weasley was indeed standing a little apart, speaking quietly with Vernon, whose face kept changing color rapidly. At last, Vernon snapped, waving his hand sharply.

“Potter! A word, quick.”

As soon as Harry came closer and they stepped aside, Vernon continued in a lower, calmer voice, despite throwing Weasley’s way a few very judgemental glares.

“He practically threatened me with magic if I dared not to let you go. Are you sure it’s safe for you to go?” Vernon almost sounded caring for a moment, before inevitably returning to grumbling. “And what in blazes is he wearing? A disgrace to any decent man. Your things are by the hall door. For some reason, they need our fireplace – so they’ll be moving your trunk into the sitting room.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I should have warned them you wouldn’t mind,” Harry said quickly.

“Never mind, boy. That’s not important. The main thing is that they don’t draw attention to our family.” Mr. Dursley huffed and then remembered. “By the way, Potter, I’ve found you a good manager. Mrs. Foskett, my former assistant, has agreed to take on the matter of unfreezing the accounts of that normal world’s business. The office of your perfume company is in London – and I must say, it’s quite a large one, not far from my own – so I’ll be able to keep an eye on things for now. I’ll send you monthly reports. Most likely I’ll have to use that noisy bird of yours, so make sure you send it along every so often. Preferably, with a monthly report of your own. Petunia… Your aunt will appreciate it.”

Harry barely suppressed a smile as he watched his uncle rub his walrus-like mustache. If this was Vernon’s veiled way of saying he didn’t mind letters, the message was clear enough. Harry politely agreed and returned to the twins and Ron, who were busy looking around the kitchen.

Fred and George seized him by the shoulders on either side and spun him around, chattering gleefully:

“Just look at this, Dr. Dread…”

“…Indeed, Dr. Forge, the patient has actually gained some weight and may soon resemble a proper second-year.”

“Astonishing.”

“Incredible.”

“We are in awe.”

The twins burst into identical laughter and gave Harry matching clouts on the back of the head. Escaping them wasn’t easy, but Vernon came to the rescue, suggesting they finally head to the fireplace and be done with it. At that, the twins marched off cheerfully to fetch the trunk, with a subdued Dudley keeping an eye on them, while the Dursleys escorted the guests into the sitting room.

The still-blaring television made a lasting impression on Mr. Weasley. He circled it in wonder, sighing with admiration, until Petunia located the remote. When the screen suddenly went dark, the wizard flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears and babbled,

“Muggles truly have a unique imagination! The things they invent out of sheer boredom…”

Yet under Vernon’s heavy glare, he fell silent, turned briskly to the children, and cleared his throat.

“Well then, Harry, what do you know about the Floo Network?”

“The what, sir?” Harry asked, wide-eyed, shaking his head.

“As I thought. I took the liberty to set up the temporary ward on the fireplace here, so it should work for us. Well then, just do what Fred and George do. You’ll only need to say ‘The Burrow’ and toss a pinch of this powder at your feet,” Mr. Weasley muttered, working the spell over the fireplace before tossing a tightly sealed pouch to his sons.

“George, you first.”

“I’m Fred!” the boy said with a sly grin, pulling a wounded expression.

“Doesn’t matter, George,” his father replied evenly, not taking the bait as he stepped back from the fireplace.

Petunia watched with hawk-like vigilance as several unfamiliar wizards trampled across her carefully polished sitting room. She might have come to terms with magic no longer being so alien to her, but she was still a woman of order and cleanliness. Scuffed boots on her gleaming parquet floor did nothing to soothe her nerves. When one of the redheaded twins clambered right into the hearth, she gave a nervous little laugh and shot Harry a bewildered look. He only shrugged with a wince.

George stood hunched inside the fireplace, holding a handful of ash-like powder from Mr. Weasley’s pouch. As green flames suddenly roared beneath his feet, he tossed the powder down and spoke clearly:

“The Burrow!”

In an instant, the emerald fire swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but furious tongues of flame licking at the grate. Within moments, even those died down into a faint glow among the coals.

“He burned?” Petunia whispered.

“Harry, that’s called travelling by Floo Network,” Mr. Weasley explained. “I could have Side-Alonged you, but this way is going to be simpler to adjust to. Fred, Ron – one at a time. Harry, I’ll follow last, after you. All right?”

Harry gave a small nod, silently watching as the fire consumed his friend. It was unnerving, yes, but it didn’t seem to harm any of them.

When his turn came, he turned back to the Dursleys and offered an uncertain smile. Dudley stepped forward, grinning, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Go on, Potter. I’ll be waiting for letters. And don’t forget to bring me some of those wizard sweets.”

Vernon gave Harry a stiff handshake, and Petunia, arms crossed tight against her chest, only managed an awkward nod. Harry winked warmly at her before climbing into the fireplace and taking a pinch of powder from Mr. Weasley.

“Say goodbye to Olivia for me. I’ll try to be back for holidays.” he added. Petunia’s expression softened into a warmer smile. Harry drew a deep breath, tossed the powder at his feet, and called out,

“The Burrow!”

And then the green fire swept him away, sucking him through like a rushing chimney draft.

***********

The Weasley home greeted him with weirdly familiar, cozy chaos.

Harry had barely recovered from that dreadful journey (who on earth had dared to call that a convenient means of travel?) when he was immediately crushed in a warm, though not entirely pleasant at the moment, embrace.

Mrs. Weasley refused to let him go until he groaned and reminded her, somewhat pitifully, that he was still alive. She gasped, released him at once, and fussed with her slightly worn apron.

“Harry, dear, you’re looking better. Have you been eating properly? Your relatives haven’t been mistreating you, have they?”

Harry only shook his head, still trying to calm his churning stomach. Behind him came the crackle of the fire and Mr. Weasley’s low grumble:

“Odd Muggles, wasn’t it too much trouble to let me have a look at the workings of that talking panel?”

Harry stifled a laugh, picturing Vernon standing guard before their brand-new, horrendously expensive TV, bought only recently. The nausea began to fade, and he finally managed to straighten up and take in his surroundings.

A large room, though packed to the rafters with cupboards, with a fireplace and an old sofa opposite – most likely the living room. On the walls hung at least fifty photographs in colorful frames. People in them peered at the newcomer, winked, and carried on conversations among themselves.

Here, magic seemed to thrum in the very air. It was as though everything in this house was stitched together by it, and if it were stripped away even for a moment - the place would collapse. That thought was unsettling, yet it filled him with endless wonder.

He wasn’t given long to marvel. Ron had him by the arm and was dragging him upstairs through winding staircases, into the room beneath the attic, low-ceilinged and glowing with a bright, overwhelming orange from the posters plastered everywhere.

“This’ll be our room until term starts! Just imagine… till then it’ll be nothing but Quidditch, cards, and Exploding Snap. You’ll let me try your Nimbus, won’t you? And Dad’s got hold of some old car – looks like he’s enchanted it!” Ron rattled on, drowning Harry in such a torrent of information that his head was soon throbbing. 

He almost forgot how overwhelming his friend could be. And with no calming presence of Hermione around – that would be a bit hard to get used to again. Escaping Privet Drive suddenly felt less clever a decision. Compared to Ron’s booming voice over his much-abused ears, little Olivia’s morning crying had been like the whine of a mosquito.

“Easy, Ron, I can hear you just perfectly,” Harry mumbled, rubbing his nose bridge and sinking onto the edge of the narrow bed in the corner. “Listen, I’m a bit tired, maybe…”

“Water? Harry, you’re a guest, don’t hesitate,” Ron flushed slightly and, not giving him a chance to object, vanished through the doorway. “I’ll bring some. Then we’ll fetch the twins and go flying!”

When the redheaded whirlwind was swept out of the room, Harry exhaled softly and collapsed onto the mattress, soft but sagging in spots. From every corner of the room, Quidditch players in blazing orange robes smiled down at him from the posters.

“Like amber...” Harry chuckled faintly, squinting at the crooked lettering on one of them. “Chudley Cannons – ninth place in the League... so that’s what they are.”

Ron’s room was the very opposite of his tiny space in the attic at Privet Drive, though not much bigger in size. Then again, the entire Burrow was unlike any other house – it was loud and alive, its chaos practically shouting from every corner.

Suddenly, from somewhere above, came a muffled yet chilling howl, followed by the faint clink of metal. Harry frowned, rose cautiously, and peered out into the empty corridor. The sound came again, and he realized it was coming from the attic.

Curiosity, perhaps, was Gryffindor's defining trait. So, without waiting for Ron, Harry made his way toward the stairs, scanning for a way up to the attic. It would have been more sensible to wait and ask about it – but there was something about the promise of a mystery begging to be uncovered.

Perhaps this was what they meant by the “Hero Complex”.

Everything in the house was chaos, topsy-turvy, like one of those old American films Dudley had recently started “feeding” him. After a short search at the end of a long corridor, Harry found an old wooden door. It was painted a washed-out grayish white, the paint peeling in places and covered in a fine network of cracks. He brushed his hand over it and accidentally scraped off a small flake with his sleeve. Then grasped the round, worn handle and pulled softly. The door swung open easily, revealing a narrow passage: a stairwell and, at the far end, another door.

“Oh. That must be the attic...” Harry thought, pushing the door wider so daylight spilled into the dim corridor.

Weirdly, the air felt different here. Sharper and somewhat charged, as if filled with… Well, magic.

He gripped the banister, straining to hear the sounds above. A howl came suddenly, so near that gooseflesh prickled down his spine. He swallowed quietly and stepped onto the first creaking stair, moving carefully. But when he reached the attic door, it wouldn’t budge, as though locked or boarded up. Harry frowned, raising his fist to knock, ready to ask if all was well inside.

Suddenly, fingers clamped around his wrist, gripping it tightly. Harry jumped, nearly stumbling, catching the railing just in time.

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Weasley’s voice was low and calm, but there was a sharpness to it that made the hairs on his neck rise. She pulled him down from the steps all the way down to the first door at the start of the stairs, released his hand reluctantly, and gave him a piercing look.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley! I just.. There was a howl, and I thought… The hatch slammed, and someone might be trapped?” Harry’s face went pale, and he looked nervously at her. Only now did he realize he clearly had stumbled into someone else’s business.

“Merlin, she looks furious… But it’s just an attic, isn’t it?” His messy head drooped, bracing for a scolding. Instead, she just ruffled his head before closing the door and charming it shut.

“Oh, Harry, don’t misunderstand.  That staircase is old and the wood is in need of a change. You could have been hurt! So, please, never do that again.”

Harry blinked at her round, soft-looking face that contrasted with the way she ordered the last few words. For a short moment his head filled with an alien feeling of obeyance and he nodded. 

“All right, Mrs. Weasley. Sorry for interfering.”

“There, never mind, love. You don’t look so well. Go on down to Ron – he’ll give you a strengthening tonic,” Molly said with a warm smile, tugging him gently toward the stairs. But behind the smile, there was a shadow of steel in her eyes, a quiet warning that her patience had limits.

Harry followed, but paused at the first step, glancing back toward the attic. Something pricked at him hard, making him stumble and ask in mutiny. “But what was that, Mrs. Weasley? That howling… It sounded almost human.”

She paused only a moment, answering softly, still not turning around.

“Only a ghoul, Harry. The muffling charms must have worn off. Arthur will renew them tonight. It won’t trouble you again.”

She continued down the corridor, holding his hand firmly, her grip strong and insistent.

But a small, insistent doubt stirred in Harry. Something about her words didn’t feel right. Something was off. And that little knot of unease made him wonder if the warm, motherly exterior had hidden something sharper underneath.

*****

The next two days were simply marvelous and positively mind-numbing. Harry, Ron, and the twins barely left the small clearing near the house, racing on broomsticks (the one on the Nimbus always won, of course) and playing Quidditch with some apples, gathered from an old apple tree on the far end of the clearing.

Harry even forgot about those attic secrets, especially since there hadn’t been any more howls, and Ron had confirmed his mother’s story about the ghoul. So Potter shrugged and let it go, having plenty of other things to occupy his mind (Which was both out and in his character).

He continued rising early for short runs around the Weasley property out of sheer habit and faint curiosity.

No matter how stitched up or uneven it seemed, the house itself was just a little smaller than the Dursleys’ from outside, which felt strange (he even suspected some sort of space-expanding enchantment had been used inside). Attached to it was a small patch of land proudly called a garden, a tiny chicken coop, a shed, and an old, rickety garage – the domain of Mr. Weasley. The man was a fanatical lover of Muggle technology, constantly trying to bring something into the house to take apart. But Mrs. Weasley was firm, and all of his “toys” ended up in the garage, where Arthur spent his evenings tinkering barely even appearing in the house aside from diners.

Besides broomstick races and runs, Harry had initially volunteered to help drive the garden gnomes off the yard, but he soon abandoned the task, finding it somewhat cruel. Though the tiny, potato-like creatures hardly resembled the laborers described in the Snow White story,  yet he still felt sorry for them.

By the third day, Harry was, as usual, the first to arrive in the kitchen. Somehow he always managed to wake up before everyone else. Partly because if he didn’t, he might as well have forgotten about breakfast until noon. Earlier, he had discovered a mirror in the bathroom that delivered sharp remarks about his appearance, and he had spent some time tapping on it, hoping his phantom friend had grown bored of his absence and forgiven him. But either the mirror wasn’t the right one, or Phil had staged a full-on boycott – the boy in the mirror did not appear.

Back in the kitchen, Harry had just begun toasting bread (he had received official permission from Mrs. Weasley on his very first morning, when she had come downstairs and found him already famished) when a flurry of feathers announced the arrival of Errol. He had met this families pet earlier when the owl had crashed into his porridge with a hoot, delivering mail for Mr. Weasley.

He let the owl in, carefully untied a few letters sealed with the Hogwarts crest from its talon, and offered it a piece of toast. While the bird enjoyed its treat, Hedwig tapped at the window, bringing Harry her daily notes from Hermione. 

Hermione’s letter cheerfully announced that she was going shopping with her parents today and suggested that they finally all meet up. She had spent the last two weeks of her holidays in sunny Italy with her parents and was eager to share her impressions of the trip. Smiling, Harry set her letter aside and felt pleased that Mrs. Weasley had promised yesterday that they would all go to Diagon Alley together today. He was looking forward to seeing Hermione himself. Ron was fine, but Hermione – she was grounding in a way. It was much easier to talk to her than to the redhead at times.

Speaking of redheads and girls… There was also a rather distracting presence at the Burrow by the name of Ginny Weasley. A funny little girl with thin, bright-red hair and freckles scattered across her face, she constantly dropped things, jumped, and shrieked whenever Harry appeared in the room. The boy had no idea what he had done to earn such a reaction. Once, when he caught her in the corridor and cautiously tried to ask what he had done to frighten her, Ginny barely even acknowledged his presence at all and left without even looking his way, only to return to her “over-the-top” blushing later at dinner.

Must be some girl thing, Harry decided.

Soon, Mrs. Weasley came down into the kitchen and shooed Harry from his rightful place at the stove, asking him to set the table. Next was Mr. Weasley, who dashed through the kitchen like a blur, kissed his wife, and promised to join them for shopping closer to lunchtime.

Third came the “small, illogical one,” as Harry now mentally referred to her. Ginny stubbornly pretended not to notice Potter again and quickly piled a bit of freshly fried sausage meat and a fried egg onto her plate, seating herself at the other end of the table. Harry could only shrug and continue his breakfast.

Gradually, the rest of the family came down. Everyone was instructed to eat quickly and get dressed for going out. Passing Hermione’s letter to Ron, Harry quickly disappeared into the boys’ shared room to change and pack a small backpack that Dudley had given him, recommending it as a replacement for his school bag. The backpack was simple, black, and very practical, like those usually used by London university students. He tossed in his wallet and a light plaid shirt, then changed into neutral dark jeans and a t-shirt. Within five minutes, Ron joined him, and soon they were both standing near the fireplace in the living room.

“We… we’re going to Diagon Alley using the fireplace network?” Harry asked, grimacing at the thought of using this barbaric method of travel again.

“It’s just easier this way, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, shrugging, adjusting her simple gray-blue dress, and handing Fred a small pot of leftover powder. The boy took some and jumped into the fireplace, which was much larger than the one at the Dursleys’, so he didn’t need to bend over. Like last time, Fred (or George) winked at Harry, who was frowning, and tossed the powder at his feet:

“Diagon Alley!”

As soon as the flames died down, the second twin leapt into the fireplace, grabbed a handful of powder from his mother, tapped out a rhythm with his heel, and tossed the powder, following his brother.

“Harry, sweetie, you’re next,” Mrs. Weasley called, holding out the pot with a small pile of magical powder. Potter carefully took a handful, trying not to spill it, and stepped into the fireplace, facing Ron and turning his back to Ginny.

The flames felt like a cool breeze against Harry’s legs, and a thin layer of soot fell from the sides of the fireplace. “God, the room looks so weird from this angle…” he thought, holding his hand up and scanning the walls opposite him. “There’s a picture, a crack in the ceiling, a painting with some flowers, and…”

“Diagon…” Harry abruptly stopped mid-thought, a familiar sensation crawling over him, as if someone was watching.

Instinctively, he turned sharply to the right and met a familiar, distant gaze of amber-red eyes, watching him with quiet concern.

Phil?!

His fist loosened on its own, and the precious powder ignited in a flash of flame, sparking for a fraction of a second. The magnitude of his mistake hit Harry fully as the flames cocooned him, spinning him like a top and whisking him away from the Burrow’s living room.

The roar of the fire was deafening, making it impossible to see clearly. No matter how he held his arms close, he was being pulled in every direction. A simple mispronunciation of the address now threatened to tear him apart.

“Merlin, stop.. Stop!” Harry silently begged, squeezing his eyes shut against the flickering green fire. And in that instant, everything stopped – as if an emergency system had ejected him into the nearest fireplace.

Harry tumbled face-first from a fireplace, hitting his forehead painfully on the mantle. His glasses cracked audibly on one side. Once he could breathe again – air having entirely left his lungs during the ejection – he slowly lifted his head and stood on shaking legs. His knee throbbed sharply; looking down, he saw a small tear in his jeans and drops of blood staining the seemingly sturdy fabric.

“Broke my knee falling. Potter, you’re breaking records in stupidity…” he muttered, surveying his surroundings.

It was definitely a shop of some kind. Only… very grotesque, as Uncle would have said. Shelves were packed with all sorts of horrors: a dried hand, human bones, odd jewelry, some trinkets that looked like shrank torture devices, sinister masks, and some cookware in the corner – as if the props from every horror movie had been gathered in one place. To the right, a dusty, grimy display window revealed a dull, gray street outside. 

“Merlin, this is definitely not Diagon Alley…” Harry fixed up his glasses and focused on two figures approaching the shop, their pale heads unmistakable. “One problem after another.”

The figures drew closer. Harry frantically looked around and spotted an old cabinet near the fireplace. Hoping it wasn’t some deadly contraption, he limped inside, clutching his injured leg.

No sooner had he closed the door than a bell rang, announcing new customers, and Draco proudly entered the shop, followed by Lord Malfoy himself.

“Father, you promised me a present,” Draco said, eyeing several shelves of ominous-looking daggers. Harry almost rolled his eyes, as it seemed that even in home life the Slytherin was just as insufferable.

“A broomstick. You don’t need anything from this shop, son. Not yet, at least, wait till you have to impress some in-laws,” the aristocrat replied quietly, smirking slightly as he approached the counter and tapped it gently.

“Why do I need a broom? They don’t take under-13s on the team. Potter’s the only exception,” Draco muttered, moving closer to his father.

“Draco, you’ve told me this story about him a hundred times. The way it goes, you might need to tone it down or it would be me buying something here for possible in-laws,” Malfoy Sr. frowned, tapping the counter again. 

Harry blinked in confusion. Must have been some inside joke.

Soon, the shopkeeper appeared from the back – a tall but hunched man with a grayish face and greasy, slicked-back hair. He didn’t look quite like a friendly shopkeeper, yet the man  immediately beamed upon seeing his customer.

“Oh, Lord Malfoy, and young heir… delighted, delighted to see you in my shop…” he gushed.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in the cabinet, trying not to make a sound. His leg ached worse with every movement, and an irresistible urge to dust himself off added to his discomfort – maybe he’d caught Mrs. Dursley’s obsession with cleanliness or maybe it was something wrong with this cabinet in the first place. It stank in this special way the old and unkept furniture would.

As Harry tried quietly to brush soot from his face, Lord Malfoy’s patience with the flattery ran out, and he interrupted the shopkeeper in a bored tone:

“Mr. Borgin, I don’t recall asking for compliments. Let’s get to the point; I have more important matters than listening to your flattery.”

“Oh, forgive me, Lord Malfoy. What exactly are you looking for?”

Harry barely stifled a groan – the pain was becoming unbearable, and he could no longer put weight on his injured leg. He took a small step back, intending to rest against the cabinet wall, but bumped into something soft. A wave of icy fear ran down his spine. Carefully, he reached back and felt along the obstacle. A wall? Fabric? “Looks like… bandages…” Harry frowned, turning to see the object in the dim light. One look, and he knew exactly what it was.

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin. Today I am…” Lucius Malfoy never finished his sentence, cut off by a loud shriek and the crashing of an old cabinet door flying open. Out of it leapt something covered in a thin layer of soot.

Harry realized his mistake immediately, seeing the same uncharacteristically shocked expression frozen on both Malfoys’ faces. Weirdly, Draco looked less shocked and more.. Resigned. 

Potter quickly propped the door of a cabinet closed. He couldn’t run, not while his leg wouldn’t allow it. Still, he didn’t panic, hobbling over to the display with the creepy dried hand, bracing himself, and pointed at the cabinet, addressing the rather dumbfounded Borgin:

“Excuse me, sir… but you do know you’ve got a mummy in there?!”

Chapter Text

While Borgin was still trying to get his thoughts in order, a quiet chuckle slipped from Lucius Malfoy, unable to contain himself at the absurdity of the scene. Draco, recovering from his own set of conflicting emotions, only screwed up his face as if he’d bitten into a lemon and rolled his eyes, turning away from the disheveled Potter.

“Pointless to even ask. I told you, Father, he is mad. Raving mad.”

Harry lifted his chin proudly and frowned, adjusting the broken, crooked glasses on his nose. Playing the fool seemed the only way to avoid ending up in a gutter with his memories wiped clean. He forced down the urge to laugh nervously, already calculating how he might make it out of the shop unscathed. Which, in quite honesty, was not as easy.

But the laughter died as swiftly as it had come, as though Lord Malfoy himself had suddenly recalled where – and with whom – he stood. The aristocrat cleared his throat softly behind his hand, then flicked his wrist sharply around his cane and a slender, elegant wand slid gracefully into his palm. He smiled faintly, almost lazily, and pointed its tip toward Potter, who immediately blanched. Lucius studied the boy with cool precision, then gave a calm, effortless swish, his smile getting a little bit more controlled.

“I imagine this will suit you better, Mr. Potter.”

Harry flinched, tucking his head down into his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for the wipe of his memories. But instead of cold oblivion, a warm wave of magic washed only across his face. He gasped in surprise and cautiously opened his eyes, hands rising to his cheeks. His glasses were whole again, the soot had vanished, and the dull ache in his nose was gone – the Malfoy Sr. had simply tidied him up.

This… Was not expected. And even more so - unfortunate, as Phil sounded even more right now. Harry clearly was prejudiced, as much as he would like to argue. 

Adjusting his now-mended glasses, Harry looked up at the elder Malfoy and gave a small, deliberate nod.

“Thank you, sir. That is better indeed.”

“But not quite perfect, is it?” the man smirked, slowly lowering the tip of his wand until it finally pointed at the boy’s injured, swelling knee. This time Harry didn’t flinch, deciding to see what is going to happen now. 

“Unfortunately, that looks rather more serious than a mere scrape one could easily mend.” Lucius barely changed in his face, as he judged the wound. “But first, I wonder…”

With a movement too quick to follow, the wizard slipped the list he had meant to hand Borgin back into his robes and, in two measured steps, was standing directly before Potter, still keeping his wand leveled at him. Cold grey eyes bored into bright green ones, as if trying to extract something hidden within. Then he carefully lifted the wand, brushed it across Gryffindor's forehead, pushed the fringe aside, and cast a fleeting glance at the famous scar.

“Will you be returning to your wardrobe, to your Wonderland… or shall I escort you to St Mungo’s?”

Harry grimaced in displeasure and jerked back, his brows knitting together, his lips pressed into a thin line. His mind was back to conflicting thought, fighting over a need to prove something and having a general dislike of being judged as an animal on display. Through his teeth he forced out:

“I’ll walk on my own. And I’d ask you to lower your wand.”

“A little respect for someone who seeks to aid you, Mr. Potter..”

“…sir,” Potter spat with pointed sarcasm once the man stepped back from his personal space and rejoined his son with a somewhat pensive look.

Borgin watched the scene in silence, deciding against interference. Draco, meanwhile, was only too glad to follow his example, feigning immense interest in the display of Dark Arts cards. Yet both witnesses strained to catch every single word being exchanged.

“What do you know of Knockturn Alley?” Malfoy asked the boy-who-lived, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if the answer was not obvious.

“Nothing, sir. I’d suppose it’s somewhere in London.”

“Yes. Exactly. A most dangerous place for the national hero – among the darkest and the forsaken. Which is why you’d be far better off admitting you wound up here through careless use of the Floo Network.” His voice dropped lower, the words laced with condescension.

Harry flinched as if slapped, bristling in a way that confirmed the elder wizard’s suspicions.

“…Indeed, it looks like a dangerous situation to find yourself in…” Malfoy murmured softly, almost to himself, before whirling sharply and striking out with his wand at the unsuspecting Borgin. “Obliviate. You saw nothing, you heard nothing. Go back to your backrooms and resume your sleep.”

A white-gold streak shot across the shop, striking the stooped man square in the forehead. He turned slowly, glassy-eyed, and vanished through a small door in the corner. Malfoy strode quickly to the counter and flicked his wand over it several more times, testing for surveillance charms. Satisfied, he pivoted abruptly and advanced on Potter.

The boy scowled darkly, fingers clenching the strap of his backpack. With a single motion he swung it onto one shoulder and yanked out his wand. The artifact, as though delighted, spat a few sparks into the air. Harry leveled it at Malfoy Sr, who regarded him with the same cold composure as before and a little raise of an eyebrow.

“Don’t be foolish, boy. You don’t even know any spells yet. Not for defense, not for attack,” Malfoy drawled in a bored tone, one brow arched as he peered into the Gryffindor’s eyes with idle curiosity.

“But I am reckless, sir,” Potter shot back, pushing himself away from the counter and wincing in pain. “I can still put your eye out with it.”

“I have no doubt you would,” Malfoy replied smoothly, staring hard at Harry’s face for a few more seconds before his lips curled in satisfaction. With a sudden flick of his wand, he sent the boy sprawling backward into a chair that had, moments earlier, been an ornamental vase. The Gryffindor crashed down, groaning in pain as his hands clutched at his knee – but his grip on the wand never loosened.

Behind his father, Draco flinched, unable to contain himself any longer. He stepped closer, staring at Lucius in bewilderment.

“Father, what are you…”

“Not now, Draco,” Lucius cut him off at once, his wand already trained on Potter’s injured knee. He began murmuring incantations under his breath. The denim split obediently, baring the wound to the open air.

The skin was raw and torn in places, angry and swollen. Another precise flick and a violet beam seared away the clotted blood, disinfecting the injury like a stinging alcohol compress. Harry let out a muffled cry, eyes darting back up at Malfoy, who, with a touch of absent thoughtfulness, gave his wand one final wave. This time a blinding white light streamed out, wrapping tightly around the boy’s knee like a conjured bandage. When the light faded, Lucius straightened once more, his expression cool and unreadable.

“On your feet, then. Can you stand?”

“Yes… thank you, sir,” Harry muttered under his breath, carefully rising from the hard-backed chair. To his astonishment, the pain was gone – along with all sensation in his knee.

“Painkilling charm… I thought only potions could do that,” he thought, eyes widening as he put weight on the leg. The joint bent stiffly, but he could walk without trouble. Before his very eyes, the rip in his jeans knitted itself back together. Only then did the boy lift his gaze to the impassive aristocrat and give a small nod.

“Yes. I can, sir.”

“Then come along. My son and I were just heading to Diagon Alley. I suppose that was where you intended to arrive?” the man said coldly, giving his son a pointed look. “You don’t mind the company, do you, Draco? We can hardly abandon the Boy-who-lived in the darkest alley of London, where he’ll either get lost or be made to.”

“Yes, Father,” the Slytherin remembered himself, tilting his chin up with pride. “Potter, put your wand back in your little bundle and come along. You won’t get a second offer.”

“It’s a backpack, Malfoy,” Harry shot back, drawing out his classmate’s name with sarcasm, though he did lower his wand. 

“Here’s a secret, Potter,” Draco sneered, following his father to the exit. “I couldn’t care less what you call that sack. It still looks ridiculous.”

Potter only rolled his eyes and limped after them with quick, uneven steps. Silence fell over Borgin and Burkes, leaving no trace of anyone ever having been there.

The Malfoys strode down the street briskly, making no attempt to hide themselves – unlike the other hooded figures slipping through the shadows. Harry trailed behind, keeping about a meter’s distance, directly at the elder Malfoy’s back. The crooked lane was lined with sinister shops, their windows filled with grotesque and disturbing wares. And though Lucius had said they were heading to Diagon Alley, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being led deeper and deeper into the dark backstreets.

The thought made him nervous. He slowed his pace, letting the Malfoys pull ahead, and then turned, hoping to find his own way out. But he hadn’t taken a single step before colliding with a hideous old witch carrying a tray of crooked human fingernails.

The hag cackled, revealing a single yellowed tooth, and clamped her gnarled fingers under Harry’s chin.

“What a pretty little boy. Come along, I’ll give you the sweetest toffees…” She bent toward his pale face, tongue lolling, about to lick his cheek – when a curse cracked through the air, flinging her several feet away. Harry recoiled instantly, gasping as a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. Above his ear came the quite furious voice of Lord Malfoy:

“Boy, have you lost your mind completely? What in Merlin’s name are you thinking? I told you to stay with me. Or do you want to be hacked apart and sold for potion ingredients? Because I can promise you – there is a clientele for such in this place.”

Fear hit Harry almost as hard as it had that night with Quirrell. But then he’d had the certainty that his friends were coming to help. Here, there was no help to hope for, and disaster felt inevitable. He could count only on the odd kindness of those he would have expected least.

So Harry took a moment to get himself in check and shook his head:

“No, sir. I’m sorry.”

Lucius exhaled quietly, shot the rising hag a warning glare, then turned Harry toward Draco with a shove.

“Draco, please take a hold of your classmate. Make sure he doesn’t stray again. I’m beginning to think I’ve overestimated our young hero’s intelligence and greatly underestimated how hard it is to be a teacher in your school.”

Wordlessly, Draco grabbed Potter’s hand and tugged him forward, quickening his pace to catch up with his father. Harry trudged along miserably, eyes fixed on the cobblestones beneath his feet.

“Potter,” Draco’s whisper tugged his gaze upward. To Harry’s utter shock, Malfoy looked worried and almost frightened. Worried about what could happen to Harry himself? No. That can’t be.

“What, Malfoy? Go on, get your mocking over with.”

Draco frowned in wounded irritation, turned away again, muttering under his breath as he loosened his grip:

“You’re an idiot, Potter. A raving lunatic.”

The Gryffindor only shrugged in confusion and cast a quick glance at the elder wizard – Lucius’s face was still an expressionless mask of icy composure.

Then, quite suddenly, the shops began to thin out, the alley narrowing, until it ended at a moss-covered dead wall. Harry gave his classmate a questioning look, but Draco kept up the act of pretending Potter didn’t exist. So Harry turned toward Malfoy Sr. – the man traced a pattern in the air with his wand and spoke some unintelligible phrase in a foreign tongue.

As the aristocrat exhaled as a password, the wall dissolved into fragments. Draco yanked Harry through, just in time – the wall reformed as swiftly as it had parted. The Slytherin briskly released Potter’s hand and moved closer to his father. Lord Malfoy glanced back at Harry and smirked:

“And where to now, Heir Potter?”

Harry winced at the address. Clearly, Malfoy took the same sadistic pleasure in addressing people by titles as Vernon did when Harry insisted on calling him “boy” again. Which meant arguing about it was pointless.

“Me? Forgive me, sir, I won’t trouble you further. I think I can make it to the bank on my own.”

“Oh, no… I’d rather place you directly in your handler’s hands. You seem to attract trouble with suspicious consistency.” Lucius smirked, tilting his head toward the gleaming white building visible in the distance. “The bank… Will that suffice?”

He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and guided him firmly forward, not even glancing at Harry, who still lingered by the wall. His patience for surprises finally ended.

“Why are you helping me?..” Harry called after him, still wary, but genuinely curious.

Lucius turned, gave a faint smile, and replied with his usual perceptive stare:

“Let’s say there are two reasons. One is on your forehead. The other is even simpler.” He beckoned Harry closer, and when the boy finally joined him, he whispered lower still: “I happen to be… Lacking a reason to be your foe right now. So let’s call this… An investment in our future.”

Harry stared at the aristocrat in bewilderment, but Malfoy only turned away again, steering his son by the shoulder and Potter by the arm as they moved toward the bank.

As they passed an ice-cream parlor, a hesitant call drifted from the side, followed by a louder shout:

“Harry?… Harry!”

At the far table sat a sunburned, cheerful Hermione Granger next to a rather nervous couple  – probably her parents. The moment she spotted Harry, her face lit up and she jumped to her feet, but her smile vanished the instant she noticed who was with him. Lord Malfoy, catching the direction of Harry’s glance, led both boys closer to the café, halting beside Hermione’s table. His sharp gaze swept over the Grangers, and his mouth curved in an amused smirk as he released Harry’s arm, allowing the boy to hug his friend.

“And this is, if Draco is ever helpful, must be miss Granger? Muggle-born, and her non-magical parents… Hardly the fitting company for Britain’s helpless hero. Still, far preferable to some other...”

Hermione’s parents exchanged puzzled looks and glanced at their flushed daughter. Harry merely sighed and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Malfoy?!” came Mr. Weasley’s irritated voice from somewhere behind them. Lucius sighed once more and turned to look closely at Harry.

“Seems I may have jumped to conclusions again, haven’t I?” he murmured to the boy, then faced the reddening Weasleys as they hurried up. “Arthur. Well, this is a surprise to see you not in the Ministry at this hour. Working hard or hardly working? Or are you conducting raids on local businesses now out of sheer boredom?”

“Lucius. No, the Department’s quite busy. With your generosity, the raids may become an annual inspection,” Mr. Weasley growled, trying hard to keep himself calm.

Harry blinked in slight confusion. He had never yet seen the man this enraged.

“I rather doubt that, Arthur. I hope the Ministry will not bite the hand that feeds it. I do not think the Council will be pleased by frequent intrusions into private affairs.”

“The Department will decide what it will do without your counsel.”

“I am merely warning you, Arthur. As a member of the Council – from which your family was excluded… over what again? Ah yes… your enthusiastic experiments in corrupting magical blood. I do hope you’ve ceased those unsafe practices. If not, I shall be happy to remind the Department of Mysteries that you have not learned your lesson,” Lucius said with that cold, even tone, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s face. Mr. Weasley went instantly pale and hissed through his teeth, growing angrier.

Harry blinked again. Department of Mysteries? Was it somehow connected to the car or what?

“What are you doing here, Lucius?!”

The aristocrat laid a light hand on Harry’s shoulder and inclined the boy toward him, drawing him closer.

“I was merely assisting a mutual acquaintance out of an unpleasant situation, Arthur. And spending some time with my son. Is that illegal now?”

Arthur’s face flamed crimson; he ground his teeth, barely containing his fury.

“Take your hands off Harry Potter.”

“Or what? Will the next raid be on my manor?” Lucius taunted. “Or will you.. ” he paused with a derisive smile and a mocking gasp, “... lay a hand on me?”

Mr. Weasley could not hold back and lunged forward, but Harry was a fraction quicker. He threw himself between the two men – furious Arthur and the cold, composed (but clearly as recless) Lucius spreading his arms protectively.

“Stop. Not here, at least not in public,” the boy snapped. “Mr. Weasley!” 

Arthur flinched and stepped back beneath Harry’s reproachful stare. 

“I got lost using the Floo Network. Lord Malfoy and Draco helped me find Diagon Alley and then Hermione. If it weren't for them… I don't know where I'd be now. I owe Lord Malfoy. If not my life, then my health. So please, could we... Calm down all together?”

Arthur forced himself to steady, unclenching his raised fist. Lucius showed no surprise at Harry’s intervention; his eyes slid over the indignant Weasleys with languid interest until they fell on Ginny, who had edged herself into a corner opposite the family. 

The girl looked tense and weirdly jittery – fussing with the cord of her faded pink dress and watching the crowd with a hint of anxiety. Lucius regarded her for a little over ten seconds, then looked down toward the battered little cauldron she had slung over her arm like a purse. It looked filled with school books, but clearly lacking some. The man reached into his pocket, produced a small parcel, touched it once with his wand, and it expanded into a neat stack of brand-new books with bright covers.

Lucius gave a faint smile and set a few brighter books into the startled girl’s cauldron, entirely ignoring her still-seething father.

“Malfoy, hands off my daughter!” Arthur snapped, shoving Harry aside and winding up to strike the “insolent Malfoy’s” face.

But Lucius’s reflexes were unusually fast. He stepped aside, pivoted, and caught Arthur’s swinging fist in his palm. Gently guiding Arthur’s arm away, Lucius exhaled slowly, his voice calm and controlled.

“Calm yourself, would you, Arthur?”

“What did you do? We want nothing from you.. you’ve probably…”

“...What? Am trying to curse a child?” Malfoy Sr. finished for him with a crooked smile. “Those are that golden buffoon’s set of books my elf already purchased. Frankly, a waste of good money that you clearly do not have to spare, as I can see. It’s not a mockery, really, think of it like this: I feel sorry for your girl. You wouldn’t be as cruel to deny her education, would you?.”

Shaking off Arthur’s clenched hand, Lucius Malfoy brushed down his sleeve with deliberate care and placed a guiding hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Draco, we’re leaving. We’ve no time to waste here. I will owl the bookshop to get you another set. Maybe in a proper leather bind, those looked quite cheap to me.”

The boy nodded, and the Malfoys turned toward the door. Harry muttered a quick apology to the Weasleys and hurried after them.

“Lord Malfoy!”

“Yes?” Lucius glanced back, feigning the faintest trace of surprise.

“…Thank you. For, well, your help and all,” Harry smiled simply and inclined his head with respect. To his astonishment, the man paused and returned the gesture with a courteous half-nod.

“Always at your service,” he replied, straightening at once. Then, turning back toward the exit, he looked over his shoulder for only a moment, a wide smile breaking across his face. With that, the Malfoy men swept proudly from the café, leaving half the patrons in bemusement, the Weasleys fuming, and Harry utterly stunned.

The rest of the day passed without great incident. Mrs. Weasley, of course, grew terribly worried when she noticed his limp and was ready to blame the Malfoys outright – until she inspected the quality of the bandage. At once, she admitted the treatment had been timely, perhaps preventing a dangerous infection. Under her vigilant care, Harry bought himself a salve for quick healing and a few clean rolls of bandages. Until Hogwarts, he would have to bear it as best he could.

He had missed the family’s book-buying excursion, so he went later with Hermione, while the Weasleys were busy in the apothecary and Arthur escorted the Grangers to celebrate their new acquaintance at the Leaky Cauldron. 

Flourish and Blotts was in chaos, all noise and press of bodies around a pompous, golden-haired wizard signing stacks of books. The spectacle reminded Harry uncomfortably of Aunt Petunia’s beloved tabloid interviews. The preening author, Gilderoy Lockhart, had penned their entire Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum – and, spotting Harry in the crowd, managed to drag him into the spotlight. Poor Harry’s sour face was surely destined to appear in the papers beside “The Most Dazzling Smile Awarded by Witch Weekly.” And when that “smile” proclaimed himself their new Defense teacher, Harry found himself longing, of all things, for Quirrell. And fully understanding why Malfoy Sr. deemed those books to be a waste of good money – the titles alone sounded quite obnoxious.

Later, tired but content, the two friends settled at the same ill-fated table and each ordered a scoop of ice cream. While they ate, Hermione peppered Harry with endless questions about his holiday. So far, he had only trusted her with the story of the changed Dursleys and little Olivia. Hermione’s joy and happiness for him were genuine; the smile never left her face.

“That’s wonderful, but… it’s not the whole story, is it, Harry?” she squinted, picking a small piece from her ice cream. “You did write most of this in your letters… But the last one was a bit… distant. You only wrote a few lines, practically about nothing. Did something happen? Did they fight with you again or something?”

Harry couldn’t help, but feel warmer. He could always trust Hermione to be that perceptive voice of sanity. She did know him so much, despite anything. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t want to share the secret about Phil with her – nor with anyone, really. It felt almost like jealousy, but in reality Harry was more concerned if anyone would believe him even. He knew Hermione would, but also he knew she could be looking at this situation more with concern. Honestly, he already had enough doubts in his own sanity right now as it is. 

So, he lied.

“See… I met one of the neighbor’s kids. We got along quite well. But the day before I left, we had an argument. He couldn’t believe that… the Dursleys are actually treating me better. He… hm, he believed what others said about them and couldn’t trust me. I got angry and, I think, offended him. We never reconciled and I don’t know if he is ignoring my letters or just not receiving them.”

Hermione listened attentively, nodding in understanding. When Harry finished, she frowned for a moment, then cautiously suggested:

“To be honest, Harry, you do tend to be… Defensive.”

“Is it a bad thing? You make it sound as it is.” Harry pouted stubbornly, setting aside his ice cream.

“You see, it is neither bad nor particularly great on its own, but the way you act can sometimes be “much”. It’s just a thing that you do, nothing wrong with this. I do understand where you come from in this, but others… Others prefer to have more information before committing to trust. It does sound like your friend has been wronged before and now only trust proof. Faith alone isn’t proof for them, but public opinion… even if often mistaken, it’s easier for them to trust. So maybe he just needs to have more interactions with your family and more time to judge all of the opinions before changing his own.”

Harry looked at his friend in surprise, but the thought seemed reasonable – especially regarding Phil. The artifact never displayed emotions; mostly, it just recited the facts it knew. Perhaps it simply didn’t know how to believe. Or it found belief difficult.

Same for Harry himself. Maybe he needed to learn how to wield his emotions and judge more with his head instead. It was a good start, at least.

“Thanks… I guess I’ll try it, Hermione. Thanks for the advice.”

“You’re welcome, Harry,” she said, smiling and gently squeezing his hand. “I had a situation like that too, but it worked out. You’ll manage.”

“I hope so,” Harry said, faintly smiling, then quickly changed the subject. “Enough about me. How were your holidays?”

Hermione immediately launched into an enthusiastic account of beautiful Venice, the mysterious town of Bari, and the Basilica of Saint Nicholas located there. Harry didn’t pay close attention – she’d already described much of it in her letters. He simply nodded and smiled, watching the contented expression on her face, the other café patrons, and the passersby. He missed this.

Yet, something still was amiss.

“Why do I keep feeling like I’m being watched? Paranoia creeping in…” Harry’s eyes drifted across figures cloaked in various robes, searching for familiar faces. At one point, he even thought he saw Dobby directly across from them in the crowd. The vision made his eyes widen in surprise – and then it vanished into the flowing mass of people.

Harry frowned briefly, deciding it was only his imagination. Hermione’s voice grew a little louder as she waved her hand in front of his face. Harry flinched, then looked at her again.

“Yes, I’m listening…”

“Harry, I finished talking like two minutes ago. What’s wrong with you?” The girl asked, frowning thoughtfully. “Are you sure the Malfoys didn’t put a spell on you?”

“No, Hermione. Surprisingly… they were very… helpful, actually. As unbelievable as it sounds,” Harry tried to choose his words, shaking his head in surrender. “Well, I had the thought. But you won’t believe it – in the presence of his father, Malfoy is quite… reasonable. Or rather, he just acts like a lesser prick as he usually is.”

“Harry, but the most dangerous one wasn’t Draco – it was Mr. Malfoy. I read newspaper clippings in the library – Malfoy’s father was a suspected Death Eater. He did claim to be under some spell, but you never know. He looked dangerous when he delivered you here.” Hermione murmured, leaning over the table so that her thick hair almost brushed the small dish of cranberry sauce served with their ice cream.

Harry carefully moved the dish away and looked at his friend, recalling something.

“By the way… Aunt Petunia told me a story. Imagine that, but she thinks Snape was also a Death Eater and actually knew my mother very well. But they quarreled about something closer to the end of the school. And then he, supposedly, joined Voldemort.”

“Well, it’s entirely possible he knew your mother – he’s about thirty-five, right? He could have studied at Hogwarts at the same time. But the rest… He’s unpleasant, sure, but I don’t think he could have been a Death Eater. Dumbledore would have known and wouldn’t have allowed him to teach,” Hermione said, shaking her head, waving toward the approaching Weasleys.

“Better he wouldn’t have been allowed. One less problem,” Harry muttered, waving weakly back at the red-haired family with a faint smile.

Still… why does the headmaster allow a dark wizard to teach at Hogwarts? Does he know about his past? Surely he does. Odd as he is, he’s observant enough. Would that mean Harry should rely on his own opinion or try and look at Snape the other way? 

No, that’s a bit too much to ask. If Harry could believe Malfoy being less of an evil incarnate, he would not be able to believe Snape did not hate his guts.

They finished ice cream in a content silence until the redheads appeared on the horizon again. With the Weasleys now in sight, Hermione was handed over to her exhausted parents. The Grangers exited the Leaky Cauldron onto the Muggle side, and Molly quickly arranged for the use of the fireplace.

This time Harry carefully stowed his glasses in the now-heavy shopping bag and stepped into the cold green flame, a look of genuine disgust on his face.

By Merlin’s knickers, how he hated Floo…

Chapter Text

The last week of summer break turned out to be very eye-opening for Harry. By now, he could confidently describe Petunia Dursley’s personal version of hell and, horrifyingly, share the sentiment.

Ever since that memorable trip to Diagon Alley, every single member of the Weasley family seemed to see it as their solemn, daily duty to pat the boy on the shoulder and sadly declare: “Poor Harry. A whole hour in the company of the Malfoys…”. At first, Harry had tried to explain what had really happened, but he soon gave up - oddly enough, none of them seemed willing to believe in the “redeeming qualities” of Slytherins. The twins were making it into a joke, Ron was generally suspicious and the elder Weasleys were mostly dismissive. That was a little disheartening.

There were other disappointments too. Harry had never been much of a sound sleeper, but for the first few days he had somehow managed to rest well enough. Now, however, Ron’s thunderous snoring was leaving him with ghastly bags under his eyes and a distinctly unfriendly mood each morning. Which was honestly fine - a good reminder before they set back into dorms, but nevertheless. No less irritating was Mrs. Weasley’s smothering care, which seemed designed to feed him straight to death. Oddly enough, in this large, not particularly wealthy family, there was always plenty of food. 

The twins’ teasing didn’t help either. Very quickly, their peculiar sense of humor began to feel a little dark – and more than a little hurtful. Take their latest trick with the water that turned into a swarm of spiders in Ron’s glass. How they’d managed it without magic, Harry had no idea – and he wasn’t amused in place of his friend. To make matters worse, his unruly hair had miraculously grown overnight, revealing the results of a spontaneous surge of accidental magic: pale, ashen roots for all the family to see. From that moment on, the teasing escalated. Along with the daily pats on the shoulder came: “It’s a deadly virus! You’re turning into a Malfoy! Let’s check your neck – maybe they bit you?”

Mrs. Weasley hadn’t been able to lift the supposed “curse,” so Harry was now stuck with his pale, un-dyed roots. His only hope lay with Professor McGonagall.

By the end of the week, the only Weasleys who hadn’t become a trial to his sleep-deprived nerves were Percy – who rarely left his room, but when he did, he was not much of a talker – and Ginny, who seemed to avoid Harry’s presence on purpose, somehow sensing wherever Potter was nearby. Weird, that one.

On the final night, Harry once again lay wide awake. To the rhythm of Ron’s syrupy snoring, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to put his finger on what exactly was bothering him this much. He liked the family, really, his friend was great, but… He really missed the secluded space of his own room and a time to his own means.

“The world really is going mad… Malfoy helps out and the Weasleys… I can’t make sense of them at all. Maybe I should have asked Phil what his reason was? There’s no smoke without fire, Hermione’s right,” he thought, frowning slightly as he smoothed his fringe. He closed his eyes – only to let out a nearly soundless cry, drowned immediately by one of Ron’s loudest snores yet.

/ Exactly. Adept, you should have heeded my opinion at once instead of waiting for the perfectly obvious “advice” of a young witch,/ came the quiet, sardonic snort in the depths of his mind – a remark in the finest traditions of Phil.

“What..? Wait…” Harry darted a glance at the sleeping Ron and rose quietly from the bed. Snatching up a small candlestick that lit itself at its owner’s need, he slipped quietly into the corridor and made his way to the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he set the candle on the sink before the mirror and ran his hand softly across its surface.

“Phil?” He called softly. Here Harry could speak freely. The twins had once let slip that strong silencing charms had been placed on the bathroom ever since Percy had acquired the unfortunate habit of singing in the shower. “Where have you been?!”

The reflection shuddered, rippling like water. When the distortion stilled, a familiar pale face emerged on the surface of the mirror, flickering in the trembling light of the candle. Phil ignored the indignant outburst and abruptly changed the subject:

/ Not now. There are much more serious things I need to ask you. Tell me, Adept… How dare you make THAT bargain?! / Amber eyes, bright with unmasked anger, fixed on Harry’s bewildered face.

“What bargain? What are you even talking about?”

/ At first I thought it was something about our connection, as something wouldn’t let me settle in your mind. All this time I’ve been trying to understand the reason, until I slipped deeper into your mind. Between your sleep and waking I felt IT. Adept, this is vile. How did you allow this to happen? You’re only twelve, for Merlin’s sake. /

“Look, I honestly don’t understand what you are talking about. While I do appreciate you dropping that bougie talk… Could you start over, please?” Harry frowned and rubbed his neck.

/ I’m talking about that soul tick attached to your mind. It’s weak and feeble, but its influence spread way more than it should have. How long do you host it? This is Borrowed Magic, Adept. Very dark and very impairing. / Phil inhaled sharply, though his gaze did not soften. / How could you possibly have agreed to become a Horcrux? /

“A Hor… what? Phil, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What is this ‘Horcrux’ of yours?” Harry frowned at the reflection, 

/ You… don’t know? / For the first time, the artifact seemed truly taken aback. Its habitual mask of indifference slipped, revealing genuine shock and a hint of concern.

“Honestly. Is it some curse or what?”

The reflections crossed his arms and paced a bit from one side of the mirror to another, as if contemplating something. Harry waited patiently, until Phil finally got to talking again.

/ A Horcrux is a last resort ritual. More precisely, it’s a result of said ritual. A fragment of a soul sealed inside an object for safekeeping. As long as it exists, the wizard can be reborn. This ritual was bartered by mages, who wanted a second change in case of a battle gone wrong, but long since it lost its true meaning. It is rare, forbidden knowledge, Adept. I very much hope you truly have no idea what I’m speaking of. /

Harry stared blankly, horrified, at the reflection, trying to process the monstrous detail of his own existence.

“I… somehow made this Horcrux?”

/ No. You’re only a vessel. You carry a shard of soul that looks different from your own. The worst of it is how small it is. This wasn’t the first time his soul was split. At least the fourth Horcrux of that wizard. Tell me, what kind of madman – and suicidal at that – would do such a thing…/

“So… let me get this straight,” Harry exhaled slowly, trying to summarize. “Right now, inside me, there’s a fragment of another wizard’s soul? Is it dangerous? Can I get rid of it somehow?”

/ Regretfully, this knowledge was banned even before my creation, Adept. I do not know, if it can be cast away. From what I see and feel, it doesn’t actively try to harm you. It simply leeches from you, feeding faintly on your life and your magic – but in the smallest measure. Even I might be costing you more. / 

Phil’s finger hovered to his own forehead, mirroring the place where Harry bore the cause of all his misfortunes - the lightning-shaped scar. 

/ Here lies the seal, the chain of an anchor. /

Harry stared at the reflection and instinctively reached his hand to his forehead, cautiously rubbing on the cursed mark. 

“It must be Voldemort’s. Of course, it would be exactly my luck…”

/ Voldemort? Quite possible, if you truly are Harry Potter. / The reflected face sharpened at once, curiosity flaring, eyes narrowing in calculating thought.

Harry, unsettled, studied the boy’s features in silence. In the dim glow of the enchanted candle, the reflection looked especially eerie. The gilded frame of the mirror curled with twisting lines, as if ivy had overrun the edges of a small window. Phil appeared far too real to pass for a simple reflection. The glass itself seemed to swallow the flickers of flame, as though a fathomless void stretched behind the artifact’s figure.

“Very impressive,” Harry muttered with a crooked smile, waving the candle before the mirror to test whether any glint would appear.

/ Mm? Adept, don’t waste time on trifles. You may have the spirit of Voldemort lodged in your head, and here you are amusing yourself with the law of light refraction, / Phil murmured, gaze fixed on some point just above Harry’s shoulder. / I am starting to see where your issues lie - truly a case of Pixie’s Affliction. Try to concentrate on me for once. Be serious. /

“Phil. Let’s just set this aside for now. We’ll think of what to do about it later, if you say it doesn’t really hurt me. It would explain why I had reactions to Quirell though… Anyway, tell me instead why did you call it “Borrowed magic”? Is it some type of dark arts?”

/ Adept, as I’ve said, this is Obtained Magic. Or Borrowed Magic, Bestowed Gift, Lent Craft… The meaning stays with any of the names it earned with time. This means this magic was simply not invented by wizards alone. It is not a spell, but a ritual. It is granted – by Magic itself – for a price. /

“You make it sound as if magic has a face. I thought it was just… a phenomenon.”

/ Are you joking? What do they even teach you at that school? /  Phil frowned, closing his eyes with a sigh. A shiver ran down Harry’s back, as the moment looked too much like their old evenings at the cupboard. That was the face Phil wore when he was “searching” for information he needed. Or rather trying to find words to convey it.

At last, the reflection opened his eyes and began:

/ Magic is an unfathomable force. Among Muggles it has been called the Devil’s trick or the gift of gods. But for wizards, Magic has always been a gift granted by blood and fate. Ask any wizard what magic truly is, and they could not give you the same answer. Some claim it a birth right, some - as a gift cherished. Something was there first to grant the gift - in order for it to grow and pass down generations. Wizards have always hungered for knowledge. Spells were preserved in family books or shared with apprentices who proved their worth. The aim of every wizard was to learn, to shape the impossible, to make the gift their own. That hunger drove them to experiment, and so new charms and new rituals were born of intuition, trial, and error. Born out of human effort, skill, and persistence. /

Phil’s voice carried through Harry’s mind with a tremor he could not ignore. There was passion in it, the kind that bordered on reverence, and it reminded Harry uncomfortably of Snape’s first lecture on the subtle craft of potion-making. Passionate, intoxicated with awe, almost dramatic.

/ Yet even the best wizards of old time could conquer the best of the best. None of the crafted magic could fully command the most unruly forces of all: emotion and intimacy, faith and loyalty, death and the birth of new life. Wizards proved unable to create anything that might truly conquer death, cure barrenness, or kindle soul in a way love could. From that failure grew belief in a Being of limitless power, a presence that was Magic itself. Wixen whispered that if it could be invoked rightly, it might bestow what their own craft could not. /

Phil’s tone deepened, carrying both gravity and wonder.

/ Each wizard called this being by a different name and prayed to it in moments of despair. Only the oldest wizarding families now preserve the ancient scrolls bearing its “forbidden name” and not even half of them realise what those are for. The ritual surrounding that name is also known as Enochian magic –Its essence was supplication and bargain, cloaked as summoning. A naive idea of a man, thinking the Magic can be commanded and reasoned with./

He paused, as though weighing whether to go on, then continued more quietly.

/Long time ago my creator crossed paths with two squib brothers from an old German wizarding family, the Grimms. Weak and aware that magic would end with them, they retreated ever more deeply into the Muggle world. It was there that they wrote a book of wonders and enchantments wrapped into a collection of classic fairy tales for Muggles.

One of those tales spoke of a creature that could spin straw into gold. One brother confessed to my creator that the story was in fact an oral legend passed down in their family. The creature in the tale bore the name Rumpelstiltskin. My creator believed that to be their “forbidden name.” Soon after, both brothers died one after the other of inexplicable causes. One can only suppose it was their punishment for revealing the name. To this day, goblins still search for an heir of the Grimm line. /

Phil’s voice dropped lower, as his reflection leaned closer to the edge of a mirror, suddenly looking much taller than he was. A shadow of something unreadable flickered in his tone.

/This being truly can grant any wish. But its price is immense. The knowledge of Horcruxes too was gained through such a bargain. Its cost was the wizard’s reason and peace of mind. He would live in constant fear for his soul until he destroyed himself. I have no idea how your Dark Lord could have learned of this. Perhaps from the heir of that dark wizard who first made the bargain or from a book left by someone, who shared the knowledge… / 

Phil exhaled at last, calmer now, though his gaze on Harry carried a trace of concern.

/Were you listening, Adept? Or do I need to make it plainer? /

“I’ve never heard anything like this before…” Harry muttered, biting his lip and sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, legs suddenly weak. The tale sounded unbelievable, and yet understandable.

/ Of course you haven’t. After the Grimm affair centuries ago, Sacred families began to hide the names, and in time most simply forgot. The wixen are no longer as hungry for invention as they once were. They drown themselves instead in normalcy, in habit, in taking their gift for granted. Much of what was once won by risk and sacrifice has been burned, censored, or quietly erased, as if it were safer never to have existed. Whole generations bled to gather those fragments of knowledge, and yet their heirs smothered them in fear, preferring ignorance to peril. A sad irony, is it not, Adept? What began as hunger for power withered into polite comfort, into soft prayers repeated without thought… the husk of something once far more dangerous. A magic kind with no passion for a wonder. /

“And the Flamels have a name as well?” Harry breathed, astonished, then fell silent for a few minutes, turning it over in his mind. “That’s… something. It means he could ask for anything at any time, even if it costs him. But why would he? He already has immortality and gold, thanks to your knowledge… Wait…”

Phil’s crooked smile deepened as he watched the emotions flicker across his Adept’s face: curiosity, realization, doubt, surprise, fear. Harry shot up from his perch and fixed the mirror with a sharp look.

“You. They have you. Flamel made a bargain – you’re that being!”

Phil let out a small, sorrowful laugh and shook his head.

/ For a moment I almost believed in your powers of deduction, Adept. No. I am not that creature—if that’s what you’re thinking./

Harry let out a small breath of relief, though he still eyed his reflection with suspicion before venturing:

“So… Flamel made a bargain to get you?”

/I doubt he ever intended to receive me – he expected an entirely different outcome. With such bargains, it all depends on the creature’s whim, whether the terms turn out favorable or not. For my creator, it was punishment for his audacity – his wish was granted, yet twisted against him. In this way, I was created./

“Then what did he…” Harry began, but Phil raised a hand in silence. Thin lips curved in a faint smile.

/ Adept, I think this is enough information for a mind of yours. We are done for today. I feel you getting weary, and so I must ask you to rest. Tomorrow will be a hard day./

“You’re just dodging the question again, aren’t you, Phil?” Harry grumbled in mild annoyance, though he didn’t press the matter. He wasn’t about to repeat the same mistake he’d made before.

/ Perhaps./  The artifact gave a shrug, his shirt slipping down a narrow shoulder, and answered evasively without even attempting to lie. /Or perhaps I know how much more you could take before my words will stop making sense to you./

“All right. By the way… About that other matter. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. Maybe it isn’t as simple as I see it. Faith isn’t proof, after all.”

/ Sometimes it isn’t enough. Your friend spoke very wisely. She has a remarkably clear mind. A pity you don’t possess as much clarity. But I guess you win over with passion. /  the artifact remarked with a passing jab, and vanished from the mirror’s surface, leaving Harry staring at his own flushed reflection.

“I’m not an idiot.”

/Who said otherwise?/

“I’m just a little mad,” Harry retorted, mimicking Malfoy’s words, and stuck his tongue out at his reflection.

/ On that point, I’m in full agreement with young Malfoy./

“You know?”

/ I am always here, even if I tend to keep silent./

“I see…” Harry muttered thoughtfully, cracking the door open to glance into the corridor. It was empty and silent. “Looks like they’re still asleep.”

/Excellent. And it’s time you were, too. Go, Adept./

Harry gave a short snort and padded quietly down the hallway, lighting his way with a candle. He was almost at his door when footsteps suddenly broke the silence – someone was coming out of their room.

Instinct moved faster than thought. Harry snuffed out the candle at once and slipped behind the door opposite – only then recalling it was the door to the attic. Through the narrow crack he could see the neighboring door creak open and Percy step out, yawning. The Gryffindor prefect adjusted his nightcap sleepily and shuffled off toward the bathroom.

When the door closed behind him, Harry let out a breath of relief and leaned against the familiar corridor wall. The candle in his hand flared back to life, casting light on the gloomy staircase above. Harry’s gaze ran over the worn steps, and he recalled how Mrs. Weasley had caught him there before – and how strangely she’d behaved afterwards.

“Maybe I should check, since I’m here…” Curiosity seized him once again, and he lifted the candlestick higher, illuminating the door at the top. But he’d barely taken a single step upward when a sharp voice rang in his head:

/ Stay where you are! The third step—there are alarm wards. One wrong move and you’ll wake the whole house./

The Gryffindor froze obediently, frowning as he whispered:

“Tracking wards? How did you know?”

/As a magical artefact I am gifted with Sight and I can see the weave. Magical currents that sustain long-term spells. You’ll be able to see them too, once you’ve figured out that little trinket around your neck. The Potters often crafted fine magical artifacts, and that skill is impossible without this ability. /

“Figure it out?” Harry’s hand went to the heavy amulet beneath his pajamas. He focused, trying to remember. “Right! There was something about activation… Activation by line…”

/ By blood. The inscription said activation by blood, the detached voice corrected, then added after a pause, Step one stair higher – carefully. I think I can see some kind of aura imprint./

Harry did as asked, slowly, and froze again, waiting for the artifact’s reaction. It came quickly enough.

/What the..?! Adept, go back to your room right now and forget this foolish idea./

That only piqued Harry’s interest further. He craned his neck, narrowing his eyes as though he might pierce the old wooden door with his stare.

“It must be something to make you like that. If I just skip the third step, the wards won’t go off.”

/ Adept, what did I say? GO TO BED. Now./  The voice was rising, as though the reflection were trying to shout at him inside his mind. Harry didn’t want to press too hard, so after a few long moments he gave in. With all the care he could muster, he slipped past Percy’s door and disappeared into the room he shared with Ron.

The redhead was still snoring sweetly, rolled onto his other side. Harry had to content himself with the thought that by tomorrow night he’d be sleeping beneath the thick curtains of his own four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory. But fatigue pressed down on him - his head had barely touched the pillow before he sank into deep slumber.

********

Almost as a divine punishment for his nightly exploits, Harry overslept for breakfast. Even more miraculously, he still ended up much more ready to move than others. So while the Weasleys were frantically running about the house, trying to gather forgotten things, he ate quietly in the kitchen, chewing on a slightly burned toast and watching each of them rush past with the same detached curiosity. Why couldn’t they just pack everything in advance? The thought had clearly never crossed the mind of this chaotic family. Maybe it was part of a charm.

Once Harry had finished his meal, he carried his trunk to the gate himself and cast a critical eye over the little Ford Anglia waiting there. How eight people and six trunks were supposed to fit inside that miniature car was beyond him. But the puzzle was solved the moment Mr. Weasley pressed some new button on the dashboard – the boot swallowed all six trunks at once, and the seats obligingly rearranged themselves to fit another row at the back.

No matter how much they hurried, they still reached the station only fifteen minutes before the train’s departure. Shepherded by Mrs. Weasley, the children spilled onto the platform in a cluster and made straight for the barrier. Molly rushed them all forward, barely stopping for a quick head count and a set of orders.

“I’ll take Ginny. Arthur, you go with Percy. Fred and George – next. Harry and Ron, you follow behind,” the plump woman rattled off before vanishing through the barrier with her daughter. Mr. Weasley and Percy went after,  quickly followed by the twins, hauling both their trunks on a one way too tiny trolley. Time was running thin.

“Harry, come on! One minute left,” Ron whispered breathlessly, glancing around at the passing Muggles to see if anyone was watching. Harry nodded quickly and aimed his trolley at the barrier. The station clock showed two minutes to eleven.

He took a heavy breath, waiting for Ron’s nod, then shoved forward. Both boys picked up speed, pushing their trolleys with all their strength, bracing themselves to sprint for the departing train.

Only for the trolleys to smash into the solid barrier with a deafening crash, immediately catching the attention of the passerbys.

Harry was flung back by the impact, tumbling a few feet before landing flat on his back. Hedwig’s empty cage toppled off the trunk, and Ron, just as stunned, rushed to snatch it up at the last second. The cage still crashed into the side of a trolley, opening up, letting the owl jump out with an angry hoot and fly away after a few people pointed at her. 

“Harry, why didn’t it work?! We should still have time!” Ron threw a panicked glance at the clock, frowning. Harry was about to shrug when a polite cough sounded in his head, followed by a quiet observation:

/ This is definitely elven magic. There is a block on the ward. /

“A mad elf? Then you really are stuck… What’s that got to do with me? My parents made it through, didn’t they?” Ron muttered, glancing nervously at the clock again. “Bloody hell, one minute left. Wait, Harry!”

“What?” Harry asked, blinking up at him as he brushed the dust from his jeans.

“I’ll get Dad, stall the train somehow… Just stay here!” Ron blurted, and before Harry could respond, he dashed at the barrier. In an instant he was gone, swallowed by the wall, leaving Harry stranded in the middle of the station with nothing but his trolley and Hedwig’s empty cage.

The clock struck eleven.

Harry lingered by the barrier. At first he waited patiently, clinging to hope, but with every passing moment his chest tightened. Around him Muggles hurried in a blur of motion, Kings Cross buzzing with life, yet for him time seemed to drag unbearably slow.

The clock chimed again. Harry set Hedwig’s cage back on the trolley, braced himself, and tried the barrier once more. It was as unyielding as solid stone.

He had missed the train.

/ I don’t think your friend is coming back for you. Or do you still wish to argue the point? / Phil’s dry chuckle echoed in his mind, carrying all the certainty of a verdict. Harry found no words to answer.

Chapter Text

/ Adept, stop playing the vengeful martyr and pull yourself together, / Phil drawled somewhat distantly, watching through a small folding mirror as Potter took his anger out on a row of trash bins. The artifact, carefully perched atop the trunk, reflected a narrow corner of the station - where the boy had wheeled his trolley after almost an hour of waiting for the magical barrier to reopen or somebody to remember about him.

Five minutes later, and after several pointed remarks from the reflection, Harry simply snapped. Unfortunate bins and abandoned carts clattered and crashed under his furious blows, spilling their contents across the alley. For ten minutes the twelve-year-old vented his frustration, then another ten arguing heatedly with his unseen companion – until exhaustion dulled both anger and words.

“Sorry, I…desperately needed that.” Harry growled inwardly, dropping onto his trunk and yanking his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. “The train is missed and I am struggling to understand what happened. Did Ron not come back cause the barrier is broken? Or did he manage to get on the train? Did he even call for anyone? There should have been people there…”

/ I hate to interrupt your rather repetitive monologue, Adept, / Phil remarked, his tone a mix of smug amusement and faint melancholy, / but there’s very little good in that Gryffindor trust in people to begin with. Still, don’t take it to heart. Let me ask a rhetorical question – did you even truly believe that he would come back for you?/

Harry exhaled slowly, reluctant agreement in the motion, and gave a tired, humorless snort as he slipped the round glasses back on. Again, the artifact truly knew how to press his buttons.

“I’m starting to think you can’t trust anyone in this world. Not your family, not your friends, not your teachers. Everything around is just one big swamp of stinking lies and it is solely my responsibility to get myself out of it.”

/ Easy there, Adept, you start sounding rather Slytherin. You’ve only been ditched by a friend, but you’re rehearsing the tragic soliloquy of a forsaken maiden./

“Shut up,” Harry rasped, drawing his knees closer and gripping the edges of his trunk with white-knuckled fingers. Phil was not helping the attempts to get his emotions under control. The ire was slowly bubbling back to the surface again, now directed to the frustrating assumptions the Artifact had.

/ Next on the list, I assume, will be a grand scene of outrage, a few tears, an over dramatic plan of getting to school, some smashing of pottery, and a passionate reconciliation after a couple of overused pleas for forgiveness from the redhead, / the artifact added acidly, leaning against the mirror’s frame as it observed the chaos Potter had made.

Harry fell silent for a moment, then asked flatly. “Why pottery?”

/ Golden plates don’t break, /  the reflection replied without interest, frowning in puzzlement at whatever the boy said next.

“You’re wrong.”

/ Why? Gold is a malleable metal. By hardness it’s not much different from a human fingernail, so I doubt that… /

“No, not that,” the boy said slowly, a wry smile playing across his lips as he ruffled his now two-toned hair. “There will be no scenes, as I am not hysterical.”

/ Adept, I’ve known you for two months now. Believe me, I know how this ends./ Phil said with a certain sadness to his tone. / While you may not be neurotic, you are hyper as any other teenager is. This is frustrating, but an acceptable emotional response to the betrayal./

“And that’s where you’re wrong.”

/ Oh? The boy means to nurse a grudge? Hey, what are you../

The reflection flickered as Potter snatched up the little mirror from atop his trunk and held it close to his face, staring into it with absolute certainty.

“I was not betrayed. I am angry, yes, but at the situation as it is. It is frustrating how it is always me, who has some circumstances to go through. But I never expect anyone else to bear them with me. Ron is fine. I understand if he was not ready to ditch the train just because I had issues with boarding it. It is quite likely his parents apparated and he ran on the train to get Percy or someone to help, but didn’t manage on time. It is fine, he would know better than to try to overcome the Potter's luck. He will have a chance, though. Don’t believe me? I’ll make you a wager.”

/ Go on, / the artifact’s eyes glinted with sudden interest, betraying its excitement.

“By the end of this year there will be at least 3 more incidents where I would be a lucky victim. In the most obnoxious way. If I am right, I get to ask a few questions about you.” Harry tried to make a fun out of it, to bury the hatchet and change the focus.

Weirdly, Phil seemed way more serious.

/ And if not, then you, Harry James Potter, will grant me one request. Any request I choose. A single favour in exchange for a story. Mote it be./ On the far side of the glass, a hand extended toward him.

“Em… Sure. So be it.” Harry pressed his fingers to the mirrored surface, feeling the chill radiate from it. A jolt like static electricity ran up his fingertips; he flinched and almost dropped the artifact. It felt exactly like the moment in the clinic when they pricked his finger for blood for school health check - that sharp, dragging ache at the tip and the unpleasant pull of something taken. The sensation lingered for several seconds before it dissolved completely.

He lifted his hand to his eyes, inspecting his fingers as though expecting to find a mark, but there was nothing.

“What was that, Phil?”

/ You struck a bargain with me. Fear not, this is not one of the dangerous pacts I warned you about. It simply formed a new bond between us. / The reflection reappeared on the slightly misted glass, its voice belated but calm.

“A new bond. Let me guess, you can see it, can’t you? Is it like a thread or..?”

/ This one looks more like a thin chain. Threads are for relationships. You’ll understand the difference in time, Adept. /

Unexpectedly, the anger was gone. A strange calm settled over him, as if the part of him that had still wanted to be angry at everything had simply vanished. As though it had been just another step upward – and he’d finally crossed it.

“Okay, I am officially above waiting.” Harry shrugged, then remembered where he actually was. “Hey, is there any other way wizards travel?”

/ Well, there are the Floo Network, Apparition, and Portkeys, but none of those will help you right now. You could call the Knight Bus. /

Harry groaned and climbed off his trunk, tucking the mirror carefully into his backpack. Pushing his trolley out of the alley, he steered it back through the crowded station, dodging bags and elbows, his voice low and calm – in this noise, no one would hear him anyway.

“The Knight Bus? But it’s the middle of the day…”

/ The Knight Bus is an enchanted triple-decker ‘for witches and wizards in need of emergency transport.’ It can take you anywhere in the world that isn’t underwater. It moves through interspatial folds, so it’ll get you to Hogsmeade quite quickly and would not gather much attention from muggles. To summon it, just raise your wand in a quiet alley. You’ve got gold on you, haven’t you? The fare isn’t cheap, but you can afford it. /

“I see. And that doesn’t count as underage magic?” Harry muttered under his breath, dodging a tall foreigner’s suitcase.

/ No, you’re not the one casting any spells./

“Perfect. So all I need is to find an empty alley.”

That, however, turned out to be much easier said than done. The people around him barely noticed the boy, bumping him with their bags or shoving past in the rush for the exit. By the time Harry finally made it out through the station gates, he was tired and a bit rumpled. The hardest part was finding that elusive “empty alley.”

After another half-hour of cautious weaving through the parking area with his trolley, Harry finally turned into a small, forgotten corner of the street – a dead-end lined with bins, boxed in on two sides by blank brick walls and closed off by a short iron fence.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Harry reached into his backpack and drew his new wand. The pale wood warmed his palm, releasing a small burst of blue sparks into the air: a brief, wordless greeting for its master.

“She really does feel alive. And it feels like mine,” Harry whispered, almost in awe, turning the wand over in his hand. “Hard to believe they make these to order. Strange, really.. how one wand can suit more than one wizard.”

He glanced around once more, stepping back toward the grimy wall. “So I just... wave it?”

/ Yes, just wave,/ Phil replied, his voice calm and detached as ever.

Harry carefully lifted his hand and sliced the air with the wand. A shower of sparks flared and drifted down, glowing faintly before fading away.

Nothing happened.

Harry frowned, tried again. Once, twice – and still, the alley remained stubbornly quiet. Then, without warning, an ear-splitting bang shattered the air. A blinding flash of lightning erupted right in front of him, and the shockwave knocked him clean off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the dirty pavement. He let out a low whistle of surprise.

Towering before him stood an enormous, triple-decker bus painted a violently bright shade of purple. In the grimy glass of the door, someone peered out; a moment later it swung open, and a lanky young man with a face full of acne stepped forward.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus! Transport for witches and wizards stranded in difficult situations! Just stick out your wand hand and hop aboard – we’ll get you anywhere you like! I’m Stan Shunpike, your conductor this fine evening!”

Stan straightened his scarlet cap with an air of importance, watching the boy who was still sitting dazedly on the ground. The silence stretched a bit too long before he finally seemed to notice Harry’s luggage and quickly hauled the trunk and cage up into the bus.

“So, kid, where’re you headed? That’s a school trunk, innit? Missed the train, did you?”

“Yeah… something like that, sir,” Harry muttered awkwardly, silently cursing Dobby for good measure as he took the offered hand.

Inside, the bus looked oddly like a train carriage: narrow sofas along the walls, a little table in the middle, luggage racks overhead, and even curtains fluttering over the wide windows. It felt almost like a cheap imitation of the Hogwarts Express.

The thought of everyone laughing and chatting on the real train right now twisted something bitter in his chest – a flare of hurt and anger that must have shown on his face, because Stan gave him a sympathetic look.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Happens sometimes, though not often. Why didn’t you just owl your Head of House and wait at home? They’d’ve picked you up the next day! C’mon, sit here,” he said, plopping Harry onto a seat before yelling toward the front, “All right, Ern! We’re headed Hogwarts-way. Got a straggler here – name’s… what’s your name, kid?”

“Me? Uh… Phil,” Harry blurted out the first name that came to mind, caught off guard by how quickly things had turned. “Phil Stone.”

Stan didn’t seem to notice the hesitation – mainly because the driver had just slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The bus launched forward. There was no other word for it.

“These wizards are absolute lunatics,” Harry thought, clutching the table for dear life as the world outside turned into a blur of streets, lampposts, and the occasional car that bounced harmlessly off the enchanted frame. With every violent swerve, Hedwig’s empty cage slid from one side of the luggage rack to the other, clattering noisily with every hit.

The conductor, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease – he leaned over the low barrier separating the seats and now watched the new passenger with genuine curiosity.

“So, Phil… Your last name… You’re Muggle-born, right? Makes sense you panicked. What House?”

“Ravenclaw,” Harry mumbled quietly, continuing his string of lies.

“No way, with that hair?” The conductor reached toward his fringe, pointing at the ashy roots, but Harry flinched back at once and smoothed his hair down, hiding his scar. “Alright, alright, don’t get jumpy, rebel. How’s the wizarding world treating you? Getting used to it?”

“Not really…” More than anything, Harry wanted silence and solitude, but Stan didn’t seem to take the hint and kept chatting away, pulling short answers out of him now and then.

The bus roared down the road, swerving sharply and jumping bridges. After about twenty minutes of this, Harry got used to the feeling, but still felt a bit wheezy. The hot cup of cocoa helped a bit and felt like the absolute best money spent.

It took some time to arrive to the correct place. Harry even had a chance to nap for a bit, only to be shaken into awakeness when another violent stop and Stan’s cheerful shout announced their arrival. Slipping a extra few sickles into the conductor’s hand, Harry grabbed his trunk and stumbled out onto an unfamiliar street.

“Hey, Phil! Want me to call your Head of House? The station is down that way, but I don’t think the carriages won’t be here for at least another hour or two.”

“No, no, thank you. I’ll wait…” Potter quickly waved off the offer and dragged his trunk away from the bizarre bus. Stan only shrugged, and moments later the Knight Bus vanished in a flash of light.

Harry was deeply relieved to finally sit down and breathe. The rough ride had worn him out fast, and now all he wanted was a moment of quiet and a solid bench – thankfully, the platform was full of them.

No train in sight. Judging by the time, it had at least three or four hours to go, so there was no point in watching for it. Better to spend that time thinking things through.

Harry hadn’t lied when he said he bore no real grudge against Ron for failing to come back for him. Not everything was possible when you were still a child. He could even understand if Ron had his reasons to run for help. But deep down, Harry also knew one simple truth: if their places were reversed, he wouldn’t have crossed that barrier in the first place. Leaving a friend behind just wouldn’t have felt right. So, even if he wasn’t angry… he couldn’t help being a little disappointed.

It wasn’t a new feeling. Lately, Harry had been thinking over many things, and his friendships were high on that list.

Ron… How had he never noticed before how different they really were? Their common ground had been Quidditch and a shared taste for adventure, but sometimes it felt like that was all they truly had in common. And it wasn’t as if Ron was the problem. Harry knew he was, too. Ron just couldn’t always understand the way Harry saw things – not because he didn’t care, but because he’d grown up in a happy home. Maybe not a rich one, but filled with things Harry would have traded every galleon in his vault for.

Friends. Brothers. Parents. A childhood surrounded by magic and warmth. All the things Harry had envied and longed for. He’d barely managed to make peace with his own relatives after nine years of living as the family’s forgotten child. So, in truth, Harry had clung to Ron more than redhead did – not just for friendship, but for a glimpse of something normal, something that felt like home.

And when he thought about it now, he realized he hadn’t even known Ron was truly his friend until the night of the Forbidden Corridor fiasco. Ron had been his first real friend and Hermione was the first person to sit with him not because he was the “Boy Who Lived”, but just because he was Harry. It would never change. That part still mattered. It always would.

But now, as everything around him began to feel heavier with things changing, the expectations evolving, the magic becoming more and more enticing – Harry couldn’t help wondering if that friendship could survive the person he was slowly becoming. Maybe this was what growing up felt like. A sad reality of realizing that the people who once made you feel safe couldn’t always follow where you were going.

Still, Harry hoped they would. He didn’t want to lose Ron, not really. But if he had to walk forward alone for a while, he would. He was used to that.

Except, he wasn’t quite alone anymore, was he?

There was Phil. A voice that wasn’t really a voice, more like a steady pulse of thought that always found him in the quiet hours. Sometimes teasing, sometimes mocking, sometimes impossibly old, but always there. Phil didn’t fill the silence, not exactly, but he helped to forget about it. Even if the artifact very clearly had his own agenda, Harry was grateful for the company. It was much easier to talk about some things with someone who couldn’t help but be directly connected to his mind. There was comfort in that, even if it came from something he didn’t fully understand. Possessions were weird.

It was strange, but Harry had begun to trust that presence more than most people. Perhaps, Harry thought, he should even thank Dobby for keeping him from getting to Hogwarts on time. It helped to put everything to perspective and re-evaluate what needed to be. 

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back on the bench. Phil was there as if on cue. 

/ You don’t seem upset at all, Adept… You feel like… Maturing. Though you’ve already done your share of foolish things. /

“You know, I think I’ve just cooled off. It’s strange. I feel like I should be miserable about being left out, but I can’t see the point anymore. It’s like… I should have expected this. Could have matched society's expectations in a way.”

/ What do you mean by expectations? / There was something different in the voice now, as if the artifact was still learning something about him.

“Well, the world already has some kind of view of me. That I’m the spoiled, arrogant little hero of all Britain, remember? I should just accept it and play along. It is less of a pain than trying to defy them.” Harry grimaced, stood up and spun around dramatically, flinging his arms wide, which made Phil laugh nervously somewhere in his mind. 

“Whatever I want – happens! If I want to know something, I’ll find out; if I want to arrive at school early, I will! Even barriers close in front of me – providing a perfect alibi. And if I really want to, I could flood the dungeons and say it was for the greater good – and they’d believe me, because I’m the bloody hero. Or, as Malfoy puts it –  the absolutely mad one. So there’s no logic to be found in what I do.”

“Oh, believe me, Mister Potter, I won’t even try.”

Harry flinched violently at the smooth, if a little bland tone right by his ear. He spun around so fast he accidentally stepped on a gleamingly polished boot. Professor Snape didn’t even flinch to catch him or move away. For a split second, the Slytherin Head’s face showed genuine irritation before settling back into its usual mask of mild disdain.

“Bloody hell, Phil! You knew! Why didn’t you…” Harry screamed into the void of his mind and took a step back, eyes locked on the professor’s dark eyes. Snape’s expression didn’t waver as he studied him in return.

/ You’re joking, right? And miss the chance to see you put in your place? You wouldn’t have let me get a word in anyway. Dramatic much, Adept. Still, good luck with this one. He’s got fascinating colors in his aura, all his threads tangled in so many knots and chains – it looks like weaved armor. But I must keep silent. His eyes certainly could hear some things…/ came Phil’s dry whisper, and then he fell silent, his presence fading entirely.

“Mister Potter, I’m well aware this is a useless question, but I’ll try my luck anyway – why are you not on the train, where you’re supposed to be?” Snape’s eyes had already swept over the luggage, the boy, and his own freshly scuffed shoe. Now he stood before Harry with arms crossed, face unreadable.

“Er… I missed the train?” For some reason, explaining the sealed barrier suddenly felt pointless.

“Are you asking me, or still trying to invent an answer, Potter?” Normally, when the professor began addressing him by surname, it meant trouble – and that his words were no longer filtered.

“Answering, sir. I missed the train, Professor. The barrier didn’t work.” Harry said quickly, hunching his shoulders and dropping his gaze to his shoes. It had often worked with an angry Vernon. But Professor Snape was made of sterner stuff. One eyebrow arched, and the familiar smirk tugged at his lips.

“The train, of course, is beneath the arrogant hero of all Britain, yes? Why didn’t you board it, Mister Potter?”

“I couldn’t pass through the barrier and missed it, sir,” Harry repeated stubbornly, lifting his eyes.

“You’re not telling me everything, Potter.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Professor Snape,” he muttered through clenched teeth, glaring back.

“And that,” Snape said smoothly, “would be another attempt at lying to a teacher. I wonder, who did you learn it from?”

“Fine! If you really need a better excuse, let’s say I hijacked a Muggle helicopter, flew here and crashed it in the forest. You know, that flying machine with propellers? The train just sounded too boring, so I thought about arriving in style to match the reputation.” Harry snapped, finally losing patience and staring tiredly at the irritating professor. He was childish.

For a moment, Snape froze. His expression barely shifted, but the strain in his voice betrayed him  when he spoke again. But to Harry’s utter surprise, it looked like anger seemed to evaporate from the man all at once.

“If that is the story you want to stick to… Very well. It’s clearly pointless to argue with you, Mister Potter. I’ll leave that to your Head of House.” With a sharp flick of his wand, Snape made Harry’s luggage vanish into thin air. “Fortunately for you, I am always inspecting the station before the students arrive. And if clever fools like you turn up early, my job is to send them to the castle. The carriages are that way. Now, out of my sight, Mister Potter – for your own good.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Following the direction of the professor’s long finger, he quickly made for where a line of empty carriages stood waiting. And though he couldn’t be sure, he swore he heard quiet snort behind him.

A dozen pale-gray carriages stood a few yards from the Hogwarts platform. Harry glanced ahead, to where horses usually were, then back toward the distant figure of Snape. The creatures strapped into carriages looked like something drawn by a child who never saw one. They were tall, bony creatures with leathery wings and faces like half-dried skulls, their white eyes staring past him as though he wasn’t there at all.

“What in the world…” he muttered under his breath. He took a cautious step closer, unsure whether to be alarmed or impressed. The nearest creature flicked its ears and turned its long, sharp head toward him.

“Er..good… horse?” Harry said uncertainly. Its hide was warm and smooth when he reached out to touch it, and he almost smiled despite himself. 

”I don’t know what you are called. Too bad. Should’ve listened when Dudley was retelling that book… he mentioned something like this,” Harry murmured, patting the unseen creature’s side before climbing inside. The door swung shut behind him on its own with a soft thud, leaving him to wonder whether anyone else had seen the same thing – or if he was, once again, the only one.

A latch clicked, and the carriage creaked softly into motion, rolling along the cobbled road. Harry watched the passing view through the window, trying to remember how it all looked the year before, when Hagrid ferried them across the lake in little boats. That had been indescribably magical – but the steady rhythm of hooves drawing him toward the towering castle was no less so.

The ride lasted barely ten minutes. When the carriage door opened, Harry jumped down onto the damp grass near the main entrance. Giving the weird creature one last pat, he adjusted his backpack and headed toward the great oak doors.

At the entrance, to his mild surprise, Harry was greeted not by a stern glare of Filch but by a calm Professor McGonagall. After a brief nod of acknowledgment, she inquired – barely suppressing a chuckle – about a certain flying machine. For a second, Harry wondered if Snape had nothing better to do than gossip. But the Head of Gryffindor didn’t press; she merely gave him an assessing look.

“Well then, Mister Potter. You’ve managed to arrive a full three hours ahead of your classmates. Go to your dormitory, get changed, and meet me in the Great Hall afterward. I trust you haven’t forgotten how to use your wand? Elves could use a few extra hands to prepare the Hall for the feast.”

“Of course, Professor! I’d be happy to help,” Harry said brightly. The prospect of finally testing his new wand thrilled him so much that he was ready to skip changing altogether.

“Excellent. Password: Bravado. I’ll expect you in the Great Hall shortly, Mister Potter,” she called after him as he darted off. Smiling to herself, Minerva shook her head – only to turn sharply back toward the entrance when the sound of another carriage door echoed across the courtyard.

It took Harry barely ten minutes to reach Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady greeted him with an amused smile and swung open to let him through, wishing him a pleasant feast. Changing didn’t take long either – jeans for uniform trousers, a T-shirt for a crisp white shirt and light jumper, trainers for proper shoes. He had no excuse not to try to look presentable. Straightening his tie and smoothing the edge of his robes, Harry caught the faint hum of approval from the artifact and smirked at his reflection. He left the dorm more composed this time. The Fat Lady wished him a pleasant evening again, snorted something about “helicopters”, and vanished from her frame. Rumors, apparently, traveled at lightning speed. Interesting, how did Snape manage to spread them this fast.

The Great Hall welcomed him with its familiar splendor – four long tables still empty, the golden plates yet to appear. No teachers were present except for McGonagall, who stood by the entrance scolding a taller handsome boy in a loose red-checkered shirt. The boy smiled sheepishly, ruffling his light-brown hair and rocking on his heels. Clearly, she’d caught him just moments ago, and now he had no idea how to escape the lecture. When he spotted Harry, his face lit up with relief, and he waved eagerly, hoping to redirect her attention.

“Oh, Harry! You’re early too?” His face felt familiar, though Harry couldn’t quite place him. McGonagall, however, was not so easily distracted.

“Mister Diggory! Mister Potter arrived before you did and he even had the courtesy to warn me in advance.” Harry blinked in confusion; he was quite sure he hadn’t done that. “I’ll be informing Professor Sprout. This makes the fourth consecutive year you’ve ‘missed the train’. Shall I write to your father so he can buy you a proper watch?”

At the mention of his father, the boy flushed and clasped his hands in mock prayer.

“Please, Professor. Just this once, don’t write to him. Otherwise, one day you’ll find me missing from the Hufflepuff table entirely. How about this – Harry and I can help set the tables for the feast instead? You’ll have more time for… administrative duties. I’ve heard the house-elves are falling behind this year.”

McGonagall pressed her lips together, glanced thoughtfully at Harry, then sighed and waved them off.

“Very well, Mister Diggory. I’ll forgive you this time – but it is the last. Now, your task: plates will appear along the edges of each table. You’ll need to sterilize them, dry them, and arrange them properly. You know the charm? Excellent. Explain it to Mister Potter and get started. It should take you about an hour and a half. I’ll return with further instructions afterward.”

With a decisive swish of her robes, she departed, leaving the two boys alone.

As soon as the door closed, the Hufflepuff boy exhaled dramatically and perched on the edge of his House’s table, flashing Harry a grin.

“Sorry for answering for both of us. Couldn’t risk her writing to my dad. He doesn’t know I skip the train every year.”

“No problem,” Harry smiled back, studying the boy’s friendly face. He certainly was familiar.

“I’m Cedric. Cedric Diggory, fifth-year Hufflepuff,” he said, offering his hand. Harry shook it at once. “And you… well, you’re Harry Potter. Second-year Gryffindor. Sorry, but everyone knows you. The Boy Who Lived, youngest Seeker in a century… I’m trying out for my House team this year, actually. Maybe you’ll finally have a worthy rival.”

Harry grinned awkwardly. He’d heard about Cedric before – from gossip whispered by girls, mostly – but those stories painted him as quiet and absurdly charming. Maybe not all rumors were wrong, then.

“By the way,” Cedric asked casually, “is it true you stole a Muggle flying machine to get here?”

“Who told you that? Snape?”

“No, I overheard it from a few gossiping portraits. So it’s not true? Shame.”

“Nope. Came by the Knight Bus like a normal person. Snape managed to spread the story school-wide in ten minutes flat.”

“The good old Professor Snape,” Cedric chuckled, wrinkling his nose. “If it weren’t for private lessons with my aunt, I’d have failed Potions years ago. Worst teacher alive.”

“But a world-class gossip,” Harry added with a smirk. Both boys laughed and got to work.

The task turned out simple enough: a blast of hot steam, a careful wipe, and a second sterilizing charm. Harry’s first successful spell with his new wand turned out to be Calidumvapor. Once they found their rhythm, it became a game – Harry produced the steam, Cedric wiped and set the plates, and they competed over who could finish their side of the table faster.

Somewhere around the second table, Harry finally remembered something.

“By the way – you said the elves are behind this year. Why’s that? They on strike?”

“Oh, no, I wish. Quite honestly I am sure they are going to be anxious about us helping for the rest of the night. But in all fairness, they should get a bit of help. It’s their mating season. Leap year, you know – time for finding partners and starting families. Some elf maids are expecting, so there is a bit of an issue with heavy work. Our Colly’s on maternity break too. Spent all summer watching my dad try to do laundry – he ruined three of my shirts. Hence the shopping trip to Muggle London. He’d never let me go there otherwise, but I wanted to see it for myself. Their tailors aren’t half bad, you know. And I can enchant the clothes myself.” Cedric shrugged, polishing another plate. “What about you? Why’d you miss the train?”

“Oh, you know. It just didn’t work out. The barrier wouldn’t let me through.”

“No kidding? How does that even happen?”

“I think it was my house-elf friend. He… cares too much,” Harry muttered with a resigned shrug. “Guess it’s my fate – to never do things the normal way. Maybe I’ll break your record for skipping the train.”

“Ha! Not a chance. Diggory's don’t surrender that easily.”

“Pff, I heard Potters are undefeated, when it comes to rule twisting.” The spark of challenge in Harry’s tone was unmistakable. 

“I will not stand with slander against innocent child," Diggory joked as well, picking up the mood quite easily.

"Child? Me?" Harry grinned. "Haven’t you heard? I’m a criminal. I stole a helicopter."

Cedric chuckled, pulled an exaggerated face of mock horror, and slipped off toward the end of the Gryffindor table. Harry, meanwhile, had taken shelter behind the Slytherin one. As if at the signal, both boys lunged forward, wands flashing, golden tableware clattering under a volley of quick spells. The vapor licked the cutlery and polished wood, raising in the air with a faint sight of fog. The Great Hall rang with Harry’s sharp incantations and Cedric’s laughter until, a minute later, both raised their wands high. Sparks burst from the tips simultaneously, sending warm vapor at each other..

They locked eyes and clasped hands with mutual respect.

"Our first draw, Harry?" Cedric winked thoughtfully. His hair curled up from the moisture and heat. "Sounds like the start of a fine friendship to me. But next time I hope to beat you on the broom."

"We will see. You won’t have a height advantage there, Cedric," Harry replied, smiling as he squeezed the older boy’s hand. "I couldn’t agree more. A perfect start, really."

The two new friends shared a quiet laugh. They barely had time to vanish the evidence of their little show off  just as Professor McGonagall entered the hall. She inspected their work and gave a satisfied nod.

Cedric was sent off to change, and Harry – down to the kitchens for a last check with the house-elves. The errand wasn’t exactly unpleasant. At the first quiet rumble of his stomach, a few cheerful elves immediately filled a small plate with snacks to tide him over. In all honesty, this experience was completely different to the one with Dobby.

When he finally left the kitchens, he was full, content, and carrying a small scrap of parchment with the name “Minnie” on it. The kind young elf had explained that he could call her whenever he was hungry. Harry had resisted at first, but the crestfallen look on her face made him take the note and promise to call her at least once a week. The delighted elf had seen him all the way to the door.

Time moved on as usual. By the time Harry returned to the Great Hall, Cedric – now changed – was sitting with the Fat Friar, his house ghost, deep in some discussion. Spotting Harry, he nodded formally and began gesturing animatedly to prove his point to the obstinate spirit.

Soon enough, the flicker of carriage lights appeared through the windows, and the Hall began to fill with students.

Hermione was among the first to arrive – and the first to ask what would become the most popular question for the next two weeks:

"Harry James Potter! How and why did you steal a helicopter?!"

Harry hadn’t laughed that hard in ages. Who would’ve thought his failed joke would come back to bite him like that? While he was busy convincing a furious Hermione that it had all been Snape’s fault – and definitely not his own – the Great Hall grew loud with the arrival of the rest of Gryffindor.

Ron Weasley burst in with his tie askew and his face caught somewhere between relief, guilt, and excitement. The moment he spotted Harry and Hermione, he broke away from the crowd and grabbed Harry by the shoulders a bit too roughly.

“Thank Merlin! I’m so sorry… I couldn’t find anyone on the platform! Tried to reach the Head Students’ carriage, but it was too late. Anyway, Harry, mate – how did you get here, and what in Merlin’s name is a ‘helicopter’? Whatever it is, it sounds way better than roasting with us in that stuffy train!”

Harry couldn’t help but grin. He clapped Ron on the shoulder with a dismissive wave and dropped down beside him at their usual spot. All around them, curious students leaned in as Hermione, still fuming, launched into a very thorough explanation of what exactly a helicopter was – and why, under no circumstances, it could be domesticated like some “a Muggle dragon with fans.”

The sorting ended with Ginny joining their table. Harry waved at the girl, trying to welcome her to the house with everyone else, but she barely paid him any attention as always, way more concentrated on trying to move as far away from her elder brothers and closer to a sharing platter of something that looked like blood pudding. By the end of the feast, Harry was fairly sure she hadn’t eaten anything else. He’d tried a bit himself out of curiosity, but the taste was too strange for him: way too metallic and gritty in consistency. But Ginny seemed to enjoy it greatly. There was something about the way she kept her eyes lowered, the way her fork moved in slow, careful motions, that left Harry with a faint, inexplicable chill.

Yes, Ginny really was a bit weird, he guessed.