Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Freak Harry, freak Harry, with the scar on his face!

“Ugly Harry, ugly Harry, with the mud on his skin! 

“Left Harry, left Harry, with the parents in the dirt!

“Freak Harry, freak Harry, weak in every way-”

The schoolyard was a brutal place. There were too many hunting dogs for a measly little rabbit to get by, too much predator to not sniff out the prey. Harry was a weak, pathetic boy, with knobbly knees and a scar on his elbow where his cousin Dudley had slammed it in the car door. He owned nothing but cast-offs. Fitting, considering he was nothing but a cast-off.

His parents had died in a drunk driving accident a few months after he had turned one. The both of them completely inebriated, his father hadn’t noticed he was driving into a tree. There was no funeral that he could remember, no gravesite that he could visit. There was nothing for the estranged sister of Petunia Dursley nee Evans, because she was a drug addict, and a drinker, and she got what was coming for her after marrying that bloody Potter boy. 

There were no pictures of his parents. There was nothing allowed or left of them in this house, because they were freaks. They were freaks just like he was. One freakish monster farrowing another, his Aunt Petunia always said. 

Barely better than the schoolyard was the school itself- there, the teachers sneered at him for showing up in dirty clothes and matted hair silently, and if he sat right in front of the teacher’s desk they might even stop the other kids from picking on him. It was one of his favorite places, in front of the teacher’s desk. While they hated him, he could sometimes be smart there.

And, most of the time, he could read the whiteboard if he was that close. His old, broken circular glasses weren’t good for much, with how old they’d gotten, but he could still see close to him.

Much worse was the little suburban house on Privet Drive. It was an indistinguishable house from the other houses in the neighborhood, as all the houses were indistinguishable, with a whitewashed fence and a neatly trimmed lawn and gutters that never had leaves in them for longer than a day. Its only distinguishing features were his Aunt’s perfectly trimmed pink begonias and the shiny bronze number four on the navy blue door. It looked nearly like a model home, with its obsessive lack of personality. But that's the way things were on Privet Drive. If, for a moment, there was a flicker of humanity, of imperfection, it would be the talk of the neighborhood book club and neighborhood watch and neighborhood house party. The last woman who’d let her garden fall into disrepair- a sweet, older lady named Mrs. Simmons- had ended up being treated so poorly by the rest of the community she’d been forced to move. 

There was no room for imperfection in Privet Drive.

There was no room for him in Privet Drive.

Every night, without fail, he’d return to the cupboard under the stairs.

In the schoolyard he was the first boy to bolt, but at home there was nowhere to run to. His cupboard only locked from the outside, and even when he was four years old it was just small enough where his Uncle Vernon could just reach in and grab him if he tried to hide in the slant of it.

He was not grateful, but even at age ten, he knew need more than want. And need was all he had- he needed a roof over his head, or he’d likely die, or get trafficked for organs or sex. That was what Uncle Vernon always threatened him with, at least, when he’d gotten too far into the drinks to control his tongue. I’d sell you to sex traffickers, boy, but I don’t think I’d make anything on you! 

He had a cupboard that was big enough for him to fit in, with a threadbare mattress pad and two itchy blankets that weren’t awful if he didn’t move. He understood that he was a freak. He understood that the world had no place for him. He saw it everyday- when Dudley got a new toy, or an ice cream, just because he asked. When Dudley had a bedroom, and then another bedroom for all his old toys that he didn’t want to play with anymore. When Aunt Petunia poured hot oil on him for asking for food. When Uncle Vernon pulled his belt off just because he’d noticed him. When Aunt Marge came over, and, with a big grin on her face, set her big bulldog stud on him until he was covered in dog bites. 

He’d long since learned that even his very breath could be taken away if he wasn’t careful. 

And maybe he hated them. 

Maybe he hated Dudley, because Aunt Petunia would look at him with joy and Uncle Vernon with pride while they only looked at him with scorn, or, rarely, when his freakiness got out of hand, fear. The scorn was better than the fear. And of course, he deserved both. They shouldn’t have ended up with him, he shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be here, if his parents didn’t like drinking more than they liked him. 

He didn’t try not to hate them for it, because hatred for his parents surrounded him. They left him here. A brown kid in a white family. A charity case. A freak. He remembered nothing of his mother besides the hissing vitriol that Aunt Petunia discussed her sister’s gradual descent into drugs, drinking, and violence. How she didn’t have evidence, but she just knew that her sister got their parents killed, if not killed them herself. 

He might even consider himself lucky he was here, and not with them. Where would he be if he was with his parents? A victim to them? No, no- it hurt less, when it was just the aunt and uncle who hated him, instead of his own father taking a switch to him or his own mother raising a frying pan to him. He could accept the pain, as long as it wasn’t from people who were supposed to love him. 

He knew why they looked at him with scorn. He accepted it.

He knew he wasn’t wanted, but he was alive. That was enough, because one day he’d escape all of this, and he wouldn’t do what his parents did- he’d be better. He needed to be better.

His dream was to keep snakes, though he didn’t know a job that included that besides zookeeper, and he wasn’t sure about the other animals that job title was likely to include. He loved snakes. The grass snakes in Aunt Petunia’s garden were always very nice to him- sometimes they brought him rats and wrapped themselves around him and squeezed, just like Aunt Petunia did to Dudley when she was proud, and they never, ever lied.

(He didn’t tell anyone the snakes talked to him. Vernon would probably kill them all- he couldn’t lose his only friends.)

They fed him at least a few times a week, and they gave him Dudley’s broken and old toys. He had an entire cupboard, which was always warm even in the dead of winter, with the hot water running underneath the stairs. They barely even hit him, really, unless he’d failed or done something freakish. And while Dudley was mean, mean in the schoolyard and mean at home, Harry was a faster runner in the schoolyard and Aunt Petunia didn’t want Dudley to touch him and catch something.

“Up! Get up!”

Harry, who’d been awake and staring at the dark ceiling of his cupboard for the last fifteen minutes, shot up, before rapidly looking around, pawing for his glasses. They were held together in the center by a thick piece of tape, the screws loose from years of constant use. Uncle Vernon didn’t want to buy him another pair after the kids at school had broken them, and the teachers would get mad at his aunt and uncle if he couldn’t see the board again, and then they’d be mad at him. They’d already gotten him two sets of glasses in his life. He couldn’t ask for more.

“Up!”

A heavy fist pounded twice on his door, rattling the hinges, before the lock unlatched and the door cracked open just a bit by the remaining force. He scrambled out, wearing two day old clothes four sizes too big, his hair only minimally matted. When the matting got too bad, Aunt Petunia would buzz his hair- that was how it always was, every two months or so, since he didn’t know how to take care of the thick, wavy mess his father had gifted him. It was short, now, puffing up in every direction, already thick enough that he couldn’t get his fingers in it.

Vernon was already walking away from the cupboard, looking up the stairs, “Dudders! Get up, it’s time for presents and then we’re going out!”

They were going to the zoo today.

It was Dudley’s birthday, so they were going to the zoo with some of his friends. Harry had to come because Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never left him alone, worried he’d steal or break something, he was certain, and Ms. Figg, the lady down the street at 13 Wisteria Walk, who usually babysat him when his aunt and uncle wanted to go somewhere without him- so, always- was out of town at a cat show. She bred novelty cats that Dudley and his friends enjoyed attempting to torture- at least, they had, until one attempted to maul Piers Polkiess and they hadn’t tried again. 

She was a miserable woman, whose house smelt strongly of cabbage. She’d set him to clean her house every time he came over- the copious amounts of cats caused quite a mess- and every time he committed an infraction there would be a knitting needle digging between the vertebrae of his thin neck and a reprimand that would make it all the way to Aunt Petunia’s ears. 

Aunt Petunia was always very worried about people finding her in a lie. She was a shrewd, stalkerish woman, who needed to know everything about everyone, but she also needed to be infallible at every opportunity. So she wouldn’t lie and say he was getting babysat, because Jackson lived down the road. If Harry was home then his older brother might see him. If his older brother saw him then he might tell his mother who might make it a thing. He felt it was unfortunate that Dudley’s friend’s parents knew about his existence- that meant more people calling him a corrupted, horrible child- but he was also pretty sure the only reason Vernon hadn’t killed him yet was because other people knew of his existence and where he lived.

“Only thirty-six?” Dudley said, and Harry glanced around, his eyebrows furrowing as he counted. He never got anything for his birthday, not even a cake, but Dudley did always get more presents every year, and last year he’d gotten- “That’s two less than last year!”

“You got thirty-seven last year, not thirty-eight. But these are bigger presents,” Vernon said, carefully, stroking his wiry mustache thoughtlessly with his thick fingers, “much more expensive, see? Why don’t you open some of them, then you’ll understand-”

“Thirty-six! Am I worth thirty-six to you?” Dudley cried, tears welling up in his eyes and threatening to pour down his full cheeks, and Harry fought the urge to roll his own. Like she knew what he was thinking, Aunt Petunia narrowed her eyes at him, her face shrewish. He went back to being a good little helper to avoid her ire.

“Oh, Dudleykins, we’ll get you some new presents when we go out later,” Aunt Petunia said, turning towards Dudley, clutching her heart like it was breaking in her chest. Dudley immediately ceased his fake crying, breaking into a grin. Harry pretended not to be interested as he made and plated breakfast, as Dudley opened up a new computer- newer than the one in Vernon’s office, and only for him, a new bike, a remote airplane, a video recorder, another TV, computer games, two cameras, a gold wristwatch, and the acceptance letter for Smeltings Academy, a private school that Harry would not be going to. He’d be going to state school, where the troublesome kids went. He was just happy to go to school.

The Smeltings Academy acceptance came with a uniform and cane. He could already feel the cane whipping him, and hoped the neighborhood animals had the mind to preemptively run away. He could at least warn the snakes, he supposed, and he didn’t think Dudley would try again with Ms. Figg’s cats after last time, but Mrs. Hughes at number seven had a host of cats as well…

After the mess with presents was over, the Dursleys ate breakfast at the table, and Harry chewed on a pancake that he’d burned on one side. Petunia, too preoccupied with the birthday shenanigans, hadn’t even noticed he’d accidentally burned one, and Vernon and Dudley would only notice if it was served to them. That meant it was his for the taking, as long as they didn’t notice him eating it. Aunt Petunia made him change after breakfast, and take a shower. He tried not to wet his hair, because it would never dry if he did, and then it would start to smell. She deemed him acceptable, in his oversized pants cinched up with his belt- that he’d been permitted to poke new holes in to make it tight enough, and a somehow larger gray shirt, that swamped him enough to make it not glaringly obvious how thin he was- all old clothes of Dudley’s that he’d grown out of. 

He flinched as Vernon grabbed him, his arm aching with the force as he dragged him back, his eyes wide as he met Uncle Vernon’s through his broken glasses.

“Nothing better happen today, freak,” he said, the perfect human equivalent of a boar about to rampage, “or you’ll never leave this house again.”

Harry, silent, feeling his heart in his throat, merely nodded, and Vernon shoved him towards the little dusty red sedan that Harry had spent all of yesterday cleaning even though it was likely going to rain in a few days. He sat down on his side, barely getting the door closed before Dudley gave his obligatory kick in an attempt to shove him out of the car. His head knocked hard against the car door, grimacing as Petunia scolded Dudley for touching him and Vernon threatened his death if Harry’s bruised skull had damaged the car- it hadn’t, it never did, but Vernon threatened that every time anyways. The drive was long, and marked with so many Are we there yet?’s from Dudley that it felt even longer. Petunia, with her infinite patience towards Dudley, had answered him every time. Harry tried to think of what she’d say if he acted like that, and then decided he liked not being beaten, because she wouldn’t say anything- just give Vernon that look that made him grin and pull off his belt. 

The zoo wasn’t crowded, and Dudley’s friends were already waiting, offering presents that Petunia stacked gleefully in the trunk to be opened when they got home. Harry stood off to the side, trying not to look at anyone for too long or meet anyone’s gaze, knowing it would only invite the ire of Dudley’s horrible friends. Dudley, today, wanted all the attention on him, so Harry wasn’t too worried about him deciding to spend the day harassing him with his friends- not with their parents here, at least. They also didn’t want their kids touching Harry.

The group started walking, and he stood behind Petunia and Vernon and tried to be invisible. The zoo was boring. It was only June, but it was already too hot for any of the animals to want to do anything, no matter how much Dudley yelled at them from behind the bars or glass. Or, maybe they sensed him coming and hid- Harry thought that option was funnier. They went and got ice cream, and Harry even managed to get half of Dudley’s sundae, as he wanted a bigger one. When the sun got too hot for the adults, they guided the kids with gentle hands and indulgent voices towards shade. 

The reptile house was a nice escape from the heat, even with its beatboxing A/C, no matter how much Dudley and his friends loudly complained about it being even more boring than the proper zoo. Harry shadowed them the entire time, not meeting anyone’s eyes. He’d met the parents of Dudley’s friends- they were just like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, their anger activated by eye contact, hopelessly soft and gentle with their horrible children. He wondered if his alcoholic parents could have been indulgent with him, if they hadn’t gone and died. 

“Make it do something,” Dudley scowled, staring at the large reticulated python, the biggest snake in the zoo, sleeping under the heat lamps. Vernon frowned, rapping the glass with his knuckles, but the snake didn’t move, and Harry realized with delight that the snake wasn’t sleeping- it was very purposefully ignoring them. 

According to the plague, the snake was named Phalanges, and he was rescued from a home that could no longer take care of him. There was also information about a reptile rehome and rehabilitator in London, and Harry grinned, wondering if he could get a job like that, working with snakes that needed help. That would be nice.

Dudley shouted at nothing, kicked the wall under the glass, and then stomped away, where his friends were making valiant attempts at harassing the spiders and scorpions. Vernon walked away to follow him, not even seeming to notice or care that Harry had remained. He eyed him for a moment, before he deemed that he was far enough away.

“Do you like it here?” Harry asked, his tongue tingling like it always did when he talked to snakes, “At the zoo, I mean?”

The snake perked up, head turning towards him. His eyes flashed from yellow to bright green for a sharp second, like all snakes did before they started talking to him. Harry smiled, leaning against the side of the cage.

“It is what I know,” Phalanges said, body stretching out, “it is better than where I was before. It was cold there. My skin ached and itched. I was hungry, and thirsty. Now I eat fat rabbits and piglets, and a woman comes and takes me out and shows me to kids. They pet me, and smile at me, and when I am cold I return here and grow warm. Nobody has hurt me in a long time. I am glad to be here. I could never be wild, but it is nice to be with humans who are kind now.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said, “you deserve to be treated nicely.”

Phalanges wiggled his tongue at him- a grin, for snakes, he’d figured, continuing to stretch out, flaunting his shiny, beautiful scales. He truly was elegant- a beautiful cream with orange stripes, with sharp yellow eyes.

“Woah!”

Harry bit his tongue as he was shoved over, landing hard on the ground, his eyebrows furrowing as his eyes watered. He fought every urge to cry- he wasn’t even bleeding, he didn’t need to cry-

“Piers! Jackson! Look! Look at what the snake’s doing!”

He felt rage coil in his gut, sharp and burning hot. He could feel it through every one of his fingers, through the pain in his tongue, through the boiling in his brain. 

“I will protect you, speaker,” Phalanges hissed, louder and clearer than he should be able to with the glass in the way, and Harry realized with a start that the glass that was there was gone. Dudley shrieked, as Phalanges feigned a strike, massive body fleeing the cage, “you, boy, are fat are the piglets they feed me. Where is the parent pig- I’ll kill them too.”

Dudley screamed, falling over, and Harry didn’t know that Dudley could understand snakes too, but he’d never heard him speaking to them and he didn’t know-

“Stop, please!” he hissed, under his breath as Dudley pushed himself away, trying to kick out at the snake, shrieking all the while. Harry’s tongue hurt too much to tolerate the tingles that speaking to snakes left for any more than that.

Phalanges turned towards him, watching for a moment.

“I want to help you,” he said, “I was helped. I want to-”

“Phalanges!” a woman wearing the zoo uniform said, running over, quickly picking up the large snake and putting a large portion of his body over her shoulders, “How did you get out?!”

“Keeper, please, I want to help-”

“The glass disappeared!” Dudley cried, pointing at the cage, and the woman looked at it, confused, while Harry was looking at Dudley. Could he not understand snakes? He must not, or he’d already be shouting about the fact it had called him a pig. She reached out, and rapped her knuckles against the glass of the empty cage, before frowning. The glass had returned like it was always there, like it had never been missing. 

“Did you have something to do with this?” she said, turning on Dudley, sounding completely pissed off, before glancing back at Harry, “Did either of you?”

Harry shook his head, terrified.

“Where are your parents-”

“Diddykins! My god, are you alright?” Petunia exclaimed, rushing over, before paling at the sight of the snake on the woman’s shoulders and squealing piggishly, “How is that monster out!”

“He nearly took my leg off!” Dudley cried, still on his ass on the floor, Petunia’s thin hands cradling his cheeks, “Harry made the glass disappear!”

“No I didn’t!” Harry exclaimed, “That’s impossible!”

Petunia’s head shot to him, her dark eyes furious and narrowed, her lips drawn back into a snarl. He knew he wouldn’t be getting any sort of meager dinner. He’d be lucky if he didn’t starve to death within the next few months. 

“Keeper,” Phalanges struggled, tail whipping out before tightening around her, the zookeeper doing a good job of keeping a hold on him, especially since he didn’t want to hurt her, “Keeper, please, let me help. Speaker, tell her. Tell her that I’m trying to help.”

“I think you need to leave,” the woman said, her eyes narrowed and a frown on her face, before glancing over at their assembled party. Vernon was behind Harry, his face so red it was nearly purple, Jackson and Piers standing back with their parents with wide, horrified eyes.

“Yes- I, we’re sorry,” Vernon said, too angry to truly be apologetic, his face still a grotesque shade of deepening purple, “boy, stand up. We’re leaving.”

Harry paled, his stomach twisting into knots. He knew that tone of voice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Phalanges paused his struggle, watching him for a long moment before curling into his keeper, tucking his head under her chin. She seemed confused, but still stroked his pretty scales.

“I as well,” the snake said, and Harry’s chest ached, because snakes didn’t lie.

~

His stomach ached. He felt like a black hole, infinite and consuming, but he didn’t feel as powerful or scary as one- not when he couldn’t stand without shaking, not when his brain felt like fog.

The cupboard was unlocked, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t want to leave it, it was safe. He couldn’t run away from Dudley right now, and he was vicious after Harry had ruined his birthday.

It had been two weeks. Harry had eaten two meals in that time frame. He’d nearly vomited the last one. The chore list had expanded into doing things he didn’t even know were chores, like cleaning the outer pipes of the water heater (he’d burned himself fairly badly doing that, but he didn’t know how to treat burns, so he just left it). He’d spent all of yesterday outside in the yard with a pair of tweezers cutting the grass- he’d never have finished without the grass snakes helping him. He was starving, but they were so angry already, and he didn’t want to get beat for eating out of the trash again- so he’d just… just be here.

The post came, and his stomach lurched as he pushed himself up, feeling like a ghost as he grabbed the few letters that came through. Bill… another bill…

His eyebrows furrowed. 

To Harry Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs of 4 Privet Drive

 

From Hogwarts School of Magic

School? Of magic? Had Vernon or Petunia signed him up for some sort of clown school as part of a joke, or something? He thought for sure he was going to state school, and neither of them really had a sense of humor. Did Dudley somehow sign him up? Harry wasn’t certain he was smart enough to think of that, and also was fairly certain that Dudley didn’t even know his birthday, let alone anything else that would have made him capable of signing him up for another school. 

He handed the post to Vernon, besides his letter. It was addressed to him, and he did never get letters, so he might as well-

“Harry has a letter!” Dudley cried, and Harry flinched.

“It’s addressed to me,” he tried, but Vernon was already standing, looking like he was merely a second from pulling his belt from its loops and taking it to his backside.

“Give me that,” Vernon said, and Harry was too tired and too hungry to fight, standing stupidly as Vernon read the letter over the fluff of his bushy mustache. Then he went a shocking shade of pale, and Harry was more worried. Why hadn’t he turned red? Why was he-

“Petunia!” he yelled, and she came rushing in. He handed her the envelope. She read it, went pale, turned a shocking shade of green, before rushing over to the fireplace and tossing it in. Harry was too shocked to stop her, and nearly hated himself for it.

“Hey! That was mine!” he exclaimed, having the energy to complain but not the energy to fight as Vernon grabbed him by the hair and started dragging him. He shoved open the cupboard and tossed him in, his face still frighteningly pale and his eyes horrified, and Harry whimpered as his head collided with the back of the cupboard before he was locked in.

He sniffled, feeling the shadows as they cradled him, before starting to sob. Even if it was a joke, it was still a letter addressed to him. It was still his, and Aunt Petunia had gone and thrown it in the fireplace, and they looked absolutely terrified-

Oh.

If they were scared, did that mean it was real?

~

The post came, and Harry stared at the small pile of letters addressed to him. There had to be at least ten, maybe fifteen, maybe twenty-

“Get away from those, boy,” Vernon hissed, picking them all up even though he hadn’t gotten the post since Harry was four or five and learned how to bring it to him. 

They all went to the fireplace.

~

The front lawn was covered in owls. They’d been leaving letters addressed to him everywhere. Vernon and Petunia, terrified, had started packing up. Petunia tried to hit owls out of the air with Dudley’s Smeltings cane while Vernon tried to pack the car. Neither were being very successful, frantic in their desires and shaking. Mr. Number Five was watching them in thinly veiled horror, and that seemed to make Aunt Petunia more frantic.

Harry was definitely certain that either someone had trained a hundred owls to fuck with him and the Dursleys specifically, or the magic in Hogwarts School of Magic might not be a joke. He was mostly just happy that they were so distracted with the owls and the letters all over the house that they didn’t notice he was eating.

~

They went to a horrible little hut on an island off the coast, surrounded by storms, that looked like it should be doing anything but standing. Inscribed in the door was Hut-on-Island-off-Coast with another inscription in the entryway that said Only Approved by the Elusive and Noble Prince Family May Enter Without Grave Consequence. 

Apparently they were approved by the noble Prince family, though Harry didn’t know anyone by that name, and didn’t know how Petunia knew anyone noble at all. She’d always seemed… suburban. 

“No one will find us here,” Petunia said, mostly to Vernon, “it’s the safehouse, from- from before.”

He nodded, his face grim. Harry didn’t ask. Dudley hadn’t even seemed to realize they were talking, taking the time to evaluate what would be the best ammo to throw a fit with.

Dudley had tried to mess with one of the glass decorations in the living room of the small little hut, and for the first time that Harry had ever known, Petunia screamed at him to knock it off and to not touch or break anything or misbehave at all. Dudley had cried. Petunia and Vernon hadn’t even cared, dragging things in through the storm.

They stopped getting the owls.

Chapter Text

In the dust on the floor, he drew his birthday cake with his fingers. He’d always imagined that he’d one day get a nice cake, maybe chocolate, and he’d have candles that he’d get to blow out to wish on. Tonight, though, he’d blow out the dust.

It was nearly midnight.

He kicked his feet, laying his chin down on his forearms as he waited. According to Vernon and Dudley’s wristwatch, the clock on the wall was correct, so he just had to wait until it showed midnight. Then he’d blow out the dust and go to sleep.

It had been a week since they’ve gotten here. There were currently no talks of going home. Petunia shut it down as soon as Dudley opened his mouth. She’d grown thinner, weaseler, and more short-tempered recently. Vernon seemed to accept it with a pale face and shaking fingers. He stared out the window a lot. There weren't a lot of things more entertaining than the continuous storm outside- they hadn’t packed any entertainment before they left, not even a card game, too panicked to think ahead.

He’d made himself a bed out of a set of the window curtains downstairs, as everyone else had taken the rooms upstairs. They were covered in dust and holes, but they were better than sleeping on the floor, and more comfortable than his blankets at home anyhow. There was a rug on the floor, but Aunt Petunia had forbidden him from sleeping on it, eyeing the large, intricate black panther weaved into the rug that almost seemed to move when he looked away with disgust and distrust. Not wanting to anger her, he’d decided to forsake that small comfort. It wasn’t worth getting kicked over, and besides- being right in front of the fireplace meant he could be warmed by the coals throughout the night. It made it easier to last the hunger.

They were going to run completely out of food soon, not that they were feeding him much anyways. Dudley, who wasn’t used to starvation, had started getting so irritable that he’d tried fighting Vernon. Even though Dudley was large for an eleven year old, Vernon had put him in his place with the same brutality he’d usually treat Harry too. After that, Dudley followed Petunia around like a duckling.

The clock ticked. Harry chewed his bottom lip, waiting for-

A quick knock on the door, and Harry felt his stomach lurch. He pushed himself up to his knees, his eyes wide. How would anyone get here? They’d had to take a boat from a tiny dock, and they’d taken the only boat. 

Oh… oh no. He was the only one downstairs. If someone broke in, he’d be the first one to die. 

“Did someone just knock?” Petunia asked, her voice a whisper, coming halfway down the stairs. Dudley, behind her as always, was watching with big bug eyes, like the snake from the zoo was back to bite him. Harry wished it was just the snake. 

“I… I think so?” Harry said, and Petunia went so gaunt that he worried she was going to faint.

The person outside knocked again, harder this time.

“I’m getting the bat,” Vernon hissed from upstairs, but he couldn’t see him, only hear him.

“That won’t do anything,” Petunia said, her voice small, as she walked downstairs in her nightgown like she’d been sent to the gallows. She unlocked the door, her hands shaking.

“Severus,” she said, clipped, stepping back to allow entrance to their midnight guest.

“Petunia,” a man said, seeming dreadfully bored with the proceedings. He was wearing dark, billowing robes, with a black cloak over his shoulders and a hood over his head. His face was thin and pale, with a royal nose and an aristocratic set to his eyes, lips, and ears. As he pulled his hood off, his damp hair became exposed. Harry had never seen a man with hair that long, or a woman with hair that short. 

“Where is he?”

She pointed at him, and Harry felt his heart stop.

What was happening? Was he being sacrificed, or something? Who was Severus? Petunia had never mentioned being friends with a man, let alone friends with a man named Severus, but they obviously knew each other.

“I’m warning you, he has his mother’s eyes,” she said. Severus didn’t respond, stalking over to him, his eyes roving over his kneeling body before settling on the cake he’d made of dust. His hands were thin and pale, one holding a stick, the other dipping into his robes, before he pulled out a letter- the same letter that Harry had been getting sent by hundreds of owls.

He stared at Severus for a moment, wanting confirmation that he was handing it to him. Petunia was glaring at Severus like she wanted to chop him up into pieces and throw him in the ocean outside, and that didn’t make Harry very confident that he wasn’t dangerous. Severus nodded, before Harry gently took the letter into his hands.

“Thank you,” he said. Severus didn’t respond, and he ducked his head, fingers tracing over the wax seal. He pulled it off gently, placing it in his pocket, before he steeled himself and opened the letter.

To HARRY JAMES POTTER, firstborn son of JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER and LILY JANE POTTER (nee Evans),

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF MAGIC humbly accepts HARRY JAMES POTTER into its walls. If HARRY JAMES POTTER is not capable of attending HOGWARTS, an official, proper letter must be sent to the MINISTRY OF MAGIC EDUCATION DEPARTMENT with appropriate alternative accommodations. 

Term begins September 1st.

Alternative accommodations owl will be received no later than July 31st.

 

Parents of students who do not appear September 1st without accommodation may be held accountable by MINISTRY LAW.

 

Attached is information about supplies.

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster of HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF MAGIC, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock and Proxy-Lord of Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Those Blessed By Magic.

 

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress, Order of Merlin Third Class.

His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked up at Severus, whose face was blank.

“What does this… mean?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. Magic? What was the Ministry of Magic? What was Hogwarts? What was an Order of Merlin or a Supreme Mugwump or an International Confederation-

“It means we couldn’t cure your freakishness,” Petunia hissed, no longer glaring at Severus- she’d found a new, better target for her ire- “that you’ll always be different-”

“I remember when we were children, Petunia,” Severus drawled, “how you begged your parents to send you to Hogwarts too. Your vitriol is not welcome. Be silent.”

Petunia’s face drew up. Harry, shaking, looked to Severus, hoping he’d answer his question.

“It means you have magic in your veins,” he said, “the Earth blessed you. Now you must learn to use your power, or you’ll continuously cause out-of-control accidents that have a very likely chance of ending in someone getting killed. Do you need anything beyond the clothes on your back?”

Harry glanced at the cake of dust on the floor. He hadn’t made his wish yet.

“No,” he said, quietly, “I don’t have anything else.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed, and he glanced over at Petunia, who was doing a good job of not meeting his gaze. He held out a hand, and Harry took it, tentatively, Severus pulling him to his feet.

“Get out of my house,” he said, and Petunia flinched, “I allowed you into the wards for emergencies, because despite how awful you are your sister loved you despite it. This was not an emergency. Do not take use of the gift your sister begged me to give to you and use it in vain.”

“You… Knew my mom?” Harry asked, quietly, staring up at him with wide eyes, “Did… Did you know they were drinking and driving?”

Severus stared at him for a moment, like he didn’t understand what was coming out of his mouth, before he glowered, his head shooting to a petrified Petunia.

“You were always pathetically jealous of Lily,” Severus snarled, “but to say she was drunk driving when you knew she was murdered is something beyond that.”

“I didn’t want- I didn’t want him to be like them!” she shrieked, “A freak, like them!”

“Wisen your words, Petunia. I am a dark mage, after all,” he warned, and she paled so quickly it looked like she was going to pass out.

“Don’t talk to my wife like that,” Vernon said, but he really didn’t seem to understand what he’d implied. Only Petunia seemed to know what he was talking about, and Petunia didn’t seem very forthcoming with the details.

“I will return within the day,” Severus said, eyeing the two of them with disgust, “if you are not out of my house by then, your blood will be feeding the wards.”

Harry felt his stomach lurch, a sudden horror welling in him, but Severus just tugged him along, waving a stick- no, a wand- over him and doing something that stopped him from getting wet. Magic. Bobbing in the water was some sort of carriage, and Harry could see it was attached to something but couldn’t see what it was. Severus walked out into the water, ice appearing under his feet- more magic- as he stepped that didn’t dissolve until after Harry walked over it too. He opened the carriage door, and Harry stepped in, trying not to shake. Severus sat opposed to him, and the carriage dipped below the water. Outside the twin windows, Harry could see seaweed, kelp, and fish. They were really underwater. Even more magic.

He was in a carriage underwater with a strange magical man he didn’t know.

“Are you… Going to kill me?” Harry asked, and Severus stared at him with something so irritated it was beyond the word.

“No,” he said, “I will be taking you to Diagon Alley and dropping you off with the Hogwarts Groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid. He will help you get your supplies.”

“Oh,” he said, “who are you? How do you know my mom? Do you know my dad?”

“My name is Severus Snape. I will be teaching you potions,” Snape didn’t seem pleased to be answering questions, but continued to do so anyways, “I knew your mother since we were children. I knew your father against my will. We went to Hogwarts together.”

“Can you tell me about them?” Harry begged, “They didn’t die in a car crash- they were murdered, but by who? Does it have something to do with this?”

He pulled up his hair just enough to expose the scar on his forehead. It was a brutal slash, digging from beneath his eye into his hairline, cutting through his eyebrow, with a strong jerk in it. The scar was nearly pinkish, like it had never fully healed despite him having it for longer than he’d been sentient. It nearly looked like a lightning bolt, and Harry's always liked that comparison- it felt cooler than just being the kid with a facial scar.

“They were the last victims of the progenitor of the Second Magic War of the British Isles. From what we know, Lily- your mother- had somehow managed to kill him- or at the very least destroy his body- and your scar is related to how it was done, but a lot of what happened that day is still up to superstition. All the world knows for fact is that Lily and James Potter were home with their baby, the Dark Lord came, Lily and James’ corpses were found, their baby was somehow still alive, and the Dark Lord was completely gone and no one could find him. The rest is speculation.”

“The… Dark Lord…? Like a dark mage?” Harry asked, suddenly much more nervous.

“He is just called that,” Snape said, rolling his eyes even though he didn’t seem irritated with him- more like he seemed irritated with the ‘Dark Lord’, “he has a name, but I am incapable of saying it. Ask Hagrid for his name. Dark mages are merely people who are willing and capable of receiving aid from what is considered the darker aspects of magic without backlash.”

What is considered the darker aspects of magic. So it was a social thing, he guessed.

“Are you really going to kill the Dursleys if they’re still in your house when you get back?” Harry whispered. He definitely didn’t want Snape to get in trouble, since he was currently the only person who could do magic that he knew, “They’re not worth it.”

“I’m not going back, I have better things to do,” Snape said, eyeing him, and suddenly he didn’t seem annoyed, just exhausted, “they’ll be gone, now that they’re not running from messenger owls and they think I’m returning.”

“Oh,” Harry said. So it was just a threat. That was… Okay, he guessed.

(Did he really care if they died? He tried not to think about the answer to that.)

“Are you finished with your questions?” Snape said, and Harry gulped and nodded, “I have my own.”

“Oh… Okay.”

“Why are your glasses broken?” Snape asked, his eyes narrowed, and Harry tried to think of an excuse.

“I got hit in the face?” he said, like it was a question even though he’d said the truth. Dudley always liked hitting Harry in the face the most, especially when he couldn’t run, and Harry taping and retaping them regularly is the only reason they stayed on anymore, with how many pieces the center bar was in.

“Is that a question or a response?”

“A response.”

He pulled out his wand and pointed it straight at Harry’s face, and he’d honestly thought he’d extended his last chance and Snape was about to kill him before-

“Resarcio,” his glasses repaired, and the tape securing them together weaved off, before Snape flicked his wand and the tape disappeared.

“Why does your hair look like a rats’ nest?” Snape asked, and Harry flinched, his face twisting up, and Snape’s eyes narrowed at him. 

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t know how to take care of it.”

Snape opened his mouth, before pinching the bridge of his nose with his opposing hand, his wand still pointed at his face.

“Enodare capillum,” he said, and Harry felt the knots and mats in his hair untangle. Snape paused for a moment, before casting, “Ostende mihaema anima.”

“What was that?” Harry asked, feeling goosebumps flicker down his arms like a wave, and he shivered, blinking rapidly to try and clear the sensation. Someone must have walked over his grave. Or he just went over it, and it was in fact the sea floor.

“A spell to mend items, and a spell to remove knots and tangles,” Snape said, frowning, his eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t even seem to be looking at him, lost in thought. After a moment, he jump-started, seeming to realize he’d been staring blankly at Harry’s face, “You are Indian, not African- your hair is thick, not coily. I do not see why you could not simply brush your hair.”

“I… I don’t have a hairbrush, sir,” he said. Did Vernon and Dudley have a hairbrush? He didn’t think Dudley did. He didn’t know about Vernon- he’d only seen one hairbrush while cleaning their bathroom, and hadn’t tried it. He didn’t think boys with short hair were supposed to need to brush it, and he’d just break a comb.

Snape sighed, “You’ll need to get one then, in Diagon. Go to Primpernelle’s Beautification. They will know exactly what to do with your hair.”

“Um… sir, I don’t have any money,” he said, shrinking in on himself, “how will I buy anything?”

Snape raised a brow at him, frowning considerably, “Your parents left you an impressive inheritance vault. When you become of age- which for magic wielders is age seventeen- you will also be capable of going into your family vault alone. You and eight more generations could manage the life of a philanthropist on the money in your vaults and the holdings of the Potter family, not to mention any ventures you craft.”

“Potter family?” Harry said, “There’s more of us?”

Snape frowned, “The last few generations of Potter’s have suffered greatly, fertility wise. You are the last remaining member of your family. The only possible heir.”

Harry opened his mouth, and then shut it, feeling his eyes watering.

“You are not the only one left with your blood,” Snape said, and the way he said blood made Harry think he didn’t quite mean the liquid in his veins, “but there is nobody left with claim to the family vault besides you. They all married out of the family, and your great-grandfather, grandfather, and father were all only children. There was a reason Dumbledore left you with Petunia.”

He said Petunia with such scorn that Harry felt he had been being nice when he’d only threatened her life.

Snape sighed, “How much do you know about our world?”

Our.

Because Harry was a magic user, blessed by the Earth.

And he knew-

“Nothing-”

The carriage tilted dangerously for a moment, and he let out a breath, startled. 

“We’ve arrived,” Snape said, eyeing him, before glancing out the window. Harry followed his example, his gaze landing on the tallest man he’d ever seen, with the longest beard he’d ever seen, and the most gleeful grin he’d ever seen. It was still night, probably barely past midnight based on the moon. The man had a box in his hands. 

“Is that… Hagrid?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Snape said, “he’s an idiot, but good-natured. A half-giant.”

Giants were real.

Snape opened the door and gestured for him to get out, and Harry hopped a little to get onto the docks, nearly falling as they lurched under his weight. He was at an odd portion of them, where the docks were laying against the top of the water, a ramp leading up to the proper docks.

“I have never seen a hippocampus more beautiful than your beast, Severus,” Hagrid said, with an accent Harry couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t quite British, not Scottish, not Welsh or Irish. He wondered if the accent was giant.

Snape grunted, “I’m not giving you one of her foals, Rubeus.”

“Now I didn’t-” Hagrid sighed, seeming to give up on that conversation, “Harry! I haven’t seen you since you were a wee thing! It’s your birthday, so I brought you a cake. It’s chocolate, I hope you like it.”

Harry wanted to cry. He hadn’t blown out his dust cake- why were his wishes coming true?

“I… Thank you,” he whispered, and even though he’d never had more than a tiny slice- “I like chocolate cake.”

“I must be going now, Rubeus. I trust you have his key?” Snape called, and Hagrid nodded, patting his robes. Harry wondered why all of them dressed in robes. Hagrid didn't have a dress underneath like Snape, but he didn’t know what the beauty standard was there, or what girls wore. Maybe they also wore robes with long skirts. Maybe boys and girls dressed the same. 

How much do you know about our world?

He let out a breath, and walked up the ramp to where Hagrid was standing.

“You got any luggage?” Hagrid asked, and Harry shook his head, “Alright, Dumbledore wasn’t sure if you would or not. There’s an inn nearby, where we’ll be staying for August, until the term starts, but I’ll probably be in and out- sorry about that, I maintain the grounds and also take care of Hogwarts Menagerie, so I need to be around to make sure no one’s hurt a few times a week.”

“Menagerie?” Harry asked.

“The animals,” Hagrid said, pridefully, “might have been kicked from Hogwarts, but that didn’t stop me from becoming a Beast Master. Now, we can go out tomorrow to get you started on supplies. Now we should eat some cake and get some sleep, don’t you agree?”

He smiled, “Yeah. Is this… Diagon Alley?”

“Snape told you that, eh?” Hagrid asked, his face pinching up, and Harry’s stomach twisted- Hagrid and Snape didn’t like each other, that much, at least, was obvious, “Yes we are. The inn we’re staying at is called the Stumbling Boar- try not to stray into the bar from five til midnight, that’s when people are drunk and rowdy, got it?”

“I understand,” Harry said, as they walked from the docks to Diagon Alley. Harry had no idea where they were- the docks seemed to lead to the open ocean, but the air smelled like London. The Stumbling Boar wasn’t far from the docks, and was quiet when they entered beyond a morose man whimpering into his arms at the bar, a very annoyed bartender glaring at him while he polished glasses.

The bartender looked up at him, and nearly dropped his glass. He opened his mouth, but Hagrid put his finger up to his lips, and the bartender nodded, staying quiet but still staring as he walked through the empty bar up to the rooms.

“Why did he look at me like that?” Harry whispered.

“You’re very special, Harry,” Hagrid said, “since no one else survived, you’re widely credited with ending the last war.”

Harry opened his mouth. Snape hadn’t said that, “What?”

“Yeah- oh, right, you don’t know about the last war,” Hagrid went off on a tangent about the last war, which he mostly referred to as the bad times and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, who was probably the Dark Lord. He preferred Dark Lord- while it was terrifying and ominous, it wasn’t a mouthful. When he’d asked Hagrid if he was talking about the Dark Lord, however, Hagrid had gone pale and made him promise to never call him that again. When he’d asked his real name- ie, begged for a real name- he’d gotten nothing more than a whisper.

Lord Voldemort.

Pretentious. Harry didn’t know why they were all so scared of him, when evidently he was dead. Hagrid knew his parents, but he knew his parents mostly through the war- while he’d had the same job as now, he hadn’t known the comings and goings. Not like Snape had known them, when they were students, when his mom was a kid. He thought they were brilliant, powerful, and wonderful. He thought he was just like them.

Harry ate more cake than he’d ever had in his life, and was able to fall asleep in a bed that was his for a month, with someone who’d probably keep him safe in the room across. The bed was uncomfortable, too soft where he was used to the firmness of the ground, but the blankets didn’t itch, and his stomach was full, and-

Even though his family was gone, he still had a blessing. A blessing that he wanted nothing more than to understand.

Chapter Text

“Harry, my boy! Wake up!” 

He opened his eyes, jerking to awareness before scrambling, getting tangled in not-itchy blankets and then falling off the bed, wincing. He grabbed at his shoulder, grimacing, certain it would bruise but wasn’t dislocated.

“Harry, are you alright?! I’m coming in!” Hagrid said, rushing into the room like he was worried he’d be dead when he got in, the other key to his room held in his shaking hand.

“I’m alright,” Harry said, weakly, his face flushing as he tried to kick away the blankets. Christ, he’d thought that was a dream- and yet, here he was, still in the inn- the Stumbling Boar.

He’d pinch himself, but he was pretty sure the ache trailing down his arm was enough to settle any thoughts that this might be a dream. 

“Is your arm alright?” Hagrid said, sounding relieved, and Harry nodded.

“I’m alright,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, “sorry if I scared you.”

“Oh- you,” Hagrid shook his head, ridding himself of whatever was going through his head, “I bought you some new clothes. Manai clothes, cause I dunno anything about Muggle clothes. I’m sorry if they’re not the right size, I have trouble judging true humans, ‘specially the little ones.”

“Manai?” Harry questioned, “Muggle?”

“Eh- er, Manai is what you and I are. Your magical humans. Muggles are the non-magical ones. Humans are the only sentient race that only has some of them magical and some of them empty,” Hagrid looked up at the ceiling after a second, “though squibs are still Manai, so maybe it's a cultural thing. I dunno.”

“Squib?” Harry tried.

“Ah, people without magic born to a magic family,” Hagrid said, “quite rare, honestly.”

He shivered. Harry had a feeling that a squib was not a good thing.

“Anyways, get dressed!” He said, holding out a paper bag, “Consider this a birthday gift!”

Harry blinked, and felt like he was going to cry again. 

“Thank you, so much,” he said, and Hagrid gave an awkward smile, not seeming to know how to deal with that much genuine sincerity from a kid who was getting clothes and acting like he was getting a candy fountain. He handed off the bag, and Harry looked into it, seeing red and gold. He hoped it was easy to put on. 

“After you’re dressed, we’ll get some breakfast then we’ll head to Gringotts! Best Manai bank in the world!” Hagrid said, before backing up, “Make sure you have your key and your letter! You can call me if you need me, I’ll be downstairs!”

He shut the door, and Harry locked it after him, before pulling the robes out of the bag, slightly nervous as he laid his new clothes out. His face flushed as he realized Hagrid had gotten him undergarments as well, but the thrill of being able to change into clothes that were his and not Dudley’s old things was enough to fight the embarrassment. 

There were trousers, red but darker than the robes. They were a little large on him, but not as much as Dudley’s old pants, though he wasn’t sure if the ends of them were supposed to go over his shoes. He reused his belt because they were too big in the waist, too, sliding down his narrow hips. The shirt- the shirt was a dress, flowy and going down to just above his knees, also red, and there was a robe with it, gold with red accenting colors, going down to mid-calf. 

He tried to remember what Snape was wearing, but it had been dark and his clothes were too dark to differentiate between them, besides the cloak and fact it looked like a dress. Hagrid’s clothes hadn’t seemed so long, but maybe they didn’t make a lot of custom things for half-giants, he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen the end of the bartender's robes, just knew that he’d worn a shirt that was like the one he had on now with a ribbed corset over it. He didn’t know if that was a Manai thing or just that bartender. In the movies he could see through the grate or was working in the kitchen during, the bartenders were usually quite eccentric. 

The socks seemed thin, and he hoped he didn’t destroy them immediately. He reused Dudley’s old shoes, since that seemed to be the one thing Hagrid hadn’t gotten him. He wondered if he could buy shoes today. He’d never had shoes that fit. Snape had said his inheritance vault was impressive, but Harry didn’t quite know what that meant.

He grabbed his key and letter before he went downstairs, immediately seeing Hagrid. He smiled, seeing the massive breakfast portion the man was eating and the more modest breakfast portion that he apparently got. He didn’t think he’d eaten that much in a day, ever- to have that much for breakfast felt extravagant. 

“Well look at you!” Hagrid said, between bites of potato hash, “It’s a little long, but you’ll grow into ‘em I bet.”

“I don’t look… silly?” he said, looking around. Other Manai didn’t seem to be wearing a dress, or at least didn’t have it visible, and had their robes clasped with ornate pins.

“Nah,” Hagrid said, “you’re dressed like a kid. You’ll see other kids dressed like you when we get out and about. Now eat! We have a long day ahead.”

“Can I buy shoes today?” Harry asked, and Hagrid stared at him for a moment.

“‘Course you can,” Hagrid said, “you can buy anything in Diagon Alley. I think you need special shoes for potions and magical creatures, but I’m not sure. Have you looked at your list yet?”

“Uh, no,” Harry said, pulling out his letter. He knew there was another piece of paper in there, but hadn’t read beyond the acceptance letter. He pulled it out now, jumping as it seemed to expand to be thicker, giving Hagrid a nervous glance. He only grinned at him from over his fork.

“Eat your eggs while you read,” Hagrid said, “the heating charm on the place won’t last forever.”

Harry nodded, scooping scrambled eggs into his mouth as he unfolded the paper.

FIRST YEAR HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF MAGIC LIST OF SUPPLIES

 

CLOTHING: 

(Notice: These are considered minimum values. All clothing should have name tags.)

UNIFORM (to be acquired from a HOGWARTS associated shop):

Five sets of standard black HOGWARTS robes.

Three sets of work HOGWARTS robes.

One HOGWARTS hat.

 

SPECIALTY:

One pair of protective gloves, rated three or above.

One pair of protective boots, rated three or above.

One set of work earmuffs, rate two.

 

OTHER:

One winter cloak.

One pair of shoes.

Ten pairs of socks.

Ten pairs of undergarments.

Seven sets of sleepwear.

Seven sets of alternative clothing, i.e. casual robes.

COURSE BOOKS:

TRANSFIGURATION:

A Beginners Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

 

HERBOLOGY:

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

 

POTIONS:

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

 

MAGICAL CREATURES:

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

 

DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS:

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

 

CHARMS:

A Standard Book of Spells (GRADE 1) by Miranda Goshawk

Beginner’s Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

 

HISTORY OF MAGIC:

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

 

SCHOOLING:

Mathematics (GRADE 1) by Remold Queen

English Language, Literature, and Prose by Julia Spockling

OTHER EQUIPMENT:

One wand.

One pewter cauldron, size two.

One set glass or crystal vials.

One brass scale.

PETS:

Students are expected to bring a pet with them to HOGWARTS to help with adaptation, though it is not required. Students may bring ONE pet. 

 

OWLS:

Owls are not counted towards the ONE pet rule. Owls must be magical owls (mana strigiformes). Any student can bring ONE owl.

The school has owls for correspondence, and buying an owl is not necessary.

 

STANDARD:

Animals that any student can bring include:

 

• Rats.

• Mice. 

• Cats.

• Toads (not frogs). 

• Bats.

 

 

Standard animals MUST be sterilized.

 

SPECIALTY:

Corvimouths may bring a corvid.

 

Aquavonimouths may bring an amphibian.

 

Farrimouths may bring an equine.

 

Parselmouths may bring a snake.

 

Atoarachnomouths may bring a spider.

 

Hundfrumouths may bring a dog.

 

(Those who speak magical languages not considered to be Of the British Isles may send a notice to the MINISTRY OF MAGIC requesting accommodation.)

 

BEAST-BONDED:

People who are beast-bonded can bring their bonded beast.

 

Creatures over 220kg must be kept outside of the main castle.

All creatures will be properly cared for while at HOGWARTS.

 

Any student suffering financial difficulties may mail the MINISTRY OF MAGIC FINANCIAL DEPARTMENT.

“Hagrid, what’s a parselmouth?” Harry asked, knowing that snakes, at least, were kind and never lied, and Hagrid’s nose wrinkled.

“Someone who can talk to snakes,” he said, “not very common.”

“Oh,” he said, “I thought everyone could do that.”

Hagrid dropped his fork, looking at him like he just told him he was dying of cancer or something equally awful, and Harry squirmed, leaning away from his expression. He didn’t feel hungry anymore- in fact, his stomach felt like lead. The eggs that had been delicious only a minute ago he now wanted to puke.

“Uh… is that… a bad thing?” Harry asked, trying to fight the flush off his cheeks. Even here, he was a freak in some way. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“It’s… a trait common in dark mages,” Hagrid said, like he was describing a particularly disgusting wart, and Harry thought of Snape for a moment- “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a parselmouth.”

Harry opened his mouth, his eyes wide.

“Oh,” was the only thing that escaped.

“Do you want a snake?” Hagrid asked, and it felt like a trick question, so Harry shook his head. Hagrid didn’t say anything about him not eating anymore, finishing his breakfast. A different bartender from the night before took away their plates, and the coins that Hagrid left on the table, and they left, walking into the bustling alley. Hagrid made idle conversation, seeming to not want to be awkward, but Harry felt like he was going to be sick, and struggled to keep it up. 

(True to his word, other Manai kids were wearing clothes just like him- or were wearing dresses and no trousers, which didn’t seem to be dependent on if they were a girl or boy either. Some kids had their robes clasped with pins, but they all seemed to be older than him.)

Gringotts seemed to be the biggest building in the entire alley. It was bright white, with gold embellishments, and a great revolving door that always seemed to be moving with how many people were going in and out. And inside-

“Goblins,” Hagrid hissed, “vicious creatures. Dark, but they have our money, so we can’t do anything about it.”

Dark mages are merely people who are willing and capable of receiving aid from what is considered the darker aspects of magic without backlash, he recalled Snape saying. He wondered what the hell the darker aspects of magic were, and why Hagrid kept throwing around the word dark like a slur. First parselmouths, now this? Maybe he had more in common with the goblins. 

The goblins were little creatures, human-like, with large snouts and multi-colored skin in a range of blues, greens, purples, reds, and oranges. Large ears hung down from their heads, adorned with shiny gold jewelry. Some of them had stripes, or spots, with frilling membranes on their heads in lieu of hair. Their hands seemed to be clawed. They wore clothing that looked like togas, if togas could be adorned in glittering pieces of metal and jewels. 

Hagrid quickly found a desk without a human in front of it. The goblin behind it didn’t even look at them, seeming to care more about the parchment in front of him(?) then the people at his desk. He seemed disgusted- Harry wondered if that meant business was bad.

“Hello,” Harry said, and the goblin looked at him, before grinning. His(?) mouth was full of sharp teeth, with pronounced fangs. Harry only didn’t blurt out how cool they looked because Hagrid was there and thought they were dark-

Hagrid grabbed him by the back of his robes and pushed him behind him, like the goblin was about to leap over the desk and go for his throat. Given how uninterested the goblin looked in the proceeding, he wondered if it happened often, and instantly felt bad. They didn’t deserve to be treated badly just because of what they were- and, besides, Harry knew what it looked like when someone was about to leap at him, and the goblin was just lounging there. He’d been smiling, too. The other goblins who were aggravated had wrinkled noses.

“I need access to Harry James Potter’s inheritance vault,” Hagrid said, pulling out a letter from his pocket, “and, to get Dumbledore’s… thing.”

The goblin reached out to take the letter, eyeing the contents for a moment before nodding.

“Does Mr. Potter have his key, or must a blood test be administered?” Hagrid flinched like the goblin was talking about disemboweling him, but with how casual he (he was pretty sure they were a he) said it, Harry didn’t think it would be that awful.

(He secretly wondered if giants were considered light or dark. He thought they must be light, for Hagrid to be acting like this.)

“I have it, I have it,” he said, pulling a gold key from his breast pocket, and he grinned at Harry and winked, “gotta keep it safe, you know?”

Harry nodded, not saying anything. Hagrid handed it off, and the goblin studied it for a moment, dragging a clawed finger along the shaft of it.

“Fantastic,” the goblin said, hopping off his chair, the ornaments on his clothes jingling, “follow me.”

His hair-like frills went all the way down his back, shimmering like clear water. Harry watched the light filter through them, amazed, before the goblin got into an elevator, gesturing for them to follow. They went down to the last floor, before going into what appeared to be mineshafts. There was a cart, and they entered. At the goblin’s command, the cart sped off at a sickening speed, but Harry didn’t feel the lurching or air from inside the cart. There was a shout, and flames burst over them, but he didn’t get a chance to see where it was from-

The cart lurched to a sickening stop, and Harry and Hagrid both got flung back from where they’d been looking at the flames. 

“Harry Potter’s inheritance vault,” the goblin said, seeming bored. He handed him a leather satchel as they stepped out, though Hagrid stayed in the cart, mumbling to himself about whatever a Welsh Green was, “There is no necessity to count, as withdrawals and additions will be automatically recorded as they exit or enter the vault.”

And then he unlocked a vault full of gold coins, and Harry felt like he’d just had a rug pulled out under him. 

“Uh- uh, sir,” he stuttered, “how much money is this?”

“Twenty thousand galleons, Mr. Potter,” the goblin said, “or three-hundred forty thousand sickles, or nine-million eight-hundred and sixty thousand knuts.”

“In… in muggle money?” he asked, and the goblin hummed.

“Approximately eight point four million pounds sterling. Approximates are to adjust for fluctuating currency values,” the goblin said, and Harry nearly fainted. No- no, he was definitely going to faint- “Mr. Potter, are you alright?”

“Harry! You okay?” Hagrid yelled from the cart. He couldn’t see the vault from where he was standing. Harry wondered if he’d react the same way if he saw it.

Live the life of a philanthropist eight generations over indeed. Wait, Snape had said something about a family vault, too. Was there something else?

“This is… just my inheritance?” he asked, and the goblin nodded.

“The Potters were a very rich family,” he said as if that explained anything. Rich? What the hell was his father’s ancestors doing? His father? What was his mother doing?

“How much do I need for school supplies?”

“Harry!”

“I’m fine!” he called, before looking down at the goblin, who appeared to be considering.

“It will not cost more than two galleons,” the goblin said, “but you should take more, so that you can owl-order items throughout the school year.”

“Owl-order?” Harry tried.

“Businesses produce catalogs that show their products,” the goblin said, “you write a letter to the business, add the catalog number, the product number, and the required money and send it by owl. Change and the item are sent back.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, “I’m sorry for blubbering.”

“It is fine,” the goblin said, considering, “my name is Nazbeck. When you are prepared to create a portfolio, come to me.”

Harry belatedly remembered the rules with fairies and knew that they were going to be at least kind of the same. At least Nazbeck had asked him for something easy to do in return. He wondered what the hell an appropriate thanks was for goblins if he couldn’t say thank you.

“I will,” he said, before pausing, “what’s a portfolio?”

Nazbeck blinked at him.

“Investments and business ventures,” Nazbeck said, “you do not have access to the Potter businesses until you are of age, but that does not mean that you cannot create new ventures on your lonesome as the heir. We are on a time constraint, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh, sorry!” he said, quickly scooping galleons into the bag. It seemed like it should be heavy, but it wasn’t. He wondered if there was something magical about the bag and decided there must be. He didn’t know how many galleons he grabbed, just that it was definitely more than twenty. It could be as much as one-hundred, but he wasn’t certain, as the bag didn’t seem to fill. He just grabbed what he thought he needed and backed away, allowing Nazbeck to lock his vault- number 233, he memorized- and following him back to the cart. Hagrid seemed concerned, but found no injuries, even though he glared at Nazbeck. Nazbeck, for his part, ignored him. They arrived at another vault, the number 713 visible from the cart, and Nazbeck unlocked it.

Inside was a tiny bag. Hagrid put it in his breast pocket, giving him a small smile.

“Not a word, understand?” he said, his voice just on the border between threatening and joking, and Harry nodded, fighting the urge to lean away from Hagrid as he came back into the cart. The cart made the venture up, and then they took the elevator up the rest of the way. 

“You may keep the bag,” Nazbeck said, offering him his key, and Harry reached out to take it. He jumped as Hagrid plucked it from Nazbeck’s hand, and Nazbeck, for his part, didn’t rip his throat out, even though it suddenly looked like he very much wanted to.

“Sorry!” Hagrid said, “Can’t let the youngin’s go too wild with the spending, right?”

Nazbeck glanced at Harry for confirmation, and Harry had the sudden thought that if he said something, Nazbeck would rain hell on Hagrid for what he just did.

He shrugged, giving a frown, but didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t want to make an enemy of someone he didn’t feel that comfortable with anymore, especially when he’d be around for a month. Nazbeck dipped his head in recognition.

“Be gone,” he said, before walking back to his desk. Hagrid frowned, but Harry didn’t think it was meant to be rude.

“Why can’t I have my key?” Harry asked.

“Dumbledore doesn’t think you should,” he said, “don’t worry, he’ll keep good care of it.”

Harry blinked, slowly, but Hagrid was already walking away, and Harry really didn’t want to be alone, because there were Manai that were looking at him, pointing, and whispering, and he didn’t want to deal with that.

“Who’s Dumbledore?” He was pretty sure that was the headmaster’s name, but who was he to have his key?

(What key?)

“The Headmaster of Hogwarts!” Hagrid said, joyfully, before going off on a tirade about the many good deeds of Albus Dumbledore, of which Harry could only think the words but I think he did something to me. He still felt hurt, kept in his chest, but he couldn’t remember what was wrong. If he couldn’t remember, then why did it hurt so much?

He’d gotten a special bag that had weightlessness and expansion charms on it to keep his things in, his cauldron, scale, and vials, been fitted for his new clothes (to return later to collect them), gone to Primpernelle’s Beautification like Snape had advised, gotten fitted for shoes at the cobbler, and gotten all his school books (there were so many interesting books, but the shop seemed like a library, where one needed to be quiet, and Hagrid wasn’t exactly being quiet- he hoped he could look at them later) before Hagrid was finished talking about Albus Dumbledore. It took three hours. Harry was more than slightly concerned.

“Ah, there we are!” Hagrid said, “Ollivander’s! They’ve been making wands since ancient times, and they’re the best there is! You go in there and get your wand, I need to do something.”

Harry stared after him for a moment. A Manai nearby leaned into her companion, staring at him and whispering, and he quickly went into Ollivander’s to avoid whatever that was about. The shop was quaint, all dark wood, with gatherings of dust as decoration and high stacks of boxes everywhere. It seemed to be empty, and he thought about calling out, before a man stepped out.

“Oh,” he said, “Harry Potter.”

Harry kind of wanted to jump off a bridge, “Hi?”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said, “I am Ollivander, you are here for a wand. Let me see… you are quite the scrawny thing, aren’t you?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Ollivander had already brought out a measuring tape. It shot out and began measuring him- his height, his arm length, his hands and fingers, his legs, his mouth for some reason, and around his chest and wrist. Ollivander nodded, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the numbers as they appeared sagely. The measuring tape shot over to him, and he caught it without looking, already turned around and looking at boxes. 

“Your mother had a swishy thing for a wand- pomegranate wood and thestral hair, quite unique, you know, a good ten inches- and your father, even more odd. Sandalwood and phoenix feather, twelve inches, never been able to make anything like it again, so… Hm. Let’s make this easy. Your grandfather was a dueler, you know, so perhaps we should start with him! From what I know, he had quite the lovely dragon heartstring and aspen wand, thirteen and a half inches… Let us see, let us see… Ah! Yew wood and dragon heartstring, twelve inches,” he said, pulling a box from a stack that looked like it would fall over if he pulled it out- somehow, it didn’t fall.

He took the wand out of its box, handing it over. Harry stared at him for a moment.

“Um…”

“Well, give it a wave,” Ollivander said, and Harry flicked the wand.

The wall cracked, and boxes started flying. He quickly placed the wand down before he could cause any more damage, his eyes wide. He stared at Ollivander, prepared to be scolded, but he was only staring disapprovingly at the wand.

“Perhaps…” he said, placing that wand back in the box but leaving it on the counter, looking around. He found the box he was looking for on the floor, “Yew and wyvern fang, nine inches! Try this.”

Stuff began flying as soon as he touched it, and Ollivander quickly took the wand back, tsking disapprovingly, not even looking at Harry. 

“Oak and unicorn hair, eleven inches!”

That one flat out tried to set him on fire.

“Ash and black pegasus feather, eight inches!”

That one just didn’t do anything.

“Cypress and phoenix feather, nine inches?”

More explosions. He was going to bring this shop down.

“Sycamore and Veela flame feathers, seven inches.”

That one tried to set the shop on fire. 

“Hm,” Ollivander was frowning at the wands he’d assembled, before staring at Harry with narrowed eyes. Harry met his gaze, fighting the urge to lean away from it. 

“Aren’t you just a contradiction,” Ollivander mumbled, before his eyes widened. He leaned back, as if checking to make sure some of the shelves were undamaged, when Harry was frankly certain he’d nearly destroyed the entire shop. He danced over boxes, disappearing into the back, before pulling out a wand. The box was slightly beat up, and seemed old, but Ollivander walked it over.

“Are you really sure about this, sir?” Harry asked, and Ollivander hummed and nodded.

“I don’t care if we go through every wand in the shop, Mr. Potter, we will find you your wand,” he said, before meeting his gaze as he took the lid off the box, teasing the wand out of the protective padding, “but I think I found it.”

Harry frowned, taking the wand-

And light burst around him, trails of sparks curling and twisting around him, and he gasped. Ollivander smiled, for a moment, before meeting his gaze- no, looking at his scar.

“Mr. Ollivander?” Harry asked, and Ollivander let out a breath.

“I know every wand I’ve sold, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said, “and the phoenix who gave a feather for that wand of holly shed only one other feather, ever. And the wand that feather went to- well, it gave you that scar.”

Harry felt like the breath was knocked out of him.

“Does that- does that mean something, sir?” he asked, begging him to say no. First the parselmouth stuff, and now this? He’d hoped he’d get told about his parents entering their world, not compared to the man who murdered them at nearly every corner. Ollivander didn’t answer.

“I’ve been looking to get rid of that wand for thirty years, Mr. Potter. I’ll sell it to you for ten knuts.”

Harry handed over ten knuts, which he’d gotten as change while running around. Ollivander handed him the box, before giving him a small smile. 

“You are going to do great things. It is impossible for you to not do great things, with that wand in your hand,” he said, pulling out his own wand and flicking it, all of the destroyed pieces of the shop falling back into place, “Now, Hagrid’s looking like he has something for you.”

Harry turned around, and saw Hagrid across the street, grinning and holding a cage with a big speckled white owl in it. 

~

He’d finished his shopping by the end of the first day. He’d gotten twelve sets of non-school robes, because he could, and because Madam Malkin was nice, alongside the five sets of his uniform and three work robes and hat and undergarments and socks enchanted to never get holes and two fluffy cloaks. They were the first clothes he’d ever worn that fit. He’d gotten three pairs of shoes at the cobbler- counting his special boots for school, because they were still shoes-, because he could, and they fit better than he’d known shoes could fit. He hadn’t known shoes could be comfortable.

He’d gotten a trunk alongside his bag for the Hogwarts Express. It could shrink to be the size of a briefcase while full, never weighed more than twenty pounds, and had wheels and a false bottom he could hide things in. He’d gotten a bag that had charms that made it less than five pounds and capable of containing over twenty-five pounds of items. He’d even gotten a letter stamp with his initials on it. 

Nazbeck had overestimated the price of things- he’d spent less than two galleons on school supplies that first day, and that was because he’d bought an expensive trunk and charmed bag and stamp and more clothes than necessary, and barely spent three galleons in general. He’d tested what Nazbeck told him about owl-ordering, and it worked exactly like he’d said. Hedwig, his owl, was pleased with the exercise she got from him buying books, and he spent most of his time in his room, consuming as much information as he could. About magical creatures and other sentient races. About spells that brushed your hair and cleaned your teeth, and spells that destroyed the body from the inside out and spells that could heal fatal wounds.

About dark mages who sacrificed babies. He thought of Snape, and didn’t think he would sacrifice babies, even though he wore a lot of black and looked quite severe.

There were books about gods he’d never realized were still worshipped (books he had to hide, because Hagrid saw him reading one on Celtic deities and scorned that for being dark too), and fairytales different from how he’d ever heard of them. He tore through fiction books about heroes and dragons, about mermaids and their songs, about kids who were special because they didn’t have magic instead of did.

He’d sent a few letters back and forth to Nazbeck, mostly hoping for help on a portfolio, because he didn’t want to slight him by just never making one. When he expressed his ignorance, Nazbeck asked if he just wanted him to do it all himself. Nazbeck was now doing it all himself, and Harry resigned himself to not knowing what was happening there. He had no hope to understand compound interest rates- he was, at least, aware of that, and also aware from Uncle Vernon’s prattle that investments were important.

Hagrid was right- he was gone a lot. But the bartenders knew of him, and, after answering a few questions of their own (How did he kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? [He didn’t know.] Where has he been all this time? [With relatives.] Did he enjoy the pumpkin juice? [Very much.]) were willing to keep other Manai away from him. It felt like school again, where he’d sat in front of the teacher’s desk to avoid kids picking on him, except now it wasn’t kids picking on him, it was adults thanking him for his valiant bravery in defeating Voldemort. The difference nearly gave him whiplash. While in the Muggle world he was scorned, a dirty orphan boy, in the Manai world he was a rich war hero.

It made him kind of nauseous. He liked being treated well, but the way their eyes lit up when they saw him, the grins on their faces- it was getting to him. It all felt so… Fake. He wasn’t sure if that was just because he wasn’t used to people liking him or because the alarm bells ringing in his brain were right.

He read a lot while Hagrid was gone, and he was gone a lot. Going out of the Stumbling Boar into the alley alone was a good way to get bombarded with twenty people asking him questions, and he didn’t want to deal with that. There was so much to read, both fiction and non-fiction (mostly fiction, though, since he was forbidden from trying spells outside of school- there was something called the Trace that could register magic done by underage mages), so he was never bored, and he was so used to feeling lonely that it didn’t quite register for him. 

When Hagrid was around, he usually made him go outside. Apparently growing boys couldn’t read all day and ‘needed sunlight’. 

“Where are we going, Hagrid?” Harry questioned, staring up at the giant as he led him through the streets. Another reason to avoid the public- the public’s favorite thing seemed to be to stare at him, and Harry wasn’t quite good at ignoring it yet. With how he’d grown up, being looked at meant an attack was imminent. Here, it seemed the most imminent attack was someone wanting to shake his hand. 

“The Leaky Cauldron!” Hagrid exclaimed, “Wanna make sure you know how to get to Diagon next year, don’t I? Leaky Cauldron is where the alley hits the Muggle world. Smack dab in the middle of London, right under all those Muggles noses.”

Harry tilted his head, before nodding. 

“And I needed to bring my wand?” he asked, his fingers fiddling with the instrument inside the wand pocket of his robes. He’d wanted to get a holster, but that seemed too presumptuous- only duelers and Aurors really needed a holster. 

Hagrid nodded, “Of course. Ol’ Tom can get you into the alley, but it’s good to know for yourself!”

“And I won’t get in trouble?” Harry questioned, and Hagrid gave a small smile. 

“No, you won’t,” Hagrid said, “I’d never try to get you in trouble.”

The Leaky Cauldron was at the very end of the alley, guarded by a brick wall. Hagrid had him take out his wand and carefully instructed him on the pattern to tap the bricks in to open the gate, a few old women watching fondly as he did. According to Hagrid, the Leaky Cauldron was the first building in the alleyway, built before there was a separation between Muggles and Manai, and Muggles even used to be able to enter it. Now, to them, it looked like a battered old store that had gone out of business, and they weren’t able to see inside the building or anyone going inside.

The Leaky Cauldron itself was warm, with a row of fires flaring along one wall that mages occasionally stepped out of, shaking the soot from their robes. There was a cheerful old bartender named Tom, the owner, and his daughter Elizabeth, freshly graduated from Hogwarts and learning the trade that had been in her family for centuries- the maintaining of the gateway between the Manai and Muggle worlds. 

Despite the Leaky Cauldron being a gateway, nobody appeared to enter from the door- just the flaring fireplaces. Most Manai never interacted with Muggles. Truly, the Leaky Cauldron was still around because Diagon Alley was the only magical alleyway accessible to muggleborn- Manai born of two Muggles, like, apparently, his mother- students.

The Leaky Cauldron was an odd sort of half-between place, and the people who remained in it were odd sorts of half-between people. Like everywhere he went, people started greeting him like they knew everything about him, shaking his hand hard enough that he felt it about to fall off, Hagrid eventually noticing he was uncomfortable and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder to thwart any more attempts at subtle ‘how did you defeat You-Know-Who’ interrogation.

“H-Harry Puh-Puh-Potter,” a man wearing a turban said, surprising both him and Hagrid. His eyes were black, and he had no eyebrows. His body was pale, and he shook at every moment. Even just looking at him made Harry feel nauseous, and then he felt bad, because it wouldn’t be his fault he was sick. 

“Professor Quirrell!” Hagrid said, joyously, “Harry, he’ll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor! Go on, say hello.”

Harry wondered if he was getting chemotherapy- if Manai even had chemotherapy or if they just used magic- and if he’d really be able to teach if he was. He didn’t ask, because he knew enough to know that was impolite, but still.

“Hi,” Harry, his eyes twitching against his will. Going outside and being recognized was generally a pain, but that wasn’t what was bothering him now. His scar was burning. Some sort of feral part of his mind wanted to bolt, his heart pounding in his chest like a deer running from wolves. He held out a hand, and prayed Quirrell wouldn’t take it. If this pain got any worse, Harry didn’t know if he’d be able to control his magic.

“Ah, there’s no need, Mr. Potter,” the professor stammered through, and Harry silently wondered if his disease could be transferred by touch. That meant it wasn’t cancer, right? “I’ll see you when school starts. It will certainly be an interesting year. Goodbye, Potter. Hagrid.”

Harry nodded, thankful that he hadn’t had to touch the man. Something about him just seemed… off.

Hagrid patted him on the back, not seeming half as disturbed by Quirrell as Harry was, and Harry felt bad- maybe Quirrell just had something wrong with him that he couldn’t help, that wasn’t his fault; Harry definitely didn’t need to be mean to him, “Come now, Harry, we should get back to the Boar before it gets dark. And test you, see if you remember how to get in!”

Harry ignored the way Quirrell’s eyes followed him out.

Chapter Text

By the last week of August, there were some ‘extenuating circumstances’ that led to him being dropped off by Hagrid back at the Dursley’s house before he was set to leave for Hogwarts on the 1st of September. Hagrid had cheerfully stated that if Harry didn’t make it to King’s Cross Station by ten then Vernon would pay for it, and Vernon had decidedly not pissed himself (though it was a near thing). 

He had honestly not known if he would ever return to 4 Privet Drive, but he guessed he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Though, when he returned, he had a bedroom, with a real bed, and real sheets on it, in the room that had been Dudley’s second playroom. It had an attached bathroom with soap in it (though, he didn’t use it, knowing that Madam Primpernelle would kill him for doing anything unauthorized to his ‘lovely hair’ and ‘beautiful baby skin’). And, as long as he was wearing Manai clothing- which was now his only clothing-, Petunia didn’t look at him, let alone try to make him do chores. Hedwig wasn’t allowed to send mail, but he figured out different ways to occupy her by throwing a toy mouse around the room, and she was still allowed out to hunt as long as it was night- which she preferred anyways.

It was almost enough to ignore the locks on the outside of the door, like he was some dangerous prisoner or patient zero of some new disease. It was fine, though. They fed him through the cat flap on the door, nearly as much as he’d been eating while at the Stumbling Boar, and all he had to do was push his plate back through. It was fine. He was left alone. It was nice, even. Dudley didn’t get to pick on him, Vernon didn’t hit him, and Petunia didn’t look at him like he was some horrible rotten beast anymore. Nobody looked at him at all, actually.

And, on September 1st, at nine o’ clock, him, his trunk, his bag, everything he owned, and Hedwig were put into the sedan and driven to King’s Cross Station. 

“It’s weird, for you freaks to take the train,” Vernon mumbled, the first words he’d said to him since leaving him to his new room a week ago, eyeing the station as he pulled Harry’s stuff out of the trunk and slung it at him, “magic carpets too difficult?”

“European mages use brooms,” Harry said, recognizing that he was either curious or making fun of him, but wanting to talk about magic anyways because it was cool, “but kids aren’t allowed to ride them without supervision, and especially not so far.”

“Brooms,” Vernon said, appearing to be dead inside, “of course. Why wouldn’t it be brooms?”

Petunia, silently, handed him the paper that Hagrid had given her for his platform number. He opened his mouth, before wondering if it was like the goblins, where one couldn’t say thank you without owing something in return. 

He bit his lip, and bowed, a traditional, formal recognition in Manai culture, straightening up after a long second that felt like being ripped apart.

She stared at him blankly, looking him straight in the eyes in a way she never did if she could help it, before dipping her head, a half-bow in return. For a moment, Harry thought he felt a flicker of hope, or recognition, before she turned, and went back to the passenger’s seat of the car without saying another word. 

Harry gulped, trying to ignore the nausea as that flicker died in his chest with the same speed it had sparked. Vernon didn’t say anything to him either. He just got in the car. 

With no goodbye, Harry set off towards the station, trying to ignore how cold he felt. He looked around, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried to see if anyone had a bat or owl with them, or maybe a cat. He tried not to think of what it would be like if Dudley was also a Manai. Would they love him then? Would they have to say goodbye to Harry too, since they were both freaks now? He glanced at the paper Petunia had given him, before pausing.

King’s Cross Station Platform 9 ¾ 

The train leaves at 11 o’ clock. Students not on the train (not including instances where the parents are at fault) before send off may face discipline, including detention, suspension, or in extreme cases, expulsion. 

“Nine and three… quarters…” Harry mumbled to himself. Nine and three quarters. Where would that even be? There were platforms nine and ten, but three quarters?

“Excuse me, sir,” Harry said, and one of the attendants glanced at him, before looking him up and down with a wrinkled nose. Harry fought the urge to grimace. He was wearing robes that looked slightly more Muggle, with feathery trousers and a shirt that tucked into them underneath his robes, but he still must look quite odd, “Do you know where platform nine and three quarters is?”

“Platform nine and three quarters?” the attendant said, glancing over his luggage and meeting Hedwig’s eyes through the bars on her cage, seeming disturbed as she let out a low, threatening coo, “I don’t have time for tricks, scram kid.”

Harry opened his mouth, before giving up on that venture, trying to-

“So packed with Muggles, you’d think it was a holiday! I’ll remind your father again to pick up more floo powder, it is always such an aggravation to take the car.”

Muggles.

And a woman in robes with a pack of children behind her, all with trunks, and one with an owl.

“There you go, right on Percy,” she said, and one of her kids- the boy with the owl-, ran forward and into the wall between platforms nine and ten. But he didn’t hit anything solid- he just disappeared. He went into it.

“Um, excuse me,” Harry said, and the woman- the mage, she must be- stiffened, before glancing over at him. Her eyes hit Hedwig, before she grinned.

“Hello, do you need help getting onto the platform, sweetheart?” she asked. She had great fluffy hair, a deeper red than the rest of her children, and a kind, sweet face. Harry nodded, nervous, and she let an arm around his shoulders to push him facing the platform, “It’s Ron’s first year as well. There’s no need to be nervous.”

“Dad says the trick is to not be nervous,” a boy, who must be Ron, said. He had a flame of orange hair and big ears, his face a smattering of freckles, “We can go together if you are.”

“Thank you,” he said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, “your name's Ron?”

“Yeah, Ron Weasley!” He said, and his nose scrunched up when he smiled like his face couldn’t contain his expressions, “Who are you?”

“Harry,” he said, “Harry Potter.”

The woman’s arm stiffened over his shoulders, and he wondered if he shouldn’t have said that for a moment, glancing at the woman, but she was smiling.

“Oh, I should have known! You look just like James!” she exclaimed, and Harry’s eyes widened. How many people had his parents known? Were they that iconic? “Oh I forgot you and Ron were going to be in the same year, I only learned Lily had been pregnant after she already had you- oh, well, that’s in the past, I suppose, we need to get going before we’re late! C’mon, George will show you, c’mon George.”

“I’m Fred,” the kid she was gesturing to, an identical twin, groaned out, seeming used to it.

“Oh, well, sorry Fred, go on,” she said, exasperated. 

“I’m just kidding, I am George!” he shouted, before running at the wall. The other twin, grinning devilishly, ran in right behind him, and the woman rolled her eyes. 

“Um, what’s your name?” he asked, realizing he was going to be expected to run in next and not knowing if she’d come.

“Molly Weasley,” she smiled, shooing him forward, “c’mon now, c’mon, it’s best to go at it at a run now.”

He nodded, glancing at Ron, who still seemed to be a bit shell-shocked, before he ran at the wall between platforms nine and ten. For a brutal moment he thought that he’d just run into a normal wall and look like an idiot, and then a sensation like ice water fell over him and he was standing at a platform he’d never seen at King’s Cross before, with a massive red and black train with the words Hogwarts Express emblazoned on it. Ron ran in after him, letting out a breath when he came through. 

“That’s awful, isn’t it?” Ron said, panting, “Dad says it feels awful to us ‘cause it's goblin magic, and people aren’t supposed to touch darkness like that.”

“Did it… feel bad?” Harry said, confused, glancing back at where they’d come from, “It was a little cold, but we also just entered somewhere that shouldn’t exist.”

Ron opened his mouth, before shrugging, “Do you really have that scar that they all say you do?”

“Yeah,” he pulled his hair up just enough to expose it as Molly and a young girl came through, flattening his hair back down as they neared. 

“Alright, what are you not going to do this year, Ronald?” Molly said, a firm expression on her face. Ron gulped.

“Get in trouble?” he offered, and she nodded, waiting for more, “And I’ll also write when I can, and get good grades.”

“Good,” she said, hugging him tightly, “I’ll miss you so much, okay? I love you.”

“Love you too, mom,” Ron said, his voice muffled by her robes.

“Go on now,” she said, before looking at him with a soft smile, “you too, Harry. Do well. Make your parents proud.”

Harry felt like his throat had become a desert. He nodded. Ron grabbed him, dragging him away, towards the train. 

“I’m really excited to go to Hogwarts. My brothers have been making fun of me for being the only boy not going since Fred and George got in- which, I guess it's only been two years, but Ginny’s been driving me nuts for all of it, so I deserve to complain,” he said, before dragging him towards an empty compartment. Only then did he seem to realize he was doing it, quickly letting him go, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“I’m happy to sit with you,” Harry grinned, “I don’t have any friends to sit with.”

“Oh,” Ron said, “do you want to be mine?”

“Sure!” Harry exclaimed. He’d never had a friend before. It would make sense that the first friend he’d ever had was a Manai- he was never meant for the Muggle world, and they all knew it, but here he wasn’t a freak.

(Besides the parseltongue, but he could hide that. And the wand, but that seemed more like a curse of fate than anything else.)

They put their trunks under the seats, and Harry left his bag and Hedwig’s cage next to him. Ron was happy to talk, and Harry was happy to listen, adding or asking questions whenever he could. They changed into their black, Hogwarts robes an hour in, and the trolley came by with all the magic candy one could ever want, and Harry lost his chocolate frog out the window and got an Albus Dumbledore card from it.

Dumbledore was important enough to get a card, it seemed, though Harry still felt weird about him, like he did when Petunia had thrown his letters into the fire. Ron, like Hagrid, seemed to have an extraordinarily positive view of Dumbledore, though he didn’t go off on a three hour tangent on all his great deeds. 

“Have you seen a toad?” a girl asked, poking her head in, her eyebrows furrowing as she looked at the pile of sweets they had between them. Her hair was big and poofy, her eyes both almond in shape and color, with brown skin and moles on her hands, face, and neck. 

“No hello?” Ron asked, eating some Bernie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans by the handful. Harry’d let him have the entire box after the first flavor he pulled out was vanilla cream fragranced candle wax and the second flavor was rat dirt. They really had every flavor.

“Hello, have you seen a toad?” the girl said, “Neville’s lost his.”

“We haven’t, Hedwig would have shrieked,” Harry said, gesturing to her cage, “do you want some candy? We can’t possibly eat all of this.”

“Speak for yourself, mate.”

“No, thank you,” she sighed, sticking a hand out to him, “you seem polite enough. My name is Hermione Granger.”

“Harry Potter,” he said, shaking her hand, before gesturing with his head, “That’s Ron Weasley.”

After a moment, her eyes went wide, “That Harry Potter? The Boy-Who-Lived?”

Harry opened his mouth, before sighing, “Yes. Please don’t call me that.”

“Oh- sorry,” she said, “I’m a muggleborn, but I’ve read about you. They say you defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when you were only one year old-”

“I think that was my mother, actually,” he said, curling in on himself, and she snapped her mouth shut.

“Oh-”

“I think you’ve said enough, leave us alone,” Ron ordered, and she gaped at him for a moment, before huffing and walking off, slamming the compartment door with a little more force than necessary, “Blimey, she seemed a wreck, didn’t she?”

“I think she was going to apologize,” Harry said, “I don’t think she meant to be rude.”

“Well, she was,” Ron said, “she didn’t even knock-”

A knock on the compartment door before it slid open. 

“Harry Potter?” a boy asked, already grinning. He had sleek white-blond hair, and a face like he was cute as a child and would be attractive as an adult but was currently in a semi-ugly in-between stage. There was something about him that felt magical, more bone-entrenched than anyone else he’d met had felt, and his skin and hair seemed to glitter in the light of the compartment inhumanly. Then he glanced to the side, saw Ron sitting there, and scowled with such force that it looked physically painful. Ron, for his part, glared right back. 

“Hand-me-downs and red hair, you’re a Weasley,” the boy hissed.

“Am I supposed to know you?” Ron snarked, and Harry sighed, annoyed now. He hadn’t been happy with another person greeting him like they knew everything about him, but after this boy had made fun of Ron for wearing hand-me-downs when Harry had been wearing hand-me-downs for the majority of his life, he was done with it.

“Do you need something?” he asked, and the boy looked back at him, appalled.

“What are you doing, hanging out with blood traitors?” the boy asked, “You’re a Potter.”

“I’m aware,” Harry said, hating how he said his surname like there was some sort of expectation he could never live up to, “what do you want?”

The boy gaped for a moment, looking between the two, before he let out a sigh and squared his shoulders.

“My name is Draco Malfoy,” he said, giving a small bow, glancing up through his eyelashes like he was waiting for a return. Harry’s nose wrinkled. He wasn’t going to bow to this boy who he didn’t know. The boy paused for a moment, “I’m a Malfoy.”

“I heard you the first time,” Harry said.

“Oh, I do know you,” Ron scowled, “your parents were You-Know-Who’s followers, and you come in here like Harry owes you something? Bloody hell, man.”

Draco glared at Ron, before rising, scowling at him for a long moment before turning on his heel and stalking off. He didn’t slam the compartment door shut- it slammed shut on its own, an act of magic he probably didn’t mean to do.

“What a weirdo,” Ron mumbled.

~

The Malfoy family was born of dynasties of dying royalty, blessed by the magic to continue on their noble lives in the society of the Manai. They were descendants of Veela, of Elves, of some of the most powerful people to walk the Manai world. They were an old family, one of the oldest in Britain, small for their age but so interconnected it made up for it. 

And the Malfoy family’s closest allies were the Potter family, and the Potter’s closest allies were the Malfoy. They had allied themselves with the Potters as soon as the Kuyavan family had landed in England around eight-hundred years ago, married into a British Manai noble line, and started building and buying and trading and generally becoming one of the richest families in the entire Kingdom of Britain (Manai and Muggle) with their connections to India, Sri Lanka, the Middle East, Thailand, Africa- you get the point, they had spices (and potions ingredients, and magical plant and animal parts, and rare charmed objects, and tamed beasts-). 

They created and sold Muggle products to Muggles before the Statute, and Manai products to Manai always, and were wonderful at it- the Kuya family brand might be obscure now, but before James Potter’s father- Fleamont- died? They were unstoppable, the source of some of the most fantastical products on the market. The Malfoy family were former royalty and aristocracy, and loved to invest- and connections with the Potter family eventually led to the Malfoy’s creating an empire for herbology, potions, and retail chains stocked nearly to the brim with Kuya products up until the second war started. If the Potter family did not nearly exclusively marry out of Asia to keep their trade agreements (a tradition that James had quite famously gone against, not that Fleamont and Euphemia hadn’t found it quite funny, apparently), their families would very likely be much more interconnected- or maybe they wouldn’t. The Potter’s and Malfoy’s were so close, so interconnected through the Diegols, that it didn’t even seem like they needed a marriage between them to confirm it- though, that might also be because the Potters were so notoriously secretive that they didn’t want anyone except their Diegola to know they were confirmed allies- which worked, as it allowed them to control the narrative from opposite sides if need be.

The families were such fantastic and close allies that they had only disagreed twice in the past: 

Once, in 1689, when the International Statute of Magical Secrecy was being discussed in International Confederation, and the Potters were militant defenders (Lord Ralston Potter did not wish to go to war with the Muggles, even though they were killing Manai) and the Malfoy’s agreed conditionally (Lord Silas Malfoy wanted to continue to work with aristocratic Muggles- he got permission to work with nobility only, but still cut off all ties in 1692 to show a united front with the Potter family). Like that, it had been resolved, and they were best friends for the next three hundred or so years. 

The second time, well… That started over fifty years ago, before culminating barely two decades ago. Lord Abraxas Malfoy was one of the first followers of the Dark Lord. He tried to convince Lord Fleamont Potter, and his father, Lord Brutus Malfoy. Fleamont and Brutus weren't impressed. Brutus died in a suspicious accident. Then mere years before his own tragic, slightly suspicious death, Abraxas had used the Imperius Curse to get Lord Lucius Malfoy to swear allegiance to the Dark Lord. Lord James Potter did not come with him.

(But even then, Lucius and James had been loyal to one another. Lucius withstood torture and Legilimency to hide secret assets of the Potter’s from the Dark Lord when the Potter’s went into hiding. James had left copious notes, memories, a set of charmed bracelets that could hide the Mark, and whispers in the Wizengamot that allowed for Lucius and Narcissa to get off completely scot-free after the Dark Lord disappeared and assumed Death Eaters were dragged to trial. They may have warred against each other in public, but privately… they’d always be members of the same Diegol, with much of the same beliefs: the sanctity of magic before blood, and the influence of the Light being the thing that would destroy Manai society.)

That meant that it was Draco’s job to make sure that their families were still allies, that he would still be a member of the Diegol. He had no doubt they were, because the war was over, they never privately disagreed, and they had protected each other even when they were on opposite sides of the battlefield from one another. 

And Harry Potter was on the train, which made it a perfect time to do so. 

He kept glancing in compartments, looking for a boy who looked like the man he’d seen in the pictures, standing beside his father in gorgeous formal robes with a big grin, or maybe the woman who stood between his mother and his godfather Severus, wearing enchanted dress robes that danced with starlight and a veil made of lace so fine that every strand of her hair was still perfectly visible through it, one of the Black family’s most beautiful works of art. In that picture, his mother had worn a Kanjeevaram saree so delicate the entire thing could be drawn through a bracelet, one that had changed hands between members of the Potter family since before weaving machines were invented. Uncle Severus, as always, had worn plain black robes and looked dreadfully out of place.

A girl he didn’t recognize went by him, cursing under her breath, and he swore he heard the name Potter. He went towards where she had come from, and- there!

He knocked, because he was polite, before opening the door.

“Harry Potter?” he called, unable to keep the smile off his face. Harry looked like James, but pint-sized, an age to his features with how thin he was but a softness to his eyes and nose that must have come from his mother. There was a slit in his eyebrow, where a silvery scar disappeared into his hairline. Recognizing there was someone else in the compartment- not having expected that-, he glanced over.

His blood ran cold.

“Hand-me-downs and red hair, you’re a Weasley,” he hissed. What was Harry doing with a Weasley? Nobody of any status should be anywhere near a Weasley, let alone a Potter, who had been disavowed by the Weasley’s like basically every other pureblood family- actually, any family that used their family magics, patronages, or blessings- had been. While they never went shouting it from the rooftops- the Potter’s were immensely secretive- the Potter family had never been afraid of dark magic. From what he knew, James had been a prodigy at blood magic, just like his father, and Lily, according to Uncle Severus, had been entranced with soul magic.

The Weasley’s- who used to be the Brigidans- used to be like every other old family, made of some of the most powerful witches in the British Isles. Then, three hundred and fifty years ago, before the Statute was even passed, the lord of the family married a muggleborn. That muggleborn forced her with child, as he needed an heir to claim proxy-lordship, and then killed her upon the birth of it- something that had only been discovered after the chaos- and then raised hell upon the Manai world.

The Weasley family used to be the family that patronized and protected the majority of witches' temples for Celtic, Gaelic, and Gaulish deities, along with some temples for the Welsh and Scottish ones. They owned the lands that witches ran to so they could worship freely. And when that muggleborn became lord of the family, he ordered all of it to be burned. All of the temples. All of the libraries. All of the homes blessed by the Brigidans’ family matron goddess, the Brigantia.

Everything was burned. The statues, the information… and the worshippers inside.

The Brigidans who’d tried to fight back were killed by the monster's army of muggleborns, halfbloods, and Muggles.

Lord Jebediah Weasley had been stripped of his title as fast as he’d gotten it, and he and the majority of the family had been executed for their actions. But that didn’t stop Josefinus Weasley, the horrible, rotten child of that monster, from declaring himself a ‘bringer of light’ and attempting to continue his father’s work, corrupting other families and absorbing the worst of the muggleborns and halfbloods into their army of light.

(They weren’t the first family that had become ‘light-sworn’- that had been happening for hundreds of years before them, propagated by muggleborns and their horrible culture- nor the most recent, but the damage they had caused… Gods had been forgotten in the wake of their destruction.)

The Weasley’s were more than blood traitors. They’d betrayed more than magic itself a long time ago. They had decimated centuries of tradition. Now they were forsaken to live in decimation, as they should. No- they should have all been killed, the children included, with how much they destroyed with their actions. All of the ‘light-sworn’ should be.

They still wore their blood- their magic- traitor status like it was a thing of pride.

(The Wizengamot still had a seat for the Weasley’s- though it had never changed the name from the Brigidans- but if any of them entered the chamber for anything other than a life sentence to Azkaban they knew they’d be dead before they could swear to it.)

And Harry Potter, whose father had been a witch sworn to Vishnu, and whose mother had been a witch of The Morrigan, was sitting with him eating chocolate fucking frogs.

“Am I supposed to know you?” the Weasley said, and Draco felt his face scrunching up against his will. He knew that the weasel knew who he was. His father was the most influential lord on the Wizengamot besides Dumbledore- who was only a proxy lord and not a real one- and he’d been getting flaunted around in the society papers since he was six. 

Harry sighed, sounding gravely aggravated, and Draco prayed he’d send a cutting curse towards the weasel and kill him where he stood. 

“Do you need something?” Harry asked, and Draco blinked, gaping for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Harry was a Potter. The Potter’s may have fought alongside the weasels in the most recent war, but that didn’t change history. The Potter family allied with the Malfoy’s, allied closer than any other known alliance in British history, and they both scorned the Weasley’s for what they had done. The Potters were some of the most capable of ‘dark’ magic that there ever has been; practically children of magic herself, with how much she granted them power over. That was how it was.

“What are you doing, hanging out with blood traitors?” he asked, no, begged to know. Harry was still staring at him blankly, so Draco tried to remind him, hoping that maybe it would jumpstart his brain and he’d stop looking at him like that, “You’re a Potter.”

“I’m aware,” Harry snarked, his eyes narrowed at him like he was something particularly disgusting, “what do you want?”

Draco didn’t know what was going on. Had he entered some sort of alternate timeline where the Potter’s scorned their heritage? Had they? When? James Potter was a witch of Vishnu, and Lily Potter was a witch of The Morrigan. The Weasley’s were their enemies as well. Had they scorned their heritage within the last months of the war? 

No, James wouldn’t, and Lily especially wouldn’t. She loved The Morrigan. 

Maybe he just… didn’t recognize him? But he was in the papers! Did Harry just not read the papers?

“My name is Draco Malfoy,” he even put himself on a backfoot, bowing to him in a way that the Malfoy’s and Potter’s only bothered with while doing formal bullshit, his back perfectly straight and his wrists exposed, glancing at him through his eyelashes to see if he’d moved. He hadn’t. He was looking at him with his nose wrinkled, his mouth curved halfway to a snarl.

“I’m a Malfoy,” Draco tried, again.

“I heard you the first time,” Harry said, and Draco felt cold. Was their eight-hundred year alliance gone? Had- Draco thought he’d heard that Harry was living with Lily’s sister, that meant he was with family, that he should know, so-

“Oh, I do know you,” the weasel said, looking at him with disdain, “your parents were You-Know-Who’s followers, and you come in here like Harry owes you something? Bloody hell, man.”

Draco straightened up. 

There was no chance that Harry didn’t know if he was with family. The Potters were secretive and elusive, sure, but they hid nothing from family members. They barely hid things from the Malfoy’s, as they were their most permanent alliance in Europe, but they hid nothing from family, that was just how they were. The Potter children were raised to keep every single family secret tucked close to their chest, to always have the upper hand, and the adults wouldn’t hide secrets even from the children because they knew they wouldn’t be told. With how elusive they were, it was a shock that they were a mixed-house family and not all Slytherins.

Dad’s going to be so upset, was all he could think, he’d been tortured half to death to protect the Potter’s, and-

And Harry Potter wasn’t going to continue their alliance. Eight-hundred years of secrets and shared power, gone.

He wanted to throw up.

He fled, and felt his magic whip out without control, and shit, he needed to stop that, he needed to get a lid on it, he needed to-

Unless…

He paused, his eyebrows furrowing. The feigning dumb, the pretending to not even recognize him until Weasley said that he knew him…

Something else was going on, and Harry wanted them to be public enemies. The Dark Lord was disappeared, but a corpse was not found, and Dumbledore was a monster when given the opportunity- and also part of the same circles as the Weasley family, which would explain them being together. If the Dark Lord was still alive in some capacity, or if Dumbledore had him on a leash, then he couldn’t be seen with Draco- his family was one of the louder ‘dark’ families (and by that he meant that their family magics were spoken about in a whisper, instead of not at all, like the Potter’s), and despite his dad’s verdict, everyone still thought of him as a Death Eater in the relative privacy of their own minds. 

That was fine, he could play those games. The Malfoy’s and Potter’s never quite screamed their alliance from the rooftops, anyways- it was all very hush-hush, especially in the last few generations, hidden except to members of the Diegol. They had voted the same in basically everything until the war, when Dumbledore and the Dark Lord used their lordships like proxies to try and pass their own ideas, but even then that was probably forgotten by most people. James, his father Fleamont, and his father Magnus, were all very private people. With the way his parents spoke of him, Draco thought that James Potter lived a life of nothing but secrets, hidden behind a grin and gleaming eyes and such an honest disposition that no one would expect anything. Harry could be the same.

He just had to get him alone, then they could speak openly. 

Until then, public enemies.