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Chapter Text

Privet Drive lay in the suffocating stillness of a typical Surrey night, a cul-de-sac cloaked in darkness and the comfortable banality of suburban life. The rows of identical red-brick houses stood, their darkened windows reflecting the faint glow of the street lamps that flickered uncertainly, as if sensing an impending shift. Each manicured lawn, meticulously tended, seemed to hold its breath, unaware that something unusual was about to disturb their carefully constructed normality. An unsettling silence enveloped the neighbourhood, where only the occasional rustle of leaves dared to break the tension. Yet, beneath this unassuming facade, a sense of foreboding lingered, hinting at secrets waiting to seep into the stillness of the night.

At the very end of the cul-de-sac stood Number Four, home to the Dursleys, who prided themselves on their ordinary existence. Mr. Dursley, a portly man with a booming laugh, and Mrs. Dursley, slender and perfectly coiffed, embodied the ideal suburban couple. Their son, Dudley, was the picture of an average child – according to Mrs Dursley – with his round face and insatiable appetite for sweets. In the Dursleys’ neatly arranged living room, the television flickered softly, casting a warm glow that contrasted sharply with the encroaching darkness outside. The Dursleys were as mundane as the rest of the street, blissfully unaware of the peculiarities that lay just beyond their carefully drawn curtains, wrapped in their nightly routines.

At last, the air was still, thick with the weight of anticipation, as the Dursleys finally climbed the stairs to their bedrooms, the final echoes of their footsteps fading into silence. With the soft click of their bedroom light being turned off, it marked the end of illumination on Privet Drive, leaving only the flickering street lamps to cast their pale glow over the darkened homes. Unbeknownst to them, a watchful presence lingered in the shadows—a cat perched atop the garden wall. Its fur glimmered under the muted light, its posture so motionless it could have been mistaken for a statue. Its gaze, sharp and unblinking, remained fixed on an empty corner of Privet Drive, shrouded in the calm of midnight.

As the hour approached, the scene shifted. Without a sound, a man emerged at the very corner the cat had observed so vigilantly. His sudden appearance stirred only the slightest reaction from the cat—a subtle twitch of its tail and a narrowing of its green eyes. There was something distinctly unusual about this man, an air of mystery that set him apart from anything Privet Drive had ever known.

He was tall, with a frame both thin and commanding, his age evident in the silver strands that flowed from his head and beard, each long enough to tuck into his belt. His robes, an ornate purple that billowed around his ankles, seemed more suited to an ancient tale than the modern streets he stood on now. His boots, buckled and high-heeled, clicked softly on the pavement, and behind half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. This man was Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely unaware that his very presence was an oddity in this neighbourhood of prim hedges and quiet cul-de-sacs. Instead, he busied himself rummaging through the depths of his robes, searching for something, though the faint sensation of being watched prompted him to glance up. His eyes met those of the cat across the street, still as ever on its wall. A soft chuckle escaped him.

"I should have known," he murmured to himself, amused.

From his robes, Dumbledore drew out a curious object—a silver cigarette lighter, though its purpose was far from ordinary. He flicked it open with a practised hand, raising it to the nearest street lamp, and with a click, the light vanished. He clicked again, and another lamp extinguished, its soft glow snuffed out. Twelve clicks later, the street was plunged into darkness, save for two tiny points of light: the eyes of the cat, gleaming from its perch. Satisfied, Dumbledore tucked the lighter away and made his way toward the very house where the Dursleys now slept, oblivious to the strange happenings outside.

He sat down beside the cat, though he did not look at it, speaking softly into the night.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

In the blink of an eye, the cat was gone, replaced by a stern-looking woman in a dark emerald cloak, her square glasses perched precisely on her nose, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. The lines of tension on her face betrayed a long day of waiting.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"My dear professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly," Dumbledore replied, his tone light.

Professor McGonagall sniffed, clearly unimpressed. "You’d be stiff too if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day."

"All day?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes, celebrating," she said, her voice tight with irritation. "You’d think they’d show a little more discretion, but no—people are parading in broad daylight, swapping stories, not even bothering to hide from the Muggles. It was on the news, Dumbledore! Owls flying everywhere, shooting stars down in Kent. Dedalus Diggle, no doubt."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "You can hardly blame them, Minerva. It’s been eleven years. We’ve had little to celebrate."

"I know that," she said, her frustration barely contained. "But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being reckless, careless. On the very day that You-Know-Who is finally gone, and still they risk exposing us all."

She paused, eyeing Dumbledore as if expecting him to confirm the rumours swirling around them. But Dumbledore merely continued to twirl a sherbet lemon between his fingers, offering none of the reassurances she sought.

“We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?” 

“A what?”

“A sherbet lemon. They’re a kind of muggle sweet I'm rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor Mcgonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. “As I say, even if you-know-who has gone-”

“My dear professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying.” 

“I know you have,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one you-know- oh all right, Voldemort was frightened of.” 

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

“Only because you're too - well - noble, to use them.”

“It's lucky it's dark, I haven't blushed this much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new ear muffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a sharp look and said, “the owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone is saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all say, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever ‘everyone’ was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer. 

“What they're saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumpus is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they are - dead.” There was a pause.

"Is it true?" McGonagall pressed, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "The Potters? Lily and James... they're really—?"

Dumbledore’s expression darkened, and with a heavy sigh, he nodded.

Professor McGonagall’s gasp was soft, yet filled with a deep, raw sorrow. "I didn’t want to believe it," she whispered.

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know.. I know…” he said heavily.

But it wasn’t just the Potters that troubled McGonagall. "And the boy? Harry? They say You-Know-Who tried to kill him too. But he couldn’t."

Dumbledore nodded once more, his gaze distant. "Yes. Somehow, the curse failed. We may never know why."

Professor McGonagall dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her emotions warring with her usual stern demeanour. Dumbledore, meanwhile, checked his peculiar watch, its many hands moving around tiny planets rather than numbers.

"Hagrid’s late, I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?" he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes, and I don't suppose you're going to tell me why here of all places?”

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

“You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter, come and live here!”

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

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous - a legend - every child in our world will know his name!”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boys head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from that until he's ready to take it?” 

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said “yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” she eyed his coak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrids bringing him.”

“You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life.”

“I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place,” said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?”

Moments later, the distant roar of an engine filled the night air, growing louder until a massive motorbike descended from the sky, landing before them. Its rider, a giant of a man, climbed off the bike with surprising care, a bundle cradled in his vast arms.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore said, his voice steady but relief palpable in the stillness. “At last. Where did you find that motorbike?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” Hagrid replied, carefully dismounting. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“No problems, were there?” Dumbledore asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

“None, sir—though the house was almost wrecked. I got him out just before the Muggles started swarming in. He fell asleep while we were flying over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Triling from under a tuft of his jet-black hair, a large sprawling scar like a lightning strike over his forehead and eyes, one particularly long tendril spread down his little face to his neck underneath the blanket. It looked like many scars that all joined to one patch just under his hairline where it seems as though he was struck by something.

Professor McGonagall gasped, her eyes widening with disbelief. “Is that where—?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded, a sadness in his voice. “He’ll carry that scar forever.”

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

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can be useful. I have one myself, above my left knee, a perfect map of the London Underground.”

McGonagall's head snapped to Dumbledore, appalled. This wasn’t just any scar, this covered half his face; it bore the weight of a past that could never be erased. Though she figured it must be unable to be removed.

“Now, Hagrid,” Dumbledore said gently, “hand him over. We mustn’t linger here.”

With great care, Dumbledore cradled Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.

“May I say goodbye to him, sir?” Hagrid’s voice trembled, a mixture of sorrow and affection.

He lowered his shaggy head over Harry, planting a kiss that was scratchy but full of warmth. Suddenly, a mournful howl escaped him, breaking the night’s silence.

“Shhh!” Professor McGonagall hissed, her eyes darting around. “You’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” Hagrid stuttered, pulling out a large spotted handkerchief to wipe his tears. “But I can’t bear it—Lily and James gone, and poor little Harry sent to live with Muggles—”

“Yes, yes, I know, but please, Hagrid, we’ll be discovered,” McGonagall whispered, patting him gently on the arm. Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door, laying Harry gently in a basket that had suddenly appeared on the doorstep. He retrieved a letter from his cloak and tucked it inside the blankets, then returned to join the others.

For a moment, they stood in silence, gazing at the little bundle. Hagrid’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, and McGonagall blinked back tears.

“Well,” Dumbledore finally said, breaking the heavy silence. “That’s that. We have no business staying here. We may as well join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” Hagrid replied, his voice muffled with emotion. “I’ll be taking Sirius his bike back. Goodnight, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes with his jacket sleeve, Hagrid climbed onto the motorbike, kicking the engine into life. With a roar, it rose into the night.

“I’ll see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” Dumbledore said, his voice firm yet soft as he turned away. McGonagall could only nod, overwhelmed with emotion.

As Dumbledore walked down the street, he paused at the corner, retrieving the silver Put-Outer. With a flick, he clicked it once, and twelve glowing orbs of light returned to their street lamps, bathing Privet Drive in a warm, comforting glow. He spotted a tabby cat slinking around the corner, then glanced back at the bundle resting on the doorstep of number four.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured softly. With a swish of his cloak, he vanished into the night.

Harry lay on the doorstep, shivering against the chill that crept through the air, the darkness pressing in around him like a heavy shroud. Just when it seemed that the night would swallow him whole, a figure emerged from the shadows—a sleek, tabby cat, her fur catching the faint glimmer of the street lamps. With a grace born of practised stealth, Professor McGonagall, in her feline form, approached him, her emerald eyes reflecting a knowing warmth. She wove her way through the shadows, slipping silently into the basket beside him. Curling up tightly, she offered her comforting warmth, a shield against the cold that nipped at Harry's exposed skin. In that moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging the quiet bond between them, and the secrets that lay just beyond the horizon of the ordinary.

A gentle breeze rustled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, where silence reigned under the inky sky—the last place anyone would expect extraordinary events to unfold. Unaware of the magic surrounding him, Harry Potter rolled over in his blankets, instinctively curling toward the warm creature beside him. One small hand closed around the letter tucked close, and he slept peacefully, oblivious to the fact that he was special, famous even. He had no inkling that in just a few hours, Mrs. Dursley would scream as she opened the front door to collect the milk bottles, nor would he know of the prodding and pinching he would endure from his cousin Dudley. At that very moment, people across the country were raising their glasses in celebration, toasting, “To Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived!”

Chapter Text

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. In fact, there was only one new neighbour on the entire street, a man who seemed perfectly normal and entirely private. The sunrise crept over the same tidy front gardens, casting a golden glow that illuminated the brass number four on the desolate front door. It filtered into the living room, where only the photographs on the mantelpiece truly revealed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been countless images of what looked like a large pink beach ball adorned with various coloured bobble hats. Now, Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and the photographs displayed a sturdy blonde boy riding his first bicycle on a roundabout at the fair, engrossed in a computer game with his father, or being enveloped in hugs and kisses from his mother. Yet the room bore no evidence at all that any other boy had ever lived in that house.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice which made the first noise of the day.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

Harry woke up with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking towards the kitchen and the sound of the frying pan being put on the cooker. He rolled over and slid into his clothes for the day, pre-prepared for his speedy awakening. He never had very much time to wake up in the mornings, so he had to heavily rely on automatic habits.

His Aunt was back outside the door.

“Are you up yet?” she demanded.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” said Harry.

The lock on the cupboard door clicked as it slid out of the way.

“Good, get a move on. I need everything perfect for Duddy’s birthday, you hear me? Don’t you dare burn the bacon, or you'll pay for it.”

Harry groaned quietly.

“What did you say?” Petunia snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dudley’s birthday—the day Harry had dreaded for the past three weeks—had finally arrived, and he felt a familiar knot of horror twist in his stomach as he emerged from the cupboard. He gently brushed a spider from his leg, a reminder of the countless eight-legged roommates that shared his cramped space beneath the stairs, his nightly refuge.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the sight before him made his heart sink. The table was nearly obscured by a mountain of Dudley’s birthday presents, a gaudy display of indulgence. Uncle Vernon, ever watchful, caught Harry's gaze and, with a swift movement, slammed the boy's head down onto one of the few clear patches on the table.

“What do you think you're staring at, boy? Planning to swipe something, are you? Don’t bother; we’d notice if anything went missing.”

“No, sir, no; not at all, of course not,” Harry replied, pressing his palms flat against the table, a gesture of innocence he hoped would appease his uncle.

Vernon released him as abruptly as he had seized him, plopping down into his chair with a grunt.

“Hurry up and make breakfast. Dudley will be awake soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

From the cramped space behind the kitchen counter, Harry squinted at the mountain of presents cluttering the table. It looked like Dudley had struck gold this year: a shiny new computer, a second television, and a racing bike that was far too ambitious for someone who barely got off the couch. Why Dudley wanted a bike was beyond Harry; it wasn’t as if the kid ever showed an ounce of interest in physical activity—unless it involved chasing Harry around the house for sport. Fortunately for Harry, he was fast, darting away from Dudley’s clumsy grasp with a speed that came from years of practice.

Living in a cupboard tended to make one nimble, especially when food was scarce and the threat of a punch loomed large. Harry was small and skinny, even more so in Dudley’s oversized castoffs, which hung from his frame like sails on a ship. He had a thin, angular face, knobbly knees, and perpetually messy black hair that defied every attempt at grooming. His bright green eyes peeked through round glasses held together with tape, a patchwork testament to Dudley’s bullying. Harry wasn’t particularly fond of how he looked—especially the spider web of scars that were stark white compared to the darkness of his skin and danced around the thinner skin over his eyes and nose, a jagged reminder of his past. He was glad the accident hadn’t blinded him, he could see where the thinner trails of the scar ran over his eyelids rather than the deeper, wider scars closer to the impact point. Oddly, he felt a flicker of pride in it; it was the only tangible connection to his parents. He had long forgotten the specifics of that day, but he remembered the first time he had dared to ask Aunt Petunia about it.

“In the car crash when your parents died, you hit your head against the window,” she had snapped, the words harsh and final. “And don’t ask questions.”

“Don’t ask questions”—the unwritten motto of life with the Dursleys. They were never fond of curiosity, especially when, at just four years old, Harry had innocently inquired what his name was before starting school, desperate to remember it.

“Comb your hair!” Uncle Vernon barked as Harry busied himself with breakfast, flipping bacon with a practised ease that masked his simmering resentment.

Once a week, Uncle Vernon would bellow about Harry’s hair needing a trim or a comb, yet he never lifted a finger to help. Over the years, they had tried to tame it, but it always sprang back, rebellious as ever, as if it had a mind of its own. No matter what they did, his hair was destined to remain a wild, untamed mess, a fitting reflection of his life in this house.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen. He was with Aunt Petunia who had disappeared as soon as Harry had started cooking to Dudleys room. She must dress him or something for them to take so long. Dudley looked into the room with dull eyes for a second. He looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large, pink face, not much neck, small, watery, blue eyes and thick, blond hair that lay smoothly on his head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a little angel. Harry couldn't see how angelic he was, despite their insistence that he was their pure and innocent baby.

Harry put the plate of eggs and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell, tears swimming in his eyes.

“Thirty-six,” he said, “That's two less than last year.”

Harry noted there was a sadness to his face for a second before Dudley dismissed it and looked close to a tantrum.

“Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see it's here under this big one from mummy and daddy.”

“All right, thirty seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry began chewing through his own breakfast of cereal quicker, not wanting to be caught if Dudley decided to flip the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously sensed danger too, because she said quickly “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkins? Two more presents. Is that all right?”

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, “So I'll have thirt… thirty…”

“Thirty-nine, sweetums.” finished Aunt Petunia.

“Oh,” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

“Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He caressed Dudley’s hair gently, slowly. It was rather strange for Harry to watch so he looked away.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went up to answer it while Uncle Vernon and Harry watched Dudley unwrap his racing bike, a camera, a remote controlled aeroplane, sixteen new computer games and a video recorder. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs Figg broke her leg. She can't take him.” She jerked her head in Harry's direction.

Dudleys mouth fell open in horror but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger bars or the cinema. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs Figg made him look at pictures of all the cats she’d ever owned.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia looking furiously at Harry as though he had somehow planned this. Harry ought to feel sorry that Mrs Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr Paws and Tuffy again.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested. 

‘Don't be silly Vernon, she hates the boy.”

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there - or rather as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug.

“What about whats-her-name, your friend - Yvonne?”

“On holiday in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.

“You could just leave him here,” said Dudley hopefully.

Aunt Petunia looked like she swallowed a lemon but patted Dudley’s hair.

“And come back to the house in ruins?” She glared at Harry with a look of disgust.

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they weren't listening.

“I suppose we could take him to the arcade,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “...And leave him in the car…”

“That cars new, he's not sitting in it alone… And we can’t very well be spotted with him in public.”

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying, it has been years since he'd really cried, but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“Dinky duddyums, don't cry, mummy won’t let him spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him, slapping Harry upside the head on the way as though he had caused all of this.

“I… don't… want… him… to… come!” Dudley yelled between pretend sobs. “He always spoils everything!” he shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mothers arms.

“Mr Lawrence offered once,” Harry threw out, hiding his excitement, keeping his voice bland of emotion.

Both Petunia and Vernon looked at each other searchingly.

Just then, the doorbell rang - “Oh, Good Lord, they're here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically - and a moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting on a sofa as Mr Lawrence waved goodbye to the Dursley’s as they drove away. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had taken the idea as though it was entirely their own - which thrilled Harry. But Vernon had taken Harry aside before they left the house.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's where he had pushed him against the wall. “I’m warning you now, boy - any funny business, any at all - and you’ll be beaten black and blue and left in that cupboard until christmas.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry weakly, “honest…”

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his fringe, which she left ‘to hide that horrible scar as much as possible’ even though that wasn't very much. Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at and beaten for his baggy clothes and sellotaped glasses. Next morning, however, he had got up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard and a broken pinky finger for this, even though he had tried to explain that he couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a pair of dudleys underwear he refused to wear after scrubbing him down in the hot bubbly bath he was allowed once a month that left him feeling raw and somehow even dirtier than before. He preferred the shallow leftovers he got every day to the way he was meticulously scrubbed down in those ones. The underwear was an ugly pair of neon green briefs with the grinch printed on the front. The harder she tried to pull them up his legs and over his hips the smaller they seemed to become, until eventually it might have fit a glove puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harry. She pulled them off in frustration and walked out of the room leaving Harry in the nude deciding they had shrunk in the wash. Dudley walked into the room afterwards, having been taken to change in Dudley’s second bedroom. Once he spotted Harry he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Dudley roughly and hurriedly shoved Harry into his pyjamas, whilst spitting half-hearted insults his way, before Petunia could return with a new pair of underwear. Harry’s spine prickled at the memory. To Harry's great relief, he wasn't punished for it.

On the other hand, he'd gotten into serious trouble for being found on the roof of the kitchens at school. Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else’s, there he was hugging the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from the headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings, and Harry had received a punishment that left him unable to walk for three days. But all he'd tried to do (as he gasped at uncle Vernon while being punished) was jump behind the big bins outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. He could finally spend somewhere other than in his cupboard, with Mrs Figg or at school. And, if it couldn't get even better, he was spending that time at an adults house that genuinely was nice to him and didn't believe the gossip Aunt Petunia passed around about him.

He spent the first part of the day in the lounge reading alongside Mr Lawrence. He had briefly peered into an open doorway with a big cork board on the wall covered in pictures, newspaper cuttings, documents and even string while trying to find the bathroom. Mr Lawrence gently guided him away from it, informing him it was work things but they were confidential, even to children. Harry figured he must be a policeman. The board looked similar to the ones in that police show Dudley liked so much.

By dinner time, the sun blazed down on Privet Drive, bathing the back garden in golden warmth, a rare haven in Harry's otherwise drab existence. Mr Lawrence stayed in the kitchen, preparing Harry some food as Harry himself went to explore the greenhouse. As he slipped inside, the air was fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers and rich soil, and Harry felt a momentary sense of peace. When he glanced back through the kitchen window, Mr. Lawrence, with a gentle smile, gestured to a glass of iced cherryade for him—a treat that made the world seem just a little brighter.

As Harry wandered a little bit deeper into the greenhouse, marvelling at the lush greenery, he suddenly caught sight of a small snake gliding silently across the floor. Startled, he jumped back, heart racing, only to trip over a stray pot. He fell backward, crashing into a glass panel with a resounding smash. The impact jolted through him, sharp and painful, as shards of glass tumbled to the ground around him.

“Oi! Watch it, you clumsy oaf!” hissed a voice from the floor, pulling Harry from his daze. 

He blinked down, and there, gliding smoothly out from beneath a nearby pot, was a snake. Its scales glinted in the sunlight, a sleek pattern of greens and browns.

“You can talk?!” Harry whisper-shouted.

“Yesss, that’s right, I can talk, boy,” the snake continued, its voice smooth and sibilant, like a whisper on the wind. “Sssilly human, falling into glass like that. You could’ve hurt yourself, you know.” 

Harry rubbed the back of his head, feeling the sting of embarrassment mingle with his surprise. “I... I didn’t mean to,” he stammered.

“Not much of a place for a human, is it?” the snake slithered closer, its emerald eyes glinting with mischief. “You should be careful. Not all of us are as forgiving as I am.” 

Before Harry could respond, he heard Aunt Petunia's sharp voice cutting through the tranquillity of the greenhouse. “Harry! Get over here this instant!”

His heart sank as the magic of the moment shattered. He knew he had to leave, to escape the strange connection he felt with the snake and return to the Dursleys’ reality. With a reluctant glance back at the creature, he pushed himself to his feet, the weight of his world settling heavily on his shoulders as he stepped out into the glaring sunlight, leaving behind the brief thrill of something extraordinary.

Aunt Petunia hurriedly apologised over and over to Mr Lawrence as Harry was led out of the house by Uncle Vernon.

“Harry seemed to be talking to it, didn't he?” said Dudley curiously.

Uncle Vernon patiently waited until the front door to their house was closed before hitting Harry square in the jaw full force. Harry crippled to the floor and cowered away from the fist. He couldn't hold back the tears now streaming down his face as the pain radiated from the point of impact, through his teeth and around his skull. After Vernon had done with him, he was still so angry he could barely get any words out. He dragged his limp body into the cupboards and pointed at him, “Cupboard - stay - no meals,” before slamming the door and locking it securely.

That night Dudley snuck him a packet of paracetamol, the sick bowl and the portable first aid kit without a word.

Harry had lived with the Dursley’s almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as Harry could remember, since he was a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when his parents died, though he supposed it was because he was so young. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in the cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead, radiating through his scar. This, he supposed, was the car crash, and the impact on the window that gave him the scar. Though he couldn't imagine why anyone would have green car lights. He couldn't remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course he was forbidden from asking questions about them. There were no photographs of them in the house either.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown, distant relation coming and taking him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes, he thought, or maybe hoped, that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking woman dressed in all green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.

That night, in an alleyway not too far from the cul-de-sac, Mr. Lawrence was taking a stroll, his thoughts swirling with the day’s strange events. He paused, glancing down at a tabby cat that had appeared almost out of nowhere. Its emerald eyes glinted in the dim light, carrying a spark of recognition that sent a shiver down his spine. As the cat approached him, the air grew thick with unspoken words. If anyone had happened to wander by at that late hour, they might have been struck by the oddity of the scene. There was an urgency in Mr. Lawrence's tone, a mix of concern and caution, as he leaned closer to the feline. The cat’s ears twitched, listening intently, and though the details remained veiled in secrecy, hints of Harry’s extraordinary ability flickered between them, along with troubling revelations about the Dursleys. In that moment, a connection sparked in the air—a silent understanding that something significant was unfolding, threading their fates together in ways yet to be revealed.

Chapter Text

Breaking Mr Lawrence’s greenhouse earned him his longest-ever punishment. Harry really hoped Mr Lawrence didn't hate him now. His heart sank every time he thought about it. By the time Harry was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new camera, crashed his remote control aeroplane and, first time on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favourite sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible in the garden or wandering around when he had done all of the chores. Thinking about the end of the summer holidays was like looking at a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had a place at Uncle Vernon’s old school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local comprehensive. Dudley thought this was very funny.

“They stuff peoples heads down the toilet first day at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs and practise?”

“No thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it – it might be sick.” Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he’d said.

One day, in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry with Mr Lawrence - who had insisted he didn't mind. Mrs Figg after all was on bed rest after Dudley’s near miss.

Harry was incredibly relieved when Mr Lawrence assured him he wasnt mad about the greenhouse incident. He pointed it out and Harry noticed that everything was back in working order and the glass had been replaced. Mr Lawrence looked worriedly over him as he ate some sandwiches and chocolate. Harry knew some of the bigger bruises were in full view after his punishment, but he was glad most of the extra baggy clothes covered them. 

Harry felt the most full he’d ever felt in his life while he spent the day at Mr Lawrence’s house. He caught sight of the room with the board again, but was gently led away from it. He could've sworn he saw one of the pictures move, but shrugged it off. They sat peacefully in the livingroom together while Mr Lawrence read his book, and Harry was handed his own book. It was titled “The Tales of Beedle the Bard.” Harry enjoyed it very much, though he didn't get very far in it before he fell asleep. It was the most well-rested Harry had felt in his life. The safest.

That evening, after Aunt Petunia had arrived to pick him up, and Mr Lawrence had slid him the copy of his book to finish, Dudley paraded around the living room in his new uniform. Smelting’s boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers and flat straw hats called boaters. Harry was relieved for another reason to not be going to that school. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposedly training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment in his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry was glad he’d been put on dinner duty, far enough for them to not hear his poor attempts at holding in his laugh. He distracted himself by stealing a few slices of the carrots he was chopping.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in to start making breakfast. He was glad he couldn't smell it from his cupboard. It seemed to be coming from a large plastic tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water.

“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

“Your new school uniform,” she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again and grimaced. He hoped the smell would wash off.

“Does it need handwashing?”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old clothes grey for you. It’ll look just like everyone else's when I've finished.”

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought best not to argue. Noticing that Aunt Petunia had already almost finished making breakfast, Harry quietly went and sat at the table. He tried not to think about how he would look on his first day at Stonewall High.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry’s new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the letter box and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the post, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon absentmindedly.

“Make Harry get it.”

“Get the post, Harry.”

Harry stood to get the post, narrowly avoiding a poke from Dudley’s stick.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill and – a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives – he didn’t take books out of the library so he’d never even gotten a note asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing some kind of fancy shield with a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter ‘H’.

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry snapped out of it and walked back towards the kitchen, stopping by his cupboard first to slide the letter under his pillow. He quietly closed the door behind him. He continued to the kitchen and handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down and tried to act like nothing was out of the ordinary. In fact, he made it the whole day without arousing suspicion. But more and more he wished he could just run to his cupboard and open it. He felt guilty, like he’d done an unforgivable crime and every hour he wasn't found out his breathing felt more noticeable.

It wasn't until Dudley came running into the kitchen later that afternoon that Harry’s heart dropped.

“Dad! Dad! Harry was hiding something!” Dudley proudly held up the letter he had hidden. Harry baulked, nausea and dread rolling through his stomach.

“It says his name on it.”

Uncle Vernon snatched it from Dudley’s hand so suddenly even Dudley flinched.

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, popping the wax seal off the letter and opening it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the greyish white of old porridge.

“Pe–” Uncle Vernon started, sounding as though he was going to throw up. “Petunia!”

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon pushed him away angrily and held it out of reach. Dudley dropped to the floor and Aunt Petunia rushed over immediately. She took the letter cautiously and read what couldn't have been more than the first line. For a moment it looked like she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my God – Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Harry was thankful, if it meant he wasn't being beaten for hiding it. Though he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Dudley, who wasn't used to being ignored, quickly recovered from the fall and yelled, “I want to read that letter.”

Harry didn't want to bring the attention back on himself enough to hold his tongue about wanting to read his own post himself.

“Get out, both of you!” croaked Uncle Vernon and Harry didn't need to be asked twice. He left and headed towards his cupboard. Back in the kitchen he heard Uncle Vernon roar “OUT!” when Dudley asked to read it again. Dudley was thrown into the hallway by the scruff of his neck. He landed on top of Harry, prompting them to have a short fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, went to his cupboard. The door was open, and everything was in order other than his pillow had been moved. Harry wondered if Dudley had been searching his cupboard for something in particular, and absently wondered if he’d done it before.

They needn't have fought over who could listen in because both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were still very audible.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the address – how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching – spying – might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? tell them we don't want–”

“No,” he said finally, after what sounded like him pacing. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they dont get an answer… Yes, that's best… we won't do anything…”

“But–”

“I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

Almost as though triggered by the words, letter after letter started springing from the letter-box. All of them looked the same as Harry’s from earlier, and on closer inspection, they were all addressed to him too.

Hearing the slamming of the letter-box, Uncle Vernon burst out of the kitchen and down the hall, shoving Harry out of the way. It took around half an hour for him to burn all of the letters and seal closed the letter-box.

Once it was done, he mumbled, “We’re taking a vacation. We’re going to go somewhere for a little while, just while we sort this out.” It sounded like it was meant for himself and not for them, but Dudley cheered regardless. It had been very easy for Harry to pack all of his belongings into the backpack that had been shoved his way. They rushed out the car that night, Dudley sniffling next to Harry after being hit round the head for trying to pack more than his clothes.

The holiday in question, ended up being a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big looking city. They’d driven for so long it was bright outside and Dudley was screaming about how hungry he was and the television shows he’d missed. After getting food, they returned to their rooms for the night. Dudley and Harry shared a bedroom with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. It had been the first proper bed Harry had ever slept on, except Dudley snored and Harry couldn't fall asleep. He sat on the window-sill, staring down at the lights of passing cars. He’d never been outside of their little neighbourhood before. He sat there almost the entire night, before Aunt Petunia slowly creaked open the door and stopped short when she noticed him. After ordering him to bed and double checking Dudley was still in his bed, she left. And Harry felt tired enough to listen.

They ate stale cornflakes and lukewarm beans on toast for breakfast the next day. The Dursley’s grumbled but Harry was internally overjoyed to be able to eat breakfast without having to be the one to make it. He felt like a celebrity. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“‘Scuse me, but is one of you Mr H. Potter? Only I got about an ‘undred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining-room.

“Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly where he was driving, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of the forest and Dudley looked a little pale. He was quiet for a change and it disturbed Harry greatly. Even if not even Aunt Petunia knew where he was going, at the very least Uncle Vernon seemed to know precisely and confidently where he was driving. Though perhaps instead he’d gone mad. Late into the afternoon, when Uncle Vernon had stepped out of the car to move a fairly sized branch out of the way of the road, Dudley found his voice. Much more quiet than usual he said, “It’s Monday,” he never once took his eyes off Uncle Vernon. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television.”

Monday. That reminded Harry of something as their conversation faded into the background. If it was Monday – and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television – then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun – last year, the Dursley’s had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks; later in the evening, Dudley had brought Harry a small notebook and pen Harry knew he’d gotten as a freebie on the Smelting’s opening day. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He resolutely ignored Aunt Petunia asking if they were staying at another hotel tonight and continued his drive. “We’re almost there.” Harry thought to himself that he would have rather Uncle Vernon said nothing at all with how he sounded just then.

They pulled up to what could barely be considered a clearing, but just enough for the car to come to a stop outside of an abandoned-looking stone hut. Both Aunt Petunia and Dudley at this point looked the same shade of pale. Harry couldn't blame them, it was far outside of what they were used to. 

Uncle Vernon grinned widely. “It’s due to storm tonight, and there's no way they’d be able to follow all the twists and turns. No one knows about this place. Yes, yes, perfect! Everyone inside.”

One thing was for certain, there was no working television in there.

The inside was horrible, but cleaner than he had expected. The ceiling was covered in cobwebs, which he didn't mind, but wind whistled through the gaps in the stones. The fireplace looked damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a packet of crisps each, four bananas, and a collection of tins that were hidden in a crate by the fireplace. The more Aunt Petunia looked around the paler she became, and Dudley sat on the sofa looking dazedly at the fireplace. Uncle Vernon tried to start a fire but the empty crisp packets just smoked and shrivelled up.

“Could do with some of those letter’s now, eh?” he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver post. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the rain hit splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. The windows were covered in many old layers of newspaper on the inside so Harry couldn't see what it looked like outside at all. Aunt Petunia brought a few blankets out of the bedroom and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest most ragged blanket. An hour or so later, after the frantic unintelligible whispers of the Dursley’s stopped, Dudley shifted and asked him to sleep on the floor beside the sofa. Harry did so. Dudley draped more of his own blanket over the sofa for Harry to lay under. It wasn't much but it helped stave away the cold a bit more.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. He was surprised Dudley could even sleep on that sofa. The lighting dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his wrist, told Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursley’s would remember at all, wondering where the letter-writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped a tree wasn't going to fall onto the roof. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. He wondered if maybe he did have another family member out there who finally wanted to come and steal Harry away. Two minutes to go. What was that funny crunching noise? He really, really hoped a tree wasn't going to fall on them.

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten – nine – maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to remind someone – three – two – one –

BOOM.

The whole hut shivered and both Harry and Dudley sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

Chapter Text

BOOM. It crashed again. “Where’s the cannon?” Dudley asked. Harry couldn’t confidently correct him as to what the noise actually was. Though he was fairly certain it wasn't a cannon.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands and Harry couldn't help but feel in danger, as though the gun was seconds away from being pointed directly at him. At least now they know what had been in the long thin package that he had brought with them.

“Who’s there?” he shouted, “I warn you - I’m armed!”

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His silhouette illuminated by the lightning outside. What Harry could make out of the man's face was almost completely covered in long, shaggy hair and a matching beard. He looked wild, a crazed glint to his eyes and he searched the room.

Harry hadn't quite imagined this being the way he was taken away from the family, but out of all the thoughts he’d had, he’s mainly just impressed that a giant is the thing to put an end to his life and misery. He can't even bring it upon himself to be scared all that much. Maybe he’s still a little scared.

The giant squeezed through the frame and into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door and fitted it easily back into its frame.The nose of the storm outside became more muffled. He turned to look at them all.

“Couldn't make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? Its not been an easy journey…” He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear. “Budge up, yeh great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley, to Harry’s satisfaction, squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant. It nerved Harry more that the giant in the living room knew his name than it did that giants existed in the first place.

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild shadowy face and saw his eyes were glinting like black beetles under the hair. They crinkled into a smile.

“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby. Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mum’s eyes.”

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise as Aunt Petunia covered her face with her hands.

“I demand you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the giant who has apparently met him already and knows of his parents. Harry is desperate for answers, but even more confused than when the giant first arrived.

The giant reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, though this one sounded more like a nervous child on halloween.

“Anyway - Harry.” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursley’s. Harry realises in this moment that he is the only one on this side of the giant, as the Dursley’s hide in the opposite corner together. “A very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here- i mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste alright.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry took it shakily. “Thank you.”

“Wait until yeh’ve seen it at least.”

Harry nodded and opened it, fighting his trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing. Harry looked up at the giant with something akin to awe. He wanted to say thank you again, but he had already said it, this time he meant it. Instead of the words thank you, Harry stumbled the words on their way out, instead saying, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled as Harry’s heart felt like giving out at the sudden question.

“True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry’s whole arm.“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d not say no ter sommat stronger if yeh’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shrivelled crisp packets in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see what he was doing but when he drew back there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.

The giant (Ruben? Hargrove?), sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy packages of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs and a bottle of some amber liquid which he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and small of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don't you touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant chuckled darkly, turning to look from Dudley to Harry and raising an eyebrow at Uncle Vernon.

“Yer think if anyone here will be needin’ a fattenin’, it’ll be ‘im? ‘Arry here needs it more than yer great puddin’ of a son.”

He passed the sausage to Harry, who wa sso hungry he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he still couldn't take his eyes off the giant. The giant watched him eat with an expression Harry couldn't decipher. After a few more sausages had been passed over to him and eaten, no one still made any move to explain this situation. Harry said, “I’m very sorry sir, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I told yeh, I’m keeper of keys at Hogwarts - Yeh’ll know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.” Harry had just wondered if Hogwarts was another bank that Uncle Vernon disapproved of.

“Er - sorry sir, but I don't,” said Harry.

Hagrid looked shocked.

Harry tried to think of what to say to backpedal but he never was any good at appeasing people.

“ Sorry? ” barked Hagrid. Harry flinched. Hagrid turned to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them that ‘as to be sorry! I knew yeh weren't gettin’ yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learnt it all?”

“All what?” asked Harry

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered and Harry stepped further away from the giant's reach. “No,” Hagrid quieted down, “now wait just one second.” He rose from the sofa and suddenly seemed to fill the whole hut with his anger. The Dursley’s were cowering against the wall. Harry said the wrong thing and now they were all going to pay the price. His chest felt tight as he waited for the explosion.

“Do yeh mean ter tell me,” he growled, now facing the Dursley’s entirely, “that this boy - this boy! - knows nothin’ abou’ - about ANYTHING?” 

Harry kept his offence to himself. He had been to school, he wasn't entirely uneducated, and he did quite enjoy his lessons even if his marks didn't reflect it. It’s not the first time he’s been insulted about his intelligence but hearing it hurts nonetheless.

“I promise I do know some things sir,” he said. “I can, you know, do maths and read.”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents’ world. ”

That had Harry completely stumped. They’d gone over Earth in detail in class the other day, and unless Hagrid is about to announce that he’s secretly an alien and so were his parents then he’s fairly certain he’s from Earth - this world. Although, and he does genuinely hope for a second, maybe being an alien would explain why he feels so.. Alien around everyone else.

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode, Harry shouldn't have pushed.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed. Harry squatted and tucked himself away in the corner.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had gone pale. Hagrid turned suddenly to stare wildly at Harry.

“But yer must know about yer mum and dad,” he pleaded, “I mean, they’re famous . You’re famous.”

Harry looked away, ashamed that he really apparently did know nothing of his mum and dad.

“Yeh don’ know … yeh don’ know…” Hagrid sounded dejected, running his hands through his hair. He stared, bewildered at Harry. “Yeh don’ know what yeh are ?”

Was this the alien thing? Is that what it was? Or maybe he meant the celebrity world. But surely someone would have mentioned something if his parents were celebrities.

Aunt Petunia suddenly found her voice.

“Stop!” she commanded wobbly, “stop right there! I forbid you from telling the boy anything!”

Hagrid gave Petunia the furious look that Harry himself felt. After all this time he can finally hear about his parents, and they're silencing him.

When Hagrid spoke, his every symbol trembled with rage. “You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from him all these years?”

“Kept what from me?” Harry interrupts timidly.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

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

There was silence inside the hut. Only rain and the whistling wind could be heard.

“I’m a what ?” gasped Harry, who genuinely had accepted the fact he might be an alien. Wizard surely implies.. Magic, skill, worthiness, something Harry is severely lacking.

“A wizard, o’ course,’ said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower. “An’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An’ i reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter.”

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-in-the-Clearing, The Forest. He pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

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

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

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

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn't decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered, “What does it mean they await my owl?”

“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with a concerning amount of force, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather sleepy looking owl - a long feather and a roll of paper.

“Here’s some parchment, take the quill,” Hargid shoved the things in his direction as he busied himself petting the owl awake. It looked to have been enjoying its nap inside his pocket.

“Now, Harry, write my words down as I say ‘em.”

Harry nodded and lay to the floor, preparing the pen and paper to write on.

Dear Mr Dumbledore,
Given Harry his letter.
Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.
Weather’s horrible.
Hope you’re well.
Hagrid.

It had taken Harry a rather long time to write the short message but once he was finished he found himself rather proud of the writing. Perhaps a quill of his own would greatly improve his lettering.

Without even a quick glance over it, Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped its beak, went to the door and released the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Harry realised his mouth was open, quill still in hand. He closed it and passed the quill back.

“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

“He’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

“I’d like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him,” he said.

“A what?” said Harry, before he could think any better of interrupting his Uncle.

“A Muggle,” Hagrid continued, none the wiser. “It’s what we call non-magic folk like them. An’ it’s your bad luck yer grew up in a family o’ the biggest Muggle I ever laid eyes on.”

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of him! Make sure he knew his place.”

Harry shook at the reminder of his treatment over the years, tears filling his eyes. They knew? This whole time they knew he was a wizard, that this was who he was supposed to be and chose to beat it out of him. He never knew, they didn't have to ‘stamp it out of him’. If he never knew why would they continue to? So many questions ran through Harry’s mind but his soft, quiet voice came to him to ask one anyways.

“You knew?” It was meak, and weak, but he was so used to his voice sounding like this that he wouldn't be surprised.

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia, and Harry jumped out of his skin, head snapping to her direction. Her face had a wrinkled, viscous look aimed directly at him. “Of course we knew! How could you not be, my fucking sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that cult and came home every holiday with her pockets full of frog-spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this, Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!” She stopped to draw a breath in.

So many things in what Aunt Petunia yelled shocked Harry to the core: the swearing, the hate, the freak . And yet all Harry’s mind supplied now was. My mother’s name is Lily. He wondered what else they knew that they’d kept from him.

But Aunt Petunia hadn’t finished yet, it seemed she’d wanted to say all this for years. Harry is momentarily surprised she didn't rant sooner considering how little she refrained herself before. But the thought that she was indeed refraining herself scared him more.

“Then she had to meet that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal - and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!”

Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice, he said “Blown up? You said they died in a car crash?”

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursley’s scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!”

James. James and Lily Potter are my parents' names.

With renewed confidence Harry asked urgently, “But why? What happened?”

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, i don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell yeh - but someone’s gotta - yeh can't go off ter hogwarts not knowin’.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it's best yer know as much as I can tell yeh - mind, I can't tell yeh everythin’, it's a great myst’ry, parts of it…”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few moments and then said, “It started, I suppose, with – with a person called – well, its incredible you don't know his name, everyone in our world knows –” He seemed to be struggling.

“Who?” Harry prompted.

“Well – i don’ like sayin’ the name if i can help it. No one does.”

“Okay… Why not?” Harry said cautiously.

“Gulpin Gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

“Would writing it down be easier?”

“Nah – can't spell it. All right –” Hagrid leaned closer – Harry mirrored the movement – and lowered his voice to a whisper. “ Voldemort .” Hagrid shuddered. “Don’ make me say it again. Anyway, this – this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ‘em too – some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ‘cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with stranger wizards or witches… Terrible things happened. He was takin’ over. ‘Course, some stood up to him – an’ he killed ‘em. Horribly. Displayed ‘em about. One o’ the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dulmbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway.

“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-Who never tried ter get ‘em on his side before… probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade ‘em… maybe he just wanted ‘em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Hallowe’en ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an’ – an’ –”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad – knew yer mum an’ dad, an’ nicer people yeh couldn't find – anyway –

“You-Know-Who killed ‘em. An’ then – an’ this was the real myst’ry of the thing – he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got those marks on yer head? That’s no ordinary scar. That’s what yer get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh – took care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even – but it didn't work on you, an’ thats why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ‘em, no one except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches an’ wizards of the age – the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts – an’ you was only a baby, an’ you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly that he had ever remembered it before – and he remembered something else, for the first time in his life – a high, cold, cruel laugh.

“W-Was it green? The curse?”

Hagrid looked horrified and angry and like his face couldn't settle on one of the two. “That’s somethin’ I’ll have a word with Professor McGonagall abou’.” He cleared his throat and looked at him sadly.

“Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yer ter this lot…”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped, he had almost forgotten that the Dursley’s were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched, the way they usually did when he was ready for a fight.

“Now, you listen here, boy,” he snarled. “I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing enough good beatings wouldn’t eventually cure – and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion – asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types – just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end –”

But at that moment, before the tears could fall from Harry’s eyes, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, “I’m warnin’ you, Dursley – I’m warning you – one more word…”

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa which this time sagged right down to the floor.

Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them. He wanted to know everything.

“But what happened to Vol- sorry – I mean, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst’ry, see… he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful – why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Whatever he shot at yeh mighta bounced right back an’ hit him. Codswallop, if yer asked me. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of ‘em came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was coming’ back.

“Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn't counted on – I dunno what it was, no one does – but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt entirely undeserving. He was quite sure there must’ve been some kind of horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He’d spent his entire life being clouded by Dudley and bullied by Aunt Petunia and beaten by Uncle Vernon; if he really was a wizard, why had he been so easily kicked around like a football?

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don't think I can be a wizard.”

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

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

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry… chased by Dudley’s gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach… dreading going to school with that ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow back…

Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at him.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, not a wizard – you wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon wasn't going to give in without a fight.

“Haven’t I told you he’s not going?” he hissed. “He’s going to Stonewall High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish – spell books and wans and –”

“If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop him,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name’s been down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won’t know himself. He’ll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled–”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. “NEVER,” he thundered, “-- INSULT – ALBUS – DUMBLEDORE – IN – FRONT – OF – ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley – there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose the tail should teach him a lesson.”

He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.

“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m – er – not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff – one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job –”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?”

“Oh, well – I was at Hogwarts meself but I – er – got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an’ that.”

He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o’ dormice in one o’ the pockets.”

Chapter Text

Harry woke up slowly at first, eyes adjusting to the light shining through his eyelids. Although he could tell it was time to wake up, he kept his eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,”he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for wizards. When I open my eyes I'll be in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

“And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door,” Harry thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn't open his eyes. It had been such a good dream, did he have to end it now?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All right,” Harry mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

He sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa and there was an owl rapping its claws at the only window with a piece of the old paper missing. There seemed to be a newspaper in its beak.

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though his chest was developing a cramp. He went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered on to the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don't do that.”

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

‘Hagrid!” said Harry loudly. “There’s an owl–”

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

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

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets – bunches of keys, random pellets, balls of string, mint humbugs, tea bags… finally Harry pulled out a handful of strange looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Harry counted out five of the little bronze coins and the owl held out its leg so he could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then it flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up and stretched.

“Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an’ buy all yer stuff fer school.”

Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He had just thought of something which made the happiness in his chest drop suddenly to his stomach in dread.

“Um, Hagrid?”

“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.

“I haven't got any money – and you heard Uncle Vernon last night – he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic.”

“Don't worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. “D’yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed–”

“They didn’ keep their gold in the house! Nah, first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they're not bad cold – an’ I wouldn't say no ter a bit o’ yeh birthday cake, neither.”

“Wizards have their own banks?”

“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”

Harry paused, mouth open, sausage halfway to his mouth.

“ Gobins ?”

“Yeah – so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh that. Never mess with Goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yer want ter keep safe – ‘cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’ fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin’ you – gettin’ things from Gringotts – knows he can trust me, see.

“Got everythin’? Come on then.”

Harry grabbed his backpack, barely half filled with all of his belongings and followed Hagrid outside of the hut. The sky was bright and clear now. Harry looked up at the tree tops and the golden yellow light that spilled between them. It was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

“How did you get here?”

“Flew.”

“ Flew ?”

“Aye, but we’ll be riding back. Not supposed to be using magic now I’ve got yeh..”

“Riding on what?”

Hagrid didn't answer and instead walked Harry to the other end of the car. Behind it was a large motorbike with a sidecar. Harry’s mouth fell open in amazement.

“I’ve never seen one of these before.”

They settled on to the bike, Harry climbing into the sidecar and putting his back at his feet. Harry stared at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame​​ to have ter navigate this forest though…” said Hagrid, giving Harry another of his sideway looks. “If I was ter – er – make our journey a bit smoother, would yeh mind not mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it on the side of the motorbike and the engine roared to life. Being driven by magic, they began to make their way through the forest at a gentle pace.

“Woah,” Harry whispered.

Hagrid deemed it safe enough to unfold his newspaper so Harry dared a question.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?”

“Spells – enchantments,” Hagrid replied, not turning from his paper. “They say there’s dragons guardin’ the high security vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way – Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die of hunger tryin’ ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat.”

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet . Harry had learnt from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’s never had so many questions in his life.

“Ministry o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

“‘Course,” said Hagrid. “They want Dumbledore fer Minister o’ course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, askin’ fer advice.”

“But what does the Ministry of Magic do ?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still witches an’ wizards up an’ down the country.”

“Why?” Although Harry suspected the reason based on his aunt and uncle’s... opinions.

“ Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”

Harry couldn't help but feel a little off about the response. Is that really the only reason? Surely if there was a solution for things that people haven’t thought of, it should be shared.

At this moment, the motorbike slowed down to a stop as they reached the edge of the forest and to the main roads. Hagrid folded up his paper. “Right, Harry, hang tight, I’ll get us there in no time. Goggles down.”

After around half an hour of driving, at a speed that seemed much faster than normal, they reached the local city centre. Hagrid parked the motorbike and they began their walk to the station. Passers-by stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked. Harry couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking metres and saying loudly: “See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

“Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “Did you say there were dragons at Gringotts?”

“Well, so they say, makes sense for a few breeds to hoard,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

“You’d like one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid – here we go.”

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand ‘Muggle money’, as he called it, gave the notes to Harry so he could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

“Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted stitches.

Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

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

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Uniform

First year student will require:

Three sets of plain work robes (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please not all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags

Set Books

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

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Other Equipment

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owls OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered aloud.

“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid.

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said, as they climbed a broken-down escalator which led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily, all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger bars and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of wizard gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some twisted mind game that the Dursleys were playing on him? A joke? If Harry hadn't known that the Dursleys had no humour, and didnt care about Harry enough to waste the money required for this, he might have believed it was.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hargrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid steered him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old barman, who was quite bald and looked like he’s lived a good portion of his life already. The low hum of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the barman reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business” said Hagrid, clapping his great big hand on Harry’s shoulder and guiding him into view.

“Good Lord,” the barman exclaimed involuntarily. The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered Tom, “Harry Potter… what an honour.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed towards Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr Potter, welcome back.”

Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realising it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone at the Leaky Cauldron.

“Doris Crockford, Mr Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last.”

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

“Always wanted to shake your hand – I’m all a flutter.”

“Delighted, Mr Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

“I've seen you before!” said Harry, ignoring the heat in his face and the way his stomach wobbled worryingly. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“He remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did you hear that? He remembers me!”

Harry shook hands again and again – Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A young pale man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor Quirrel will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”

“D-Defence Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-Not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He laughed nervously. Harry thought it only polite to laugh back. “You’ll be getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, my–myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. Harry didn't know how to deal with the sudden onslaught on people liking him. A part of him - a rather large part - wanted to cry. At last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.

“Must get on – lots ter buy. Come on, Harry.”

Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a dustbin and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Harry.

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

“Is he always that nervous?” Truthfully, Harry suspected he would be that nervous at meetings too if they were all going to be like that.

“‘Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin’ outta books' but then he took a year off ter get some first-hand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest and there was a nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag – never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject – now, where’s me umbrella?”

Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the dustbin.

“Three up, two across…” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Harry.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella. The brick he had touched quivered – it wriggled – before the others around it began to do the same. Eventually, all the bricks began to move out of the way, revealing an archway large enough even for Hagrid. The archway revealed a cobbled street which twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “To Diagon Alley.”

He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shuffle instantly back into a solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons, outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons – All Sizes – Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver – Self-Stirring – Collapsible said the sign hanging over them.

“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we gotta get yer money first.”

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes to drink in his surroundings. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium – Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown and Snowy. Several boys of about Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” one of them said, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand – fastest ever –” There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon…

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy-white building which towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was –

“Yeah, that's a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps towards him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside, and Harry, not knowing what to do when someone bowed at him, bowed back. The goblin eyes widened and Harry worried he’d done something wrong. Then, as they continued, he wondered if the goblin had recognised him.

Now, they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn,

So if you seek beneath our floors,

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through, and Harry bowed to each of them. These two didn't react, so he figured he mustn’t be offending them at least. It was better to be safe than sorry.

They were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind long counters on either side, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the room, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. The goblin was silent and it looked at Hagrid and then down to Harry. Harry, nervous at the silence, bowed. The goblin bowed back, staring at him. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr Harry Potter’s safe.”

“You have his key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid and he started emptying his pockets on to the counter, scattering a handful of mouldy dog biscuits over the gobin’s book of numbers. Harry cringed as the goblin wrinkled his nose. That didn't seem very polite and Harry started to sweat, nervously glancing between Hagrid and the biscuits, mentally urging him to hurry up and take them off the desk. Harry distracted himself by watching the goblin on his right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up the tiny key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

“That seems in order.”

Harry was impressed the goblin could tell from looking at the key. He wondered if it was a magical ability of theirs.

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault You-Know-Which.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid. “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog-biscuits back inside his pockets, the goblin at the desk instructed Griphook on where to go. The goblin paused to look at Harry for a moment before bowing. Harry bowed back and then followed Hagrid and Griphook towards one of the doors leading off the hall.

“What’s You-Know-What in vault You-Know-Which?” Harry asked.

“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbeldore’s trusted me. More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”

Griphook, who had held open the entrance door with a slight bow, led the way, glancing back only occasionally to ensure they were keeping up. The twisting passageways soon opened up to a vast underground area filled with rickety tracks, carts, and the occasional glint of precious metals and gemstones.

“Best stick close,” Hagrid whispered to Harry. “Wouldn’t want ter get lost down here. Goblins don’t take kindly to people wanderin’ off.”

Harry, trying to take in the strange surroundings, nodded and quickened his pace. The air grew colder the deeper they descended, and the roar of the cart tracks intensified, mingling with the faint clinking of distant coins.

Finally, Griphook whistled, summoning an old, creaking cart. “Vault 687 first,” he announced, gesturing for them to climb in.

Harry clambered in, followed by Hagrid, who barely fit inside the small cart. Griphook gave a low grunt of satisfaction before hopping in beside them, flicking a lever to set the cart into motion. They jolted forward, rocketing through the maze of tunnels at breakneck speed. Harry held on tightly, the cold wind stinging his face as they spiralled through the depths of Gringotts, passing torch-lit caverns and the occasional flash of gold beyond iron-barred doors.

When they finally screeched to a halt, Griphook hopped out and led them to Vault 687. He unlocked the door with Harry’s key and a wave of his hand, which opened with a resounding clank. Harry’s eyes widened as he stepped inside, finding himself face-to-face with piles of gold, silver, and bronze coins stacked neatly in the depths of his family vault. There were other things hidden in the back, but Harry couldn’t focus on anything else.

“All this is mine?” he whispered, barely believing his eyes.

“Yeh didn’t think yer parents would’ve left yeh with nothin’, did yeh?” Hagrid chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Go on, take some. Should be more than enough for all yer school things.”

Harry carefully scooped a good portion of each coin into a pouch, still feeling awed by the sight of so much treasure. Once he was finished, Griphook shut the vault door, and they all climbed back into the cart.

“Now, Vault 713,” Griphook said in a low voice, flicking the lever again. They zoomed further into the bank’s depths, the temperature dropping even more. The atmosphere became tense as they stopped in front of a narrow vault with a much more intricate door.

“Here on Hogwarts business, are we?” Griphook asked, glancing at Hagrid with a sly look.

“Yeah, special Hogwarts business,” Hagrid replied, his voice a little gruff. He held up a small key, which Griphook took and inserted into the lock with utmost care. With a series of clicks and a hiss, the vault opened slowly, revealing a tiny, wrapped parcel lying on a stone plinth.

Harry leaned forward to look, but Griphook quickly closed the door after Hagrid retrieved the mysterious package.

“Best we be getting back,” Hagrid said, tucking the package into his coat as they climbed back into the cart. “And don’t yeh go askin’ too many questions, Harry. Not just yet.” 

Harry glanced at the package with a sense of curiosity and wonder, knowing he had seen something very important—though just what it was, he couldn’t yet imagine.

One wild cart ride later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside gringotts. Harry didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he’d ever had in his whole life – more money than even Dudley had ever had.

“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding towards Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions . “Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if i slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.” He did look a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.

“For Hogwarts?” A short, bubbly woman – Harry could only see the back of her as she wrote something at the counter– inquired.

“Um – yes. School uniform?” Harry wasn’t sure if that was how he was supposed to say it, but it seemed to answer what she asked.

“Ahh, a first-year I presume–” she turned around and froze on the spot, a smile stuck on her face but her eyes widening. “Mr. Potter,” her voice airier than before. The woman corrected herself quickly, reverting back to her previous tone. “Happy to be of service, Mr Potter. Let’s get you all fitted.”

Madam Malkin led Harry over to a short stool almost entirely surrounded by mirrors. It made Harry nervous, seeing himself so much – honestly more than he’s ever looked at himself in his life. He noticed how dull and colourless his skin looked from a lifetime of malnourishment, his thin frame devoured in Dudley’s baggy hand-me-downs, and of course, how so very noticeable his scar was. It wasn't a great insecurity for him. At one point in his life it was a feeling of closeness with his parents, but now–-knowing what he knows about who put it there… Harry wasn't too sure how to feel. Every wizard and witch knew the story– would take one look at his spiderwebbed scar and know who put it there.

“Stand on the stool dear.”

Harry did so, looking away from his reflection as much as he could. She dropped a long black robe over his head and began to measure and pin and work to fit it to his slender size. As he glanced up at the mirror again he paused. The robe– it almost completely hid his body. It complimented it in a way that reshaped his frame and hid what was underneath. Harry thought he could get used to wizard fashion rather quickly.

He’d kind of zoned out for the rest of the fitting. Only focusing back in when Madam Malkin stood back with her hands on her hips, eyeing the robe. “That’s you done, my dear.” Harry thanked her, had her help to give her the correct coins, and was on his way.

Hagrid was a rather obvious sight, even in a bustling street filled with people, at least double the height and thickness of passers-by. To their credit, most didn't bat an eye at Hagrid.

They stood outside of another shop now – Flourish and Blotts – which seemed to be spilling with people. “Time to grab yer books, Harry.”

“Hagrid… Are there no other book shops here?”

“Well, yeh, there’s the second-hand one a few shops down, bu’ yeh this is where every Hogwarts student goes.”

“I can tell… think I’ll brave the second hand ones.” Without looking back at Hagrid, Harry moved down the street. He didn't want to admit it–he wasn't even sure what he was feeling– but he knew he hated spending this newfound money wherever he wanted. He didn't know enough about money, about what Galleons translate to in pounds. If he was willing to stop and think about it, he’d probably say he was scared of running out, even after seeing the huge piles in the vault. It didn't quite feel real yet.

Harry entered the secondhand bookshop, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the abundance of magical books around him. He’s never been allowed access to so many books before – magic or muggle.

Harry reached the section labelled Educational and searched for The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) on a shelf.

A bushy-haired girl he had noticed nearby, approached him with a smile. She was holding a stack of books he was sure would topple him over. “That’s a good one. Though A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration is very interesting too.” She spoke confidently, hinting at her eagerness and pride in her knowledge of the magical world.

Harry, not expecting anyone to talk to him, nodded. Though he did appreciate her friendliness.

The girl must sense his hesitation because she introduced herself. “I’m Hermione Granger. Are you starting at Hogwarts, too?”

Harry nodded.

“I’m Harry Potter.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, recognising his name immediately.

“Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?” She exclaimed. “I’ve read about you! I guess I should have guessed based on the scar but they didn't actually have any images, you see, and they certainly didn't describe it accurately–”

Harry was still unused to the attention. His face felt hot and he looked around nervously. 

Hermione paused and recovered quickly, noting the tension and asked if he liked reading. 

“I haven't done much reading before. Though I like this shop.”

“Oh, I do love second-hand books. It gives them another chance. And they’re almost always in perfectly acceptable condition for a much more reasonable price!"

The two exchanged a few more words about Hogwarts, and Hermione eagerly talked about how she’s read all the first-year textbooks already. Harry was both amused and intrigued, feeling a bit more at ease with the idea of starting school alongside someone like her. Though he doubted he’d be able to keep up, he felt the sudden urge to try his best.

He looked over to Hermione’s parents, muggles, looking both at ease in a bookshop and also lost at the book they're currently looking at together. If Hermione was so knowledgeable, even though she learned of her magic at the same time as him, then perhaps he can also learn just as quickly. Maybe not quite as quickly.

They said their goodbyes as Harry paid for his books and promised they’d see each other at Hogwarts. Harry left feeling accomplished in finding at least one person he would know in this new world – someone just as new to it.

They visited the Apothecary next, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor, jars of herbs, dried roots and bright powders lined the walls, bundles of feathers, strings of fangs and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potions ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and miniscule glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Harry checked his list again.

“Just yer wand left – oh yeah, an’ I still haven't got yeh a birthday present.”

Harry felt himself go red.

“You don't have to –”

“I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yehd be laughed at – an’ I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yeh an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer post an’ everythin’.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes  Harry now carried a large cage which held a  small Snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn't stop staring at her, she was beautiful. He hoped Hagrid understood how grateful he was, even if all he could do was repeat “thank you” over and over again.

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now – only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Make of Fine Wands since 382 BC. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, a singular wooden chair behind a small counter. The walls were lined with shelving, stacked full of long narrow boxes. There looked to be a narrow passage to the right but it was dark. Harry tried to get a closer look, noting the passage was in fact more shelves of boxes when a man's head suddenly popped out of the dark.

Harry jumped. Hagrid jumped too, shaking the floor a little.

“Good afternoon,” said the man in a soft voice. He stood before them now, his wide eyes shining, reflecting the warm lights of the lamps barely illuminating the room. It felt cosy.

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.

“Ah yes,” said the man.”Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. The eye contact was invasive .

“Your father, well, you took on more of his genetics by the look of it.” He didn't seem to say it in any particular tone, a simple fact. It was a sharp contrast to how the Dursleys would say it. “He favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

Mr Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Mr Ollivander traced one of the lines of Harry’s scar, down his forehead with a long, steady finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid.

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you were expelled?” said Mr Ollivander, suddenly stern.

“”Ey – yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

“But you don't use them?’ said Mr Ollivander sharply.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

Mr Ollivander hummed, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now – Mr Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er – well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand.

Harry suddenly realised that the tape measure, which was now measuring between his nostrils, was doing so on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting between shelves, pulling down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled to a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr Potter. Try this one. Beachwood and Dragon heartstring, nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

“Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches. Reasonably springy. Try–”

Harry tried – but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr Ollivander.

“No, no – here, maple and phoenix feather, seven inches, quite whippy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of ‘tried’ wands was mounting higher and higher and higher by the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“Sorry," said Harry, “but what’s curious ?”

Mr Ollivander fixed him with a stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand and Mr Ollivander bowed them from the shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid stepped outside.

“Got time fer a bite to eat before we should leave fer the train,” Hagrid said.

He bought Harry a burger and they sat down on wooden seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around, taking in Diagon Alley while he could.

“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the best birthday of his life – and yet – he chewed his burger, trying to find the words. The grease was starting to make him feel sick, reminding him of the grease that floated in the ‘soup’ he was always fed. He forced himself to eat it, Hagrid had bought him this, he could stomach through it to be polite.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr Ollivander … but I don’t know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I’m famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol- sorry – I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leant across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.

“You’re eleven, Harry. No ones expectin’ much of yeh at this age. And don’t you worry, Hogwarts is there to teach yeh things. You’re not alone, ya know. I bet there’ll be a few others that don’t know much either – Muggleborns. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve been singled out an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll have a great time at Hogwarts – I did – still do, ‘smatter of fact.”

Together they walked back through the Leaky Cauldron and into muggle London, heading towards the station. Hagrid took Harry onto the train back to the Dursleys. At the other end, nearing the familiar cul-de-sac, Hagrid handed him an envelope.

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September – King’s Cross – it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll know where to find me. See yeh soon, Harry.”

Harry wanted to thank Hagrid and watch him walk to wherever he was going until he was out of sight; he turned back to say goodbye, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone. Harry set off back to the house. He had a lot of reading to catch up on.

Chapter Text

The evening Harry had returned from Diagon Alley, Uncle Vernon squeezed his way into Harry’s cupboard, sitting on the bed near Harry's feet. It was awfully cramped with Uncle Vernon also inside, but Harry didn’t dare say anything about the sharp edge of wood digging against his body, or how uncomfortably Uncle Vernon’s hand was against his waist for lack of space.

Harry stayed silent as Uncle Vernon took a few deep breaths, and forced his face into a smile that looked quite painful.

“So, Harry, about your cupboard. Me and Petunia have been thinking, and perhaps you’re getting a bit too big for this cupboard now. We think you should take Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?”

“ Why ? You ungrateful brat!” Uncle Vernon snapped. Harry flinched but nothing happened. Instead, Uncle Vernon took shaky deep breaths and left the cupboard.

“Get your stuff packed and moved, now.” His voice was cold. Harry obeyed. He had his own theories anyways, heavily suspecting fear was the main reason for this sudden bedroom change.

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that didn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry two trips to get everything he owned upstairs. The second trip was only necessary due to his school supplies and owl cage – which took up a solid 90% of his belongings now. His owl – Hedwig he decided on – seemed to dislike the Dursleys greatly.

Harry looked around the room amazed. He knew it was the smallest bedroom in the house, not including his cupboard, but now he had an actual bedroom. All of Dudley’s toys had been removed – considering most in here were broken, they were probably finally thrown away. The only thing left, aside from a bed, wardrobe and drawers, was a small wooden bookshelf that looked like it hadn’t been touched the entire time it’s been in here. There’s only a few books on it, childrens alphabet and low-grade books that Harry had never seen in his life. But that meant it left plenty of space to unpack his own new books onto it.

A creak from the hallway drew Harry’s attention to the open door. Dudley stood there, looking around the bedroom with a relieved expression that left Harry baffled. It wasn’t until a few hours later that the thought seemed to finally catch up to Dudley. While waiting for dinner, Dudley complained loudly—though not as much as Harry had expected—and was quickly shut down by Uncle Vernon, who assured him that all his toys had been moved to his own bedroom and were not, in fact, now in Harry’s possession. Harry didn’t say a word about the books left behind.

Harry had curiously read over the children’s books left from Dudley before moving on to his own books for Hogwarts. It was weird to see the way the children and parents interacted in the more advanced stories. The parents were nowhere near as affectionate and loving as the Dursleys were to Dudley, but also way nicer than they were to Harry. The stories were written simply, but after years of not really reading anything, Harry was grateful for the refresher. Especially when he first started reading his new textbooks; the jump from simple language to this was significant to say the least. But Harry got into the groove of it.

Every morning, before having to get up he would read, and before bed, he would stay up reading for at least an hour. It helped that the Dursley’s seemed to have zero interest in Harry anymore, outside of a list of daily chores to complete slid through the cat flap on his bedroom door – a new addition thanks to Uncle Vernon’s desire to never have to eat at the same table as him again.

For the most part, this new way of living was incredible. Harry had never felt so free. Another benefit of them barely wanting Harry in the same house as them, was that during the day, Harry was no longer in the house. After completing all of his chores, he’d be sent to Mr Lawrence, who had asked Aunt Petunia if Harry could help with some chores of his own. Aunt Petunia had rushed at the chance, smirking at Harry. Little did she know that Mr Lawrence made Harry do no such thing. He would instead let Harry sit in the livingroom and read, and feed him proper meals and plenty of chocolate.

Today was another one of those days. September 1st was approaching soon, and Harry hated to admit how nervous he was about it. But sat on Mr Lawrence’s rug on the floor, Magical Drafts and Potions open in front of him, pen scratching in his notebook noting down all the fascinating ingredients that could be grown and produced into impossible – and yet apparently possible – potions. He had to admit this was one of his favourite books to learn from, aside from A History of Magic that, while boring, gave him all the information he so desperately wanted to know about his world. His world. Harry smiled to himself.

“What’s got you smiling?”

Harry’s smile widened as Mr Lawrence came into the room, two mugs in hand.

“I’m just so excited about school.” A boarding school, as he’d told Mr Lawrence.

Mr Lawrence smiled back and placed a hot chocolate in front of him. “It’ll be a fresh start for you. I can see why you’re excited.”

There was silence for a little while. Mr Lawrence opened his book and Harry thought about the upcoming school year while blowing on his drink. He knew what the school looked like, having seen an image of it in A History of Magic (which had scared Harry into dropping his book on the floor late into the night when he saw it move like it was a video), but actually going there was still intimidating. He’d be travelling alone; he’d be completely alone throughout the entire school year if he failed to make friends.

“Anything else on your mind?” Mr Lawrence gave him a soft, knowing look over the top of his book, one that he’d given him a few times and yet Harry still wasn’t used to it. A look that made Harry feel warm and feel as though someone cared.

“I’m scared…” Harry whispered, sipping the drink long before it had cooled enough to swallow down the thickness rising in his throat. “What if I get there and I don’t belong?”

“Oh, Harry,” Mr Lawrence sighed and placed his mug on the coffee table, kneeling on the rug. “Of course you’ll fit in. You’ll make friends. You can’t tell me you won’t at least enjoy the classes. You're sitting here every day devouring whatever's in those books, filling your notebook.”

Mr. Lawrence was right; Harry was thrilled to be learning all about his new world—though, of course, Mr. Lawrence had no idea what was actually in these books. Harry was so engrossed that he’d nearly filled up the little notebook Dudley had given him.

“That reminds me! One second.” Mr Lawrence left shortly before returning with something in his hands. “A present.”

Harry's eyes widened in shock and shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Yes,” Mr Lawrence dragged, returning to his knees and placing a satchel bag in front of Harry, “you can.”

The bag felt heavier than he expected when he lifted it up. Harry’s hands shook as he opened the bag, admiring it completely before looking inside. Notebooks, a pencil case filled with pencils, pens, and highlighters, a smaller journal-looking notebook and – making Harry tear up considerably – a letter writing set.

“My address is in the little address book, for you to write to me, but only if you want to of course. I’ll write back, send you birthday and Christmas cards. I know that– I know your Aunt and Uncle probably won’t. And I’m so very sorry for what they’ve been like, p–Harry.” He started tearing up, voice thicker. “How I never noticed… I– I called for a welfare check once but they told me everything was fine–”

“Oh, I remember that. The police knew who my Aunt and Uncle were. They seemed like old friends, and brushed it off.”

Harry was crying and Mr Lawrence looked close to tears. He didn’t look sure of himself, hands fluttering around like he wanted to touch Harry comfortingly but didn’t know if he was okay with it. Harry laughed weakly and wrapped his arms around his waist, thanking him over and over again. Harry hadn’t ever been hugged before, and while he was out of practice, Harry felt too relieved to care.

“Mr Lawrence,” Harry mumbled into his shirt. “You’re the only person I trust. Are we friends?”

He laughed. “Yes, of course.” Mr Lawrence pulled back and looked over his face for a moment, finger trailing along his scar. “Look at you, you look like a kicked puppy, and I’m sure I look like a mess. Let’s brighten the mood a bit. How would you like to play chess?”

Harry nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. Without a word, Mr. Lawrence handed him a packet of tissues. Harry blinked, momentarily confused about where it had come from and laughed. Harry had a renewed hope for Hogwarts and what it would entail.

On September 1st, Harry woke up feeling more excited than nervous. He made breakfast, ate it, packed all of his stuff up, and packed the car by himself. Mr Lawrence came out to say goodbye to him, sneaking him a chocolate bar for the train journey. He looked at him with a proud smile. He whispered to Harry about one of the notebooks being there for all of his thoughts if he ever feels lonely. Harry’s heart was warmed and he looked at Mr Lawrence, as though seeing him for the first time, and thought it would be nice to have a father like him.

“Come on, boy, get in. No dilly-dallying. I want this whole silly ordeal over with.”

“Bye, Mr Lawrence!”

“See you in the summer, pup!”

Once they’d arrived at the station, the Dursleys dropped Harry off in a hurry, instructing him to find the train on his own. Dudley was the only one to pause and wave goodbye before they went off to enjoy their day.

As Harry made his way through King's Cross Station, a mixture of nerves and excitement churned in his stomach. He had no clue how to find Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and his attempts at asking strangers hadn’t helped, instead earning him nasty looks as they saw his trolley of belongings. He glanced around at the bustling crowd, looking for any hint of something magical that might point him in the right direction.

Then he spotted a mother and son that looked very different from everyone else. A tall, elegant woman with pale blonde hair, her gaze sweeping over the platform, walked alongside her son. The boy, who looked about Harry's age, wore an expensive-looking coat over his black clothes, and his hair was just as fair as the woman’s. Something about the way he carried himself, chin up, exuding confidence, made him seem unlike any of the other children in the station. As his gaze dropped lower, Harry noticed the boy pushed a cart similar to his own!

Harry, despite his nerves, approached them, hoping they might be able to help. “Um, excuse me,” he said, his voice uncertain as he approached the woman. “Do you know how to get to Platform Nine and Three Quarters?”

The boy turned to him with wide eyes, and his mother’s gaze softened as she looked Harry over. “Ah,” she said in a lilting voice, smiling politely. “It’s always a bit of a surprise the first time, isn’t it?”

Harry blinked, relieved to have found someone who might understand his situation. The woman seemed to pick up on his confusion and exchanged a glance with her son.

“Are your parents–?” she asked gently.

“Um, no, they’re dead. My aunt and uncle don’t know about this stuff,” Harry replied uncertainly. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say to these new people, but he didn’t want to leave it unanswered and seem rude.

The boy smirked slightly, his gaze appraising Harry as though he were something interesting on display. “They’re muggles then, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted, feeling a bit intimidated by the boy’s confidence.

The boy’s mother seemed to notice Harry’s discomfort, and she smiled reassuringly. “No matter, dear. It can be quite confusing at first. My name is Narcissa Malfoy,” she introduced herself with a gracious nod. “And this is my son, Draco. We’d be happy to show you the way.”

“Thank you, I’m Harry,” Harry replied, feeling his nerves start to settle.

Draco eyed him with an expression that was difficult to read. “I take it you’re new to all of this, then?” he asked, as they started walking together through the crowd.

“Yes, actually,” Harry said, feeling a little awkward. “I only found out I was a wizard a month ago.”

Draco’s brows raised slightly in interest. “Really? My parents have been teaching me all about magic since I was little,” he replied, his voice tinged with pride. “They say it’s important to know your history, your heritage. Some of the older wizarding families—”

“Draco,” Narcissa interrupted gently, casting a warning look at her son. She turned back to Harry, her expression warm. “It must be very exciting, learning all of this at once. Don’t worry about the platform; it’s quite simple. All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. But don’t stop—just keep walking with confidence.”

Harry blinked, trying to wrap his head around it. “Walk through the barrier?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said with a smile, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “And you’ll see the train waiting on the other side.”

They had reached the barrier, which was actually a solid brick wall, and Harry looked at it, half expecting to see some kind of magical doorway appear. “Go on,” Draco said, motioning toward it with a faint smirk. “Just… don’t run too fast, or you might actually crash.”

“Draco,” Narcissa scolded softly, though there was a trace of amusement in her eyes. “He’s only joking, Mr. Potter. Just keep walking, and you’ll be fine.”

Harry took a deep breath and nodded, steeling himself as he approached the barrier. But just before he walked through, he realised what she’d said. “Wait—how did you know my name?”

The question made Draco pause, glancing at his mother, who simply smiled. “You’re quite famous in our world, Mr. Potter,” she said softly. “I expect many people will recognize you once you’re at Hogwarts.”

Harry felt his cheeks warm, not entirely sure how to respond to that. He was used to people looking at him strangely because of his scar, but he didn't know if he’d ever get used to the fame. “Oh,” was all he managed, his mind reeling with this piece of information.

“Perhaps I’ll see you on the train,” Draco said with a slight nod. “Good luck, Potter.”

Harry nodded, offering a small smile to them both. With a final deep breath, he strode forward and braced himself as he approached the barrier. To his surprise, the moment he reached it, he felt a strange, rippling sensation, and then he was through.

He found himself on the other side, staring in awe at the black and red Hogwarts Express , billowing steam as students and families bustled around it. The platform was alive with laughter, chatter, and the sounds of owls hooting from their cages. He couldn’t believe his eyes—he was really here, at the entrance to his new life.

Turning back, he saw Narcissa and Draco step through the barrier behind him, moving gracefully through the crowd. Draco gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, and Narcissa smiled kindly at him once more. He watched as they walked away, Draco already greeting other students he seemed to know.

With a surge of excitement—and a hint of nerves—Harry clutched his trolley and took a deep breath, feeling a sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced before. He was no longer just the boy under the stairs; he was Harry Potter, a wizard on his way to Hogwarts.

As he handed over his belongings, he couldn’t help but glance back once more, catching sight of Draco laughing with a group of students as they boarded the train. Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about meeting Draco and his mother had left him feeling as though he’d just gotten a glimpse into a part of this world that was still a mystery to him.

Harry finally climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express, his excitement tempered by nervousness. The platform had been bustling with so many unfamiliar faces, and he wasn’t entirely sure where he was supposed to sit. Glancing down the corridor of compartments, he noticed the familiar blond hair of Draco Malfoy through the window of an empty compartment. Harry took a deep breath and opened the door.

Draco looked up, a little surprised, but then he smirked, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. “Well, Potter,” he drawled, “decided to join me, have you?”

Harry returned the smirk with a shy smile, sliding into the seat opposite Draco. “Thought I might as well sit with someone I’ve already met,” he replied, trying to hide his nerves.

Draco leaned back, watching him with sharp, assessing eyes. “Wise choice. Some of the people on this train can be a bit… well, less interesting, I suppose.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Besides, it’s not every day you get to sit with the famous Harry Potter.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “I still don’t quite understand why I’m so famous.”

“Really?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re the Boy Who Lived. Defeated You-Know-Who when you were just a baby. Everyone knows about you.” He tilted his head, a touch of curiosity in his gaze. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”

“No,” Harry admitted, frowning slightly. “My aunt and uncle… they didn’t exactly tell me anything about magic or, well, anything to do with this world. I only found out about this world on my birthday. Apparently they had known all along though.”

Draco’s eyes widened a bit, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he smoothed it away. He scoffed. “Typical Muggles. They don’t understand anything about magic and tend to think hiding it is the best option.”

Harry nodded, somewhat relieved that Draco seemed to understand. “So… you grew up in a wizarding family?” he asked.

Draco’s smirk returned, tinged with pride. “Of course. My family has been a part of the wizarding world for generations. We’re what you’d call a pure-blood family—no Muggle blood in the family tree.” He paused, watching Harry’s reaction carefully.

“Oh.” Harry wasn’t entirely sure what “pure-blood” meant, but he nodded anyway. “So, you must know a lot about magic, then.”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “I suppose. My parents made sure I was well-prepared for Hogwarts. I’ve learned a lot already. You’ll probably be behind, but I can help you catch up—if you want.” He leaned forward slightly, his tone a bit more serious. “It’s important to know who you can trust in the wizarding world, Potter. Some people might want to get close to you for the wrong reasons.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. There was something sincere in Draco’s words, even if he sounded a bit smug. “That’s… actually very kind of you. Thanks.”

Draco waved off the gratitude as if it were nothing. “I’m only looking out for you. After all, we’re both starting out here. Might as well help each other out.” He glanced out the window, watching the countryside fly by. “So, tell me, what was it like living with Muggles?”

Harry hesitated, unsure of how much he wanted to reveal. “Well, it wasn’t… great,” he admitted, looking down. “They weren’t exactly happy about me being… different. I spent all of my life in a cupboard under the stairs.”

Draco’s eyes widened in shock. “A cupboard? You’re joking.”

“No,” Harry replied, smiling a little at Draco’s reaction. “I guess they didn’t like having a wizard around.”

Draco shook his head, clearly appalled. “That’s ridiculous. If you’d been raised in a proper wizarding family, you’d already know so much. But no matter. Now that you’re at Hogwarts, you’ll finally get to learn about who you are and what you can do.” He paused, looking at Harry with a hint of sympathy. “Just forget about them. You’re part of our world now.”

Harry was grateful for Draco’s words, and a bit surprised at how easy it was to talk to him. Draco might be proud and confident, but he was also someone who understood what Harry had been missing. It felt like he was finally connecting with someone who could guide him through this strange new world.

The trolley lady soon arrived, interrupting their conversation with a cart full of sweets and snacks. Draco eyed the cart with a raised eyebrow, then looked at Harry. “Ever had any of these?” he asked, gesturing at the various chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes.

Harry shook his head, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I’ve never seen most of these before.”

“Right, you wouldn’t have,” Draco murmured, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of coins. He bought a stack of sweets and handed a few over to Harry. “Here, try these.”

“Oh wait, here, I have some coins,” Harry started searching his pockets.

“Nonsense, consider it a welcoming gift.”

Harry took a chocolate frog with a smile and heated cheeks. He looked at it uncertainly as it seemed to thump around slightly in its box. “Thanks. It’s not a real frog is it?”

“Of course not, it’s just magic. It fades away quickly, if you’d rather eat it then.”

As he opened the box, it leaped out of his hands, and both boys laughed as it hopped onto Draco’s shoulder. Harry’s grin widened, feeling at ease for the first time in a long while.

He looked inside the box, noticing a card inside. He pulled it out to see a picture of a very old man with half-moon glasses, a long crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard and moustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore . A face to the familiar name Hagrid mentioned. Harry turned over the card and read:

Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern
times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his
Defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945,
for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s
blood and his work on alchemy with his partner,
Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys
chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry turned his card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore’s face had disappeared.

“He’s gone! The– Dumbledore’s gone!” He turned the card to show Draco and pointed to where the man once stood.

“Hmm, can’t expect him to hang around all day,” said Draco. “But he’ll be back.”

Harry stared, and true to word Dumbledore sidled back into the picture and gave him a small smile. How weird.

“So, Potter,” Draco said, using a dark green handkerchief to wipe chocolate from his fingers. “What are you most excited about at Hogwarts? Besides not living with Muggles anymore, obviously.”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “I guess… just being able to do magic, really. I never even knew I could do things until recently. And maybe… making friends.”

Draco smirked slightly. “Well, you’ll have me, if nothing else. And I’m sure you’ll make other friends.” He paused, adding, “Though, fair warning, not everyone here will have your best interests at heart.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, wrangling his own chocolate frog, this time getting the card for Merlin .

Draco’s face turned serious. “Just that some people—like those who aren’t from wizarding families—might not understand how things work. It’s best to stick with people who know what they’re doing.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that, but he nodded. It seemed that Draco was genuinely trying to look out for him, even if he did speak a bit strangely sometimes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts as the train rattled on. Eventually, Draco broke the silence. “Potter, you should know… our world isn’t as simple as it looks. People care a lot about family and tradition. Some people believe those things matter more than others.”

“Does it matter to you?” Harry asked, curious.

Draco hesitated before answering. “My family’s… always believed that pure-bloods are stronger wizards. But I think it’s more important what someone does with their magic, not just where they come from.” He looked at Harry, as if assessing him. “You’re probably a powerful wizard, even if you didn’t grow up in our world.”

Harry felt a strange warmth at Draco’s words, and he nodded. “Thanks. I guess we’ll just have to see.”

Draco smirked. “Exactly. And maybe we’ll both have something to prove.” He offered Harry his hand, a rare look of earnestness crossing his face. “Let’s make a deal, Potter. We’ll watch each other’s backs. Hogwarts can be a lot to take in, but if we stick together, we’ll be just fine.”

Harry shook Draco’s hand, feeling a rush of excitement. “Deal.”

As the two boys shook hands, sealing their newfound friendship, the compartment door slid open. A round-faced boy with flaming red hair stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking hesitant.

“Er—sorry to interrupt,” he said, glancing between them, “but all the other compartments are completely full, it's getting pretty stuffy. Do you mind if I sit here?”

Harry noticed the flash of recognition in the boy’s face as he looked at him. “Blimey! You’re Harry Potter!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with surprise and excitement. Then his gaze shifted to Draco, and the excitement faded, replaced by something a bit cooler.

Harry nodded with a polite smile, feeling a twinge of uncertainty. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, then gestured to an empty seat. “Of course, come on in. This is Draco Malfoy.”

Ron hesitated, glancing back at Draco. He seemed unsure, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Right. Well… I’m Ron. Ron Weasley,” he said, with a bit of emphasis on his surname as if testing the reaction it might bring.

Draco’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. The Malfoys and Weasleys had a history, Harry gathered, one that seemed to be built on family tensions rather than the two personally. But rather than letting it show, Draco maintained his composure. With a nod that was perhaps a touch colder than before, he said, “Pleasure, Weasley.”

The air was thick for a moment, an awkward silence hanging between the three of them. Sensing the tension, Harry cleared his throat, thinking quickly. “Well,” he began, “you know, I’ve been learning a bit about this world, but one thing I think I do know is that it doesn’t seem fair to judge people by who their families are. After all, I don’t really know anything about mine, and certainly don’t want to be judged because of my Aunt and Uncle.” He smiled, trying to ease the tension. “It’d be much more fun if we all got along, don’t you think?”

Draco glanced at Harry, his expression softening a little. “I suppose you’re right, Potter,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “It’s not fair to hold grudges for things that, well… aren’t really ours.”

Ron looked at Draco, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in his expression. “I can agree with that,” he said slowly, as if he were still processing the idea. “Maybe it’s better to start fresh.”

Harry grinned, relieved that both boys seemed willing to at least be civil. “Great!” he said. “We’re all in this together, after all. It’s all a bit new to me, and I could use all the friends I can get.”

The awkwardness dissolved as the conversation picked up.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out.

Harry nodded.

Ron pointed and stared at Harry’s forehead. “So that’s where You-Know-Who–?”

“Honestly, Weasley, you have no manners whatsoever,” Draco bit out hurriedly, eyes wide in shock.

“No it’s okay, I don’t mind talking about it. I can’t remember it after all.”

“Nothing?” Ron said eagerly now that he’d been given permission.

“Well – I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”

Draco seemed to get impossibly paler but stayed quiet.

“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he suddenly realised what he was doing, he looked quickly away to his bag. Ron pulled out a few homemade sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper. “Want one?” he offered, passing one to Harry, who accepted gratefully, then surprisingly extended the offer to Draco.

Draco hesitated, looking at the sandwich for a moment before finally taking it. “Thanks,” he said, sounding surprised by his own response. Ron gave a nod, and, for a moment, it felt like the compartment was the start of something promising—a new friendship born from unexpected places.

“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, wondering if Draco and Ron’s family life was the average experience for wizards.

“Er – yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.”

“So you must know lots of magic already.”

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old pure-blood families like the Malfoys.

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron. “What are they like?”

“Horrible – not all Muggles, but the ones I lived with. Wish I had a wizard family.”

“Five brothers and a sister,” said Ron. For some reason he was looking gloomy. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch.”

“Quidditch?” Harry asked, trying to follow along with what he was saying.

“Blimey, it’s a great game. Flying around on brooms chasing after the Snitch and Quaffle. I’ll have to introduce you to it.

Anyways, now Percy’s a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first.”

Ron sighed and looked at Draco.

“Only child.” Draco smiled, if a little tightly, and stayed quiet.

Ron mumbled something before continuing. “You never get anything new either, well almost… No, not even my little sister did in the end. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand and Percy’s old rat.” Ron reached inside of his jacket and pulled out a fat grey rat, which was asleep.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff– i mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said too much, because he went back to staring out the window. Clearly not being able to input himself, Draco did the same.

Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, he’d never had any money in his life until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up. Draco looked conflicted, as though he’d never considered some people would be without anything.

“... until Hagrid – he works at Hogwarts – told me, I didn't know anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort–”

Both Draco and Ron gasped.

“What?”

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. Draco was looking around as though someone was about to catch them doing something they shouldn't be. “I’d have thought you, of all people–”

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,” said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn… I bet I’m the worst in the class.”

“You won’t be. There’s other students who are raised by Muggles,” Draco said.

“Yeah, and they all learn quick enough.”

Harry decided, in the silence that followed, to eat the lunch Mr Lawrence had given him. He shared his chocolate bar with the others and ate the Cornish Pasties himself.

Ron sighed down at the rat still asleep in his lap. “I tried to turn Scabbers yellow yesterday to make him seem more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered looking wand. Harry and Draco looked at each other with the same look of concern etched on their faces. It was chipped and something white was glinting at the end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearing poking out. Anyway–”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open.

The girl Harry met at Diagon Alley – Hermione, he thinks – with bushy brown hair and skin darker than Harry’s – and a sniffling blonde boy, poked their heads in. He hadn't seen many people with the same or darker skin as him, and he felt embarrassed to see how warm her skin was compared to Harry’s own ashy, dull tone from a lifetime of neglect. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes. Her eyes immediately brightened as she recognized Harry.

“Oh! Harry Potter! We met at the bookshop in Diagon Alley, remember?” she said, stepping in with a wide smile. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Hi Hermione!” Harry replied, smiling back. “Good to see you again.”

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said, addressing the whole compartment.

“We haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but Hermione wasn’t listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

“Er – all right.”

He cleared his throat, lowering his tone slightly to an almost uncomfortable croak.

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow – turn this stupid fat rat yellow.”

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. Draco and Harry stifled their laughs before they could come out. “Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean – it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all our set school books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – oh I introduced myself already, who are you?”

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron. As much as Harry had tried to familiarise himself with the content of the set books as much as he could, he definitely couldn’t recall the information by heart – he was impressed. Ron seemed to be more stunned than impressed. Perhaps he hadn’t read the books at all.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” he muttered.

“And you?” Hermione asked, facing towards Draco, who thus far had been curiously watching the whole interaction. He seemed surprised to be addressed.

“The name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you both in one of the extra books I’ve read. Pureblood wizarding families – quite prominent ones. And of course I read up on you Harry. You were in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century .”

“Am I?” said Harry, pulling out his new journal from Mr Lawrence, a smaller but thicker one than the others intended for his subject notes. He opened it to a fresh new page and started to write what he could remember of the titles. Hermione repeated them slower, for him to write them down accurately. Draco and Ron seemed to be staring blankly at his pen.

“Goodness, didn’t you know,” she added once he’d put the book away, “I’d have found out everything I could if it was me. Do any of you know what house you’ll be in?”

Draco spoke up eagerly now, interest piqued. “Slytherin. My family expects nothing less from me.” Harry watched on confused.

“I heard You-Know-Who was in Slytherin.”

“Yes, Weasley, everyone has heard that, because it's true. Well,” he added after a glance at Harry, “not everyone but the point still remains.”

“I heard Dumbledore was a Gryffindor.” Hermione interjected.

“My family’s going to expect me to be in Gryffindor like them. The whole bloody lot were.”

“What’s a house?” Harry finally asked.

“There’s four houses in Hogwarts; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. They’re based on the four founders of Hogwarts. Everyone gets sorted into a house.” Hermione supplies.

“Well, I don’t suppose I have a preference then.”

‘Anyway, we’d best go and look for Neville’s toad.” Her gaze shifted quickly to his glasses, a concerned frown appearing on her face. “Those look like they’re hanging on by a thread.” Without waiting for him to respond, she pulled out her wand. “Here, I can fix that.”

She gave her wand a flick and muttered, “ Oculus Reparo. ” Instantly, the lenses mended themselves, and the cracked frame was restored to perfection.

Harry blinked, reaching up to touch the smooth frames in awe. “Wow! Thanks, Hermione. That’s much better.”

Hermione gave a pleased nod, her attention turning to Ron. She raised an eyebrow and pointed. “Oh, and you’ve got a bit of chocolate or… something on your cheek. Right there.”

Ron’s ears went red as he rubbed at the spot with his sleeve. “Oh—er, thanks,” he muttered, trying to brush it away.

Draco smirked slightly. “I noticed it too, actually,” he admitted with a shrug, “but it seemed rude to point it out.”

Ron glanced at Draco, his face still pink. “Well, I wouldn’t have minded if it meant it’d be less embarrassing in the long run.”

Harry chuckled. “Thank you, Hermione.”

“Anytime. You three had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon,” she replied with a satisfied smile. With a wave, Hermione backed out of the compartment, glancing down the corridor.

Harry peered out the window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down. Harry, Ron, and Draco exchanged glances, and none of them could contain their excitement.

They all took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes. Ron’s were a bit short for him, you could see his trainers underneath them. Draco’s looked as new as Harry’s own.

A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves, and Ron looked pale under his freckles. Draco’s face was neutral in a way that Harry knew he was masking his nerves. 

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. Before they joined the crowd thronging the corridor, Draco mentioned finding family friends of his – Crabbe and Goyle. “I’ll see you at the sorting.”

Ron and Harry left the compartment first. People pushed their way towards the door and out onto a dark, exposed platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students and Harry heard a familiar voice: “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there, Harry?”

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

“C’mon follow me – any more firs’ years? Mind yer step!” Hagrid called out, leading them around a bend in the path. And suddenly, with a collective gasp from those at the front, they saw it—a vast, black lake, glassy and still under the evening sky, stretching out before them.

Across the lake, perched on a cliff and towering above like a dream, was Hogwarts Castle. Its spires and towers gleamed in the starlight, beckoning them forward. It was exactly like the pictures but somehow they didn’t capture the wonder of seeing it in person.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid’s voice broke through the awe as he pointed down at the small fleet of wooden boats, each bobbing gently against the rocky shore, a lamp attached to the front.

Harry clambered into one of the boats alongside Ron, Hermione, and Neville. The boat rocked slightly as they settled in. Everyone gripped the wooden edges for balance. Then, one by one, the boats began to move, gliding silently across the surface of the lake. There was no oar, no rower—just the steady, enchanted drift of magic pulling them toward the castle.

The cold air nipped at Harry’s cheeks as he gazed out over the lake, Hogwarts growing larger with each smooth glide of the boats. A soft, eerie mist curled along the water’s edge, drifting lazily across their path, and the distant lights of the castle glimmered, casting faint reflections in the dark water.

“Look at that!” Ron whispered, pointing up at the towering turrets that seemed to stretch endlessly into the night sky. The whole scene felt too wondrous, too surreal to be true.

As they neared the cliffside, the boats turned smoothly, guiding them toward a hidden tunnel in the rock, its entrance wide and dark, like a secret passage into another world. They drifted into the shadowy tunnel, the water lapping softly against the sides of the boats as they entered a cavernous, torch-lit underground harbour.

Hagrid’s voice echoed once more. “Everyone out now! Oy, is this someone’s toad?”

Harry scrambled out of the boat, helping Neville keep his balance, and joined the others as Neville ran to collect ‘Trevor’. They filed onto the wide stone steps leading up and out of the harbour. They climbed in silence, hearts pounding in anticipation. And finally, they emerged into the cool night air again, standing in the shadow of Hogwarts itself, every stone of the castle seeming to pulse with mystery and promise.

Ahead, the grand oak doors of Hogwarts swung open, and Harry felt a surge of thrill as he realised he was about to step inside his new world.

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”

Hagrid raised his gigantic fist – somehow seeming small on the large castle door – and knocked three times.

Chapter Text

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry’s first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

“The firs’ years, Professor Mcgonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have fitted the whole of the Dursleys house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too high to make out in any detail, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right – the rest of the school must already be here – but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering around nervously.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend your free time in your house common-room.

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn you house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a great credit to whichever house becomes yours.

“The ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s chocolate-covered face. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair. Subconsciously, or maybe somewhat consciously, he tried to cover the worst of his scar with it.

Harry’s face heated at showing the whole school his scar. Sure, he’d had it his whole life and was used to the looks and the initial shock. But his new school, the school that is supposed to change his life for the better, might turn out to be exactly like the old one when they see him. He’d already had people shocked at how large his scar was.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” he asked Ron, pointing to the chocolate mark on his cheek.

“Some sort of test I think. Fred said it hurts a lot but I think he was joking.”

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole school? But he didn't even know any magic yet – what on earth would he have to do? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified too. No one was talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learnt and wondering which one she'd need. Harry tried very hard not to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never, not even when he’d had to take a school report home to the Dursley’s saying that he’d somehow turned his teacher’s wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come back and lead him to his doom.

Then something happened which made him jump about a foot in the air – several people behind him screamed.

He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they gilded across the room talking to each other and hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a short, fat monk was saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance –”

“My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost – I say, what are you all doing here?”

A ghost wearing some kind of puffy collar and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.

Nobody answered.

“New students!” said Friar, the monk, smiling around at them. “About to be sorted, I suppose?”

A few people nodded mutely.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know.”

“Move along now,’ said a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first years, “and follow me.”

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles which were floating in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upwards and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside, I read about it in Hogwarts, a History. ” Harry knows, he had read that too, but he said nothing, taking in the beauty of it.

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the heavens.

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. The hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it in the house.

Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing – noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at the hat, he stared at it too. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the bottom opened wide like a mouth – and the hat began to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry,
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin,
Where leaders rise and shine,
With drive, ambition, and a will
To leave a lasting sign.
But listen well, don't take for granted
The house that you’ll call home,
For bonds are built with everyone,
No matter where you roam.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, I will. He was going on about wrestling a troll.”

Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot better than having to wrestle a troll, but he did wish they could have tried it on without everyone watching. The hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn't feel brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If only the house had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause –

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of Friar waving merrily at her.

“Bones, Susan!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again and Susan scuttled off to sit next to hannah.

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but “Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor and the table in the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see what must surely be Ron’s twin brothers catcalling.

“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin, who seemed equally as excited.

He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He remembered being picked for teams during sports lessons at his old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not because he was no good, but because no one wanted Dudley to think they liked him.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. “Finnigan, Seamus,” the sandy-haired boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.

“Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat. Ron and Harry sent each other a look of aggrement; that was an obvious choice.

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts always do when you're very nervous. What if he wasn't chosen at all? What if he just sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he’s better get back on the train?

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time deciding with Neville. When it finally shouted “GRYFFINDOR”, Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.”

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed “SLYTHERIN!”

Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with himself. Harry smiled at him when their eyes met across the room.

There weren't many people left now.

“Moon’ …, “Nott” …, “Parkinson” …, then a pair of twin girls, “Patil” and “Patil” …, then “Perks” …, and then, at last – “Potter, Harry!”

As Harry stepped forwards, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

“ Potter , did she say?”

“ The Harry Potter?”

“Look at his scars !”

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you?”

Harry gripped the edges of the stool as he wondered himself. Draco had gone to Slytherin, Hermione to Ravenclaw, Ron hadn't been sorted yet but it seemed the people he knew already had been divided up. He had no idea if he fit anywhere at all. Maybe this was where he was kicked out.

“Very interesting. Feel as though you don't belong, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you sure? Well, if you’re sure – better be…” Harry fleetingly wished he hadn't thought anything about not belonging and scrunched his eyes for the blow. “GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. With great relief and uncertainty, he took off the hat and walked shakily towards the Gryffindor table. Harry distantly thought he may have received the loudest cheers yet. Percy the prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the puffy collar he’d seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just been plunged into a bucket of ice-cold water.

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eyes and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there, in the centre of the High Table, in a large golden chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognised him at once from the card he'd got out of the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, too, the nervous teacher from the Leaky Cauldron. He was wearing a large purple scarf on top of his head – a turban from what he’d gathered from comments made by the Dursleys.

And now there were only three people left to be sorted. “Turpin, Lisa,” became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had shouted “HUFFLEPUFF!”

There was silence throughout the hall that seemed to go on forever before Hufflepuff table clapped and whooped loudly, Percy and George were silent, mouths open in shock. Fred however, had a look of contemplation on his face. Harry wondered just how long the Weasley line had produced Gryffindors - if it had perhaps been forever. Harry watched as Ron collapsed into his seat at the table as ‘Zabini, Blaise,’ was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realised how hungry he was. The train ride seemed ages ago.

Albus Dumbledore had got to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than seeing them all there.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: “Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

“Thank you!”

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not.

“Is he – a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly.

“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?”

Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he’d never eaten before on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs.

Harry had eaten some of these foods, but the Dursley’s usually boiled his food and gave him it like a flavourless soup. And any treat that Harry may have been given alongside Dudley, Dudley had taken it, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the humbugs and began to eat. It was all delicious.

“That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak.

“Can’t you–?”

“I haven't eaten in nearly four hundred years,” said the ghost. “I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I’ve introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.”

“I know who you are,” said Neville timidly. ‘Gran told me about you – you’re Nearly Headless Nick.”

“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy –” the ghost began stiffly, but the sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted with his mouth full.

“ Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?”

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn't going at all the way he wanted.

“Like this ,” he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell on his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on their faces, Sir Nicholas flipped his head back on to his neck, coughed and said “So – new Gryffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house championship this year? Gryffindor has never gone so long without winning. Slytherin have got the cup six years in a row! The bloody Baron’s becoming almost unbearable – he’s the Slytherin ghost.”

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face and robes stained with silver blood. He was right next to Malfoy, who was trying his hardest to not look. He seemed to be leaning away ever so slightly. Harry couldn't help but chuckle.

“How did he get covered in blood?” asked Seamus with great interest.

“I've never asked,” said Sir Nicholas delicately.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the puddings appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavour you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding…

As Harry helped himself to an apple pie, the talk turned to their families.

“I’m half and half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle. Mam didn't tell him she was a witch ‘til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”

The others laughed.

“What about you, Neville?”

“Well, my gran brought me up and she’s a witch,” said Neville, “but the family thought I was all muggle for ages. My great uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and forced some magic out of me – he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned – but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for tea and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when Great Aunt Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced – all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here – they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad.”

On Harry’s other side, Fred and George Weasley were whispering something about Ron (“I was hoping he’d get into Gryffindor, even if just to make sure the dormitory –”; “i know, what if it doesn't? Maybe we should talk to Professor Sprout –”).

Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy and so painfully full, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and pale skin.

It happened very suddenly. The pale teacher looked past Quirrel’s head straight into Harry’s eyes – and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Ouch!” Harry clapped his hand to his head.

“What is it?” asked Percy.

“N-nothing.”

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. He’d had pain from his scar before, usually a tightness when his skin was dry but this pain felt nothing like it. It was as though something was trying to make its way out of his skull. However, it was harder to shake off the feeling Harry had got from the teacher's look – a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrel?” he asked Percy.

“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to – everyone knows he's after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”

Harry watched Professor Snape for a while but Snape didn't look at him again.

At last, the puddings too disappeared and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

“Ahem – just a few more words now we are all fed and watered. I have a few start of term notices to give you.

“First years should note that the forest in the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.”

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

“I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

Harry laughed, but he was one of the very few who did.

“He’s not serious?” he muttered to Percy.

“Must be,” said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. “It’s odd because he usually gives us a reason why we’re not allowed to go somewhere – the forest’s full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects at least.”

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers’ smiles became rather fixed and strained.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick as if he was trying to get a fly off the end and a ling golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself snake-like into words.

“Everyone pick their favourite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”

And the school bellowed:

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald,
Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling,
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.”

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped the loudest.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall and up the marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy had led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how much further they had to go when they came to a sudden halt.

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in mid-air ahead of them and as Percy took a step towards them they started throwing themselves at him.

“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. “A Poltergeist.” He raised his voice, “Peeves – show yourself!”

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?”

There was a pop and a little man with wicked dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating crossed legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.

“Ooooooh!” he said, with an evil cackle. “Ickle Firsties! What fun!”

Harry was immediately reminded of Aunt Petunia’s nickname for Dudley and cringed. Peeves swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I mean it!” barked Percy.

Peeve stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Neville’s head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armour as he passed.

“You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as they set off again. “The Blood Baron’s the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are.”

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a rather large woman in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said.

“Capus Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it – Neville needed a leg up – and found themselves in the Gryffindor common-room, a cosy, round room full of squashy armchairs.

Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of a spiral staircase - they were obviously in one of the towers – they found their room at last, their names etched into the wood of the door. They found their beds: four four-posters hung with deep-red velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they pulled on their pyjamas behind the privacy of their curtains and fell into bed. Harry fell asleep almost at once.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to him in the Sorting Hats voice about not belonging; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully - and there was Draco, Hermione, Ron, Neville all trying to reach him from every direction but dragged away by a line of purple material into the darkness - then Snape appeared, who screamed high and loud - there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke the next day, he didn't remember the dream at all.