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Chapter Text

"Parseltongue" will be in quoted Italics.

The Surrey library, tucked between a bakery and a post office, was a modest building. Its beige walls held rows of neatly arranged books, their spines of muted greens, blues, and browns forming an endless patchwork of knowledge. Eight-year-old Harry Potter loved this place more than any other in Little Whinging. It was a refuge—a world where no one sneered at him, no one forced him to cook breakfast or weed the garden until his fingers ached. Here, he wasn’t the "freak" his Aunt Petunia hissed about or the target of his cousin Dudley’s clumsy fists. Here, he was just Harry, a boy lost in books.

Harry arrived at the library on a Saturday morning once his chores were done, his small frame slipping through the door like a shadow. Mrs. Selkirk, the elderly librarian, had long since stopped asking where his parents were or why he spent so much time there. She simply gave him a nod, her silver spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, and let him wander the aisles.

Today, Harry’s focus was languages. He’d been fascinated ever since he discovered an old French primer in a dusty corner two weeks ago. The idea that people could say the same thing in entirely different ways made his mind hum with curiosity. Now, he sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by books titled Spanish for Beginners, Introduction to Latin, and The German Phrasebook for Travelers. He flipped through the pages, whispering words to himself.

"Bonjour," he murmured, practicing the French greeting. "Guten Tag. Hola. Salve." Each word felt strange and magical on his tongue, as though speaking them opened tiny doors to far-off lands.

He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice Mrs. Selkirk approaching until she gently cleared her throat. Startled, Harry looked up, his emerald-green eyes wide behind his too-big glasses.

"You’ve been working hard, Harry," she said with a kind smile. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Harry hesitated. Aunt Petunia always said it was rude to accept charity, but his stomach growled faintly. He hadn’t had breakfast that morning; Dudley had stolen his toast.

"Yes, please," he said finally, his voice soft.

While Mrs. Selkirk disappeared to make the tea, Harry returned to his books. He had a system: first, he wrote down the words he found most interesting in a battered notebook he’d rescued from the rubbish. Then, he tried to understand how they fit together. He didn’t know it, but he had a knack for patterns and logic, the kind of mind that could untangle puzzles with ease. Languages, with their rules and rhythms, fascinated him in a way nothing else did.

When Mrs. Selkirk returned with a steaming cup of tea and a biscuit, Harry thanked her politely and resumed his reading. Hours passed, marked only by the rustle of pages and the faint hum of the air conditioning. He devoured books on history, too, learning about ancient Egypt, medieval knights, and the great explorers. Science books taught him about stars, plants, and the tiniest particles that made up everything in the world.

He didn’t know why, but learning felt important—like armour against the cold, uncaring world of Privet Drive. His aunt and uncle couldn’t take this from him. They could lock him in the cupboard, starve him, and call him names, but they couldn’t touch what he knew.

As the clock hand hit three o’clock, Harry reluctantly packed up his things. He’d have to get home before Aunt Petunia noticed he was gone. Dudley and his gang had been out all day, terrorizing smaller children in the park, but Harry knew they’d be back soon. He didn’t want to cross paths with them.

Sure enough, as he turned onto Wisteria Walk, he heard the familiar thudding footsteps of Dudley and his friends. His heart sank.

"Oi, Potter!" Dudley’s voice was loud and cruel. "What’ve you got there? Books? What are you, some kind of nerd?"

Harry didn’t answer. He clutched his notebook tightly and started walking faster, but Dudley was quicker. Within moments, the gang surrounded him. Piers Polkiss, Dudley’s weasel-faced friend, snatched the notebook from Harry’s hands and flipped through it.

"What’s this rubbish?" Piers sneered. "Writing in foreign? Trying to be clever, are you?"

"Give it back!" Harry said, his voice trembling with anger.

"Make me," Dudley taunted, shoving Harry hard. He stumbled but didn’t fall.

A hot, tingling sensation spread through Harry’s fingers. He clenched his fists, willing himself to stay calm. Strange things happened when he got too angry—things he couldn’t explain. Once, when Dudley had tried to trip him, Harry had somehow ended up on the school roof. Another time, Aunt Petunia’s prized vase had shattered without anyone touching it. If anything like that happened now, Dudley would tell Uncle Vernon, and Harry didn’t want to think about what would happen next.

"Give it back," he said again, more quietly this time.

Something in his tone made Piers hesitate. He tossed the notebook on the ground. Before Dudley could stop him, Harry snatched it up and bolted, his legs pumping as fast as they could carry him.

"Get him!" Dudley roared.

Harry ran. He darted down alleys and side streets, his small size giving him an advantage as he squeezed through narrow gaps between fences. Still, Dudley and his gang were relentless. They chased him past the playground, through the park, and into the woods at the edge of town.

Breathing hard, Harry stumbled into a dense thicket. He crouched low, trying to make himself as small as possible. The gang’s shouts grew fainter as they moved in the wrong direction. Eventually, the woods fell silent except for the rustling of leaves.

Harry leaned against a tree, his chest heaving. He was safe, for now. He opened his notebook to make sure it wasn’t damaged, then froze. A small, dark shape slithered into view.

A snake.

Harry didn’t scream. He’d always liked snakes, though he’d never seen one up close. This one was small and green, its scales glinting in the fading light. It raised its head, fixing him with unblinking eyes.

"Hello," Harry whispered, not sure why he was talking to it.

To his astonishment, the snake responded.

"Greetings hatchling," it hissed, the sound slithering into his ears like a melody.

Harry blinked. He understood it. He shouldn’t have, but he did.

"You can talk?" he said, his voice barely audible.

"All snakes talk," the snake replied. "But you... you are different. You smell of the Mother’s children and something more..."

"The Mother?" Harry asked, confused.

"Magic," the snake said simply. "You smell of it."

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Magic? Was that what made strange things happen around him? He had always thought it was something wrong with him, something freakish. But this snake spoke of it as though it were something natural, something good.

"I don’t understand," he admitted.

The snake tilted its head. "You will. In time. Beware the two legs who walk without magic. They fear what they do not know."

Before Harry could ask more, the snake slithered away, disappearing into the undergrowth. He sat there for a long time, his mind racing. Magic. The word buzzed in his head like a swarm of bees. For the first time, the idea of being different didn’t seem so bad. It seemed... extraordinary.

Eventually, the sky darkened, and Harry knew he had to go home. He stood, clutching his notebook, and made his way out of the woods. Dudley and his gang were long gone. As he walked back to Privet Drive, he repeated the snake’s words in his mind.

Magic.

He didn’t know what it meant yet, but he was determined to find out.

~

The next day at the Surrey library, Harry couldn’t concentrate. Normally, the books lining the shelves seemed to call to him, their pages filled with discoveries waiting to be made. But today, they felt distant, muted, like a conversation happening just out of earshot. One word consumed his thoughts, swirling like a leaf caught in the wind: magic.

He sat at his usual spot by the large bay window, his notebook open in front of him. His pen idly tapped the page, where he’d written the snake’s cryptic words over and over: “You smell of magic.” “Beware the others who walk without magic.” Each phrase seemed more puzzling than the last.

The snake’s mention of “Mother’s children” intrigued him most. Did it mean he wasn’t alone? Were there others who could do the strange things he’d done? The thought made his chest tighten with a mix of fear and excitement. If he could find them, maybe they could explain what was happening to him.

But where to start?

Harry’s eyes scanned the shelves, searching for books that might hold answers. He didn’t expect to find a section labelled “Magic,” but perhaps there was something about folklore or unusual phenomena. He began pulling books at random: Myths and Legends of Old England, A Study of the Supernatural, The Mysterious Powers of the Mind. Each title sent a small thrill through him as he added them to his growing stack.

Mrs. Selkirk raised an eyebrow when she saw him carrying the precarious tower of books to the reading table but said nothing. She’d long since grown used to Harry’s voracious curiosity.

For hours, Harry poured over the books, flipping through pages filled with tales of fairies, ghosts, and miraculous happenings. Most of it seemed like nonsense—stories invented to explain things people didn’t understand. But occasionally, he found something that made him pause.

In A Study of the Supernatural, he read about objects moving on their own—poltergeists, the book claimed. But Harry remembered the time a garden rake had flown from the shed to block Dudley from shoving him into a rosebush. He’d been so scared, so desperate to stop Dudley, and the rake had just... moved. It hadn’t felt like a ghost. It had felt like him.

Another passage described miraculous escapes, like a boy surviving a fall from a great height without a scratch. Harry couldn’t help but think of the time he’d somehow leapt onto the school roof when Dudley and his friends had been chasing him. It had been impossible, yet it had happened.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Harry’s heart raced with the possibilities. The books didn’t give him the answers he craved, but they hinted at something—a pattern that was beginning to make sense. He wasn’t imagining the strange things that happened to him. And if they were real, maybe he could learn to control them.

That night, Harry lay on his thin mattress in the cupboard under the stairs, staring at the dark ceiling. The air was stifling, and the faint smell of cleaning products lingered in the cramped space. His notebook lay open beside him, filled with hastily scribbled notes from the day’s reading.

He closed his eyes and thought about the rake. He remembered the weight of fear in his chest, the desperate need for Dudley to stop. He’d felt something then, a strange surge deep inside him, like a rubber band stretched to its limit and then snapping. Could he feel it again?

Harry sat up and looked around the cupboard. His broken toy soldier sat on the shelf, its plastic arm dangling by a thread. He focused on it, willing it to move. He tried to summon the same urgency he’d felt with Dudley, but nothing happened. The soldier remained stubbornly still.

Harry frowned. Maybe he wasn’t scared enough. He thought about Aunt Petunia finding out what he was trying to do. The idea made his stomach twist, but it still wasn’t the same as being cornered by Dudley.

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up. “Move!” he whispered, his voice sharp in the silence.

The toy soldier wobbled. Just for a moment, it shifted slightly to the left, as though nudged by an invisible hand.

Harry’s breath caught. He stared at the toy, his heart pounding. Had he imagined it? No, he was certain it had moved. But how? And why only a little?

He tried again, focusing harder this time. His forehead creased with effort, and he felt a faint tingling in his fingers. But no matter how much he concentrated, the soldier refused to budge.

Harry flopped back onto the mattress, exhausted. He didn’t understand why it worked sometimes and not others. Was it random? Or was there a trick to it, something he was missing? The snake had said he smelled of magic, but maybe it wasn’t enough to just have it. Maybe he needed to learn how to use it.

The next day after school, Harry returned to the library with renewed determination. He delved deeper into the books, searching for anything that might explain what he’d done. He read about rituals and incantations, though most seemed far too elaborate to be practical. Still, he copied down anything that seemed useful.

As he worked, a memory surfaced—one he hadn’t thought about in years. He’d been four, standing on a stool in the kitchen to help Aunt Petunia bake a cake. He’d been stirring the batter when the bowl slipped off the counter. But instead of crashing to the floor, it had hovered for a second, as though caught by invisible hands, before gently settling onto the countertop. Aunt Petunia had gone pale and snatched the bowl away, muttering about him being careless. He hadn’t understood it then, but now...

Harry scribbled the memory into his notebook. It was another piece of the puzzle, another clue that pointed to something extraordinary within him. He didn’t know how to control it yet, but he was determined to figure it out.

By the time the library closed, Harry had a dozen new ideas to try. As he walked back to Privet Drive, clutching his notebook tightly, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. The world had always seemed like a cold, unforgiving place, but now he glimpsed a spark of light. If magic was real, if he could master it, maybe his life didn’t have to be what the Dursleys had made it.

That night, in the quiet of his cupboard, Harry picked up the toy soldier again. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried once more.

~

The following months were unlike anything Harry had ever experienced. For the first time in his life, he had a purpose—a secret mission that kept him going even when the Dursleys were at their worst. Between his chores and Dudley’s relentless bullying, Harry spent every spare moment sneaking off to the woods, searching for the snake.

He started visiting the park near Magnolia Crescent, where he’d first encountered it. He followed trails through the woods, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of movement in the undergrowth. At first, he saw nothing but birds and the occasional squirrel. Still, he persisted, returning day after day, sometimes staying until the sky turned orange and Mrs. Figg’s cats began their eerie twilight prowls.

Weeks passed, and Harry’s determination only grew. He remembered the way the snake had spoken to him, its voice smooth and musical, and how it had called him something special. That memory burned in his mind, pushing him to keep searching.

One crisp afternoon, Harry’s patience paid off. He was crouched near a cluster of brambles, brushing aside leaves to reveal a small hollow beneath the roots of a tree. A glint of green caught his eye.

"You have returned," a familiar voice hissed. It was quieter than he remembered, barely above a whisper, but it was unmistakably the same snake. It slithered out of the hollow, its scales catching the dappled sunlight.

Harry’s heart leapt. "I’ve been looking for you!"

The snake tilted its head, its tongue flickering. "Why do you seek me, Speaker?"

Harry hesitated. How could he explain everything he’d been feeling—the questions that had been gnawing at him since their first meeting? "I… I want to know more. About magic. About why I can do things other people can’t."

The snake regarded him for a long moment. "You are young. Too young to understand much. But the Old One might speak with you."

"The Old One?" Harry repeated, curiosity sparking.

"An elder of my kind," the snake said. "Follow."

The snake turned and slithered back into the hollow. Harry hesitated only briefly before crawling after it. The tunnel was dark and cramped, and the damp earth smelled of decay, but he pushed forward. It opened into a small, hidden clearing surrounded by dense trees. In the centre lay a larger snake, its scales a deep, iridescent black that shimmered with hints of green and blue.

"He smells of the blessed," the older snake hissed as Harry stepped into the clearing. Its voice was deeper, more resonant, and it seemed to vibrate through the air.

"This one seeks knowledge," the smaller snake explained.

The Old One’s golden eyes fixed on Harry. "What do you wish to know, child of two worlds?"

Harry swallowed hard. He felt small under the snake’s gaze, but he couldn’t back down. "I want to understand what I am. Why I can do… strange things. And how I can do more."

The Old One was silent for a long moment. Then it said, "You are touched by the unseen forces that weave through all things. Among your kind, some are born with this gift. Few understand it fully."

"How do I understand it?" Harry asked eagerly. "How do I learn?"

"The gift responds to need," the Old One said. "When your emotions surge, when your instincts scream, the power stirs. But to control it, you must listen. Feel the threads that bind the world around you."

Harry nodded, even though he didn’t completely understand. "Can you show me?"

The Old One’s tongue flickered. "You must show yourself. Begin small. Use the power to touch the world as I touch the ground beneath me."

~

Over the following weeks, Harry returned to the clearing whenever he could. The snakes—both the elder and the smaller one he’d first met—guided him in their cryptic, slithering way. The Old One often spoke in riddles, but Harry found that when he truly concentrated, he could begin to understand.

At night, back in his cupboard, he practiced. He started with the toy soldier, remembering the Old One’s advice to feel the threads of the world. It wasn’t easy. The power inside him felt slippery, like trying to catch water in his hands. But gradually, he made progress. The soldier would wobble, then tip over. After a week, he managed to lift it a full inch off the shelf before it dropped with a clatter.

Harry’s excitement grew. If he could move the soldier, what else could he do?

One cold evening in November, Harry’s patience was tested. Aunt Petunia had been in a foul mood, and Dudley had taken great delight in smashing one of Harry’s pencils just to watch him scramble for a replacement. By the time Harry retreated to his cupboard, his frustration boiled over.

He grabbed an empty tin can from the corner and set it on the floor. He sat cross-legged before it, glaring at the can as though sheer force of will could make it move. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He thought about the Old One’s words: Feel the threads.

Harry stretched out his hand, not to touch the can, but to reach for it with his mind. He imagined the air between them as something solid, something he could grab hold of. A strange tingling sensation spread through his fingers.

The can wobbled.

Harry opened his eyes, startled. The tingling faded, and the can went still. But he’d seen it move. He’d made it move.

Excitement thrummed through him as he tried again. This time, the can tipped onto its side. By the end of the night, he managed to make it roll a full foot across the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

Back in the clearing, Harry eagerly shared his success with the snakes. The Old One listened, unblinking.

"You grow stronger," it said. "But strength without control is a danger to yourself and others."

"How do I get control?" Harry asked.

The Old One’s tongue flickered. "Practice. Patience. And understanding that power flows not from force, but from harmony."

It sounded maddeningly vague, but Harry took the advice to heart. Over the next few weeks, he practiced every chance he got. He moved from the toy soldier and tin can to larger objects: a cracked tea mug, a stack of old magazines. Each success brought a thrill, but it also left him exhausted. The effort of using magic—if that’s what it was—seemed to drain him in a way nothing else did.

He also began to notice patterns. When he was calm and focused, the power felt like a quiet stream, easy to guide. But when he was angry or scared, it surged like a river after a storm, wild and uncontrollable. Remembering the Old One’s warning, Harry worked to keep his emotions in check.

As winter settled over Little Whinging, Harry’s progress continued. One evening, back in his cupboard, he decided to try something ambitious. He placed a broken chair leg on the floor. It was heavier than anything he’d moved before, and he wasn’t sure he could do it. But he had to try.

Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out with his mind. The chair leg felt distant, like trying to grab something underwater. He focused harder, imagining the threads that connected him to it.

The tingling returned, stronger this time. Slowly, the chair leg lifted off the floor. It hovered for a moment, wobbling in the air, before dropping with a thud.

Harry’s heart raced. He’d done it. He’d lifted something that size.

He flopped back onto his mattress, grinning despite his exhaustion. The Old One had been right: practice and patience were the keys. And with each step forward, Harry felt a little less alone, a little less helpless. He really should thank Dudley for breaking everything, it certainly made it easier to sneak things to practice on.

March arrived in Surrey with a chill that lingered in the air, but Harry barely noticed the cold. Every spare moment he could steal was consumed by his secret practice. The toy soldier and tin can had been left behind in favour of heavier objects: books, shoes, even the battered schoolbag Dudley had thrown at him weeks ago. Harry’s progress was slow but steady, and the exhaustion that used to sap his strength now came less frequently. Each success filled him with pride, a quiet triumph he carried alone.

But Harry’s curiosity wasn’t limited to levitation. His weekly trips to the library had unearthed something unexpected: a dusty, dog-eared book titled A Practical Guide to Witchcraft and Magickal Practices. It had been hidden on a low shelf in the "Occult" section, its spine cracked and pages yellowed with age. Harry’s pulse quickened when he saw it. The title sounded almost too good to be true.

He checked the book out with trembling hands, stuffing it into his jacket before Mrs. Selkirk could see. That night, in the dim light of his cupboard, he devoured its contents. The book was a mix of instructions, philosophy, and poetry, all framed around the idea that magic—or “magick,” as the book spelled it—was an ancient force tied to nature and the elements. It spoke of energy flowing through the world, of harnessing fire, water, air, and earth. Harry didn’t know if any of it was real, but it felt right in a way he couldn’t explain.

Over the next few weeks, Harry’s practice took on a new focus. He borrowed a few candles from the kitchen—careful to choose ones Aunt Petunia wouldn’t miss—and smuggled them into his cupboard. Lighting them with matches wasn’t the goal. If the book was to be believed, he could light them with his mind, with his “energy.”

It sounded impossible. Then again, so had lifting a chair leg.

One evening, Harry sat cross-legged in his cupboard, the stubby candle positioned in front of him. The book’s instructions swirled in his mind: “Focus your intent. Imagine the spark, the heat, the flame. Feel the energy within you and let it flow.”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The air in the cupboard was still, heavy with the smell of wax and old wood. Harry pictured the candle in his mind, its wick waiting to ignite. He imagined a tiny spark, a flicker of light. He reached for the strange, tingling sensation he’d felt during his levitation practice, the feeling that something within him could reach out and touch the world.

Nothing happened.

Harry frowned, opening one eye to glare at the unlit candle. He tried again, this time whispering under his breath: "Light. Come on, light."

Still nothing.

Frustration bubbled up, but Harry forced it down. The book had warned about letting emotions take control. He needed to stay calm, to focus. He closed his eyes once more and took a slow, steady breath. He thought about fire: its warmth, its brightness, the way it danced and flickered. He imagined the flame as something alive, something he could coax into being.

A faint warmth spread through him. It was so subtle he almost missed it, but when he focused on the feeling, it grew stronger. His heart raced. Could this be it? Was he doing it?

Harry opened his eyes just as the wick sputtered to life. A tiny flame danced atop the candle, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the cupboard.

He stared at it, disbelief and exhilaration flooding through him. He’d done it. He’d lit the candle without matches, without touching it at all. The flame seemed to wink at him, as though sharing in his triumph.

The next few weeks were a blur of experimentation. Harry practiced every night, sometimes until his eyelids grew heavy and he had to force himself to stop. He learned that he couldn’t light the candle if he was too tired or distracted. The warmth in his fingertips—the energy, as the book called it—needed to be steady and focused. When he felt calm and clear-headed, the flame would leap to life almost effortlessly.

But Harry’s curiosity didn’t stop there. The book spoke of more than just fire. It described how each element had its own energy, its own way of interacting with the world. Water could be summoned to cleanse or heal; air could be called to bring clarity or swiftness; earth could ground and protect. Harry didn’t know how much of it was true, but he was determined to try.

One rainy afternoon, Harry decided to test what he’d read about water. He filled a chipped mug with water from the kitchen tap and brought it to his cupboard. The book’s instructions were vague—something about "calling to the flow" and "guiding it with intent." Harry wasn’t sure what that meant, but he figured it couldn’t be too different from lighting the candle.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, the mug of water in front of him. Closing his eyes, he focused on the water’s surface, imagining it rippling, moving. He pictured it rising like a snake charmer’s rope, defying gravity.

For a long time, nothing happened. Harry’s concentration wavered, and he opened one of his eyes with a sigh. The water sat still, mocking him with its ordinariness.

"Come on," he muttered. "If I can light a candle, I can do this."

He tried again, this time reaching for the tingling sensation he’d come to associate with his power. The air in the cupboard seemed to grow heavier, charged with an almost electric energy. Harry focused on the water, willing it to move.

The surface quivered. It was barely noticeable, but it was enough to make Harry’s breath catch. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the mug as the water rippled again, more strongly this time. A small bead of water rose from the surface, hovering for a moment before splashing back down.

Harry grinned, a rush of excitement coursing through him. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

~

By the time March gave way to April, Harry had made steady progress with both fire and water. He could light the candle with a flick of his fingers now, the flame springing to life almost eagerly. The water still gave him trouble, but he’d managed to lift small droplets and even create a tiny ripple without touching the mug.

The Old One’s words often echoed in his mind during these practices: "Strength without control is a danger to yourself and others." Harry had come to understand what the elder snake meant. The power he was learning to wield was exhilarating, but it also frightened him sometimes. He could feel how easily it could spiral out of control if he wasn’t careful.

Still, he couldn’t deny the joy it brought him. For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he had something that was truly his. The Dursleys couldn’t take it from him, no matter how hard they tried. Magic—if that’s what it was—made him feel alive in a way nothing else ever had.

He had a feeling that Aunt Petunia was watching him more closely than usual though, so he’ll need to be more careful. She probably noticed a candle missing, he thought.

~

By the time April had turned into May, Harry’s confidence with magic had grown immensely. Lighting candles had become almost second nature, and he could now conjure fire directly into the palm of his hand. The first time he’d managed it, the small orange flame danced on his palm without burning him, flickering in the still air of his cupboard. It felt like holding a piece of the sun, a warmth that spread through his entire body.

On one of his regular visits to the clearing, Harry proudly demonstrated his new skill to the snakes. The Old One watched him with its unblinking golden eyes, and the smaller snake—whom Harry had taken to calling “Flick”—coiled around his wrist, hissing softly in approval.

"You grow stronger," the Old One said. "The warmth of the flame echoes in your spirit."

Harry wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but he did notice that since he’d started practicing fire magic, he felt a peculiar heat inside him, even on the coldest days. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… different. A reminder, perhaps, that he was changing.

One sunny afternoon, Harry decided to take a longer route back to the Dursleys’ house to avoid Dudley and his gang. He passed Mrs. Figg’s house and stopped when he spotted her in the garden, fussing over one of her many cats. The cats had always unsettled Harry—not because he didn’t like them, but because they didn’t quite seem normal. Their eyes seemed too intelligent, their movements almost purposeful in a way that made Harry feel like they were watching him more closely than they should.

Mrs. Figg, as usual, called out to him with a slightly strained smile. "Hello, Harry! Come and pet Mr. Tibbles, won’t you? He’s feeling lonely today."

Harry hesitated but decided to oblige. Despite Mrs. Figg’s oddness, she was one of the few adults who ever spoke kindly to him, even if she sometimes sneered when she thought he wasn’t looking. As he approached, he noticed Flick shifting slightly in the pocket of his oversized jacket.

"It’s okay," Harry whispered. "Just a cat."

He crouched down and scratched behind Mr. Tibbles’ ear. The cat purred loudly, leaning into Harry’s hand. He smiled despite himself. Mrs. Figg’s cats might have been strange, but they were undeniably good company.

"It smells strange," Flick hissed suddenly, his voice a low whisper that only Harry could hear. "Not like prey. Like… the Mother’s touch but not."

Harry froze, his hand hovering above Mr. Tibbles’ head. "Magic?" he whispered back, barely moving his lips.

Flick’s tongue flickered. "Yes. This one is touched. As you are."

Harry’s heart raced as he glanced at Mrs. Figg, who was now busy adjusting a flowerpot and muttering about lazy delivery men. Could she… could she know about magic? It seemed impossible. Mrs. Figg, with her drab cardigans and obsession with cats, hardly seemed like someone who—

"Harry?" Mrs. Figg’s voice cut through his thoughts. He startled and looked up. "You’ve gone all quiet. Everything all right?"

"Uh, yeah. Just tired," Harry said quickly, standing up and brushing off his knees. "I should get going."

Mrs. Figg gave him a scrutinising look but nodded. "Well, don’t let those dreadful boys give you any trouble. And tell your aunt I’ll be needing her garden shears back."

"Will do," Harry lied as he turned and walked away, his mind racing. Flick shifted again in his pocket, and Harry resisted the urge to ask more questions. Not here. Not yet.

That evening, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, staring at the dim ceiling. Flick’s words echoed in his mind: It smells like magic. Could Mrs. Figg really be… what? A witch? Someone like him? And if she was, why did she act so normal? So boring?

He decided he needed answers.

Over the next few days, Harry made a point of passing by Mrs. Figg’s house whenever he could. He greeted her politely, petted her cats, and listened to her ramble about the price of milk or the state of her begonias. All the while, he kept his senses sharp, trying to notice anything unusual.

But Mrs. Figg remained frustratingly ordinary. The only strange thing was the way her cats seemed to follow him.

One rainy afternoon, Harry decided to try something new. He’d been experimenting with a spell he’d read about in A Practical Guide to Witchcraft and Magickal Practices. The book called it a “Veil of Shadows,” a simple technique to make oneself less noticeable. According to the book, it wasn’t true invisibility but a subtle way of bending attention away from oneself.

Harry wasn’t sure it would work, but he’d managed to practice it successfully a few times in his cupboard. The trick, he’d learned, was to imagine himself as part of the background, blending into the surroundings like a shadow.

He crouched behind a bush near Mrs. Figg’s garden, closing his eyes and focusing on the spell. He imagined himself fading, his presence becoming quiet and unremarkable. A familiar tingling spread through him, and when he opened his eyes, he felt… different. Lighter, somehow.

Cautiously, Harry crept closer to the house, peering through the window. Inside, Mrs. Figg was seated in her armchair, one of her cats—Snowy, he thought—curled up on her lap. She was talking to someone, though Harry couldn’t see who at first.

"Yes, yes, I’ve been keeping an eye on him," Mrs. Figg was saying, her voice sharper than usual. "No, he hasn’t shown any signs yet. But it’s only a matter of time."

Harry’s stomach dropped. Were they talking about him?

He edged closer, careful not to make a sound. From his new vantage point, he could see the person Mrs. Figg was speaking to, a small man with grey curly hair and a serious expression. He was dressed in a long coat that looked more like a robe, the kind Harry had only ever seen in old movies.

"Dumbledore wants regular updates," the man said. "We can’t afford to let anything slip through the cracks. If he shows any signs of… instability or knowledge, we need to act quickly."

Mrs. Figg nodded, her fingers absently stroking Snowy’s fur. "Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control. He won't find out until necessary. "

Harry’s mind whirled. Dumbledore? Updates? Instability? None of it made sense, but one thing was clear: Mrs. Figg wasn’t just a nosy old lady with too many cats. She knew about magic. And she was watching him.

A sharp meow broke the silence, and Harry froze. Snowy had turned his head to stare directly at the window, his yellow eyes narrowing.

"What is it, Snowy?" Mrs. Figg asked, following the cat’s gaze. Harry ducked behind the bush, his heart pounding.

"Probably just a bird," the man said dismissively. "Still, we should be careful, I’ll report back to Albus." Harry heard a crack, like a car backfiring, and startled a little.

Harry didn’t wait to hear more. He crept away from the house, the tingling of the Veil of Shadows spell fading as he put distance between himself and Mrs. Figg. When he finally reached the safety of the park, he leaned against a tree, his mind racing.

Mrs. Figg was involved in something—something to do with magic and a Dumbledore and him. For the first time, Harry felt a little dread for practicing in his strange abilities. But the question burned in his mind: why would anyone want to watch him?

Whatever Mrs. Figg was hiding, he intended to find out. And this time, he wouldn’t stop until he had the answers.

~

Harry’s days slipped by in a blur of chores, school, and snatched moments of freedom. Petunia seemed more intent than ever to keep him out of the way, and Vernon’s attention was consumed by work and preparations for the upcoming summer holidays. This granted Harry a surprising amount of time to himself—time he used to continue his quiet investigations into Mrs. Figg.

The discovery of her connection to magic had left Harry both excited and wary. He couldn’t decide whether she was someone he could trust or someone he needed to avoid. For now, he resolved to keep his distance but gather as much information as possible. After all, could he really trust someone who was spying on him?

By mid-June, Harry had grown adept at slipping unnoticed through the gaps in Privet Drive’s neat routine. He made a habit of passing Mrs. Figg’s house, pausing just long enough to pet a cat or two and exchange a few polite words before moving on. Sometimes he lingered longer, crouching behind her overgrown hedge to listen through the open window.

It was during one such visit, with the sun dipping low in the sky and casting long shadows across the garden, that Harry’s patience was finally rewarded.

"I’m telling you, it’s a fair price, and if he doesn’t like it, he can shove off!" Mrs. Figg’s voice drifted out through the window, sharper than usual.

Harry perked up, pressing closer to the hedge. There was no one else in the garden or the house—at least, no one he could see. Was she talking to herself?

"Oh, don’t start with that," she continued, her tone exasperated. "I’m not stepping foot near those entitled wand wavers, not after last time."

Harry’s eyes widened. Wand wavers? Did she mean wizards?

"The Leaky Cauldron will have to do," Mrs. Figg said firmly. "Outside on Charing Cross Road. Tell him ten o’clock sharp, or he’ll miss his chance. And make sure he’s got the gold. I’m not giving away a litter of prime-bred Kneazles for free."

Harry’s mind reeled. Kneazles? He’d never heard the word before, but it sounded… magical. And then there was the mention of the Leaky Cauldron. Could there really be something magical there, hidden in plain sight?

A deep, gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts. "Awright, Figgy, keep yer knickers on. I’ll sort it. Don’t get yer bloomers in a twist over a few Galleons, not like they full bred Kneazles anyway."

Harry stifled a gasp. The voice had come from inside the house, but it wasn’t Mrs. Figg’s. Slowly, he shifted his position, craning his neck to peer through a gap in the curtains. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Mrs. Figg was standing in front of the fireplace, and in the flames was a man’s face. It was rough and unshaven, with a crooked nose and small, shifty eyes. He looked like the sort of person Uncle Vernon would call “undesirable” and cross the street to avoid.

"Well, they’re stupid enough to think they are, just make sure you don’t muck it up, Fletcher," Mrs. Figg snapped. "I’ve got no patience for your excuses."

"Relax," the man in the fire said, grinning in a way that made Harry think of Dudley’s gang right before they did something mean. "You’ll get yer gold, Figgy. No need ter bite my head off."

Mrs. Figg huffed but didn’t reply. Instead, the man’s face disappeared, leaving the flames dancing harmlessly in the grate.

Harry slipped away from the house, his mind racing. Mrs. Figg wasn’t just connected to magic—she was actively involved in it. And this Fletcher person, whoever he was, sounded like trouble. But what intrigued Harry most was the mention of Kneazles. Could they be magical creatures? And what did they have to do with Mrs. Figg?

That night, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling. He thought about the fire, the man’s face, and Mrs. Figg’s words. The idea of meeting outside the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road played over and over in his mind. Was it possible to go there? To see this magical world for himself?

He resolved to find out. But first, he needed to be careful. If Mrs. Figg discovered he was spying on her, there was no telling what she might do. Who she might tell.

The days leading up to the end of June passed quickly, and Harry’s vigilance never wavered. He managed to overhear snippets of Mrs. Figg’s conversations, though none were as revealing as the one with Fletcher. Most of the time, she muttered to herself or scolded her cats, her grumpy demeanour hiding any hints of her double life.

Harry practiced his magic whenever he could, focusing on the Veil of Shadows spell that had served him so well. It wasn’t true invisibility, but it made it easier to avoid being noticed, even when Dudley and his gang were nearby. And especially when his Uncle was home, it’s like the spell makes him forget he’s even there.

One afternoon, as he crouched in the bushes near Mrs. Figg’s house, he noticed her carrying a wicker basket to the back garden. She set it down carefully, and Harry caught a glimpse of movement inside. His heart raced. Were those Kneazles? He’d have to get closer to find out.

But before he could move, Mrs. Figg straightened and looked around sharply, her eyes narrowing. Harry froze, holding his breath as she scanned the garden. Finally, she muttered something under her breath and went back inside, leaving the basket behind.

Harry waited until she was out of sight before creeping forward. As he peered into the basket, he felt a jolt of excitement. Inside were several small, furry creatures that looked like cats but with longer tails and tufted ears. Their eyes glowed faintly, and one of them yawned, revealing sharp teeth.

Kneazles. They had to be. Or well...half of one going by the conversation he overheard.

Harry’s mind buzzed with questions. What were they used for? Why was Mrs. Figg selling them? And who was she selling them to?

Hearing the sound of Mrs. Figg’s footsteps he quickly rushes away before his spell wears off. It’s getting easier to hold it but he didn’t want to risk getting caught if she was a witch.

~

The last week of school had arrived, bringing with it an unexpected wave of excitement for Harry. Most of the other students were thrilled about the prospect of summer holidays, but Harry had something else to look forward to—a school trip to the British Museum. The Dursleys were gruffly indifferent when he brought home the permission slip, and Vernon barely glanced at it before grunting his approval. It was as if they couldn’t care less about where Harry went, as long as it wasn’t with them. Maybe using the shadow spell is making them more indifferent to him? Vernon would usually be raging at anything he asked for, calling him a useless layabout or back handing him and shoving him in his cupboard. If this is the result, then I’ll keep doing it, he thought with glee.

What the Dursleys didn’t know was that Harry had his own plans for the trip. He’d spent the past few days at the library, pouring over maps of London. The British Museum was a short walk from Charing Cross Road, the street Mrs. Figg had mentioned in her conversation with Fletcher. If the Leaky Cauldron was there, as she’d said, then perhaps Harry could catch a glimpse of the magical world that lay just beyond his reach.

The morning of the trip, Harry packed his bag with care. He slipped in a small notebook and pencil for jotting down anything interesting he might find at the museum, as well as a baseball cap to pull low over his face if he needed to hide his identity. The hat had been Dudley’s once, but Harry didn’t mind; it was functional and nondescript.

The bus ride into London was filled with the chatter of excited students. Harry sat near the back away from Dudley and his gang, gazing out the window as the city unfolded around them. His heart raced as they approached their destination. He couldn’t wait to explore the museum, but his real goal loomed in the back of his mind.

The museum itself was even more impressive than Harry had imagined. Its grand facade and towering columns made him feel small, but not in the way he usually felt at the Dursleys.

The first stop on the tour was the Parthenon Galleries. The teacher droned on about the history of the Greek temple, but Harry barely listened. He was captivated by the sculptures and friezes, their intricate details telling stories of gods and heroes. He couldn’t help but wonder: were the gods real? Could his magic somehow be connected to them? He thought about the Old One’s cryptic words about the Mother. Was she a goddess? Or perhaps Mother Nature herself?

Harry’s thoughts wandered as he stared at a marble statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war. He imagined her bestowing gifts upon mortals, granting them powers to protect the world. Could he be a descendant of someone like that? A demi-god, perhaps? The idea made his chest swell with quiet pride and a flicker of hope. Maybe his magic wasn’t an accident or a curse. Maybe it was a gift.

The next exhibit was a temporary one on druids and ancient magic. Harry’s excitement grew as he moved through the room, his eyes darting from one display to the next. There were artifacts—stone carvings, ceremonial tools, and even a reconstructed altar—that spoke of rituals and spells. One plaque described how druids used herbs not just for healing but also for creating potions and charms.

Harry scribbled notes furiously in his notebook. He’d never thought about using herbs in his experiments before, but now the idea seemed obvious. Mint for energy, lavender for calm, rosemary for memory… He could try them all. He was already imagining the possibilities.

There was a section on the symbolism of fire in ancient rituals, and Harry lingered there, his heart thudding with excitement. Fire was a source of power and transformation, the plaque explained, used to forge connections between the earthly and the divine. Harry clenched his fists, remembering the first time he’d conjured flames. Maybe he wasn’t so different from those ancient druids.

As the tour neared its end, Harry’s thoughts shifted to his plan. He knew he’d have only a short window of time to slip away unnoticed. The teachers were strict, but they couldn’t watch everyone at once. Harry decided to use his Veil of Shadows spell, just to be safe.

When the group reached the museum gift shop, Harry seized his chance. While the other students crowded around racks of postcards and souvenirs, he muttered the spell under his breath. He felt the familiar tingling sensation as the magic settled over him, making him seem unremarkable, easy to overlook. He had over 2 hours before the bus leaves, so holding his breath, he edged away from the group and slipped out of the gift shop.

Outside, the midday sun was bright and warm, and the streets of London buzzed with activity. Harry pulled his baseball cap low over his face and checked the map he’d memorized. Charing Cross Road was only a twelve-minute walk away. He started off at a brisk pace, his heart pounding with anticipation.

As he wove through the crowds, Harry felt a thrill of independence. This was his first real taste of freedom, his first step into a world that felt truly his own. He didn’t know what he’d find on Charing Cross Road, but he was determined to find out.

The magical world was out there, waiting for him.

And Harry Potter was ready to discover it.

Chapter Text

"Parseltongue"

Thoughts

Harry’s heart raced as he walked briskly down Charing Cross Road, his cap pulled low and his eyes scanning the busy street. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he trusted he’d know it when he saw it. The bustle of London was both exhilarating and overwhelming, but Harry kept his focus, weaving through the crowds with purpose.

He’d been walking for several minutes when something caught his eye. A man in robes—not the sort of robes you’d see in a church or at a fancy event, but proper robes like the man in Mrs. Figg’s had worn. The fabric was dark and heavy, and the man moved with an air of confidence, as though he belonged there despite his unusual attire.

Harry slowed his pace, staying several steps behind the man. He murmured his Veil of Shadows spell under his breath, feeling the familiar shiver as the magic took hold.

The man walked with purpose, his robes swishing around his ankles as he navigated the busy street. Harry followed, careful to keep his distance. He wasn’t sure where the man was going, but he had a feeling it was somewhere important.

After a few minutes, the man turned sharply and stepped into the doorway of a shabby, nondescript building. Harry stopped in his tracks, staring at the sign above the door. It read: The Leaky Cauldron in faded, peeling letters. The building itself looked old and run-down, the sort of place most people wouldn’t give a second glance.

Harry watched as the man opened the door and stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him, and for a moment, Harry was left standing on the pavement, unsure of what to do. He glanced around, noticing that no one else on the street seemed to have paid any attention to the man or the strange building.

For several minutes, Harry lingered near the entrance, pretending to study a nearby shop window. He watched as people passed by, their gazes sliding right over the Leaky Cauldron as though it wasn’t there. A group of tourists stopped to consult a map, standing directly in front of the door without acknowledging it. It was as though the building didn’t exist in their world.

Harry’s curiosity burned. This had to be it—the gateway to the magical world. He’d overheard Mrs. Figg talking about meeting someone outside the Leaky Cauldron, and now he’d found it. But what was inside? Was it a pub, like the name suggested? Or was it something more?

He shifted closer to the doorway, trying to get a better look without drawing attention to himself. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a young woman stepped out. She was dressed in a long cloak, her arms full of parcels wrapped in brown paper. She glanced up and down the street before hurrying off in the opposite direction.

Harry’s gaze returned to the door. He wanted desperately to go inside, but he hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, and the idea of stepping into the unknown was both thrilling and terrifying. What if someone noticed him? What if they realized he didn’t belong?

Instead, he decided to wait and watch a little longer. He leaned against a nearby lamppost, keeping the Leaky Cauldron in his peripheral vision. Over the next hour, he saw several more people enter and exit the building, all of them dressed in robes or cloaks. Some carried shopping bags or bundles, while others appeared empty-handed. None of them seemed to notice Harry, and none of the ordinary passersby seemed to notice them.

As the afternoon wore on, Harry’s mind raced with questions. Was this where Mrs. Figg was planning to meet her buyer? Did the people going in and out of the Leaky Cauldron know about the magical world he’d glimpsed? And most importantly, how could he get inside without being noticed?

Harry’s stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped lunch. He glanced at his watch, realizing he didn’t have much time left before the school group would notice his absence. Reluctantly, he turned away from the Leaky Cauldron and started back toward the British Museum, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of what he’d seen.

That night, as Harry lay in his cupboard, he replayed the day’s events in his mind. The Leaky Cauldron was real. The magical world was real. And he was closer than ever to discovering it.

~

The sweltering July heat marked the end of school and the beginning of the summer holidays. For most children, it was a time of adventure and excitement, but for Harry Potter, it was a season of isolation and chores. This year, however, fate seemed to be conspiring to give him an unexpected opportunity.

It started with Mrs. Figg. Harry was locked in his cupboard, attempting to balance one of his battered books on the edge of the shelf, when he overheard her voice drifting through the open kitchen window.

"A month-long cruise! I haven’t had a proper holiday in years," Mrs. Figg was saying, her tone giddy. "The Mediterranean, no less. But, of course, I’ll need someone to look after my cats."

Harry could almost hear the pause as she awaited an answer.

"Well," Aunt Petunia said, in a tone that sounded reluctant but calculating, "I suppose I could manage. Dudders loves your cats, after all."

Harry smirked at this. Dudley was terrified of Mrs. Figg’s cats and avoided them like the plague. Harry knew his aunt was angling for some favour or payment.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Figg said. "I’ll leave you the key and instructions tomorrow morning."

Harry’s mind raced. If Mrs. Figg was away, her house would be empty. This might be the perfect chance to investigate her oddities further. The memory of the kneazles and her fireplace conversation came rushing back.

That evening, when Uncle Vernon returned from work, Harry was forced to squeeze himself deeper into his cupboard as the heavy thudding of Vernon’s footsteps approached. He braced himself for the usual complaints about his existence, but Vernon’s tone was surprisingly cheerful.

"Petunia! Dudley! Big news!" Vernon bellowed. "Pack your bags; we’re going to America!"

A delighted shriek from Dudley followed. Aunt Petunia’s voice was more measured. "Vernon, that sounds wonderful, but what about… the boy?"

Vernon snorted dismissively. "He’s not coming with us, that’s for sure, the company will only cover two rooms and I’m not letting that freak stay with Dudley. Just leave him here. Let him mind the house."

Harry was suddenly glad that they’ve developed more of an aversion to him since he started using his veil spell, he could only feel hopeful that his aunt agrees.

"But I told Mrs. Figg I’d look after her cats, I only said yes because I needed her to watch the boy if we went on holiday," Petunia said, concern creeping into her voice.

"Then let the boy do that too," Vernon replied, his voice laced with derision. "If he doesn’t, he’ll regret it when we get back."

Aunt Petunia hesitated, then sniffed. "Fine. But you’ll make sure he knows the consequences if anything goes wrong."

"Oh, I will," Vernon said darkly. "He’ll know."

 Okay, maybe I should use the spell more often around Vernon, he thought, slightly worried at his Uncles malicious tone.

Harry’s stomach twisted at the thought of being left behind, but a flicker of something else—a strange, tentative hope—surfaced as well. If the Dursleys were gone, he’d have freedom. Real freedom.

The next morning, Mrs. Figg arrived with a basket of cat food and a long list of instructions. Harry watched through the small vent in his cupboard as she handed Aunt Petunia a heavy brass key.

"If you need anything," Mrs. Figg said, "you can always reach me through the travel agency. I’ll be back on the 16^th"

Petunia plastered on a saccharine smile. "I’m sure it’ll be no trouble at all."

Mrs. Figg turned to Harry, who had been summoned from his cupboard to haul the basket to the kitchen. She gave him a knowing look, her lips twitching into something that looked like satisfaction. But then she simply nodded and left.

Two days later, the Dursleys were packed and ready to leave. Aunt Petunia spent the morning shrieking at Harry about cleanliness and order.

"We’ll be back in three weeks, boy, you’re not to leave for anything other than Figgs and you’re not to talk to anyone," Vernon growled as he hefted his suitcase into the car. "If the house isn’t spotless, if a single thing goes wrong, you’ll wish you were never born."

Dudley, grinning like a pig in clover, gave Harry a parting shove before clambering into the car. The engine roared, and with a squeal of tires, the Dursleys were gone.

Harry stood in the doorway, staring at the empty street. He couldn’t believe it. For the first time in years, he was alone.

He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him. The house was eerily quiet. For a moment, he simply stood there, revelling in the silence. Then his stomach growled, reminding him of a more immediate problem.

He opened the fridge and surveyed its contents. His heart sank. A block of hard cheese, a few sad-looking carrots, and a handful of cans and a loaf of bread were all that remained. It was clear the Dursleys had deliberately left him as little as possible.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t going to let them ruin this for him. He’d make do. He always did. He’d just have to dig into the money that he borrowed from Petunias purse.

After a quick and uninspired meal, Harry turned his attention to Mrs. Figg’s house. He fetched the key from the counter and slipped it into his pocket. The Dursleys had made it clear he wasn’t to leave the house unnecessarily, but Harry wasn’t about to let that stop him.

Under the cover of dusk, he made his way across the street. Mrs. Figg’s house was as eccentric inside as it was outside. The living room was cluttered with mismatched furniture, doilies, and framed pictures of her cats. The air smelled faintly of cabbage and mothballs.

Harry locked the door behind him and began to explore. He checked the kitchen, the sitting room, and the study, but found nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until he reached the spare bedroom that he stumbled upon something intriguing.

The wardrobe in the corner was slightly ajar, and inside, Harry found a collection of books. They weren’t the kind of books he’d expected to find in Mrs. Figg’s house—there were no romance novels or gardening guides. Instead, the titles were strange and cryptic: Magical Theory, A Compendium of Common Curses, and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Harry’s hands trembled as he pulled out the books, one by one. He flipped through the pages, his eyes widening at the illustrations and diagrams. It was real. All of it. Mrs. Figg wasn’t just an eccentric old woman—she was connected to the magical world.

He spent hours pouring over the books, losing himself in their contents. The spells were complex, the potions intricate, but Harry was determined to understand. This was his chance to learn more about who he was—what he was.

The next few days passed in a blur of study and experimentation. Harry divided his time between caring for Mrs. Figg’s cats, sneaking food from her pantry, and practicing spells in the privacy of her house. He focused on small, simple things—a spell called Lumos—but each success filled him with a sense of accomplishment.

He sat cross-legged on the worn rug of Mrs. Figg’s spare bedroom, the book titled Magical Theory propped open on his knees. A beam of late-afternoon sunlight illuminated the curling pages, and dust motes floated lazily in the golden light. Harry barely noticed them; his entire focus was on the words before him.

The opening chapter explained the basics: magic, according to the text, was an innate force that wizards and witches could channel. The book compared it to a river that could be diverted and shaped by the mind and will of its caster. A wand, the author argued, was the tool that made this process precise and efficient.

"Most witches and wizards struggle to channel raw magic without a wand," Harry read aloud. "The wand serves as a conduit, focusing the magical energy and allowing for greater control."

Harry frowned and leaned back against the wall. He’d never had a wand, yet he’d managed to levitate objects and even create fire in his hand. Was the book wrong? Or was he somehow different?

He flipped the page and found a passage on accidental magic. According to the text, young witches and wizards often performed magic unconsciously in moments of strong emotion. The author assured readers that with proper training and a wand, such chaotic displays could be channelled into purposeful spells.

"So it’s all about control," Harry murmured, thinking back to the Old Snake’s advice. The serpent had emphasized the importance of focus and intent, of drawing energy from within and shaping it with clear purpose.

He recalled the first time he’d successfully levitated his toy soldier. It hadn’t been fear or anger that drove him then—it was curiosity and determination. He’d wanted to prove to himself that he could do it.

Harry turned another page and found a diagram of a wand. It detailed the wood, the core, and how these elements worked together to channel magic. The author described the wand as an "extension of the self," but Harry found himself sceptical. If wands were so essential, how had he managed without one?

For the next hour, Harry read voraciously, taking in every detail about spellcasting, magical theory, and the supposed limitations of wandless magic. But the more he read, the more questions he had. He began to wonder if the author—or the magical world itself—had underestimated what was possible without a wand.

Later that evening, Harry sat on the floor of Mrs. Figg’s sitting room, multiple candles in front of him. The Old Snake’s words echoed in his mind: You are your magic. The tool does not make the power.

He closed his eyes and focused, just as he had learned to do with levitation. He imagined the flame in his hand, feeling the heat and energy of it. The spark within him seemed to stir, a warm, thrumming sensation that spread from his chest to his fingertips.

When he opened his eyes, the flame in his hand was strong and he had to focus hard when he separated the flame to shoot sparks onto the candle wicks. It was slow but suddenly the fire flared and 4 sparks separated lighting the candles in front of him.

A grin spread across his face. He didn’t need a wand. He didn’t need anything but himself.

~

Harry’s discoveries about magic consumed most of his time, but he couldn’t shake his curiosity about Mrs. Figg. The books in her wardrobe had been a revelation, but they raised as many questions as they answered. Who was she, really? And why did she have such an interest in magic if she wasn’t a wand waver?

One evening, while tidying up her cluttered study, Harry stumbled upon a wooden box tucked behind a stack of dusty books. It was locked, but the latch was old and brittle. He has been learning the Alohomora spell the last few days, practicing it on his cupboard with some success, so focusing on the lock he muttered a quick application of the spell, and it snapped the brittle lock open.

Inside were stacks of yellowed letters tied with string. Harry hesitated, guilt gnawing at him, but curiosity won out. He untied the top bundle and unfolded the first letter.

Dear Arabella,
I was sorry to hear about your new assignment. What a dreadful business! Fancy them ordering you to spy on a child. And not just any child—the boy who lived! I’d say no, but we both know that HE doesn’t take no for an answer. Still, it’s a disgrace. I’m sure the boy’s a nightmare. They always are, without proper discipline.
Yours,
E.

Harry’s hands trembled as he set the letter aside. Spy on a child? Could they mean him? What did it mean by the boy who lived? He grabbed another letter and began to read.

Arabella,
I’ve sold three of the “kneazle” kittens to that fool in Diagon Alley. He paid full price, can you believe it? Thinks they’re purebred! If only he knew the father was Muggle stray. It’s almost too easy. You should see the looks on their faces when I hand them over—like they’re getting something precious. Idiots.
Speaking of idiots, how’s the boy? Still feral, I assume? Honestly, it’s lucky his aunt and uncle keep him in hand. Someone has to. I’d say let them keep him forever, but we know that’s not possible.
Best,
E.

Harry’s face burned with anger. The letters painted a picture of someone who despised him, who thought of him as a burden and a nuisance. And worse, Mrs. Figg seemed to share these views.

He pulled out another letter, this one written in a sharper, angrier hand.

E,
I’ve had enough of their high-handed ways. Cast out for being a squib, yet they expect me to serve their interests like some house-elf. Spying, cat-breeding, pretending to care about their wretched world. Do they think I’m grateful for the scraps they throw me?
I hate them all. And I hate him. That boy—that reminder of everything they took from us. I do my duty because I have to, but don’t think for a second I’ll ever care about him. He’s their kind, not ours.
Arabella

Harry dropped the letter as if it had burned him. The words blurred as tears filled his eyes. He’d always thought Mrs. Figg was odd, but he’d never suspected she hated him. The realisation was like a blow to the gut. The letter was clearly meant to be sent this week but judging by the date, Figgs holiday interfered.

He sat back, the letters scattered around him, and tried to make sense of it all. Mrs. Figg’s bitterness, her disdain for the magical world, and her loathing for him—it all stemmed from being a squib. Someone born into a magical family but without magic of their own.

And yet, despite her hatred, she still watched over him. Was it bribery? Obligation? Harry didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The next morning, Harry returned the letters to the box and replaced it on the shelf. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d read, but he forced himself to focus on his studies. If Mrs. Figg’s world didn’t want him, he’d find his own way. He’d carve out his place with his own hands—and his own magic.

I don’t need anyone anyway, I can look after myself! Harry thought to himself.

~

Harry stood in the overgrown backyard of the Dursley house, his hands stretched out in front of him as he concentrated on the fire in his palm. Flick, the small snake who had become his constant companion, coiled comfortably around his wrist, her scales gleaming in the afternoon light.

"Focussss," Flick hissed. "Feel the warmth within. The fire isss not jussst heat; it isss will. Command it."

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air felt alive against his skin, and he could feel the spark of energy inside him, a flicker that was steadily growing stronger. He imagined the warmth expanding, making the flame bigger, shaping it into a circle. When he opened his eyes, a flame danced in his palm, large and exactly as he pictured it.

"Got it," he whispered, grinning.

"You are learning," Flick said approvingly. "The Mother’sss giftsss grow with you."

For months, Harry had been practicing the elements. Fire had come first—a natural extension of the sparks he had learned to summon months ago. Now, he was experimenting with water, trying to manipulate a bowl of it into shapes. He hadn’t quite mastered it yet, but he was making progress.

The more he practiced, the easier the two elements came to him. Controlling the water was a lot easier than the fire but they both came from him, it made it easier somehow. Whereas fire that came from, say a lighter was much harder to control.

Gathering Flick and his supplies he made his way inside the house.

Harry sat at the table with a battered notebook he’d taken from the school’s lost-and-found. He had filled its pages with notes and sketches about magic. He recorded everything he learned, from his own experiments to the advice Flick offered. The notebook had become his most prized possession, a roadmap to a life he was beginning to build for himself.

One spell, from one of Figgs books, had become his favourite: Alohomora. The unlocking charm had been detailed in a book he’d found in Mrs. Figg’s collection, and Harry had practiced it on everything from the cupboard door to the rusty padlock on the shed in the backyard. Each success gave him a thrill of accomplishment and a sense of freedom.

But freedom required more than just magic. It required resources.

Harry’s mind often wandered to Diagon Alley. One of Mrs. Figg’s books had mentioned it in passing: a bustling marketplace for witches and wizards, hidden somewhere in London. Another book had hinted at Gringotts, a bank where muggleborns exchanged money for gold and stored their fortunes in underground vaults.

He needed to get there, but he’d need money first. Real money. And he knew exactly where to find it.

~

The Polkiss house was quiet when Harry slipped in through the side door. He’d used Alohomora to unlock it, the spell working with a soft click. He crept through the darkened kitchen, past the spotless counters and gleaming appliances, and up the stairs. He didn’t have to be quiet, knowing the family was on holiday but he still wanted to be careful.

Piers Polkiss had bragged about his parents’ safe more times than Harry could count. "Dad keeps loads of cash in there," Piers had once boasted. "Says it’s for emergencies, but Mum’s always dipping into it for her shopping sprees."

Harry pushed open the door to the master bedroom and went looking for the safe. It was tucked into the back of the closet, a large but sturdy box with a dial lock. Kneeling in front of it, he took a deep breath and focused.

You can do this, he told himself. He whispered the incantation for Alohomora, his voice steady and deliberate. He listened as the grinding of the dial came to a halt and the lock clicked open.

Inside were neat stacks of bills, bound with rubber bands. Harry’s hands shook as he reached in and took a handful. He hesitated, guilt prickling at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it aside. This wasn’t about greed. This was about survival. About freedom.

And they were nearly as bad as the Dursleys, he thought trying to justify his actions.

He stuffed the money into his pocket and carefully closed the safe, rubbing over where his fingerprints had been. As he slipped out of the house, heart pounding, he reminded himself of his goal: Diagon Alley.

When he finally made it to the safety of his cupboard, Harry counted the money. It was more than he’d expected—enough to exchange for wizarding currency and still have plenty left over for supplies.

He spent the next few days pouring over his notebook, adding new sections about Diagon Alley. He listed everything he’d learned from Mrs. Figg’s books: the types of shops, the customs, the items he might need. He even sketched out a rough plan for navigating the area, complete with notes on how to avoid drawing attention to himself.

Flick watched him with an approving gaze. "You are preparing well," she said. "But do not forget your training. The Mother’sss giftsss will guide you, but only if you nurture them."

Harry nodded. He’d keep practicing. Fire, water, unlocking spells—they were all tools he could use to carve out his place in the world. And soon, he’d have the means to step into the magical world on his terms.

~

Harry’s days alone at Privet Drive stretched out like a strange, liberating eternity.

Until he ran out of food that is.

Harry’s first stop was the supermarket. He pulled on his baseball cap and an oversized hoodie he’d found in the cupboard.

He moved quickly through the aisles, picking up the basics: bread, cheese, some apples, sandwich meats and a carton of milk. He avoided the cashier by using the self-checkout machines, fumbling only slightly with the unfamiliar process. As he left the store, his bag of supplies slung over one shoulder, he then headed for the charity shop. His clothes were a constant source of discomfort; Dudley’s cast-offs hung on him like sacks, and he was tired of tripping over too-long trousers. The shop was small and crammed with racks of second-hand clothes, but Harry didn’t mind. He slipped inside, and searched for clothes his size.

He picked out a few items: a pair of jeans that actually fit, a plain T-shirt, and a sturdy jacket. He even found a pair of trainers that, while slightly worn, were far better than the battered shoes he’d been wearing. He paid for his purchases in cash, the woman behind the counter barely glancing at him as she handed over his change.

As Harry walked back toward Privet Drive, a strange sensation prickled at the edge of his awareness. It felt like being watched, though when he glanced around, the streets were empty. Flick, curled around his wrist beneath his sleeve, stirred.

"You feel it too?" Harry whispered.

"Yesss," Flick hissed. "Eyes upon usss. Be cautiousss."

Harry’s heart quickened. He ducked into an alleyway, pressing his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and focused, extending his senses outward. It was something Flick had taught him—to feel the threads of energy around him, the subtle currents of life and magic.

There it was: a faint ripple, like a shadow moving just beyond the edge of his vision. Whoever was watching him was skilled, but not skilled enough to avoid detection. Harry tightened his grip on his bag and made a decision. He couldn’t lead them back to Privet Drive. Not yet. Not when he was alone.

For the next hour, Harry wove through Little Whinging’s streets, taking detours and doubling back in an attempt to shake his pursuer. He slipped through parks, darted down alleys, and even hopped a fence into someone’s backyard. The sensation of being watched faded and then returned, like the ebb and flow of a tide.

Finally, he reached a small, wooded area on the edge of town. Harry crouched behind a cluster of bushes, his breath coming in quick bursts. "Whoever you are," he muttered, "you’re not catching me."

Flick hissed in agreement. "They will not sssee what is hidden. The Mother’sss giftsss will protect usss."

Harry cast the veil spell again, layering it with as much intent as he could muster. He waited, his body tense, until the feeling of being watched gradually faded. Whoever had been following him had given up—for now.

Now back at Privet Drive, Harry unpacked his purchases in the quiet of the kitchen. He stored the food carefully, making sure to leave no trace that might alert the Dursleys upon their return. Then he took his new clothes to his cupboard, changing into the jeans and T-shirt with a sense of relief. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt comfortable.

But the incident with the pursuer lingered in his mind. Someone had been watching him, and it wasn’t the first time he’d felt that eerie sensation. Could it be Mrs. Figg’s friends? Wizards? Or was it something else entirely?

Harry resolved to be more cautious. He couldn’t afford to be careless, not when he was so close to achieving his goals. That night Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.

~ Mundungus POV ~

Mundungus Fletcher leaned against a lamppost, scratching the back of his neck as he squinted down Privet Drive. He’d always hated these kinds of jobs—boring, thankless tasks that had him lurking in neighbourhoods where everything looked painfully neat and orderly. But Arabella Figg had asked him, and though he wasn’t one to jump at doing favours, her persistence had worn him down.

“Just keep an eye on the boy while I’m gone,” she’d said, her voice firm but tinged with desperation. “You don’t need to get involved, just make sure he’s safe.”

Mundungus had grumbled, but he’d agreed. Figg had her reasons, and though he couldn’t fathom why she was so desperate for the safety of a brat she hated, Fletcher didn’t fancy being on the wrong side of her temper.

He spotted Harry Potter exiting the house, his small frame dwarfed by an oversized hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low over his messy hair. Mundungus yawned and adjusted his position. “Right, kid,” he muttered to himself, “where’re you off to now?”

Following Harry was easier than he’d expected. The boy didn’t seem to notice him at first, moving purposefully down the street toward town. Mundungus kept his distance, careful to duck behind corners or blend into the crowd when Harry glanced over his shoulder. He was used to shadowing people—it was a necessary skill in his line of work—but this felt different. It wasn’t a mark he was tailing, just a scrawny kid.

Still, something about the boy’s movements unsettled him. Harry didn’t wander aimlessly like most kids his age. He moved with intent, slipping through the streets with a quiet determination that made Mundungus’ job unexpectedly challenging.

The first real problem arose near the charity shop. Harry paused, looking over his shoulder, and Mundungus froze, cursing under his breath. The boy’s gaze lingered on the alleyway where Mundungus had taken cover, and for a moment, Fletcher was certain he’d been spotted. But Harry turned away and entered the shop, leaving Mundungus to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Blimey,” he muttered. “This ain’t worth it.”

When Harry emerged, carrying a bag, Mundungus resumed his pursuit. But the boy was moving faster now, taking unexpected turns and doubling back in ways that made Fletcher’s head spin. By the time they reached the small wooded area on the edge of town, Mundungus had lost sight of him entirely.

He stood in the middle of the path, hands on his hips, scowling. “Bloody slippery little…” He trailed off, glancing around the trees. There was no sign of the boy.

Flicking his wand out of his pocket, he muttered a spell to enhance his vision. The area shimmered faintly, but there was no trace of movement. Harry Potter had well and truly given him the slip. Even the point me failed.

Mundungus’ irritation quickly turned to resignation. Figg didn’t need to know he’d lost the kid, did she? As far as he was concerned, the boy was fine. No harm had come to him, and Fletcher had better things to do than chase after a clever brat who clearly didn’t want to be followed.

“I’ll just tell her he stayed in the house, nice and quiet-like,” Mundungus muttered, already thinking of the excuses he’d use when Figg returned. “Didn’t see nothin’ unusual. All’s well, right?”

Satisfied with his decision, he pocketed his wand and turned away from the woods. There was a shipment of cursed trinkets waiting for him in Knockturn Alley, and he’d already wasted enough time playing babysitter. Figg didn’t need to know he’d abandoned his post. She’d never find out, anyway. And it’s not like he would waste his time watching a kid for a whole month.

With a spring in his step, Mundungus Fletcher strolled off, already planning his next deal. Watching Harry Potter might have been a bust, but there was always profit to be made elsewhere.

~ Harry ~

It had been a week since the Dursleys had left, and Harry felt more prepared than ever. His magic had grown stronger since finding the books, his knowledge deeper, and his confidence steadier. Flick coiled loosely around his wrist beneath his jacket sleeve, a comforting presence. He’d spent hours meticulously planning his journey, pouring over maps and bus routes in the library to ensure every step was accounted for.

He might have been a bit anxious since feeling that presence following him a couple of days ago, but he hadn’t felt anything since.

As the morning sun peeked over Privet Drive, Harry slipped out of the house with his bag of supplies. He wore the same oversized hoodie and cap he’d used before, his clothes nondescript and his movements cautious. His money was tucked securely in his pocket, and his thoughts buzzed with anticipation.

The bus ride into London was uneventful, the hum of the engine and the quiet murmur of passengers offering a soothing background to his swirling thoughts. Harry gazed out of the window, the scenery shifting from suburban neatness to the sprawling chaos of the city. When the bus finally stopped near Charing Cross Road, Harry stepped off, his heart pounding in his chest.

Charing Cross Road was a whirlwind of noise and activity. Bookshops lined the street, their windows filled with colourful displays, and cafes spilled over with morning patrons sipping coffee and chatting. Harry weaved through the crowd, his eyes scanning for the sign of the Leaky Cauldron.

Coming across the shabby building he strode confidently towards the entrance. The door creaked as Harry pushed it open, stepping into a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of wood smoke and herbs. The pub was cosy and cluttered, with low wooden beams and mismatched furniture. The patrons were an eclectic mix of people: an elderly witch in a pointy hat nursing a cup of tea, a group of goblins huddled over a parchment, and a wizard with a long beard flipping through a dusty tome. Conversation buzzed softly, creating a strange yet welcoming atmosphere.

Behind the bar stood a bald, toothless man polishing a tankard. He looked up as Harry entered, his face breaking into a friendly grin.

"Morning, young man," he greeted, setting the tankard down. "New face, eh?"

Harry nodded, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. "Er, yes. I’m… a muggleborn," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I’ve read about Diagon Alley and wanted to see it for myself. Can you help me get in?"

The barman—Tom, Harry recalled from his reading—beamed. "Course I can! Always happy to help someone new. What’s your name, lad?"

Harry hesitated for a split second. "Evan," he said, choosing a name at random. "Evan Birch."

"Well, Evan Birch, welcome to the Leaky Cauldron!" Tom gestured for Harry to follow him. "You’re in for a treat, my boy. Diagon Alley’s one of the wonders of our world."

Tom led Harry through the pub, weaving past patrons and tables until they reached a small, bricked-up courtyard at the back. Harry’s eyes darted around, taking in every detail: the cracks in the bricks, the faint shimmer of magic in the air, and the worn grooves in the cobblestones underfoot.

"Now, watch closely," Tom instructed, pulling out a battered wand. He tapped the bricks in a specific sequence—three up, two across—and stepped back. The wall shuddered, and then, with a ripple of energy, the bricks folded in on themselves to reveal a bustling street beyond.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Diagon Alley unfolded before him like a page from a storybook, a riot of colours and sounds. Shopfronts jostled for space, their signs swinging gently in the breeze: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands," "Flourish and Blotts," "Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions." Wizards and witches bustled about, their robes swishing as they moved between shops and stalls. Owls hooted from a nearby post office, and the scent of baked goods wafted from a bakery.

"Incredible, isn’t it?" Tom said, his voice tinged with pride.

Harry nodded, barely able to tear his eyes away. "It’s… amazing."

"Well, you enjoy yourself, lad. If you need any help, you know where to find me." With that, Tom clapped Harry on the shoulder and retreated back into the pub.

Harry lingered at the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. He felt a surge of excitement and determination.

He stepped into Diagon Alley, his heart racing as he took in the bustling scene. The air was alive with chatter, the jingling of coins, and the occasional squawk of an owl from the post office. The vibrant shopfronts seemed to sparkle under the sun, their signs painted in rich golds, reds, and greens. He felt like he’d walked into a completely different world.

His first priority was clear: he needed to exchange the money he’d brought into wizarding currency. He’d read enough to know that Gringotts was the place to do this. Following the directions from his books, Harry weaved his way through the crowd, his eyes wide as he passed shops selling cauldrons, potion ingredients, and spellbooks. He longed to stop and explore each one, but he forced himself to stay focused.

Gringotts stood at the end of the street, a towering white building with marble columns and large bronze doors. The sight of it took Harry’s breath away. Goblins stood guard at the entrance, their sharp features and pointed ears lending them an air of authority. Harry paused, remembering what he’d read about goblins and their importance in wizarding society. They were masterful bankers, fiercely intelligent, and deeply proud.

One of the goblins caught Harry’s eye as he approached. The goblin raised a thin eyebrow, clearly waiting for something. Harry hesitated, then remembered the books’ emphasis on manners. He gave a small bow, lowering his head respectfully.

The goblin’s expression flickered with surprise before it settled into something that might have been approval. “Welcome to Gringotts,” he said in a gravelly voice. “What is your business today?”

“I’d like to exchange some Muggle money for wizarding currency,” Harry replied.

The goblin nodded, stepping aside to let him in. “Proceed to the teller at the main desk.”

The interior of Gringotts was even more magnificent than the outside. The marble floors gleamed, and crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Goblins sat behind long counters, their sharp quills scratching against parchment as they tallied sums and examined jewels. The air smelled faintly of ink and polished stone.

Harry approached one of the tellers, a goblin with a monocle perched on his long nose.

“Excuse me,” Harry began, “I’d like to exchange some Muggle money.”

The goblin peered down at him, his monocle glinting. “Do you have the funds with you?”

Harry nodded, pulling the wad of pound notes from his pocket and placing it on the counter. The goblin’s eyes widened slightly as he thumbed through the stack.

“Three thousand pounds,” the goblin murmured. “The current exchange rate is £4.93 to one Galleon. That will be six hundred and eight Galleons and 52 Sickles. Will you accept this exchange rate?”

Harry did the mental math quickly, awed at the amount and nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”

The goblin snapped his fingers, and another goblin appeared with a small wooden tray. The teller counted out the coins with precision: large golden Galleons, silver Sickles, and a few smaller bronze Knuts. Each coin gleamed, and Harry couldn’t help but marvel at their weight and craftsmanship.

“Your exchange is complete,” the teller said, pushing the tray toward Harry. “Do you require a vault? Or you can purchase a coin bag for three Knuts”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. “No, but I will take the coin bag please.”

The goblin gave a curt nod. “Very well. To acquire the amount needed, stick your hand in the bag and think of it or say it out loud. Enjoy your visit to Diagon Alley.” Leaving Harry to feel a little overwhelmed.

As Harry stepped back outside, he couldn’t help but glance around, half-expecting someone to challenge him for having so much money. But the witches and wizards bustling around paid him no mind, too absorbed in their own errands.

He ducked into a quieter corner to count his coins again. The Galleons were heavier than he expected, their golden surfaces catching the sunlight. The Sickles and Knuts were smaller but just as intricately designed. Harry pocketed a few coins for easy access, leaving the rest safely stashed in his bag.

With the weight of wizarding coins jingling in his bag, Harry’s excitement bubbled over as he began to explore the shops lining Diagon Alley. He decided his first stop would be the bookshop he’d seen earlier: Flourish and Blotts. Its display window had been crammed with books of all shapes and sizes, and Harry’s curiosity burned to see what else lay inside.

The shop smelled of parchment and ink, a scent Harry found oddly comforting. Shelves towered from floor to ceiling, crammed with books on every subject imaginable. Titles glinted in gold, silver, and deep jewel tones, some so old their spines looked ready to crumble. A middle-aged witch in deep purple robes fussed over a display of new arrivals near the entrance.

Harry’s eyes roamed over the shelves, stopping to examine a title here and there. “Practical Defensive Magic for Beginners,” “The Complete Guide to Magical Etiquette,” and “A Concise History of Magical Britain” all caught his attention. He added them to the growing pile in his arms.

As he moved deeper into the store, he found sections devoted to every imaginable topic: charms, potions, magical creatures, and even wizarding politics. Harry was particularly drawn to a book titled “Customs and Politics of the Modern Wizarding World” and another called “An Introduction to the Magical Hierarchies.” Both seemed invaluable for understanding this new world he found himself in.

By the time Harry reached the counter, his arms were trembling under the weight of at least sixteen books. The shop assistant, a young wizard with wire-rimmed glasses, gave him a bemused look as he placed the stack down with a relieved sigh.

“Quite the selection you’ve got there,” the assistant said, flipping through the titles. “Beginner spellbooks, magical history, politics… starting fresh, are you?”

Harry nodded. “I’m… catching up. I didn’t grow up knowing about magic.”

The assistant raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Well, you’ve picked some good ones. That’ll be nineteen Galleons and twelve Sickles.”

Harry winced slightly at the cost. He’d known books wouldn’t be cheap, but it still stung to see so much money disappear at once. As he dug into his pouch, the assistant glanced at the stack and added, “You might want to invest in a trunk or an enchanted bag if you’re planning on carrying all these around. Can’t imagine hauling these through the Alley.”

Harry paused, considering. “Where would I find something like that?”

“There’s a shop two doors down,” the assistant said, pointing toward the window. “They specialize in enchanted luggage. Tell them we sent you, and they might give you a bit of a discount.”

“Can I leave the books here so I can go get one?”

“Sure kid, better hurry before the alley gets busy!”

Harry grinned. “Thanks!” Then he was rushing out of the shop back into the alley.

The shop two doors down was smaller but no less fascinating. The sign above the door read, “Bag’s Delight: Magical Luggage and More.” As Harry stepped inside, a bell chimed, and a cheerful wizard with a thick beard greeted him.

“Welcome! Looking for something specific, young man?”

“I need something to carry books and maybe a few other things,” Harry said, glancing around at the array of trunks, bags, and cases. “Something that’s not too heavy but can hold a lot.”

“Ah, I’ve got just the thing,” the wizard said, leading Harry to a row of satchels hanging on a rack. “These here are standard enchanted bags. Light as a feather, but they can hold more than they look. This one”—he picked up a brown leather bag with brass buckles—“has a basic organisational charm. Keeps everything neat so you’re not digging around for hours.”

Harry examined the bag, running his fingers over the smooth leather. “What about security? I don’t want anyone stealing what’s inside.”

The wizard nodded approvingly. “Smart lad. In that case, you’ll want something with a locking charm. This one here—” He grabbed a dark green satchel with runes etched along the straps. “—has a charm that only lets the owner open it. Perfect for keeping your things safe.”

“How much?” Harry asked, glancing at the price tag.

“Seven Galleons,” the wizard said. “Bit more than the others, but well worth it for the extra security.”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to burn through his money too quickly, but the green satchel seemed perfect. After a moment’s thought, he nodded. “I’ll take it.”

The wizard beamed, wrapping the bag in brown paper before handing it to Harry. “Pleasure doing business with you! And if you ever need repairs or upgrades, you know where to find us.”

Back at Flourish and Blotts, Harry asked the assistant for the books and carefully loaded them into his new satchel. He was amazed by how light the bag felt, even with all sixteen books inside. It settled comfortably against his side as he adjusted the strap.

Harry couldn’t wait to start reading, but he knew he’d have to pace himself. There was so much to learn, and he wanted to absorb every detail.

Clutching the strap of his new bag, Harry made his way back down the alley, his attention was caught by a dazzling display in a nearby window. Broomsticks of various shapes and sizes were propped up on stands, surrounded by posters of Quidditch players mid-air. The shop’s name, Quality Quidditch Supplies, was emblazoned in gold letters above the door. Harry lingered for a moment, fascinated by the sleek designs of the brooms and the energetic images of flying players. One day, he promised himself, he’d learn more about this wizarding sport and maybe when he gets away from the Dursleys he can get a broom.

A little further down, he noticed a shop with an ornate sign that read “Occulus: Magical Optics and More.” Curious, Harry peered through the window at racks of spectacles and strange instruments. He thought about going in but decided to save it for another visit.

Instead, his attention was drawn to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The interior of the shop was bright and inviting, with bolts of fabric in every colour imaginable stacked neatly along the walls. Harry stepped inside, marvelling at the variety of robes on display.

“Good afternoon, dear,” a plump witch with a kind face said, bustling over to him. “Looking for school robes?”

Harry shook his head. “Not yet. I’m… looking for something to wear, though. Something wizarding. I don’t have any robes.”

Madam Malkin’s expression softened. “Oh, I see. You’re a little young for Hogwarts, aren’t you? But you want to fit in, don’t you?”

Harry nodded, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yes, please. I’m not sure what to pick.”

“Not to worry! Let’s find you something practical and comfortable.” She led him to a fitting area, where a magical measuring tape sprang to life, taking his measurements while she selected fabrics.

“This one’s durable and easy to clean,” she said, holding up a deep navy robe with subtle silver trim. “And this one—” she showed him a dark green robe with simple embroidery along the sleeves—“is more formal but still practical.”

After trying on a few options, Harry settled on the navy robe. Madam Malkin added a few extra touches, like a pocket with an undetectable extension charm. “For your essentials,” she explained with a wink.

“How much?” Harry asked nervously.

“Ten Galleons for the robe, and a Galleon for the charm work,” she said. “Would you like a matching cloak as well? It’s only four Galleons extra.”

Harry hesitated but decided it was worth it. “Yes, please.”

Madam Malkin clapped her hands. “Excellent choice, dear. You’ll look quite the young wizard.”

As he left the shop, Harry felt excitement at having his own clothes. He had bought some muggle ones from the charity shop, but the robe fit perfectly, and for the first time, he truly looked like he belonged in the magical world.

Harry's exploration of Diagon Alley had been thrilling so far, but as the afternoon wore on, his stomach began to remind him of something he’d neglected in his excitement: lunch. The tantalising aroma of baked goods and something savoury wafted through the alley, and Harry’s nose guided him to a cozy little cafe tucked between a potion supplies shop and a parchment emporium.

The sign above the door read “Merriweather’s Magical Morsels” in curly gold script. Hesitant, Harry glanced around before stepping inside. The interior was warm and inviting, with small round tables covered in deep red tablecloths. The walls were adorned with floating candles that emitted a soft, golden glow. A few witches and wizards sat scattered across the room, chatting softly over steaming cups and plates of food.

Harry shuffled to the counter, where a cheerful witch with a kind smile greeted him. “First time here, dearie?” she asked, noting his nervous demeanour.

Harry nodded, his eyes darting around to ensure no one was paying too much attention to him. “Er, yes. What… what would you recommend?”

The witch’s eyes sparkled as she leaned closer. “Well, the pumpkin pasties are fresh out of the oven, and our stew of the day is always a favourite. Comes with crusty bread, of course. How about it?”

“That sounds good,” Harry said, fumbling in his pocket for some coins. He pulled out a galleon and some sickles, unsure of what the total would be. “How much is it?”

“Two sickles and three knuts for the stew, dearie. Would you like a pumpkin fizz to go with it?”

“Um, sure,” Harry said, handing over the coins.

The witch handed him a small wooden token with the number “4” on it and pointed to a nearby table. “Take a seat, and we’ll bring it right over.”

Harry chose a table near the window, where he could keep an eye on the street outside. As he waited, he listened to the murmur of conversations around him. The other patrons seemed absorbed in their own worlds, and Harry let out a small sigh of relief. No one appeared to take any undue interest in him.

Moments later, a young wizard in an apron brought his food. The stew was rich and fragrant, with chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in a thick, savoury broth. The bread was warm and crusty, perfect for dipping. The pumpkin fizz was sweet and slightly fizzy, reminding him of a carbonated drink he’d tried once at school. As he ate, Harry’s initial nerves began to fade.

He tuned into the conversations around him, curiosity getting the better of him. At a table nearby, two witches were speaking in hushed tones.

“…they say he’s somewhere out there, hiding with Muggles,” one of them whispered.

“Can you imagine?” the other replied. “The Boy Who Lived, growing up away from magic. It’s a tragedy, really.”

Harry froze mid-bite. The Boy Who Lived? Like in Figgs letters? What did that mean? He tried to look uninterested as he leaned slightly closer, hoping to catch more of their conversation.

“Well, Dumbledore must have his reasons,” the first witch said, shaking her head. “Still, it’s strange. You’d think he’d be in our world, preparing for the day he… well, you know.”

Harry’s mind raced. Who were they talking about? And why did it sound like such a big deal? And there was Dumbledores name again.

Further down the cafe, another group was discussing something equally intriguing.

“Knockturn Alley’s been crawling with Aurors lately,” a gruff wizard said, his voice low but gruff. “Can’t even pop into Borgin and Burkes without feeling like you’re being watched.”

“Good,” said his companion, a stern-looking witch. “That place has always been a breeding ground for trouble. If you ask me, they should shut the whole alley down.”

Harry filed the information away. Knockturn Alley… another alley to explore? He’d heard of it briefly in one of the books he’d browsed but hadn’t paid much attention. It sounded dangerous, but the idea of another magical place piqued his curiosity.

As he finished his meal, Harry’s thoughts swirled with everything he’d overheard. The Boy Who Lived, Knockturn Alley, and the intriguing bits of gossip about magical events. He made a mental note to investigate more during his next visit to the library or bookshop.

After paying and thanking the witch at the counter, Harry stepped back into the bustling alley. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.

As the vibrant hum of Diagon Alley surrounded him, Harry realized he was starting to feel the weight of the day. His feet were sore from walking, and the thought of the quiet of his cupboard—as unwelcoming as it was—sounded appealing.

He adjusted his bag, which now held his purchased books, and began making his way toward the Leaky Cauldron. He took a last, longing glance at the many shops he hadn’t yet explored. "Next time," he murmured to himself, already planning another visit.

The Leaky Cauldron was busier than when he’d first arrived, and Harry had to weave through a crowd of witches and wizards to reach the exit. Tom, the barkeeper, spotted him and gave him a friendly nod. Harry nodded back, a small smile playing on his lips.

He stepped out into the hustle and bustle of Charing Cross Road, feeling the contrasting normalcy of the Muggle world hit him like a wave. Taking a deep breath, he began walking toward the bus stop, eager to get home and delve into the treasures he’d brought back.

Chapter Text

The house on Privet Drive was unnaturally quiet, save for the occasional soft hiss of Flick, Harry’s small snake companion, who rested coiled on a pile of books in the corner of the living room. With the Dursleys on holiday and Mrs. Figg’s cats content with their food and occasional pats, Harry had two more uninterrupted weeks to delve into his new collection of magical books.

He had laid out his sixteen purchases on the sofa, marvelling at the colourful covers and intricate titles. The books themselves seemed alive with promise, and he couldn’t wait to start.

“Where should I begin?” Harry muttered aloud.

“Start with the basics,” Flick replied in a lazy hiss. “Understand the foundation before building your knowledge.”

Harry nodded. “Good point.” He picked up Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, its worn leather cover comforting under his fingers.

Waffling’s book was dense, but Harry found himself captivated. It was sometimes hard to understand but the book explained the core principles of magic—how intent, focus, and willpower worked together to channel the magical energy present within a wizard. There were anecdotes about accidental magic in children, and Harry couldn’t help but smile as he recalled his own experiences: the time he’d jumped onto the school roof while fleeing Dudley, or how his hair grew back overnight after a particularly bad haircut from Aunt Petunia.

He paused, flipping back to re-read a section:

"Magic, though inherent, requires discipline and understanding to wield effectively. Without proper control, it can become unpredictable, even dangerous."

“That explains a lot,” Harry murmured, thinking of the chaos he had unintentionally caused over the years. Determined to gain better control, he jotted down notes in his small notebook.

Flick’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “A strong mind makes strong magic. Continue, hatchling.”

Harry opened A Concise History of Magical Britain. Harry read about the founding of the Ministry of Magic, the Statute of Secrecy, and the various magical rebellions that had occurred over the years.

One chapter in particular caught his eye:

"Throughout history, there have been those who sought power above all else. These individuals, known as Dark Lords, have left undeniable marks on the magical world."

Harry’s breath quickened as he read about the conflicts these dark wizards had caused, the devastation they wrought, and the heroes who rose to oppose them. The book hinted at a particularly infamous Dark Lord from recent history, but before Harry could turn the page, Flick’s voice brought him back.

“Your mind wanders too far,” Flick hissed. “Save the darkness for another day.”

Harry closed the book, resolving to revisit it later.

Harry was ready to attempt some practical magic. He flipped through Basic Charms for Everyday Use, eager to try out the spells. The first charm was the Levitation Charm—a spell Harry had already been practicing.

“Let’s see if I can do it without exhausting myself this time,” Harry said.

He retrieved a feather from one of the pillows in the living room. Pointing his finger like a wand, he recited the incantation from the book: “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The feather wobbled, then floated gracefully into the air. Harry grinned. “I’m getting better at this!” It was easy to lift but controlling its direction was a lot harder, as he found out. He had been practicing lifting heavier objects for months, but he never had a lot of space to control the motions in his cupboard.

Flick uncoiled to watch, his tongue flicking. “Your control improvess. Practice strengthenss the bond between your intent and your magic.”

Encouraged, Harry moved on to other charms: the Lumos spell that lit the room in a warm glow, and a Mending Charm that he used to fix an old teacup Dudley had broken months ago.

After a quick lunch, Harry then dove into Customs and Politics of the Modern Wizarding World and The Complete Guide to Magical Etiquette. These books were dry, but Harry found them fascinating in their own way. He learned about the intricacies of wizarding society, from the importance of bloodlines to the unspoken rules of magical duelling.

One passage stuck with him:

"Wizards must always bow to a goblin upon entering Gringotts, as a sign of respect. Failure to do so may result in unfavourable terms or outright denial of service."

Harry scribbled this down, thinking back to his visit to the bank. He’d bowed instinctively, and the goblins had seemed pleased. He was glad he hadn’t offended them on his first visit, it wouldn’t do any good to mess with the ones in charge of his only access to wizarding money.

Later that day, Harry made his way to the woods where the old snake resided, Flick coiled comfortably around his wrist, a reassuring weight as the afternoon sun filtered through the trees. The place had become a sort of sanctuary for him, away from the oppressive walls of Privet Drive and the uneasy quiet of Mrs. Figg’s absence. He carried with him a few morsels of food for the snakes and a sense of purpose—he wanted to show the old one the new charm he’d been practicing.

Reaching the nest, Harry crouched down, gently placing a warm cloth near the old snake and some food scraps he’d nicked from the kitchen.

“Greetingssss, hatchling,” the old snake hissed, its voice low and deliberate. Its scales shimmered faintly, though dulled by age. Flick uncoiled from Harry’s wrist and slithered towards the older serpent, nuzzling against it briefly in a show of kinship.

“Hello,” Harry hissed back, the now-familiar language rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. He settled cross-legged near the snakes, the thick grass cushioning him. “I learned something new,” he said, grinning.

“Show usss,” the old snake prompted, its eyes gleaming with curiosity.

He pointed his finger at the ground near the snakes’ nest, murmured the incantation he’d memorized, and concentrated. A soft glow emanated from the tip, and warmth radiated outward, chasing the chill from the shaded earth. It may have been summer but this was England and rain was regular this month.

“Oh! It’s working,” Harry said aloud, a thrill of accomplishment running through him. The warmth intensified, spreading to encompass the snakes’ dwelling. Flick let out a pleased hiss and coiled into the heated area, basking in the comfort.

The old snake’s tongue flicked out as it tested the air. “Sssplendid. You wield your giftsss with purposssse.” It shifted slightly, settling more comfortably. “Tell me, young one, how did you learn thisss?”

Harry explained about the book on beginner’s charms and how he’d practiced tirelessly. “I wanted to make it cosy for you both,” he finished, looking proud.

The old snake regarded him thoughtfully. “It is rare for one of your kind to care for ours in thisss way. You honor usss, young magic-bearer.”

Harry felt a pang of guilt at the praise. Most humans probably wouldn’t think twice about snakes, much less try to keep them warm. But he wasn’t like most people. That much was clear to him now.

“How do you know so much about magic?” Harry asked, curiosity bubbling up. “You and Flick… you know things I’ve never read in books.”

The old snake’s eyes gleamed with an ancient light. “Our kind hasss travelled through time alongssside the two-legsss. We were bound to their world of ssspellsss and wandsss. Sssome of usss were kept asss familiars, othersss asss guardiansss. Over time, knowledge sssank into our blood, into our essssencesss. Thisss knowledge passsses on, not with words, but within usss.”

Harry stared, fascinated. “So… it’s like you’ve got memories from other snakes? From your family?”

The old snake gave an approving nod. “Yesss. Flick and I were once kept by wizards in different placesss. Flick wasss born in a ssshop, sssold to a carelesss wand-bearer. I wasss taken asss a guardian for a sssanctuary, long sssince dessstroyed. In our separationsss, we each felt a call… a pull. It brought usss here.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Here? Why?”

The old snake’s tongue flicked again, its head tilting slightly as if to measure its words. “Your nessst… your dwelling. It issss not ordinary. It breathesss with power. Magic clingsss to you, but alssso to that place.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. Magic? Around the Dursleys’ house? That didn’t make any sense. The Dursleys hated magic. They made sure to squash any hint of it in him. “But… why would magic be there? The people there don’t like it. They don’t even know about it.”

“Magic doesss not heed likesss or disslikesss,” the old snake replied. “It flowsss where it will. Your presssence could be the sssource, or perhapsss… the dwelling wasss marked long ago.”

Harry frowned, trying to make sense of the revelation. He’d always thought the Dursleys’ house was the furthest thing from magical. Yet, if what the snake said was true, it might explain some things. The occasional flickers of magic that happened without him meaning to. The strange, warm feeling he got sometimes, especially when he was upset or scared.

Could it be protecting me? he wondered, heart pounding slightly. But why? And from what?

“Do you think it’s dangerous?” Harry asked after a moment.

The old snake’s head swayed thoughtfully. “No. The magic feelsss… ancient. Protective. If it were danger, you would not ssstand here now.”

Harry’s mind raced. Ancient magic. Protective magic. It sounded important, but he didn’t have enough information to put the pieces together. He’d have to find out more. Perhaps one of his new books would have answers.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said sincerely, bowing his head slightly in the same way the goblins had bowed to him at Gringotts.

The old snake inclined its head in return. “We are kin, young one. What we know, you may know.”

Harry spent a while longer with the snakes, letting Flick bask in the warmth he’d conjured. The old snake shared more stories of their kind and the wizards they’d encountered. Harry listened intently, absorbing every detail. By the time he left, the sun was dipping low, casting golden light over the lot.

As he walked back to Privet Drive, his thoughts were a whirlwind. Magic surrounds my house. I’ve got a protective spell I didn’t even know about.

There was too much to learn, too many mysteries to unravel. He’d find answers—he had to.

With that resolve burning in his chest, Harry quickened his pace, the old snake’s words echoing in his mind. Magic flows where it will.

~

The next day Harry woke earlier than usual. After a quick breakfast and ensuring the house was in order—more out of habit than fear of the absent Dursleys—Harry set off for another trip to the British Museum. Flick was coiled snugly in the pocket of Harry’s jacket, content with the promise of warmth and proximity to Harry’s magic.

Harry took the bus route he’d memorised during his visits to the library. The thrill of independence made him sit straighter, his small frame pressed against the bus window as he watched the familiar streets transform into the bustling heart of London. By the time he stepped off in front of the museum, the sense of adventure bubbled up, pushing aside any lingering nerves.

The grand columns of the British Museum loomed before him. He slipped through the large entrance, blending easily with the flow of tourists and school groups. His destination was clear: the Ancient Greece exhibition. Harry had been captivated by the myths and stories of the gods and heroes during his last visit, but now he sought something deeper—traces of magic.

The exhibition hall was cool and dimly lit, the golden light highlighting statues, pottery, and friezes. Harry moved slowly, his green eyes darting over plaques and displays. A large vase depicting the Twelve Olympians caught his attention first. Each god and goddess were rendered in intricate black figures against the terracotta. Zeus’s thunderbolt, Athena’s shield, and Apollo’s lyre were meticulously detailed.

Were they real? Harry wondered, fingers brushing the cool glass protecting the vase. Could magic like mine have come from them?

Further down the hall, a statue of Hecate stood, shadowed in a corner. The goddess of magic and crossroads was depicted holding two torches, her face serene yet commanding. The plaque described her as the goddess of witches, one who roamed the earth at night and protected those who sought her favour.

“Hecate, goddess of magic,” Harry murmured under his breath. Flick stirred in his pocket but didn’t emerge.

The text went on to describe rituals dedicated to Hecate: offerings left at crossroads, the burning of herbs in her honour, and invocations made during the new moon. Harry’s thoughts whirred. He’d never considered magic as something tied to worship or gods before his visit to the museum. His magic had always felt instinctive, like breathing.

Moving on, Harry stopped at a display of ancient coins. Some bore the image of Hades, the god of the underworld. The description detailed how Hades was often misunderstood, seen as cruel when he was merely a keeper of balance. The exhibit also mentioned funeral rites, with coins placed on the eyes of the dead to pay for passage across the River Styx. Harry wondered if this ritual had been a magical one, a charm to ensure safe passage.

Near the end of the hall, Harry found an array of small altars and offerings—fragments of burnt wood, bowls that once held wine or honey, and figurines left as gifts to the gods. A plaque explained that meals often began with an offering to Hestia, goddess of the hearth. Food was tossed into the flames as a gesture of gratitude and to ensure the gods’ favour.

Fire offerings, Harry mused, thinking of the flame he’d conjured in his hand. Could his magic be used in a similar way? What would it mean to make an offering to a goddess, even one he wasn’t sure existed?

He lingered in front of a collection of bronze tools used in ceremonies. Among them was a bowl inscribed with runes that reminded Harry of the magical symbols in his books. The museum’s explanation described them as “early forms of writing or symbols of power.” He copied the runes in his notebook to cross reference later.

Maybe magic’s always been part of the world, he thought, hidden in plain sight.

After nearly two hours, Harry found himself in the museum’s reading room, pouring over a book about ancient Greek religion he’d found in the gift shop. The pages were filled with illustrations of temples, accounts of rituals, and retellings of myths. He read about Orpheus and his descent into the underworld, about Circe’s enchantments, and the oracle at Delphi.

A passage about priestesses caught his attention. They were often seen as intermediaries between mortals and gods, channelling divine power through their rituals. Harry wondered if they’d been witches, their spells mistaken for divine intervention. He could almost hear Flick’s voice in his mind, reminding him that magic often carried the weight of stories.

If magic was part of their lives, why isn’t it part of everyone’s now? Harry thought. The idea of magic being reserved for a select few—for people like him—felt both special and isolating. He wasn’t sure he liked it. Though, the thought of people like the Dursleys having magic made him shiver with unease.

By mid-afternoon, Harry was back in the Ancient Greece hall. He stood before the statue of Hecate once more, her twin torches glowing faintly under the exhibit lights.

“What would you think of me?” he whispered. “Would you say I’m using magic the right way?”

The statue offered no answer, but Harry felt an odd sense of calm wash over him.

With a final glance at the exhibits, Harry decided it was time to leave. The day had been long and filled with questions, many of which he couldn’t answer. But it had also been inspiring. Magic wasn’t just in his books or his hands—it was woven into the stories of the past, hidden in plain sight for those who knew how to look.

Instead of catching the bus home, Harry found himself walking toward Charing Cross Road, determined to spend the remainder of the day exploring more of the wizarding world.

By the time he reached the Leaky Cauldron, the afternoon sun was high, casting golden rays onto the pub's modest sign. Harry pushed the door open, greeted by the comforting hum of chatter and the occasional clinking of glasses. Tom, the barkeep, looked up from polishing a mug and grinned at Harry.

“Ah, back again, young man? Couldn’t stay away from the Alley, could you?”

Harry smiled back, feeling a small sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced often. “No, sir. I wanted to look around more—actually, I was wondering if there are any more bookshops in Diagon Alley? Or even other alleys I could visit?”

Tom raised an eyebrow, setting down his mug. “Other alleys, eh? Well, there’s Knockturn Alley, but that’s no place for a young lad like yourself. Dangerous sorts down there.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that one,” Harry replied quickly, “but I meant others that might have more… interesting shops.”

Tom tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there’s Silvermire Alley, known for its antiques and second-hand goods. Not far off Diagon—just look for the narrow passageway next to Madam Malkin’s. And if it’s books you’re after, Greystone Lane has a few specialty shops. Bit quieter, but you might find hidden gems there.”

“Thank you!” Harry said eagerly. He left the pub, pushing his way into the throng of Diagon Alley with a renewed sense of purpose. Following Tom’s directions, he found the discreet entrance to Silvermire Alley. The cobbled lane was narrower than Diagon, flanked by slightly crooked buildings, their signs swinging gently in the breeze. The shops here exuded a different charm, their displays less polished but teeming with character.

One store in particular caught Harry’s eye: a second-hand bookshop named “The Dusty Quill.” Its faded green sign was adorned with an inkpot and quill, and its window showcased stacks of books in no particular order. Harry stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling softly.

The interior was dimly lit, with the scent of old parchment and leather filling the air. Shelves crammed with books stretched from floor to ceiling, some leaning precariously under the weight of their contents. Behind the counter sat a thin, elderly wizard with half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, deeply engrossed in a tome. He looked up as Harry approached.

“Good afternoon,” the man said in a raspy voice. “Looking for something specific, or just browsing?”

“A bit of both,” Harry admitted. “I’m interested in books about the origins of magic, traditions of magical Greece, or even magic connected to gods.”

The wizard’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Ah, a seeker of knowledge, are you? Good, good. Not enough young folk appreciate the roots of our craft these days. Let’s see what we can find.”

He waved Harry toward a corner of the shop, where the shelves were labelled “History & Lore.” Harry scanned the spines, his fingers trailing lightly over the cracked leather bindings. Titles like Ancient Rituals of the Mediterranean, The Myths and Magic of Olympus, and Arcane Practices of the Old World stood out. He pulled out a few, their weight solid in his hands, and carried them to the counter. Although, when he opened Arcane Practices the writing wasn’t in English, he assumed it was Greek.

“These are great,” Harry said, setting them down. “Do you have anything else about deities or magical traditions?”

The wizard’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “As it happens, I do. Wait here.”

He disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving Harry to leaf through one of the books he’d chosen. The pages were filled with intricate diagrams of ancient rituals, descriptions of magical herbs, and stories of mortals gaining favour with the gods. Harry’s thoughts wandered. Could magic really have come from the gods? There’s actual books about them from a real magic shop! Some of the stories must be real. The idea felt both thrilling and surreal.

The shopkeeper returned, carrying two more books. “These might interest you. Hecate’s Flame: Magic of the Goddess and The Forgotten Arts of Antiquity. Rare finds, those.”

“I’ll take these too,” he said decisively. “How much for all of them?”

The wizard tallied the total on a piece of parchment and looked up to study him for a moment. “For the lot, 6 Galleons.”

Harry handed over the money, marvelling at how much cheaper the books were here compared to Diagon, especially with the age of the books. But the knowledge he’d gain felt worth every coin. As he tucked the books into his enchanted bag, the shopkeeper leaned forward.

“Be careful with that knowledge, young man.  Not many acknowledge the ways of old anymore. The past holds many lessons, but it also holds many dangers.”

“I will,” Harry promised, though the warning sent a shiver down his spine.

Back outside, Harry decided to explore Greystone Lane. The alley was even quieter than Silvermire, with only a handful of shops tucked between ivy-covered walls. He found another second-hand store, smaller but no less charming, and ventured inside. The proprietor, a witch with bright orange hair, greeted him warmly.

“Looking for anything in particular, dear?”

“Books, mostly,” Harry replied. “Something about ancient magic or magical traditions.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “You might like the section near the back. I’ve got some old journals and scrolls too, if those interest you.”

Harry spent nearly an hour browsing, pulling titles like The Alchemical Roots of Magic and Runes of the Ancients from the shelves. Each book felt like a new piece of a vast puzzle, one he was determined to solve.

By the time he left the shop, his bag was noticeably heavier, and his mind buzzed with anticipation.

This is just the beginning, he thought, clutching his bag tightly. I’ll learn everything I can. And one day, I’ll understand it all.

~

After an enlightening day in the wizarding alleys, Harry found himself back at Privet Drive, his mind still buzzing with all he had learned. The weight of the books he carried felt reassuring in his arms. But first, he had a duty to perform—checking on Mrs. Figg’s cats.

As he approached her home, the stillness of the house struck him as odd. It was supposed to be empty, save for the cats, yet as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, a faint crackle caught his attention. His nose wrinkled at the unmistakable scent of burning wood. His heart thudded as he followed the sound into the living room, where he found the fireplace alive with flames.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” he called, his voice trembling slightly. Silence greeted him. Harry’s eyes darted around the room, but nothing seemed out of place other than the blazing hearth. The fire felt... wrong. Mrs. Figg wasn’t even home…maybe someone tried talking through it again? Like before?

Nerves prickling, Harry grabbed the nearby watering can from the windowsill and doused the flames. Steam hissed, filling the room with a damp, smoky smell as the fire sputtered out. He stared at the now-blackened hearth, unease settling deep in his stomach. Was it magical? Or could someone have been here?

Shaking his head, Harry double-checked the locks before leaving. The house felt too eerie, and he wasn’t about to linger longer than necessary.

Back at the Dursleys’, Harry dumped his collection of books onto the kitchen table, letting them spill out in a haphazard pile. The sight of them made him smile despite his earlier scare. He began sorting them, grouping them into categories: charms, magical theory, history, magical creatures, and miscellaneous topics like wizarding politics and traditions.

He paused at the pile of newly purchased books from the secondhand shop. One stood out: Arcane Practices of the Old World. He traced the faded golden lettering on its spine, recalling how the shopkeeper had recommended it.

Latin and Greek, Harry thought, frowning. He’d come across references to those languages repeatedly in his studies so far. They seemed to be the foundation of magical texts and spellcasting, Latin especially.

“I need to start learning them properly,” he muttered to himself, thinking about the books the library had on languages. He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment: Latin and Greek: priority subjects. Beneath it, he began listing books he’d need to study in depth: Magical Theory, Runes and Their Meanings, and Basic Charms for Everyday Use.

The rest of the evening passed in quiet concentration. Harry decided to begin with Magical Theory again. The author’s style was dense, but Harry appreciated the challenge. He learned that magic was an extension of willpower, channelled through intent and often amplified by a wand. However, wands weren’t strictly necessary. The text described rare individuals who could perform wandless magic through sheer focus and discipline but nothing overly complicated.

Harry leaned back in his chair, playing with the page thoughtfully. That must be what I’ve been doing all this time, what does he class as complicated though? he realized. His heating charm for Flick’s nest, his notice-me-not spell, even the accidental magic he’d performed as a child—all of it was wandless. But why was he able to do it so naturally when others couldn’t? The book didn’t provide answers, leaving him frustrated yet determined to dig deeper.

Next, he turned to Runes and Their Meanings. This book was filled with strange symbols, each accompanied by detailed explanations of their magical properties. Harry’s curiosity deepened as he read about how runes were used in ancient rituals and enchantments. Some were carved into wands, while others were inscribed onto objects to imbue them with power. The book emphasized the importance of understanding the language behind the runes, which often drew from ancient Greek and Norse traditions.

“I’ll need a dictionary for this,” Harry murmured. He jotted another note: Find a rune dictionary.

Flick slithered onto the table, coiling up next to Harry. The snake’s scales gleamed faintly in the kitchen light, and its tongue flickered out as if tasting the air.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Harry said, scratching Flick’s head gently.

“Observing,” Flick replied, his voice low and calm. “You are learning much. The old one would be pleased.”

Harry smiled at the mention of the elder snake. He’d promised to visit again soon, and he planned to show the old one his progress next time he went.

“Do you think magic feels different for everyone?” Harry asked.

Flick tilted his head. “Magic is like the air: it surrounds all, but each breath is unique. You breathe deeply, youngling. It is... unusual but not worrying.”

The cryptic response left Harry pondering as he continued his studies late into the night. When he finally went to bed, his dreams were filled with glowing runes and whispers of forgotten spells.

The next day, Harry revisited Mrs. Figg’s to check on the cats. The sight of the extinguished fireplace lingered in his mind. Instead, he focused on feeding the animals before hurriedly returning to his books.

By mid-afternoon, Harry had created a schedule for himself. Mornings would be spent practicing practical magic: charms, simple transfigurations, and his heating spell. Afternoons were for theory and languages. He planned to start with Latin, using an old grammar book he’d found in the Dursleys’ attic, and using it with his magical texts.

With the Dursleys gone, the house was a quiet refuge.

~

The next morning, Harry woke up early, a habit he’d developed over the years to avoid the Dursleys’ wrath. But now, with the house quiet and all to himself, he rose eagerly, excited to dive into the day’s tasks. His carefully constructed schedule was laid out on the table in the kitchen, neatly written on a piece of parchment he’d found in one of his purchases. Flick was coiled nearby on the windowsill, soaking in the morning sunlight.

“Time to get started,” Harry murmured, glancing at the first task on the list: practicing basic charms.

He set up in the living room, moving the coffee table to give himself space. Opening "Basic Charms for Everyday Use," he reviewed the levitation spell he’d been working on.

He felt like he had mastered the levitation charm, same with the Alohomora charm and he had taken to using a “wand” to practice the movements as instructed in the books. With his makeshift wand, a straightened knitting needle he’d found in Aunt Petunia’s sewing basket, Harry focused on the magic inside of him.

“Lumos,” he said firmly, flicking his wrist just so. The tip of the needle glowed a bright white as Harry grinned.

I’m getting better at this, he thought, feeling a spark of pride. He practiced for another twenty minutes, alternating between the makeshift wand and his hand, ensuring he could control the amount of light output. He honestly felt more comfortable using his hand with intent instead of the motions of the incantation with a wand. It wouldn’t do to be seen as a freak if other children can’t do it wandlessly like I can when I go to magic school, Harry thought a bit glumly but pushed it aside.

When he was satisfied, he moved on to transfiguration.

This was a bit trickier. Using "A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration," Harry attempted to turn a matchstick into a needle. The book’s instructions emphasised concentration, visualization, and precise incantation. Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a matchstick in his hand.

“Focus on the properties of the needle,” he muttered, recalling the book’s advice. “Sharp, metallic, reflective.” He tapped the matchstick with his finger. “Acus.”

The matchstick shimmered briefly, but remained wooden. Harry frowned and tried again. On the third attempt, it turned a silvery grey, though the texture still looked rough. He held it up to Flick.

“What do you think? Getting there?”

“Closer,” Flick hissed. “But not yet a needle.”

Harry laughed softly. “I’ll get it eventually.”

After another hour of practice, and he had managed to get a needle, albeit a strange looking one but it was sharp, and it was metal.

 Harry decided to switch gears and picked up a second-hand Latin primer from the attic. Sitting at the kitchen table with the book open, Harry read aloud, stumbling over the unfamiliar words.

“Amīcus… frater… soror,” he tried, frowning. “Friend, brother, sister.”

Flick, resting nearby, lifted his head. “Why struggle with this?”

“Because most spells are in Latin,” Harry explained. “If I understand the language, maybe I’ll understand the magic better.”

The snake flicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Wise. But you will need practice.”

“Lots of it,” Harry agreed, returning to the book. He worked through basic phrases and vocabulary, occasionally consulting a dictionary he’d borrowed from the library. Pronunciation was the hardest part; Harry often muttered words under his breath, repeating them until they sounded right.

By midday, his stomach growled, pulling him away from his studies. He prepared a simple lunch—a sandwich and some crisps—and settled at the table. As he ate, his thoughts wandered to one of the books he’d skimmed the night before. It had mentioned Hogwarts, the famous school of witchcraft and wizardry. Harry wondered if he’d ever get an invitation.

If I’m really a wizard, they’d have to send for me, right? he thought. But what if they don’t? What if I’m not good enough?

He shook his head, pushing the doubts aside. He’d deal with that when the time came. For now, he had his own path to follow.

Remembering another passage he’d read, Harry glanced at the small fire he’d conjured in the fireplace. The book had described ancient traditions of offering thanks to the gods by placing food into the flames. The idea had stuck with him, and now, Harry wanted to try it for himself.

Taking a small piece of his sandwich, he held it in his hand, feeling its weight. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you, Hecate, for this magic. I don’t know if you’re real, but if you are, thank you for helping me.”

He opened his palm, letting the bread drop into the flames. The fire crackled softly, and for a moment, Harry thought he felt a warmth, not from the fire, but within himself. It was a comforting sensation, like an invisible hand on his shoulder.

Maybe she’s listening, he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The rest of the afternoon was dedicated to elemental magic. In the garden, he conjured a large flame in his palm, watching as it flickered and danced. He moved his hand, making the flame stretch and shrink, then extinguish entirely. Then he began again moving the flame with his body, twisting and turning while keeping the fire steady, instead of extinguishing it though he stumbled slightly and his palm pushed forward, the flame expanded into a large fire ball hitting the tree.

Astonished and slightly panicked, Harry called the water in the bowl to rise and wet out the flames. Feeling a bit shaky from the ordeal, he sat on the grass but slowly a smile came to his face. Wicked, he thought with glee. He wanted to try it again but one burnt tree was noticeable enough, what if he set the whole garden on fire.

Instead, he turned to water. Using a small bowl, Harry concentrated on making the liquid rise. A thin stream of water lifted from the bowl, twisting in the air like a snake. It wavered, and Harry gritted his teeth, focusing harder. The stream steadied, forming a small spiral that he maneuvered for a while before collapsing back into the bowl.

“Better,” he said to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. “But not perfect.”

Flick watched from a nearby rock, his tongue flicking in approval. “You grow stronger,” the snake said. “Soon, the elements will obey without hesitation.”

“I hope so, fire comes more easily to me than water” Harry replied. He spent another hour practicing, alternating between fire and water until exhaustion forced him to stop. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Harry retreated to the house, feeling both tired and accomplished.

Before going to bed, he updated his notes, recording his progress and jotting down ideas for future practice. Thinking back to the fire ball he threw he felt excitement at the thought of it, thinking he could fight…like the legends.

The schedule was working, and for the first time in his life, Harry felt like he was in control of something important.

~

The next few days followed a steady rhythm as Harry adhered to the schedule he had set for himself. Each morning, he dedicated time to practicing basic charms and transfiguration. With "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1" open in front of him, he focused on the spells.

Flick the snake hissed approvingly from the windowsill, observing his progress. "You're getting better, hatchling," Flick remarked. "But you must focuss more on ways to hide yourssselff better, before the violent oness return."

“I’ll get better,” Harry muttered to himself, jotting down ways he could hide more from the Dursleys, he can’t let them know about the magic books in his cupboard or they will burn everything.

After a break for lunch, Harry turned his focus to learning Latin. As he struggled with a particularly tricky conjugation, Flick slithered closer.

“What nonsenssse are you muttering now?” Flick asked, tilting his head.

“Latin,” Harry replied with a sigh.

Flick gave an amused hiss. “Two-Legs and their complicated tonguesss. Magic sshould be simpler than this.”

Harry chuckled, grateful for Flick’s company. Despite the snake’s teasing, he was determined to improve. He spent the afternoon alternating between Latin and reading "Magical Theory," trying to deepen his understanding of how magic worked.

~

The next few days continued in much the same way. Harry made steady progress with his spells, began to grasp the basics of Latin, and delved deeper into magical theory. But by the end of the week, he decided he deserved a treat. He had never done anything purely fun for himself, and the idea of going to the cinema excited and terrified him in equal measure.

On Saturday morning, he slipped on a clean shirt and trousers and headed into town. He’d took enough money for a movie ticket and snacks, but he couldn’t shake the nerves as he approached the box office.

“One ticket for… Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager, handed him the ticket without comment, and Harry clutched it tightly as he moved toward the concession stand.

He bought a small bag of popcorn and a fizzy drink, marvelling at how grown-up he felt. This was something Dudley would do with his friends, but Harry had never been allowed and he didn’t have any friends other than Flick and the Old One. Now, standing in the theatre with his snacks, he felt a thrill of independence.

The movie itself was a revelation. From the moment the lights dimmed and the opening scene began, Harry was completely immersed. He watched in awe as Indiana Jones navigated ancient traps and uncovered hidden treasures, his heart racing during the action-packed sequences.

Imagine if there were magical artifacts like that, Harry thought, his mind racing. What if there’s a whole world of magical history waiting to be discovered? He couldn’t help but draw parallels between Indiana Jones’s adventures and the magical world he was just beginning to explore. The idea of becoming a magical archaeologist took root in his mind, and he found himself dreaming of one day uncovering ancient magical secrets.

As the credits rolled, Harry sat in his seat for a moment, savouring the experience.

That was so wicked! He thought.

He had never felt so inspired. For the first time, he allowed himself to dream of a future that was entirely his own, shaped by his magic and his choices.

Walking home, Harry replayed the movie in his mind, already planning to visit the library to learn more about archaeology and ancient history. The world felt full of possibilities, and for once, Harry was excited about what the future might hold for him.

~

The morning of July 30th dawned bright and clear, on No. 4 Privet Drive. Despite the cramped conditions of his cupboard, Harry’s mood was buoyant. Tomorrow was his birthday, and while he knew there wouldn’t be any celebrations or presents from the Dursleys, he’d decided to treat himself today with another trip to Diagon Alley.

After a quick breakfast of toast and jam, Harry slipped into his new clothes, adjusted his enchanted notice-me-not spell, and made his way to the bus stop. The journey into London felt as exciting as ever, the bustling streets of Charing Cross Road buzzing with life as Harry approached the Leaky Cauldron.

“Back again, Evan?” Tom the barman greeted him warmly when Harry entered.

Harry grinned and nodded. “Just couldn’t stay away.”

“Don’t blame you,” Tom chuckled. “Enjoy yourself.”

Pushing through to the courtyard, Harry tapped the bricks with his finger, and the archway to Diagon Alley unfolded before him. The magical street was as lively as ever, and Harry’s heart swelled with excitement as he stepped inside. He decided to wander aimlessly for a while, enjoying the sights and sounds. Today, he wasn’t here to run errands or stick to a plan; he was here to simply revel in the magic.

His first stop was Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. After a friendly chat with Florean himself, Harry treated himself to a sundae topped with fresh fruit and whipped cream. Sitting at a small table by the window, he savoured each bite, watching witches and wizards bustle past outside.

Further down the alley, Harry’s attention was caught by a small, unassuming music shop. Intrigued, he stepped inside. The smell of polished wood and parchment filled the air, and various instruments were displayed on shelves and stands. A wizard with wild, silver-streaked hair and half-moon spectacles was seated behind the counter, tinkering with a set of enchanted tuning forks.

“Good afternoon, young man,” the shopkeeper said, looking up with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

Harry glanced around at the array of instruments. “I’m just looking, really. I’ve never been in a music shop before.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, a curious mind. Would you like to try something?”

Harry hesitated but nodded. The man gestured to a beautiful, upright piano in the corner. “Have a seat. I’ll show you a simple tune.”

Harry sat on the bench, and the shopkeeper positioned his hands over the keys. “Just press these here, like this.” He demonstrated a short melody, then nodded for Harry to try.

Tentatively, Harry followed the instructions. The notes rang out, clear and resonant, and a strange warmth spread through him. He felt the faintest hum of magic flowing through the keys, or perhaps it was his own magic resonating with the sound.

“That’s it,” the shopkeeper encouraged. “Music is a kind of magic all its own. You’ve got a good touch for it.”

Harry grinned, playing the melody again. For a moment, he imagined a future where he could learn more, maybe even own a piano. Maybe one day, he thought wistfully.

Thanking the shopkeeper, Harry left the store, feeling a mix of joy and longing. As he stepped back into the alley, his attention was drawn to a small commotion nearby. A group of children, around his age, were laughing and jeering as they bumped into a younger girl, making her drop the armful of things she was carrying.

“Hey!” Harry called out instinctively. The children barely glanced at him before walking off, still laughing.

Harry hurried over to the girl, who was now kneeling on the cobblestones, gathering her scattered belongings. She looked up as he approached, her large, silvery eyes calm and unbothered despite the incident.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, crouching to help.

The girl tilted her head, studying him with a dreamy expression. “Oh, yes. Thank you for asking. That was rude of them, wasn’t it?”

Harry nodded, handing her a rolled-up piece of parchment. “Why didn’t you say anything to them?”

She shrugged lightly. “It doesn't matter. People often don’t understand things they find strange.”

Harry paused, unsure how to respond. “What’s your name?” he asked instead.

“Luna Lovegood,” she said serenely. “And you?”

“Evan,” Harry replied quickly, sticking to his alias.

Luna’s eyes seemed to see straight through him, but she didn’t question it. Instead, she smiled. “Thank you for helping me, Evan. Does this make us friends now?”

Harry’s face flushed. He opened his mouth, then closed it, suddenly flustered. He’d never had a friend before and wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Um, I guess so?” he blurted awkwardly.

Luna’s smile widened. “That’s nice. I don’t have many friends.”

Before Harry could reply, a woman stepped out of a nearby shop, carrying a bag. She was tall, with long, golden hair tied back in a loose braid, and her sharp eyes immediately sought out Luna.

“There you are, Luna,” she said warmly. Then her gaze shifted to Harry, and something flickered in her expression—recognition, perhaps?

“Who’s this?” she asked gently.

“This is Evan,” Luna said. “He helped me when some boys knocked me over.”

The woman’s smile was kind but tinged with something else Harry couldn’t quite place. “Thank you for looking after my daughter,” she said. “I’m Pandora Lovegood.”

Harry nodded, feeling slightly awkward. “It was nothing.”

Pandora’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she said, “It’s rare to meet someone so thoughtful. You’re welcome to visit us at any time, Evan.”

Harry nodded again, muttering his thanks. Luna beamed at him. “Goodbye, Evan. I’ll see you again, won’t I?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, though he wasn’t sure how or when. He watched as the Lovegoods walked away, Pandora’s arm resting lightly around her daughter’s shoulders. For a moment, Harry stood there, his thoughts a whirlwind.

Friends? he thought, his heart fluttering with a strange mix of hope and anxiety. I’ve never had a friend before. What do I even do?

Shaking himself, he resolved to figure it out later.

The sun was beginning to set as Harry made his way out of the alley, the cobblestone streets now bathed in the warm, golden glow of twilight. He clutched his small bag of purchases, his thoughts swirling between the kindness of Luna and Pandora, the melodies of the piano, and the sweet taste of ice cream lingering on his tongue.

When Harry arrived back at Privet Drive, the house was quiet, just as he had left it. The Dursleys wouldn’t be home for another week yet, and he relished the silence as he set his things down carefully in the corner of the cupboard. Going to the living room, he unpacked the small cake he had bought on his way home — a humble chocolate sponge with creamy frosting and just enough sweetness to feel like a treat.

Placing the cake on the coffee table, Harry found nine candles from the kitchen drawer and pressed them into the frosting with care. The candles wobbled slightly but held firm as he focused, flick of his fingers lit them all at once. The flickering light filled the dim room, dancing shadows across the walls as Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the glow.

For a moment, he simply watched, the warmth of the flames reflecting in his emerald eyes.

When the clock struck midnight, Harry leaned forward, the candles lighting up his small, hopeful smile.

“Happy Birthday, Harry,” he whispered, the words soft in the quiet room. And with a single breath, he blew out the candles, the room plunging into darkness but leaving behind the faintest glow of warmth in his chest.

Chapter Text

The Dursleys’ absence had turned Privet Drive into a silent, hollow shell, and Harry relished the freedom. He’d spent the last week immersed in his studies, practicing his magic, and exploring the possibilities his newfound independence offered. With the Dursleys’ imminent return, he resolved to unravel the mystery that had drawn the snakes to this house. Flick had always insisted the area pulsed with ancient magic, yet Harry had found no evidence of it.

Determined, Harry began his search methodically, moving from room to room. The ground floor yielded nothing but perfectly ordinary furniture and Dudley’s broken toys. The cupboards and closets were similarly mundane. It was only when he ventured upstairs, to the seldom-used attic, that he found something interesting.

The attic was a dusty, cobweb-strewn space, filled with the detritus of decades. Cardboard boxes, battered trunks, and old furniture were piled haphazardly. Harry sneezed as he stepped into the gloom, waving away a cloud of dust.

He began sorting through the boxes, hoping for some clue. Most contained items he had no use for—Christmas decorations, yellowed newspapers, and clothing long out of style. Then, tucked away in a corner, he found an old trunk with a faded floral pattern. Inside were things that clearly belonged to Petunia: a child’s tea set, a stack of faded letters tied with a ribbon, and a photo album.

Harry’s fingers hesitated over the album. He flipped it open, his heart racing. The first few pages contained images of a young Petunia—a smiling, carefree girl—with her parents. Then he turned to a picture that took his breath away. It was the same girl, but this time she stood beside another child, a girl with dark red hair and bright green eyes.

That must be my mum, Harry thought, his chest tightening. He turned the photo over. Written in neat handwriting were the words: Petunia and Lily, ages 8 and 6.

The album contained more photos of the two girls. At first, they appeared happy together, but as the pictures progressed, something changed. Many of the later photos of Lily had been scratched or defaced. In one, her smiling face was marred by a deep gouge. In another, someone had scrawled the word "FREAK" across her image in angry, jagged letters.

Harry’s hands trembled as he flipped through the album, a storm of emotions roiling within him. Anger, sadness, and a deep longing to know the woman in those photos. What had she been like? And why had Petunia hated her so much?

At the bottom of the trunk, Harry found something even more intriguing: a diary. The faded cover bore Petunia’s name in looping script. He hesitated for only a moment before opening it. 

June 15th, 1971

Lily got another letter from that freak school today. Hogwarts. She’s so excited. Of course she is. She’s special. Mum and Dad couldn’t stop talking about it, as if being a witch is something to be proud of. They don’t care how it makes me feel. I wrote a letter to the old freak who runs the place, begging him to let me in. Why shouldn’t I have magic too? But no, I’m just "normal." Plain, boring Petunia.

September 1st, 1971

They left today. Mum and Dad took her to the train station, and I had to stay behind. She looked so smug in her little cloak, waving her wand around. I hate her. I hate that she gets to be special while I’m stuck here.

December 25th, 1973

Lily’s home for Christmas. She’s full of stories about her magical school, her magical friends, her magical everything. Mum and Dad hang on her every word, as if she’s a queen. I can’t stand it. Why can’t they see what a freak she is?

July 30th, 1977

She’s getting married. To another freak, of course. They’re perfect for each other. Mum and Dad are thrilled. I don’t care. Let her have her freak life…

The entries grew darker and more bitter as Harry read. By the end, Petunia’s resentment toward her sister was palpable, and her disdain for anything magical was unrelenting. Harry’s hands tightened around the diary as he read the final entry.

November 1st, 1981

She’s gone. The freaks came to tell us this morning. Dead. Both of them. And now they’ve left us with her child. He’s just like her, with those eyes. I won’t let him infect our lives. I won’t let him turn Dudley into a freak too.

Harry slammed the diary shut, his heart pounding. The words cut deeper than any insult the Dursleys had ever hurled at him. He could barely see through the hot tears that welled up in his eyes.

She knew about magic this whole time. She hated my mum… hated me before I even had a chance.

Flick’s soothing hiss broke through his turmoil. "Hatchling? You are upset."

Harry wiped his eyes hastily and looked at the small snake coiled on the attic floor. "I’m fine," he muttered. But he wasn’t fine. A deep, gnawing anger simmered within him.

What do I do now? he wondered, staring at the diary and the defaced photos. For years, he had believed the Dursleys’ cruelty stemmed from ignorance, but now he knew the truth. They hated him because of who he was—because of who his mother had been.

Because his parents were magic…

Harry carefully packed the photos back into the trunk. He carried the diary and one photo of Lily with him, slipping it into his pocket. He wanted to remember her as she had been: bright-eyed and smiling, unbroken by Petunia’s spite.

As he climbed down from the attic, Harry resolved to continue his studies. If the Dursleys saw magic as a curse, he would prove them wrong. Magic was his heritage, his birthright, and he would embrace it.

Not for them, but himself.

~

Harry stood at the foot of the attic stairs, his emotions in a whirl. Clutching the diary and photograph he had taken from the attic, careful not to let his thoughts overwhelm him. He placed the items in his cupboard, under the loose floorboard where he hid his treasures. Then, determined to push thoughts of Petunia’s bitterness aside, Harry resolved to focus on what mattered most—his burgeoning magic.

He settled at the kitchen table with a stack of his books. Flick coiled beside him, hissing softly in encouragement. The idea of using the notice-me-not charm to conceal his cupboard fully occupied his thoughts. If he could shield the cupboard—or even himself—more effectively, perhaps he could keep the Dursleys entirely oblivious to his growing power.

Harry flipped through Basic Charms for Everyday Use, his finger tracing over the section on concealment charms. The notice-me-not charm was straightforward enough, but its effects dissipated after only a few hours when not anchored.

That’s not good enough. I need something that lasts, Harry thought, frustration prickling at him.

Then, as he skimmed Runes and Their Meanings, an idea began to take shape. Runes were mentioned several times in connection with wards—a way to weave magic into a physical space or object, allowing it to last indefinitely with proper maintenance. Harry’s eyes lit up as he read.

"Runic wards are among the oldest and most enduring magical protections. When inscribed correctly and empowered by intent, they form a magical barrier that can conceal, protect, or even repel."

“Flick, this might be it,” Harry said excitedly. Flick raised his head inquisitively, his forked tongue flicking out.

“Yesss, little wizard. Magic that holdsss. What will you do with it?”

“Hide the cupboard, or maybe even make sure no one notices me using magic. But… I need to understand more about these wards first.”

Harry’s search led him to Enchanted Objects and Their Properties, which included a small section on enchanting spaces. The process was intricate, requiring not only the correct runes but also precise intent and sufficient magical power.

Harry frowned. The book mentioned that the magic could be more taxing for large-scale enchantments. He thought back to the fire and water spells he had practiced; they had taken less energy as he became more accustomed to them. Perhaps with enough preparation, he could manage this too.

However, the information in his books was too basic to guide him fully. Harry needed more advanced knowledge—and he knew where to find it.

The next morning, Harry donned his disguise: a hat pulled low over his forehead and his new robes to help him blend in. With Flick concealed in his pocket, he caught the bus to London and made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. He stepped inside and greeted Tom the barman with a polite nod.

“Morning, young man! Back for more books?” Tom asked with a grin.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, trying to sound confident.

He hurried through the brick archway into Diagon Alley, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Greystone Lane was quieter than Diagon, with fewer people milling about. Small shops with hand-painted signs lined the street, their windows filled with curiosities. Harry’s eyes caught on one in particular: "Second-hand Sorcery."

Inside, the bookshop was cozy and crammed with shelves that reached the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the windows. A bell jingled as Harry entered, and an elderly witch behind the counter looked up from her knitting.

“Morning, dear. Can I help you find something?” she asked, her voice warm.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said. “I’m looking for books about runes or wards. And… do you have anything on ancient magic?”

The witch’s eyes twinkled. “Ambitious, aren’t you? Let’s see what we can find.” She guided him to a section near the back of the shop.

Harry scanned the titles eagerly.

Foundations of Runic Magic, Warding: A Beginner’s Guide, Ancient Magics and Their Modern Applications and Magics of the Old World: Rituals and Traditions.

“If you’re interested in ancient magic, you might like this,” the witch said, handing him a slim, leather-bound volume titled The Legacy of the Lost Arts. “It’s more theoretical, but it’s a fascinating read.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, holding the book reverently. He made his way to the counter and paid for the books, his money pouch noticeably lighter. The witch gave him a smile and a parting piece of advice.

“Runes and wards take patience, dear. Don’t rush it, and always remember—intent is key.”

Harry nodded seriously. “I’ll remember. Thank you again.”

Outside again, Harry’s eyes landed on one labelled Arcanum Antiqua. Inside, the shelves held ancient tomes and strange artifacts.

A severe-looking wizard behind the counter raised an eyebrow at Harry’s entrance. “Looking for something specific?”

“Books on runes or warding,” Harry said, trying to sound confident.

The wizard scrutinized him for a moment before nodding and gesturing toward a shelf. Harry found several promising titles, including Rune Crafting for Practical Use and The Essence of Enchantment. His excitement grew as he read the blurbs, which promised in-depth explanations and practical exercises.

By the time Harry left the shop, his bag was heavy with knowledge.

Returning to the Dursleys’ empty house, Harry spread his new books on the kitchen table. His excitement dimmed slightly as he realized how much work lay ahead. Still, as Flick slithered onto the table and coiled near him, Harry felt a surge of determination.

“We’ve got a lot to learn, Flick,” he said. The snake hissed approvingly.

Opening Foundations of Runic Magic, Harry began reading. The text explained that runes acted as conduits for magic, channelling intent into physical form. To create a ward, one had to inscribe the correct runes in precise configurations and empower them with magical energy. The process was both an art and a science, requiring patience and focus.

Harry practiced drawing the basic runes on parchment, his movements careful but clumsy at first. Each rune had a distinct shape and purpose, and Harry found himself fascinated by their intricacy.

This is like learning a whole new language, he thought.

As the evening wore on, Harry experimented with imbuing the runes with magic. Following the instructions, he focused on a single rune for concealment, channelling his intent through his fingers. To his amazement, the parchment glowed faintly, the rune shimmering with power.

Flick watched with interest. “You ssseem more confident in your magic now, hatchling,” he observed.

“I guess I am,” Harry admitted. “It’s a part of me. I don’t want to hide from it anymore.”

~

Harry sat in his small room—well, cupboard, surrounded by an assortment of open books and parchment scraps. The air was heavy with concentration as he traced runes into the dusty floorboards with his finger, practicing their shapes over and over before committing to the real work. His mind buzzed with possibilities as he pieced together the intricate concepts, he had gleaned from the books in Diagon Alley.

The runes he had chosen, associated with concealment and protection, seemed ideal. According to the texts, they were ancient and powerful, capable of long-lasting effects when properly inscribed and activated. Harry’s focus was on combining these runes with the magic he already understood—a notice-me-not charm—to create something more permanent and enduring.

The first day was spent experimenting. Harry meticulously drew the symbols on spare bits of parchment, whispering the spell’s incantation and channelling his magic into the forms. At first, nothing happened. But then, on his third attempt, he felt a faint pulse of warmth in the air. It was subtle, like a brush of wind against his skin.

It’s working, he thought, excitement fluttering in his chest. Sort of.

By the second day, Harry had started practicing combining the runes into sequences. A key discovery came when he read about the potential to anchor magic to something—or someone. Linking the spell to his blood would, according to the theory, allow the runes to recognize him as the creator and function exclusively for him.

He bit his lip nervously as he reread the passages. The idea of using blood in magic felt both fascinating and daunting. Still, he couldn’t ignore the possibilities.

On the third day, Harry began preparing his cupboard door for the rune work. He cleaned the surface as best he could, wiping away years of grime and cobwebs with a damp rag. Using a small pocketknife he had found in Dudley’s spare room, he carefully started etching the runes into the wood. Each stroke of the blade required intense focus—one wrong mark and the rune’s effectiveness could fail, or worse, backfire.

The sequence began with Ansuz (ᚨ), a rune associated with communication and connection, followed by Algiz (ᛉ) for protection and Perthro (ᛈ) to hide the unknown. Harry arranged them in a triangular formation, as suggested by the diagrams in his books. Once the symbols were carved, he sat back and studied his work, pride blooming in his chest.

It looks right, he thought, though a flicker of doubt lingered. Now for the tricky part…

On the fourth day, Harry stood in front of his cupboard door, clutching the pocketknife with trembling hands. He had pricked his finger before, but using blood to activate magic felt… different. Sacred, almost.

“Alright,” he whispered to himself, taking a steadying breath. “Just a little.”

He made a shallow cut on his finger, wincing as the blade nicked his skin. His thoughts kept circling with intent for what he wanted the runes to do. A small bead of blood welled up, and he pressed it against the centre of the runic triangle. As soon as his blood touched the wood, the runes began to glow faintly—a soft, silvery light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

A wave of warmth radiated through the cupboard, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. He stepped back, watching as the glow faded, leaving the runes etched in the door with a faint shimmer.

“Did it work?” he muttered, running his fingers over the carvings. There was no immediate answer, but something about the cupboard felt… different. Safer.

Over the next few days, Harry tested the runes as best he could. He practiced walking in and out of the cupboard, activating the notice-me-not charm while inside and observing its effects. While the charm itself seemed to work—he felt an odd sort of invisibility when sitting inside—he couldn’t be entirely sure of its success until the Dursleys returned.

What if it didn’t work? he wondered late at night, staring at the glowing lines. What if they see it and figure out what I’ve done?

Still, as the days passed, Harry’s confidence grew. The cupboard felt like his sanctuary in a way it never had before. The magic thrummed gently in the background, almost as if it were alive.

“It’s just you and me now,” he murmured to the runes one evening, tracing their lines with his finger. “Let’s hope you’re as good as the books said.”

~

When the day of the Dursleys’ return finally arrived, Harry’s nerves were on edge. He had cleaned the house meticulously, made sure the fridge was emptied of everything new he bought, and even tended to Mrs. Figg’s cats one last time.

As Vernon’s car pulled into the driveway, Harry ducked into his cupboard, pressing his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, focusing on the runes and the faint hum of magic around him.

“Please work,” he whispered.

The front door slammed open, followed by the familiar cacophony of Dursley voices. Harry’s heart pounded as he listened to their heavy footsteps and grumbling complaints. He could hear Petunia’s shrill voice listing all the things she’d have to “fix” after leaving the “freak” alone, but… no one came near the cupboard.

It was working.

Harry exhaled a shaky breath, relief flooding him. The runes had done their job. For now, at least, he was invisible to the Dursley's.

~

The Dursleys had returned late in the evening, their arrival announced by the thunderous rolling of suitcases and Dudley’s whining about missing the luxuries of America. Harry had stayed hidden in his cupboard, the runes he had etched into its wooden frame humming faintly.

He hadn’t dared venture out while Vernon barked orders at Petunia to make tea and snapped at Dudley to stop complaining. But now, hours later, the house was silent. He assumed everyone had gone upstairs, exhaustion from their travels finally catching up to them.

Harry quietly pushed open the cupboard door, the faint shimmer of his rune work glinting in the dim light of the hallway. He stepped out, his bare feet making no sound on the floor as he made his way toward the back door. He just needed a moment to breathe in the fresh air and gather his thoughts before retreating again.

He had barely taken two steps when a meaty hand yanked him backward by the collar of his shirt.

“You little freak,” Vernon growled, his face twisted in rage. The faint stench of whiskey on his breath made Harry’s stomach churn. “Think you can sneak around my house while I’m asleep?”

Harry’s heart sank. He’d underestimated Vernon’s temper, and now he was paying the price.

“I wasn’t—” he began, but the words caught in his throat as Vernon’s hand tightened around his collar.

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Vernon bellowed, slamming Harry against the wall. “Nearly a month without having to look at your miserable face, and now I come back to find you skulking around like a rat!”

Harry gasped, struggling to stay calm. He had endured Vernon’s temper for years, but there was something different now—something darker. It was as if being away from Privet Drive had unleashed all the pent-up frustration Vernon had held back, and now Harry was the target of that unrestrained fury.

Vernon’s fists were clenched, and Harry braced himself as the first blow landed on his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his body. Another followed, this one striking his side. Harry doubled over, clutching his ribs and giving a short cry as Vernon’s shouting grew louder.

“You’re nothing but a curse!” Vernon spat. “A burden! And don’t think I don’t know you’ve been meddling while we were gone. Petunia swore she heard you doing something and then she just forgot. What have you done, boy!”

Harry’s vision blurred, but it wasn’t just from the pain. Something inside him stirred—a deep, raw force that he could no longer suppress. The air around them grew charged, and Vernon hesitated for a moment, sensing the shift.

“Enough,” Harry whispered, his voice trembling but resolute.

The next moment, Vernon was lifted off the ground, his feet kicking helplessly as he hovered several feet in the air. Harry’s outstretched hand shook with effort as he glared at his uncle.

“I said, enough!”

With a flick of Harry’s wrist, Vernon was flung backward, slamming into the wall with a thud. He slid to the floor, groaning in pain but otherwise unharmed. Harry’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, the adrenaline coursing through him making his limbs tremble.

The silence that followed was deafening. Vernon stared at Harry, his face pale with shock and fear. For the first time in his life, Harry saw his uncle rendered speechless.

Harry retreated to his cupboard, his mind racing. His hands shook as he touched the etched runes on the inside of the door. He had never deliberately used his magic to harm someone before.

But he deserved it, a voice in his head argued. He’s always hurt you, and this time you fought back.

The next day, Vernon avoided Harry completely. Petunia seemed to sense that something had shifted, though she didn’t dare ask having missed the commotion last night. Dudley, oblivious as ever, continued his usual routine of overeating and whining about his broken game console.

Harry spent most of the day in his cupboard, reflecting on what had happened. He knew he couldn’t stay in this house forever, the pain of his bruises could attest to that. The Dursleys’ fear of him would only last so long, and when it wore off, their cruelty would return with a vengeance.

As the days passed, Harry focused on strengthening his control over his magic. He practiced calming techniques to ensure that he could summon his magic without the need for anger or fear. Flick, his ever-loyal companion, watched with a mixture of curiosity and worry as Harry honed his abilities.

“You are strong, hatchling,” Flick hissed one evening as Harry was levitating and controlling three books at once in a complex pattern. “Your magic is like the river—wild but full of potential. The next time that ssquealing pig triesss to harm you it will be his lassst.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I just need to make sure it doesn’t overflow and drown everything.” That didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect himself anymore.

By the end of the week, Harry had devised a plan. He would write to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron and ask if there were any discreet ways to earn some money in the magical world. He didn’t want to risk stealing again. He needed to build a life for himself, and that meant finding a way to sustain himself independently.

In the meantime, he began drafting a set of runes to protect himself, etching them onto a small piece of wood he had found in the attic.

And one day, he thought, clutching the rune-etched wood tightly, I’ll leave this place for good.

With that thought in mind, Harry drifted off to sleep, the faint glow of the runes casting soft shadows on the walls of his cupboard.

~

Harry sat cross-legged on his small cot, the magical history book balanced on his lap. The runes he had carved into the cupboard door had created a barrier that left him feeling safer than he ever had in the Dursleys’ house. But safety wasn’t enough. He needed answers, and he needed a plan.

For days, he had been toying with the idea of reaching out to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron. If anyone could point him toward opportunities in the wizarding world, it was the innkeeper. He didn’t want to work at the pub itself—the thought of being in such a busy, central place made his skin crawl—but perhaps there was something quieter in the other alleys he had explored.

With a steadying breath, Harry grabbed a scrap of parchment from his collection of alley finds and a borrowed pen from the Dursleys’ kitchen. He hesitated, the pen hovering over the paper. What do I even say?

After a moment of thought, he began to write:

Dear Mr. Tom,

I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Evan, and I’ve visited the Leaky Cauldron a few times recently. I was wondering if you might know of any summer or weekend work available in the Alleys, perhaps in one of the quieter areas like Silvermire or Greystone Lane. I’m eager to learn more about the wizarding world and would be grateful for any guidance.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
Evan Birch

Harry folded the note neatly and placed it on the cupboard floor, staring at it intently. How do I even send this? He knew owls were used for magical correspondence, but he didn’t have one. The thought of sneaking into the Alleys just to borrow a post owl felt risky.

He snuck outside the house and concentrated on the letter, his magic thrumming faintly beneath his skin. I need this to reach Tom, he thought with all his might, willing the universe to respond.

He waited over 10 minutes with no success, before turning to head back inside.

To his amazement, a soft hoot broke the silence of the night. Startled, Harry looked up the tree to see a small tawny owl perched on the edge of a branch. Its amber eyes regarded him with curiosity as it extended a leg.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, quickly tying the letter to the owl’s outstretched limb. “Take this to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, please.”

The owl hooted again and took off, disappearing through the dark of the night. Harry stared after it, his heart pounding. Did I just summon an owl with magic?

The next two days passed in a haze of anticipation and study. While waiting for Tom’s response, Harry returned to his magical history book, determined to finish it.

The chapter on Grindelwald’s rise and fall had been fascinating, detailing the infamous dark wizard’s ambition to dominate both magical and non-magical worlds. Harry found himself drawn to the section about Grindelwald’s defeat at the hands of Albus Dumbledore, the current headmaster of Hogwarts, along with far too many other titles. The book painted Dumbledore as a heroic figure, untouchable.

Why does Dumbledore’s name keep coming up? Harry wondered. He had seen it in other books, heard it mentioned in passing during his visits to the Alleys. There was clearly more to the man than met the eye. Especially if Mrs. Figg is in cahoots with him.

But it was the next chapter that truly captured Harry’s attention.

The Dark Lord Voldemort

Harry’s breath hitched as he read the name. Even on the page, it was ominous.

“Lord Voldemort,” he whispered.

The book recounted Voldemort’s rise to power, his obsession with purity of bloodlines, and his campaign of terror. Wizards and witches who opposed him were killed or forced into hiding. Magical creatures were subjugated, and entire families disappeared overnight.

Harry’s eyes scanned the page, his heart sinking as he read about Voldemort’s downfall. The book spoke of a child born to parents who had defied the Dark Lord, and how that child had survived the Killing Curse.

“The Boy Who Lived,” he read aloud, his voice trembling. “Defeated You-Know-Who and received nothing but a scar on his forehead…Chief Warlock claims Harry Potter is supposedly hidden away with a wizarding family. Description of Harry Potter can be found on page 67.” Turning quickly to the page he finds a scarily accurate description of him, down to his round glasses.

His mind raced, piecing together fragments of conversations and events. Mrs. Figg’s cryptic remarks, the watchful eyes of strangers. Someone had to have told the author what he looked like, this book was published two years ago! Is this why Mrs. Figg was watching him?

His fingers trembling as they traced the words on the page.

But why? Why would no one tell him? Why had he been left with the Dursleys if he was this important? Anger and confusion churned within him, but he forced himself to set the book aside. I need more answers. Someone doesn’t want me to know about my magic—or my past.

That evening, the tawny owl returned, a small note tied to its leg. Harry opened it eagerly, scanning the unfamiliar handwriting:

Dear Evan,

Thank you for your letter. Unfortunately, there aren’t many opportunities for someone your age in the Alleys, especially during the summer. However, if you’re ever in need of assistance or advice, don’t hesitate to ask.

Best of luck,
Tom

Harry sighed, folding the letter carefully. He appreciated Tom’s kindness, but the response left him feeling more restless than ever. If there were no opportunities in Diagon, Silvermire, or Greystone, then perhaps it was time to consider the one alley he had deliberately avoided: Knockturn.

Knockturn Alley was a place shrouded in mystery and danger. Even the books Harry had read barely mentioned it, describing it as a haven for dark artifacts and questionable characters. But Harry was determined. If there were answers to be found, they wouldn’t be in the sanitised safety of Diagon or the quaint charm of Silvermire.

The next morning, Harry began making preparations. He pulled out the robes he had bought from Madam Malkin’s, deciding they would make him look less out of place. Probably best to add the cloak with its hood as well if my scar is so noticeable, he thought. He really had been lucky that his hair was long enough to cover past his forehead, he’s avoided being recognised so far.

He also reviewed basic defensive spells from Practical Defensive Magic for Beginners, practicing the shield charm until he could cast them without hesitation. He was confident he could use his levitation and fire abilities if needed.

“I can do this,” he told himself, staring at his reflection in the small mirror he had salvaged from the attic. “I have to. If I ever want to leave this place.”

Harry stood in front of the cracked mirror in his cupboard, his green eyes staring back at him behind his round glasses. He reached up and touched the frames, frowning. His glasses had been a shield of sorts, hiding him in plain sight among muggles, but here in the wizarding world, they were a liability. He couldn’t risk being recognised—especially not in Knockturn Alley, where anonymity was a precious commodity.

“I need to do something about these,” he muttered to himself. His reflection didn’t offer any suggestions, but Harry had an idea brewing. If magic can do so many things, surely it can fix my eyesight.

He grabbed his enchanted satchel, feeling the comforting weight of his books and essentials inside. With the Veil of Shadows spell ready to activate at a moment’s notice, Harry slipped out of the house and began his journey to the Leaky Cauldron.

The bustling atmosphere of Diagon Alley greeted him as he passed through the magical brick gateway. Harry kept his head down, his mind set on a particular shop he’d noticed on one of his earlier visits: Occulus: Magical Optics and More.

The shop was nestled between an apothecary and a wand-polishing kiosk, its window filled with displays of enchanted eyewear. Harry hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. The sound of a delicate chime announced his arrival.

The interior of the shop was sleek and modern, with shelves lined with glasses in various shapes and colours. Some sparkled faintly with magic, while others seemed to shift their appearance when viewed from different angles. A glowing sign on the wall listed the shop’s services:

Occulus: Magical Optics and More

Custom-Fitted Glasses

Enchanted Lenses (Night Vision, Magical Detection, etc.)

Corrective Potion Regimes

Vision Enhancement Charms

A cheerful witch with short, curly hair and vibrant purple robes approached him. “Welcome to Occulus! What can we do for you today?”

“I… uh… I’m looking to fix my eyesight,” Harry said, adjusting his glasses nervously.

The witch nodded. “We’ve got plenty of options for that! Let’s start by getting your vision assessed.”

She led Harry to a comfortable chair in the back of the shop. With a wave of her wand, a series of glowing charts appeared in the air, and she began testing his eyesight. After a few minutes, she smiled.

“Your vision can definitely be corrected with a potion regime,” she said. “It’s a seven-day course—one potion a night before bed. But if you want something immediate, I’d recommend getting a new pair of enchanted glasses to tide you over.”

Harry considered her suggestion and nodded. “I’ll do both.”

The witch beamed and guided him to a shelf of custom-fit glasses. “These are our standard frames, and over here,” she gestured to another display, “are enchanted frames. They can come with all sorts of features, like automatic adjustment for light levels or even minor protective charms.”

Harry picked up a sleek, black-rimmed pair that looked much sturdier than his current glasses. “How much for these?”

“Three Galleons,” she replied. “And the potion regime is ten Galleons.”

Harry feeling a bit sick, handed over the money and slipped the new glasses onto his face. The world immediately came into sharper focus, the colours brighter and the details clearer.

“Wow,” he whispered, blinking in amazement.

“Good choice,” the witch said with a smile. “Remember, take the potion for seven nights straight, and your eyesight should be fully corrected by the end of it.”

With his new glasses securely in place and the potion regime tucked into his satchel, Harry left the shop and headed toward the shadowy entrance of Knockturn Alley. He paused just outside the archway, the air seeming to grow colder as he gazed into the darkened street.

This is it, he thought, steeling himself. He murmured the Veil of Shadows spell under his breath, feeling the familiar shroud settle over him. The charm wasn’t perfect, but it would make him less noticeable as he ventured into this forbidden territory.

Knockturn Alley was a stark contrast to the bustling, friendly atmosphere of Diagon Alley. The cobblestone streets were uneven, the buildings looming close together and casting deep shadows. The shops here had sinister names and displays: shrunken heads, cursed amulets, and dark spell books filled the windows.

Harry kept to the edges, his eyes darting around as he moved carefully through the crowd. There were wizards in tattered robes, goblins with sharp teeth and sharper eyes, and even a hag hunched over a bubbling cauldron set up outside a shop. He caught sight of a cage filled with strange, glowing insects and another with a snake that hissed softly as he passed.

Stay calm. Blend in.

Harry’s goal was clear: find work. As he passed various shops, he peeked inside, scanning for any signs of help-wanted notices or anyone who might be willing to take on an unusual apprentice.

In one shop, he saw a grizzled old goblin meticulously polishing silver artifacts. Harry hesitated, then stepped inside.

“Excuse me,” he said quietly. “Are you hiring?”

The goblin looked up, its sharp eyes narrowing. “What do you know of curse-breaking, boy?”

“Nothing yet,” Harry admitted. “But I’m a fast learner.”

The goblin let out a raspy chuckle. “Come back when you’ve got a few years and a lot more courage.”

Harry left, slightly deflated but undeterred. He continued his search, stopping at a potion shop where the air was thick with the smell of sulfur. The wizard behind the counter simply shook his head and muttered something about “too young.”

Just as Harry was starting to lose hope, he noticed a small, unassuming shop tucked away at the end of a narrow side street. The sign above the door read:

Oddments and Obscurities
“Rare Finds for Curious Minds”

Intrigued, Harry stepped inside. The shop was cluttered but inviting, filled with shelves of books, magical trinkets, and curious artifacts. An older witch with a kind face looked up from the counter.

“Welcome,” she said warmly. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Harry hesitated. “I was wondering if you had any work available. I can help organise things or… clean?”

The witch raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment. “You’re an unusual one, aren’t you? Most kids your age aren’t looking for jobs in Knockturn Alley.”

Harry shrugged. “I just want to learn.”

The witch smiled faintly. “Well, I don’t hire often, but if you’re willing to come by a few times a week to tidy up and help with inventory, I might be able to pay you in books or small coin. Deal?”

Harry’s heart leapt. “Deal!”

“Come back tomorrow and we can trial run it. Mr Pritchard, my husband, will oversee you,” she said brightly.

As Harry left the shop, he let a smile take over his face. He had taken another step toward independence, another step closer to unravelling the mysteries of his world and his place in it.

Knockturn Alley isn’t so bad, he thought as he retraced his steps back to the main alleyway. If you know where to look.

~

That night, Harry took the first potion for his eyes, feeling them tingle as he lay down. His thoughts turned to the chapter in the history book. The chapter on Voldemort had been brutal in its details, sparing no expense in recounting the destruction the Dark Lord had wrought. But it was the passage about his parents that had struck Harry hardest:

"Lily and James Potter were among the most celebrated heroes of the First Wizarding War. They sacrificed their lives to protect their infant son, Harry Potter, who miraculously survived the Killing Curse cast by Voldemort himself."

He had read those lines over and over, trying to make sense of them. They sacrificed their lives for me. He pressed his palms against his eyes, the memory of the words still stinging like salt on an open wound.

The truth felt enormous, like standing on the edge of an abyss. His parents had loved him enough to die for him. But what did that mean for him now, when they were gone, and he was here, trapped in a cupboard, learning to survive alone?

He felt guilty—guilty because he should feel more, shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t the thought of them fill him with something greater than this hollow ache? He felt sad thinking about them, but they were more like a dream than a reality.

They’re just an idea to me, Harry admitted silently. I’ll never really know them, their love, or what they were like. They’re... they’re just names in a book.

The thought twisted painfully in his chest. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to feel something real, something more than this detached sorrow. But how could he, when his only connection to them was the legacy of a lightning-shaped scar and a few facts written by people who had known them better than he ever would?

The cupboard felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in on him as the weight of his thoughts bore down. His breathing grew ragged as his vision blurred, not from the potion but from the tears he had been holding back. They spilled over silently, one after another, until he couldn’t stop them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he didn’t know who he was apologising to—his parents, himself, or the universe that had taken them from him. “I’m sorry I don’t feel more. I’m sorry I can’t remember you.”

He hugged his knees to his chest, his sobs muffled by the darkness.

Chapter Text

"Parseltongue"

Thoughts

The year since turning nine had been one of careful balancing acts for Harry. Mrs. Figg remained none the wiser about his magical pursuits, and he had kept his powers hidden whenever she was near. Her frequent visits to "check on him" gave him the excuse to act as unremarkable as ever, though he knew her vigilance was far from friendly concern. Luckily, seeing him walking back to the Dursleys after school seemed enough for her these days.

The Dursleys, on the other hand, needed the occasional reminder. Vernon’s temper hadn’t entirely disappeared after the incident, but Harry had learned how to ward off his anger with a subtle hum of magic in the air, a quiet thrum that made the hairs on the back of Vernon’s neck stand up. Petunia’s sharp looks were often silenced by the smallest flicker of unexplained occurrences—like the toaster sparking to life on its own or the water running cold when she least expected it.

For the most part, Harry’s strategy worked. He kept his head down, his secrets guarded, and his magic progressing in ways none of them could fathom.

One quiet evening, weeks after the Dursleys had returned from their holiday, Harry sat in his cupboard and stared at the parchment before him. His quill hovered hesitantly above the blank page.

He thought about Luna Lovegood. She was the only magical person his age he had met, and though their interaction had been brief, it had left a lasting impression.

I’ve never had a friend before, Harry thought, but maybe she won’t mind if I write to her.

Summoning an owl had taken some time, but his intent had eventually brought a sleek, tawny bird to the tree in the back garden. With the owl perched nearby, Harry gathered his courage and began writing.

Dear Luna,
I hope this letter reaches you. I’m not sure how often you use owls, but I thought I’d try. It was nice meeting you in Diagon Alley, even if it was a bit strange (not that you’re strange—though maybe we both are?). I was wondering if you’d like to write to me. I don’t have many people to talk to... or anyone, really.

Sincerely,
Evan

Luna’s reply came two days later, the owl looking pleased with itself as it landed on Harry’s desk.

Dear Evan,
Thank you for writing to me. I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m glad you did. Most people don’t write letters anymore unless they’re very old. Daddy says that owls like carrying letters because it makes them feel useful. Do you think that’s true?

I hope you’re okay. If you ever want to visit, you can come to our house. It’s very strange, but I think you’d like it.

Your friend,
Luna

Their correspondence grew from there, Luna’s whimsical observations and thoughtful questions filling Harry’s otherwise lonely days. Over time, their letters became longer and more personal. He was still a child, regardless of his maturity and sometimes he just couldn't keep his secrets to himself.

Dear Luna,
You asked if I’ve been practicing magic. I have, though I have to keep it a secret. I’ve learned some basic charms and even how to set up protective wards. I work at a shop in Knockturn Alley on weekends—don’t worry, it’s not dangerous (mostly). The owners let me pick out books sometimes instead of pay, so I’ve been learning a lot. They also made me a portkey when they found out I get to work the muggle way. Have you ever taken one? I wish I didn’t have to!

What’s it like where you live? Do you have a favourite part of the house?

Your friend,
Harry

Dear Evan,
It must be exciting to work in a magical shop. I imagine it smells like dragon scales and old books. Have you seen any Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the alley? They like dark places. Daddy says they can be found if you believe in them enough.

Our house is full of strange things. There’s a room with a chandelier made of dirigible plums, and I like sitting under it because it makes everything feel brighter. You should come see it someday.

Love,
Luna

~

Alongside Lunas letters, Harry’s weekends with Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard were some of the happiest moments of his year. Oddments and Obscurities was a treasure trove of the strange and forgotten. From enchanted mirrors to cursed lockets, every item had a story, and Harry revelled in uncovering them.

The Pritchard’s were strict but fair. They expected hard work, but they also taught him valuable lessons about the magical world.

“Magic isn’t just spells and potions,” Mr. Pritchard said one day as he showed Harry how to identify a cursed artifact. “It’s history, intent, and, most of all, understanding the balance between what is and what could be.”

On another occasion, Mrs. Pritchard handed him a dusty tome with gilded edges. “This one’s been sitting here for years,” she said. “If you want it, consider it part of your pay. It’s not every day someone so young has such an appetite for knowledge.”

The book, Ancient Enchantments and Their Origins, became one of Harry’s most prized possessions.

Despite his growing knowledge and skills, the year wasn’t without its challenges. Learning magic in secret was exhausting, and the Dursleys’ disdain for him remained a constant weight.

One evening, Dudley cornered him in the hallway.

“Still hiding, freak?” he sneered.

Harry raised his hand and let a tiny spark crackle between his fingers. Dudley’s eyes widened, and he stumbled backward. “Stay away from me!” Dudley yelped, running off.

That should keep him quiet for a while, Harry thought, though he couldn’t shake the lingering sadness that came with every reminder of his isolation.

Luna’s letters became Harry’s lifeline during the hardest days. Her whimsical nature and unwavering kindness gave him hope, even when things felt bleak.

Dear Luna,
Thank you for your last letter. You always know how to make me smile. I wish I could visit your house, but I think the Dursleys would lock me in the cupboard for a year if I asked.

Have you ever felt like you don’t belong anywhere? Sometimes I feel like that, even though I know there’s a world out there waiting for me.

Your friend,
Evan

Dear Harry,
I think we all belong somewhere, even if it takes a while to find it. Maybe you haven’t found your place yet, but you will. I know it.

Daddy says the stars know where we belong. Maybe you should look at them sometime and ask them. They’re very good listeners.

Love,
Luna

~

The patch of woods near Privet Drive was quiet, the kind of stillness that pressed against Harry’s ears and made the world feel far away. The Dursleys were fast asleep, and Mrs. Figg’s sharp eyes were locked behind her curtains. It was the perfect night for an escape.

Harry lay flat on his back on a soft patch of grass, his arms folded behind his head. The stars above sparkled like diamonds scattered across the black velvet of the sky. Flick was curled by his side, his scales glinting faintly in the moonlight, while the Old One rested coiled near his feet, her movements deliberate and slow, as if savouring the peace of the night.

Luna’s words from her last letter echoed in his mind…the stars know where we belong. Maybe you should look at them sometime and ask them.

Taking a deep breath, Harry whispered, “Do you think she’s right? That they know where we belong?”

The Old One’s voice came first, low and ancient like the creak of old wood. “The stars have watched over this world longer than we have slithered through it. If there is wisdom in them, it is theirs to share or not.”

Flick flicked his tongue and chimed in. “I don’t know about wisdom, but they’re nice to look at. Do you really think they could tell you where to go?”

Harry smiled faintly. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?”

He stared at the sky for a long moment, letting the cool breeze play over his face. Then, almost without thinking, he raised his hand and summoned a tiny, flickering spark of magic. The golden light danced on his palm, like a firefly caught in the curve of his fingers.

“Do you want to hear a story?” he asked, his voice soft and thoughtful.

“Alwaysss”, Flick replied, curling closer to him.

Harry twirled the spark with his fingers, letting it stretch and shape itself into a glowing figure. A man with a bow appeared, aiming an arrow into the sky.

“This is Orion,” Harry began. “He’s said to be the son of Poseidon, god of the seas. He was a great hunter. Some say he was so proud of his skills that he boasted he could kill any animal on Earth. Gaia, Mother Earth, didn’t like that and she sent forth a great scorpion to stop him.”

The sparks shifted, becoming a scorpion that lunged at Orion.

“He fought bravely, but in the end, the scorpion won.” Harry paused, his voice quieter now. “The gods put him in the stars, though. Maybe they didn’t hate him after all. They also put the scorpion in the stars and whenever Scorpius appears, Orion hides away.”

The Old One’s tongue flickered. “Pride is dangerous, even for gods. But to honour an enemy in the stars... That speaks of respect.”

Harry nodded, moving his fingers to create another scene. This time, the spark became a large bear with a smaller bear beside it.

“These are Ursa Major and Ursa Minor,” he said. “They’re supposed to be a mother and her son. The story goes that the mother was once a human woman. Zeus fell in love with her, but his wife got jealous and turned her into a bear.”

The light shifted again, showing a hunter with a spear.

“Years later, her son grew up and became a hunter. He didn’t know the bear was his mother, so he almost killed her.”

Flick let out a hiss of disapproval. “Humans have strange stories.”

Harry laughed softly. “You’re not wrong. Anyway, the god who loved her saved her by putting her and later her cub in the stars. That way, no one could ever hurt them again.”

The Old One’s voice came again, quieter this time. “Pain and transformation. The stars are full of such stories.”

Harry stared at the sky, his magic fading as he let the spark dissolve into the night. “Do you think the stars ever feel lonely? They’re so far apart, so... distant.”

“Perhaps they do,” the Old One replied. “Or perhaps they find comfort in their purpose, in watching over those below.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the thought. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. Like I’m just floating, waiting for something to happen. Do you think the stars know where I belong?”

Flick nudged his arm gently with his snout. “You belong with us right now. Isn’t that enough?”

Harry smiled, his heart warming at his words. “Yeah, it is. Thanks, Flick.”

He looked back at the stars, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if you do know where I belong... please, just give me a sign. I’ll be waiting.”

The three of them stayed there in silence, watching the stars until Harry’s eyes grew heavy with sleep. For the first time in a long while, he felt a quiet sense of peace, as though the universe itself had leaned down to listen.

~

Harry’s control over fire and water had grown steadily over the months, becoming second nature. In the evenings, while the Dursleys sat oblivious in the living room, Harry would practice in the quiet corners of the forest or in the hidden clearing he had claimed as his own.

He would call forth a flame and cradle it in his palm, feeling its warmth and being unburnt each time. With time, he taught it to dance across his fingers, twirling like a fiery ribbon. Flick often watched from a rock nearby, the old snake’s tongue flicking in approval.

“Your flames listen to you now, little fire-tamer,” Flick observed one evening as Harry extinguished a glowing orb of fire with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Harry grinned. “They do, don’t they? It’s like they’re alive, like they trust me.”

Water was trickier but no less satisfying. Harry found himself drawn to the small stream that wound its way through the forest. Kneeling by its edge, he practiced lifting large orbs of water, shaping them into animals and holding them aloft before letting them fall back into the stream with a soft splash.

Once, emboldened by his progress, Harry managed to freeze the surface of the stream for a moment, the icy pattern spreading like a spider’s web. Flick hissed in awe, his eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight.

Harry’s journey into the magic of earth began with curiosity and a sense of reverence. He had watched plants sway in the breeze, their quiet strength rooted in the soil, and wondered if he could coax them to grow.

In the clearing where he practiced, Harry knelt one afternoon, his hands pressed against the cool ground. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his magic, imagining the meadow blooming with vibrant wildflowers.

At first, nothing happened. The earth beneath his fingers remained stubbornly still, the meadow quiet and unchanging. Frustrated, Harry stood and brushed off his hands. “Guess I’m not ready for this yet,” he muttered.

“Look back, little flame,” Flick said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness.

Harry turned. His breath caught in his throat. The meadow was slowly transforming before his eyes. Shoots of green emerged from the soil, unfurling into delicate wildflowers of every colour. The sight was breathtaking.

Encouraged by his success, Harry began experimenting further. He bought a small pouch of seeds from the market in Diagon Alley, sneaking them into the forest in the dead of night. He planted them in a secluded spot near the stream, pouring his magic into the soil as he covered the seeds with earth.

At first, progress was slow. Harry would visit the spot daily, willing the seeds to sprout. When tiny green shoots finally emerged, he felt a rush of pride. Over the following weeks, he learned to channel his magic in a steady, nurturing flow, watching as his little garden grew.

By late spring, Harry’s secluded garden was thriving. He had managed to grow an assortment of vegetables—small carrots, leafy greens, and even a few plump tomatoes.

“Why toil under the thumb of those Dursleys when you can feed yourself?” Flick remarked one evening as Harry plucked a handful of ripe cherry tomatoes.

Harry chuckled, popping one into his mouth. The sweet burst of flavour was more satisfying than anything he’d ever tasted from the Dursleys’ kitchen. “This is the best thing I’ve ever done,” he admitted, gazing at his garden with a mix of pride and awe.

The forest became Harry’s sanctuary, a place where he could explore the deeper mysteries of his magic. He learned to sense the heartbeat of the earth beneath his bare feet, the pulse of life in the trees around him and hated putting shoes back on breaking that connection when it was time to leave.

One afternoon, he placed his hands against the trunk of an old oak, willing his magic to flow into the tree. He imagined its branches stretching higher, its roots delving deeper into the soil. When he opened his eyes, he thought he could see a faint glow around the tree, as if it were responding to his efforts.

“You are learning to listen to the earth, little flame,” Flick said, coiled nearby.

Harry smiled, his heart swelling with a quiet pride.

After school, he spent hours tending to his plants, experimenting with his magic, and even practicing carving runes into small stones to protect his garden from curious animals.

With each passing day, Harry felt more connected to his magic and to the world around him. The quiet strength of the earth and the vibrant life of his garden reminded him that he was capable of creating something beautiful.

~

Harry hadn’t thought about his glasses until Mrs. Figg’s sharp eyes lingered on him one afternoon not long after he took the potion.

“Your glasses look a bit too clean these days,” she said, squinting at him over her knitting.

Harry forced a grin and pushed the glasses up his nose, thankful for the charm he’d found in Practical Glamours for the Discerning Wizard. The glasses were no longer prescription—they were plain glass—but they served their purpose well enough to keep Mrs. Figg from prying further.

The glamour charm is brilliant, he thought. He’d carefully turned the old lenses into clear glass and added a subtle charm to make them appear slightly smudged at the edges, just like before. The hardest part had been enchanting them so they’d always sit slightly crooked on his face. No one would believe I suddenly got new glasses, he had reasoned.

Still, wearing the glasses felt strange now, he took them off when in the magical world but that was only the weekends. They reminded him of how much he’d struggled to see the world clearly for so many years. Maybe they’re not really for seeing, he mused, adjusting them in the mirror. Maybe they’re for hiding.

That evening, Harry wrote another letter to Luna.

Dear Luna,
Have you ever had to hide something important about yourself? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. It feels like I’m always hiding—my magic, what I’m learning, even my own face. I had to find a spell to make my glasses look like they used to because there’s someone who would notice if they didn’t.

Do you think hiding is bad? Sometimes it feels like the only thing keeping me safe.

Your friend,
Evan

Luna’s reply arrived a day day later, tied with a ribbon that smelled faintly of lavender.

Dear Evan,
Hiding isn’t bad, especially if it helps you stay safe. But I think you shouldn’t have to hide forever. One day, you won’t need the glasses or the spells. One day, you’ll find people who love you just as you are.

Mummy says that secrets are like seeds. If you plant them too deep, they won’t grow. But if you give them a little light, they can turn into the most beautiful things.

Love,
Luna

~

Harry’s weekends at Oddments and Obscurities continued to be the highlight of his weeks. Mr. Pritchard had taken to calling him “the little scavenger” because of his knack for finding hidden treasures among the shop’s cluttered shelves.

One Saturday, Harry stumbled across a dusty crate marked "To Be Discarded." Inside was a collection of enchanted glass objects—bottles, mirrors, and lenses—that no longer worked as intended.

“Why throw these away?” Harry asked as he held up a cracked lens that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Because they’re broken,” Mr. Pritchard said with a shrug. “Glass magic is tricky. Once it’s fractured, it’s hard to repair.”

Harry turned the lens over in his hands. “What if it’s not about repairing it? What if it’s about finding a new way to use it?”

Mr. Pritchard raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “You’ve got a sharp mind, Evan. Take it, then. See what you can do with it.”

Over the next week, Harry experimented with the lens, using it as a makeshift scrying glass. Though it didn’t work perfectly, he managed to coax faint, blurry images to appear—glimpses of places he didn’t recognise but couldn’t stop staring at. He thought he saw a baby with blue hair, then it would suddenly shift into what looked like a raging sea. He didn’t know what to make of it but wrote it in his journal anyway.

~

The Dursleys remained still oblivious to most of Harry’s changes, though again, Vernon needed a reminder to keep his hands to himself.

One particularly tense evening, Vernon had stormed into the kitchen, furious about a letter he’d received at work. “What’s this world coming to, eh? Can’t even get a decent raise anymore!” he bellowed, slamming his fists on the table.

Harry froze, his heart pounding as Vernon’s angry eyes settled on him. “What are you staring at, boy?”

“I—I wasn’t staring,” Harry said quickly, trying to back away.

Vernon’s meaty hand shot out, grabbing Harry by the collar. But before he could lift him off the ground, the air around Harry pulsed with a faint hum of magic. Vernon’s grip loosened, his face going pale as if an invisible force had pressed against him.

“Go to your room!” Vernon barked, releasing him abruptly.

Harry obeyed, but as he shut the cupboard door behind him, he felt a small surge of satisfaction. You’re not in charge anymore, he thought.

~

Throughout the year, Harry had grown used to the busy rhythm of life. He was able to meet Luna in Diagon Alley every couple of weeks after work most times. It was an escape he looked forward to, a pocket of calm and light in his strange and often lonely life. Luna would always have something new to show him—a peculiar beetle she had found, a story about Wrackspurts, or a trinket her father had picked up during his travels.

One chilly November afternoon, Harry was standing by Flourish and Blotts when he saw Luna skipping toward him, her mismatched socks peeking out from beneath her winter cloak.

"You're here!" she said cheerfully, her wide eyes shining.

"Of course I’m here," Harry replied with a grin. "I wouldn’t miss our day."

Luna’s cheeks turned pink with the cold, or perhaps with happiness. “Daddy says you can come to our house today. Mama will take us back after lunch!”

Harry blinked, surprised. "Your house? Are you sure? I mean... I don’t want to impose."

Luna tilted her head in her usual dreamy way. “You’re not imposing, Evan. You’re my friend.”

That simple word hit Harry harder than he expected. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. “Okay, then. I’d like that.”

Pandora Lovegood was waiting for them outside of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, her long hair swept back into a loose braid. She greeted Harry warmly and guided them to the Floo Network point. Harry had never used the Floo before, and Pandora gave him a quick tutorial before they all stepped into the green flames.

They tumbled out into a whimsical home that smelled of baked bread and herbs. The walls were covered in paintings of creatures Harry couldn’t identify, and shelves brimming with books tilted at precarious angles. A large dirigible plum plant hung upside down near the ceiling, its bright orange fruits adding pops of colour to the room.

Lunch was simple but hearty—vegetable stew with freshly baked bread. Harry felt content as he sat at the Lovegood table, listening to Luna and her father chatter about magical creatures and odd theories. Pandora occasionally chimed in, her laughter ringing like bells.

“This is nice,” Harry said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Pandora smiled at him. “You’re welcome here anytime, Evan.”

After lunch, Luna introduced Harry to several magical games. One involved enchanted gobstones that squirted glitter instead of the usual foul-smelling liquid. Another was a wizarding version of tag, where they used small, enchanted brooms to chase glowing orbs around the house.

Harry found himself laughing more than he had in years. Luna’s laughter was infectious, and her delight at winning (and occasionally losing) made the games all the more fun.

“You’re good at this,” Luna said, beaming as Harry caught the final glowing orb.

Harry grinned. “Beginner’s luck, probably.”

“No,” Luna said thoughtfully. “I think you’re good at seeing things other people miss.”

Later, Pandora led them down to her workshop. The room was cluttered with half-finished experiments, jars of strange substances, and intricate orbs that glowed faintly in the dim light. On one table, an old book lay open to a page about the Oracle of Delphi.

“This,” Pandora said, gesturing to the workshop, “is where I do my research. Some of it’s about magical creatures, but a lot of it is about divination and oracles.”

“Like the Oracle of Delphi?” Harry asked, staring at the book.

Pandora nodded. “Exactly. Our family is descended from those who served at Delphi. It’s said that some of their gifts passed down to us, though they show up differently in each generation.”

Harry glanced at Luna, who was inspecting a glowing orb with fascination. “Does that mean Luna...?”

Pandora smiled. “Luna sees the world differently, doesn’t she? Sometimes she notices things others can’t. It’s a gift, but it can be a lonely one.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He looked at Luna and said firmly, “She’s not alone. Not anymore.”

Pandora looked at him eyes softening and knowing.

“Thank you, Evan.”

As the afternoon drew to a close, Harry hesitated. He thought about all the kindness the Lovegoods had shown him and about how much he trusted Luna.

“Luna,” he said quietly as they sat by the fireplace, waiting for Pandora to take him back to Diagon Alley. “I need to tell you something.”

Luna tilted her head, her silver hair catching the firelight. “What is it?”

“My name isn’t Evan,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

Luna didn’t look shocked. Instead, she smiled faintly, as if she’d already known.

“That’s okay,” she said. “You can be Evan and Harry. You didn’t have to tell me, but I’m glad you did.”

“Are you mad?” Harry asked nervously.

Luna shook her head. “Why would I be mad? We all have secrets.”

Harry felt a wave of relief and smiled. “Thank you. I... I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you before.”

Luna reached out and took his hand, her grip warm and steady and her gaze knowing. “We’ll be friends forever, Harry.”

As Pandora led him back to Diagon Alley later that evening, Harry felt lighter than he had in a long time.

~

Life with Luna had become a steady rhythm of shared learning and exploration. They met as often as Harry could manage without raising suspicion, their bond deepening through experiences and the languages they were teaching each other each other.

Luna’s soft, sing-song voice guided Harry through the complex twists of ancient Greek. They sat in the quiet corners of bookstores or the sunny tables at Florean Fortescue’s, notebooks spread before them. Luna’s explanations often came with whimsical stories and songs about the gods or ancient myths.

“Ancient Greek and other ancient languages are more than just words,” she said one afternoon as she helped Harry conjugate a verb. “It’s magic in itself. They left pieces of their power in the language.”

Harry found himself enchanted by the way Luna spoke, her hands weaving shapes in the air as she described a myth or explained the roots of a word.

In turn, Harry shared his own learning. His French was rusty and his Latin hesitant, but Luna didn’t seem to mind. They stumbled through conversations, laughing when they mispronounced words or accidentally said something nonsensical.

“Harry,” Luna said one day in hesitant French, “tu es mon meilleur ami.”

Harry blinked. “You’re my best friend too,” he replied in English, unable to find the words in French. Luna smiled as though his answer in any language was enough.

In early March, everything changed.

~

Harry hadn’t seen Luna in two weeks, and her usual cheery letters had stopped coming. He wrote again and again, his worry growing with each unanswered letter. Finally, unable to bear the silence, he decided to use the Floo in the Leaky Cauldron to check on her.

He stumbled out of the fireplace into the Lovegood living room, the scene before him making his stomach sink. The house, usually so alive with colour and warmth, was eerily quiet. The air was heavy with sorrow, and the smell of stale alcohol lingered.

Xenophilius Lovegood lay slumped on the couch, an empty bottle clutched in his hand. His robes were dishevelled, his face pale and gaunt.

“Mr. Lovegood?” Harry called softly. There was no response.

He turned toward the door leading to Pandora’s workshop, which hung slightly ajar. Steeling himself, Harry pushed it open.

Luna sat amid the wreckage, surrounded by shattered glass and the remnants of her mother’s last experiment. Her pale hair was tangled, and her wide eyes stared blankly at the floor.

“Luna,” Harry whispered, stepping cautiously into the room.

She didn’t look up.

Harry crouched in front of her, his heart breaking at the sight of her tear-streaked face. “Luna, it’s me. It’s Harry.”

Her gaze shifted to him slowly, as if dragging herself out of a deep fog. “She’s gone,” Luna said in a voice so quiet it was barely audible. “Mama’s gone.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something comforting, something to take away her pain, but the words wouldn’t come. The thought of kind, loving Pandora being gone felt unreal. Instead, he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently.

Luna’s lip trembled. “I saw it happen. The explosion. She was trying to show me something important she said, and then... she wasn’t there anymore.”

Harry pulled her into a hug, his own tears threatening to fall. “I’m so sorry, Luna. I’m so, so sorry.”

They sat like that for what felt like hours, the silence broken only by Luna’s quiet sobs.

When Luna finally pulled back, her expression was distant, her eyes unfocused. “I see things more now,” she murmured. “Since Mama died. It’s like... like the world is whispering secrets to me.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Luna hesitated, then pointed to the shards of a broken orb on the floor. “Mama used to say that we had pieces of the Oracle’s gift. I think... I think losing her woke something up in me. I hear things, feel things, like echoes of what’s to come.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” Luna admitted. “But mostly it’s just... strange.”

Harry took her hand again. “We’ll figure it out. Together. You’re not alone in this, Luna. I promise.”

Luna gave him a small, tremulous smile. “Thank you, Harry.”

Over the next few hours, Harry did what he could to help. He cleared the shattered remains of Pandora’s experiment while Luna sat quietly, occasionally murmuring fragments of Greek under her breath.

Before leaving, Harry found a blanket and draped it over Xenophilius, who hadn’t stirred since Harry arrived. Then he returned to Luna, who was staring out the window at the darkening sky.

“Will you be okay?” Harry asked softly.

Luna nodded slowly. “I think so. But I’m glad you came.”

Harry hesitated, then leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re my best friend, Luna. I’ll always be here for you.”

Luna smiled faintly, her eyes looked at him with unshed tears. “I know.”

As Harry stepped back into the Floo and returned to the Leaky Cauldron, he felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. Luna had lost so much, but he vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to be there for her.

~

Luna hadn’t been herself since Pandora’s death. Though months had passed, the light that made Luna uniquely Luna seemed dimmed, like a candle struggling against a draft. Harry noticed it in the way her eyes often drifted to places unseen, the way her laughter had become quieter, more wistful.

Their letters had grown sparse after Pandora’s accident, but Harry didn’t push her. When she finally began writing again, her words were tinged with a fragile honesty:

I feel like the stars aren’t singing to me anymore, Harry. It’s as if they’ve gone quiet, waiting for me to understand something I don’t yet know.

Luna’s father had grown more withdrawn, burying himself in the depths of his study or disappearing for days at a time. He would emerge occasionally, dishevelled and muttering, before retreating again. Luna tried to keep their home in order, but Harry could see the strain in her.

“Do you think he’ll ever come back to himself?” Luna asked one afternoon as they sat in her back garden, Luna playing with a centipede, looking forlorn and harry braiding the last of her hair into a plait and pinning it like a crown.

Harry glanced at her, unsure of how to answer. Luna looked small and far too fragile, her usual ethereal air replaced by something heavy.

“I think it might take time,” Harry said carefully. “Grief… it doesn’t just go away. But you’re not alone, Luna. You have me.”

She turned to him with a faint smile, her silver-blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

“Promise?”

“Always.”

~

Over the months, Harry had introduced Luna to the hidden world of Knockturn Alley, where he worked part-time for the Pritchard’s. He had given her a set of rune stones enchanted to create a veil of shadows, similar to the spell he often used.

“All you have to do is activate them like this,” Harry had shown her, placing the stones in her hand and murmuring a word in Old Norse. The runes glowed faintly before dimming, and a soft shimmer surrounded her. “Now you’re invisible to anyone who isn’t looking for you specifically.”

Luna’s eyes had widened with fascination. “You’re quite clever, Evan.”

She began visiting him at the shop on weekends, slipping through Knockturn Alley unnoticed. The Pritchard’s, while initially wary of Luna’s dreamy demeanour, quickly warmed to her.

“She’s a bit… odd, but in a good way,” Mrs. Pritchard had confided to Harry one evening. “Respectful and polite, that one. Just make sure she doesn’t wander off into trouble.”

Luna often helped Harry organise shelves or clean, her humming filling the small shop. Between customers, they would practice their languages—Harry improving his Ancient Greek and Luna learning Latin and French.

“You’re getting better,” Harry said one afternoon as Luna flawlessly translated a line of Latin text.

“I’ve had a good teacher,” she replied with a shy smile.

~

July 30th arrived with an unexpected sense of joy. Luna, ever thoughtful despite her own struggles, had decided to celebrate Harry’s birthday early. She met him at Oddments and Obscurities with a small cake carefully wrapped in a box and a beaming smile.

“I couldn’t let your special day go unnoticed,” she said, placing the box on the shop counter. “It’s vanilla, your favourite, isn’t it?”

Harry blinked, touched by her thoughtfulness. “It is. How did you know?” 

She shrugged with a mysterious grin. “I guessed.”

Mr. Pritchard chuckled from the back of the shop. “We’ll close early today. Go on, you two. Celebrate properly.”

They found a quiet corner of Diagon Alley near a small park where the bustle of the crowds faded into the background. Luna pulled out the cake, and he lit the candles with a discreet flick of his finger, then Luna started singing “Happy Birthday” in her soft, lilting voice.

Harry felt his cheeks flush. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had celebrated his birthday—if ever.

“Make a wish,” Luna urged, her smile radiant.

He closed his eyes, the warmth of the candles brushing against his face. I wish for this feeling to last—a friend, happiness, and the chance to keep growing stronger.

He blew out the candles, and Luna clapped her hands.

As they packed up the remnants of the birthday cake, Luna turned to Harry, her gaze searching. “Do you ever feel like you’re carrying something you can’t share with anyone?”

Harry stilled, her words hitting closer to home than she could know. He hesitated, then nodded. “All the time.”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You don’t have to tell me everything, Evan. But I hope you know I’d understand. I can't share everything either, but I'll try my best.”

He glanced at her, his chest tightening with the weight of his own secrets.

That evening, as they parted ways, Harry felt lighter than he had in years. Luna had given him something precious: a place to belong, even if only in her company.

“You’re my best friend, you know,” Luna said as they stood at the edge of the alley, her voice as soft as a whisper.

Harry smiled, his heart swelling with gratitude. “You’re mine too.”

                    8 Year Old Luna

(I love Evanna Lynch as Luna but I could 100% see Luna in Helaena from HOTD)

Chapter Text

The approaching milestone of his eleventh birthday filled Harry with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. His Hogwarts letter would come in a year’s time, but he wasn’t sure how to approach the inevitable. Facing the Wizarding World as himself, and with Dumbledore the Headmaster of Hogwarts it was also inevitable that he would meet the man who was keeping such close watch on him.

Should he act as though he knew nothing about magic, playing the naive child Mrs. Figg and the Dursleys thought him to be? Or should he take control of his life, embracing the magic that had become second nature to him over the past few years? It was difficult because the night his parents died put a limelight on him that he truly didn’t need. Even now the witches and wizards spoke in awe of the Boy Who Lived, as if hes some mysterious hero.

To distract from the topic, Harry immersed himself in books. Among the many tomes he borrowed from Oddments and Obscurities, one in particular caught his attention: The Ancient and Noble Houses of Britain: A Genealogical Exploration.

The Potter name appeared in a chapter detailing the oldest pureblood families. Harry read with wide eyes, absorbing every detail:

The House of Potter is among the most ancient and noble of wizarding lineages, tracing its roots back to the Peverells through Ignotus, the youngest brother. Renowned for their wisdom and magical prowess, the Potters have held seats on the Wizengamot and have contributed significantly to advancements in magical medicine and defensive spells.

Harry’s fingers tightened on the page as he read on.

Though the family has maintained its fortune and treasures for centuries, its influence has waned in recent generations due to its progressive stance on Muggle integration and the war with Grindelwald. The Potters’ primary vaults remain among the oldest in Gringotts, safeguarded by enchantments and goblin protections.

The word “vaults” sent Harry’s thoughts spinning. Did that mean there was still a fortune, untouched and waiting?

The book offered little guidance on the specifics of how one might reclaim their heritage. It mentioned the existence of family grimoires, heirlooms, and magical properties tied to ancient houses, but nothing concrete.

For the first time, Harry wondered if he had any family left. The book made no mention of other living Potters, but what if someone had been overlooked, the book was a bit dated after all? His fingers brushed the page, lingering on the crest of the Potter family: a dragon rising from a wand entwined with vines and the motto: In igne formatum, per honorem temperatum.

Forged in fire, tempered by honour. Appropriate, he thought, thinking of the element he first learnt to control.

That weekend, Harry brought the topic to Luna as they sat in a quiet corner of the Pritchard’s’ shop. She listened intently, her expression dreamy but focused.

“I read about my family in a book,” Harry began hesitantly. “The Potters. It said they were an ancient and noble house. Do you know what that means?”

Luna tilted her head, her silver-blue eyes glimmering with curiosity. “It means you’re part of something very old, like the roots of a great tree that stretches across the ages. Ancient houses they carry power, but also responsibility.”

Harry frowned, her words both clarifying and mystifying. “The book said there might be vaults at Gringotts. Do you think I could access them?”

Luna’s gaze drifted as if she were looking at something far away. “You could. But you must be careful. Inheritance magic is ancient and binding.”

Her tone grew more cryptic as she continued, her voice lilting like a chant. “The Potters descend from the House of Peverell, the House of Death. Do you know the story of the three brothers, Evan?”

He nodded, recalling the tale she had told him months ago.

“The youngest brother, Ignotus, was clever. He didn’t seek power or immortality, only peace. But the House of Death walks a fine line. There are secrets hidden in your blood, Harry. Secrets that the Phoenix watches closely. Because with Death comes Life, and all those who covet it.” She seemed to be stuck in a haze as she said this.

Harry blinked. “The Phoenix? What do you mean? Luna, are you okay?”

Luna shook herself, her gaze turning back to him. “The Phoenix burns away in lies and shadows. If you seek your heritage now, it will notice. And it will want to know why.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine. “How do I even start?”

“I think theres a way,” she said softly. “An inheritance test at Gringotts. It will tell you everything—your lineage, your vaults, and your magic. Wait until you get your Hogwarts letter, and it will be safer.”

Lunas gift truly has become more powerful since her mother’s death. Harry vowed to try and find something to help her before it takes its toll.

~

That night, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, Luna’s words echoing in his mind. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all.

If the Potters were so important, why had no one come for him? Why had he been left with the Dursleys, unloved and forgotten? Did his parents’ death sever all ties to their world.

The mention of the Phoenix unnerved him. Luna always spoke in riddles, but her insights were rarely wrong, especially since pandoras death. Who—or what—was watching him? He only knew of Dumbledore watching him…Dumbledore…sitting up suddenly, his thoughts turning to back to the book about houses…a phoenix. The Dumbledore crest has a phoenix on it.

It made a feeling of dread rush through him. Maybe he’s just overthinking this.

Wanting to think about something less daunting, his mind drifted to the possibility of family vaults. If he could claim his heritage, he might gain the resources to take control of his life. He wouldn’t have to rely on odd jobs in Knockturn Alley. He could prepare for Hogwarts, for the future, on his terms and away from the Dursleys.

The following day, Harry returned to the Pritchards’ shop with renewed determination. During a quiet moment, he slipped away to the small backroom where he kept his personal books and notes. Pulling out a scrap of parchment, he began to sketch a plan of what to research and how.

As he wrote, Flick perched on his shoulder, peering at the parchment with a curious flick of his tongue.

“You think this is a good idea?” Harry asked, glancing at the serpent.

Flick tilted his head. “Your heritage is your right, little speaker. But even I can sense the weight of it. Do not be hasty.”

For the next few weeks, Harry threw himself into research. He scoured the Pritchards’ collection for anything on magical inheritances, bloodlines, and the Potter family. Luna, ever eager to help, brought him an old book on magical genealogy she’d found in her father’s study.

By the end of August, Harry would feel more prepared. He didn’t have all the answers, but he had a direction. The next step would be venturing into Gringotts to request the test.

For now, he kept Luna’s cryptic warning close to heart. The Phoenix might be watching, but Harry Potter was determined to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

~

The Pritchards’ shop had been busier than usual, and Harry was more than happy to get away from Knockturn Alley for the day. The customers had been unusually unpleasant, and the weight of their sneers and comments had followed him home like a dark cloud.

Back at Privet Drive, the Dursleys were also in a particularly foul mood, Vernon muttering under his breath about “that boy” while Petunia slammed pots and pans in the kitchen. Dudley, as always, had contributed by stealing the remote to ensure no one else could touch the television and annoying Vernon even more.

Harry couldn’t stand it anymore.

Grabbing his satchel and throwing on a cloak, he slipped out of the cupboard and made his way to the Lovegoods home. He didn’t bother with subtlety this time; he just needed to be somewhere else. Taking his portkey to the shop, he floo’d to Lunas.

The Lovegood house was as whimsical as ever, its mismatched towers and circular windows giving it an otherworldly charm. Harry knocked on the door and waited.

When it opened, it wasn’t Mr. Lovegood who greeted him, but Luna. She stood there in her mismatched socks and a jumper that looked hand-knit, her usual dreamy expression brightening when she saw him.

“Evan!” she said, beaming. “Come in.”

Harry stepped inside, the warmth of the house washing over him. The scent of lavender and something vaguely metallic lingered in the air.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, setting his satchel down.

“Not at all,” Luna replied, leading him into the kitchen. “Daddy’s not here. He’s on an expedition.”

Harry blinked. “An expedition? For how long?”

“A month,” Luna said casually, as if this was entirely normal. She began filling the kettle with water.

Harry frowned. “And you’re here by yourself?”

Luna nodded, setting the kettle on the stove and turning to him. “It’s not so bad. I’ve got plenty to read, and the wrackspurts have been quiet lately.”

“Luna...” Harry began, his voice tinged with concern. “Who’s looking after you? What about food?”

She tilted her head, as though the question puzzled her. “Daddy left some money for groceries. I’ve been managing. He said to floo Mrs. Weasley if I needed anything.”

Managing? Harry’s chest tightened at the thought of her alone in this big, eccentric house for weeks, relying on herself to get by.

“Luna, that’s not right,” he said firmly. “You shouldn’t have to—”

She interrupted him with a small smile. “It’s alright, Evan. I’m used to it. Daddy’s always been like this. He gets very excited about his work.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re nine, Luna. You shouldn’t have to take care of yourself. And it might have been okay before, but your mot-”  He paused not wanting to upset her and he felt a bit hypocritical considering hes been taking care of himself all these years. “It’s just not okay.”

Her smile faltered slightly, and for a moment, he saw the loneliness behind her usual dreamy demeanour.

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon helping her clean up the house. They fixed a wobbly chair, organized the cluttered kitchen, and Harry taught her how to prepare a proper meal. As they worked, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it was. Luna deserved better than this.

After they sat down to eat, he leaned back in his chair, his resolve hardening.

“Luna,” he said gently, “I’m going to check in on you. Every weekend, if I can. And if you need anything—anything at all—you tell me, alright?”

She looked at him, her wide eyes shimmering with something he couldn’t quite place.

 “But you shouldn’t worry so much. I’m stronger than I look,” she said softly.

“Even the strongest people need help sometimes,” he replied.

She didn’t argue, instead offering him a small, grateful smile.

That evening, as Harry walked back toward the Leaky Cauldron, he couldn’t shake the image of Luna alone in that big house. The thought gnawed at him, sparking a determination he couldn’t ignore.

No one had ever looked out for him before. But maybe he could do that for Luna. He could make sure she never felt as alone as he so often did.

~

A few days after Mr Lovegood came back from his expedition, Harry stood at the doorstep of the Lovegood home, his jaw set. Luna answered the door, her wide eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“Evan!” she said, stepping aside to let him in. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I needed to talk to your dad,” Harry said, his voice softer as he met her gaze.

Luna’s expression dimmed slightly, but she nodded. “He’s in his study. He doesn’t like being disturbed, though.”

Harry didn’t care. He found Xenophilius Lovegood hunched over his desk, scribbling notes on a parchment filled with nonsensical diagrams. The man barely glanced up when Harry entered.

“Mr. Lovegood,” Harry began, his tone firm but respectful. “I need to talk to you.”

Xeno waved a hand absently. “Later, boy, I’m in the middle of something important.”

“Later won’t cut it,” Harry snapped, his patience thinning and the term ‘boy’ rankling him further. “Luna’s been on her own for weeks. She’s barely eating, and you’re not here to see what’s happening to her.”

That got Xeno’s attention. He looked up, his pale eyes narrowing. “I provide for my daughter—”

“Do you?” Harry interrupted. “She’s been alone for days at a time because you’re off chasing who-knows-what. She’s grieving, Mr. Lovegood. She needs you.”

Xeno opened his mouth to argue, but Harry pressed on.

“You’re all she has left,” Harry said, his voice quieter but no less intense. “And if you can’t see that, then you’re letting her down. Do better.”

For a moment, Xeno looked as though he might lash out, but his shoulders sagged instead. He turned away, staring at his chaotic desk.

“I’ll... think about what you’ve said,” Xeno muttered.

Harry left the room, hoping his words had struck a chord.

~

Harry leafed through yet another thick tome, the dusty smell of aged parchment filling his nose. He was seated in the Pritchards’ back room, the cluttered space filled with stacks of unsorted magical artifacts. Flick lounged by the fire, his head resting near the flames, while Harry squinted at the latest chapter of Legends of the Noble Houses.

The Peverell section was disappointingly sparse—just a few paragraphs about their ancient ties to the Deathly Hallows and their supposed extinction over the centuries.

“Nothing,” Harry muttered, slamming the book shut in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, already mussed from hours of research. “It’s all bedtime stories. Bridges of trees and houses of death. No one ever mentions them like they’re real.”

The Pritchards had offered some help, but even their knowledge was limited. Mr. Pritchard suggested looking through old wizarding families’ archives, but without access to the Potter heir ring, Harry couldn’t even set foot in Potter Manor.

The bell above the shop door jingled, pulling Harry from his thoughts. Donning his persona of Evan, he pushed aside the books and stepped into the front room of Oddments and Obscurities.

A hag hovered near the shelves of cursed trinkets, her gnarled fingers tracing a dusty amulet. A goblin argued with Mrs. Pritchard about the price of a rare artifact. Harry quickly stepped behind the counter, his expression neutral but watchful.

The door opened again, and the atmosphere shifted. A tall, pale man in expensive robes entered, his cane clicking on the stone floor and his stark white hair tied back with a black bow.

“Ah,” The man drawled, his sharp eyes scanning the shop. “I believe my order is ready.”

“Your name, sir?”

With a curl of his lips he responded, “Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry nodded, retrieving a carefully wrapped package from behind the counter. He felt Malfoy’s gaze linger on him as he placed the package on the counter.

“You’re new,” Malfoy remarked, his voice smooth but laced with curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

“I’m just helping out,” Harry replied evenly.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Helping? Unusual for a boy your age to be working in such a... unique establishment. Who are your parents?”

“I’m an orphan,” Harry said simply, keeping his tone light but distant. “Never knew them.”

Malfoy’s lip curled slightly. “Ah, I see. A half-blood, then?”

Harry didn’t respond, pretending to adjust the package on the counter. Malfoy took his silence as confirmation and gave a faint sneer.

“Unfortunate,” Malfoy muttered, more to himself than Harry. He took the package, dropped a few coins on the counter, and swept out of the shop without another word.

Harry let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing. He had avoided giving anything away, but the encounter left him uneasy.

~

He was leisurely browsing a colourful stall selling enchanted trinkets—tiny figures of dragons that roared softly and miniature brooms zooming in tight circles—when the sound of a familiar voice froze him in place.

“Potter?”

The name was said with uncertainty, and Harry’s stomach clenched as he instantly recognized the voice of Dedalus Diggle. The excitable wizard had bowed to him once, years ago, when Harry was much younger and had no idea why a stranger would do such a thing. Also, the man that was in Mrs Figgs house so long ago.

His fingers tightened around a small, glowing orb he’d been inspecting. Thinking quickly, Harry set the orb down and ducked behind the stall, pressing himself against the wooden crates stacked there. His heart thudded as he swiftly cast his Veil of Shadows, his go-to charm for moments like this. The spell settled over him like a cloak, warping the light around him and making him appear as little more than a shadow to anyone nearby.

Moments later, Dedalus Diggle appeared, his purple top hat bobbing as he darted between shoppers. His head swivelled from side to side, scanning the bustling crowd.

“I could’ve sworn I saw him,” Diggle muttered, his voice tinged with both excitement and confusion. He adjusted his hat nervously and squinted down the alley, craning his neck to see past a group of witches examining cauldrons.

Harry stayed perfectly still, holding his breath as Diggle lingered near the stall, his eyes darting over the merchandise and the nearby shoppers. A few seconds passed, feeling like hours, before the wizard finally gave up with a sigh and wandered off, mumbling to himself about needing new spectacles.

Harry exhaled quietly, releasing the tension in his chest as he cautiously peeked out from behind the stall. Diggle was gone, but the adrenaline still coursed through him, making his hands tremble slightly.

He didn’t drop the Veil until he’d moved several streets away, weaving carefully through the crowd to ensure he wasn’t being followed. As he ducked into a quieter side alley near the apothecary, Harry leaned against a cool stone wall and took a deep breath.

That had been far too close.

He knew his decision to use the name Evan Birch and to mask his identity in the magical world was vital, but it was moments like this that reminded him how fragile that anonymity was. Someone like Diggle recognising him, even briefly, could unravel everything.

Back in the busier parts of Diagon Alley, Harry kept his hood up and avoided lingering near any stalls or shops for too long. The encounter had made him more cautious, his senses heightened as he scanned the crowd for familiar faces.

As he passed a window displaying enchanted telescopes, he thought grimly about how much he still didn’t know. He clenched his fists, feeling a wave of frustration.

It wasn’t just Diggle; it was the whole wizarding world. The idea of being "The Boy Who Lived" still felt surreal and distant, but to so many others, it was everything. They saw him as a symbol, a story—but not as a person.

Harry resolved to double down on his efforts to stay unnoticed. He needed more precautions, more layers of protection. He couldn't let a single slip-up expose him—not until he was ready to face that world on his terms.

Back at Privet Drive, Harry crouched behind the low garden wall bordering Mrs. Figg’s house, keeping as still as he could. His heart was pounding, though not from exertion—it was the tension of knowing he was eavesdropping on someone who was supposed to be his caretaker, at least in a superficial sense. The faint hum of her Floo conversation filtered out through the open window.

“…been home all day,” Figg was saying, her voice brisk but tinged with irritation.

The figure in the flames shifted, their face obscured by the green flicker of magical fire. Harry couldn’t hear their response, but Figg’s tone hardened as she continued.

“I’m keeping an eye on him. He’s quiet, but we can’t be too careful. If anything changes, I’ll inform Dumbledore immediately.”

Harry clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Dumbledore. It always came back to him, didn’t it?

“Are you certain you saw him?” Figg asked, her brows furrowing as she leaned closer to the fire.

The voice from the Floo grew more distinct, and Harry recognized it with a jolt—Dedalus Diggle.

“I was sure of it!” Diggle said earnestly. “In Diagon Alley, near a stall selling trinkets. It was only a glimpse, and he wasn’t wearing glasses or those rags, but—”

“He’s been here all day,” Figg cut him off, her tone clipped and final. “Either you saw someone else, or your eyes are playing tricks on you. Now, leave the boy to me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He’d made it back unnoticed, but only just. Still, the way Figg dismissed the possibility of him being anywhere but home stung, even if it worked in his favour.

The Floo connection ended with a soft swish. Figg stood and began bustling about, setting a kettle on the stove. Harry slipped away, careful not to disturb the gravel underfoot.

The next afternoon, Harry sat cross-legged in the patchy grass of the Dursleys’ front yard, fiddling with a stick and trying to look as aimless as possible. He needed to think, to plan his next move, but keeping up appearances was equally important.

He heard the telltale shuffle of Mrs. Figg’s orthopaedic shoes before she spoke.

“You’ve been out here a lot lately,” she said, her sharp eyes narrowing at him over the fence. “What exactly have you been doing all day?”

Harry glanced up, feigning confusion. “Just sitting, Mrs. Figg. There’s not much else to do.”

Her eyes scanned him, as if trying to uncover a lie. “Funny, I could’ve sworn you’d been up to something.”

He shrugged, keeping his expression blank. “Don’t have anywhere to go, do I?”

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she harrumphed. “Well, I suppose not.”

Harry forced a small smile.

She muttered something under her breath and shuffled back toward her house, leaving Harry to exhale slowly.

As he sat there, Harry glanced over at her house. He could almost feel her eyes on him, her suspicions lingering. He’d need to tread carefully around her, especially now that Diggle’s near-sighting had roused her attention.

Still, Harry couldn’t shake the anger simmering in his chest. Figg’s words to Diggle had been clear: Leave the boy to me. What gave Dumbledore or Figg the right to control his life like this?

~

The last weeks of July crept by, each day bringing Harry closer to a milestone he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to face. Eleven. It seemed like such a small number, yet the weight of it pressed heavily on his shoulders.

One night, Harry retreated to the sanctuary of his forest hideaway. The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting a soft silver light over the clearing. The stars above glittered like shards of glass, and Harry found himself staring at them, feeling both small and significant all at once.

Flick was curled beside him, his scales pressed against his side. The Old One lay nearby, perched on a low branch of a gnarled tree. Her golden eyes, as luminous as the stars themselves, watched him unblinkingly.

Harry had brought one of his favourite books—a worn volume filled with myths about the constellations—but it lay forgotten beside him. His thoughts were far too restless to focus on stories tonight.

“My birthday will come soon enough,” he murmured to himself, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of the tree.

The cool night air was a balm to his restless thoughts, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds of the forest around him. The rustling of leaves, the faint chirping of crickets, the rhythmic rise and fall of Flick’s breathing.

What would it be like to finally step into the world of magic as himself, and not just as "Evan Birch" or the shadowy figure lurking in Knockturn Alley?

Harry opened his eyes and looked up at the stars again, letting their vast, infinite beauty fill his vision.

Harry reached out and gently touched the worn cover of his constellation book. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers yet, but he knew one thing: he would face whatever came next with the same resolve he always had.

“Soon,” he whispered, stroking Flick’s scales absentmindedly, “I’ll take one step forward.”

~

The first light of dawn filtered through the thin curtains of Harry’s tiny bedroom. It was a Wednesday morning, and the rest of Privet Drive was still wrapped in the lazy quiet of early summer. But Harry was awake.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, stretching.

Harry was about to get up and start his usual routine when the sound of letters being pushed through the letter box startled him. Coming out of his cupboard, he approached the door and he noticed a thick envelope lying on the worn carpet.

Harry crouched by the door, picking up the envelope with careful fingers. It was heavy, the parchment rough beneath his touch. Written in emerald-green ink was his name:

Mr. Harry Potter
The cupboard under the stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging

His breath hitched. He turned the envelope over and saw a wax seal stamped with a crest—a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle surrounding a large "H."

He stared at it for a moment, his heart pounding.

He broke the seal with trembling hands and pulled out several pages of the same thick parchment. His eyes skimmed the contents, widening with each line:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Harry read the letter twice, his fingers gripping the parchment tightly. A strange mixture of vindication, relief, and dread swirled inside him.

He folded the letter carefully, placing it back into the envelope before standing. He needed to see the Dursleys' reaction. He knew Petunia was aware of Hogwarts and was probably expecting this, but did Vernon and Dudley know about it all too? He might as well get it out the way. After all, this presented him an opportunity.

In the kitchen, Vernon was seated at the table, a newspaper spread before him. Dudley was shovelling cereal into his mouth while Petunia fussed with the tea kettle. None of them noticed Harry at first as he walked in, holding the envelope at his side.

“What’s that?” Vernon grunted, catching sight of Harry from behind his paper.

Harry stepped forward and placed the letter on the table. “It’s for me.”

Petunia’s hand froze mid-pour. She turned, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the crest on the envelope. “Where did you get that?” she hissed.

“It came this morning,” Harry said calmly, though his voice was tight. “What do you know about it?”

Petunia’s face paled, her bony hands clutching the edge of the table. “Vernon,” she whispered, “it’s happening.” Well, that answered that question.

“What’s happening?” Harry asked sharply. “You’ve known about this, haven’t you?”

Petunia’s lips thinned, and she avoided his gaze. “We— We thought it might not—”

“Thought it might not what?” Harry demanded, his voice rising. “Happen? That I wouldn’t find out what I am?”

Petunia’s composure snapped. “You think we wanted this?” she spat. “You think we wanted to take in your kind? We were left no choice! Dropped you off like a bottle of milk with some letter saying to look after you. Look after you!”

Harry’s fists clenched. “So, what? You just decided to treat me like a servant instead?”

“We didn’t ask for any of this!” Petunia shouted, her face blotchy with anger. “We didn’t ask for you! We thought we could get rid of the magic in you!” That statement made Harrys magic pulse along with his anger, pressing down on the occupants of the kitchen.

“Enough, Petunia!” Vernon barked, but his face was pale, sweat beading on his brow from the way Harrys magic was pressing down on them. Vernon felt as if he would die at any moment. “The boy’s going to some… freak school, isn’t he? Let them deal with him now.”

Harry stood his ground, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

“I think I should get Dudley’s second bedroom, don’t you? After all, this letter is addressed to my cupboard, what would happen if they found out you put me there?"

Vernon made to argue, Dudley was coming out of the shock from Harrys magic but Petunia had enough sense to seethe at him in anger and spit, “fine! But you clear it out yourself and you never ask us for anything ever again!”

He wanted to say more, to unleash years of resentment, but a flicker of movement outside the window caught his eye.

Mrs. Figg was standing on her front lawn, watering her roses, but her gaze kept darting toward the Dursleys' open kitchen window. Harry swallowed his rage and forced himself to calm down. He couldn’t let her hear too much, couldn’t risk her reporting anything to Dumbledore.

“I’ll deal with it,” he said coldly, snatching the letter from the table.

Petunia glared at him, trying to hide her trembling, but Harry didn’t wait for a response. He turned and left, his mind racing.

Back in his cupboard, Harry sat on his bed, the letter clutched in his hands. Flick slithered up beside him, nuzzling his arm. He stroked his head absentmindedly, his thoughts tumbling over one another.

For now, though, he had a letter to respond to.

Harry grabbed a piece of plain parchment from his stash, dipped his quill into a bottle of ink, and began crafting his response. He carefully chose his words, ensuring he sounded like an overwhelmed, unknowing child:

Dear Professor McGonagall,

Thank you for the letter and the invitation to attend Hogwarts. I’m excited and a little nervous, as I’ve never been around other magical people before. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get to Diagon Alley for my school supplies or how to pay for them. Could you please let me know what to do?

Sincerely,
Harry Potter

He read the letter twice to ensure it didn’t give anything away. Satisfied, Harry sealed it in an envelope and went outside to summon an owl.

“Take this to Professor McGonagall,” he said softly, scratching the head of the owl that appeared. “And be careful.”

It gave a soft hoot and took off into the evening sky. Harry watched it disappear into the horizon, his mind spinning with plans.

Two days later, an owl returned with a letter. Harry untied the parchment and opened it with anticipation.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Thank you for your response. I understand your concerns and will come to collect you on the morning of the 27th of July to assist you in acquiring your school supplies. Please be ready by 10 a.m.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Harry folded the letter, his mind already working through the next step. He couldn’t let McGonagall—or anyone else—know just how much he already understood about magic.

For the next few days, Harry carefully crafted his appearance. He pulled out his old pair of oversized glasses, their lenses long since replaced with plain glass. The frames were bent, giving them a scruffy, well-worn look. His clothes—baggy hand-me-downs from Dudley—added to the image of a neglected child.

He took extra care to muss his hair and practiced a look of wide-eyed innocence in the cracked mirror of his new room. “Lost, confused, and utterly unremarkable,” he murmured to himself, satisfied with the effect.

~

On the morning of July 27th, Harry stood by the door of Number Four, Privet Drive, waiting for Professor McGonagall. His scruffy clothes and round glasses made him look every bit the neglected boy he wanted to present. When a sharp knock sounded, Harry opened the door to find a stern-faced woman in emerald-green robes and a pointed hat.

“Mr. Potter?” she asked, peering at him over her square spectacles.

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” Harry said, his voice shy but polite.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced over his clothes. “Are your relatives home?”

“No,” Harry lied smoothly. “They went out early this morning.”

McGonagall sniffed, clearly disapproving, but said nothing. “Very well. Let us proceed to Diagon Alley.”

They arrived at the Leaky Cauldron via Side-Along Apparition. The sensation of being squeezed through a tube was uncomfortable, but Harry masked his reaction, pretending to be bewildered by the dimly lit pub instead.

McGonagall led him through the establishment, nodding to Tom, the barkeep, who thankfully seemed distracted with other customers. Harry kept his head down, relieved not to be recognized as Evan Birch.

When they reached the brick wall, McGonagall tapped the bricks in a familiar sequence with her wand. As the archway unfolded, revealing Diagon Alley in all its bustling glory, Harry feigned wide-eyed amazement.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” McGonagall said with a small smile, clearly pleased by his reaction.

“It’s… incredible,” Harry murmured, and for once, it wasn’t entirely an act. The sight of it left him near speechless each time.

Their first stop was Gringotts. The gleaming marble building loomed above them as they stepped inside, the clink of gold and murmured goblin voices filling the air.

“Do you have your vault key, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall asked as they approached the counter.

Harry froze, pretending to look panicked. “I—I don’t think I do,” he stammered. “I’ve never seen one.”

McGonagall’s expression turned grim. She glanced at the goblin teller and explained the situation.

The goblin, with a sharp-toothed grin, said, “We can reissue the key for a small fee.”

“Of course,” McGonagall replied briskly. She turned to Harry. “We’re fortunate this is easily resolved.”

Harry agreed to the fee to be taken out of his vault. This oversight would give him a plausible excuse for requesting an inheritance test later.

As they walked from Gringotts to the next stop, McGonagall gestured to the various shops. “You’ll need to visit all of these for your supplies. Hogwarts requires students to be well-prepared.”

Harry nodded, taking mental notes to maintain his act.

“Professor,” he asked hesitantly, “why were people staring at me back there?”

McGonagall stopped mid-stride. Her sharp gaze softened as she studied him. “You truly don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Harry tilted his head, playing innocent.

McGonagall’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Let’s find somewhere quiet to talk.”

She led him to a secluded bench in a small park off the main street. Sitting down, she motioned for Harry to join her.

“Mr. Potter,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “you’re famous in our world. On the night you were born, the wizarding world was in the grip of a dark wizard—Lord Voldemort.”

Harry listened as she recounted the events of that fateful Halloween. Even though he already knew, hearing it from her—someone who must have known his parents—struck a nerve.

“Your parents, Lily and James Potter, were some of the bravest people I’ve ever known,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “They gave their lives to protect you. And in the end, their sacrifice defeated Voldemort.”

Harry looked down at his hands, his act of overwhelmed confusion almost genuine now. “So that’s why people stare at me,” he whispered.

“Yes,” McGonagall replied. “You’re known as the Boy Who Lived.”

After a moment of silence, McGonagall rose, brushing off her robes. “We’ve much to do, Mr. Potter. Let’s continue.”

Harry followed her as they visited the various shops, acquiring robes, books, and potion supplies. He carefully avoided saying anything that would reveal his prior knowledge, instead asking questions about magical currency and the use of cauldrons.

At Flourish and Blotts, Harry picked out the required textbooks, as well as a few extras he claimed “sounded interesting.” McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly assuming his curiosity was natural.

When they reached Madam Malkin’s for robes, Harry made a point of looking uncomfortable when the tape measure worked its magic. The assistant chattered away, oblivious to his feigned awkwardness.

Their last destination was Ollivanders. The ancient, narrow shop stood slightly apart from the rest of the alley, its dusty windows hinting at the treasures within.

McGonagall paused before opening the door, glancing down at Harry. “Choosing your wand is a special moment, Mr. Potter. No two wands are the same, and the wand chooses the wizard.”

Harry nodded, his heart genuinely racing.

As they stepped inside, the soft chime of a bell announced their arrival.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” a soft, wispy voice greeted them. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and he saw an old man with silvery hair and pale eyes emerge from the shadows.

Harry stood in the dimly lit shop, shelves packed high with boxes of wands. Mr. Ollivander approached him with an air of excitement, his pale, moon-like eyes glittering.

“Ah, yes,” Ollivander murmured, circling Harry. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite some time. Let us begin.” Flicking the tape away from Harry, he went to the back to choose a box.

He reached for a box and handed the wand inside to Harry. “Oak and unicorn hair, eleven inches. Supple. Give it a wave.”

Harry grasped the wand and gave it a flick. The tip sputtered weakly before the wand emitted a shower of sparks that burned a hole in the rug.

“Hmm,” Ollivander said, snatching the wand back. “Not quite.”

The process repeated, wand after wand. Each felt wrong in Harry’s hands, as though the magic within them rebelled against him.

“Curious,” Ollivander muttered, his expression shifting from puzzlement to delight. “Very curious indeed.”

“What’s curious?” Harry asked, genuinely intrigued despite himself.

Ollivander leaned closer, his voice a soft whisper, his eyes felt as if they were looking through him. “You are unlike any wizard I’ve met, Mr. Potter. Magic flows through you differently.” He stepped back, rubbing his hands together. “Let us try this.”

He pulled a wand from a high shelf, brushing off the dust. “Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches.”

As Harry held the wand, warmth shot up his arm, and his magic surged forward in a harmonious symphony. The connection was intoxicating. For a moment, he felt as though the wand amplified everything within him, bright and powerful.

But then, with a deafening crack, the windows of the shop blew outward, scattering glass across Diagon Alley, prompting everyone to duck down and take cover.

Ollivander clapped his hands together, beaming. “Magnificent! The wand has chosen.”

Harry shook himself and stared at the wand, still vibrating in his hand. The power was exhilarating, yet the intensity left him uneasy. Wandless magic was different—more personal, more natural. This felt like being the magic was being funnelled through something foreign after being yanked from his very core. Blissful to begin with, but not as freeing as what he’s used to.

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, placing the wand carefully back in its box.

Ollivander watched him with an unsettling smile. “Mr. Potter, I’m sad to say that I sold the wand that gave you that scar. It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar.” he said, pointing to his forehead, his voice low and cryptic, “this wand much like theirs is a tool, but it is not your destiny. Be mindful of what you seek.”

Harry frowned but nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not always clear why. But I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible! Yes. But great.” With that, Mr Ollivander turned around and went to the back, leaving Harry and McGonagall to stare at the mess of glass surrounding them.

As they exited the shop, McGonagall turned to Harry, her sharp eyes scrutinizing him. “That was quite the display,” she said.

“Sorry about the windows,” Harry replied sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said with a slight smile. “Ollivander enjoys a bit of excitement.” She checked her watch. “It’s late. Let’s return you home.”

They Apparated back to Little Whinging, landing near the edge of Privet Drive. Harry adjusted his glasses and looked up at McGonagall, who seemed reluctant to leave him there.

“Mr. Potter,” she said carefully, “if you ever need assistance, please don’t hesitate to write.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said, grateful for the sentiment despite knowing he’d manage fine on his own.

She reached into her pocket and handed him an envelope. “Inside is your train ticket. The Hogwarts Express departs from King’s Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock sharp on September 1st. To access the platform, walk straight into the barrier between platforms nine and ten.”

“Straight into the barrier?” Harry asked, feigning bewilderment.

“Yes,” she said, her lips quirking up in a small smile. “It will allow you through. Just don’t stop or hesitate.”

“Got it,” Harry said.

As McGonagall vanished with a soft pop, Harry stared at Number Four. The curtains twitched—Mrs. Figg’s house across the street. Harry turned on his heel and walked toward the Dursleys’ front door, already planning how he’d keep his true activities hidden until school began.

The weight of the wand in his pocket was a constant reminder of the day’s events, and Ollivander’s words echoed in his mind. Whatever lay ahead, Harry was ready to face it on his own terms.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the orchard behind the Lovegoods’ house. Harry sat cross-legged in the tall grass, across from him, Luna sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her usual dreamy expression fixed on him.

"So," Luna said, her voice lilting as she twisted a strand of her pale hair around her finger, "how was your trip with Professor McGonagall?"

Harry sighed, leaning back on his hands. "It was... something. I think I did well keeping everything under wraps, but it was a close call more than once."

"Close calls can be exciting," Luna said with a small smile, her wide eyes catching the fading sunlight.

"Yeah," Harry admitted. He looked down at Flick, absently stroking the snake’s smooth scales. “We went to Diagon Alley to get my school supplies. McGonagall was furious when she realised how little I knew about magic. She looked like she wanted to march straight to the Dursleys and hex them.”

Luna tilted her head. “Did she?”

“No,” Harry said with a wry grin. “She seems too professional for that. But she did tell me more about my parents—things I already knew, but hearing it from her was... different.”

“She sounds nice,” Luna observed, plucking a dandelion from the grass and twirling it between her fingers. “A bit strict, but kind. What did she say about your parents?”

Harry hesitated, his throat tightening. He didn’t want to dwell on the emotions McGonagall’s words had stirred, but he knew Luna wouldn’t judge him. “She told me about how they fought in the war, how brave they were... and how much they loved me. It’s strange. I didn’t even know them, but hearing it—it’s like I could feel it, just for a moment.”

Luna leaned forward, her expression softening. “They must have been extraordinary people to have a son like you.”

Harry felt his cheeks flush and looked away, “thanks, Luna.”

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the sound of rustling leaves and the occasional hiss filling the air. Harry glanced at Luna, who was humming softly as she braided blades of grass together.

Then it hit him.

“Wait,” he blurted, sitting upright. “You’re not coming to Hogwarts with me.”

Luna looked up, blinking in surprise. “No,” she said simply. “I’m a year younger, remember?”

Harry’s heart sank. He knew she was younger than him, but they hadn’t spoken about it before, the thought of going to Hogwarts without Luna felt like a punch to the gut. She was his best friend, the one person who understood him in ways no one else could.

“That’s... awful,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you behind.”

Luna smiled faintly, though her eyes held a touch of sadness. “It’s not forever, Harry. I’ll be there next year. And we can still find ways to talk, can’t we?”

Harry frowned, thinking. “Yeah, but how? I can write letters but that might seem strange considering I shouldn’t know anyone in the wizarding world.”

Luna tilted her head, considering. “What about enchanted journals? Like the two-way mirrors I read about in one of Daddy’s books. If we had a pair, we could write to each other, and the words would appear instantly in the other person’s journal.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant! Do you think we could make them in time?”

Luna nodded slowly. “It might take some time to find the right materials, but I’m sure we can figure it out. Maybe the Pritchard’s have some ideas!”

Harry smiled, feeling a little lighter. “We’ll do it. I’ll start researching as soon as I can.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Harry and Luna moved to the centre of the orchard, where they had set up a small picnic with snacks and drinks Luna had gotten from her kitchen.

The moon rose high, casting a silvery glow over the orchard. Flick flicked his tongue, his voice a low hiss. “Your hatching day approaches, little speaker.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, it does.”

Luna tilted her head, looking at him with her usual serene curiosity. “How does it feel, being almost eleven?”

Harry thought about it. “Strange, I guess. I used to hate my birthdays because of the Dursleys, but now... it’s nice if I get to celebrate with you.” He said shyly, looking away slightly.

“We can do this every year!” Luna said, pouring juice into two cups and handing one to Harry.

As the clock ticked closer to midnight, Luna pulled a small package from her bag and handed it to Harry. “Happy early birthday,” she said, her voice soft but warm.

Harry unwrapped it carefully, revealing a simple leather bracelet with a small, intricately carved charm in the shape of a crescent moon, if you look closely you could see the tiny runes etched into the material.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, slipping it onto his wrist.

“It’s enchanted,” Luna explained. “If you’re ever in trouble just rub the runes with some magic and the twin bracelet will heat up! It works the other way around as well,” she held up an identical bracelet that was wrapped around her wrist.

Harry’s throat tightened. “Thank you, Luna. This means a lot.”

The clock struck midnight, and Luna raised her cup. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said with a bright smile.

Harry raised his cup in return, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the juice.

They clinked their cups together, laughter ringing out under the stars.

As the celebration wound down, Harry reluctantly reached for the portkey that takes him home.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Luna nodded, her expression calm. “I’ll be fine. You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he muttered, earning a soft laugh from her.

Harry nodded, gripping the portkey tightly. “I’ll see you soon.”

With a sudden tug behind his navel, he was whisked away, the orchard disappearing in a blur of colour and wind. When he landed on the familiar hidden patch of grass outside Privet Drive, the warmth of Luna’s words stayed with him.

~

The morning of Harry’s eleventh birthday dawned warm and bright, the sunlight spilling into his room at Number 4 Privet Drive. Harry stretched lazily in bed, letting the reality of the day sink in. It wasn’t every year that he could celebrate his birthday without dread hanging over him. The Dursleys had left early for some “important outing” with Dudley, which meant Harry had the house to himself.

His new room—Dudley’s second bedroom—had more space than the cupboard under the stairs ever had. There was still work to do, though, and Harry had big plans for the day.

Harry began by pulling everything out of the wardrobe, tossing old clothes and broken toys into a pile on the floor. With a flick of his fingers, he summoned the trash bag he’d found earlier and pointed at the mess. “Evanesco,” he muttered. The pile disappeared, leaving the air feeling lighter.

He glanced around the room, deciding what to keep and what to discard. On the desk sat a stack of unused leather-bound journals, most likely gifts given to Dudley by people who didn’t know him well enough to realise he’d never write in them. Harry picked one up, running his fingers over the smooth cover. They’d be perfect for the two-way journal project he and Luna had talked about. Setting them aside carefully, he made a mental note to research the spell work needed to enchant them.

The rest of the room came together quickly. Using wandless magic, Harry lifted the heavy bedframe to slide it closer to the window. He sorted the books he’d salvaged from the Pritchards’ shop onto the small shelf by the wall, the titles a mix of magical theory, ancient magic and random mundane topics that caught his interest.

Satisfied with his progress, he turned his attention to the door. If he was going to live here, he needed to ensure his privacy. Pulling out a small notebook, Harry sketched a rune sequence he’d been refining for weeks.

The ward would serve a few purposes: the first rune would repel anyone entering (a modified notice-me-not) with ill intent and without magic, while the second would create a barrier against physical force. A silencing rune at the centre of the sequence would ensure no one could hear what he was doing inside.

He knelt by the door, carving the runes into the wood with his magic and adding his blood to the centre to anchor it. The faint glow of the lines told him the sequence was activating as intended. Just as he pressed the final rune into place, a loud banging echoed through the house, making him jump.

Harry froze, his heart pounding. The Dursleys weren’t supposed to be back for hours. Slowly, he stood and approached the door, his magic tingling at his fingertips in case he needed it.

Another bang rattled the house, followed by a deep, booming voice. “Harry Potter! Yeh in there?”

Harry frowned, opening the door a crack to see who was shouting. Standing on the front step was a giant of a man, easily twice the height of an average person, with wild black hair and a beard that seemed to swallow his entire face. He wore a massive coat that looked like it was made of patched-together animal skins.

“Who are you?” Harry asked cautiously.

The man beamed at him. “Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts,” he said in a voice that was both gruff and friendly. “Dumbledore sent me ter fetch yeh. Thought it’d be nice ter take yeh shoppin’ for yer school things.”

Harry blinked. “I’ve already been shopping,” he said, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. “Professor McGonagall took me last week.”

Hagrid’s face fell, his thick brows furrowing. “Oh. Well... I wasn’t told that.” He scratched his beard, looking a bit lost. “Still, I was s’posed ter come get yeh. Dumbledore’s orders.”

Something about this didn’t sit right with Harry. He studied Hagrid, noting the nervous way the half-giant shifted his weight. “Why did Dumbledore send you?”

“Well,” Hagrid began, fumbling in his pockets. He pulled out a small leather pouch and handed it to Harry. “He wanted yeh ter have this. Said it was yer vault key. Thought yeh might need it.”

Harry took the pouch, opening it to reveal the small golden key. Why was Dumbledore so keen on him having it now? Why did he even have it in the first place?

“Thanks,” Harry said, slipping the key into his pocket. “But if I’ve already been shopping, what’s the point of the trip?”

Hagrid hesitated, then leaned in conspiratorially. “I was headin’ ter Gringotts meself, actually. Got a bit o’ business fer Dumbledore. Top secret, yeh see. Thought I’d take yeh along while I was at it.”

Harry’s suspicion deepened. “What kind of business?”

“Can’t say,” Hagrid said quickly, straightening up. “Strictly between me an’ Dumbledore. But it’s important.”

Harry nodded slowly, masking his unease with a polite smile. “Well, I appreciate you bringing me the key. But like I said, I’ve already got my school things. Maybe we’ll catch up at Hogwarts?”

Hagrid looked disappointed but nodded. “If yeh’re sure. Jus’ wanted ter help, is all.”

“You have,” Harry assured him. “Thank you, Hagrid.”

“Well, happy birthday ‘arry! Woulda made yeh a cake if ah had time.”

With one last awkward pat on Harry’s shoulder, Hagrid turned and lumbered off down the street, his massive form disappearing around the corner.

Harry watched him go, his mind racing. Why would Dumbledore send Hagrid to fetch him when McGonagall had already handled it? And what was this “top secret” mission at Gringotts?

He went back inside, closing the door firmly behind him. Pulling out the key, he examined it closely. It looked nearly identical to the one the goblins had reissued during his trip, but the timing of its return felt too convenient.

Sliding the key into his pocket, Harry resolved to give it back to the bank. Something about this whole situation didn’t add up, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down.

For now, though, he had other things to focus on. His room was almost finished, and his runes were in place. Tomorrow, he would head to Gringotts and finally take the inheritance test.

~

Diagon Alley was already bustling with witches and wizards when Harry arrived through the Leaky Cauldron. His shadows wrapped tightly around him, concealing his presence as he maneuvered through the throng. The weight of his coin pouch jingled softly at his side, a comforting reminder of his savings.

Gringotts loomed ahead, its white marble façade shining under the morning sun. Releasing his spell he bows towards the entrance guards and moves forward.  As Harry stepped into the bank, a goblin clerk at the front desk looked up, his sharp features impassive.

“How may Gringotts assist you today?”

Harry had rehearsed this. “I’d like to open an account.”

The goblin nodded, motioning him toward a side office. Inside, an older goblin sat at a desk piled with ledgers and contracts. He introduced himself as Grimbok, his voice low and gravelly.

“State the name for the record,” Grimbok said, retrieving a thick ledger.

“I would like the account under Evan Birch,” Harry replied confidently, using the alias he’d been perfecting.

“Purpose of the account?”

“Personal savings.”

Grimbok scratched a note in the ledger. “Do you have an initial deposit to make?”

Harry reached into his pouch and counted out the coins he had brought. “Three-Hundred and Fifty Galleons, twenty Sickles, and twelve Knuts.”

Grimbok took the coins, weighing each stack on a small brass scale. He tapped a finger on the ledger, muttering under his breath as the coins vanished into a secure vault.

“Your account is now active,” Grimbok said, sliding a small key across the desk. “Vault number 1724. This key grants you access. Deposits and withdrawals can be made directly at the counter or by authorised owls. Do not lose this key, else others will have access to your account.”

Harry pocketed the key and hesitated for a moment. “I have a question about inheritance tests,” he said carefully.

Grimbok’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. “Inheritance tests are a private matter,” he said. “Gringotts holds strict confidentiality. No information will be shared with guardians, employers, or any other party without explicit consent.”

Relieved, Harry pressed on. “How much does the test cost?”

“The standard inheritance test is thirty Galleons,” Grimbok explained. “It traces your direct lineage and identifies any vaults, properties, or titles tied to your name. For fifty-five Galleons, we offer a comprehensive test that delves into your complete ancestry, including magical bloodlines, familial legacies, and any dormant inheritances. We also provide the complete lineage tree going back twelve centuries depending on magical lineage.”

Harry’s curiosity was piqued. The comprehensive test sounded like exactly what he needed to uncover the truth about his heritage. He hesitated briefly at the cost, then nodded. “I’ll go with the comprehensive test.”

Grimbok nodded approvingly and opened a drawer, retrieving a vial of shimmering liquid and a roll of thick parchment.

“This potion will activate the test,” Grimbok said, placing the items on the desk. “You must provide seven drops of your blood. Once the potion is infused, you will pour it onto this parchment. The results will manifest within moments.”

Harry felt a slight twinge of nervousness but nodded, taking the silver needle Grimbok offered. He pricked his finger, watching as seven crimson drops fell into the potion. The liquid glowed faintly, shifting through colours before settling into a deep gold.

Grimbok handed Harry the vial. “Pour it onto the parchment.”

Harry tipped the vial, letting the potion spread across the parchment. It shimmered like liquid sunlight, soaking into the surface without leaving a single drop behind.

The parchment shimmered with faint golden light as ancient runes and intricate symbols began to etch themselves across its surface. Harry watched in fascination, the quiet scratch of magic carving into the material feeling heavy with significance. Grimbok, standing patiently at the desk, remained silent, allowing the young wizard to absorb the unfolding history of his lineage.

As the glow settled, a series of headings emerged on the parchment, each name carrying the weight of centuries. Harry’s heart thudded in his chest as he read them.

Harrison James Potter-Black

James Charlus Potter (Father – Deceased)

Lily Jean Potter nee Evans (Mother – Deceased)

Sirius Orion Black (Godfather – Incarcerated)

He traced the letters on the parchment…Harrison…my name is Harrison.

Ancient and Noble House of Potter (Blood)
Most Noble and Ancient House of Black (Blood/ Godfather)
Most Noble and Ancient House of Slytherin (Blood/ Conquest)
Most Noble and Ancient House of Peverell (Blood/ Magic)

“Well Mr Potter this is a surprise. We were expecting you to come for your heir rings yesterday.” Grimbok said, looking slightly surprised at who the child in front of him was.

Grimbok began explaining, his sharp nails tapping the parchment. “The Potter family traces its roots back over a thousand years. As the Head of House by paternal blood, you inherit all associated titles, properties, and assets.”

Harry scanned the section under the House of Potter.

Potter

Trust Vault (Vault 687): 5,435 Galleons, 80 Sickles, 17 Knuts.

Main Family Vault (Vault 12): 154,980 Galleons, 114 Sickles, 8 Knuts

Contents: Investments in magical businesses and ventures. Rare and historical tomes on magic. Various heirlooms, including wands from earlier generations.

Harry felt his throat tighten as he read further down the list. This amount of money felt obscene, adding in the properties? It was overwhelming to see the tangible evidence of his family’s wealth and contributions to magical society.

Grimbok continued, his tone measured. “The Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is recognized as one of the most influential pure-blood families in magical Britain. Your claim arises through Sirius Black, your godfather, and through blood ties via Dorea Black, your grandmother. To counter any other claims to the Lordship, your godfather gave you the name Black with the permission of your parents.”

Harry’s eyes widened as he read the contents of the Black house. What would I even do with all of this!

Grimbok’s lips twitched slightly, revealing sharp teeth. “By conquest, you have become the Heir of the most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean by conquest?”

“You have defeated a wizard who claimed descent from Slytherin—Lord Voldemort. Magic has recognized this victory and transferred his claim to you.”

Grimbok continued with a sneer, “Unfortunately, the previous descendants were unwise with the contents of their vaults and were declared bankrupt, losing everything but their seat within the Wizengamot.”

Harry’s attention sharpened as Grimbok shifted his focus. “And, finally. The House of Peverell is the oldest lineage listed here. It is connected to your blood through the Potter line, and by magic, there are certain conditions one must meet to claim this title and it seems that you, Mr. Potter, have met them.”

House of Peverell

Peverell Family Vault (Vault 5):

Balance: 112,619 Galleons.

Contents: Artifacts related to ancient magic. Journals…

Properties:

Peverell Keep: A small fortress steeped in ancient wards. Uninhabited for centuries. Only accessible with Lords ring. Location unknown.

Grimbok pointed to a smaller section of the document. “The Lord rings for the houses of Potter, Black, and Slytherin are unavailable until you reach your majority or are declared an adult in the eyes of the Ministry. However, the heir rings of those houses and the Lord ring for house Peverell is accessible immediately.”

Harry hesitated, recalling Luna’s warning. “Will anyone be notified if I claim the rings?”

Grimbok nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mr. Potter. Your magical guardian will be notified of your acceptance as heir to these houses. Under the most recent amendments to the Law of Heirship and Guardian Oversight, introduced in 1967, a notification clause ensures that any formal acceptance of heirship by a minor automatically triggers an alert to the guardian of record. This law was specifically enacted to balance the rights of underage magical heirs with the oversight duties of their appointed guardians. It stipulates that while guardians may no longer exercise direct control over the primary or family vaults, they retain an advisory capacity, enabling them to provide counsel on the heir’s access and decisions regarding these assets. Upon your acceptance, their role transitions to that of a consultant rather than a manager, allowing you to have ultimate control over your inheritance. If your magical guardian feels you are not ready for such a burden, they petition the courts to restrict your access to vaults etc until your majority.”

Harry blinked, trying to process the information. “Magical guardian? Who would that even be?”

Grimbok narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Mr. Potter, are you telling me that you are unaware of the identity of your magical guardian? You have never met or corresponded with them?”

Anxiously, Harry shook his head. “No, never! I only found out about magic a few years ago by chance. Nobody told me anything.”

Grimbok’s movements became brisk and deliberate as he sifted through a pile of parchment, eventually pulling out a thick document. He adjusted his spectacles and read carefully.

“You are stating that you have never been contacted by Albus Dumbledore, appointed as your magical guardian in 1981?”

“Never,” Harry replied, his tone sharp with frustration.

“This is highly irregular,” Grimbok muttered, nostrils flaring. “You are also claiming that you have never authorised any transactions from the vaults under your name and have received nothing for your care or livelihood?”

Harry’s face darkened. “I live with my Muggle aunt and her family. They’ve treated me like a slave since I can remember. I slept in a cupboard under the stairs while they have two spare bedrooms!”

Grimbok growled softly, his goblin features twisting with anger. “The records show that large transactions have been made monthly from your trust vault since 1981. Payments were sent to one Vernon Dursley, Albus Dumbledore, and an organisation named the Order of the Phoenix.”

“The Dursleys get money for me?” Harry said, voice raising slightly. “They’ve given me nothing but scraps and chores! How did Dumbledore even become my guardian?”

“It is recorded,” Grimbok began carefully, “that on the night of October 31, 1981, you were taken to Hogwarts to be examined by a medi-witch. Following this, guardianship was granted to Albus Dumbledore by an emergency writ issued under the authority of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “But Dumbledore is the Chief Warlock! Are you saying he appointed himself my guardian?”

Grimbok nodded grimly. “Indeed. The writ was witnessed by one Mr. Diggle and filed promptly within the Ministry, which is why it has gone unchallenged.”

“Can I challenge it?” Harry asked, his voice rising. “Can I take away his guardianship and get back what was stolen?”

Grimbok sighed. “It is not a simple matter. Dumbledore holds numerous positions of influence and power. Challenging his guardianship would require substantial evidence and could be a lengthy process. Additionally, until you reach your majority, it would leave you vulnerable to claims of guardianship from other, potentially more undesirable parties.”

Harry felt a sinking dread. “So what can I do?”

“When you reach your majority,” Grimbok said, “you may formally reclaim all stolen assets by proving unsuitability of guardianship and file an accusation of theft and child endangerment with the ministry. Until then, we can begin gathering evidence to build a case against him, though it may take a long time.”

“What about claiming the Peverell Lordship, instead of the other heirships?” Harry asked hopefully.

Grimbok’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “The Peverell Lordship predates the Law of Heirship and Guardian Oversight. As no Lord Peverell has existed for over 400 years, your acceptance of this title is exempt from the notification requirement. The 1976 law mandates guardian notification only for houses with active Lordships at the time, where a guardian’s advisory role is necessary. Since the Peverell line remained dormant for centuries, no such oversight applies. Thus, you may claim the Lordship immediately without informing your guardian until you yourself present it to the Wizengamot.”

Harry exhaled in relief. “So, if I claim the Peverell Lordship, Dumbledore doesn’t have to know? And I’ll have control over that house’s vaults and resources?”

Grimbok inclined his head. “Precisely. As Lord Peverell, you would have sole authority over the family’s wealth, properties, and artifacts. Furthermore, you would gain a seat in the Wizengamot. This could provide you a platform to challenge other injustices, including the current structure of your guardianship, should you choose to pursue such a path. Unfortunately, you still have to reach majority or emancipation to do so unless you appoint a proxy.”

Harry’s mind raced as he tried to piece everything together. “What else does the Peverell title come with? Is there anything I should be worried about?”

Grimbok chuckled dryly. “The Peverell legacy is a storied one, Mr. Potter, with roots deeper than most other magical families. While there are no active legal or social obligations tied to the name, you will inherit certain magical responsibilities. The family’s reputation has long been associated with mastery of the arcane, particularly in the realm of magical artifacts.”

Harry frowned, recalling the tales of the Deathly Hallows. “Artifacts?”

Grimbok’s sharp eyes gleamed. “Indeed. It is said the Peverells had a unique connection to three powerful objects: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak. While two of these are considered lost to history, it is worth noting that your families own cloak bears markings consistent with Peverell craftsmanship.”

“So a cloak... it’s part of my inheritance?”

Grimbok gave a curt nod. “Correct. As Lord Peverell, you may find the cloak and its unique properties even more significant. Such an artifact, tied to your bloodline, may react differently to your magic once you have officially claimed your title. As with the previous Lords, the responsibility to protect the secrets of these objects now lay with you.”

Harry hesitated, weighing his options. “And where is this cloak? If I claim the Peverell Lordship now, would that interfere with claiming the other heirships later?”

Grimbok shook his head. “Not at all. Each house functions independently. Claiming the Peverell Lordship simply allows you to establish yourself without alerting unwanted parties. It is a tricky situation as while you are not an adult in the eyes of the law, the Peverell house allows for you to accept the lordship at 11. Unfortunately, you are still a minor in the eyes of the wizarding world, but Gringotts has no such limitations. Once you come of age, you will have the opportunity to claim the other titles as well. As for you cloak, I will have to do an inventory for the Potter vaults, which may take some time.”

“What do I have to do to claim it?”

Grimbok gestured to a ceremonial pedestal at the side of the room. Upon it rested an ornate ring set with a black stone etched with the Peverell crest. “Place your hand upon the ring and state your intent to claim the Lordship of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell. The magic bound to the title will recognize your bloodline and grant you the mantle of Lordship.”

Harry took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision pressing on his shoulders. Luna’s warning about the risks of claiming his heritage echoed in his mind, but the thought of gaining some independence and starting to take control of his own life spurred him on.

He stepped toward the pedestal and reached out, his fingers hovering just above the ring. “Once I do this,” he asked, turning to Grimbok, “can anyone take it away?”

Grimbok’s tone was firm. “No, Mr. Potter. The Peverell title is tied irrevocably to your bloodline. Once claimed, it cannot be challenged or revoked, save by your own death. The power and resources it grants will be yours alone.”

Harry nodded, determination filling his chest. He lowered his hand and touched the cool metal of the ring before placing it on his finger. As he spoke the words, the room seemed to hum with an ancient magic, and the air around him shimmered faintly.

“I, Harrison James Potter-Black, claim the Lordship of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell.”

A soft glow emanated from the ring as it resized itself to fit his finger. The stone pulsed with a steady light, as though acknowledging its new master. Harry felt a surge of warmth flow through him, a sensation both alien and comforting.

Grimbok gave a rare, satisfied smile. “It is done, Lord Peverell. You are now master of your own house.”

The goblin flipped back to the test and continued to explain. “These are your magical inheritances. Yours includes the following notable gifts,”

Parseltongue/ Parselmagic

Elemental magic

Wandless magic

Unknown

“You will be a poweful wizard one day, Lord Peverell. Its best to hide these gifts for as long as you can, there will be those who look unfavourably upon some of these,” Grimbok said. “This also suggests that you will come into another gift between now and your majority, these generally occur on the eve of you birth day, if you notice anything unusual don’t hesitate to come back for another test, this we will do for free.”

Harry nodded, feeling overwhelmed by everything.

Finally, Grimbok added, “For defeating Lord Voldemort, several bequests have been made to you. Some wizards and witches offered portions of their wealth or items of value in thanks. These have been collected in a separate vault under your name. The balance currently stands at just under 17,000 Galleons.”

Harry sat back, overwhelmed. The sheer scope of his inheritance was staggering, but it also came with immense responsibility.

Grimbok handed Harry a copy of the parchment. “What will you do next, Lord Peverell?”

Harry pocketed the parchments and tree and gave a small, wry smile. “I’ll figure it out. One step at a time. In the meantime, could you please audit all of my accounts.”

“Of course, this may take some time.”

Harry nodded, “take however long you need, Grimbok.” He bowed his head to the goblin and turned on his heel.

As he left the bank, the weight of his newfound knowledge pressed on him.

~

Harry walked briskly through the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, his thoughts an uncontrollable whirlpool of anxiety. His hand trembled as it clutched the folder with parchments detailing his inheritance. It felt surreal—impossible, even. He wasn’t just Harry Potter anymore. He was Lord Peverell.

The weight was unbearable. What was I thinking, I’m only 11! He thought.

By the time he arrived at the Lovegoods’ quirky home, shaped like a misshapen rook on the edge of the woods, Harry was shaking. He knocked, his breath shallow, and Luna’s serene face appeared at the door.

“Evan,” she said softly, a spark of warmth in her otherwise dreamy gaze. “Or Harry, if you’d prefer today.”

Harry gave her a weak smile. “Evan is fine for now. Can I... Can I come in?”

Luna tilted her head, her pale blonde hair flowing like sunlight through water. “You can always come in.” She opened the door wider, ushering him into the cosy chaos of the Lovegood household.

Luna led Harry to the living room, where mismatched furniture and strange magical artifacts filled the space. He sat down heavily on the faded blue sofa, clutching the folder tightly.

“I don’t know what to do, Luna,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “I’m... I’m a lord. Four houses, dozens of vaults, properties, responsibilities. I don’t know what that means!”

Luna sat beside him, her silvery eyes scanning his face. “You’re overwhelmed,” she said simply, her tone matter-of-fact.

Harry laughed bitterly. “That’s an understatement. I’m just... I’m just a kid! How am I supposed to handle all this? The Wizengamot, the politics, the—everything. I don’t even know if I’m doing anything right. What if I mess it all up?”

Luna reached out and gently took the folder from his hands, setting it on the table. “Lie down,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Lie down,” she repeated, patting her lap. “You’ll think more clearly if you stop panicking.”

Harry hesitated but then complied, resting his head on her lap. Her hands, cool and soft, began stroking his unruly hair.

“You’re not alone in this,” she said quietly, her voice like a lullaby. “You have me. And I think you’ll find others, too, who care about you. And like you said you’re just a kid, you don’t have to deal with politics for years. You’re not just a lord, Harry. You’re still... you.”

Tears pricked at Harry’s eyes as she started humming a soft, ancient melody in Greek. The words followed, and though Harry didn’t understand all of it, the song’s cadence and Luna’s voice wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

When Harry finally sat up, his eyes red from crying, but his breathing was steady. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely.

Luna smiled faintly. “The stars never panic, you know. They burn bright for billions of years. You’ll be okay.”

He nodded, wiping his face.

When Harry mentioned he might have to reveal some of this to the Pritchards to explain his absences, Luna surprised him.

“They won’t mind,” she said confidently. “They think I’m odd but kind, and they trust you. Besides, I think they like you more than they let on.”

Harry smiled faintly. “They’re good people. I don’t want to lose their trust.”

“You won’t,” she assured him. “You’re... you. And that’s enough for them.”

~

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of his small forest hideaway, a stack of parchment spread out before him and some of the fresh food he grew in a bowl next to him. The Potter family crest embossed on the edges of each document gleamed faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees. Flick lay beside him, while the Old One watched from a nearby tree, her golden eyes unblinking.

Harry’s fingers traced the edge of a thick ledger detailing the transactions in and out of his Potter trust and family vaults. What had started as mere curiosity had grown into a gnawing anger as he added up the sums.

His quill scratched across a piece of parchment as he calculated the figures. “Nearly 100,000 Galleons,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “That’s what Dumbledore’s taken.”

The entries were blatant: consistent withdrawals marked under the pretence of "school fund expenses" or "guardian fees." There were also hefty sums transferred to unspecified accounts, always under Dumbledore’s authority.

“And the Dursleys,” Harry continued, his voice bitter, “£3,000 a month for ten years.” His quill paused as he did the math in his head. “That’s... that’s £360,000. For what? To starve me? To lock me in a cupboard?”

The thought of confronting them burned at the back of his mind, but he dismissed it. The Dursleys weren’t the real problem anymore—Dumbledore was. Harry knew he had to tread carefully. Any confrontation with the Dursleys could risk alerting Dumbledore to his growing independence.

“When I’m emancipated,” Harry muttered darkly, “I’ll take everything they’ve got. Every last penny.”

He pushed the financial records aside, his eyes settling on a different stack of documents. These detailed the properties owned by the Potter family. One entry immediately caught his attention: Potter Cottage, Godric’s Hollow.

He read the description, his brow furrowing. The cottage was listed as a private property under the Potter estate, yet a note in the margin declared it a "protected monument by Ministry decree."

“Protected monument?” Harry scoffed. “They turned my house into a tourist attraction?”

The injustice of it made his blood boil. How could the Ministry claim authority over his family’s home? He resolved to visit Godric’s Hollow when he could, to see the damage for himself and to see if there’s anything left of his parents there.

Harry’s gaze drifted to another intriguing detail in his inheritance records: Godfather: Sirius Orion Black.

He frowned. Sirius Black was a name he’d heard in passing, whispered with disdain in the darker corners of Knockturn Alley.

“Where is he now?” Harry wondered aloud. “Azkaban? What did he do?”

A sickening thought struck him. If Dumbledore had been able to manipulate the Potter finances and keep Harry ignorant of his heritage, had he also been involved in keeping Sirius away? Harry clenched his fists. He needed answers.

“I’ll ask Grimbok,” he resolved. The goblin had been helpful and seemed to take Harry’s interests seriously.

Finally, Harry turned his attention to the Peverell inheritance. Unlike the other vaults, which had been weighed down with centuries of political ties and familial obligations, the Peverell estate felt... different.

The detailed records described a single property, Peverell Keep, a sprawling fortress tucked away in a hidden valley. Its location was marked only by a series of cryptic instructions:

“Follow the path of the ancient yew. Where the gate opens, the bridge of the tree will guide you to the house of Death.”

Harry traced the words with his finger, his mind racing. Could he find the Keep on his own? It seemed possible. Unlike the Ministry’s interference with the Potter estate, the Peverell holdings were protected by ancient, unbreakable wards.

 “Is it just a ruin, or is it still standing?” he mused.

The Peverell vault, fascinated him. Its contents included artifacts steeped in mystery.

Harry leaned back against a tree popping a tomato in his mouth, staring up at the canopy. The magnitude of his inheritance felt crushing, but the Peverell legacy offered a glimmer of intrigue, one he had been researching for a while now. Unlike the Potter and Black houses, tangled in politics and obligations, the Peverell name felt like a mystery waiting to be unravelled.

When the time was right, he would visit the Peverell Keep.

 ~

It was late in the evening one day, when Harry finally worked up the courage to tell the Pritchards the truth. They were gathered in the cosy sitting room, the fireplace crackling softly. Mrs. Pritchard was knitting, her needles clicking away rhythmically, while Mr. Pritchard lounged in his armchair, a book balanced on his knee. Flick was curled up at Harry’s feet, occasionally letting out contented hisses.

Harry cleared his throat nervously, twisting his hands in his lap. “There’s… something I need to tell you,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Pritchard looked up from her knitting, her kind eyes soft with encouragement. “Go on, dear,” she said gently.

Harry hesitated, the words caught in his throat. He’d been so afraid of this moment, worried they’d be angry or feel betrayed. But he knew he couldn’t keep it from them any longer. “I’m… I’m not just Evan Birch,” he admitted. “That’s not my real name.”

The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. Harry took a deep breath and continued. “I’m Harry Potter. And I’ll be starting at Hogwarts in September.” He glanced down at his hands, unable to meet their eyes. “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I thought… I thought you’d be angry with me.”

For a moment, there was silence, and Harry braced himself for their reaction. But then, to his surprise, Mrs. Pritchard let out a soft laugh, setting her knitting aside.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, rising from her chair and crossing the room to him. She knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers. “We’ve known who you were from the beginning.”

Harry’s head shot up, his green eyes wide with shock. “What?”

Mr. Pritchard chuckled from his chair, closing his book with a soft thud. “You’re much better at disguising yourself now, but when we first met you, you couldn’t hide that scar of yours fully. It was faint, but it was there.”

Mrs. Pritchard smiled warmly. “We recognised you, Harry, but we never said anything because it was clear you were trying to keep it a secret. And we figured if you wanted us to know, you’d tell us in your own time.”

Harry blinked, his throat tight with emotion. “You… you’re not angry?”

“Angry?” Mrs. Pritchard said, her voice full of affection. “Of course not. You’re still the same boy who’s been helping out in the shop and making us laugh with your stories. It doesn’t matter what name you go by, Harry. You’re family.”

Before Harry could say anything else, she pulled him into a warm embrace, and he felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear those words.

When she finally let him go, Mr. Pritchard spoke up, his tone light and teasing. “So, Hogwarts, eh? Guess we’ll have to get used to the shop being a bit quieter come September.”

Harry laughed, wiping at his eyes. “I’ll come back in the summers if I can,” he promised.

Later that evening, as they sat together by the fire, Harry brought up an idea that had been forming in his mind. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, “about a way to keep in touch with someone while I’m at school. You know, without anyone else finding out.”

Mrs. Pritchard tilted her head, intrigued. “Go on.”

“I heard about these two-way mirrors,” Harry explained. “They let people talk to each other no matter how far apart they are. But I was wondering… do you think it’s possible to enchant journals to work the same way? So you could write in one, and the words would appear in the other?”

Mr. Pritchard’s eyes lit up with interest. “That’s an interesting idea, Harry. It would take some careful spellwork, but it’s not impossible.”

Harry leaned forward eagerly. “What kind of spellwork would it take?”

Mr. Pritchard grabbed a piece of parchment and began sketching out a rough diagram. “First, you’d need a way to link the two journals together. That would require a tethering spell, something that binds them magically. Then, you’d need a duplication charm to ensure that anything written in one journal is immediately copied into the other.”

Mrs. Pritchard added, “You’d also want a privacy charm to make sure no one else can see what’s written in them, even if they manage to get their hands on one.”

Harry nodded, his mind racing with possibilities.

They spent the next hour brainstorming and researching. Mr. Pritchard pulled out a few old books on enchantments, flipping through the pages to find relevant spells. Harry took notes, sketching out his own ideas and jotting down questions to explore later.

By the end of the evening, they had a rough plan in place:

1. Protean Charm: a charm that allowed several objects to change simultaneously through a common purpose.
2. Privacy Charm: A layered enchantment combining notice-me-not and a concealment spell to protect the contents.
3. A drop of blood: To bind the books to the owners.

Harry felt a surge of excitement as he looked over their plan. “Do you think we can make it work?” he asked.

Mrs. Pritchard smiled. “With some trial and error, I think we can.”

Harry grinned, already imagining how useful the journals would be. He couldn’t wait to get started.

Over the next few days, Harry, Mr. Pritchard, and Mrs. Pritchard sat at the long worktable in the back of the shop. Spread before them were two of the blank leather journals Harry had salvaged from his cleanup of Dudley’s second bedroom, several enchanted tools, and stacks of parchment filled with their notes and ideas.

“This is quite the project,” Mrs. Pritchard said, adjusting her glasses as she carefully studied the plan they’d written up. “But I think using the Protean Charm is a brilliant solution, Harry. It’s advanced magic, but with the right modifications, it should do the trick.”

Harry nodded, feeling both excited and a little nervous. The Protean Charm was known for being complex, but he’d read about it in some of the books he’d borrowed from the shop’s shelves, and he was determined to master it when he got the chance.

“Right,” Mr. Pritchard said, rolling up his sleeves. “Step one is binding these journals together. We’ll use the Protean Charm to link their contents so that whatever’s written in one appears in the other.”

Harry carefully placed the journals side by side on the table, their blank covers gleaming under the lamplight.

 “The charm should handle the connection, but to strengthen it, we’ll add a personal element—something that ties the journals to the two of you specifically,” Mr. Pritchard said.

Mrs. Pritchard smiled. “A drop of blood from each of you should do the trick. Blood magic is ancient, and while it can be dangerous in some forms, this is a harmless application. It’ll make the connection between the journals stronger and more stable and tied to yourselves.”

Harry stood at the table as Mr. Pritchard walked him through the steps of the Protean Charm.

“So,” Mr. Pritchard said, his tone steady and reassuring, “the key to the charm is focus. I’m not just linking the journals; I’m creating a magical network between them. I will picture them as two halves of the same whole.”

Mr. Pritchard took a deep breath and raised his wand. He muttered the incantation, “Protean vinculum!”

A soft, golden light emitted from the tip of his wand, weaving through the air and settling over the journals like a shimmering net.

The golden light sank into the journals, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, the journals glowed faintly, their leather covers pulsing in sync like a heartbeat.

“Did it work?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Mrs. Pritchard said with a smile.

Harry picked up a quill and dipped it in ink. On the first page of the journal, he wrote, Testing, testing—can you see this?

They all leaned forward as the words appeared, almost instantly, in the second journal.

“It worked!” Harry exclaimed, grinning.

“Brilliant work, if I do say so myself” Mr. Pritchard said.

The next step was enhancing the connection with blood magic. Mrs. Pritchard handed Harry a small silver pin.

“All you need is a drop,” she said gently. “Press it to your fingertip and let the blood fall onto the page.”

Harry pricked his finger. A single drop of blood welled up and fell onto the first page of his journal. The inked words glowed briefly before fading back to black.

When he handed the second journal to Luna later, she’d do the same, ensuring the connection was unique to them.

After completing the enchantments, they tested the journals thoroughly. Harry wrote a message in his journal and watched as it appeared perfectly in the other. He even tried using different colours of ink and slightly messier handwriting, but the words always came through identical.

As Harry packed up the journals later that night, he couldn’t stop smiling. The thought of being able to communicate with Luna, even while he was at Hogwarts, filled him with a sense of relief and excitement.

“You did well, Harry,” Mrs. Pritchard said as she helped him tidy up. “These journals are something special. And I’m sure Luna will appreciate them.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you—for helping me with this, and… for everything.”

Mr. Pritchard ruffled his hair affectionately. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Harry. Don’t forget that.”

~

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over Diagon Alley as Harry strolled along the cobbled streets, enjoying the lively hum of the wizarding world. He was here for a few last-minute items before September, though nothing specific was on his mind. It was nice to just be surrounded by magic.

As he passed a shop with a brightly painted sign that read Magical Menagerie, the sound of squawking and screeching animals caught his attention. He paused, glancing in the window at the rows of cages and tanks filled with creatures of all shapes and sizes.

“Maybe a cat,” he mused to himself, stepping inside. The thought of having a companion at Hogwarts was appealing, and a cat seemed practical. Quiet, clever, and not too much trouble—he figured it might suit him well. He couldn’t take flick with him after all.

The shop was a chaotic symphony of sounds: meows, chirps, and an occasional low growl. He walked slowly past rows of cages, eyeing the cats. There was a sleek black one curled up in a ball, a ginger kitten pouncing on its sibling’s tail, and even a hairless cat blinking up at him with sharp green eyes.

But before Harry could make up his mind, a loud hoot rang out from the back of the shop. It was sharp and commanding, almost as if it was demanding attention.

Curious, Harry followed the sound to the far corner, where a row of owls perched in large, spacious cages. Most of them were calm, preening their feathers or dozing. But one owl—a snowy white one—was flapping her wings furiously, rattling the bars of her cage as she stared directly at him.

“Well, there’s trouble again,” came a weary voice. The shopkeeper, a stout man with a balding head and a harried expression, appeared beside Harry. “That one’s been a handful since the day she got here.”

“She’s beautiful,” Harry murmured, stepping closer. The owl was stunning, her snowy feathers practically glowing in the dim light, with piercing amber eyes that seemed to bore straight into his soul.

“She is that,” the shopkeeper admitted grudgingly. “But she’s a menace. Won’t settle, won’t bond with anyone who tries to take her. Keeps causing a fuss, like she’s desperate to fly somewhere specific. Almost like she’s being summoned, if you believe that sort of nonsense.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the word summoned. He thought back to the magic he used whenever he needed an owl to deliver a letter, the gentle tug of magic that guided them toward him. Could it be possible that this owl had been feeling that tug?

As if reading his mind, the owl let out another loud hoot and fluttered her wings, staring at him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. Tentatively, Harry stepped closer and raised a hand toward the bars of her cage.

“Careful,” the shopkeeper warned. “She’s pecked plenty of folks already.”

But the snowy owl didn’t peck him. Instead, she tilted her head and stepped forward, her talons clicking softly against the perch. She stretched her neck toward Harry’s outstretched fingers, and he felt the soft brush of feathers against his skin.

“She’s not so bad,” Harry said quietly, stroking the owl’s head. She closed her eyes and let out a soft, contented hoot.

The shopkeeper snorted. “First time I’ve seen her act like that. Must be your lucky day.”

Harry smiled, feeling a strange connection to the bird.

“Well, if you want her, she’s yours,” the shopkeeper said. “But are you sure you don’t want to look at the cats? Or maybe a toad? They’re much easier to handle, and they won’t be breaking out of their cages every other day.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I think… I think she’s perfect.”

The shopkeeper grumbled under his breath but fetched the cage and a perch for the owl. As Harry paid for her, she let out a triumphant hoot, as if she knew she was finally going home.

“What’s her name?” Harry asked, glancing at the shopkeeper.

“She doesn’t have one,” the man replied with a shrug. “Didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to need one.”

Harry looked back at the owl, who was watching him intently from her perch. “How about… Hedwig?” he said softly, remembering a name he’d come across in one of his books. “Do you like that?”

Hedwig tilted her head and let out a soft, approving hoot.

Carrying Hedwig’s cage through the bustling alley, Harry couldn’t stop smiling.

As they passed a group of witches and wizards, Harry caught a snippet of their conversation.

“Did you see that owl?” one of them said. “Such a striking bird!”

Harry’s chest swelled with pride. He didn’t care that Hedwig had been labelled a troublemaker; to him, she was perfect.

When he arrived back at the Pritchards’ shop, Mrs. Pritchard greeted him with a smile. “Who’s this?” she asked, peering into the cage.

“This is Hedwig,” Harry said, setting the cage down carefully. “I think she was waiting for me.”

Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes softened. “Well, it seems like she found exactly who she was meant to. She’s beautiful, Harry.”

Hedwig let out a soft hoot, and Harry smiled, feeling a warmth in his chest.

As the evening wore on, now back at number 4, Harry set up Hedwig’s perch by his window, giving her a clear view of the street below. She seemed to approve, ruffling her feathers and settling in comfortably.

“Welcome home, Hedwig,” Harry whispered.

She blinked at him with her bright amber eyes, and he could’ve sworn she understood.

~

The late summer sun filtered through the orchard’s trees, casting dappled light onto the soft grass below. Harry and Luna sat cross-legged beneath their favourite tree, the air heavy with the bittersweet feeling of parting.

“You’re going to have such a lovely time at Hogwarts,” Luna said dreamily, her voice lilting as though she were describing a magical place she’d only read about in books. “The castle is alive, you know. Not in the way trees or animals are alive, but in its own way. It feels everything that happens inside it.”

Harry smiled faintly, trying to imprint this moment into his memory. “I wish you could come with me,” he said, his voice tight.

Luna tilted her head, her long blonde hair catching the sunlight. “I’ll be there next year,” she said as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “And until then, we have the journals. You won’t really be alone.”

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her matching journal, its leather cover slightly worn but radiating an unspoken connection to the one Harry carried. “You must write often,” she said softly, her pale blue eyes locking onto his. “Even if it’s just to tell me about the weather or the creatures you find in the forest by the castle. It will be like we’re speaking to each other.”

Harry nodded, his throat tightening. “I will. I promise.”

Luna smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “And don’t be sad,” she added gently. “Just think of this as the start of a new story, and every time you turn a page, I’ll be reading it with you.”

For a moment, Harry couldn’t speak. Luna had a way of saying things that felt like they reached into his heart and settled there. He leaned forward and hugged her tightly, his arms wrapping around her slight frame. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered.

“I’ll miss you too,” she replied softly. “But we’re tied together now, Harry. Like the stars and the moon.”

When he pulled back, Luna smiled brightly, as though to chase away the shadows of goodbye. “Go on, then,” she said, motioning toward the road that led to Privet Drive. “Hogwarts is waiting for you.”

With one last look at Luna, he turned and walked away, clutching the weight of their friendship like an anchor in his chest.

~

The morning of September 1st arrived with a crispness in the air that hinted at autumn’s approach. Harry stepped out of the cab in front of King’s Cross Station, a knot of anticipation and unease twisting in his stomach. He hadn’t felt this nervous in a long time—not even when dodging wizards and witches in Knockturn Alley.

His enchanted leather side bag hung at his side, which held his shrunken trunk and the Pritchards' discreetly charmed book trunk that they gifted him before leaving. In his hand was Hedwig’s cage, her snowy feathers gleaming in the soft morning light. The owl gazed imperiously around at the milling crowd of muggles, as if they were all beneath her notice.

Harry’s Veil of Shadows was faintly active, just enough to make him blend into the background. It wasn’t invisibility, but it made people’s eyes slide past him, as though he were unremarkable and not worth a second glance. It was a habit now, one born from necessity and survival.

The station buzzed with life, muggles hurrying to catch their trains or reuniting with loved ones. Harry weaved through the throng, scanning for the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, but his nerves made him second-guess himself.

Then, a loud, commanding voice sliced through the noise.

“Now, now, keep close, all of you! No wandering off! This place is packed with muggles!”

Harry turned toward the sound and froze. A woman with bright red hair bustled into view, herding a group of equally red-haired children through the station. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos with practiced authority.

“Fred, George!” she barked, glaring at two identical boys who lagged behind. “Stop dawdling! And don’t even think about setting off those dungbombs in here!”

The twins exchanged mischievous grins that were far too practiced to be innocent.

“What dungbombs, Mum?” one of them asked, his tone dripping with feigned sincerity.

“We’re perfect little angels,” the other added, his expression the picture of mock outrage.

The woman scowled. “You’ll be angels when I send you to meet Merlin at this rate,” she muttered under her breath.

Harry’s lips twitched as the twins sped up, their trunks clattering behind them. One of them leaned casually against a solid brick pillar—and vanished.

Harry blinked. That had to be the barrier.

The other twin followed suit, disappearing just as effortlessly. The other children both turned to their mother with pleading expressions,  the youngest two of the bunch—an auburn-haired girl and a freckled boy about Harry’s age—were the loudest.

“Mummy, can we go now?” the girl whined, her voice grating. “You promised I’d get to see Harry Potter!”

Harry stiffened, gripping Hedwig’s cage more tightly.

“Ginny, dear, be patient,” the woman replied, clearly exasperated. “And I didn’t promise. I said maybe. Now hold your tongue while I check that we haven’t forgotten anything.”

The girl huffed dramatically, stomping a foot.

The youngest boy, who Harry guessed was Ron, scowled. “This is ridiculous. Why couldn’t I have gone through first? Fred and George always get to go first, and I never do anything cool!”

“Ronald Weasley,” the woman snapped, her eyes narrowing. “You’ll go through when I tell you to, and not a second before!”

Harry watched the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and unease. The family was chaotic, loud, and far too noticeable for his liking. They drew attention like moths to a flame, and Harry could feel the subtle tug of suspicion in the red-haired woman’s glances.

The mother scanned the station again, her gaze lingering on anyone who seemed even slightly out of place. Harry shrank back instinctively, pulling his Shadows tighter around him. Her sharp eyes passed over him without catching, but the tension in her posture didn’t fade.

“We’re waiting here because Professor Dumbledore said Harry Potter would be coming through the muggle way,” she said in a lower voice, her words intended for the children but loud enough to carry.

Harry’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Ginny’s eyes lit up. “So he’ll be here any minute!” she exclaimed, her earlier sulk forgotten.

Ron groaned. “Do you think he’ll be in Gryffindor? He’d better be. I’ll bet he’ll want to be my best mate.”

“Of course he’ll be in Gryffindor,” Ginny replied, as though it were obvious. “All the best wizards are in Gryffindor. If he’s not, something’s wrong with him.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He edged closer to the barrier, taking advantage of the fact that the woman had turned her attention back to her daughter’s incessant whining.

“I don’t see why we can’t just wait inside,” Ron muttered sulkily.

“Because Dumbledore said to wait out here,” the woman replied sharply, scanning the crowd once more. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Harry vowed to avoid these people as much as he can, especially if they’re in Dumbledores pocket.

Harry exhaled slowly, using the noise of the station to cover his steps as he approached the barrier. He glanced around one last time, ensuring no one was paying attention to him, before slipping through the brick wall.

The transition was seamless, and Harry emerged on the other side to the sight of the gleaming scarlet Hogwarts Express. The platform was alive with wizards and witches, all bustling to load trunks, say tearful goodbyes, or chatter excitedly about the upcoming school year.

Harry stepped aside, letting the crowd flow around him as he took it all in.

Hedwig hooted softly, drawing his attention. He glanced down at her, offering a faint smile. “Let’s get aboard,” he murmured.

The Hogwarts Express whistled sharply, and Harry stepped onto the train with Hedwig’s cage in one hand and his enchanted bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t rush, weaving through the crowded corridor as students chattered excitedly and poked their heads into compartments. Harry’s nerves prickled at the unfamiliarity of it all.

He passed several compartments already filled with loud and energetic students, each one feeling more intimidating than the last. It wasn’t until near the back of the train that he spotted a compartment with only one occupant: a round-faced boy who was anxiously fiddling with the strap of his battered trunk.

“Excuse me,” Harry said hesitantly, stopping at the door. “Are you saving this for anyone, or…?”

The boy startled, his wide, anxious eyes meeting Harry’s. “Oh! Um, no. You can sit here if you want.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, sliding the door open and stepping inside. He stashed Hedwig’s cage on the luggage rack, careful not to jostle her too much, then placed his bag on the seat beside him. The boy didn’t say anything at first, simply wringing his hands nervously.

“I’m Harry,” Harry offered after a moment, trying to break the silence. He adjusted the fake round glasses on his face and resisted the urge to fidget with his short hair. Slightly regretting the decision to keep up the appearance of Harry Potter, to distract from being recognised as Evan Birch in the future.

“Neville,” the boy said quickly. “Neville Longbottom.” He hesitated, then added, “Are you a first year too?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied with a small smile. “First time on the train. You?”

Neville nodded, but his face scrunched with worry. “My gran’s been talking about this day for years, but I’m not sure I’m ready. She says Hogwarts is where everyone in our family gets sorted into Gryffindor.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think I’m brave enough for Gryffindor.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the boy’s candor. “Why not?”

“I lose things all the time,” Neville admitted miserably. “Like my toad, Trevor. Gran got him for me as a gift, but I’ve already lost him twice today.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, a small, warty toad hopped up onto the seat, its beady eyes looking almost smug. Harry stifled a laugh and pointed. “You mean that toad?”

Neville’s face lit up. “Trevor!” he exclaimed, grabbing the toad before it could make another daring escape. “Thank you! He’s always trying to get away.”

“Maybe he’s just adventurous,” Harry said with a grin, relaxing slightly.

Neville gave a shy chuckle and sat back, holding Trevor tightly. “Maybe.”

The train jerked into motion, and Harry felt a mix of excitement and nerves as the platform began to slide away from view. He glanced out the window but quickly turned his attention back to Neville, who was now chatting about how he hadn’t done much magic yet.

“Gran says I’ll get the hang of it eventually,” Neville said. “But I’m not sure. I accidentally turned my ears purple when I tried a simple levitation charm.”

Harry snorted softly. “Could’ve been worse. At least you didn’t blow anything up.”

Neville gave him a grateful smile, clearly relieved by Harry’s easygoing response. They fell into a companionable silence for a while, the rhythmic clattering of the train filling the compartment.

It wasn’t long before the door to their compartment slid open again, revealing a lanky red-haired boy with freckles and a slightly sour expression.

“Have you seen Harry Potter?” the boy demanded without preamble, scanning the compartment quickly. His gaze passed over Harry, who had activated his Veil of Shadows spell just as the door opened. To Ron, it would look as though Harry’s seat were empty, and Neville was alone.

Neville blinked in confusion. “Uh, no. I haven’t.”

The red-haired boy—who Harry guessed was Ron based on the station fiasco—sneered. “Figures. You wouldn’t know him if he were sitting right next to you.” He gave Neville a once-over and added, “You don’t look like anyone worth talking to anyway.”

Harry clenched his fists, biting back a retort. Neville’s cheeks flushed, but he said nothing, staring down at Trevor in his hands.

“Whatever,” Ron muttered, turning to leave. “Bet he’s up front with all the other popular kids.”

As soon as the door slid shut, Harry dropped the spell. “What’s his problem?” he muttered.

Neville shrugged uncomfortably. “I think he’s one of the Weasleys. Gran says their family’s well-known, but I’ve never met them.” He looked up at Harry. “Why do you think he’s looking for Harry Potter?”

Harry shifted awkwardly, not wanting to reveal too much. “Maybe he’s just… curious.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Neville said, still looking a bit flustered.

The rest of the journey passed more pleasantly. Harry found Neville easy to talk to once they got past the initial awkwardness. They talked about Hogwarts, speculating about the classes and professors, and Neville shared stories about his eccentric gran. Harry, careful not to let slip anything about his past or advanced knowledge, stuck to vague responses about how he was excited to learn magic.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, a witch pushing a trolley of snacks stopped by their compartment. Harry bought a handful of Chocolate Frogs and some Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, sharing them with Neville, who was delighted to try the different sweets.

By the time the train began to slow, the two boys had settled into an easy camaraderie. Harry felt a small pang of relief—maybe making friends at Hogwarts wouldn’t be so hard after all.

As the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Harry and Neville gathered their things and followed the throng of students out onto the platform. The air was cool and crisp, and the towering silhouette of Hogwarts Castle loomed in the distance, its turrets glowing faintly in the evening light.

Harry felt a surge of anticipation as a booming voice called out, “First years, over here!”

A massive figure stood near the edge of the platform, holding a lantern that cast a warm glow. Harry recognized him instantly as Hagrid, though he kept his expression neutral as he nudged Neville.

“That’s us,” he said quietly.

Neville nodded, clutching Trevor tightly as they followed the other first years toward the boats that would carry them across the lake to Hogwarts. As the castle grew closer, Harry couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement.

~

The line of first-years shuffled nervously into the Great Hall, their wide eyes taking in the grandeur of the space. Harry had to admit, the enchanted ceiling, with its swirling night sky full of stars, was breathtaking. Beside him, Neville looked like he might faint, clutching Trevor in one hand and the brim of his hat in the other.

Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the hall, a scroll in hand and the Sorting Hat resting on a stool. The hat was old and patched, its brim slightly frayed, but it commanded attention when it began to sing. The Hall fell silent as it described the traits of each house: brave Gryffindors, loyal Hufflepuffs, clever Ravenclaws, and cunning Slytherins.

Harry couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity about where he might end up. Gryffindor seems too predictable. Slytherin would be… interesting. Ravenclaw, though—that might be a good fit.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl stepped forward, trembling slightly, and sat on the stool. The hat barely touched her head before shouting, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff table as Hannah hurried over, relief written across her face.

The sorting continued, with names being called one by one. Harry waited quietly, his mind racing. He glanced at Neville, who was wringing his hands.

“Don’t worry,” Harry whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

Neville gave him a wobbly smile but said nothing.

When "Longbottom, Neville" was called, he stumbled forward, nearly dropping Trevor in the process. The hall chuckled softly, but Harry clenched his fists, feeling a protective surge.

Neville sat down, and the hat was placed on his head. The seconds dragged on, the hat clearly debating. Finally, it shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Neville looked utterly shocked but stumbled toward the cheering Gryffindor table, his face red as he avoided eye contact with everyone.

The sorting went on, and Harry felt his nerves building. The hall felt too hot, too loud, and the stares from the older students didn’t help.

"Potter, Harry."

The name hung in the air like a thunderclap.

The entire hall went silent, heads swivelling to look at him. Whispers erupted almost instantly.

“Did they say Potter?”
“Harry Potter?”
“Is it really him?”

Harry straightened his glasses, feeling a flush creep up his neck. He forced himself to walk forward, keeping his shoulders straight despite the weight of the stares.

When he sat on the stool, the hat was lowered onto his head.

"Ah," a voice drawled in his ear. "Interesting. Very interesting indeed."

Harry swallowed hard. Great. The hat talks.

"You’re a curious one," the hat continued, sounding amused. "Plenty of ambition, I see. A strong desire to prove yourself, and a sharp mind to match. You’d do well in Slytherin, you know."

"Oh, you could be great there. You have the cunning and resourcefulness for it. And the connections you could make… but I see. With your power they would flock to you."

No thank you, Harry thought firmly.

"Very well. If not Slytherin, then where? Gryffindor? You have the bravery for it, though it’s a little more subtle. No, no… I think your thirst for knowledge outweighs even that."

Harry felt the hat pause, almost like it was grinning.

"RAVENCLAW!" it bellowed.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The Ravenclaw table erupted into cheers, their blue and bronze banners gleaming proudly in the torchlight. Harry glanced toward them, surprised by the warm welcome. But when he looked back at the rest of the hall, he saw nothing but stunned faces.

The Gryffindor table seemed particularly shocked, as if they couldn’t comprehend why the Boy Who Lived hadn’t joined their ranks. At the Slytherin table, several students whispered among themselves, their expressions unreadable.

Harry stood and made his way to the Ravenclaw table, feeling self-conscious but relieved. The students there greeted him warmly, clapping him on the back and making space for him to sit.

“Welcome to Ravenclaw, Potter!” said a dark-haired boy with an eager grin. “I’m Terry Boot. This is Padma Patil and Anthony Goldstein.”

“Hi,” Harry said, managing a small smile as he sat down.

Across the hall, the buzz of whispers grew louder. Harry could hear snippets of conversation, most of them cantered around his unexpected placement.

At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley gaped at him, looking thoroughly betrayed.

Up at the staff table, Professor McGonagall looked startled but quickly composed herself, nodding approvingly. Dumbledore’s eyes bored into him as he observed Harry, his expression unreadable.

As the sorting continued, Harry began to relax, listening as his new housemates explained more about Ravenclaw. They seemed excited to have him, though they didn’t bombard him with questions like he’d feared.

When the last student was sorted, the feast began.

The Great Hall was alive with chatter and laughter as the Sorting Hat was whisked away and the tables magically filled with food. Platters of roast chicken, mountains of mashed potatoes, and goblets brimming with pumpkin juice materialised before Harry’s eyes. It was a sight to behold, yet his appetite wavered.

Instead, his eyes wandered to the staff table at the far end of the Hall. It had been impossible to ignore the way the teachers watched him during the Sorting, their gazes filled with curiosity and, in some cases, thinly veiled scrutiny.

But now, his attention was drawn to the man sitting at the centre of the table. Albus Dumbledore.

The headmaster was unmistakable, even among the diverse assembly of Hogwarts professors. His long silver beard gleamed in the candlelight, falling nearly to his waist. Half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose, and his robes, a swirling tapestry of stars and moons, shimmered faintly. Dumbledore was chatting amiably with Professor McGonagall, but Harry noticed the occasional glance the man cast his way, his piercing blue eyes twinkling with an unsettling intensity.

Harry’s stomach turned as he observed him. So that’s Dumbledore. The one pulling all the strings.

It was strange. For years, Dumbledore had been this distant, almost mythical figure in Harry’s mind—the powerful wizard who had left him on the Dursleys’ doorstep like an unwanted parcel. But now, seeing him in person, Harry felt a chill he hadn’t expected.

He didn’t look like someone capable of stealing a child’s inheritance or orchestrating years of neglect. No, Dumbledore looked every bit the kind and eccentric grandfather figure people claimed him to be. But Harry wasn’t fooled. Not after everything he’d uncovered over the years.

The twinkle in those blue eyes wasn’t warmth—it was calculation. Harry was sure of it. The headmaster’s reputation might have been built on wisdom and benevolence, but to Harry, it now seemed like a carefully crafted mask.

How many times has he checked on me, not out of concern, but to make sure I stayed in line? How many people has he sent to spy on me, all while pretending to care?

Harry’s jaw tightened as he tore his gaze away, focusing instead on his plate. He didn’t want Dumbledore to catch him staring. The last thing he needed was to draw the man’s attention any more than he already had.

But his thoughts churned. He left me with the Dursleys, knowing what they were like. He let them treat me like a servant, let them starve me, lock me in a cupboard, and steal everything good out of my life. And for what? The money in his vaults? The unwanted fame of the Boy-Who-Lived?

It made Harry’s blood boil. If it weren’t for the Pritchards, Luna, and his own efforts, he might still be the malnourished, desperate boy Dumbledore wanted.

A burst of laughter from the Ravenclaw table jolted him out of his thoughts. Anthony Goldstein was grinning as he recounted a story about his older sister’s time at Hogwarts, and the rest of the table was hanging on his every word. Harry forced himself to focus, nodding along and even managing a weak chuckle when appropriate. But his mind kept drifting back to the man at the staff table.

He risked another glance at Dumbledore. The headmaster was smiling now, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he clapped Professor Flitwick on the back. To anyone else, he looked like the epitome of geniality. But to Harry, that smile felt more like the Cheshire Cat’s—hiding secrets behind a façade of charm.

You don’t own me anymore, Harry thought, his grip tightening around his goblet. I’m not the ignorant child you left hidden away. And I’m not going to let you control me.

The resolve steadied him. He might be under Dumbledore’s roof now, but Harry knew better than to trust him—or anyone connected to him. Hogwarts might be a new chapter, but it didn’t mean he’d let his guard down.

Dumbledore raised his goblet in a toast, his eyes sweeping the room. For a brief moment, they landed on Harry. The twinkle in those blue eyes seemed brighter than ever.

Game on, old man.

Chapter Text

The Ravenclaw dormitories were unlike anything Harry had imagined. Nestled high in the towering spires of Hogwarts, the common room was a work of celestial beauty. The vaulted ceiling was enchanted to resemble a night sky, constellations twinkling softly against a backdrop of midnight blue. Tall, arched windows overlooked the grounds, and the room was dotted with plush armchairs, bookcases crammed with tomes, and tables that seemed purpose-built for study sessions.

The dormitories themselves were just as breathtaking. Harry climbed the spiral staircase to the first-year boys’ dorm and stepped into a cosy yet elegant room. Three canopied beds with deep blue curtains encircled a central area, where a small table stood littered with candles and parchment. A bronze chandelier hung above, casting warm light that reflected off the intricate carvings on the wooden beams.

Harry’s bed was by the window, where he could see the moonlight shimmering on the lake in the distance. He placed Hedwig’s cage on his bedside table and gave her an affectionate stroke. She hooted softly, settling into her feathers.

His dormmates were already preparing for bed: Stephen Cornfoot and Kevin Entwhistle.

They seemed nice enough, if a bit tired from the day’s excitement. After a few introductions and a bit of light chatter, the others drifted off to sleep, the soft sound of breathing filling the room.

But Harry couldn’t sleep.

He sat on his bed, pulling out the two-way journal. Its soft leather cover felt comforting under his fingertips as he opened it, revealing the blank page. He took a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.

Luna,
I’ve been sorted into Ravenclaw. It’s strange because the hat said I could have been in Slytherin or Gryffindor too. But Ravenclaw feels… right. I think you would like it here. The dorms are high up in one of the towers, and the view is amazing. The common room is full of books and has this enchanted ceiling that looks like the night sky. You’d love it.

But it’s not all good. Everyone keeps staring at me. Whispering. They don’t know me, but they act like they do just because of the stupid scar. It’s worse than I thought it would be. And Dumbledore... I saw him at the feast. There’s something about him, Luna. He feels off. Like he’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t trust him.

I hope you’re okay. I miss you already.

Harry watched as the ink shimmered and disappeared, the spell connecting their journals activating. Moments later, Luna’s reply appeared in her loopy handwriting.

Harry,
You’re where you’re meant to be. Ravenclaw sounds perfect for you. And don’t worry about the whispers—they’ll fade. People are silly that way. As for Dumbledore, dreamers like us see what others don’t. Trust your instincts.

Remember to look at the stars from your tower window. They’ll remind you of home.

Harry smiled softly, closing the journal and setting it aside. The stars outside did feel a little like home.

~

By morning, Harry had braced himself for what he suspected would be a long week. He wasn’t wrong.

Everywhere he went, people whispered. Conversations hushed as he passed, and heads turned in his direction.

He’d barely gotten through breakfast that first morning when Ron Weasley intercepted him in the Great Hall.

“Oi, Harry!” Ron called, jogging over with a grin plastered across his face.

Harry barely had time to respond before Ron plopped down beside him uninvited.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Ron said, his tone conspiratorial. “I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”

Harry blinked. “Uh, hi.”

Ron gave him a once-over, frowning slightly. “You should’ve been in Gryffindor, you know. What’s wrong with you? Why’d you let the hat put you here?”

Harry stiffened, feeling his temper flare. “I didn’t let the hat do anything. It put me where I belong.”

Ron waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, don’t worry about it. We’ll sort it out. You’ll still be my best mate and all, even if you’re a bit... odd.”

Harry stared at him, stunned by the sheer audacity. “I don’t even know you.”

Ron looked taken aback, but before he could respond, Hermione Granger appeared, huffing with indignation.

“Ronald Weasley! Leave him alone! He doesn’t need you badgering him on his first week!”

Ron flushed but muttered something under his breath before walking away.

Harry exhaled sharply as Ron trudged off, feeling both bewildered and annoyed. The encounter left a sour taste in his mouth, and as he turned back to his plate, he noticed a few of his new housemates exchanging looks. A tall girl with dark curls leaned forward from across the table, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“That was… something,” she said, her voice light but edged with amusement. “Gryffindors always act like they own the place, but it could just be a Weasley thing?”

Harry glanced up, uncertain how to respond. “I—well, I don’t know. I’ve only known him for all of thirty seconds.”

The girl laughed softly, then extended a hand. “Maya Byrne, third year. You’re Harry, obviously. Welcome to Ravenclaw.”

He shook her hand, grateful for the distraction. “Thanks. Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t mind him,” chimed in another voice. A stocky boy with dark hair who was sitting to Harry’s right gave him a sympathetic smile. “Weasley’s one of those kids who thinks Gryffindor’s the only house that matters.” He paused before adding, “I’m Michael Corner, by the way.”

Harry nodded, though he couldn’t quite shake the irritation from Ron’s presumptuousness. He felt like he’d been in Hogwarts for five minutes, and already people were telling him where he should be and how he should act.

“Do people always make such a big deal about houses?” he asked, glancing between Maya and Michael.

Maya shrugged. “Depends. Some people are really house-proud—especially Gryffindors and Slytherins. But most of us couldn’t care less. I mean, it’s just where you sleep and eat, right?”

“Exactly,” Michael agreed, reaching for a piece of toast. “You’ll see, my family have been Ravenclaws. We’ve got the best common room, and most of us are pretty decent.”

Harry appreciated their reassurance, though he couldn’t help but notice the lingering glances from other Ravenclaws at the table. They weren’t being unfriendly, but he could tell they were still sizing him up.

“Alright, first-years!” Professor Flitwick’s cheerful voice rang out, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. The diminutive Charms professor was bustling down the aisle between the tables, a stack of parchment in his hands. “Gather round, please! Time to collect your timetables!”

Harry quickly finished the last bite of his toast and joined the cluster of first-year Ravenclaws gathering around Flitwick. The professor beamed up at them as he handed out the schedules, his energy infectious.

“Today’s your first full day of classes,” Flitwick said, addressing the group. “You’ll start with Charms—my class, naturally—followed by Potions with Professor Snape, and then Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall after lunch, followed by Defence Against the Dart Arts with Professor Quirrell. A busy day, but I’m sure you’ll do splendidly!”

Harry accepted his timetable, scanning the list of classes.

As the group dispersed, Terry peered over Harry’s shoulder at his schedule. “Looks like we’ve all got the same lineup today.”

Michael nodded in agreement. “Charms first. We’ll like Flitwick; he’s brilliant. Bit excitable, apparently.”

“Excitable’s good,” Harry muttered.

The Ravenclaw first-years filed out of the Great Hall, following Maya’s lead. As they climbed the staircase toward the Charms classroom, Harry listened as his classmates chattered around him.

“So, is it true?” asked a girl with brown hair and a nervous smile, falling into step beside Harry. “You’re the Harry Potter?”

Harry resisted the urge to groan. “I suppose so.”

The girl flushed, realizing how awkward her question had sounded. “Sorry. It’s just—well, people talk. I thought you’d be taller.”

Terry snorted. “Everyone thought he’d be in Gryffindor, too. Shows how much they know.”

Harry appreciated the deflection, but the comment reminded him of Ron’s words. “What’s wrong with being in Ravenclaw, anyway?” he asked, his frustration bubbling over. “Why does everyone act like I made some terrible mistake?”

Maya slowed her pace from where she was guiding them, glancing back at him. “Because people love putting others in boxes. You’re Harry Potter, so they expect you to be brave and daring and all that Gryffindor nonsense.”

Harry considered that as they reached the Charms classroom. The Sorting Hat’s decision hadn’t surprised him, after all he’s always valued knowledge over most things.

Flitwick was already waiting inside the classroom, standing on a stack of books to reach his podium. He greeted the students warmly as they filed in, his enthusiasm lighting up the room.

“Welcome, welcome!” he chirped, clapping his hands together. “Today, we’ll begin with the basics of wand work. A strong foundation is key to becoming a skilled witch or wizard!”

Harry took a seat near the middle of the room. He felt a flicker of nervous excitement as he pulled out his wand, eager to see what magic they would be learning.

The awkwardness of using a wand became apparent during this lesson. Flitwick had them practicing the Levitation Charm, Wingardium Leviosa.

Harry swished and flicked his wand as instructed, focusing on the feather before him. He felt the familiar hum of magic, but channelling it through the wand felt unnatural, like trying to breathe through a straw.

The feather shot into the air with explosive force, slamming into the ceiling and getting stuck in the rafters.

Flitwick looked up, startled. “Well! That’s... enthusiastic!”

The class burst into laughter, but Harry’s cheeks burned. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his wand was more of a hindrance than a help.

~

The moment Harry entered the Potions dungeon, the air felt heavier, more oppressive. The stone walls seemed to close in around them, their damp coldness chilling him more than the September weather above. A low murmur of chatter filled the room as Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs took their seats.

Then Snape swept in, his robes billowing in the air. The classroom fell silent in an instant.

“Settle down,” Snape commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow it carried effortlessly through the room. He made his way to the front, his black eyes scanning the class with a mixture of disdain and disinterest.

Harry felt those eyes land on him, and the disdain sharpened into something cold and deliberate.

“Ah,” Snape said, his lips curling into a sneer. “Our new... celebrity.” His voice dripped with contempt, and the word felt like an accusation rather than a title.

The room grew uncomfortably still. Harry could feel every set of eyes in the class darting between him and Snape. For a moment, he considered responding, but he realised that would only make things worse. Instead, he met Snape’s gaze evenly, refusing to flinch.

Snape’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Harry felt the familiar rush of anxiety he’d grown used to over the years whenever adults tried to test him. But then he remembered his time with the Pritchards. Mr. Pritchard was a hobbyist potion-maker, and Harry had spent countless afternoons helping him brew remedies. He knew this one.

“Draught of Living Death,” Harry said evenly. “It’s a powerful sleeping potion.”

Snape raised an eyebrow but didn’t let up. “And where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

“In the stomach of a goat, sir.” Harry replied without hesitation.

“And tell me, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“They’re the same plant,” Harry said, meeting Snape’s glare head-on. “Also known as aconite.”

A soft murmur rippled through the class. Harry could feel Michael shooting him an impressed look, and even the rest of the class looked mildly surprised. Snape, however, was not impressed. His scowl deepened with every correct answer, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Snape said, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped closer, his dark eyes narrowing on Harry. “Fame isn’t everything, Potter. You may have everyone else fooled, but I assure you, I am not so easily impressed.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t make things worse. Snape stared him down for a moment longer before turning abruptly on his heel and sweeping back to the front of the room.

“Today,” Snape announced, “you will be attempting a simple potion: a Cure for Boils. Instructions are on the board. Do not waste my time with questions; everything you need is there. Begin.”

There was a scrape of chairs as everyone moved to gather their ingredients. Michael leaned in close to Harry as they opened their textbooks.

“Well, that was... intense,” he whispered, smirking slightly. “You really know your stuff, though.”

Harry shrugged, still feeling the weight of Snape’s scrutiny. “Just lucky I read about it before.”

Michael raised an eyebrow as he fetched his cauldron. “You’d better hope that doesn’t make Snape hate you even more.”

Harry didn’t respond, but he suspected Michael was right. As they prepared their ingredients, he noticed Snape prowling the room, his sharp eyes darting over their work.

“Careful with that, Michael,” Harry warned as Michael nearly added the porcupine quills too early. “It says to take the cauldron off the heat first.”

Michael blinked at the board and sighed. “Good catch. Thanks.”

Meanwhile, the Hufflepuffs at the next table seemed to be struggling. Harry recognised one of them as Hannah Abbott, whose blonde hair kept falling into her eyes as she chopped her ingredients. Her partner, a round-faced boy named Ernie Macmillan, looked even more nervous than she did.

“You’re supposed to crush the snake fangs first,” Anthony whispered to them, pointing discreetly at the instructions. Hannah flashed him a grateful smile.

As the potion-making progressed, the room filled with the sound of bubbling cauldrons and the occasional hiss of steam. Harry found himself slipping into the rhythm of the work. Measuring, stirring, and timing each step came naturally to him, and for a while, he almost forgot about Snape’s looming presence.

Almost.

“Five points from Ravenclaw,” Snape’s voice cut through the room like a whip. Harry looked up to see the professor glaring at Michael, who had apparently spilled some crushed snake fangs onto the table.

“Sorry, sir,” Michael mumbled, quickly cleaning up the mess.

“Sloppiness will not be tolerated,” Snape sneered. “And you—” he turned to another student, who had just finished stirring her potion clockwise instead of counterclockwise. “Did I not make it clear to read the instructions?”

She flushed, but she didn’t let Snape rattle her. “Yes, Professor. I’ll fix it.”

By the time Snape reached Harry’s table again, his potion was nearly complete. The liquid in his cauldron was the pale green colour described on the board, and it gave off a faint, herbal scent. Snape leaned over, inspecting it with a critical eye.

“Hmm,” he said, his tone begrudging. “Barely adequate.”

It wasn’t exactly praise, but Harry took it as a win.

“Potter,” Snape said suddenly, his voice low enough that only Harry could hear. “A word of advice: you may think yourself clever now, but arrogance is a dangerous thing. It has brought down wizards far more talented than you.”

Harry looked up, startled by the venom in Snape’s words. For a brief moment, he saw something flash in the professor’s eyes—something that looked almost like hatred. Before he could respond, Snape straightened and moved on to the next table, his robes billowing behind him.

What the hell is his problem? Harry thought.

The rest of the lesson passed in tense silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of steam or clatter of glassware. When class finally ended, Harry felt a wave of relief as he packed up his things.

“Well, that was fun,” Michael said dryly as they left the dungeon. “Snape really has it out for you, doesn’t he?”

Terry nodded, shaking his head. “No kidding. What’s his problem?”

Harry hesitated. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Snape’s hostility was personal, though he had no idea why. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

As they climbed the stairs back to the main floor, the Hufflepuffs caught up with them. Hannah Abbott gave them a shy smile.

“Thanks for pointing out the instructions,” she said to Anthony. “I don’t think we would’ve managed without you.”

“No problem,” he replied, grinning. “We first years have to stick together. Even if we’re helping the competition.”

Hannah laughed, and even Ernie managed a small smile. “We’re not much competition,” he said. “But thanks anyway.”

As they walked towards transfiguration, Harry found himself feeling lighter.

The Transfiguration classroom was bright and orderly, the rows of desks arranged with precision to match the stern face of Professor McGonagall, who stood at the front, her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the arriving students. The morning sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows that danced across the polished wooden floor.

Harry, still buzzing with unease from Potions, slid into a seat near the middle of the room, flanked by Michael and Terry. The Hufflepuffs entered shortly after, Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan among them, their earlier nervousness replaced by a cautious optimism.

“Welcome to Transfiguration,” McGonagall began, her crisp voice cutting through the chatter as soon as the last student took their seat. “This is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back.”

Harry straightened in his seat, already sensing that this was a subject McGonagall took as seriously as Snape did Potions, though without the hostility.

McGonagall flicked her wand, and the chalk at the board began to write, her voice flowing in tandem with the neat script. “Transfiguration is the art of changing the form or appearance of an object. Today, we will begin with something simple: turning a matchstick into a needle.”

At a wave of her wand, small wooden matchsticks appeared in front of every student. “The incantation is Vera Verto. Proper pronunciation and focus are essential. Now, watch closely.”

She raised her wand and pointed it at a matchstick on her desk. With a sharp and deliberate flick, she intoned, “Vera Verto.” The matchstick shimmered and morphed into a gleaming silver needle.

“Your turn,” McGonagall said, stepping back to observe. “Be patient, and concentrate.”

The room filled with muttered repetitions of the spell as the students tried their hand. Harry stared at his matchstick, suppressing the urge to sigh. He’d mastered this years ago when he first began exploring wandless magic in secret with Mrs. Figgs books. Still, he raised his wand like everyone else, muttering the incantation under his breath.

“Vera Verto,” he said softly, trying to focus on the wand. In truth, his mind did all the work. With a faint shimmer, the matchstick transformed smoothly into a needle.

“Not bad, Harry!” Michael whispered, grinning as his own matchstick wobbled slightly but remained stubbornly wooden.

Harry forced a small smile. He didn’t want to stand out too much, but it seemed inevitable. McGonagall swept past his table, her sharp eyes glancing at his needle and a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Well done, Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone measured but not unkind. “Precise work. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry replied, trying to sound casual.

Michael groaned softly beside him. “How’d you get it so quickly? I can’t even get mine to twitch.”

“Just... focus,” Harry said, trying not to sound dismissive. “Picture it in your mind before you say the spell.”

In front of him, another Ravenclaw was biting her lip, glaring at her matchstick as though sheer willpower might force it to change. Her wand moved in quick, frustrated jabs as she muttered the spell. “Vera Verto! Come on!”

Meanwhile, the Hufflepuffs were having mixed success. Hannah Abbott managed a halfway transformation, her matchstick turning into a warped, silvery object that resembled a misshapen needle. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering the incantation so softly that his matchstick didn’t even budge.

“Speak up, Ernie,” a student called across the aisle. “The spell needs confidence!”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the noise. “Miss Bones, you are not wrong. Clear pronunciation is essential. Keep at it, Mr. Macmillan.”

Harry noticed McGonagall giving him the occasional glance as she moved through the room. He wondered if she suspected how easily he’d managed the task, but she said nothing, focusing instead on offering advice to the struggling students.

By the end of the lesson, only a handful of students had succeeded in semi-transforming their matchsticks. McGonagall surveyed the room, her expression stern but not unkind.

“Good effort, all of you,” she said. “Transfiguration is a difficult subject, and it will take time to master. For homework, I want you to practice this spell for at least fifteen minutes every evening. Dismissed.”

As the class filed out, Michael nudged Harry. “You make this stuff look easy. Seriously, where’d you learn to do that?”

Harry hesitated, then shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Padma rolled her eyes. “Right, because luck turns matchsticks into perfect needles.”

Before Harry could respond, Hannah Abbott caught up with them. “That was amazing, Harry,” she said shyly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get it on their first try.”

Harry felt his ears heat up. “Thanks, but it’s not that impressive.”

“It is to me,” Hannah insisted. “I barely managed anything.”

Ernie, trailing behind her, gave Harry an appraising look. “Maybe you should tutor the rest of us,” he said, only half-joking.

“I think Harry’s got enough on his plate,” Terry said with a grin.

They headed to lunch together, the chatter about the lesson helping to ease Harry’s lingering nerves.

~

The first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson was held in a gloomy classroom that smelled faintly of damp stone and strongly of garlic. Professor Quirrell stood at the front, his turban tilted awkwardly on his head.

Harry settled into his seat near the back, wary of the man’s nervous stutter and darting eyes. As Quirrell began his lecture on basic defensive spells, Harry’s scar gave a sharp, sudden throb.

He winced, pressing a hand to his forehead. The pain wasn’t overwhelming, but it was strange and persistent, like a warning.

“Something wrong?” Terry Boot whispered beside him.

Harry shook his head. “I’m fine,” he murmured, though his scar continued to ache throughout the lesson.

Quirrell demonstrated a simple Shield Charm, his hands trembling slightly as he performed the incantation. When it was Harry’s turn to try, the pain in his scar flared again, distracting him. His first attempt at the charm fizzled, drawing a sharp bark of laughter from a Slytherin at the front.

Gritting his teeth, Harry focused his magic through his wand and tried again. This time, the shield flickered into existence, a pale blue shimmer that rippled in the air.

“V-Very good, Mr. Potter,” Quirrell said, though his smile seemed forced.

As the class ended, Harry packed his things quickly, eager to escape the unsettling room.

The rest of Harry’s first week at Hogwarts passed in a blur of lessons, staircases that seemed to move just to confuse him, and endless whispers wherever he went. The attention was exhausting, but Harry did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on his classes and his new maybe friends in Ravenclaw.

By Friday evening, he found himself sitting in the Ravenclaw common room, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Michael and Kevin were nearby, their heads bent over their Charms homework. Anthony was arguing with Padma about the correct wand motion for a Lumos charm, while Terry Boot tried to mediate.

For the first time all week, Harry felt a small sense of peace.

~

Harry had found a small, hidden alcove tucked away behind a tapestry depicting a group of witches embroiled in a heated game of wizard’s chess. It was a quiet, out-of-the-way spot where he could write in peace. The alcove had just enough room for a cushioned bench and a small ledge where he could set his journal. The light from the enchanted ceiling in the nearby corridor cast a soft glow, giving the space a peaceful atmosphere.

Pulling the journal from his bag, he prepared to write in it. The blank pages shimmered, and moments later, Luna’s neat, looping handwriting appeared.

Luna.

I finally found some time to write. It’s been a whirlwind of a week—Hogwarts is amazing, but it’s also overwhelming. There are so many people, and everyone keeps staring at me like I’m some sort of exhibit. I’m still getting used to the wand... It’s strange having to push my magic through it when I’m so used to doing things on my own. Some spells work, but others come out... well, let’s just say too well.

How are you? How’s Flick? Has he been behaving himself, or is he still slithering into places he’s not supposed to?

Harry,

I miss you already. The house feels much quieter without you here every week, though Flick has been keeping me company. He’s very curious about everything, especially the little bells I’ve strung by the windows to keep the Wrackspurts out. I think he likes the sound they make when the wind blows. He keeps flicking them with his tail.

The old snake has stayed in her nest, just as she said she would. She seems quite content there, but I think Flick misses her. I’ll use your portkey to go visit her with Flick when I can.

I’m glad you’re finding Hogwarts amazing, but I’m sorry about the stares. They’ll get used to you eventually—or they’ll find something else to talk about. People often whisper about me, too, but I don’t mind so much. It’s like a song you’re not meant to hear, but it doesn’t stop the music from playing.

Tell me about your first week. What’s it like in Ravenclaw? Have you made any friends yet?

Ravenclaw’s nice, actually. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the common room is incredible. It’s got a ceiling that looks like the night sky, and the view from the windows is stunning—you can see all the way to the Forbidden Forest. My dormmates are decent, too. They’re smart, obviously, but not stuck-up like some people might think.

We’ve had a few classes already. Charms was interesting—I managed to levitate a feather, but the wand made it shoot up so fast it got stuck in the rafters. Flitwick thought it was funny, though. In Transfiguration, I snuck in a bit of wandless magic because I didn’t think the wand would cooperate. No one noticed, I think but I did feel like I was cheating somehow.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was... strange. The professor, Quirrell, is a nervous wreck. The classroom smelled like garlic, and my scar started hurting during the lesson. It’s never done that before, and I don’t like it.

How’s the garden? Did the gnomes come back, or did you manage to keep them out this time?

Your common room sounds beautiful. I can almost picture it! I’m glad you like your dormmates. It’s good to have people to talk to, especially when you’re in a new place.

Your Defence class sounds odd. Garlic? Maybe he’s worried about vampires. Or perhaps he just likes the smell. Either way, I don’t think it’s normal for your scar to hurt. Maybe the professor is carrying something dark around him—some people do without even realising it. You should be careful.

The garden is doing well. The gnomes came back once, but I convinced them to leave by hanging some shrunken apple cores on the fence. They think it’s a warning from a territorial Bowtruckle.

Flick tried to eat one of the cores, but I stopped him in time. He’s very cheeky.

I’ve been thinking... Maybe I should write you a letter, pretending we met over the summer. That way, when I get to Hogwarts, no one will think it’s strange that we’re best friends already. What do you think?

That’s a brilliant idea. If you write to me now, I can show the letter to my dormmates if they ask. They’ll think we became friends in Diagon Alley or something. It’ll explain why we already know each other so well when you get here.

You’re clever, Luna—using apple cores to trick them into thinking there’s a Bowtruckle around is pure genius. I don’t think I would’ve thought of that.

As for my scar... you might be right about Quirrell carrying something dark. There’s just something off about him. His voice makes my skin crawl. I’ll be careful, though. I always am.

I haven’t had much time to explore the castle yet, but I’ve found a little nook behind a tapestry that’s perfect for reading and writing. It’s quiet, and no one’s found me here yet. I feel like it’s my little secret.

I wish you were here, though. It’d be nice to have someone who actually understands me.

I think everyone should have a secret nook. It sounds lovely. I hope you’ve brought some good books with you. Have you been to the library yet? I imagine it’s marvellous—rows and rows of shelves, each one brimming with possibilities.

I’ll write the letter tomorrow. I’ll say we met in Diagon Alley at Flourish and Blotts while looking at books, and we decided to keep in touch. I’ll even mention Flick. No one will suspect a thing.

I wish I was there, too. But we’ll be together soon enough. In the meantime, remember; just because you’re different doesn’t mean you’re wrong. Some people don’t understand things they haven’t seen before, but that doesn’t make those things any less true.

Keep writing to me. It helps, doesn’t it?

It really does help. It’s like having a piece of home with me.

I miss you.

I miss you too.

Harry smiled as he closed the journal. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt truly grounded. Luna had a way of reminding him who he was and what really mattered. Tucking the journal back into his bag, he leaned against the cool stone wall of the alcove, letting out a long, contented sigh.

~

A couple of days later, Hedwig brought him a letter from Luna that included a fake reminder of how they met in the summer and how she was ever so glad to meet him that day. It seemed people weren’t as nosy as he thought they would be. He got a few glances, but nobody asked him about it.

~

The first month at Hogwarts passed in a whirlwind of discovery, whispered rumours, and moments that left Harry both amazed and overwhelmed. He’d spent much of his time juggling an endless list of firsts—first classes, first house points, first spellwork—but it was the quieter moments that stuck with him the most. Between dodging Ron Weasley’s persistent attempts to buddy up to him and Hermione Granger’s pointed questions about how he mastered spells so quickly, Harry found solace in the company of Neville Longbottom.

There was something grounding about Neville’s calm presence. They shared many quiet conversations, both boys preferring calm moments to the chaos of the wider school.

One cold afternoon, Harry wandered into the greenhouses after Herbology, looking for some peace before lunch. The warmth of the room and the scent of damp earth reminded him of warm days in the forest where he practiced with his snakes. Rows of plants stretched out before him, some with vivid flowers, others strange and spiny.

Near the back, Neville crouched by a table of potted plants, intently examining the leaves of one. His head was bent, and he didn’t seem to notice Harry’s arrival.

“Neville?” Harry called, stepping closer.

Neville startled slightly but then smiled when he looked up. “Oh, hi, Harry. Didn’t hear you come in.”

Harry crouched down beside him, peering curiously at the plant. Its thick, waxy leaves shimmered faintly in the sunlight streaming through the greenhouse glass.

“What’s that one?” Harry asked.

“Valerian,” Neville said, his fingers brushing gently over the leaves as though they were made of glass. “Professor Sprout said we might use it in Potions soon. Thought I’d get a closer look.”

Harry smiled. “You’re really good at this stuff.”

Neville flushed, looking down at the plant. “My gran says I spend too much time in the garden, but I don’t know... Plants just make sense to me. They don’t talk back, they don’t judge you... They just grow if you take care of them.”

“I get that,” Harry said softly, his mind wandering back to the quiet afternoons he used to spend planting vegetables and coaxing wildflowers to bloom.

They lapsed into a companionable silence, Neville carefully inspecting the underside of a leaf while Harry reached out to touch one of the nearby flowers. It was a simple daisy-like bloom, but the moment Harry’s fingers brushed its petals, a faint pulse of energy ran through him.

Unconsciously, Harry’s magic stirred. The flower perked up, its petals unfurling wider and brighter, as though reaching for sunlight. Neville noticed immediately.

“Whoa,” Neville whispered, his eyes widening. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Harry asked, pulling his hand back quickly, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“That flower—it just... it looked droopy a second ago, but now it’s standing straight up.”

Harry shrugged, trying to play it off. “Maybe it’s the sunlight. Or maybe it’s just the magic in it?”

Neville didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. They returned to their plants, and Harry made a mental note to keep his magic in check. He’d spent years hiding it—especially his elemental abilities. Earth magic, in particular, had always been tricky to control. Plants, soil, and even the very air seemed to react to him when his guard was down.

As they moved to a different section of the greenhouse, Harry continued to ask Neville about the plants. The boy lit up, talking about magical herbs and their properties, his shy demeanour replaced by excitement.

“Hey,” Harry said after a while, “do you want to compare schedules later? Maybe we could hang out after classes or study when we both have free time.”

Neville’s face brightened. “Really? That’d be great! I don’t have many friends yet and I’m not very good with magic.”

“Me neither,” Harry admitted with a grin.

They left the greenhouse together, heading back toward the castle for lunch. What Harry didn’t notice as he stepped out was the subtle change in the plants behind him. Flowers that had been half-closed now bloomed fully, their colours more vibrant. Leaves that had sagged in the heat seemed to lift, as though refreshed.

Neville paused in the doorway, glancing back at the greenhouse. His eyes widened as he took in the transformation. He looked at Harry’s retreating figure, a mixture of awe and curiosity in his expression.

Neville didn’t say anything, but he promised himself one thing: he wouldn’t tell anyone.

The rest of the week flew by in a blur. Harry fell into the rhythm of classes, finding some easier than others. Charms, Astronomy and Transfiguration came naturally sometimes, much to Hermione’s obvious frustration, while History of Magic left him feeling drained.

Potions remained tense, with Snape’s pointed glares making Harry feel like a cauldron on the verge of exploding. Yet, he managed to keep his head down, relying on the knowledge he’d picked up from Mr. Pritchard to stay ahead.

Herbology, however, became one of Harry’s favourite classes. There was something satisfying about working with his hands, the dirt beneath his nails a familiar comfort. He and Neville often worked together, and Harry quickly realized just how much his friend knew about magical plants.

One evening, Harry sat with Neville by the lake, their books spread out in front of them as they attempted to tackle their Astronomy homework. The sky above was painted in shades of orange and purple, the first stars beginning to twinkle.

“…there’s too much to learn all at once,” Neville said, closing his book with a sigh.

“Agreed,” Harry admitted with a chuckle. “But I think we’ll get there. Eventually.”

Neville nodded, his gaze drifting to the water. “You’re lucky, though. You seem to pick things up so fast. Spells, potions... even Professor McGonagall seems impressed.”

Harry hesitated. “I’ve had some practice before,” he said carefully. “But I’m still learning, just like you. And tell that to Snape.”

Neville smiled faintly, then looked down at a cluster of wildflowers growing near the water’s edge. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve seen flowers bloom after you touch them. Like in the greenhouse.”

Harry froze. “What are you talking about?”

Neville shook his head quickly. “Nothing bad! It’s... I think it’s amazing. But don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry studied Neville’s earnest expression, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks,” he said after a moment. “I don’t really understand it myself, but...my magic reaches out to the earth, and it answers. I appreciate you keeping it between us.”

“Of course,” Neville said firmly.

As they sat in companionable silence, Harry glanced at the flowers Neville had been looking at. They seemed brighter, their petals catching the fading light in a way that felt almost magical.

~

Harry’s newfound routine of visiting the library didn’t go unnoticed. Each time he entered, he felt eyes on him. At first, he assumed it was just the usual staring from other students—the Boy-Who-Lived phenomenon—but soon he realized the gaze was specific.

It was Draco Malfoy.

The blond Slytherin never approached him, but Harry would often catch him glancing over with a furrowed brow and a contemplative expression. It was almost as if Malfoy was trying to puzzle something out about him.

One afternoon, Harry was returning a book on advanced charms to the shelves when he turned and found Malfoy standing a few paces away.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice hesitant.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the lack of hostility in his tone. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked as though he wanted to say more. But after a moment, he simply nodded and walked away.

Harry watched him go, frowning. Malfoy wasn’t acting like the spoiled brat he’d been told to expect.

Weird.

~

The Great Hall had been transformed into a scene straight out of a wizarding fairytale. Hundreds of floating pumpkins bobbed above the tables, their carved faces flickering with eerie, magical light. Bats swooped and darted across the enchanted ceiling, which mimicked the stormy night sky outside. The smells of roasted pumpkin, treacle tart, and spiced cider filled the air, and the chatter of students mingled with the soft sounds of enchanted instruments playing in the background.

Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table, surrounded by his housemates, enjoying the festivities. Padma was telling him about a particularly tricky riddle the common room door had given them that morning, and Terry was trying to balance a spoon on the tip of his wand.

But despite the cheerful atmosphere, Harry couldn’t shake an undercurrent of unease. All week, Ron Weasley had been pestering him relentlessly. Every time Harry turned a corner or entered the Great Hall, Ron seemed to be there, demanding answers about the night his parents died.

And tonight was no exception.

"Oi, Harry!" Ron's voice called out across the hall. Harry sighed, already dreading the interaction. Ron made his way over from the Gryffindor table, an obnoxious grin plastered across his face.

“What do you want now, Ron?” Harry asked, keeping his tone as even as possible.

“You’re just going to sit there, aren’t you?” Ron said, ignoring Harry’s question entirely. “Pretending like you don’t owe me—or anyone—an explanation.”

“An explanation for what?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Ron snapped, his voice a little too loud. A few heads turned in their direction. “The night your parents died! You were there, weren’t you? What happened? How did you survive?”

Harry felt his temper flare. He leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low but firm. “I don’t owe you anything, Ron. Least of all details about something you know nothing about. I was one years old, what do you think I would remember!” His voice raising at the end.

“Honestly, Weasley,” Padma Patil said, cutting through Ron’s tirade with a sharp tone. “Don’t you have your own table to sit at?”

Ron turned to her, his ears red. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

“Well, you’re standing at our table, bothering our housemate,” Terry Boot chimed in, crossing his arms. “So maybe you should leave.”

“Harry doesn’t owe you anything,” Padma added firmly, glaring at Ron.

“And for someone who keeps whining about him not being in Gryffindor, you’re not acting very brave,” Anthony Goldstein said with a smirk. “Maybe it’s time you let it go.”

Ron’s face went from red to crimson. “You lot don’t understand—he’s supposed to be in Gryffindor!”

“No, he’s supposed to be exactly where the Sorting Hat put him,” Michael said, his voice calm but resolute. “And that’s Ravenclaw.”

“Go bother someone else,” Padma said, dismissively waving her hand as if Ron were a particularly annoying fly.

By now, several other Ravenclaws were watching the scene unfold, their gazes cool and unimpressed. Harry couldn’t help but feel a small swell of gratitude toward his housemates for sticking up for him.

Fred and George chose that moment to intervene, each of them grabbing one of Ron’s arms.

“Come on, Ron,” Fred said, his grin sharp. “Time to head back to Gryffindor before you embarrass yourself even more.”

“Too late for that,” George muttered, shaking his head as they dragged their fuming brother away.

As the Weasleys retreated, Padma turned to Harry with a small smile. “You all right?”

Harry nodded, grateful for her and the others’ support. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” Terry said, shrugging. “That guy just needs to learn when to shut up.”

“Exactly,” Padma agreed, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. “Stick with us, Harry. We’ll look out for you.”

As the feast continued, Padma continued her conversation with Lisa and Terry.

“I heard something earlier,” she said.

“What did you hear?” Lisa asked.

“About Ron and Hermione Granger,” Padma said. “Apparently, the two had a bit of a... disagreement in Charms today?”

Harry groaned inwardly. “What exactly did you hear?”

Padma hesitated before replying. “Just that she corrected him in class, and he said something that made her cry. Lisa told me she’s still in the first-floor bathroom. She hasn’t come out all evening.”

Harry was about to reach for some dessert when Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall, his turban askew and his face pale as a ghost.

“Troll!” he gasped, clutching the edge of the staff table for support. “Troll in the dungeons! Thought you ought to know...”

He collapsed in a heap, sending the hall into chaos. Students screamed and scrambled to their feet, and the teachers leapt into action. Dumbledore raised his hands, and his voice rang out above the noise.

“Silence!” he commanded. The hall fell quiet. “Prefects, lead your houses back to your common rooms immediately. Professors, follow me to the dungeons.”

As the Ravenclaw prefects began ushering their housemates out of the hall, Harry felt a tug on his arm. He turned to find Ron Weasley glaring at him.

“We have to go find Hermione!” Ron said urgently.

“What?” Harry said, pulling his arm free. “Why would we do that? The troll is in the dungeons.”

“She doesn’t know!” Ron hissed. “She’s still on the first floor—Parvati said so. We have to warn her!”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not running out there with a troll, Ron. If you’re so worried, tell a teacher.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to let her get hurt?” Ron spat, his voice dripping with accusation.

“I’m going to tell someone who can actually help,” Harry said firmly. Without waiting for a response, he strode over to Professor McGonagall, who was issuing instructions to a group of Gryffindor prefects.

“Professor,” Harry said, catching her attention. “Hermione Granger is on the first floor. Someone needs to get her before the troll does.”

McGonagall’s eyes widened briefly, but she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. I’ll see to it once the troll is dealt with. Now, back to your common room.”

As Harry turned to leave, he couldn’t help but glance at the Slytherin table. The prefects there were attempting to lead their housemates out of the hall, but Harry knew the dungeons were the last place anyone wanted to go with a troll on the loose.

“Wait,” he said, turning back to McGonagall. “Should the Slytherins really be going to the dungeons? It’s not safe. Wouldn’t it be better for everyone to stay here until the troll is caught?”

McGonagall hesitated, her sharp mind clearly weighing the options. Before she could respond, one of the Slytherin prefects stepped forward.

“He’s right, Professor,” the prefect said. “The common room is too close to the dungeons. It’d be safer to stay here.”

After a moment’s consideration, McGonagall nodded. “Very well. Slytherins, remain here under the supervision of your prefects.”

The Slytherins looked relieved as they settled back into their seats, some shooting Harry a grateful look. Harry returned to the Ravenclaw group, relieved that at least one potential disaster had been averted.

The night descended into chaos as the professors dealt with the troll. It wasn’t until much later that news began to trickle back to the students. Hermione Granger had been found in the first-floor bathroom, unconscious and covered in blood. She had been bludgeoned by the troll’s club and was now in the hospital wing, her condition uncertain.

Padma relayed the news to Harry and the other Ravenclaws in a hushed voice, her expression grim.

“I heard she was trying to hide,” Padma said softly. “But the troll found her. If the professors hadn’t arrived when they did...” She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Harry felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t been too friendly to Hermione, and now she was lying in the hospital wing because of a situation he might have been able to prevent.

He shook his head, no there was nothing he could have done. The troll was supposed to be in the dungeons anyway, so how did it reach the first floor so fast? That just didn’t add up.

The castle felt heavier that night, as if the shadows had grown deeper and the corridors colder. Harry resolved to be more cautious, more aware of the people around him. After all, Hogwarts was a place of magic, but it was also a place of danger—and the events of Halloween had made that painfully clear.

The morning after the troll incident, the Great Hall was buzzing with hushed whispers and half-heard rumours. News of Hermione Granger’s injuries spread like wildfire through the student body. Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table, poking at his porridge, half-listening to the snippets of conversation around him.

“They say she had to be taken to St. Mungo’s,” Padma whispered to Terry, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Is it really that bad?” Terry asked, lowering his voice.

“Worse,” Padma said grimly. “I overheard Professor Sprout saying she was unconscious when they found her and barely breathing.”

“She’s just a first-year,” Anthony Goldstein muttered. “That troll could’ve killed her. What was it even doing on the first floor?”

Harry’s spoon clattered into his bowl. He glanced up at his housemates. “The troll was supposed to be in the dungeons, wasn’t it?”

Padma nodded, her expression thoughtful. “That’s what Quirrell said. But trolls don’t exactly sprint between floors, do they? It doesn’t make sense.”

Michael Corner leaned in, a curious look on his face. “Do you think someone led it there?”

“Why would anyone do that?” Terry asked, incredulous. “That’s insane.”

“Maybe not if they wanted a distraction,” Harry said quietly.

The table fell silent as everyone stared at him.

“What are you saying, Harry?” Padma asked carefully.

“I think Quirrell might’ve been lying about the troll being in the dungeons,” Harry said, his voice steady but low. “If the troll was already on the first floor, then the question isn’t how it got there—it’s why Quirrell said it wasn’t.”

Anthony’s eyes widened. “That’s... actually a good point.”

“But why would he lie?” Terry asked, frowning.

“I don’t know yet,” Harry admitted, “but it doesn’t add up. Trolls are slow and stupid. There’s no way it could’ve made it from the dungeons to the first floor without someone helping it. Especially with the stairs.”

“Maybe we should tell a professor,” Padma suggested.

Harry shook his head. “We don’t have any proof. Besides, what if they already know and aren’t telling us? We should keep this to ourselves for now.”

The others nodded reluctantly, their curiosity clearly piqued.

Later that evening, Harry retreated to his hidden alcove behind the tapestry on the fifth floor. With the warmth of a small lantern by his side, he pulled out his two-way journal to write to Luna.

Hey, Luna. You won’t believe what’s been going on here.

Hello, Harry. Are you all right? I heard there was a troll at Hogwarts.

Harry smiled faintly.

I’m fine, but one of the first-years got really hurt. She had to be sent to St. Mungo’s.

That’s awful. Is she going to be okay?

I think so, but she’s still unconscious. The thing is, there’s something weird about the whole situation. The troll was on the first floor, but our Defence professor said it was in the dungeons. Trolls don’t move that fast, so I think he was lying.

There was a long pause before Luna replied.

That sounds very suspicious. Do you think he was trying to distract everyone?

That’s what I think. But why would he need a distraction?

Maybe he wanted to sneak somewhere without anyone noticing. Or maybe he’s hiding something.

Like what?

Secrets, of course. Everyone has them.

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head.

You always make things sound so simple.

Simple doesn’t mean wrong, Harry. Be careful, though. People who hide things don’t like being found out.

~

As the weeks passed, rumours about the third-floor corridor began to circulate among the students. It started with whispers from older students, but soon even the first-years were talking about it.

“Apparently, there’s a monster up there,” Michael said one evening as the Ravenclaws gathered in their common room.

“A monster?” Terry echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You mean like the troll?”

“Worse,” Michael said ominously. “Someone overheard Dumbledore telling the prefects to keep everyone away from the third-floor corridor. They say it’s guarded by a three-headed dog.”

Harry’s head snapped up from his Charms homework, his eyes wide. “A three-headed dog?”

Michael nodded. “That’s what I heard. Why?”

Harry’s face lit up with excitement. “That’s incredible! Three-headed dogs are straight out of Greek mythology—they’re called Cerberus. They’re supposed to guard the entrance to the underworld.”

Padma laughed softly. “Leave it to Harry to get excited about a dangerous magical creature.”

“It’s fascinating,” Harry insisted, his mind racing. “If there really is a three-headed dog up there, it must be guarding something important.”

“Like what?” Anthony asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted.

His housemates exchanged wary glances.

Later that night, Harry eagerly wrote to Luna about the rumours.

Luna, guess what? There’s a Cerberus at Hogwarts!

Really? That’s amazing! Have you seen it?

Not yet, but I think it’s guarding something on the third floor. It reminds me of Cerberus from Greek mythology.

The guardian of the underworld. Do you think it’s guarding something magical?

It has to be. Why else would Dumbledore keep it there?

Be careful, Harry. If it’s guarding something, it’s probably not something you’re meant to find.

That’s what makes it exciting. I really just want to see the dog though.

Just promise me you won’t get eaten. I’d miss you terribly if you were.

Harry smiled, her whimsical words a comfort.

I promise.

~

By the time December arrived, the castle was abuzz with gossip. Hermione Granger’s transfer to St. Mungo’s had only fuelled speculation about the troll incident, and the mystery of the third-floor corridor added another layer of intrigue.

Ron continued to pester Harry whenever he got the chance, but Harry avoided him as much as possible. Hermione’s absence had left the Gryffindors in an awkward position, and Ron’s loud complaints about Harry only made things worse.

“Did you hear Weasley going on about Harry again?” Padma asked one evening as the Ravenclaws gathered in the common room.

“Of course,” Anthony said with a roll of his eyes. “He’s obsessed.”

Harry groaned. “I wish he’d just leave me alone.”

“Don’t worry,” Padma said reassuringly. “He’s just jealous. You’re doing great in classes, and you’re in the best house. He can’t stand it. And everyone blames him for Granger getting hurt.”

As the term drew to a close, most students prepared to leave for the holidays. Harry obviously decided to stay at Hogwarts, eager to spend more time exploring the castle and uncovering its secrets. His housemates wished him a happy Christmas, promising to bring him back treats from home.

~

The Yule holidays arrived with a dusting of snow that blanketed the Hogwarts grounds. Most of the Ravenclaws had left for home, their common room feeling eerily quiet without the usual hum of conversation and the crackle of the fireplace surrounded by eager students. Harry found himself alone in his dormitory apart from a few older students who kept to themselves.

While Harry enjoyed the solitude, he quickly realised one glaring downside: Ron Weasley had also stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays, along with his twin brothers. Avoiding Ron had become something of an art form for Harry, who had little patience for the boy’s persistence and poorly veiled curiosity about the night his parents died.

The first week of the holiday break was a challenge. Every time Harry stepped into the Great Hall, Ron seemed to materialise, as though he had an uncanny knack for finding him.

One morning, as Harry sat alone at the Ravenclaw table, enjoying a quiet breakfast, Ron appeared with a plate piled high with sausages and toast.

“Harry!” he called, sliding onto the bench across from him.

Harry inwardly groaned but kept his expression neutral. “Ron.”

Ron leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. “So, about that night—you know, with You-Know-Who and your parents.”

Harry’s grip on his fork tightened. “I don’t know, Ron. I was a baby.”

Ron frowned as if this answer didn’t satisfy him. “Yeah, but you must’ve heard something. Dumbledore hasn’t said anything? Or McGonagall?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Harry said flatly, standing up and grabbing his plate.

Before Ron could respond, Fred and George appeared, dragging their brother away with identical grins.

“Give it a rest, Ronniekins,” Fred said cheerfully.

“Yeah, leave the poor bloke alone,” George added. “He’s not your personal gossip column.”

Harry shot the twins a grateful glance before slipping away.

With the castle mostly empty, Harry decided it was the perfect time to work on his magic. While he had been doing well in classes, his wand still felt foreign in his hand. Some spells came out perfectly, but others were overpowered, a testament to the raw magic he hadn’t yet learned to fully control.

Harry wandered the castle for hours, searching for a secluded spot where he could practice without interruption. On the fourth floor, he found it: a small, empty classroom at the end of a quiet corridor. The room had tall windows that let in the pale winter light, but no portraits adorned the walls, and the hallway outside was eerily silent.

“This will do,” Harry murmured, closing the door behind him.

Over the next few days, Harry spent hours in the classroom, working on controlling his magic. He started with basic spells, focusing on how much power he funnelled through his wand.

“Lumos,” he said, holding his wand steady.

The tip of the wand glowed softly, the light dim and manageable. He tried increasing the flow of magic slightly, and the light grew brighter.

“Okay,” Harry muttered to himself, “not too much.”

When he felt confident with simple spells, he moved on to more complex ones.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” he said, pointing his wand at a crumpled piece of parchment.

The parchment floated into the air, wobbling slightly before he steadied it. Harry grinned, pleased with his progress.

But not all attempts were smooth. One afternoon, while practicing the spell again, he accidentally funnelled too much power into his wand. The parchment shot up to the ceiling and stuck there, spinning wildly.

Harry groaned, waving his wand to bring it down. “At least it’s not a feather this time.”

After a few days of wand practice, Harry realised he had neglected his elemental magic.

Determined to learn more about elemental magic, Harry made his way to the library. The towering shelves were a comforting sight, and the faint smell of parchment and ink filled the air.

Harry scoured the shelves for anything on elemental magic, pulling down books with promising titles and skimming through their contents.

“Control and Flow of Magic,” he muttered, flipping through the pages of a particularly old tome. “Elemental Manipulation… that sounds useful.”

Hours passed as he read, jotting down notes and practicing mental exercises described in the books. While he found valuable information on elemental magic, he had no luck finding anything on Parselmagic.

“Figures,” Harry muttered, setting a book aside. “It’s probably considered too dark to keep in a school library.”

Still, he made a note to keep searching.

By the end of the first week of the holidays, Harry felt more confident in his abilities. His wand work was improving, though he still preferred the freedom of wandless magic. His elemental magic was coming along as well, the flame and water feeling like old friends he was finally getting to know again.

Sitting by the window in the fourth-floor classroom, Harry gazed out at the snowy grounds, his breath fogging the glass.

“It’s strange,” he murmured to himself. “I’ve only been here a few months, but it already feels like home.”

That evening, Harry wrote to Luna in his two-way journal.

Hey, Luna. How’s your holiday going?

It’s quiet here without you. Flick says hello. He misses you.

Harry smiled.

I miss you both too. Hogwarts is quiet, but I’ve been keeping busy. I’ve been practicing my magic, and I found a room where no one can bother me.

That sounds wonderful. Have you made any new discoveries?

A few. My wand work is getting better, but I still prefer wandless magic. It feels more... natural.

That’s because it’s yours, Harry. A wand is just a tool, but your magic is part of you.

Harry paused, her words resonating with him.

You always know what to say. I’ve also been practicing my elemental magic. It’s still as strong as it was a few months ago.

That’s incredible! You’ll have to show me when I come to Hogwarts. Don’t forget to rest, Harry. Even the strongest wizards need sleep.

Harry chuckled, closing the journal with a smile.

As Christmas approached, Harry wandered into the Great Hall one morning to find the professors and a few older students decorating a massive tree. Professor Flitwick hovered in the air, placing delicate ornaments on the highest branches, while Hagrid wrestled with a string of fairy lights.

“Morning, Harry!” Hagrid called, waving a massive hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Hagrid,” Harry replied, smiling.

“Fancy helping with the tree?”

Harry nodded eagerly, grabbing a box of ornaments and helping place them on the lower branches.

~

The Ravenclaw dormitory was quiet as Harry woke on Christmas morning, the pale winter light streaming through the frosted windows. The first thing he noticed was a small pile of gifts at the foot of his bed. For a moment, he stared in surprise; he hadn’t expected much—if anything.

Sliding out of bed and wrapping himself in his dressing gown, Harry pulled the gifts closer, his heart warming as he saw tags with familiar names.

The first present was wrapped in deep green paper, tied neatly with a twine bow. The tag read: To Harry, from Neville.

Inside was a beautifully bound book titled Earthen Magic: A Study of Raw and Elemental Forces. A note was tucked between the pages:

Harry,
I thought you’d find this interesting. Don’t let anyone catch you reading it in public, though—raw magic like this isn’t exactly popular in modern circles. I think it could help with your connection to plants and maybe even give you some ideas about controlling your magic. Merry Christmas!
Neville

Harry smiled, carefully placing the book aside. He’d have to thank Neville later. He hoped Neville liked the rare seeds he had sent him in return; he’d picked them specifically after asking Professor Sprout about unusual plants.

The next gift was from Padma and Terry. They’d pooled together to get him a handsome leather-bound journal with his initials embossed on the cover. Inside was a note from Padma:

You’re always thinking about something, Harry. Maybe this will help you organise your thoughts—or keep secrets, like that journal of yours. Merry Christmas!

From Anthony, he received a self-correcting quill with a cheeky note:

No more parchment full of crossed-out mistakes! Happy Christmas, Harry!

A few more from his dormmates including sweets and school supplies.

The next gift was wrapped in cheerful red paper and looked slightly lumpy. Harry hesitated before opening it, noticing the tag read:

To Harry, from Mrs. Weasley.

Inside was a hand-knitted sweater in a deep emerald green with a large "H" on the front. Harry couldn’t help but smile at the craftsmanship—it was soft and warm, even if it wasn’t really his style.

There was a note included as well:

Dear Harry,
Ronald speaks so highly of you, and I’m so glad you’ve been such a good influence on him. I hope this keeps you warm this winter. Have a lovely Christmas!
Molly Weasley

Harry’s smile faltered slightly. Highly of me? He shook his head, wondering what Ron had been telling her. It seemed likely that he was spinning some elaborate tale of their non-existent friendship. He folded the sweater carefully and placed it with the rest of his gifts. He hadn’t forgotten when he first saw the Weasley family at Kings Cross, especially not their connection with Dumbledore, he can’t let them get close.

The last gift was wrapped in plain, unmarked paper, with no tag to identify the sender. Intrigued, Harry opened it to reveal a silvery fabric that felt like liquid in his hands. His breath caught in his throat as the material shimmered and shifted.

An invisibility cloak.

But not just any invisibility cloak if the way his magic was reacting to it.

A note fluttered out, landing softly in his lap.

Your father left this in my care. Use it wisely. Merry Christmas.

Harry’s stomach churned as he read the words. Dumbledore. There was no signature, but it had to be him. The handwriting was careful, almost formal, and the cloak’s return seemed like something Dumbledore would orchestrate.

But why? Wasn’t this supposed to be in his vault?

Harry grabbed a piece of parchment and his self-correcting quill, his brow furrowed in thought. He addressed the letter carefully:

Grimbok,
I hope this letter finds you well. Firstly, I’d like to thank you for your ongoing efforts with the audit of my vaults. Your work is greatly appreciated.
I have a concern to raise. This morning, I received a gift—my father’s invisibility cloak—with a note implying it was returned to me by, who I assume to be Dumbledore. As you know, this cloak was supposed to be among the items in my vault during our last meeting. Could you confirm whether it was removed before or after he became my guardian? If not, this raises serious concerns about the other contents in my vault.
Please let me know if there are any updates regarding the audit. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
H J P

He folded the letter neatly and tucked it into an envelope. Hedwig, perched on the windowsill, gave a soft hoot as Harry tied it to her leg.

“Take this to Grimbok at Gringotts, okay?” he said softly.

Hedwig nibbled affectionately at his finger before spreading her wings and taking off into the snowy sky.

Turning back to his gifts, he picked up a neatly wrapped package tied with an uneven silver ribbon. The handwriting on the tag caught his attention: "To Harry, from Luna"

He smiled faintly. Luna always gave such good gifts.

Carefully, he unwrapped the gift, the paper crinkling under his hands. Inside was a small, beautifully carved lyre. The smooth wood gleamed faintly in the firelight, its strings delicate and taut. Harry tilted his head, puzzled but impressed. Nestled beside the instrument was a folded piece of parchment.

He opened it and read Luna’s handwriting, which slanted across the page in a dreamy sort of way:

Dear Harry,
I was reading about the Cerberus, and they say music calms it down. I don’t know if you’re planning to meet it soon, but just in case, you should learn to play a tune first. I hope you like it. If not, maybe it can make the flowers grow, or help a Crumple-Horned Snorkack dance.

Merry Christmas,
Luna

Harry chuckled softly, running his fingers over the lyre’s smooth surface.

He plucked one of the strings experimentally, and the sound that filled the room was gentle, almost ethereal. It reminded him of a breeze rustling through leaves. Harry played a few more notes, his awkward attempts starting to form a hesitant, uneven melody.

The rest of the day passed quietly. After enjoying a hearty Christmas lunch in the Great Hall—where he managed to avoid Ron entirely—Harry retreated to his fourth-floor practice room to train some more.

After Harry returned to the Ravenclaw common room that evening, he felt a strange sense of peace. The day had been quiet, productive, and full of small surprises.

Sitting by the fire, he pulled out his journal and wrote to Luna.

Merry Christmas, Luna. How was your day?

It was lovely. Daddy and I spent the day making pudding. He says hello.

Tell him I said hello too. Guess what? I got my father’s invisibility cloak as a gift today.

Oh, how wonderful! Did it come with an explanation?

Not really. Just a note saying it was left in someone’s care. I think Dumbledore sent it.

That’s curious. Why would he take it out of your vault?

I’ve already sent Grimbok a letter about it. Did you like your gift?

I did, thank you so much! How did you even get your hand on it? There’s barely any surviving artifacts from the Priestess’ of Pythia.

I called in some favours with the Pritchards…they know the right kind of people. I wanted to thank you for the Lyre, its beautiful.

I hope you like it. Mummy would have wanted you to have it.

Luna…this was Pandoras? I can’t accept it!

You will. I’ll say Merry Christmas to Flick for you, goodnight Harry.

Harry smiled his eyes slightly damp, closing the journal. Luna’s words were always reassuring, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

~

The last week of the Christmas holidays found Harry itching with anticipation. His days had been spent practicing spells and controlling his magic, but his evenings were devoted to preparing for something more exciting. The small Lyre from Luna sat snugly in his lap every night as he practiced simple melodies.

Ever since Padma had told him about the rumours of a three-headed dog guarding something in the forbidden third-floor corridor, Harry had been consumed with curiosity. The idea of a Cerberus—a creature straight out of Greek mythology—being just a few hallways away was too thrilling to ignore.

He knew sneaking off alone was risky. He could get caught, or worse, expelled. But Harry was careful, clever, and, if he were being honest with himself, a little too intrigued to care about the consequences.

It was late in the evening when Harry made his move. Most of the older students who had stayed behind for the holidays were in the common room chatting, and Filch was likely patrolling the lower levels. Cloak draped over him, Harry slipped out of Ravenclaw Tower, the cold stone floors of the castle cool beneath his feet.

The walk to the third-floor corridor was nerve-wracking. Shadows flickered along the walls from torches, and every creak made him pause, ears straining for the sound of footsteps. Thankfully, the hallways were empty.

When he reached the forbidden corridor, he hesitated. The heavy wooden door loomed before him, and the faint sounds of snuffling and shifting on the other side told him that the rumours were true.

Raising his hand, Harry murmured, "Alohomora." A soft click echoed as the lock released.

Harry pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, the hinges groaning softly. He stopped dead in his tracks.

There, sprawled across the stone floor, was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen. A massive dog with three heads, each one larger than the next, lay before him. Its coarse black fur gleamed in the dim light, and its enormous paws stretched out, claws tapping against the stone as it shifted in its sleep.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You’re real,” he whispered, almost giddy.

One of the heads stirred, its nostrils flaring. The middle head opened one amber eye, and Harry froze as the dog’s lips pulled back into a snarl, exposing rows of sharp teeth.

Quickly, Harry pulled the lyre from his pocket and plucked a few strings. The soft, lilting melody filled the room, and the heads immediately quieted. One by one, the dog’s heads drooped, its breathing slowing until it was deeply asleep.

Harry took a cautious step forward, his fingers never pausing their tune. The closer he got, the more he realised just how massive the creature was. Its heads alone were the size of Hagrid’s pumpkins, and its chest rose and fell like a bellows.

When he was sure it wouldn’t wake, Harry knelt beside the beast and, unable to resist, reached out to scratch behind one of its enormous ears.

“Good boy,” he murmured, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

The dog let out a soft, rumbling snore, and Harry chuckled.

As he moved around the creature, his eyes caught sight of the trapdoor beneath its massive body. His heart skipped a beat.

“So you are guarding something,” he whispered, his curiosity deepening.

Harry crouched down to examine the trapdoor. It was reinforced with iron and had a round handle, but the fact that it was there at all made him frown.

“Who puts something like this in a school?” he muttered, shaking his head. “And behind a door that a first-year can open with a basic unlocking spell? That’s just stupid.”

He considered for a moment whether he should try to open it, but a glance at the sleeping dog reminded him that waking a Cerberus probably wasn’t the smartest idea.

As much as Harry wanted to stay and admire the creature, he knew he couldn’t linger. The lyre’s melody had stopped, and though the dog remained asleep, he wasn’t about to push his luck.

Before leaving, he gave each of the dog’s heads a final pat. “Thanks for not eating me,” he said with a smile.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Harry took a deep breath, his heart racing from the thrill of what he’d just done.

On his way back to the tower, he encountered Mrs. Norris prowling the hallways. The cat paused, her yellow eyes narrowing as she spotted him.

“Hello, Mrs. Norris,” Harry whispered, crouching down to scratch her under the chin. She purred softly, rubbing her head against his hand before sauntering off.

“She’s nicer than people give her credit for,” Harry mused as he straightened up and continued on his way.

By the time Harry reached the Ravenclaw common room, the excitement of the evening was still buzzing in his veins. He slipped into a quiet corner, pulling out his journal to write to Luna.

Luna,
It was real!

 A three-headed dog, just like in the myths! It’s guarding something on the third floor, but I can’t figure out what yet.

It’s incredible, Luna. Massive, with three heads and sharp teeth, but I played a tune on my lyre, and it fell asleep. I even got to pet it! It’s probably the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.

It seems a bit stupid though. Who puts a creature like that in a school full of kids? It doesn’t make any sense. What do you think?

As Harry slipped into bed that night, the image of the Cerberus stayed with him.

~

The castle buzzed with energy as the students returned from the holidays. Snow still blanketed the grounds, but the warm chatter in the Great Hall during breakfast seemed to chase away the winter chill. Harry sat with his housemates, thanking each of them for the thoughtful gifts they’d exchanged over the holidays.

“Thanks for the journal, Terry, Padma.” Harry said with a smile.

Terry grinned. “Glad you liked it. And the rune book you gave me is brilliant—I’ve already found a few we can use for minor protections. I’ll show you later.”

Padma laughed. “Good. I figured you’d appreciate something practical.”

Michael leaned forward. “And thanks for the chocolate, Harry. I swear, it got me through practicing that ridiculous levitation charm over break.”

Harry chuckled, pleased that everyone seemed happy.

The mood in the hall shifted noticeably when Hermione Granger walked through the doors, flanked by a gaggle of Gryffindors. Her bushy hair was tied back, and though she looked thinner and a bit paler, she held her head high. The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers as she approached, and Hermione flushed at the attention.

“Look who’s back,” Padma whispered, nudging Harry.

Harry glanced over, a small frown forming. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Hermione’s return, especially since Ron tried to force him to go get her.

Sure enough, the twins soon grabbed Ron by the arms, dragging him over to Hermione. The entire Ravenclaw table watched with interest.

“Go on, Ronniekins,” Fred said loudly, pushing Ron forward.

“You’ve got something to say, don’t you?” George added, crossing his arms with a stern expression that didn’t match his usual mischief.

Ron scowled, his ears burning red, but under the combined pressure of his brothers and the many watching eyes, he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“What was that?” Fred teased, cupping a hand to his ear.

Ron glared at him before turning back to Hermione. “I’m sorry for being a prat and—and for getting you hurt.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, her lips pursed, before she gave a curt nod. “Fine. Apology accepted.”

The Gryffindor table burst into applause, but at the Ravenclaw table, Harry shook his head.

“That didn’t seem very sincere,” Terry muttered.

“Not at all,” agreed Anthony.

Padma sighed. “Poor Hermione. She deserves better than a half-hearted apology.”

Harry nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. He was glad Hermione seemed okay physically, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that things between her and Ron would only cause more trouble in the future.

After breakfast, the hall quieted as Dumbledore rose from his seat at the head table. His piercing blue eyes swept over the students, and his warm smile belied the seriousness of his tone.

“Welcome back, everyone,” he began. “I hope you all had a restful and enjoyable holiday. Before we return to our usual routines, I must once again remind you all to avoid the third-floor corridor. It is out of bounds for a very good reason, and venturing there is highly dangerous.”

Harry exchanged a knowing glance with Padma, who raised an eyebrow.

“Shouldn’t he just tell us what’s there if it’s so dangerous?” Michael whispered.

“That’d ruin the mystery,” Anthony quipped, smirking.

Harry leaned in, keeping his voice low. “It’s a Cerberus. A three-headed dog.”

His housemates stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I thought everyone was joking about that!” Padma said.

Harry nodded. “I saw it over the holidays. It’s guarding a trapdoor.”

“A trapdoor?” Terry echoed, leaning forward. “What do you think is down there?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, “but it must be important if they’ve got something like that guarding it.”

Michael whistled. “A Cerberus… That’s mental.”

“They’re amazing,” Harry said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “And it’s incredible. Huge, with three heads, and it falls asleep to music—like the stories.”

Padma frowned. “If it’s guarding something, shouldn’t it be behind better protection? I mean, Alohomora works on that door, doesn’t it?”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, that part’s stupid. Anyone with half a brain could get in.”

The conversation continued back in the common room, where Harry’s housemates debated the purpose of the Cerberus and what might be hidden beneath the trapdoor.

“If it’s that important, why not just use magical wards or curses?” Anthony mused.

“Because Dumbledore’s dramatic,” Terry said with a grin. “He probably thinks a giant dog is more intimidating.”

Padma rolled her eyes. “We’re missing the bigger question: why is it here at Hogwarts? What could be so important that it needs to be hidden in a school?”

Harry shrugged, though his mind was racing. He’d been wondering the same thing ever since he saw the trapdoor.

Later that evening, Harry sat by the window, writing a note to Luna.

You’ll never guess—Hermione Granger is back. She looks okay, but the whole thing with Ron apologizing was awkward. He didn’t really mean it, and honestly, it was hard to watch.

Oh, and Dumbledore made another announcement about the third-floor corridor. I told my housemates about the Cerberus, and now they’re all trying to figure out what it’s guarding. Padma’s convinced it’s something ancient, and Terry thinks it’s just one of Dumbledore’s odd experiments. I wish you were here—you’d probably come up with something brilliant.

How are things at home? Is your dad still home? I miss you.

Harry set the journal aside, his thoughts drifting.

~

By the time March rolled around, the days had grown longer, and the biting chill of winter was giving way to the first hints of spring. Despite the warmer weather, Harry’s patience with Ron and Hermione was growing increasingly thin.

The two Gryffindors had developed an obsession with the third-floor corridor and the trapdoor guarded by the Cerberus. Every few days, they would corner Harry—usually during meals or in the library—to try and rope him into their theories.

Who would have thought that they would start getting along well enough to pester him this much.

“You’ve seen the dog, haven’t you?” Hermione asked one evening, catching Harry just as he was leaving the Great Hall.

Harry sighed, his hands full of books he’d borrowed from the library. “Yes, I’ve seen it. You already know that.”

“Then don’t you care what it’s guarding?” Hermione pressed, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Not really,” Harry replied bluntly. “Whatever it is, it’s not my business.”

Ron scoffed from behind Hermione, his ears red. “Not your business? Come on, mate! You’re the Boy Who Lived! If anyone’s supposed to figure this out, it’s you!”

Harry froze, his jaw tightening. “Stop calling me that. I’m not your ‘mate,’ Ron, and I don’t owe you anything. Leave me alone.”

Ron’s face turned an alarming shade of red, but before he could say anything, Hermione stepped between them.

“Look, Harry,” she said, her tone placating. “We’re just trying to figure this out. It’s obviously important—why else would Dumbledore go to such lengths to keep it secret?”

“Then you figure it out,” Harry snapped. “I have enough to deal with without you two dragging me into your schemes.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving them both standing in the corridor.

By the next morning, Harry had had enough. The constant badgering from Ron and Hermione was exhausting, and Ron’s repeated mentions of his parents were starting to feel like a deliberate attempt to get under his skin.

During breakfast, Harry slipped away early and made his way to Professor Flitwick’s office. The tiny Charms professor looked up from a stack of parchment as Harry knocked on the door.

“Ah, Mr. Potter! Come in, come in,” Flitwick said, his high-pitched voice cheerful. “What can I do for you?”

Harry hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. “Professor, I wanted to talk to you about something… personal.”

Flitwick set down his quill and gestured for Harry to take a seat. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Taking a deep breath, Harry began to explain. “It’s about Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They’ve been bothering me a lot lately—Ron especially. He keeps bringing up my parents and trying to force me to act a certain way, like I’m supposed to be in Gryffindor or something. It’s… it’s too much.”

Flitwick’s cheerful expression grew serious. “I see. And how long has this been going on?”

“Since the start of the year for Ron,” Harry admitted. “It’s been getting worse lately. They won’t leave me alone about the third-floor corridor, and Ron keeps talking about my parents like it’s some kind of strategy to get me to do what he wants. I don’t think it’s fair that I have to keep avoiding them just to get some peace.”

Flitwick nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowed. “I understand. You’ve done the right thing by bringing this to my attention, Harry. I’ll speak to Professor McGonagall about this matter, as it involves students from her house. In the meantime, if they bother you again, don’t hesitate to come straight to me.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders.

Later that day, Professor McGonagall called Harry into her office. She was seated behind her desk, her sharp eyes fixed on him as he entered.

“Mr. Potter,” she began, folding her hands on the desk. “Professor Flitwick has informed me of your concerns regarding Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

Harry repeated everything he’d told Flitwick, trying to keep his voice steady. “I just want them to leave me alone,” he finished. “I shouldn’t have to deal with this all the time.”

McGonagall nodded, her expression stern. “You’re absolutely right. No student should feel harassed by their peers, especially over something as personal as your family. I will speak to Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger directly and make it clear that their behaviour is unacceptable.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said, relieved.

McGonagall’s expression softened slightly. “You’ve handled this matter maturely, Mr. Potter. If there are any further issues, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Over the next few days, Harry noticed a change in Ron and Hermione’s behaviour that seemed to correlate with Gryffindor’s massive point loss. While Hermione seemed to avoid him altogether, Ron would shoot him glares from across the Great Hall but didn’t approach him.

“I heard McGonagall gave them an earful,” Padma said one evening, smirking as she passed Harry a plate of toast.

“Good,” Harry muttered, buttering a slice. “Maybe they’ll finally leave me alone.”

Unfortunately, the incident sparked a new wave of rumours. By the end of the week, half the school seemed to be whispering about why Harry had complained to the professors.

“They’re saying Ron was bullying you because you’re not in Gryffindor,” Anthony said during breakfast one morning.

“And that Hermione was trying to force you to solve the mystery of the third-floor corridor,” Michael added.

Harry sighed. “Brilliant. Just what I needed—more people talking about me.”

Padma patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry. It’ll blow over soon.”

Despite the rumours, Harry felt lighter knowing he’d stood up for himself. With Ron and Hermione keeping their distance, he was finally able to focus on his own interests without interruption.

He continued practicing spells and research, finding more control with each session. The book Neville had given him on earth magic proved invaluable, helping him channel his energy more effectively when working with plants.

In the evenings, he wrote to Luna in their journal, sharing updates about his progress and making sure she was taking care of herself while her father was away.

As the end of March approached, the castle began to buzz with anticipation for the warmer months. Harry found himself looking forward to spring, eager to continue his studies and explore more of the magical world.

~

The library was unusually busy for a Wednesday afternoon, with nearly every table full of students frantically scribbling notes or paging through massive tomes. Harry and Neville had managed to claim a small table near the Herbology section, though it was tucked awkwardly between two towering shelves.

Harry leaned over a particularly dense Transfiguration book, quill in hand, while Neville was flipping through The Advanced Guide to Magical Plants. They had been studying together more often recently, and Harry found Neville to be a good friend—quiet but enthusiastic when the topic turned to Herbology.

“I still don’t get why McGonagall insists on us writing essays about the theory behind Switching Spells,” Harry muttered, glancing at his parchment, which only had a few lines scribbled on it. “I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to just practice the spell?”

Neville looked up, his brow furrowed. “Well, I think she wants us to understand how it works before we try it. You don’t want to accidentally switch your nose with someone else’s or something.”

Harry grinned. “Fair point. Though I think I’d survive with a different nose.”

Neville chuckled softly, but the sound was drowned out by the low hum of students around them. Harry was about to go back to his essay when a shadow fell over their table. He looked up to see two Slytherins standing there—Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott.

Both boys had an air of calm detachment, their expressions carefully neutral. Blaise’s dark eyes scanned the table, while Theodore pushed a hand through his neatly combed hair, looking slightly uneasy.

“Potter. Longbottom,” Blaise began, his voice smooth but cautious. “Mind if we share this table? The library’s a bit crowded today.”

Neville visibly tensed, his fingers tightening around the edge of his book. Harry, however, didn’t hesitate.

“Sure,” he said easily, gesturing to the empty seats. “Plenty of room.”

Neville shot him a nervous glance, but Harry ignored it, focusing on Blaise and Theodore as they slid into the chairs opposite them.

“Thanks,” Theodore said quietly, not quite meeting their eyes.

The silence stretched awkwardly for a moment, broken only by the occasional scratch of quills and the rustle of pages. Harry decided to break it.

“So, what are you guys working on?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Potions,” Blaise replied, pulling out a neatly organized set of notes. “Snapes got us brewing Strengthening Solution next week, and I’d rather not end up with a cauldron full of acid.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t too hard. Just make sure you stir counterclockwise at the end, not clockwise. Otherwise, you’ll get a nasty reaction.”

Blaise looked at him with mild surprise. “You’ve already brewed it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shrugging. “We did it yesterday in class.”

Theodore finally looked up, his pale blue eyes narrowing slightly. “I heard you’re top of the year in Charms and Defence,” he said, his tone half-curious, half-sceptical.

Harry shrugged again. “I do all right.”

Neville snorted, finally relaxing a little. “He’s being modest. He’s the only one who can get Aguamenti to work consistently in our year. And he doesn’t even need the right wand movements half the time.”

Blaise and Theodore exchanged a look, their expressions unreadable.

“That true?” Blaise asked, his tone light but probing.

Harry hesitated for a moment before nodding. “I guess. Still working on control, though.”

Blaise leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Impressive.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, feeling slightly awkward under their scrutiny.

The conversation shifted after that, with Blaise and Theodore mostly keeping to themselves. Neville, however, seemed to grow more confident as the study session went on, especially when the topic turned to Herbology.

“You’re both writing the essay for Herbology, right?” Neville asked, his voice growing more animated.

“Unfortunately,” Blaise said dryly, earning a smirk from Theodore.

Neville didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm. “If you’re struggling, I could help. Professor Sprout’s been talking about Mandrakes lately, and they’re really fascinating. Did you know their roots can actually mimic the sound of human speech when they’re young?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d rather not hear a plant screaming, thanks.”

“It’s not screaming,” Neville said earnestly. “It’s more like… a high-pitched wail. And they’re not dangerous if you handle them properly.”

Harry grinned as he watched Neville launch into an enthusiastic explanation about Mandrakes and their uses in potion-making. Blaise and Theodore listened politely, though they occasionally exchanged amused glances.

By the time the library started to empty, the atmosphere at their table had become noticeably more relaxed.

“You’re full of surprises, Potter,” Blaise said as they packed up their things.

Harry tilted his head. “How so?”

“You’re not what I expected,” Blaise admitted, his tone casual but sincere. “Most people wouldn’t even look twice at us, let alone share a table.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t care about houses. People are people.”

Blaise gave him a long, appraising look before nodding. “Fair enough.”

As they stood to leave, Neville hesitated before turning to Harry. “Do you want to come with me to pick up that plant Hagrid got for Professor Sprout? It’s supposed to be something really rare.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely. Let me grab my cloak.”

As they left the library, Harry noticed Blaise and Theodore lingering near the door, watching them go. He couldn’t tell if they were amused, curious, or something else entirely.

Well, Harry thought, this could get interesting.

The walk to Hagrid’s hut was brisk and refreshing, with the cold April air nipping at Harry’s cheeks. He and Neville trudged through the light coating of frost on the grass, their breath visible in puffs. Neville carried a bag slung over his shoulder, which Harry assumed was for the mysterious plant Hagrid had acquired for Professor Sprout.

“I heard it’s some kind of rare African vine,” Neville said excitedly, his face flushed from the cold and anticipation. “Apparently, its sap can be used in potions to strengthen magical resistance. But it’s tricky to handle, Professor Sprout said it can lash out if you’re not careful.”

Harry smiled, shaking his head fondly at Neville’s enthusiasm. “I hope it doesn’t decide to lash out at us. Last thing I need is to explain why I’ve got whip marks all over me.”

Neville chuckled nervously, clearly hoping the same.

When they reached Hagrid’s hut, smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and Fang, Hagrid’s dog, barked from somewhere inside. Neville raised a hand and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

“Comin’!” Hagrid’s deep voice boomed from within. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Hagrid’s large, bearded face broke into a grin. “Harry! Neville! Come in, come in!”

They stepped inside, the warmth of the hut immediately thawing their chilled fingers. The space smelled of wood smoke and something savoury simmering in a pot over the fire.

“Got yer plant right ‘ere,” Hagrid said, gesturing to a large clay pot on the table. “Careful, though. She’s a feisty one.”

Harry and Neville approached the pot, peering at the strange plant inside. Its long, thin vines twisted and twitched as if alive, and the leaves were a deep, glossy green.

“Wow,” Neville breathed, his eyes wide. “It’s a Whipvine. These are so rare!”

Hagrid beamed. “Figured Sprout’d appreciate it. Thought she might find a use for it in her classes.”

As Neville began carefully packing the plant into his bag, Harry’s eyes wandered around the hut. Hagrid seemed like a bit of a hoarder, and his hut was cluttered with various odds and ends. But one item in particular caught Harry’s attention: a large, shiny egg sitting partially hidden under a rag in the corner.

“Hagrid,” Harry said, his curiosity piqued, “what’s that?” He pointed to the egg.

Hagrid froze, his eyes darting to the egg and then back to Harry. “Oh, uh… tha’? Jus’ a decorative piece. Nothin’ special.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “It looks a bit too real to be decorative.”

Before Hagrid could respond, there was a sudden knock at the door, followed by it swinging open to reveal Ron and Hermione.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, her face lighting up when she saw him. Ron, standing behind her, looked less enthusiastic but still determined.

Harry immediately stiffened, his expression darkening. “What are you two doing here?”

Hermione looked taken aback, but Ron pushed past her, crossing his arms. “We wanted to talk to Hagrid, same as you.”

Neville glanced nervously between Harry and the newcomers, clearly uncomfortable with the tension.

“Shouldn’t you be in the library?” Harry said coolly, folding his arms. “Or, you know, leaving me alone like McGonagall told you to.”

Ron scowled. “We’re just trying to figure out what’s going on with that trapdoor on the third floor. You could at least help.”

“I don’t care about the trapdoor,” Harry said flatly. “Whatever Dumbledore’s hiding isn’t my problem.”

Hermione frowned, stepping forward. “But Harry, if it’s something dangerous—”

“Then it’s Dumbledore’s responsibility to deal with it,” Harry interrupted. “Not mine.”

The tension in the room was thick, and even Hagrid looked uncomfortable.

“Er, maybe we should all jus’ calm down,” Hagrid said, raising his hands. “No need ter be arguin’.”

“Calm down?” Ron snapped, rounding on Hagrid. “Do you know what’s behind that door, Hagrid? You’ve got to know something!”

“I don’ know what yer talkin’ about,” Hagrid said, a little too quickly.

Harry’s sharp green eyes flicked back to the egg in the corner, and he changed the topic for him. “So Hagrid…that egg over there. What is it?”

Ron and Hermione followed his gaze, and their eyes widened.

“Is that… a dragon egg?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“It’s nothin’,” Hagrid said gruffly, trying to move in front of it. “Jus’ somethin’ I picked up.”

Harry snorted. “Right. Because dragon eggs are so easy to pick up.”

Ron and Hermione were now staring at the egg with open curiosity.

“I bet it’s illegal,” Ron said, grinning for the first time since entering the hut. “Isn’t it, Hagrid? You’re not supposed to have one, are you? We could call the aurors.”

“Drop it, Ron,” Harry said, his voice edged with annoyance.

“Why are you defending him?” Ron demanded. “Don’t you want to know what he’s up to?”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “He shouldn’t get in trouble for something like this.”

Neville tugged on Harry’s sleeve, clearly wanting to leave. “We should go. Professor Sprout will be waiting for this.”

Harry nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

He turned to Hagrid, ignoring Ron and Hermione entirely. “Thanks for the plant, Hagrid. Good luck with… whatever that is.” He gestured vaguely toward the egg.

Hagrid gave him a grateful, if sheepish, smile. “Take care, Harry. Neville.”

As they stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, Neville let out a breath he’d been holding. “That was… tense.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his jaw tight. “I’m so tired of them trying to drag me into their nonsense.”

Neville nodded, adjusting his bag. “Do you think Hagrid’s really hiding a dragon egg?”

Harry shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Hagrid loves magical creatures, no matter how dangerous they are.”

They walked in companionable silence for a while, the noise of the castle growing louder as they approached.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Harry said suddenly.

Neville looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re one of the few people who actually listens when I talk about plants.”

Harry grinned. “Well, you know your stuff. That Whipvine looked ready to bite someone, and you handled it like it was nothing.”

Neville flushed with pride but didn’t respond.

They parted ways with a sense of mutual respect, and as Harry headed back toward the castle, he found himself wondering just how much trouble Hagrid’s dragon egg was going to cause.

~

The first time Harry snuck out to check on Hagrid’s dragon egg, it had been pure curiosity. Something about the way Hagrid had hastily tried to hide it—and Ron’s loud exclamations—had nagged at him. If it really was a dragon egg, Harry couldn’t resist the urge to see it hatch. He loved magical creatures, even the ones that were dangerous. Maybe especially the ones that were dangerous.

Wrapped in his invisibility cloak, he crept through the dark, silent corridors of the castle. He had mapped out the best route to Hagrid’s hut during his first few excursions, dodging Filch, Mrs. Norris (though she seemed to have a soft spot for him), and the occasional patrolling prefect.

By the time he reached Hagrid’s hut, his heart was racing—not from fear, but from excitement. Hagrid’s window glowed softly with the light of a dying fire. Fang was snoring somewhere inside, a low rumbling sound that carried into the chilly night air.

Harry carefully opened the door, thankful for Hagrid’s habit of never locking it. The hut was warm, a stark contrast to the cold outside. The dragon egg sat on the table, nestled in the embers of a large fire pit to keep it warm. Harry pulled off his cloak, draping it over a chair as he approached the egg. It gleamed in the firelight, a deep, mottled black with faint streaks of silver running through it.

“Wow,” Harry whispered, his fingers lightly brushing the egg’s surface. It was warm, almost alive under his touch, his magic reaching out. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. “You’re amazing.”

Over the next couple of weeks, Harry found himself visiting the egg more frequently. At first, he told himself it was just to make sure Hagrid wasn’t doing anything reckless. But as time passed, he found himself growing attached to the egg. He started bringing small gifts—a few shiny rocks he’d found by the lake (he thought dragons might like shiny things) and even an old bit of cloth to line the nest. He kept these visits secret, not even telling Neville or Luna.

One night, about two weeks later, Harry’s curiosity and excitement peaked. He felt like something was going to happen tonight. He had seen Hagrid heading toward the forest with Fang earlier in the evening, muttering something about checking on the unicorns. Knowing the hut would be empty, Harry grabbed his invisibility cloak and hurried down.

As he entered the hut, Harry immediately noticed something was different. The egg wasn’t just warm—it was moving. Small, sharp tapping sounds echoed from inside, and the egg wobbled slightly in its nest of embers.

“It’s hatching,” Harry breathed, his eyes widening. He pulled off his cloak and approached the egg, his hands trembling slightly with excitement. “Oh, Merlin, it’s really hatching.”

The egg rocked more violently, and a loud crack echoed through the hut. A piece of the shell fell away, revealing a small, scaly snout. The dragon inside let out a faint squeak, pushing against the remaining shell with surprising strength.

Harry leaned closer, his heart pounding. “Come on, little one. You can do it.”

The hatchling’s snout pushed through again, followed by a clawed foot. Finally, with a final burst of effort, the egg split in two, and the baby dragon tumbled out onto the nest. It was small, about the size of a cat, with dark, shiny scales and a faint sheen of iridescence. Its wings were tiny and crumpled, but its eyes—large and golden—gleamed with intelligence.

“Hello there,” Harry said softly, crouching down to its level. “Aren’t you the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen?”

The dragon blinked at him, tilting its head curiously. Then, to Harry’s utter amazement, it let out a soft chirp and waddled closer. It nudged his hand with its snout, letting out a faint puff of smoke.

Harry grinned, his heart melting. “You think I’m your mum, don’t you?”

The dragon chirped again, this time more insistently. Without thinking, Harry switched to Parseltongue. “Hello, little one. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The dragon immediately perked up, its eyes wide and curious. It hissed softly in response, a sound that Harry instinctively understood as happiness.

“You can understand me,” Harry said, his grin widening. “That’s amazing. What should I call you?” He thought for a moment, then said, “How about Nox? It suits you.”

The dragon—Nox—let out a pleased chirp and nuzzled against Harry’s hand. Harry gently stroked its head, marvelling at the texture of its scales. They were smooth but firm, like polished stone.

For the next hour, Harry stayed with Nox, feeding it small bits of meat he found in Hagrid’s pantry and talking to it in Parseltongue. He learned quickly that Nox had a feisty personality, snapping playfully at his fingers and trying to climb onto his shoulder. Despite its small size, it had a surprising amount of strength and a voracious appetite.

As much as Harry loved the idea of keeping Nox with Hagrid, he knew it wasn’t safe. Hagrid wasn’t exactly subtle, and it wouldn’t be long before someone—likely Ron or Hermione—noticed the dragon. He couldn’t risk Nox being discovered and taken away, and even knowing Hagrid was Dumbledores man, he didn’t want him to get arrested.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Harry promised, stroking Nox’s head as the dragon let out a contented purr. “But we can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

He thought for a moment, trying to come up with a plan. The unused part of the castle on the fourth floor came to mind. It was perfect—quiet, secluded, and completely abandoned.

“Alright, Nox,” Harry said, wrapping the dragonlet in the old bit of cloth he’d brought. “We’re going on an adventure.”

He carefully tucked Nox into his bag, making sure the dragon was comfortable and hidden. Then he threw on his invisibility cloak and slipped out of the hut.

The journey back to the castle was nerve-wracking, but Harry’s cloak kept him hidden from prying eyes. Once inside, he made his way to the fourth floor, avoiding the areas where Filch or the prefects might be patrolling.

When he finally reached the abandoned corridor, he let out a sigh of relief. The space was just as quiet and empty as he remembered. Dust covered the floor, and the faint scent of old wood lingered in the air.

“Alright, Nox,” Harry said, setting his bag down and gently lifting the dragonlet out. “This is your new home for now.”

Nox chirped happily, flapping its tiny wings as Harry set up a makeshift nest using some old blankets he’d found. The dragon immediately started exploring, sniffing at the corners of the room and letting out soft hisses of approval.

Harry watched with a smile, feeling a strange sense of pride. “You’re going to love it here. No one will bother us.”

Over the next hour, Harry worked to make the space more comfortable for Nox. He found an old fireplace in one corner of the room and managed to get a small fire going, which Nox immediately curled up beside. Harry also placed a few shiny objects around the nest, hoping to keep the dragon entertained.

As he sat down next to Nox, the hatchling climbed onto his lap, letting out a satisfied sigh. Harry chuckled, stroking its head.

“Looks like we’re in this together, huh?” he said softly. Nox responded with a happy chirp, nuzzling against his hand.

~

The days following Nox’s arrival were a whirlwind of excitement, stress, and a fair share of sneaking around. As much as Harry adored the little dragon—who had quickly become his constant companion in his secret hideout—it was exhausting trying to manage everything alone. Between juggling his classes, keeping up with his housemates, and slipping away unnoticed to care for Nox, Harry felt like he was always one step away from disaster.

Nox  was oblivious to the stress she caused. The hatchling thrived in their secluded space, growing stronger by the day and developing an ever-increasing appetite. Harry spent his evenings sneaking food from the kitchens or Hagrid’s pantry, but he knew it wasn’t a sustainable solution. The guilt of stealing and the constant worry of getting caught were starting to weigh heavily on him.

After a particularly frantic evening of smuggling raw chicken legs and blood under his cloak, Harry decided he needed advice. There was only one person he trusted enough to tell.

Harry scribbled hastily into the two-way journal as soon as he was back in his dormitory.

 I might have done something reckless. Really reckless.

Oh, Harry, those are the most interesting kinds of things. What happened? Did you turn a teacher’s hair blue again? Hex Ron’s shoes to stick to the ceiling?

No, it’s worse. I… I kind of stole a dragon. A baby dragon. Her name is Nox.

There was a long pause before Luna’s reply came, and Harry could almost imagine her wide, dreamy eyes lighting up with amusement.

 A dragon? That’s not reckless, Harry. That’s brilliant! How did you end up with a dragon?

Hagrid had an egg, and I… sort of took it after it hatched. He would’ve been in trouble if anyone found out, and Nox is… well, she’s amazing. At least I’m pretty sure she a she. But I can’t keep doing this, Luna. She eats so much, and I’m terrified someone will find her.

Hmm. It does sound like a lot. But it’s very sweet of you to protect her. You’re right, though—if anyone found out, Hagrid would probably be arrested without even an investigation. People don’t trust half-giants, you know. It’s awful.

Harry frowned at that. The thought made him feel even guiltier.

 What do I do, Luna? I can’t let her go, but I don’t think I can keep this up much longer.

 You need help. First, you should write to your goblin accountant—Grimbok, wasn’t it? Ask if your Peverell inheritance could be used to buy a small property or a cave somewhere secluded. That way, Nox would have space to grow, and no one could trace it.

 A cave? That’s actually a brilliant idea. Nox would love that.

 Of course, she would. Dragons love wide spaces and shiny things. Oh! You should also call for any house elves still bound to your family. A good house elf could help care for Nox and make sure you don’t get caught.

A house elf? I didn’t even think of that. Do you think I’d have one?

Probably. Most old wizarding families do, and the Potters and Peverells are as old as they come.

Harry smiled. “Of course,” he murmured aloud, then quickly wrote back.

Thank you, Luna. I’ll write to Grimbok tonight and see if there’s a way to call for any house elves. You’re amazing.

 I know. So are you. I can’t wait to meet her.

That night, Harry stayed up late writing a detailed letter to Grimbok. He explained his need for a secluded property or cave to house a magical creature, specifying that it had to be entirely private and untraceable by the Ministry or Dumbledore. He also asked about any house elves tied to his family and how he could summon them.

The next morning, the response arrived quickly. Harry opened the letter eagerly.

Lord Peverell,
I have already located several properties that would suit your needs. I will send a detailed list shortly for your review. Additionally, there are three house elves bound to your family, awaiting your call. To summon them, simply say, “Potter family elves, come to me.” They will arrive immediately.

Yours in service,
Grimbok

Harry read the letter twice, his mind racing with plans.

He was on his way to the kitchens for another late-night raid when he heard familiar voices around the corner.

“Flamel, Hermione. Nicolas Flamel,” Ron was saying in a hushed but insistent tone. “That’s who Hagrid was talking about. I just know it.”

Hermione’s voice followed, sharp and impatient. “Yes, but who is he? I know I’ve heard that name before!”

Harry stopped, his curiosity piqued despite himself. He stayed perfectly still, listening as Ron continued.

“I dunno. But I’ll bet it’s something big. I mean, come on, a Cerberus? That’s not guarding a bag of Galleons.”

Hermione huffed. “If you spent even a fraction of your time studying instead of guessing, we might’ve figured it out by now.”

Harry rolled his eyes under the cloak. He didn’t care much about whatever was behind the trapdoor, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity about Nicolas Flamel. The name rang a bell—something about alchemy and immortality. Then it hit him.

The Philosopher’s Stone. Flamel was the creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, an artifact said to grant immortality and riches.

He shook his head and walked away silently. Whatever they were up to, he didn’t want any part of it.

Back on the fourth floor, Harry decided it was time to summon the Potter family elves. He closed the curtains around his bed for privacy, then said softly, “Potter family elves, come to me.”

There was a faint pop, and three small figures appeared before him. They were house elves, each dressed in an old, worn tunic. The eldest stepped forward, her eyes wide and filled with awe.

“Little Master Harry Potter,” she said excitedly, bowing deeply. “We is your elves, sir. How can we serve you?”

Harry felt a pang of discomfort at the term “master” but pushed it aside. “I need your help,” he said, explaining the situation with Nox and his plans for a new home for the dragon.

The elves listened attentively, nodding along. When he finished, the eldest elf—who introduced herself as Tilly—clapped her hands together. “We is helping, Master Harry. We will care for the little dragon and prepare the new home when it is ready.”

Harry let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Tilly. And please, just call me Harry.”

The elf hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish, Master.”

Harry sighed in resignation and instead explained how to look after Nox.

With the elves’ help and Luna’s advice, Harry felt the weight on his shoulders begin to lighten.

~

The library had become something of a second home to Harry, Neville, Blaise, and Theo. Over the past month, their twice-weekly study sessions had become a comforting routine. What started as hesitant cooperation had evolved into a dynamic, if occasionally chaotic, partnership. Blaise and Theo’s dry humour often clashed with Neville’s earnestness and Harry’s sarcastic wit, but it all seemed to work, somehow.

On this particular evening in mid-May, the four were tucked away in their usual corner of the library. The table was covered in parchment, open textbooks, and half-eaten sweets—courtesy of Theo, who always smuggled in a stash of chocolate frogs or liquorice wands.

“Alright,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “Here’s a question for you lot. Name all the components of the Wiggenweld Potion, in order of addition.”

Neville groaned, dropping his quill. “You’re evil.”

“Not wrong, though,” Blaise added, smirking. “You need to know this one, Longbottom. It’s practically guaranteed to be on the exam.”

Harry, who had been flipping through his Transfiguration notes, grinned. “Let’s see… salamander blood four separate times, then lionfish spines. After that, it’s flobberworm mucus, and finally boom berry—”

Theo raised a hand to cut him off. “Wrong. You forgot the honeywater after the flobberworm mucus.”

Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. “This is why I hate Potions.”

“Not bad, though,” Blaise said, giving him a mock look of approval. “Better than Theo’s attempt at Herbology last week. What was it you called bubotuber pus again?”

Theo scowled. “An ‘anti-acne miracle potion.’ Which, by the way, is technically correct.”

Neville snorted. “If you want your skin to feel like it’s on fire, sure.”

The four laughed, their conversation easing some of the tension that had been building as exams loomed closer.

After a brief break, Harry pulled a small piece of parchment from his bag. While the others debated the merits of different Defence Against the Dark Arts revision strategies, he quietly wrote a letter to Grimbok.

Grimbok,
Please finalise the purchase of the seaside cottage in Anglesey we discussed. The agreed-upon price of 12,000 Galleons is acceptable. Ensure that the wards are sufficient to contain a dragon within the boundaries of the property and that no one can Apparate, Portkey or enter onto the land without my explicit permission. Please also arrange for the necessary transfer of ownership and ensure anonymity where possible.
Best regards,

HJP

Harry winced as he folded the letter. Spending that much money made his stomach turn, but it was worth it to give Nox a proper home. He’d already started training Tilly, the eldest of the three Potter elves, to care for Nox once they moved him. He could only hope it would make things easier.

He sealed the letter and made a mental note to give it to Hedwig later that night.

“Alright, Harry,” Neville said, dragging him back into the conversation. “If you’re so rubbish at Potions, let’s try something else. What are the wand movements for switching spells?”

Harry grinned, picking up his wand to demonstrate. “Like this—swish, twist, then a sharp flick. Easy.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Show-off.”

“Just because he can actually cast the spell,” Theo teased, nudging Blaise.

“Speaking of casting spells,” Neville said, looking at Harry. “How are you feeling about Charms?”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve been practicing. I think I’ve got the Pineapple Charm down, at least.”

“Good,” Blaise said. “It would be awful if you could never make a pineapple dance.”

They all laughed, and for a while, the tension of exams seemed to fade into the background.

As their session wound down, the peace of the library was shattered by the arrival of two very unwelcome figures. The pair marched over to their table, ignoring the glares from Madam Pince and several other students.

“There you are!” Ron said, glaring at Harry. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come on—we’ve got a lead on Flamel, and you’re coming with us.”

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “For the last time, Ron, I don’t care about Flamel or whatever you’re up to. Leave me alone.”

Ron’s face turned red. “You’re being ridiculous. Don’t you want to know what’s behind that trapdoor?”

“Not particularly,” Harry said, his tone dry. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to find out with you.”

Ron’s eyes flicked to Blaise and Theo, narrowing dangerously. “Oh, I see. You’re too busy cosying up to them. Figures. You’d rather hang out with a couple of slimy Slytherins than your own housemates.”

“Watch it, Weasley,” Blaise said coldly, his hand resting on his wand.

Theo leaned back in his chair, looking utterly unimpressed. “I’d say it’s jealousy, Blaise. Clearly, Harry just prefers better company.”

Ron’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Shut it, snake.”

Neville, who had been quiet up until now, stood abruptly, his usually kind face set in a rare expression of anger. “That’s enough, Ron. You’ve been warned before about bothering Harry. He’s not interested in whatever you’re doing, and you don’t have the right to harass him—or insult people you don’t even know. He’s not even in Gryffindor.”

Ron looked taken aback, as if he couldn’t believe Neville was standing up to him. “I’m just trying to—”

“No,” Neville interrupted firmly. “You’re just being a bully. Leave us alone.”

Hermione tugged on Ron’s sleeve, her expression uncertain. “Maybe we should go, Ron…”

Ron hesitated, clearly furious, but after a moment, he allowed Hermione to pull him away. The tension at the table lingered even after they were gone.

“Well, that was dramatic,” Theo said, breaking the silence. “Are Gryffindors always that insufferable, or is it just him?”

Harry chuckled, though he still felt a bit tense. “A little of both. Except for Nev.”

Neville sank back into his chair, looking embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t,” Blaise said, his tone lighter than usual. “If anything, you saved us from having to do it ourselves. And you’re surprisingly intimidating when you want to be.”

Neville blinked, then smiled faintly. “Thanks, I think.”

They all exchanged glances, then burst out laughing. The rest of their study session passed without incident, and by the time they packed up, Harry felt lighter than he had in weeks.

Later that night, Harry returned to his dormitory to find a letter from Grimbok waiting on his bed. He opened it eagerly, scanning the contents.

Lord Peverell,
The seaside property has been purchased and warded to your specifications. The cave has been reinforced to ensure it is safe for your dragon, and all necessary precautions have been taken to prevent discovery. Your house elves have been informed and are preparing the property for Nox’s arrival.

Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Finally, things were falling into place. Soon, Nox would have a safe home, and Harry would be free of the constant anxiety.

~

It was a quiet Sunday morning in late May, and Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table, idly toying with his breakfast. Around him, his housemates were caught up in light chatter about the upcoming exams and the end-of-year feast, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. For weeks, he and his fellow Ravenclaws had been speculating about Professor Quirrell’s peculiar behaviour.

“I’m just saying,” Maya whispered, leaning in closer to Harry. “Doesn’t it strike anyone as odd that he suddenly forgot how to string a sentence together over the summer?”

“It’s more than that,” Terry added. “Sometimes, he stutters, and sometimes he doesn’t. And his hands shake when he’s near certain people. Like Snape.”

Anthony frowned, “you’re all overthinking it. He’s just nervous. It’s Snape—who wouldn’t be?”

Harry, however, wasn’t convinced. He’d been suspicious of Quirrell since the troll incident. He sipped his pumpkin juice, watching the nervous professor at the staff table.

“He lied,” Harry said softly, drawing the attention of his friends.

“Lied?” Maya asked, frowning.

“About seeing the troll in the dungeon,” Harry replied. “Think about it. He ran into the Great Hall to warn us, but the troll was already on the first floor. Trolls don’t move that fast. There’s no way it could’ve climbed all the way up from the dungeon in that short time.”

“That’s... you mentioned that the night it happened,” Terry said, his brow furrowing.

“Not to mention how he looks every time someone mentions the third floor,” Harry added, glancing meaningfully toward the staff table. Quirrell was pale and jittery, his hands trembling slightly as he buttered his toast.

“Weird,” Anthony muttered.

As much as Harry wanted to unravel the mystery of Quirrell, his mind was preoccupied with something far more pressing. Nox, his dragonlet, had grown rapidly. Her wingspan was nearly five feet, and while she was still small compared to a full-grown dragon, she was far too large to keep hidden in the castle much longer. Even with the runic protections, silencing spells, and avoidance wards Harry had layered over the unused corridor, it was only a matter of time before someone stumbled upon her.

It was time to move her.

After breakfast, Harry made his way back to the hidden corridor where Nox’s makeshift enclosure lay. As always, she greeted him with an excited trill, her coppery scales gleaming in the morning light that filtered through a small, enchanted window he’d created for her.

"Mother!" Nox hissed in Parseltongue, her tail whipping back and forth as she nuzzled Harry’s chest.

Harry chuckled, scratching behind her frilled ears, long having given up trying to get her to call him Harry. "Good morning, little one. Are you ready for a new home?"

"New home?" Nox tilted her head, her golden eyes narrowing with curiosity.

"Somewhere bigger, safer," Harry explained. "You’ll have more room to fly, and you can build a proper nest."

Nox chirped, her excitement palpable.

"Tilly?” Harry called, and the elder Potter house elf appeared with a soft pop.

“Yes, Master Harry?”

“Is everything ready at the property?” Harry asked.

Tilly nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, Master Harry. The wards are strong, the cottage is ready, and the cave is warm, just as you asked. Tilly also stocked the kitchen for Master Harry.”

“Thank you, Tilly,” Harry said with a smile. “Can you take Nox and me there now?”

“Nox, Tilly is going to take us to the new nest it might feel bad for a second. Just stay calm.”

Tilly beamed, and with another pop, they were gone.

They reappeared at the edge of the cove, the salty sea air hitting Harry’s face as he looked around. The view was breathtaking. The cove was nestled between steep cliffs, with a small strip of sandy beach leading to the shimmering waves. The tide was out, revealing jagged rocks and tide pools that glittered in the sun.

To his left stood a modest two-bedroom cottage, its stone walls blending seamlessly into the rugged landscape. Smoke curled gently from the chimney, and Harry could see the neat garden Tilly had started by the front door.

But it was the cave that drew his attention. It was enormous, carved into the cliffside with a high ceiling and plenty of room for Nox to stretch her wings. The wards shimmered faintly in the air, visible only to him, ensuring the dragons safety.

Nox sniffed the air, her frills twitching as she took in her new surroundings. "Big!" she hissed, her tail swishing excitedly.

Harry grinned. "It’s all yours, little one."

He followed her into the cave, using his magic to light the space with warm, golden orbs of light. He cast a series of spells to make the ground softer and warmer, mimicking the heat of a dragon’s natural habitat.

"You’ll need a nest," Harry said, summoning the pile of soft materials—straw, blankets, and fabric he’d bought for her. Nox immediately began arranging them, chirping happily as she worked.

Harry was just finishing another round of warming charms when Nox suddenly flared her wings. She let out an excited trill, her muscles tensing as she prepared to take off.

"Wait, are you—?" Harry didn’t get to finish the question. With a powerful leap, Nox launched herself into the air, her wings beating furiously as she wobbled into her first flight.

Harry watched in awe as she soared toward the mouth of the cave, her movements clumsy but determined. She let out a triumphant roar as she cleared the cave and flew out over the cove.

Laughing, Harry ran after her, his heart swelling with pride and joy. “Go, Nox! You’ve got this!”

He followed her down to the beach, watching as she circled over the waves before coming in for a shaky landing on the sand.

"I flew!" Nox hissed, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Harry knelt down, scratching her chin affectionately. "You did. You’re amazing."

Nox nuzzled him, her warmth seeping into his skin as she curled her tail around his leg.

As the day wore on, Harry continued making the cave comfortable for Nox. He reinforced the wards, added a fresh water source, and even conjured a small fire pit for her to curl up beside.

It was an hour until dinner, Nox was fast asleep in her nest, her coppery scales glowing in the firelight.

Harry sat just outside the cave, watching the waves crash against the shore.

Smiling, he leaned back against the cave wall, letting the sound of the sea lull him into a rare moment of calm.

~

The dining hall buzzed with activity as students finished their meals. Plates clattered, laughter echoed, and the low hum of conversation filled the air. Harry sat with his Ravenclaw housemates, his plate half-empty as he poured over a study guide for Transfiguration. Exams were in just a few weeks, and he was determined to ace them.

The peaceful dinner came to a screeching halt when Ron and Hermione suddenly appeared at Harry’s side. Before he could react, they grabbed his arms and began tugging him away from his seat.

“Harry, we need to talk. Now!” Ron demanded, his face red with urgency.

“Let go,” Harry said firmly, trying to pull his arms free, but Ron’s grip tightened.

“It’s about the Philosopher’s Stone!” Hermione whispered urgently, her eyes wide with panic.

Terry and Michael who immediately stood from their seats, marching over to intervene.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Terry asked sharply, glaring at the Gryffindors.

“Let him go,” Michael added, prying Ron’s hand off Harry’s arm.

Ron huffed, but he relented, rubbing his wrist as though he was the victim. “You don’t understand!” he said, his voice rising. “Snape’s going to steal the Stone tonight! Harry has to help us stop him!”

Hermione nodded fervently, looking between Ron and Harry as though they were the only two who mattered. “We’ve figured it out. He’s been after it all year! If we don’t act now, it’ll be gone by morning!”

Harry stared at them, incredulous. “If Dumbledore is stupid enough to hide the Philosopher’s Stone behind traps a first-year can get through, then he deserves to lose it,” he said coldly. “It’s not my job to clean up his messes.”

Ron’s face turned as red as his hair. “How can you say that?! It’s—”

But Harry didn’t give him a chance to finish. He turned on his heel and walked back toward his housemates, who stood protectively by his side.

“You heard him,” Terry said with a smirk. “Run along now.”

Ron sputtered angrily, but Hermione grabbed his arm, urging him to let it go. “Fine,” Ron spat, his voice dripping with frustration. “But don’t come crying to us when everything goes wrong.”

Harry didn’t bother replying, heading straight to the Ravenclaw common room with the rest of the Ravenclaws and Neville who joined him.

Later that evening, Harry, Neville, Terry, and Michael sat in the cosy common room, their books spread out on the low table before them. The fire crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows on the walls as they quizzed each other on various subjects.

“What’s the difference between a conjuration and a transfiguration?” Michael asked, looking up from his notes.

“Conjurations create something from magical energy,” Neville answered quickly, his face lighting up with pride. “Transfigurations just change the form of something that already exists.”

“Exactly,” Michael said with a grin.

Harry nodded, scribbling a note in the margins of his book. “Alright, then. What’s the incantation for the severing charm?”

Terry smirked. “That’s too easy. Diffindo.”

They laughed, the tension from earlier fading as they delved deeper into their studies. But the peace was shattered when the door to the common room burst open with a deafening bang.

Everyone froze as Professor Quirrell stormed inside, his normally timid demeanour replaced by something feral and furious. His eyes locked onto Harry with a wild intensity, and Harry felt a sharp, searing pain in his scar, causing him to clutch his forehead with a grimace.

“Potter!” Quirrell snarled, striding toward him.

Harry backed away instinctively, his housemates quickly forming a protective wall around him.

“What’s going on?” A seventh year demanded, his wand already in his hand.

But Quirrell ignored him, his trembling hands reaching for Harry. “You’re coming with me,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. “I won’t fail my master again.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled back, knocking over a chair in his haste.

Before Quirrell could grab him, an older Ravenclaw student stepped forward, her wand raised. “Stay away from him!” she shouted, firing a knockback jinx.

The spell hit Quirrell squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling backward. As he fell, his turban unravelled, revealing a ghastly sight that made the entire room erupt into screams.

On the back of Quirrell’s head was a face—pale, snake-like, and utterly horrifying.

“Voldemort,” Harry whispered, his blood running cold.

The Dark Lord’s red eyes locked onto Harry, and he sneered. “Harry Potter,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “So young. So brave. So foolish.”

Students scrambled to get away, some shouting for help while others froze in terror.

“Master!” Quirrell gasped, struggling to his feet.

“Seize him!” Voldemort commanded. “Bring him to me!”

Quirrell lunged for Harry again, but as soon as his hands made contact, his skin began to blister and smoke. He screamed in agony, pulling back as his fingers crumbled to ash.

Harry stared in horror at his own hands, unsure of what was happening.

“Fool!” Voldemort snarled. “Kill him! Now!”

Quirrell raised his wand, his face twisted with pain and desperation. “Avada Ked..!” he shouted.

But Harry moved on instinct, lunging forward and grabbing Quirrell’s face with both hands. The effect was immediate. Quirrell’s skin blackened and cracked, his entire body beginning to disintegrate under Harry’s touch.

“No!” Voldemort screamed, his voice echoing through the room as Quirrell collapsed into a pile of ash.

The dark spirit of Voldemort rose from the remains, a swirling mass of black smoke and rage. Harry barely registered the screams of his classmates as the spectre shot toward him, passing through his body with an icy chill before disappearing into the night.

The last thing Harry heard before he blacked out was the sound of terrified screaming and the crackling of the fire.

~

When Harry awoke, he was in the hospital wing, his head pounding and his body aching. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of Madam Pomfrey bustling about nearby.

He tried to sit up, but the effort made his vision swim.

“Don’t you dare move, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey scolded, rushing to his side. “You’ve had quite the ordeal.”

“What... what happened?” Harry croaked.

The mediwitch hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You’ll have to wait for the headmaster to explain,” she said briskly.

But Harry didn’t need an explanation. He remembered everything—the face on the back of Quirrell’s head, the way his touch had destroyed him, and the icy presence of Voldemort passing through him.

He closed his eyes, his mind racing with questions.

His head rested heavily against the pillow, but his mind refused to settle. The events of the night replayed endlessly in his thoughts—the crackling of Quirrell’s skin as it turned to ash, the terror in the other students’ screams, and the cold, dark presence of Voldemort passing through him.

Then realisation hit him like a Bludger to the chest: He had killed someone.

His breaths came faster as guilt and panic swirled inside him. Quirrell had been working with Voldemort, yes, but he was still a human being. Harry remembered the way Quirrell’s face contorted in agony when his hands made contact, the way his body crumbled like fragile parchment.

Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he yanked the blanket over his head, curling into a ball beneath it. He stifled his sobs with the pillow, not wanting Madam Pomfrey—or anyone else—to see him like this.

He was just eleven years old. Eleven. He hadn’t wanted any of this. All he wanted was to study, to learn magic, to be safe in the castle that had become his refuge. Instead, he’d been dragged into a world of schemes and darkness he barely understood.

I’m a killer, he thought miserably, his tears soaking into the pillow. What kind of person does that make me?

Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his dreams filled with ash and smoke, Voldemort’s red eyes burning into his soul.

When Harry woke, sunlight streamed through the curtains, and the faint sounds of activity could be heard from the hallway outside the hospital wing. He blinked blearily, his body stiff from how tightly he had curled up the night before.

He sat up slowly, wiping at his face and glancing around. It was then that he noticed a familiar figure sitting in a chair by his bedside.

Albus Dumbledore.

Harry’s stomach twisted. A surge of anger welled up in him, sharp and hot.

Why is he here now? Harry thought bitterly, his fists clenching beneath the blanket.

But he bit his tongue, forcing himself to remain calm. He wouldn’t give Dumbledore the satisfaction of knowing how much he despised him.

“Good morning, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his tone carefully measured, as though he were speaking to a fragile child.

Harry didn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on his lap.

Dumbledore sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I imagine you have many questions about what transpired last night.”

Harry nodded faintly, still not looking up. “What happened?” he asked, his voice flat.

The headmaster stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Professor Quirrell, as you likely deduced, was under the control of Lord Voldemort. He sought to retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone, which was hidden here at Hogwarts for safekeeping. It seems that when Professor Quirrell could not retrieve it, Voldemort decided to finish what he started all those years ago.”

Harry’s hands tightened into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Safekeeping? Behind traps that first-years could solve?

“You were protected,” Dumbledore continued, his tone growing more patronising, “by the love your mother left behind when she sacrificed herself for you. That same magic made it impossible for Voldemort—or anyone working with him—to harm you directly.”

Harry’s lip curled in frustration. He didn’t feel protected.

“It is most unfortunate,” Dumbledore went on, “that such an incident occurred in front of so many students. The fear it will have spread is regrettable.”

Harry’s head snapped up at that. Was that… annoyance in Dumbledore’s voice? Was he more concerned about the school’s reputation than the fact that Voldemort had been here, inside the castle?

But then Dumbledore’s words shifted, and Harry’s stomach sank further. “It’s also a shame,” the old man said, “that you chose to dismiss Mister Weasley and Miss Granger’s concerns at dinner.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. How did Dumbledore know about that? He hadn’t been at dinner.

Suspicion flared in Harry’s mind. Was he spying on me? How much does he know about my life in the castle?

He didn’t reply, his jaw tightening as he stared at his lap. Dumbledore seemed to take his silence as agreement and continued his monologue, his voice laced with that same maddeningly calm tone.

“You must understand, Harry,” Dumbledore said, leaning forward, “that these events are part of a much larger picture. You have a great destiny ahead of you—one that requires courage, wisdom, and trust.”

When Dumbledore reached out to pat Harry on the shoulder, Harry flinched violently, jerking away. His heart raced, his skin crawling at the thought of being touched.

The headmaster’s hand froze in midair before he slowly withdrew it. A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, perhaps, or irritation—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Harry’s chest heaved as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. He wouldn’t break down in front of Dumbledore. He wouldn’t let the man see how much everything was affecting him.

“I’m tired,” he said abruptly, pulling the blanket back over himself and turning his back to the headmaster. It wasn’t a lie. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Dumbledore hesitated, but eventually, he stood. “Rest well, Harry,” he said softly. “Madam Pomfrey will ensure you’re ready to leave when the time comes.”

Harry didn’t respond, listening as the headmaster’s footsteps retreated and the door clicked shut behind him.

Once he was alone, Harry let out a shaky breath, the tension in his body slowly easing. But the anger and mistrust remained, simmering just beneath the surface.

He thought about everything Dumbledore had said—about his mother’s protection, about the Stone, about Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the headmaster was playing some sort of game, and he was just a piece on the board.

If he knows so much, why didn’t he stop Quirrell himself? Why did he let it get this far?

The questions swirled in his mind, but there were no answers—at least, none that he trusted.

~

The soft knock on the hospital wing door pulled Harry out of his restless thoughts. He had been sitting cross-legged on his bed, pretending to read one of Madam Pomfrey’s medical pamphlets to avoid thinking about anything else. His heart sank as the door creaked open, but he couldn’t deny the small relief when he saw Neville’s round face peek through, followed closely by Theo and Blaise.

Behind them, Anthony, Terry and Padma shuffled in, clearly reluctant but determined. They carried a bundle of sweets and a stack of books, likely meant to distract him from whatever horrors they imagined he’d endured.

“Harry!” Neville exclaimed, relief evident in his voice as he hurried to the side of Harry’s bed. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, though his voice was tight. He shifted back slightly, an involuntary movement to keep some distance between himself and Neville’s outstretched hand.

Neville noticed the movement and hesitated, dropping his hand and instead wringing it nervously. “Everyone’s talking about what happened. They don’t believe that it was you-know-who.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

Harry tensed but nodded. “Quirrell… He…” His voice faltered. How could he explain what had happened without reliving the moment Quirrell’s skin crumbled beneath his touch?

Blaise, always the calmest of their little group, stepped in smoothly. “I’m surprised the Aurors haven’t shown up yet,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing. “The Ministry should’ve been crawling all over this by now.”

“Maybe Dumbledore’s keeping it quiet,” Theo added, crossing his arms. He leaned against the edge of Harry’s bed, though he stayed far enough back to give Harry space. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s swept something under the rug.”

Anthony frowned. “But why? Everyone in the common room saw what happened. How do you cover up something like that?”

Padma, ever the practical one, sighed. “You’d be surprised. The Daily Prophet hasn’t mentioned anything. Either they don’t know, or someone’s making sure they don’t report it.”

Harry stayed silent, letting their speculation wash over him. He didn’t have the energy to offer his own theories, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell them about the confrontation with Dumbledore earlier that morning.

The visits continued throughout the day, with various students popping in to check on Harry. Most were hesitant to bring up Voldemort directly, but the fear and curiosity were evident in their eyes.

Harry appreciated the concern, but the constant attention was exhausting. Worse, every time someone leaned too close or reached out to pat him on the shoulder, he flinched away instinctively.

The thought of accidentally hurting one of his friends made his stomach churn. He avoided touch entirely, keeping his arms crossed or tucked close to his body whenever someone was nearby.

His housemates noticed, of course. Terry, ever observant, even asked him about it during one of their late-night study sessions a few days later.

“You’ve been jumpy lately,” Terry said, glancing up from his Transfiguration notes. “More than usual, I mean.”

Harry forced a smile, shrugging. “Just stressed about exams.”

Terry didn’t look convinced, but he let it go, much to Harry’s relief.

By the time Harry was discharged from the hospital wing, the rumours about what had happened had reached fever pitch. Students whispered in the corridors, their eyes darting nervously to Harry whenever he passed.

But the worst part, by far, was Ron.

The Gryffindor boy seemed to think Harry’s involvement with the Quirrell was a validation of his own theories. He strutted around the Great Hall, loudly telling anyone who would listen that he had known all along that Harry should have gone to stop him.

“Harry knew Snape was after the Stone,” Ron declared one evening, standing at the Gryffindor table with his arms crossed. “But no, he wouldn’t listen to me and Hermione. If he’d just come with us, none of this would’ve happened.”

Neville, who had been sitting with Harry at the Ravenclaw table, stiffened visibly. He turned in his seat, his face unusually stern as he glared at Ron.

“Snape?” Neville said, his voice louder than usual. “You think Snape was after the Stone? Are you daft? It was Quirrell! And the Stone wasn’t even there!”

The Gryffindor table went silent, and several students turned to stare at Neville in shock.

Ron’s face turned red. “How would you know?” he snapped. “You weren’t there!”

“I was studying in the Ravenclaw common room when Quirrell came in,” Neville shot back, his voice shaking slightly but firm. “And we saw what really happened—unlike you, who’s just making things up!”

Hermione, sitting beside Ron, huffed loudly. “Regardless, Harry should’ve gone to investigate when we told him to. If he had, maybe this could’ve been avoided.”

Harry, who had been trying to ignore the argument, slammed his fork down onto the table with a loud clang. The noise drew everyone’s attention, and the hall fell silent as he stood up, his eyes blazing.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Harry said coldly, addressing Ron and Hermione. “The Stone was never the point. It was a trap, and Quirrell fell right into it.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the hall, leaving Ron sputtering and Hermione glaring after him.

The weeks leading up to exams were a blur of studying, practicing spells, and avoiding the endless questions from other students. Harry, Neville, and their small study group—Terry, Michael, Blaise, and Theo—spent most of their evenings in the library or common rooms, pouring over textbooks and quizzing each other on everything from Potions ingredients to Transfiguration techniques.

Despite the tension lingering from the dungeon incident, their study sessions were often filled with light-hearted banter.

“Alright,” Blaise said one evening, smirking at Theo as he leaned back in his chair. “What’s the incantation for summoning fire without burning yourself?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Incendio! But you have to focus on the containment field to make sure it doesn’t spread.”

“Correct!” Blaise said with mock enthusiasm, throwing a scrap of parchment at Theo’s head. “Five points to Slytherin!”

Michael snorted. “You’re not a professor, Zabini.”

“Not yet,” Blaise quipped, grinning.

The teasing helped ease some of Harry’s tension, though the spectre of Voldemort still loomed in the back of his mind. He threw himself into his studies, determined to focus on something—anything—other than the memories of that night.

~

The Great Hall was alive with excitement as students gathered for the final event of the school year. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the late spring evening, dotted with stars against a dusky blue sky. The long tables groaned under the weight of delicious food, though most students were too busy speculating about the House Cup results to pay attention to the feast itself.

Ravenclaw was currently in the lead, with Slytherin in second and Gryffindor trailing behind. The banners decorating the Great Hall alternated between blue and bronze, and green and silver, a reminder of how close the competition had been all year.

Harry sat with his fellow Ravenclaws, exchanging murmurs of anticipation with Terry, Padma, and Michael. Neville smiled at him from the Gryffindor table. Across the room, Blaise and Theo gave Harry small nods from their seats at the Slytherin table.

As Dumbledore stood at the staff table, the chatter in the hall slowly died down. His twinkling eyes scanned the room, and he raised his hands for silence.

“Another year has come to an end,” Dumbledore began, his voice carrying effortlessly over the hall. “Before we part ways for the summer, we must acknowledge the hard work and accomplishments of our students. The House Cup will soon be awarded, but first, a few words.”

Harry leaned back in his seat, dreading whatever Dumbledore had planned.

“First,” Dumbledore continued, “a word of caution: this year has brought unexpected challenges to our school. We owe a debt of gratitude to those who have demonstrated vigilance in the face of danger.”

Harry’s stomach sank. He could already feel where this was going.

“For outstanding foresight and concern for their fellow students,” Dumbledore said, smiling benevolently, “I award 50 points to Miss Hermione Granger.”

The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers as Hermione blushed, looking both proud and embarrassed.

“And,” Dumbledore added, his voice rising slightly, “for his bravery in recognizing the potential threat to the school, I award 50 points to Mr. Ronald Weasley.”

The Gryffindors cheered even louder, with Ron basking in the applause, puffing out his chest.

Harry felt his jaw clench. He stared at his plate, his appetite gone. Around him, the Ravenclaws exchanged outraged looks.

“How does that make any sense?” Terry muttered under his breath. “They didn’t do anything! They weren’t even there!”

Padma folded her arms, glaring at the Gryffindor table. “They’re being rewarded for trying to drag Harry into their nonsense.”

Dumbledore continued, oblivious to—or perhaps ignoring—the growing unrest among the Ravenclaws and Slytherins. “With these final points, the House Cup standings are as follows: Gryffindor, 482 points; Ravenclaw, 481 points; Slytherin, 475 points; and Hufflepuff, 392 points.”

The Gryffindor table exploded with cheers, their banners unfurling above the hall as the enchanted ceiling shifted to red and gold.

The rest of the feast passed in a haze of frustration and disbelief. Ravenclaws and Slytherins alike exchanged outraged whispers, their eyes darting toward Dumbledore and the Gryffindor table. Even Professor Flitwick looked enraged.

Harry stayed silent, his face carefully blank as he picked at his food. He could feel the tension radiating from his housemates, but he didn’t trust himself to speak without his anger spilling over.

As the students began to leave the Great Hall, Blaise and Theo caught up with Harry and Neville near the doors.

“Well,” Blaise said dryly, “that was predictable.”

Theo snorted. “Gryffindor wins again, thanks to Dumbledore’s blatant favouritism. What a shock.”

Neville frowned, looking deeply uncomfortable. “It’s not fair. Everyone in the Ravenclaw common room knows what really happened. Harry was the one who stopped Quirrell—not Ron and Hermione.”

Harry shrugged, his voice low. “It doesn’t matter. Let them have their points. It doesn’t change what really happened.”

But even as he said it, Harry couldn’t ignore the bitterness creeping into his tone.

The train ride back to London was a welcome relief after the tense atmosphere of the Leaving Feast. Harry, Neville, Blaise, and Theo claimed an empty compartment near the back of the train, settling in for the long journey.

Neville pulled out a bag of sweets he’d picked up from Honeydukes during their last Hogsmeade trip. “Chocolate Frog?” he offered, holding the bag out to Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry said, unwrapping one and watching it leap onto the window before he caught it.

Theo leaned back in his seat, flipping through a copy of Advanced Rune Theory. “So, what’s everyone doing over the summer?”

“I’ll be helping Gran with the garden,” Neville said, sounding both proud and a little nervous. “She’s letting me plant my own herbology experiments this year.”

“Sounds more productive than what I’ll be doing,” Blaise said, smirking. “Mother’s throwing another one of her parties, which means I’ll be avoiding as many of her suitors as possible.”

Harry chuckled softly, though the laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What about you, Harry?” Neville asked hesitantly.

Harry hesitated. He couldn’t exactly tell them about the cottage in Anglesey or the dragon hiding in the cove. “Just… catching up on some reading,” he said vaguely.

Blaise raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the matter.

As the train rumbled on, the four boys fell into a comfortable silence, occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter as they shared stories and jokes. For the first time since the chaos of the dungeons, Harry felt a small measure of peace.

Whatever the next year brought, he knew he wouldn’t face it alone.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped out of King’s Cross station into the muggle world. The bustling streets of London seemed a world away from the magical chaos that had engulfed his first year at Hogwarts.

A black cab idled nearby, its driver leaning out the window with an air of impatience. Harry approached, keeping his head low. "Little Whinging, Surrey, please" he said quietly, climbing into the backseat. "Number Four, Privet Drive."

The driver grunted and pulled away from the curb, merging into the evening traffic. Harry sank back into the seat, his eyes fixed on the city lights flickering past the window. But no matter how far he travelled from Hogwarts, the memories refused to fade.

He could still see Quirrell's twisted expression, the unnatural fire in his eyes as he advanced in the Ravenclaw common room. Harry’s pulse quickened at the thought of the confrontation—how everyone had stood frozen in terror while he sought to kill him. The memory of his magic surging uncontrolled to stop Quirrell sent a chill down his spine. He’d ended it, but not without a cost. The image of Quirrell’s ashes was seared into his mind, a dark mark he couldn’t erase.

Luna’s letters had been a lifeline, but even her gentle words couldn’t soothe the storm inside him. He’d been vague in his replies, unable to admit the truth. How could he tell her that he had killed someone? That her worry was justified? Harry’s fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel as the cab turned onto the familiar streets of Little Whinging.

The car came to a stop outside Number Four. Harry paid the driver with a muttered thanks, stepping out onto the pavement. The neat, symmetrical facade of the Dursleys' house loomed before him, a picture of suburban normalcy that hid years of cruelty.

As the cab drove off, Harry stood at the edge of the driveway, his feet rooted to the ground. He could already hear Vernon’s booming voice and Petunia’s sharp reprimands in his mind. Dudley’s jeering face loomed in his imagination. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and run, but he forced himself to move forward.

The front door creaked as he pushed it open, and the sound was enough to summon Vernon from the sitting room. The man’s face turned an ugly shade of purple as his gaze landed on Harry.

"Back, are you?" Vernon barked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Couldn’t even be bothered to send a letter, could you? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused us?"

Harry dropped his satchel onto the floor, his shoulders stiffening. "I’ve been busy," he said evenly, his tone devoid of the fear Vernon expected.

"Busy?" Vernon’s voice rose to a roar. "Busy doing what, boy? Running around with your freaky friends? Well, I’ve had enough! You—"

"Enough," Harry said sharply, his voice cutting through Vernon’s tirade. The air around him seemed to thrum with suppressed energy.

Vernon froze, his expression shifting from anger to something closer to fear. "What did you just say to me, boy?"

Harry stepped forward, his green eyes blazing. "I said, enough. I’m not going to listen to your shouting anymore."

The pressure in the room rose, the lights flickering as Harry’s magic flared. Vernon stumbled back, his bravado crumbling as the photographs on the walls rattled in their frames.

"Out of my way," Harry said coldly. “Don’t worry Uncle, it will be just like before. You leave me alone, I leave you alone.”

Vernon’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly before he scrambled to the side, letting Harry pass. Without another word, Harry climbed the stairs to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Leaning against the door, Harry exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm inside him. His warded room felt like a sanctuary compared to downstairs. He dropped his satchel onto the bed and began unpacking, his movements mechanical.

Harry’s hands trembled as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at them. Would the Aurors come for him? Was Dumbledore already arranging his fate?

A soft hoot broke through his thoughts. Hedwig perched on the windowsill, her amber eyes filled with quiet understanding. Harry crossed the room to let her in, stroking her feathers absently.

"Hey, girl," he murmured. "Miss me?"

Hedwig nipped at his finger lightly, as if chiding him for his dark mood. Harry managed a faint smile, grateful for her presence. He glanced out the window, his gaze landing on Mrs. Figg’s house. She’d be watching, he knew. Dumbledore’s eyes were never far from him.

With a sigh, Harry headed to the garden, making sure to linger where Figg could see him. He weeded a patch of flowers absently, his mind elsewhere. He needed her to report back that he was here, staying put. It was a small layer of misdirection, but it’ll buy him some time.

Later that evening, back in his room, Harry called softly, "Tilly?"

With a faint pop, the house-elf appeared, her wide eyes alight with eagerness. "Master Harry! Tilly is here. How can Tilly help?"

"Please take me to Nox," Harry said. "I need to see her."

Tilly nodded, holding out her hand. The world shifted as they Apparated, the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a narrow tube lasting only a moment before they were at the cove.

The sound of waves greeted him, the salty tang of the sea filling his lungs. The secluded cove was as serene as ever, its rocky cliffs sheltering a patch of soft sand. And there, basking under the moonlight, was Nox.

The young dragon hatchling was growing fast, her glossy black scales catching the silvery glow. She let out a happy chirp as Harry approached, bounding toward him on stubby legs.

"Mother! You’re back!" Nox’s high-pitched voice was filled with delight as she nuzzled against Harry’s chest.

Harry knelt, wrapping his arms around her warm, scaly body. "I missed you, too," he murmured, stroking her gently. "You’re getting so big."

Nox preened under his touch, her golden eyes shining with joy. "I tried to catch a fish today, but it was too slippery!" she exclaimed, her tone a mix of pride and frustration.

"You will," Harry assured her. "You’re already doing great."

Nox let out a pleased rumble, curling closer to him. "Stay with me tonight, Mother? We can watch the lights together."

Harry smiled softly. "Those are stars, Nox. I’d like that. But first, I want to see the cottage."

Nox tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "The stone box? Can I come, too?"

"Of course," Harry said, rising to his feet. Nox hopped beside him, her tail swishing excitedly as they made their way to the small, two-bedroom cottage nestled at the edge of the cove.

The cottage was modest but welcoming, its walls weathered by the sea air. Inside, the space was cosy, with a small kitchen nook, a faded sofa, and shelves lined with books and trinkets. A small bedroom with a double bed lay at the back of the cottage. A narrow staircase led to the loft above, where Harry found two beds tucked under the eaves. He traced a hand along the wooden beams, the scent of salt and aged wood filling the air.

Nox scrambled onto one of the beds, her claws sinking into the quilt as she chirped excitedly. "This is soft! Can it be my nest?"

Harry chuckled. "You can use it whenever you want."

The young dragon snuggled into the blankets, her eyes half-lidded with contentment. "Thank you, Mother."

Harry smiled softly. "C’mon, let’s sit by your cave for a bit."

The dragon tilted her head but chirped in agreement, bounding off out of the cottage and towards the entrance of her small cave. Harry followed, conjuring a comfortable seat from a nearby rock. The night air was cool but pleasant, the sound of the waves a constant backdrop.

Harry extended his hand and conjured a ball of fire, the flames dancing lazily in his palm. He used it to light the fire pit nearby, the warmth spreading quickly. Nox watched in awe, her golden eyes wide with fascination.

"How do you do that?" she asked, inching closer to the fire. "I want to do it too!"

Harry chuckled. "It’s all about finding the fire inside you. As a dragon you should feel it easily," he explained. "Close your eyes and imagine the warmth deep in your chest, like a tiny flame waiting to grow. Feel it rise up your throat and let it out."

Nox scrunched her face in concentration, her tail twitching behind her. She took a deep breath, her small chest puffing out. When she exhaled, a faint squeak of smoke escaped her nostrils.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. "That’s a great start, Nox! Try again."

Determined, Nox tried once more. This time, a burst of flame erupted from her mouth, scorching the sand in front of them and making the fire pit blaze even brighter.

"I did it!" Nox cheered, bouncing on her feet. "Did you see, Mother?"

"I saw," Harry said, grinning. "That was amazing. You’re a natural."

Nox tilted her head, a curious expression on her face. "Why doesn’t your fire come from your mouth? How can you be a proper dragon if you can’t blow fire?"

Harry chuckled, leaning back against the rock. "I’m not a dragon, Nox. My magic works differently."

Nox huffed, clearly unconvinced. "You need to learn, Mother. I can teach you!"

She demonstrated again, this time producing a more controlled stream of fire. "See? You just have to feel it."

Harry humoured her, pretending to try. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled dramatically, earning a full body wiggle from Nox as she laughed.

"You’ll get there," she said confidently, nuzzling against his side. "I’ll teach you."

As the fire crackled and the stars twinkled above, Harry leaned against Nox, his hand resting on her warm scales. He began telling her stories about the constellations, pointing out shapes and weaving tales about heroes and magical creatures.

Nox listened intently, her golden eyes reflecting the starlight. For the first time in what felt like weeks, Harry felt a sense of peace. Here, under the vast sky with his dragon by his side, he allowed himself to simply be.

~

A couple of days later, the early morning sun streamed through the dense canopy of trees near Little Whinging, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. Harry adjusted the strap of his satchel and navigated the familiar path with ease, his steps light but purposeful. The woods held an almost sacred silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant chirp of birds.

Ahead, the clearing came into view, and Harry’s heart gave a small leap. The Old One, lay coiled on a moss-covered rock and her golden eyes opened lazily as Harry approached.

"Little Speaker," she greeted, her voice a soft hiss that resonated in his mind. "You return."

Harry grinned, his tension easing at the familiar warmth in her tone. "I missed you," he said in Parseltongue, setting his satchel down near her resting place. "How have you been?"

The Old One flicked her tongue, her gaze thoughtful. "The woods are peaceful. But I have missed the chatter of my Flick."

Harry’s smile widened. "You won’t have to miss him much longer. He’s coming."

As if on cue, a soft hum of magic filled the air and Luna landed on the ground, her wide, dreamy eyes scanned the clearing before they landed on Harry, and her face lit up with a radiant smile.

Flick emerged right behind her, the small snake slithering quickly toward the Old One with a delighted hiss. "Old one! Hatchling!"

The Old One’s coils shifted as she lifted her head, her eyes softening. "Flick,” she murmured, extending a loop of her body for Flick to climb onto. The younger snake nuzzled her scales affectionately, their reunion a heartwarming sight.

Harry barely noticed. His focus was entirely on Luna, who was already striding toward him with that familiar, ethereal grace. She looked just as she had in his memories: whimsical and vibrant, her presence like a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.

"Luna!" he called, his voice thick with emotion.

She reached him and, without hesitation, threw her arms around him in a tight hug. The world seemed to tilt.

Panic surged through Harry like a tidal wave. The memory of Quirrell’s flesh burning under his touch flashed in his mind, and his breath caught. What if—what if the same thing happened to Luna? He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t bear it.

"No!" he gasped, stumbling backward and falling hard onto the ground. He scrambled to put distance between them, his hands raised as if to ward her off. "Don’t… don’t touch me."

Luna froze, her arms still outstretched, her eyes wide with shock and something else—hurt. Her hands dropped slowly to her sides, and she tilted her head, studying him with a mix of confusion and concern.

"Harry," she said softly, her voice as gentle as ever but tinged with worry. "What’s wrong?"

He couldn’t meet her eyes. Shame clawed at his chest, and he looked away, his hands trembling. "I… I just… it’s not safe."

Luna stepped closer, but she kept a careful distance. "Not safe? Because of you?"

Harry nodded, his throat tight. He risked a glance at her and immediately regretted it. Her expression wasn’t angry or accusing, but there was a sadness there that made his chest ache.

"Harry," she began, her tone patient and calm, "I’ve been seeing things. Ever since the end of your first year. I don’t know if they’re real or not, but they’re… they’re pieces of something. Of you."

Harry’s gaze snapped back to her, his heart pounding. "What do you mean?"

Luna took a deep breath, her hands clasping the edge of her robes as if grounding herself. "I see flashes of you—being crowded, struggling, and… and crying. There’s green light and fire, and something dark chasing you. It’s like looking through a foggy window. Sometimes it feels like a dream, but it’s not. It’s you, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to deny it, to tell her she was mistaken, but the words caught in his throat. Luna stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

"Please," she said, her eyes searching his. "Tell me what’s real."

A dam broke inside him. The weight he’d been carrying, the secrets he’d been guarding, became too much to bear. Tears stung his eyes, and he looked down, his voice trembling as he began to speak.

"It’s real," he admitted, his words barely audible. "All of it. Luna… I killed someone. Quirrell. He came after me in the Ravenclaw common room, and I… I didn’t mean to, but he died."

Luna’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. Her wide eyes stayed fixed on him, her expression unreadable.

"He was trying to kill me," Harry continued, his tears falling freely now. "He was possessed by Voldemort, and I had to fight back. I grabbed his face, and it was… it was too much. He just… he crumbled. And I don’t know what that makes me."

Luna knelt in front of him, her movements slow and deliberate. "It makes you Harry," she said simply.

Harry shook his head, his hands burying themselves in his hair. "You don’t understand. I hurt him with just my touch. What if… what if that happens to you?"

Luna reached out, her hand hovering just above his. "Do you trust me?"

His breath hitched, and he looked at her, his green eyes filled with fear. "I don’t trust myself."

"Then trust me," she said, her voice firm but kind. Slowly, she placed her hand over his, her touch warm and steady. Nothing happened. The world didn’t shatter, and her skin didn’t burn. Harry stared at their hands, disbelief warring with relief.

"See?" Luna said softly. "I’m still here."

Harry let out a shaky breath, before lunging for Luna and wrapping his arms around her. "I… I’m so sorry."

Luna’s smile was small but genuine. "There’s nothing to be sorry for. You did what you had to do. And you’re not alone, Harry. Not now, not ever."

Flick chose that moment to slither over, his small body coiling around Harry’s arm as he hissed happily. "Hatchling! Moon! Why are you sad?"

The Old One watched them from her perch, her golden eyes wise and knowing. "Sadness passes, Little Speaker," she said in Parseltongue. "You are stronger than you believe."

Harry managed a watery smile, stroking Flick’s smooth scales. "Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse.

Luna shifted to sit beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

They sat together in the clearing as the sun climbed higher, the warmth of the day chasing away the chill in Harry’s heart. And for that moment, everything felt right.

The warmth of the day lingered as Harry and Luna remained seated in the clearing with the Old One and Flick. The sunlight filtering through the leaves painted the forest in hues of gold and green, and Harry felt a measure of peace. Luna sat cross-legged beside him, her wide, curious eyes fixed on him as he began to speak.

"Hogwarts is... incredible," Harry said, his voice soft but filled with wonder. "The castle is huge, with towers that seem to touch the sky and staircases that move on their own. The common rooms are beautiful and magical in their own way."

Luna tilted her head, her dreamy expression brightening. "It sounds amazing. The Sorting Hat, the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall… it must be like stepping into a storybook."

Harry chuckled. "It is. My common room—Ravenclaw’s—has a ceiling enchanted to look like the night sky. It’s perfect for studying, and there are bookshelves everywhere. It’s… peaceful."

Luna’s lips curved into a soft smile. "It sounds perfect for you."

Encouraged by her interest, Harry continued. He described the lessons, from the intricacies of Transfiguration with McGonagall to the explosive unpredictability of Potions with Snape. "Flitwick, our Charms professor, is brilliant. He’s tiny but full of energy, and he makes even the most complex spells seem fun."

Luna listened intently, her gaze never wavering. When Harry spoke about Dumbledore, however, her expression grew thoughtful.

"He came to see me in the infirmary after… after everything," Harry said, his voice quieter now. "He claimed that my mother love burnt Quirrell. And that it was a shame that it happened in front of everyone…that I have a great destiny ahead of me."

Luna frowned slightly. "Destiny is a tricky thing. It’s not always as clear as people think. But Dumbledore… hes definitely hiding something."

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the grass. "I don’t know. I’m waiting for the aurors to show up and arrest me. I don’t understand why no one has asked me about what happened yet."

Luna reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch grounding. "Maybe you should go to them and tell them what happened. It was self-defence Harry. You have witnesses to that."

He nodded, appreciating her unwavering belief in him. A comfortable silence fell between them before Harry’s face lit up with a sudden thought. "Luna, there’s someone I want you to meet."

Her eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Oh? Who?"

"Nox," Harry said, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

Luna’s eyes widened, and a delighted smile spread across her face. "Nox! Oh, Harry, that’s wonderful! Please can I meet her? Please? Please? Please?"

Harry laughed softly, her enthusiasm infectious. "All right, but she’s a bit… energetic. Don’t be surprised if she crashes into the sand when she lands."

He called for Tilly, and the house-elf appeared with a pop, her large eyes sparkling with excitement. "Master Harry, how can Tilly help?"

"Can you take us to the cove please?" Harry asked. "I want Luna to meet Nox."

Tilly nodded eagerly, reaching out for their hands. In a swirl of magic, the forest disappeared, replaced by the familiar sight of the secluded cove. The waves lapped gently at the shore, and the air carried the salty tang of the sea.

Before Harry could call out, a black blur shot across the sky, heading straight for them. Nox landed with a dramatic crash, sand spraying in all directions as she tumbled before righting herself. She shook off the grains clinging to her glossy black scales and bounded toward Harry, chirping excitedly.

"Mother! Mother!" she cried, nuzzling against him with enough force to nearly knock him over.

Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her warm scales. "Hey, Nox. I missed you too."

Nox purred, her golden eyes half-lidded with contentment. But her joy was short-lived as she noticed Luna. Her pupils narrowed, and she hissed, stepping protectively in front of Harry. "Who is that? Are they dangerous?"

Harry placed a calming hand on her head. "It’s all right, Nox. This is Luna. She’s a part of my nest. She’s not a threat."

Nox tilted her head, studying Luna with a suspicious gaze. Luna, for her part, remained perfectly still, her expression serene. "Hello, Nox," she said softly. "You’re even more beautiful than Harry described."

The compliment seemed to mollify Nox, who relaxed slightly but kept close to Harry. "If she’s part of the nest, then… maybe she’s okay," Nox conceded, her voice hesitant.

Harry smiled and knelt beside Nox. "See? Luna’s kind. She’s like family."

Luna took a cautious step forward, holding out her hand. "May I?"

Nox sniffed her hand before nudging it with her snout. Luna’s face lit up as she gently scratched behind Nox’s ridged horns. The dragon’s eyes closed in bliss, and she let out a pleased rumble.

"She likes you," Harry said, his voice filled with pride.

"She’s perfect," Luna replied, her tone warm. "And so soft here." She scratched along a particularly sensitive spot, earning another contented rumble from Nox.

Nox opened one eye to look at Harry. "She’s good at this. Can she stay?"

Harry chuckled. "We’ll see, Nox."

The day passed in a blur of laughter and stories. Harry showed off Nox like a proud parent, recounting her first clumsy attempts at flight and her ever-growing appetite. Luna listened with rapt attention, occasionally chiming in with questions or observations.

"She’s so clever," Luna said as Nox rolled onto her back for belly scratches. "And so full of life. I can’t believe you’re a mum already…" she said teasingly.

Harry’s cheeks flushed, but he smiled. "I tried getting her to call me Harry but she wouldn’t have any of it."

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the three of them sat together by the fire pit. Nox curled up between them, her head resting on Harry’s lap while Luna gently stroked her tail. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows across the sand, and the sound of the waves created a soothing backdrop.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Luna said softly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "It’s magical."

"I’m glad you’re here," Harry replied, his voice equally quiet. He looked down at Nox, who was dozing contentedly. "You’re a part of this now."

Luna’s smile was luminous in the firelight.

~

The long days of summer were slipping away, and Harry found himself growing restless. It had been over three weeks since the holidays began, and he hadn’t received a single reply to the letters he’d sent out. He’d written to Neville, Blaise and Theo, hoping to keep in touch. But the silence was deafening, and each passing day without a response only deepened his unease.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at Hedwig’s empty perch. She was out delivering yet another letter, this time to Neville. Maybe the others were just busy, he reasoned, or perhaps the owl post was delayed. But the nagging feeling in his gut told him something was off. Not long after that thought Hedwig arrived, letter gone.

"Tilly," Harry called softly.

With a faint pop, the house-elf appeared, her large eyes sparkling with affection. "Master Harry, how can Tilly help you?"

Harry smiled faintly, her presence always managing to lift his spirits. "I just wanted to talk, I guess. It’s been quiet lately. Too quiet."

Tilly tilted her head, her expression curious. "Quiet? But Master Harry’s room hums with magic. Tilly can feel it."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Tilly’s ears twitched as she glanced around the room. "Tilly feels the magic of another house-elf here. Around Master Harry’s room and his owlsie. Did Master bond with another house-elf? Is Tilly not good enough?"

Her words took Harry completely by surprise. He sat up straighter, confusion etched across his face. "Bonded with another house-elf? No, Tilly, of course not. You’re perfect. You and the others are more than enough."

Tilly’s gaze sharpened, and her small hands clasped in front of her as she shuffled nervously. "Then why does Tilly feel it? Another elf’s magic lingers here. Around the owlsie. It’s faint, but it’s there."

Harry’s stomach twisted. "Another house-elf’s magic? Are you sure?"

Tilly nodded solemnly. "Tilly is sure."

Harry’s mind raced as he considered the implications. If another house-elf had been tampering with Hedwig or his letters, it might explain the lack of replies. "Can you… can you remove the magic? Around Hedwig, I mean?"

Tilly’s ears perked up. "Tilly can try."

She waved her small hands in an intricate pattern, murmuring under her breath. A faint shimmer appeared around Hedwig, barely visible but unmistakably magical. Tilly twisted her fingers, and with a pop, the shimmer dissipated.

"It is done," Tilly said, her tone firm. "The elf’s magic is gone. But Tilly cannot track them."

Harry frowned. "Why not?"

Tilly wrung her hands. "House-elves are secretive with their magic. Unless Tilly knows the elf’s name or master, their magic is difficult to trace. But Tilly can set a trap. If the elf comes back, we will know."

Harry nodded. "Do it. Set the trap."

Tilly’s fingers wove another intricate spell, the air in the room humming faintly as the magic settled. "It is done," she said again. "Now we wait."

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Thank you, Tilly."

The house-elf smiled warmly. "Tilly is always here for Master Harry."

After Tilly disappeared, Harry sat back on his bed, his thoughts swirling. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone—or something—was interfering with his letters. Grabbing a fresh piece of parchment, he decided to rewrite his letters, this time explaining the situation.

Dear Neville,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve been trying to write for weeks now, but I think something has been tampering with my mail. Tilly, one of my house-elves, found traces of another elf’s magic around Hedwig and my room. She’s set a trap to catch whoever it is, but in the meantime, I wanted to make sure you know I’m thinking of you.

How is your summer going? Have you been spending much time in the greenhouses? I miss our chats.

Write back soon, if you can. I’ll be waiting.

Your friend, Harry

Harry repeated the process for Blaise and Theo, explaining the situation and apologising for the lack of communication. He sent Hedwig off with the new letters, hoping that whatever magic had been interfering was truly gone.

As the hours passed, Harry’s nerves refused to settle. He paced his room, his mind running through every possible scenario. Why would a house-elf be targeting him? Who did it belong to? And, more importantly, what did they want?

He couldn’t shake the feeling that this summer was far from ordinary, and as much as he wished for a simple explanation, he knew better than to hope for one.

For now, all he could do was wait.

~

Since the first week of summer break, Harry had been visiting the Pritchards every other day as Evan. The couple had become something of a family to him, their kindness and wisdom a steadying presence in his increasingly complicated life.

Today, as Harry entered the shop, the familiar chime of the enchanted bell above the door greeted him. Mrs. Pritchard looked up from behind the counter, her silver hair pinned neatly back, and smiled warmly.

"Evan, dear, you’re just in time for tea," she said, waving him over to the back room where Mr. Pritchard was tinkering with a curious clock that seemed to run backward.

"Hello, Mrs. Pritchard," Harry said, his shoulders relaxing as he stepped inside. "Hello, Mr. Pritchard."

The older man glanced up from his work, his thick glasses perched precariously on his nose. "Ah, Evan! Come in, come in. What brings you here today?"

Harry settled into one of the chairs by the small table, his fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood. "I… I wanted to talk about something. Something odd that’s been happening."

Mrs. Pritchard poured him a cup of tea, her expression turning serious. "Go on, dear."

Harry hesitated for a moment before diving in. He told them about Tilly’s discovery of the other house-elf’s magic, the interference with Hedwig, and the trap they’d set to catch the culprit. As he spoke, the Pritchards exchanged glances, their faces growing graver by the minute.

"Do you think I’m being watched?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now. "I mean, why else would a house-elf be tampering with my mail?"

Mr. Pritchard leaned back in his chair, his hand stroking his neatly trimmed beard. "It’s possible," he said carefully. "House-elves are bound to their masters. If one is acting against you, it’s because someone has ordered it to."

Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes softened as she reached out to pat Harry’s hand. "You said the elf’s magic was subtle? That’s deliberate. Whoever sent it doesn’t want to be caught."

Harry’s stomach churned. "Could it be Dumbledore?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. Mr. Pritchard’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Dumbledore is your magical guardian, isn’t he?"

Harry nodded. "Unfortunately."

Mrs. Pritchard sighed, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. "That means he has more control over your life than you might realise. If he’s the one behind this, it could explain a lot."

"Like what?" Harry pressed.

"Like why you haven’t been questioned by the Aurors about Quirrell," Mr. Pritchard said bluntly. "From what you’ve told us, what happened in the Ravenclaw common room should have triggered an investigation. But if Dumbledore doesn’t want anyone to know…"

"He can stop them," Mrs. Pritchard finished. "As your guardian, he has the authority to shield you from legal scrutiny."

Harry’s hands clenched into fists. "But why? Why wouldn’t he want anyone to know what happened?"

"That," Mr. Pritchard said grimly, "is the question, isn’t it?"

Harry’s mind raced. If Dumbledore was trying to keep the events of that night a secret, was he also behind the house-elf’s interference? The thought made his skin crawl. He’d already been questioning the headmaster’s motives, but this… this felt like an invasion.

"Do you think it’s his house-elf?" Harry asked, his voice tight.

Mrs. Pritchard’s brow furrowed. "It’s possible. Dumbledore has always been a powerful and enigmatic figure. He’s done great things, yes, but he’s also known for keeping his own counsel. If he believes this is for your protection…"

Harry’s jaw tightened. "But it doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like control."

Mr. Pritchard nodded slowly. "You’re not wrong to feel that way, Harry. The best thing you can do now is be vigilant. Keep your trap in place and see what you catch."

Mrs. Pritchard gave him a reassuring smile. "And remember, dear, you’re not alone in this. Whatever happens, we’re here for you."

Harry’s chest tightened with gratitude. "Thank you," he said softly. "For everything."

The rest of the visit passed in a mix of lighter conversation and shared stories.

As he entered his warded bedroom, Tilly appeared with a pop, her eyes wide with excitement. "Master Harry, the trap… it has sprung!"

Harry’s pulse quickened. "What did you catch?"

Tilly’s expression grew serious. "A letter, Master. It’s not yours, but it was meant to be."

She held out a folded piece of parchment, the edges slightly singed from the trap’s magic. Harry took it, his heart pounding as he unfolded the letter and began to read.

The truth, he realised, might be closer than he thought.

The writing was unfamiliar, sharp and unprecise. It wasn’t signed, but the message was clear:

Harry Potter must stay where he is. This is for his safety.

Harry’s grip on the parchment tightened. "Tilly, is there any way to trace where this came from?"

The house-elf shook her head, her expression apologetic. "The magic is masked. Clever magic, old magic. Tilly cannot trace it."

Harry’s frustration bubbled over. "Then what good is a trap if we can’t figure out who set it?"

Tilly flinched, and Harry immediately regretted his tone. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I’m sorry, Tilly. I didn’t mean to snap. Thank you for setting the trap. I’m just frustrated."

The house-elf’s ears perked up slightly, and she gave a hesitant smile. "Tilly will try harder, Master Harry. Tilly will not fail."

Harry nodded, folding the letter and tucking it into his satchel. "We’ll figure this out. Together."

But as the night stretched on and the house grew quiet, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were closing in. Whoever was behind the letter was watching him. Controlling him. And Harry was determined to uncover the truth, no matter the cost. He was really starting to doubt that it was Dumbledore.

~

Harry’s days had taken on a careful rhythm, dictated by his growing unease. The letter Tilly had caught and the unanswered questions surrounding the house-elf’s magic left him paranoid, and he decided it was best to stay close to Privet Drive. If it was Dumbledore watching him, he couldn’t risk the headmaster discovering the extent of his independence. He made sure to linger in the garden every day, ensuring Mrs. Figg had plenty to report back about him staying dutifully at Number Four.

When night fell, however, Harry allowed himself small escapes. He’d sneak out to the cove to see Nox under the cover of darkness, the dragon’s growing form now gliding more gracefully through the night sky. Those hours were a reprieve, a space where he could let his guard down and bask in the simple joy of her company. But by dawn, he always returned to Privet Drive, his movements careful and deliberate to maintain the illusion of compliance.

In the quiet of his warded bedroom, Harry turned to Luna for solace. Their enchanted journals had become lifelines, her whimsical musings a welcome balm for his frayed nerves.

The week crept by, and Harry’s routine held steady. He marked the days in his journal, keeping a careful watch for any sign of his Hogwarts letter.

Finally, the evening before his birthday arrived. Harry had sent Neville his gift earlier that day, a carefully selected Herbology book he’d found in the Pritchards’ shop. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the street in shades of amber and gold, Harry slipped away from Privet Drive once more to the Cove. Luna was waiting for him near the water’s edge, her journal tucked under one arm and a soft smile lighting her face.

"Happy almost-birthday, Harry," she said, her voice lilting and warm.

Harry grinned. "Thanks, Luna. It’s good to see you."

Nox’s arrival was heralded by the sound of her wings beating the air. She landed with a playful tumble, her glossy black scales shimmering in the fading light. "Mother!" she chirped, bounding toward Harry and nudging him affectionately.

Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Nox."

The three of them settled by the fire pit, which Harry lit with a wave of his hand. The flames danced merrily, casting long shadows across the sand. Luna sat cross-legged, her gaze fixed on the stars beginning to emerge overhead.

"Did you know," she said dreamily, "that birthdays are like little pockets of magic? They’re days that belong only to you, like the universe is saying, ‘Well done for existing.’"

Nox tilted her head, her golden eyes wide with curiosity. "What’s a birthday?"

Harry chuckled. "It’s the day you were born. People celebrate with cakes and presents and sometimes parties. It’s a way to show they’re glad you’re here."

Nox blinked slowly, processing the idea. "So it’s like a hatching day?"

Luna after having Harry translate for her, clapped her hands together, delighted. "Exactly, Nox! Your hatching day is your very own special day. We’ll have to celebrate it next year."

The young dragon’s tail swished happily. "Will there be fish? I like fish."

Harry grinned. "We’ll make sure of it."

Turning to Luna, he joked and said, “I’ll have to teach you Parseltongue, or this is going to get tiring.”

As the night deepened, they shared stories and laughter, the cove filled with an easy warmth. Harry showed off the letters he’d received, and Luna insisted on crafting a paper star to mark the occasion, folding it carefully before hanging it from one of Nox’s horns. The dragon puffed up with pride, her excitement infectious.

When the first tendrils of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Luna turned to Harry, her expression soft and sincere. "You know, Harry," she said, "you’re like a star yourself. Bright and steady, even when the sky is full of clouds."

Harry’s throat tightened, but he managed a smile. "Does that make you the moon?"

Luna beamed at him.

Nox curled closer, her warmth a comforting presence. "Mother is the best star," she declared firmly. "And I’ll always fly with you."

Harry reached out to stroke her scales, his heart full. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly at peace. With Luna beside him and Nox at his side, the worries that had weighed him down seemed a little lighter. As the sun rose, painting the cove in hues of gold, Harry let himself believe—just for a moment—that everything might be all right.

~

The morning was bright and cool as Harry and Luna stood on the edge of the cove, each holding their Hogwarts letters. Hedwig perched nearby on a rock, preening her feathers, while Nox circled lazily overhead, casting shadows on the sand below.

"You’re finally coming to Hogwarts," Harry said with a grin, tucking his letter into his pocket. "It’s about time."

Luna smiled serenely, her fingers lightly brushing the edges of her letter. "I think it will be interesting," she said dreamily. "All the books and spells, and maybe some Nargles hiding in the library stacks."

Harry laughed, the sound light and genuine. "If anyone can find them, it’s you."

As they prepared to leave, Harry’s expression turned serious. "Luna, is your dad… is he going with us to Diagon Alley?"

Luna’s smile faltered slightly, and she shook her head. "Daddy’s on an expedition. He left last night to search for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack in Sweden. He’s very dedicated."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "He left you alone? Again?"

Luna tilted her head, her tone matter-of-fact. " I’ve had plenty of company with the garden gnomes, and the Blibbering Humdinger’s been keeping me busy."

Harry sighed, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. It wasn’t fair. Luna deserved better than being left to fend for herself. But he swallowed his anger and forced a smile. "Well, you’re not alone today. Let’s go get your school supplies."

Harry changed into his Evan persona before they stepped into the Leaky Cauldron. He adjusted the collar of his robe and smoothed his hair over his scar. Luna looked up at him, her curiosity shining through her usual dreamy expression.

"Evan suits you. I think you should grow your hair out," she said lightly. "You look very proper."

Harry chuckled. "Proper enough to make sure you get everything you need. Let’s go."

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley were bustling with activity. Witches and wizards darted from shop to shop, their arms laden with parcels and their voices mingling in a cheerful cacophony. Harry kept Luna close, his protective instincts kicking in as they navigated the crowd.

Their first stop was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Luna stood patiently on the stool as Madam Malkin measured her for her new school robes, her eyes drifting to the enchanted tapestries on the walls.

"Do you think the fabric remembers being a sheep?" Luna asked aloud, earning a bemused look from Madam Malkin.

Harry snorted, trying to hide his laughter. "I think it’s too busy being a robe to think about its sheep days."

Once Luna’s robes were ready, Harry paid for them without a second thought, choosing the highest-quality material available. Luna opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a grin.

"Consider it an early Hogwarts gift," he said.

Next, they visited Flourish and Blotts, where Luna wandered the aisles with wide-eyed wonder. Harry watched as she carefully selected her books, pausing to read snippets of text or admire the intricate illustrations. He added a few extras to her pile, including an advanced Charms guide and a beautifully illustrated book on magical creatures.

"You didn’t have to," Luna said softly as they left the shop, her arms full of books.

"I wanted to," Harry replied simply. "You deserve the best, Luna."

At the apothecary, Harry insisted on buying Luna her potion kit, ensuring she had everything she needed and more. He also picked up his own second-year supplies, the list tucked neatly into his satchel. By the time they left, the bag Luna carried had been replaced with an expanded satchel Harry had charmed himself, complete with protections to ensure no one could tamper with it.

"It’s like carrying a little bit of your magic with me," Luna said, admiring the satchel. "Thank you."

"You’re welcome," he said, smiling. "Now, there’s one more place I want to take you."

Harry led Luna down the shadowy streets of Knockturn Alley, the air growing cooler and the atmosphere darker with each step. He wrapped his shadows loosely around them, his magic an almost tangible presence that warded off curious or unsavoury glances.

Luna seemed unfazed by their surroundings, her eyes alight with curiosity as she peered into the dusty shop windows. "Everything here has a story," she murmured. "Even the shadows."

Harry glanced at her, his lips quirking into a smile. "Most of those stories aren’t exactly bedtime material."

They stopped at a small shop specialising in rare artifacts and enchanted objects. Luna’s gaze lingered on a set of delicate glass vials etched with runes, and Harry purchased them for her without hesitation. He also picked up a new warding kit, his mind already turning to how he could strengthen the protections around the Cove. He hoped she wasn’t too upset with her dad being gone, but he promised to take care of her and today was supposed to be a special day.

As they exited the shop, a burly wizard with a scarred face glanced their way, his eyes narrowing. Harry’s shadows tightened instinctively, a faint ripple of power rolling off him. The man quickly averted his gaze and shuffled off, muttering under his breath.

"That was impressive," Luna said, her tone light. "Like a breeze whispering through the trees, but heavier."

Harry shrugged, his expression casual. "Just making sure no one bothers us."

By the time they returned to the cove, the sun was beginning to set, casting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Nox greeted them with an enthusiastic chirp, bounding across the sand to nuzzle against Harry.

"You’re back! Did you bring fish?" she asked, her golden eyes bright.

Harry laughed, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small bundle. "Hunting not go well then? Wouldn’t want you to go hungry."

As Nox devoured her treat, Harry and Luna settled by the fire pit, the crackling flames adding warmth to the cool evening air. Luna opened her new satchel, carefully arranging her books and supplies inside.

After a while, Harry turned to her, his tone quieter. "Luna, I’ve been thinking… the Rookery’s lovely, but you shouldn’t have to stay there alone when your dad’s away. Why don’t you stay here? It’s warded. The cottage has plenty of space, and the floo network’s already set up. You can call the house-elves for anything you need."

Luna’s eyes lit up, her expression thoughtful as she gazed at the cottage. "It is a very peaceful place," she said softly. "Do you think Nox would like having a housemate?"

Nox’s tail swished happily at the mention of her name. "You can stay! But only if you bring fish."

Harry grinned. "I’ll learn how to fish just for you. So, what do you think?"

Luna tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I’ll stay, but only if you visit every day."

"Deal," Harry said, his relief evident. "You’re part of this nest now, Luna. We’ll look after each other."

She nodded, her gaze softening. "It’ll be like having a family, won’t it?"

"Exactly," Harry said.

~

Harry had perfected the art of keeping up appearances. Each morning, he made sure to spend time in the garden at Privet Drive, just enough for Mrs. Figg to report back to Dumbledore that he was dutifully staying put. But as soon as he returned to his room and closed the door behind him, he would call for Tilly. The loyal house-elf never failed to appear with a bright smile, ready to pop him over to the cove where his true summer days began.

The cove was alive with the sounds of the sea; waves crashing gently against the shore, gulls calling overhead, and the occasional chirp of Nox as she bounded across the sand. Harry relished the freedom the secluded spot offered, away from prying eyes and stifling expectations. Here, he could train, explore his magic, and truly be himself.

This morning, the air was crisp, carrying the tang of saltwater. Harry stood barefoot at the water's edge, his feet sinking slightly into the wet sand as he focused on the sea before him. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, feeling the cool spray of the waves on his skin. His hands moved fluidly, rising and falling in sync with the rhythm of the ocean.

A large stream of water rose from the sea, twisting and curling in the air as Harry guided it with his hands. The movement felt natural, like an extension of himself. He shifted his stance, his arms sweeping in wide arcs as the water obeyed his commands, forming loops and spirals that shimmered in the sunlight.

Nox watched from a short distance, her golden eyes wide with fascination. The young dragon tilted her head, mimicking Harry’s movements with her stubby legs and wings. When she tried to rise onto her hind legs and sweep her wings like he did, she tumbled into the sand with a soft thud.

"Careful, Nox," Harry said, laughing as he paused his practice to glance at her. "You’re supposed to move with the water, not fight it."

Nox puffed out a small burst of smoke, her pride clearly bruised. "It’s harder than it looks! How do you make it dance like that?"

Harry stood beside her, reaching out to stroke her glossy black scales. "It’s all about feeling the flow," he explained. "Water’s always moving, always shifting. You just have to follow it. Here, watch."

He stood again, extending his hands toward the waves. A thin column of water rose, weaving through the air like a ribbon. Harry stepped forward, his movements deliberate and graceful as he spun the water into a spiral. Nox’s eyes sparkled as she tried again, flapping her wings and swishing her tail to mimic his motions.

"I did it!" she chirped excitedly, her tail wagging.

Harry grinned. "That’s a start. Keep practicing, and you’ll be shaping waves in no time."

Encouraged, Nox continued her attempts, her clumsy but earnest efforts bringing a smile to Harry’s face. After another hour of working with the water, he decided it was time to shift to another element.

"All right, Nox," Harry said, stepping back from the water’s edge. "Let’s try something a bit warmer."

The dragon perked up immediately, bounding after him as he moved toward the fire pit they often used in the evenings. Harry extended his hand, and with a flick of his wrist, a ball of fire sparked to life in his palm. The flames danced and flickered, their light reflecting in Nox’s golden eyes.

"Fire is different from water," Harry said, his tone thoughtful. "It’s wild and hungry. You don’t guide it the same way—you shape it, but you have to respect its power."

Nox watched intently as Harry waved his hand, sending the flames spiralling into the air. He began to form shapes: a phoenix with wings spread wide, a wolf mid-howl, and finally, a dragon. The fiery dragon soared through the air, its wings beating as it roared silently.

Nox let out an excited squeal, leaping into the air as she tried to catch the fire dragon with her claws. When it dissolved into sparks, she looked at Harry, her expression eager. "Do it again! Do another one!"

Harry chuckled, his own excitement bubbling as he conjured another shape. This time, he made the flames twist into a series of spirals that encircled Nox like a fiery dance. She twirled and hopped, her joy infectious as she puffed little bursts of flame into the sky.

"You’re getting good at that," Harry said, grinning as Nox sent a particularly bright jet of fire upward.

The young dragon turned to him, her tail swishing. "You should try it, Mother."

Harry blinked, "I… I’m not sure I can."

"You can!" Nox insisted, her voice brimming with certainty. "If I can do it, you can too!"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "All right, let’s give it a try."

Nox demonstrated first, taking a deep breath and exhaling a steady stream of flame into the sky. Harry mimicked her movements, inhaling deeply and focusing on the heat he could feel building within him. When he exhaled, a small puff of flame escaped his lips.

"You did it!" Nox cheered, hopping in circles around him.

Harry’s grin widened as he tried again, this time producing a more substantial burst of fire. The sensation was exhilarating, the raw power of the element surging through him. He and Nox spent the next hour practicing together, their laughter and excitement filling the air as they sent flames dancing into the sky.

Just as Harry was about to attempt a larger burst of fire, Luna appeared at the edge of the clearing, carrying a basket laden with food. She wore an apron dusted with flour, and her expression was as serene as ever.

"Lunch is ready," she called, her voice lilting.

Harry turned, his face flushed from the heat and exertion. "Perfect timing, Luna. We’ve worked up an appetite."

Nox bounded over to her, sniffing curiously at the basket. Luna giggled, reaching out to scratch behind Nox’s horns.

The three of them settled by the fire pit, the aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted vegetables filling the air as Luna unpacked the meal. As they ate, the warmth of the sun and the sound of the waves created a perfect moment of peace.

~

Mid-August brought a sweltering heat to Privet Drive, but Harry barely noticed. His focus had been consumed by the trap he and Tilly had set weeks ago. Each day he waited, hoping to catch the elusive house-elf whose magic had disrupted his life all summer. Today, that wait was over.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers drumming anxiously on the wooden frame. Tilly stood beside him, her usually cheerful demeanour replaced by a sharp intensity. The faint hum of the wards in the room signalled that the trap had been sprung. Harry glanced at the small shimmer of magic swirling near Hedwig's perch, and his heart quickened.

With a faint pop, a small, trembling figure appeared in the centre of the room. The house-elf had bat-like ears and bulging green eyes that darted nervously around the room. He wore a filthy pillowcase as a makeshift tunic, and his hands wrung together in a display of palpable anxiety.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, standing up.

The elf yelped, his knees knocking together as he fell into a deep bow. "Dobby! Dobby is the name of this humble elf, sir!" he squeaked.

Tilly crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she took a step forward. "You! You’s been tampering with Master Harry’s mail! Disturbing his owl! How dare you!"

Dobby flinched, his ears drooping. "Dobby did not mean to cause harm, miss! Dobby only wanted to protect Harry Potter, sir."

Harry raised an eyebrow, his confusion growing. "Protect me? From what? And whose house-elf are you?"

Dobby let out a pitiful wail, his hands slapping against his head. "Dobby cannot say! No, no, no!" He tugged at his ears, his movements frantic. "Bad Dobby! Very bad Dobby!"

Tilly’s lips curled in disdain. "Answer Master Harry’s questions, or Tilly will bind you to the trap again!"

Harry placed a calming hand on Tilly’s shoulder. "Easy, Tilly. Let him speak."

Dobby straightened, though his trembling didn’t cease. "Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts! Terrible things will happen! Horrible, dangerous things!"

Harry frowned, his mind racing. "What are you talking about? What things?"

Dobby wrung his hands, his wide eyes filling with tears. "Dobby cannot say. Dobby cannot betray his master!"

Tilly’s glare deepened. "If Dobby won’t name his master, then why is Dobby here? Why interfere with Master Harry’s life?"

"Dobby only wanted to keep Harry Potter safe!" the elf wailed. "Harry Potter is too great, too noble! If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in terrible danger!"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. "Dobby, listen to me. I appreciate that you want to protect me, but you’re not helping. You’re making things worse."

Dobby’s ears twitched, and he looked up at Harry with a mixture of hope and despair. "Harry Potter does not understand. Dobby’s master… Dobby’s master would be very angry if he knew Dobby was here!"

"Then why come?" Harry pressed. "If your master’s so dangerous, why risk it?"

Dobby hesitated, his fingers twitching. "Because Harry Potter is worth it. Harry Potter is kind and brave, and he must not be harmed."

Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Dobby, I can’t just not go back. There are… powerful people who won’t let me stay away. Even if I wanted to."

Dobby’s head tilted, his expression puzzled. "Powerful people?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "More powerful than your master. If I stay away, they’ll find me. And then I won’t have a choice. At least at Hogwarts, I’ll have friends and teachers who can help."

The house-elf’s trembling lessened, but his eyes remained wide. "Harry Potter is very clever. But terrible things will happen at Hogwarts, sir. Terrible, terrible things!"

"Then I’ll deal with them," Harry said, his voice steady. "I’ve faced terrible things before, and I’m still here."

Dobby’s lower lip quivered. "Harry Potter is too brave for his own good."

"Maybe," Harry admitted, "but I’m not alone. I have friends, and I have magic. Whatever happens, I’ll face it."

The elf’s shoulders sagged, his earlier defiance crumbling. "Dobby wishes he could say more, but Dobby is bound. Bound by his master’s orders."

Harry knelt down, meeting Dobby’s gaze. "If you’re not Dumbledore’s, then whose house-elf are you?"

Dobby’s eyes darted around the room, his hands clutching the edge of his pillowcase. "Dobby cannot say! Dobby cannot!" he cried, slamming his head against the bedpost. "Bad Dobby! Bad!"

Tilly stepped forward, her expression softening slightly. "Stop hurting yourself. You cannot help Master Harry if you harm yourself."

Dobby froze, his hands hovering mid-slap. His tear-filled eyes turned to Tilly, and he gave a small, hiccuping nod. "Dobby is sorry. Dobby did not mean to upset."

Harry stood, his mind spinning with unanswered questions. "Tilly, can we release him from the trap?"

Tilly hesitated before nodding. "If Master Harry wishes it."

With a flick of her fingers, the faint shimmer of the trap dissipated, and Dobby staggered slightly, as though freed from a heavy weight.

"Dobby," Harry said, his tone firm but kind, "if you truly want to help me, then stop interfering. Let me go back to Hogwarts and deal with whatever’s coming. You’ve warned me, and I’ll take it seriously. But you can’t stop me from going."

The elf’s ears drooped, but he nodded reluctantly. "Dobby will try. But if Harry Potter needs help, Dobby will come. Dobby will always come."

Harry smiled faintly. "Thank you, Dobby."

With a final bow, Dobby snapped his fingers and disappeared with a pop. The room fell silent, save for the faint rustle of Hedwig shifting on her perch.

"He’s not Dumbledore’s," Harry said quietly, his gaze distant. "So who does he belong to?"

Tilly frowned, her expression troubled. "Whoever it is, they is dangerous. This is not over, Master Harry."

Harry nodded, the weight of Dobby’s warning settling heavily on his shoulders. "No," he agreed. "It’s just beginning."

~

Harry woke to a beam of sunlight creeping through the curtains and a faint rustling sound by his bedside. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he turned to find a stack of letters piled neatly on the small table. He stared at them for a moment, his groggy mind piecing together the sight before realization hit.

"The missing letters," he muttered, sitting up abruptly.

He reached for the stack, his fingers trembling slightly as he untied the string holding them together. The topmost letter bore Theo’s neat, slanted handwriting. Harry unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the words.

Harry,

Things here are… difficult. The Ministry’s been increasing the raids. Father’s furious, of course, but there’s not much he can do without drawing more attention. Blaise’s family has been dealing with similar troubles, though his mother’s quick to adapt. She’s always been clever that way.

I hope you’re safe. Write back when you can.

Theo.

Harry frowned, his chest tightening. He grabbed the next letter, this one from Blaise, written in his usual elegant script.

Harry,

The raids are getting worse. Mother’s handling it, but it’s clear the Ministry’s looking for any excuse to harass families like ours. She’s been making contingency plans, just in case. Have you heard anything on your end?

Take care of yourself. Let us know you’re all right.

Blaise.

The letters were a stark reminder of the tension brewing in the wizarding world, but the stack wasn’t solely from Theo and Blaise. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he spotted several letters written in a scrawled, messy handwriting he didn’t recognise..

He hesitated before opening one, already dreading its contents.

Oi, Harry!

Mum says you should come to the Burrow for the rest of the summer. It’ll be brilliant! We’ve got loads of room, and she’ll cook us up a storm. You don’t want to be stuck with those Muggles, do you? Just let me know when I should come get you.

Ron.

Harry stared at the letter, a surge of irritation rising in his chest. "What makes him think I’d want to spend the summer with him?" he muttered, tossing the letter aside.

Ron’s assumptions grated on him. After the way Ron had treated him during their first year, Harry had no interest in responding to the invitation. The rest of the letters from Ron went unopened; Harry didn’t have the patience to deal with more of the same.

The day passed uneventfully, with Harry splitting his time between the cove and Privet Drive. As night fell, he returned to his room, settling in to read one of the new books he’d picked up in Diagon Alley.

A faint hum reached his ears, growing louder with each passing second. Frowning, Harry set the book aside and moved to the window. His heart sank as he spotted the source of the noise, a flying blue car hovering just outside, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

Harry’s annoyance deepened as he caught sight of Ron leaning out of the passenger window, waving enthusiastically. "Harry! Come on! We’re here to rescue you!"

Harry threw open the window, glaring at the scene before him. "What are you talking about? I don’t need rescuing!"

Fred’s head appeared next to Ron’s, his expression confused. "Ron said the Muggles were treating you horribly. We couldn’t just leave you here."

George chimed in from the driver’s seat. "Yeah, he made it sound like they had you locked up or something."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration mounting. "I’m fine. Ron’s exaggerating."

Ron leaned further out of the car, his voice insistent. "Come on, Harry! You don’t have to stay here. Just grab your stuff and get in."

"No," Harry said firmly. "I’m not coming with you."

Ron’s face reddened. "Why not? Don’t you want to stay somewhere better than this dump?"

Harry’s temper flared. "Because I’m not friends with you, Ron! And you don’t get to decide what’s best for me."

Fred and George exchanged uneasy glances, clearly realising that things were not as Ron had claimed. "Wait," Fred said slowly. "You’re not locked up? They’re not mistreating you?"

"No, I don’t even see them much," Harry replied, his tone sharp. "I’m perfectly fine here."

George’s brows furrowed. "Ron, you lied to us?"

Ron sputtered, his face growing redder. "I didn’t lie! I just thought… I mean, I figured…"

Fred cut him off, his voice stern. "You dragged us out here in the middle of the night for nothing?"

"I thought he needed help!" Ron protested. "He’s stuck with Muggles!"

Harry raised his hand, casting a quick silencing charm around the group to ensure their argument didn’t wake the neighbourhood. "I don’t need your help, Ron. And I definitely don’t need you barging into my life uninvited. Go home."

Fred turned to Harry, his expression apologetic. "Sorry about this, mate. We… we’ll get out of your hair."

George nodded, his tone contrite. "Yeah, we didn’t mean to cause trouble."

Harry’s glare softened slightly as he addressed the twins. "Just make sure he doesn’t pull something like this again."

Fred and George rounded on Ron, their frustration evident. "You’re explaining this to Mum," Fred said firmly.

"And you’re taking all the blame," George added.

Ron opened his mouth to argue but quickly closed it when both twins shot him warning looks. With a huff, he climbed back into the car, sulking as Fred and George prepared to leave.

"Thanks for not waking up the whole street," George said, offering Harry a small smile.

Harry smiled slightly and gave a curt nod. "Goodnight."

The car rose higher into the sky before disappearing into the distance, leaving Harry alone once more. He let out a long breath, releasing the tension that had built during the encounter. As he re-warded the window, he muttered to himself, "Unbelievable."

With the night finally quiet, Harry returned to his bed, determined to put the chaos behind him. But as he lay staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t help but wonder how many more surprises the summer had in store.

~

The final week of summer arrived, and Harry decided it was time to venture out as himself—Harry Potter. Not Evan Birch. Luna had been eager to accompany him, and after ensuring their plans were set, they arranged to visit Diagon Alley to gather the rest of his school supplies.

The morning was bright and bustling when they arrived via the Leaky Cauldron. The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley were alive with energy, witches and wizards darting between shops as they prepared for the new school term. Harry adjusted his muggle clothes and scanned the crowd, conscious of the occasional glances that lingered on his scar. It wasn’t the first time he’d been recognised, but it never stopped feeling strange.

"Harry," Luna said, her voice lilting with curiosity, "do you think Nargles like bookstores? They seem like the kind of places they’d enjoy."

Harry chuckled. "If they do, Flourish and Blotts would be their paradise. Let’s grab some books first."

They navigated the throng of shoppers, eventually making their way to the bookshop. Inside, the chaos was palpable. Stacks of books towered precariously on every available surface, and the crowd pressed tightly together near a makeshift stage. A large banner overhead proclaimed:

MEET GILDEROY LOCKHART: CELEBRITY AUTHOR AND WIZARDING ICON!

Harry groaned inwardly as he caught sight of the man himself, his gleaming blond hair and dazzling smile visible even from across the room. Lockhart was surrounded by fans, eagerly signing books and posing for photographs.

"Let’s stay far away from that," Harry muttered, steering Luna toward the less crowded sections of the shop.

Luna tilted her head. "He’s very shiny. Do you think he polishes his teeth with dragon balm?"

Harry stifled a laugh as they began collecting their required books. But their progress was interrupted when a familiar, drawling voice cut through the din.

"Potter."

Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and a sneer plastered on his face. He looked more self-assured than usual, his posture stiff and haughty. Behind him loomed Lucius Malfoy, his cold grey eyes appraising Harry with a calculating intensity.

"Malfoy," Harry said evenly, his gaze flicking briefly to Lucius. "Nice to see you."

Draco’s sneer deepened. "Don’t pretend you’re anything special, Potter. Just because you have a scar doesn’t mean you’re worth all this attention."

Harry arched an eyebrow, wondering what happened to the cordial boy from school.

Before he could retort, Lucius stepped forward. His polished cane tapped against the floor as he approached, his presence commanding immediate silence. He stopped just short of Harry, his expression unreadable.

"Harry Potter," Lucius said, his voice smooth and deliberate. "The famous boy who lived."

Harry stood his ground, though his heart raced as Lucius’s gaze bore into him. When Lucius reached out with the tip of his cane to lift Harry’s fringe, exposing his scar, Harry’s breath caught. The elder Malfoy pulled him slightly closer, his eyes narrowing as if searching for something.

"Such a curious scar," Lucius murmured, his tone almost absent. But his gaze lingered on Harry’s face, a flicker of recognition flashing in his eyes. "You seem… familiar."

Harry’s stomach twisted. Did Lucius remember him from the Pritchards’ shop? He forced himself to remain calm, praying that the man wouldn’t connect the dots.

"I doubt we’ve met before," Harry said carefully, stepping back as Lucius released him. "I’ve spent most of my life outside the wizarding world."

Lucius’s lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained sharp. "Perhaps."

The tension was broken by the arrival of the Weasley family, their boisterous presence impossible to ignore. Ron’s voice rose above the crowd as he spotted Harry.

"Oi, Harry! There you are!"

Harry sighed, his patience already wearing thin. Ron pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by Arthur, Molly, and Ginny. The youngest Weasley clutched her cauldron excitedly, her wide eyes darting between Harry and Luna, a frown settling on her face.

Draco’s sneer returned as he caught sight of Ron. "Weasley," he drawled. "Still shopping second-hand, I see."

Ron’s face flushed with anger. "Shut it, Malfoy."

"Or what?" Draco taunted. "You’ll challenge me to a duel with your patched-up wand?"

Before Harry could intervene, Arthur stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Lucius. "Leave it, boys," he said, though his tone was tense. "We’re here for school supplies, not arguments."

Lucius’s smile turned icy. "Ah, Arthur Weasley. Still mingling with the Muggles, I see. How… quaint."

The exchange escalated quickly. Harsh words were thrown, and within moments, Arthur and Lucius were grappling with each other, knocking over a stack of books in the process. Harry took the opportunity to nudge Luna toward the door.

"Let’s get out of here," he muttered.

But their escape was hindered by Molly Weasley, who bustled over with a determined look on her face. "Harry, dear," she said, her tone overly familiar. "You shouldn’t have to deal with all this nonsense. Why don’t you give me your vault key, and I’ll finish getting your supplies for you?"

Harry stared at her, incredulous. "No, thank you. I can manage."

Molly’s smile tightened. "Oh, nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. You and Ron can go explore the alley. Luna, why don’t you stay with Ginny."

Harry’s irritation flared. "I said no. I don’t know you. Ron and I aren’t friends."

Molly’s expression darkened, but before she could press the issue, the commotion between Arthur and Lucius drew her attention. Lucius had picked up Ginny’s cauldron and was returning her books, his movements deliberate.

"There," Lucius said smoothly, his voice dripping with condescension. "All packed."

Ginny looked at the cauldron uncertainly, but before she could say anything, Molly dragged her toward the door, chastising Arthur for causing a scene. Harry and Luna took the opportunity to slip away, finally escaping the chaotic shop.

Once outside, Harry let out a long breath, his frustration evident. "That was a disaster."

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "I thought it was rather eventful. Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to enjoy himself, at least."

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, the tension easing slightly. "Let’s just finish our shopping and get out of here."

As they made their way down the bustling street, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of Lucius’s eyes on him, the man’s searching gaze lingering in his memory. The encounter had left him uneasy, but for now, he focused on Luna’s chatter and the comfort of knowing that, at least for today, he wasn’t alone.

~

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the cove in hues of orange and purple as Harry prepared for the evening. Tomorrow, they would be boarding the Hogwarts Express, and there were still a few things left to take care of. Harry glanced over at Luna, who was sitting cross-legged on the sand, her eyes distant as she absentmindedly traced patterns in the grains. Nox lay beside her, snuggled up with her tail curled around her body, golden eyes half-lidded with contentment.

"Luna," Harry said gently, drawing her attention. "We should head to the Rookery and get the rest of your things. You’ll want everything packed before the morning."

Luna nodded, her usual dreamy expression replaced by something more subdued. "Yes, of course. We don’t want to forget anything important."

Tilly appeared with a soft pop, her hands clasped in front of her. "Master Harry, Tilly can take you and Miss Luna to the Rookery whenever you’re ready."

Harry reached out to ruffle Nox’s scales lightly. "We won’t be gone long," he told her. "Keep the nest safe for us."

Nox chirped in response, her voice warm and sleepy. "I will, Mother."

With Tilly’s help, they apparated to the Rookery, the Lovegoods’ eccentric home standing tall and quirky against the twilight sky. The familiar mismatched structure always carried an air of magic and whimsy, but tonight it felt hollow. Luna led the way inside, her steps unusually quiet as they entered the living room.

"I got a letter from Daddy today," Luna said softly, handing the parchment to Harry.

He unfolded it, scanning the words quickly. Xeno’s handwriting was hurried, and the message was painfully brief.

Dearest Luna,

I’m sorry, my little Moon. I won’t be back in time to see you off to Hogwarts, but I promise to keep searching for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. I know it’s out there, and I’ll find it for you.

Stay curious and keep dreaming.

Love, Daddy

Harry’s hands tightened around the parchment, his jaw clenching. "He’s been gone for over a month, and this is all he has to say?"

Luna shrugged, though her shoulders drooped slightly. "Daddy’s always been very dedicated to his work. He believes the Snorkack will bring joy to the world."

"And what about you?" Harry asked, his frustration spilling over. "He’s been neglecting you since… since Pandora died. I’ve already told him once that leaving you like this isn’t right."

Luna’s lips trembled slightly, but she held her composure. "It’s just how he is. I’ve always known he loved her very much."

Harry sighed, setting the letter down on the table. "He should be here for you, Luna. You shouldn’t have to go through this alone."

Luna gave him a small, grateful smile. "I’m not alone, Harry. I have you."

Her words softened the sharp edges of Harry’s anger, and he nodded. "Come on. Let’s make sure you have everything you need."

They moved through the house together, Luna gathering her belongings while Harry double-checked that nothing was forgotten. He made sure her favourite pyjamas were folded neatly in her trunk, along with her hairbrush and the well-worn journals that had belonged to her mother, Pandora. Luna clutched the journals to her chest for a moment before placing them carefully inside.

"These are important," she said quietly. "They’re full of Mum’s dreams and discoveries."

Harry nodded. "Then they’ll stay safe with you."

They added her school supplies, a few of her favourite books, and the small collection of odd trinkets she’d insisted on bringing. Harry even found a spot for a jar of pickled Dirigible Plums, which Luna declared essential.

"Luna," Harry said gently, sitting down beside her. "Are you all right?"

She looked at him, her gaze soft but tinged with sadness. "It’s just… I miss her. Mummy, I mean. She always made going back to Hogwarts feel special. She’d stay up with me the night before, talking about all the adventures I’d have."

Harry reached out, taking her hand in his. "You’ll always have those memories. And you’ll make new ones, too. I’ll make sure of it."

Luna’s smile returned, and she squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Harry."

When they returned to the cove, the night had grown darker, the stars twinkling brightly above. Nox greeted them with a happy chirp, bounding over to nuzzle against Harry before curling protectively around them both.

The three of them sat together by the fire pit, the flames casting warm light across their faces. Harry and Luna shared stories of his first year at Hogwarts, laughing at the oddities and surprises encountered. Nox listened intently, occasionally chirping in with her own questions.

As the night wore on, the conversation turned quieter, the three of them enjoying the peacefulness of their last evening together before the start of the school year. Luna rested her head on Harry’s shoulder, her eyes closing as she murmured, "Thank you for being here, Harry."

~

The morning air was crisp as Harry stood on the front step of Number Four, Privet Drive, his trunk and Hedwig’s cage beside him. He could feel the eyes of the Dursleys burning into his back as he made a show of waving cheerfully to Mrs. Figg, who lingered by her garden fence.

"Bye, Mrs. Figg!" Harry called, his voice overly loud and cheerful. "Thanks for all the lovely chats this summer!"

Mrs. Figg squinted at him, her expression vaguely puzzled, but she gave a small wave back. Harry turned, catching Petunia’s sour face through the slightly parted curtains. Vernon stood behind her, his moustache bristling as he folded his arms across his barrel-like chest.

"Finally leaving, are you?" Vernon grunted.

"Not a moment too soon," Petunia snapped, stepping onto the porch. "Good riddance."

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "You’ll miss me, Aunt Petunia. Without me here, who will be your constant reminder of the wizarding world you’re so desperately trying to pretend doesn’t exist?"

Petunia’s lips thinned into a white line, and Vernon’s face turned an alarming shade of purple. "Watch your tongue, boy," Vernon growled. "You’re lucky we’ve put up with you for this long."

"Oh, yes," Harry said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "How could I ever repay you for the years of kindness and love?"

With a dramatic flourish, he picked up his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, giving them one last mocking bow. "Enjoy your blissfully normal lives. I’ll send a postcard from Hogwarts… or not."

He turned on his heel, leaving the Dursleys fuming behind him as he walked briskly down the street. Once he was out of sight, Harry ducked into a small alley and called softly, "Tilly."

The house-elf appeared with a quiet pop, her eyes bright and eager. "Master Harry, are you ready?"

"Almost," Harry said. "First, can you take me to the woods. I need to say goodbye to the Old One and Flick."

The woods near Little Whinging were quiet, the morning sunlight filtering softly through the leaves. The Old One lay coiled on her favourite rock, her golden eyes gleaming as Harry approached. Flick slithered forward from his perch on a nearby branch, hissing excitedly.

"Hatchling!" Flick said, wrapping himself around his arm.

"Flick," Harry replied, stroking his smooth scales. He turned to the Old One, bowing his head respectfully. "I’m leaving for Hogwarts today. I wanted to say goodbye."

The Old One regarded him with her usual calm. "You are growing, Little Speaker. Each time you return, you carry more strength… and more burden."

Harry hesitated before asking, "Are you sure you won’t come to the cove? It’s safe there. Nox would love to meet you."

The Old One’s tail flicked slightly, a soft hiss escaping her. "This is our nest, Little Speaker. Our home. Just as you have yours now."

Flick nodded, nuzzling against Harry’s hand. "We belong here. But you must keep learning your gifts. The world is changing, and you will need them."

Harry sighed, his shoulders relaxing as he accepted their decision. "I will. And I’ll visit when I can."

The Old One inclined her head. "Go, Little Speaker. The stars watch over you."

Harry returned to the cove one last time before leaving for King’s Cross. Nox bounded across the sand to greet him, her golden eyes bright but tinged with sadness.

"You’re leaving," she said softly, curling around him.

Harry knelt down, stroking her glossy black scales. "Just for a while, Nox. I’ll be back as soon as I can."

Nox nuzzled against him, her warmth enveloping him like a protective shield. "You promise?"

"I promise," Harry said. He turned to Tilly, who stood patiently nearby. "Take care of her, Tilly. Make sure she knows she’s not alone."

Tilly nodded solemnly. "Tilly will look after Nox. Don’t worry, Master Harry."

With a final hug, Harry stood, his heart heavy as Tilly took his hand. A moment later, they were standing in a secluded part of King’s Cross station, hidden from the bustling crowds.

Luna appeared moments later, her trunk in tow and her ever-present serenity lighting up her face. "Ready for another adventure?" she asked, her voice soft and whimsical.

"Ready," Harry replied, managing a small smile.

They made their way toward Platform 9¾, navigating the station’s chaos with practiced ease. As they approached the barrier, they spotted a familiar mop of red hair. Ron Weasley stood by the wall, looking increasingly agitated as he glanced around.

"Harry!" Ron called, his face lighting up as he spotted them. "Over here!"

Harry exchanged a wary glance with Luna before walking over. "What’s going on, Ron?"

Ron gestured toward the barrier, his voice low and panicked. "The wall’s sealed! I tried going through, but it bounced me back!"

"What do you mean, sealed?" Harry asked, frowning.

Ron pointed to the solid brick wall. "Look, I’ll show you."

He stepped forward and leaned against the wall, only to be shoved backward as if an invisible barrier had repelled him. "See? We can’t get through!"

Harry’s unease grew. "That’s… strange."

"We’ll have to find another way to Hogwarts," Ron said, his voice rising with desperation. "We can take Dad’s car!"

Harry blinked. "What car? The flying one?"

Ron’s face brightened. "We’ll just drive to Hogwarts!"

"That sounds incredibly reckless," Luna said thoughtfully, her head tilted. "And illegal."

"It’s brilliant!" Ron insisted. "Come on, Harry, let’s go!"

Harry shook his head, his annoyance rising. "No, Ron. I’m not getting into a flying car with you."

Ron’s face reddened. "What, are you scared? Come on, Harry. Real Gryffindors aren’t afraid of a little risk."

Harry’s patience snapped. "Being reckless doesn’t make you brave, Ron. It makes you stupid. And I am not a Gryffindor."

Ron glared at him, his fists clenching. "Fine! Be a coward, then. I’ll get to Hogwarts without you!"

With that, he stormed off, disappearing into the crowd. Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Unbelievable."

Luna placed a comforting hand on his arm. "There’s always another way."

Harry looked at her, his brow furrowed. "Do you have an idea?"

Luna nodded serenely. "The Knight Bus. It’s very reliable, if a bit bumpy."

Leaving King’s Cross, they made their way down the street where it was quieter and Luna raised her wand. The Knight Bus arrived with a deafening bang, its triple-decker frame looming impossibly large as it screeched to a halt before them. Harry and Luna climbed aboard, greeted by the cheerful chaos within. They found seats near the back, clutching their belongings tightly as the bus took off with a lurch.

The journey was as jarring as Luna had promised, but they arrived in Hogsmeade hours before the train. As they stepped off the bus and into the quiet village, Harry felt a small sense of triumph. They’d made it, despite everything.

"Well," Luna said, gazing at the distant silhouette of Hogwarts. "I think this term is going to be quite interesting."

Harry smiled faintly, his earlier frustration fading. "Yeah. It always is."

The village was quiet, with only a few early risers milling about. Hogwarts loomed in the distance, its towers silhouetted against the pale sky. Harry stretched his arms, shaking off the stiffness from the bumpy ride, while Luna adjusted her satchel, her dreamy expression tinged with curiosity.

"We have most of the day," Harry said, glancing at Luna. "The train won’t arrive until this evening. Want to explore?"

Luna’s face lit up, her usual serene smile widening. "Oh, yes. There’s so much to see here. I’ve only read about Hogsmeade in books."

Harry chuckled, picking up their belongings and gesturing toward the village. "Let’s find somewhere to leave our things first."

After arranging for their trunks and Hedwig’s cage to be kept at a small storage service near the station, Harry and Luna set off down the main street. The cobblestones beneath their feet gleamed faintly with dew, and the quiet buzz of activity gave the village a cosy charm.

Their first stop was Honeydukes. The moment they stepped inside, the smell of sugar and chocolate hit them like a warm embrace. Shelves lined with colourful jars of sweets stretched from floor to ceiling, and the counters were piled high with fudge, toffees, and an assortment of pastries. The shop was already bustling with customers, including a group of young witches giggling over a display of sugar quills.

"This place is magical," Luna said, her eyes wide as she wandered toward a display of sparkling sugar wands.

"Literally," Harry replied with a grin, grabbing a basket. He began filling it with a variety of sweets: Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Peppermint Toads, and an assortment of fudge.

Luna picked up a packet of fizzing whizzbees, inspecting it thoughtfully. "Do you think they really make you float?"

"Only one way to find out," Harry said, adding it to the basket. "We’ll need enough to last the year."

When they reached the counter, Harry insisted on paying for everything, ignoring Luna’s protests. "Consider it a treat," he said. "Besides, I owe you for putting up with all my craziness."

Luna tilted her head, her smile softening. "You don’t owe me anything, Harry. But thank you."

The shopkeeper, a cheerful witch with rosy cheeks, rang up their order with a knowing smile. "Stocking up for Hogwarts, are you? You’ve got good taste. The fizzing whizzbees are my favourite."

Their next stop was a small stationery shop, where Harry stocked up on parchment, quills, and ink. Luna found a set of quills with shimmering, colour-changing feathers, and Harry added them to his purchase without a second thought.

"You’ll need them for all your brilliant essays," he said, earning a quiet laugh from Luna.

She picked up a bottle of violet ink, holding it up to the light. "I’ve always thought purple makes words feel more alive," she said, placing it on the counter. Harry couldn’t help but snort, imagining Snapes face when reading her essays.

As they strolled further down the street, a quaint second-hand bookshop caught their eye. The shop was small and cluttered, with stacks of books spilling off shelves and onto the floor. The air smelled of parchment and old leather, and a small, enchanted feather duster flitted about, dusting the tops of shelves.

Harry thumbed through a collection of magical theory texts, while Luna discovered an old tome on magical creatures, its cover adorned with a faded illustration of a Mooncalf.

"This one has stories about creatures that haven’t been seen in centuries," Luna said, her voice hushed with awe.

Harry glanced at the book and smiled. "Then we’ll get it."

The shopkeeper, an elderly witch with glasses perched on the end of her nose, rang up their purchases with a knowing smile. "Books like these are treasures," she said. "You two have good taste."

Luna beamed at the compliment, hugging the book to her chest as they left the shop. "It’s a good day for discoveries," she said softly.

By late morning, they found themselves outside the Three Broomsticks. The warm, inviting glow from the windows was impossible to resist, and they stepped inside to find a cosy, bustling pub. The air was filled with the clatter of mugs and the low hum of conversation, and the scent of butterbeer mingled with the faint aroma of roasted nuts.

Madame Rosmerta greeted them with a curious look as they approached the counter. "You’re a bit young to be wandering around Hogsmeade on your own, aren’t you?"

Harry hesitated, but Luna answered with her usual candidness. "We arrived early. The barrier at Platform 9¾ wouldn’t let us through."

Rosmerta’s brows knitted together. "The barrier? Sealed? That’s odd. I’ve never heard of anything like that happening before."

Harry shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "We took the Knight Bus to get here. Figured it was better than missing the train altogether."

Rosmerta nodded slowly, though her concern didn’t fade. "Well, you’re safe now. What can I get you?"

They ordered butterbeers and settled into a corner table, the warmth of the drinks soothing after the cool morning air. The pub’s chatter provided a comforting background hum as Harry pulled out a piece of parchment and began drafting a letter to Professor Flitwick, explaining the situation and requesting guidance.

Professor Flitwick,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to inform you of a strange incident this morning. Luna Lovegood and I were unable to pass through the barrier at Platform 9¾, so we took the Knight Bus to Hogsmeade instead. I’ll make sure Luna joins the first years when the train arrives at the station this evening.

Please let me know if there’s anything else we should do.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

After they sent the letter they waited in the pub for another hour, eating their packed lunches.

Not long after, the door to the pub opened and Harry looked up to see Professor Flitwick entering. The diminutive Charms professor spotted them immediately, his expression a mix of relief and concern as he hurried over.

"Mr. Potter, Miss Lovegood," Flitwick said, his voice tinged with worry. "I received your letter. Are you both all right?"

"We’re fine, Professor," Harry replied. "Just a bit confused about what happened."

Flitwick nodded, his brows furrowing. "The barrier sealing is highly unusual. I’ll need to report this to the Headmaster. But you were wise to come straight to Hogsmeade."

Luna sipped her butterbeer, her gaze thoughtful. "Do you think someone might have sealed it on purpose?"

Flitwick’s eyes widened slightly. "It’s a possibility, though I can’t say for certain. The magic involved would have to be quite powerful."

Harry exchanged a glance with Luna, unease settling in his chest. "What should we do now, Professor?"

Flitwick smiled reassuringly. "For now, enjoy your day in Hogsmeade. I’ll make sure everything is prepared for your arrival at Hogwarts. Miss Lovegood, I’ll see to it that you’re properly sorted with the first years."

"Thank you, Professor," Luna said, her voice serene.

“Oh professor, you should know that Ron Weasley also got stuck behind the barrier and he decided to take his father’s flying car instead.”

Flitwick frowned, “that is concerning and highly dangerous. I will have to report this immediately!”

As Flitwick left to send his report, Harry leaned back in his chair, the weight of the morning’s events still lingering. "Well," he said, forcing a smile, "we’ve got some time to kill."

Luna nodded, her smile returning. "Let’s see what other treasures we can find."

~

The Great Hall was alive with the golden glow of floating candles, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the deep indigo sky outside. The long tables were laden with polished goblets and empty plates waiting for the feast to begin. The Sorting Hat had just begun its song when Harry slipped into his usual spot at the Ravenclaw table, greeting his friends with easy familiarity.

He waved over at Neville, who grinned and gave a small wave back from the Gryffindor table. Further down, Blaise and Theo nodded in acknowledgment from the Slytherin table. Harry turned back to his own housemates who were already deep in conversation about the upcoming term.

“Harry! Finally, you show up,” Michael said with a smirk. “We were starting to think you got lost on the way.”

Harry chuckled, sliding into his seat. “Not quite. Just had an... interesting summer.” He glanced at the sorting line as the new first years began their nervous shuffle toward the front, but then turned back to his dormmates. “Thanks for the birthday wishes, by the way. Sorry I didn’t reply sooner.”

Terry arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, we figured something was up. Hedwig never delivers late.”

Harry sighed. “A house-elf was stealing my mail.”

Anthony nearly dropped his goblet. “A what?”

“A house-elf,” Harry repeated. “Apparently, he thought he was protecting me. Took me most of the summer to figure it out.”

Michael frowned. “That’s—okay, that’s a bit worrying. Whose house-elf was it?”

Harry hesitated before shaking his head. “Didn’t say. And I don’t think I was supposed to know he was even there.”

A ripple of debate erupted between the Ravenclaws, each theorising wildly. Anthony suspected Dumbledore had a hand in it, Terry mused about whether an old family connection was involved, and Michael suggested someone at the Ministry might be keeping an eye on him. Harry stayed silent on Dobby’s warning, deciding for now that it was best kept to himself.

Just as Terry was outlining a theory about unsanctioned magical surveillance, the Sorting Hat called out a name Harry had been waiting for.

“Lovegood, Luna!”

Harry sat up straighter, watching as Luna drifted dreamily toward the stool. The Hat was placed over her head, and for a moment, there was silence. Then—

“RAVENCLAW!”

Harry broke into loud applause, clapping wildly as Luna hopped off the stool and made her way toward the Ravenclaw table. She spotted him immediately, her usual serene expression brightening with delight.

“Harry!” she greeted as she reached him.

“Luna! Brilliant! I was hoping you’d end up here,” Harry said, beaming. He glanced at Michael. “Mind making some space?”

Michael scooted over without hesitation, curiosity flickering across his face as Luna took the empty seat beside Harry.

Harry gestured around the table. “This is Michael, Terry, Anthony, and Stephen. Guys, this is Luna.”

Luna gave them all a dreamy smile. “Hello, I like your auras.”

Michael blinked. “Uh, thanks?”

Anthony smirked. “Wait, hold on—Luna? As in the Luna you write to all the time?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. We met in Diagon Alley before first year.” It was the lie they had agreed upon—one that was simple and easy to remember.

Stephen nodded in understanding. “Makes sense. You always seem to be scribbling letters.”

Their introductions were interrupted by a piercing shriek.

“NO! I WANT TO BE IN RAVENCLAW!”

Heads turned toward the Gryffindor table, where Ginny Weasley was standing with her fists clenched at her sides, glaring furiously at the Sorting Hat. McGonagall, who had just removed the Hat from her head, was looking at her with a mixture of exasperation and mild alarm.

“I BELONG IN RAVENCLAW!” Ginny insisted. “I’M SMART TOO!”

The Gryffindor table was mostly silent, a few first years looking at her in confusion, while some of the older students exchanged glances. Fred and George, at least, were trying to suppress their laughter.

“Miss Weasley, the Hat has made its decision,” McGonagall said firmly. “You will sit with your house.”

Ginny looked ready to argue further, but a warning look from the professor made her huff and stomp her way to the Gryffindor table, muttering under her breath.

Luna watched her go, tilting her head. “She has an interesting energy,” she commented.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it,” Michael murmured.

The feast continued, and the plates filled with steaming food, laughter and conversation filling the hall. The Ravenclaw table settled into their usual habits, discussing classes, schedules, and potential Quidditch try-outs.

Just as Harry was reaching for a treacle tart, a massive crash sounded from outside the castle, followed by an unmistakable BANG that shook the windows. The entire Great Hall fell into hushed confusion.

“What in Merlin’s name—” Terry started, but before he could finish, the doors burst open, and Professor McGonagall strode in, her face a picture of severe disappointment.

She cleared her throat, and the room silenced completely before she announced, “It appears Mr. Ronald Weasley has made quite the entrance by crashing his father’s enchanted Ford Anglia into the Whomping Willow.”

There was a stunned beat of silence before a roar of laughter erupted from the Slytherin table, quickly followed by murmurs and whispers from every corner of the Hall.

Harry sighed, already feeling a headache forming. “Of course, it was Ron.”

Luna took a sip of her pumpkin juice, entirely unfazed. “I hope the tree is all right.”

Michael snorted into his goblet, while Terry and Anthony exchanged looks of bemusement. The night had taken an unexpected turn, and Harry had a sinking feeling it was just the beginning of a long and eventful year.

~

The first month at Hogwarts passed in a blur, filled with classes, study sessions, and the occasional bout of chaos that seemed inevitable at the castle. Harry quickly noticed something unusual—this year, Ravenclaw shared more classes with Gryffindor than they had last year. It wasn’t just the occasional joint lesson; they were paired together for nearly every subject. In the past, Ravenclaw had been scheduled with Hufflepuff the majority of the time, but that had shifted significantly.

"It’s odd, isn’t it?" Terry Boot remarked over breakfast one morning. "We used to be with the Hufflepuffs for almost three-quarters of our classes. Now it’s mostly Gryffindor."

Michael Corner shrugged. "Maybe the staff changed things up."

Harry, however, wasn’t convinced this was random.

As the weeks progressed, Harry and Luna found themselves retreating to the hidden sanctuary on the fourth floor. With careful effort, he had warded the area against intruders, making it the perfect place for secret meetings.

One evening, under the dim glow of enchanted lanterns, Luna settled into an oversized armchair while Harry leaned against a desk, arms crossed.

"Dumbledore’s keeping too many secrets," Harry muttered. "Last year, he left me in the dark about nearly everything. And now, this change in class schedules? I heard Sprout complaining to Hooch that they had to rewrite all the schedules because of him."

Luna twirled a strand of her hair. "He has a habit of moving people around like pieces on a chessboard." Her gaze drifted to the far wall, where Harry had pinned various notes and theories regarding the Hallows. "Have you thought more about Peverell Keep?"

Harry nodded, glancing at a parchment covered in neat script—the poem that had first pointed him toward the Keep’s location. "Maybe it’s all connected," he said, tracing a finger over a particular line. "The Hallows, the Peverells, Voldemort and Dumbledore. We already know he stole my family’s cloak from my vault. That means he’s been keeping things from me since I was a baby. "

Luna tilted her head. "Then there must be a reason he never wanted you to find out about your family’s legacy. Do you think he knew the cloak was the real one or about the keep?"

“Would he have given it back if he did? He doesn’t know I’m Lord Peverell, Grimbok told me that.” Harry exhaled. "The poem said, ‘Follow the path of the ancient yew. Where the gate opens, the bridge of the tree will guide you to the house of Death.’ Wherever it is, it’s hidden magically, even to me."

"It would make sense for something that important to be well protected," Luna agreed. "But if it’s hidden past mortal’s reach, maybe it’s not just a simple location. Maybe it requires a specific kind of knowledge or magic."

Harry considered that. "We should look into ancient magical fortresses and things relating to ancient yews. If we can find a pattern in how they were hidden, we might be able to figure out where Peverell Keep is."

Luna smiled. "That sounds like an excellent research project. Maybe the library has books on magical strongholds."

Harry nodded. "We’ll start there. And if we don’t find anything useful, I’ll ask Grimbok to check my family’s records. There must be something I inherited that could help."

They spent the rest of the evening mapping out a plan, exchanging theories and comparing notes.

Harry and Luna spent the afternoon in the library, pouring over old tomes and parchment-covered books, searching for anything that might give them more clues about Peverell Keep. The scent of old paper filled the air, and the warm glow of candlelight flickered over the towering bookshelves.

Luna was flipping through a particularly dense book on magical strongholds when a sharp voice interrupted them.

"Oh, honestly, Harry," Hermione Granger said as she approached their table, her arms full of books. "You’re wasting your time listening to her ramblings. There’s no actual proof of any of her ‘creatures.’ It’s all just nonsense."

Luna tilted her head, unfazed by the comment. "Nargles have been call myths, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real."

Hermione scoffed, setting down her books with an air of superiority. "That’s exactly my point. You talk about things as if they’re fact when they’re just fairy tales. If you want to do real research, Harry, you should be focusing on more credible sources."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "Back off, Hermione. We’re researching what we think is important. You don’t have to believe in it, but you also don’t have to insult Luna."

Hermione looked taken aback but huffed, gathering her books. "Fine, suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’ve wasted hours chasing shadows."

With that, she walked off, leaving an awkward silence between them.

"That was unnecessarily rude," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "You all right, Luna?"

Luna nodded, still staring in the direction Hermione had gone. "She’s just afraid of what she doesn’t understand. That’s a very limiting way to live."

Before Harry could respond, they nearly collided with Blaise and Theo, who had been making their way through the library.

"Potter," Blaise greeted with his usual smirk. “Should have expected to find you here, buried in books."

Harry smirked. "We all have our surprises. You two just wandering, or are you up to something?"

"Bit of both," Theo admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mind if we join you?"

Harry considered before nodding. "Come on. Neville’s waiting at the back table in the Herbology section."

They wove their way through the aisles, finally reaching the secluded back table where Neville was surrounded by thick tomes on magical plants. He looked up and smiled. "Harry! I saved some space."

"Thanks, Neville. Mind if we add a few more people?" Harry asked, gesturing to Blaise and Theo.

Neville nodded. "Sure. The more the merrier."

They settled in, books spread out before them, and after a few moments of small talk, Blaise leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "The raids over the summer were intense."

Harry frowned. "Why were they happening?"

Theo and Blaise exchanged glances. "It’s... complicated," Theo said hesitantly. "It has to do with our parents, the Death Eaters, and the Ministry’s paranoia."

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. "Then explain it. I want to understand."

Blaise sighed. "My mother always stayed neutral. She knew better than to pick a side. But that doesn’t mean people like us weren’t watched carefully. When the Ministry decided to flex its authority, they didn’t care if we were involved or not—they just wanted control."

Theo nodded, his expression tense. "My father... he was a Death Eater. But I want nothing to do with him or his beliefs. You have to believe me, Harry. I don’t support any of it."

Harry studied Theo’s face and saw the genuine desperation in his eyes. "We are not our parents, Theo. I get it. You’re not responsible for his choices."

Relief flickered across Theo’s face, and he nodded gratefully.

Blaise cleared his throat. "There are whispers among the upper-class circles. Something’s being put into motion at Hogwarts this year, but no one’s sure exactly what."

Harry’s stomach twisted. "That doesn’t sound good."

"No, it doesn’t," Blaise admitted.

Deciding to share something in return, Harry leaned in. "I caught a house-elf trying to keep me from coming back to Hogwarts. He was stealing my mail all summer."

Theo and Blaise exchanged another look.

Neville frowned. "Wait, who did they belong to? Do you know the house-elf’s name?"

"Dobby," Harry said.

Theo and Blaise stiffened, exchanging a significant glance.

Neville caught it. "What? What do you know?"

Blaise exhaled slowly. "Back when we were younger, children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had to meet at social gatherings. Draco Malfoy loved showing off his family’s house-elf. Making him do things. His name? Dobby."

Harry’s stomach dropped. "That means Dobby belongs to the Malfoys."

Silence fell over the group as they processed the implications. If the Malfoys had been behind Dobby’s attempts to keep Harry away from Hogwarts, then Lucius Malfoy had a reason for wanting him gone. And that could only mean trouble.

They had just scratched the surface of a much deeper mystery, and Harry had a feeling they were going to need to be very careful about what they did next.

~

As October crept in and the castle began to cool, Harry found himself watching Draco Malfoy more closely. It wasn’t that Malfoy had done anything to him—quite the opposite, actually. During their first year, Draco had never directly antagonised him, never sought him out just to throw insults like he did with Ron and Hermione. If anything, their interactions had been strangely civil, almost neutral. But this year, something had changed.

Harry noticed how Draco’s eyes lingered on him in the Great Hall or during classes, watching with an unreadable expression before quickly masking it with a sneer if someone else was around. Sometimes it almost seemed like he wanted to say something, but then the usual Malfoy arrogance would take over, and he’d strut off as if he held some secret that no one else did.

"Have you noticed Malfoy lately?" Harry asked Luna one evening as they walked toward the library, their arms laden with books from their previous study session.

Luna hummed in thought. "He does look at you rather wistfully sometimes. As if he’s seeing something he isn’t sure he should. But then he ruins it with a frown. Perhaps he’s fighting off Wrackspurts."

Harry let out a short laugh. "Or maybe he just knows something the rest of us don’t. He’s been acting... superior. Like he’s figured something out."

"Maybe he has," Luna said, skipping a step ahead of him.

It was Halloween night, and the castle was alive with chatter and anticipation for the feast. The air was crisp with the scent of roasted pumpkins and cinnamon, but Harry was distracted. As they walked down a dimly lit corridor toward the library, a strange noise drifted through the air. A voice—low and hissing, sliding through the silence like an unseen shadow.

Harry stopped in his tracks.

"Harry?" Luna turned to him, her wide, silvery eyes blinking curiously.

Harry’s heart pounded. He had heard that before. Not the exact words, but the language. It wasn’t just a voice; it was Parseltongue.

"I hear something," he whispered. "It’s speaking... about killing. It sounds big. Loud."

Luna didn’t question him, simply nodding as she tilted her head, as if trying to catch the sound. "Then we should follow it."

Harry took off in the direction of the voice, Luna right behind him. The castle’s stone walls seemed to absorb the sound, distorting it just enough that he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. They rounded a corner, descending a staircase just as a chilling sensation ran down Harry’s spine.

And then they saw it.

The corridor outside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was flooded with water, trickling out from underneath the door and pooling across the floor. The flickering torchlight made the liquid shimmer ominously. But what caught Harry’s attention—what made his stomach twist—was the writing on the wall.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Mrs. Norris, Filch’s beloved cat, hung limp from a sconce, her glassy eyes frozen in terror.

Luna, usually unfazed by most things, looked shaken. "That’s a rather ominous message."

Harry took a step back, his mind racing. "We need to tell someone. Right now."

Instead of lingering, instead of waiting for a crowd to gather, Harry grabbed Luna’s hand and turned on his heel, sprinting toward the nearest hallway in search of a professor or prefect. They needed to report this before anyone else found the scene and started drawing conclusions.

As Harry and Luna sprinted down the corridor, their hurried footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls. The weight of what they had just seen pressed heavily on Harry’s chest, his mind racing with possibilities. Who had written that message? What exactly was the Chamber of Secrets? And more pressingly—why did they kill Mrs. Norris?

They turned sharply at the next junction and nearly collided with Percy Weasley, who was patrolling the halls. His Prefect badge gleamed in the dim torchlight, and he immediately scowled at them.

"What are you two doing out here? You should making your way to the feast!" Percy scolded, adjusting his glasses.

"Percy, we don’t have time," Harry gasped. "Something’s happened! You need to get a professor—now!"

Percy frowned but took in their serious expressions. "What are you talking about?"

Luna simply said, "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Someone has left a warning."

The colour drained from Percy’s face. "That—that can’t be. That’s just an old Hogwarts legend!"

Harry grabbed his arm. "Mrs. Norris is hanging from a torch holder, and there’s writing on the wall. You have to believe us!"

Percy hesitated only a moment before nodding sharply. "Stay here. Don’t move." He turned and ran back in the direction of the Great Hall.

Harry and Luna exchanged a look. "Do you think we should stay?" Luna asked, her voice as airy as ever but tinged with curiosity.

"Not a chance," Harry muttered. "Come on."

They hurried back toward the scene, slowing as they neared the corridor. The torches flickered, casting eerie shadows across the wet floor. Voices drifted from the far end—Filch’s unmistakable shrieking, followed by a stern, authoritative voice that could only belong to Professor McGonagall.

Harry and Luna edged forward carefully, keeping to the sides of the corridor. A small crowd had already gathered—students who had wandered from the great hall, lured by the commotion. Ron and Hermione were among them, their faces twisted in concern.

"What’s going on?" Ron whispered as Harry and Luna approached.

"Mrs. Norris," Harry murmured. "Someone attacked her."

Before Ron or Hermione could ask more, Dumbledore himself arrived, his presence immediately commanding the attention of everyone in the hall. His sharp blue eyes swept over the writing, then landed on the unmoving form of Mrs. Norris.

Filch was beside himself. "She’s been murdered! Murdered in cold blood!"

Dumbledore knelt beside the cat and examined her closely. "She is not dead, Argus," he said gently. "Merely petrified."

The students murmured amongst themselves. A few Slytherins, including Draco Malfoy, stood toward the back. Draco had his usual sneer in place, but Harry caught something else in his expression—something almost like anticipation.

"But who did this?" Hermione asked, her voice unusually quiet.

"That is the question," Dumbledore mused, standing. "One we must answer carefully."

Snape stepped forward, his dark eyes flickering toward Harry. "Perhaps Potter could shed some light on the matter? He does seem to be in the thick of things, as usual."

Harry stiffened. "I just got here! Luna and I were on our way to the feast from the library.”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened, studying him.

McGonagall, looking deeply troubled, turned to Dumbledore. "What do we do now, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore clasped his hands in front of him. "First, we ensure that all students return to the feast immediately. I will investigate further."

The professors began ushering students away, but Harry and Luna lingered at the edges of the group.

"This is bad, isn’t it?" Harry muttered as they walked toward the great hall.

"Yes," Luna whispered. "And it’s only going to get worse."

Luna, still serene, simply said, "The castle is stirring. I wonder what else it will reveal."

Harry glanced back once more at the writing on the wall, unease curling in his stomach.

~

As the days passed and the tension surrounding the Chamber of Secrets continued to build, Harry found solace in the one thing that had always brought him a sense of freedom—flying. It had been his favourite part of first-year lessons, soaring above the ground, feeling the wind against his skin. He had considered trying out for the Quidditch team, but between his studies, uncovering mysteries, and avoiding unnecessary attention, he had never quite found the time. Besides, it was the flying itself that he truly loved, not the competition.

Luna, on the other hand, had struggled with her first-year flying lessons. She wasn’t terrible, but there had been a hesitancy in her that hadn’t quite gone away. She had once confided in Harry that she never felt entirely in control when she was in the air, and that uncertainty made her nervous.

That was something Harry could help with.

With permission from Madam Hooch, Harry arranged to borrow the school’s broomsticks and reserve some time on the Quidditch pitch for an afternoon of practice. Luna was delighted when he told her, her usual dreamy expression lighting up with excitement and just a bit of apprehension.

The sky was clear when they arrived at the pitch, the autumn air crisp but not biting. The brooms weren’t anything special—certainly nothing compared to the professional-quality ones the team used—but they would do just fine for practice.

Harry mounted his broom effortlessly, rising a few feet off the ground with ease. "All right, Luna," he said encouragingly. "Hop on. Just like we practiced."

Luna bit her lip but nodded, gripping the broomstick tightly as she pushed off. She wobbled slightly, rising awkwardly into the air.

"Good!" Harry called. "Now relax your grip a bit—you don’t want to strangle the broom."

Luna loosened her fingers slightly, her movement becoming steadier.

"See? Much better. Now, let’s try some gentle turns. Lean a little to the left."

She did as he instructed, her broom tilting unsteadily before adjusting. It wasn’t perfect, but she was learning.

They spent the next hour going over basics—how to control her speed, how to make sharper turns, and how to regain her balance if she felt wobbly. Slowly but surely, Luna’s confidence grew. By the time they took a break, she was beaming.

"I don’t feel like I’m going to fall off anymore," she said happily.

Harry grinned. "That’s the goal. Want to try flying a little higher?"

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yes. I think I’m ready."

They kicked off again, this time soaring higher above the pitch. Harry flew alongside her, guiding her gently as she tested her limits. He had to admit—teaching her was just as fun as flying itself.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, they finally decided to head back to the castle for dinner, chatting as they made their way through the corridors. But before they could reach the Great Hall, an all-too-familiar voice called out.

"Ah, Harry, my boy! Just the person I wanted to see!"

Harry stiffened as Professor Lockhart strode toward them, his flamboyant robes practically sparkling under the torchlight. Luna, on the other hand, merely tilted her head in curiosity.

Lockhart clapped Harry on the shoulder, beaming. "I must say, I’ve been meaning to have a little chat with you! You see, you and I have quite a lot in common!"

Harry resisted the urge to step away. "Do we?"

"Of course! Fame at such a young age! Natural talent! A knack for adventure!" Lockhart winked. "I dare say I could teach you a thing or two."

Harry’s distrust of adults flared. Something about Lockhart’s over-the-top charm felt disingenuous, like he was more interested in appearances than anything else. "I think I’m doing fine on my own, Professor."

Lockhart chuckled, waving a hand. "Oh, modesty! Very wise, very wise! But really, my boy, I see a bright future ahead for you. Perhaps even writing your own book one day?" He winked. "Fame is a fickle thing, you see, and one must know how to handle it. I could help you with that."

Harry forced a smile. "I’ll keep that in mind, sir."

Lockhart beamed, seemingly unaware of Harry’s reluctance. "Splendid! Well, I won’t keep you from your meal. But do stop by my office sometime—we could discuss a few things, hmm?"

"Of course," Harry lied smoothly.

Lockhart flashed them both another dazzling smile before sweeping off down the corridor. As soon as he was out of earshot, Luna turned to Harry, voice a bit cryptic. "He’s very sparkly. I think I forgot everything else just looking at him."

Harry let out a breath of laughter. "Yeah. That’s one way to describe him."

~

The stands were alive with the roar of cheering students, banners waving as Slytherin and Gryffindor battled fiercely on the Quidditch pitch. The crisp autumn air carried the shouts and gasps of the crowd as players zoomed past, the game already proving to be one of the most intense of the season.

Harry sat with Neville and Luna in the Ravenclaw section of the stands, bundled up in their cloaks as they watched the match unfold. Luna, as usual, was speaking in her soft, airy voice, offering odd but strangely insightful observations about the players. Neville clutched his scarf, eyes darting nervously over the pitch.

"I still don’t get how anyone can play this sport without breaking every bone in their body," Neville muttered, watching as a Bludger whizzed dangerously close to a Gryffindor Chaser.

"That’s why they have Beaters," Harry replied with a grin. "It’s all about control."

But control was soon the last thing on Harry’s mind. A sudden whistling noise caught his ear, and he barely had time to turn before the Bludger veered off course—straight toward the stands.

"Watch out!" Neville yelled.

Instinct took over. Harry lunged toward Luna, pushing her down just as the ball smashed into the railing behind them with a deafening crack, splintering the wood into sharp shards. A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Harry scrambled back to his feet, his heart pounding.

The Bludger wasn’t done. It hovered for a moment, almost as if calculating, before zeroing in on Harry once more.

"Harry, it’s coming back!" Neville shouted.

Harry ducked as the Bludger whooshed over his head, smashing into the seat where he had been just seconds before. Students screamed and scrambled out of the way as it made another sharp turn, still locked onto its target.

"It’s acting like it’s got a mind of its own!" Luna observed, brushing dust from her robes.

Harry barely heard her. He was too busy trying to dodge the Bludger, which seemed determined to hit him no matter where he went. Someone had tampered with it.

And then it happened.

He was mid-dodge when the Bludger slammed into his left arm with brutal force. A sharp, searing pain shot through him, and he staggered, clutching his arm as his vision blurred. He barely registered the chaos around him—the shouting, the panicked calls of his friends, the sound of the game grinding to a halt as players turned to see what had happened.

Through gritted teeth, Harry did the only thing he could think of. Raising his wand, he aimed at the rogue Bludger. "Bombarda!"

The explosion sent a shockwave through the air, the Bludger bursting into pieces mid-flight. Shards of metal rained down harmlessly into the stands. For a moment, there was stunned silence—then an uproar of voices, students pointing and whispering about what had just occurred.

Harry barely had time to catch his breath before hands grabbed at his uninjured shoulder, guiding him down toward the field. "Mr. Potter, that was reckless!" McGonagall’s stern voice rang in his ears.

Harry looked at her in disbelief. Did she not see what happened?

"You need to get to the hospital wing immediately."

"I’m fine," Harry tried to say, though the pain in his arm said otherwise.

"Nonsense!" came another voice, sickeningly cheerful.

Lockhart.

The Defence professor strode toward him with his signature dazzling smile, his robes shimmering obnoxiously in the sunlight. "Not to worry, my dear boy! I can fix this in a moment!" He brandished his wand, ignoring the way Harry instinctively pulled back.

"No—wait—" Harry started, but it was too late.

"Brackium Emendo!" Lockhart declared dramatically, tapping his wand against Harry’s arm.

A strange sensation shot through his bones—then nothing. No pain. No feeling at all. Harry glanced down and felt his stomach drop.

His arm looked like rubber, completely boneless and flopping uselessly at his side.

"Ah," Lockhart said, his smile faltering slightly. "Yes. Well. That can happen. No worries! A simple overnight stay in the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey will have you sorted!"

Harry glared. "You removed my bones."

"Minor setback!" Lockhart chuckled weakly.

Madam Pomfrey was furious when Harry arrived at the hospital wing. "What were you thinking, letting him near you?" she huffed, marching him to a bed and forcing a foul-tasting potion down his throat. "Regrowing bones is painful business!"

She wasn’t lying. That night, as his bones began to mend, Harry tossed and turned, gritting his teeth against the deep, aching throb in his arm. He had nearly drifted off into a fitful sleep when a soft pop startled him awake.

Harry’s eyes snapped open to find a familiar, wrinkled face peering at him.

"Dobby," he muttered.

The house-elf wrung his hands together, his large eyes filled with an odd mixture of guilt and urgency. "Harry Potter must not be at Hogwarts!" he wailed in a hushed whisper. "Dobby thought if Bludger made Harry Potter leave—"

Harry’s temper flared despite his exhaustion. "You did that? You nearly killed me!"

Dobby looked miserable. "Dobby meant only to protect, sir! To make sure Harry Potter left before terrible things happen!"

Harry sat up slowly, cradling his sore arm. "Dobby, I thought we sorted this. If I don’t stay at Hogwarts they would only bring me back. I know you’re the Malfoys elf, tell me what they’ve planned!"

The elf’s ears drooped. "Dobby cannot, sir. Dobby is bound—"

"Then how am I supposed to stop it?"

Dobby hesitated, then whispered, "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before. It is happening again."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. Before he could press Dobby for more, there was a sudden commotion at the entrance to the hospital wing. Footsteps, murmured voices.

Dobby vanished with a soft pop, and Harry quickly shut his eyes, feigning sleep just as a group of figures entered.

"Another attack," a voice whispered—McGonagall.

"The boy’s been petrified," another voice, this one grave and knowing—Dumbledore.

Harry cracked his eyelids slightly, just enough to see them gather around a hospital bed. Colin Creevey lay there, stiff as stone, his camera clutched in his frozen hands.

Silence hung thick in the room before Dumbledore spoke again, his voice heavy. "The Chamber of Secrets has indeed been opened."

Harry swallowed hard, keeping his breathing even.

Things were getting worse.

The next day dragged on with more speculation about the Chamber, but soon enough, they had to make their way to class. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor had Transfiguration together that afternoon, and Harry took a seat beside Neville while McGonagall strode to the front of the room.

As the lesson began, Hermione’s hand shot into the air before McGonagall had even finished giving the day’s objectives. "Professor, I was wondering if you could tell us about the Chamber of Secrets?"

The classroom fell silent, students exchanging uneasy glances. Even McGonagall hesitated, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students before she sighed and set down her wand.

"Very well," she said, her tone measured. "It is likely that many of you have already heard rumours about last night’s events. Let me set the record straight. The Chamber of Secrets is said to have been created by Salazar Slytherin himself."

She walked slowly along the front of the class, her expression severe. "Slytherin, as you know, was one of the four founders of Hogwarts. He disagreed with the others about who should be allowed to learn magic. He believed that only those of pure wizarding blood should be taught at this school. When he was unable to sway them to his way of thinking, he left the school... but not before building a hidden chamber."

The room was deathly silent now, every student hanging on to her every word.

"Legends say that the Chamber of Secrets lies deep within the castle and that it can only be opened by the Heir of Slytherin. The Heir alone is said to be able to control the monster that resides within—a monster capable of purging the school of all who Salazar Slytherin deemed unworthy to study magic."

A nervous ripple passed through the room. Some students shifted in their seats, while others exchanged glances. Harry kept his face carefully neutral, though his mind was racing. A monster hidden within Hogwarts? And he had heard something last night—something large and filled with malice. It was definitely some sort of snake.

Michael, seated near them, scoffed. "But it’s just a myth, right? I mean, no one’s ever actually found it."

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line. "That is not entirely true. The Chamber was said to have been opened once before. Fifty years ago."

Hermione leaned forward. "What happened?"

McGonagall hesitated, then continued. "A student was killed. The school was on the verge of closing when the culprit was caught and expelled. But the chamber was never found, nor was the monster. Many believed it was simply a coincidence, an unrelated tragedy... but with the events of last night, those old fears have resurfaced."

Harry could feel the tension in the room rising, and he noticed that some students were glancing at him as if expecting him to react. He kept his head down, pretending to be focused on his notes.

"Professor," Terry asked hesitantly, "do we know who was expelled?"

McGonagall’s expression was unreadable. "I do not believe that information is relevant to our lesson today, Mr. Boot. Now, let us return to our transfiguration exercises."

~

The library was dimly lit with the usual soft glow of enchanted lamps, their light casting long shadows against the towering bookshelves. The quiet hum of pages turning and quills scratching parchment surrounded Harry, Luna and the others as they sat at their usual table in the far corner.

Harry let out a long breath, setting down the book he had been pretending to read. "Dobby admitted it," he said quietly. "He was the one who cursed the Bludger. He thought it would get me to leave Hogwarts."

Blaise leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "A house-elf interfering like that? That’s unusual, even for one as free-spirited as Dobby."

Neville frowned. "But why? Why would a house-elf care so much about keeping you away from Hogwarts?"

"That’s what I don’t know," Harry admitted. "He said something bad was coming, something that happened before. He was terrified, but he wouldn’t tell me exactly what."

Theo drummed his fingers against the wooden table. "We need to figure out what this ‘bad thing’ actually is. We know it has something to do with the Chamber of Secrets. And if the writing on the wall is any clue, it’s targeting students."

Luna’s serene expression didn’t waver. "If something is petrifying students, we should be looking into creatures that can do that."

Harry nodded. "That’s what I was thinking. I’ve already looked up a few things. Most creatures that petrify—like the Gorgons from Greece." And didn’t that blow Harry’s mind, that Gorgons were real.

Neville shuddered. "Gorgons? You mean like Medusa? The ones that turn people to stone just by looking at them?"

Harry pushed a book toward him, showing an illustration of a fearsome, snake-haired woman. "Exactly. Apparently, Gorgons could only be defeated by seeing their own reflection. That’s why Perseus used a mirrored shield to avoid being turned to stone in the myths."

Blaise scanned the text, his eyes narrowing. "But if we were dealing with a Gorgon, we’d be talking about full statues, not petrification that can be reversed. And no one’s mentioned any snake-haired women wandering around Hogwarts."

Theo nodded. "Right. So we need to look at other creatures that have similar abilities."

Luna tapped her fingers against her cheek thoughtfully. "Some basilisks have been known to paralyze their victims rather than kill them outright. It depends on how they’re looking at their target."

Harry felt his stomach drop. A basilisk.

He had heard the voice. The hissing, murderous voice that no one else could hear. He knew, deep in his gut, what it meant.

He swallowed hard, glancing at the others. "It’s a snake."

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. The group fell silent, their eyes locked onto him.

Neville blinked. "A snake? What do you mean?"

Harry clenched his jaw. He had never told anyone outside of Luna. It had been ingrained in him that Parseltongue was a dark gift, something feared by others. But these were his friends. If he couldn’t tell them, who could he tell?

"I can speak to snakes," he whispered after throwing a silencing spell around them.

Theo leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "Parseltongue."

Harry nodded. "I heard it that night. A voice, talking about killing. I followed it, and that’s when we found the message on the wall. No one else heard it—because it was speaking Parseltongue."

Blaise let out a slow breath. "So you’re saying the monster in the Chamber… it’s a snake?"

"I think so," Harry said. "If it’s a basilisk, it would explain why no one’s died. No one has looked directly at it. Colin had his camera, and Mrs. Norris saw the reflection in the water."

Neville looked unsettled but determined. "That means we know what we’re up against. But how do we stop it?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "That’s what we need to figure out. We don’t know where the Chamber is, and we don’t know who’s opened it."

Theo’s voice was quieter than usual. "People are going to start asking questions, Harry. If they find out you can talk to snakes…"

"I know," Harry said. "Please keep this between us. People don’t like what they don’t understand."

Luna smiled reassuringly. "It just means you can communicate in a way others can’t."

Harry felt some of the tension in his chest ease.

“We will keep it a secret, won’t we?” Neville said and pinned the others with a slight smile.

Blaise and Theo nodded, “agreed.”

The conversation carried on well into the evening, their research leading them through different books on magical creatures, ancient myths, and Hogwarts history. They made notes, argued over theories, and slowly started to piece together what little information they had.

As November passed and early December rolled in, a new notice was posted on the board outside the Great Hall.

DUELLING CLUB – First Meeting December 17th in the Great Hall. Come learn how to defend yourself!

They all stopped to read it at the same time.

"This… could actually be useful," Blaise mused. "If something’s going around attacking people, we should at least be prepared."

Theo smirked. "You just want an excuse to hex people."

"And you don’t?"

If Lockhart was involved, this was bound to be a disaster. But it was also an opportunity.

"We should go," he decided. "If nothing else, we might learn something that’ll help us."

Luna tilted her head. "Or at least, we’ll learn what not to do."

Harry chuckled. "That too."

~

The Great Hall was filled with anticipation as students gathered for the first Duelling Club meeting. Candles floated overhead, casting flickering light onto the platform where Lockhart stood, his bright blue robes gleaming absurdly. Next to him, Snape looked even more sour than usual, his dark eyes scanning the gathered students with a glint of something unreadable.

Harry stood near the front, arms crossed as he watched the display unfold. When Lockhart predictably made a fool of himself in an attempt to duel Snape, Harry sighed. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Oh, undoubtedly," Blaise murmured dryly. "But at least it'll be entertaining."

Then, just as Lockhart was about to make another absurd claim about his duelling prowess, Snape cut in. "Enough. I believe it’s time for the students to test their abilities." He scanned the crowd before his gaze settled on Harry. "Potter, step forward."

Harry exchanged a wary glance with his friends before stepping onto the platform. Snape’s lips curled ever so slightly. "And to make it fair, let’s have… Malfoy."

Draco sauntered forward with an arrogance that grated on Harry’s nerves. There was something strange in the way Snape leaned toward Malfoy, whispering something that Harry couldn’t hear. Then the Potions Master straightened and gave him an unreadable look, his black eyes sharp as ever.

"On my mark," Snape intoned. "One. Two. Three—"

"Serpensortia!" Malfoy shouted before Snape had even finished counting.

A large, dark green snake burst from Malfoy’s wand, landing on the platform with a loud thud. It coiled immediately, its golden eyes locking onto the closest target—Justin Finch-Fletchley, who stood frozen, his expression caught between terror and disbelief.

Harry felt his heartbeat stutter. He had a choice to make, but in reality, there was no choice. He could not—would not—let the snake hurt anyone.

His instincts took over.

"Justin," Harry said, his voice firm but calm, "back away. Slowly. Do not break eye contact."

Justin hesitated but nodded, his feet moving stiffly as he took a slow step backward. The other students around them shuffled uncertainly, eyes darting between Harry and the snake.

Harry took a breath and stepped forward. He let the connection flow, let the language rise in his throat naturally. “You don’t belong here. You’re frightened.”

The snake, which had been poised to strike, hesitated, its head tilting slightly as it considered him. “Yessss… Not meant to be here. Summoned. Want to go home.”

"It’s scared," Harry translated aloud, though his voice carried an edge of frustration. "It was taken from where it belonged."

He knelt carefully, keeping his eyes on the snake as he slowly extended his hands. "I’ll help you. Just stay calm."

The snake hesitated before slithering toward him, its body relaxing. Just as it reached him, just as he lifted it gently—

A burst of magic shot from Snape’s wand. Aimed directly at the snake.

Harry barely had time to react before the snake disintegrated before his eyes, reduced to nothing but ash. He could feel it—feel the life slipping away between his fingers, feel the sudden emptiness left behind.

Something snapped inside him.

He whirled around, his green eyes blazing. "Why did you do that?!" he demanded, fury vibrating through his entire frame. "It wasn’t going to hurt anyone! It was scared, and it just wanted to go home!"

Draco looked startled but quickly composed himself, lifting his chin. "It was just a snake, Potter. Don’t be so dramatic."

Harry’s breath came faster. His hands clenched into fists. "Just a snake? Just a snake? It was alive! It had thoughts, feelings! You ripped it away from where it belonged and then killed it just because you could!"

Snape’s expression remained impassive. "It was a threat."

"It wasn’t!" Harry snapped. "It was listening to me! I could have taken it out safely! But you—"

The words died in his throat as he realised the weight of the stares pressing down on him. The entire Great Hall was silent. Dozens of eyes—some shocked, some wary, others intrigued—were locked onto him. He had spoken in Parseltongue. In front of everyone.

The Great Hall remained eerily silent as Harry turned sharply on his heel, his fury still simmering beneath his skin. Without another glance at Snape or Malfoy, he stormed toward the doors, his friends falling into step beside him.

As soon as they stepped into the corridor, the hum of whispered conversations erupted behind them, students already speculating about what had just happened. Harry barely paid attention, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Theo said, breaking the silence. "That was quite the spectacle."

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. But Snape—he just—he killed it. It didn’t have to die."

Neville placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. "You did everything you could. The rest of us saw it. You calmed it down, got Justin out of danger. That’s what matters."

Blaise chuckled. "And you terrified Malfoy in the process. I’ve never seen him lose his composure like that."

Luna, ever serene, nodded. "It was a very powerful moment. You stood up for something that most people wouldn’t even think about." She tilted her head slightly. "And now the entire school knows you speak Parseltongue."

Harry groaned. "Yeah. That’s going to be fun to deal with."

Theo smirked. "At least you didn’t go full Dark Lord and start commanding an army of snakes. Small victories."

Despite himself, Harry let out a short laugh. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though the weight of what had happened still pressed on him. He stopped walking and turned to face them. "Look, I know this is going to cause a lot of talk. People might start thinking—"

"We don’t care," Neville interrupted firmly. "We know who you are, Harry."

Blaise nodded. "You’re not some dark wizard just because you speak to snakes."

Luna smiled. "It’s a gift, not a curse."

Harry exhaled, a bit of the anger from earlier replaced by gratitude. "Thanks, guys."

Theo threw an arm around Harry’s shoulder as they started walking again. "Come on, let’s get out of here before Lockhart decides to give a speech about how he would’ve handled the situation."

That got a groan from the entire group as they made their way toward the Ravenclaw common room, the weight of the evening’s events still lingering, but not nearly as unbearable as it had felt just minutes before.

~

The Christmas holidays had arrived, and the castle had grown quieter with most students returning home. But Harry and Luna remained, both content to spend their time at Hogwarts rather than anywhere else. Luna’s father had gone on another expedition, leaving her alone for the holidays, and Harry, as always, had no interest in returning to Privet Drive. The Cove would have been nice though.

Over the past couple of weeks, whispers about the Duelling Club incident had only grown louder. Many students were still murmuring about how terrible it had been for Snape to kill the poor snake when all it wanted was to go home. Others, like Justin, had personally thanked Harry for saving him. But a week after that, Justin had been found petrified—along with Nearly Headless Nick.

Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had taken it upon themselves to pester Harry at every turn. "You can’t be the Heir of Slytherin, Harry," Hermione had insisted one afternoon in the library, her voice urgent. "You’re the Boy Who Lived! That makes no sense!"

"Yeah, mate," Ron added. "But Malfoy—he could be. That’s why we have to get into the Slytherin common room. We’ll use Polyjuice Potion—sneak in, find out what he knows!"

Harry crossed his arms, unimpressed. "That’s a stupid plan. And I don’t care what Malfoy has to say. Leave me alone." That was a lie, but he wouldn’t tell them that.

He turned on his heel and left them standing there, both of them frustrated at his refusal to be part of their scheme. He wasn’t interested in proving himself to them—or to anyone else.

Later that evening, as the snow fell gently outside, Harry sat beside Luna in their usual quiet spot near the Ravenclaw tower. "I need a break from all of this," he muttered. "Let’s go see Nox."

Luna tilted her head, her silvery eyes thoughtful. "Oh please! She’ll be missing us."

They had been sneaking away whenever possible to visit Nox, ensuring that no one caught them slipping out to the cove, but it wasn’t as often as they’d liked.

The morning air was crisp and fresh as Harry and Luna stood in a quiet corner of the Ravenclaw tower common room, waiting for Tilly to take them to the cove. They had just finished breakfast, and the castle was still hushed from the holiday lull. The idea of visiting Nox filled Harry with warmth—his little dragon was anything but little now, and he couldn’t wait to see her again.

With a quiet pop, Tilly appeared, eyes bright with excitement. "Master Harry, Miss Luna, Tilly is ready to take you now."

Harry grinned. "Thanks, Tilly. Let’s go."

A second later, the cool stone walls of Hogwarts vanished, replaced by the familiar salty air of the cove. The moment they arrived, a gust of wind hit them, carrying the scent of the sea. The tide was coming in strong today, waves crashing violently against the rocks, but the area in front of Nox’s cave remained calm thanks to the goblin wards.

Before Harry could take a step forward, a deep, joyful rumble echoed through the cove. "Mother!"

Something massive and dark shot toward him. In the span of a breath, Harry was knocked off his feet as a warm, scaled body barrelled into him, sending him sprawling onto the soft sand.

"Oof—Nox!" Harry laughed as he found himself staring up at a very pleased dragon looming over him. "You’ve gotten even bigger!"

Nox, now standing at a full seven feet tall, nuzzled against his chest, her deep gold eyes gleaming with delight. "Mother is here! I missed you!" she chirped, her tail thumping against the sand like an overgrown dog.

Luna giggled beside them, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I do believe you’ve been tackled, Harry."

"Yeah, I noticed," Harry said, still grinning as he rubbed behind Nox’s horns, earning a pleased rumble. "You’re getting strong. If you keep growing like this, I won’t be able to hug you anymore."

Nox lifted her head proudly. "I have been flying with the winds! The stronger they get, the faster I fly!" She spread her wings, the leathery membranes catching the wind as if to demonstrate. "Soon, I’ll be able to ride the storm itself!"

Harry felt a surge of pride. "That’s amazing, Nox. You’ve been working hard."

Luna stepped forward, reaching up to stroke Nox’s neck. "You’re becoming quite the sky dancer, aren’t you? I bet the clouds watch in wonder."

Nox hummed happily, lowering her head so Luna could scratch the spot beneath her jaw. "Flying is my favourite thing. But you, Mother, you need to fly more, too! I will teach you!"

Harry chuckled. "I think I’d need wings for that, Nox."

She tilted her head. "Then we can use mine!"

Luna clapped her hands together. "That sounds like a grand adventure. A wizard and his dragon, soaring through the skies."

Harry rolled his eyes fondly. "You two are going to get me into trouble, aren’t you?"

"Absolutely," Luna said dreamily.

They spent the next few hours playing in the cove, with Nox eagerly showing off her new flight techniques, diving through the winds and soaring in loops above the crashing waves. When she finally tired, she curled up beside them near the cave entrance, her warmth protecting them from the wind.

Harry leaned back against her side, watching as Luna traced patterns in the sand with a stick. "You know," he said, "this feels… nice. Like a real family."

Luna smiled, her gaze soft. "That’s because we are a real family, Harry."

Nox let out a sleepy hum, curling her tail around them both. "Always."

~

The holidays had ended, and Hogwarts was once again full of students, their voices filling the corridors with stories from their time away. Harry was glad to be back in the routine of school, but more than that, he was relieved he hadn’t gone along with Ron and Hermione’s plan. Rumours spread quickly about Hermione’s botched Polyjuice attempt leaving her partially transformed into a cat and Ron getting caught sneaking into the Slytherin common room. Harry had no desire to be caught up in their reckless schemes, especially when he had his own path to follow.

The months had passed quickly into February and Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts had turned into a complete nightmare.

Ever since Lockhart had declared the celebration a grand event, the castle had been overrun by pink decorations, fluttering confetti, and worst of all—the dreaded singing dwarfs. Harry had already been ambushed in the middle of breakfast by one particularly enthusiastic dwarf, who loudly recited a poem that was very clearly from Ginny Weasley. It had been awkward enough, but then things got worse.

By mid-afternoon, he had received two other valentines that left him utterly baffled. They weren’t signed, but they were disturbingly… suggestive. One had asked, "Does your Parseltongue work in the bedroom too?" Harry had frowned at it, confused as to why someone would ask such a thing about his ability to talk to snakes, only for an older Ravenclaw to read over his shoulder and nearly choke on her drink.

The second one had been even worse. He didn’t quite understand all the implications, but judging by how some of the seventh years had gone disturbingly quiet before glaring murderously around the Great Hall, he figured it wasn’t exactly appropriate.

Now, as dinner came to an end, Harry spotted another dwarf marching determinedly toward him. Panic set in.

"Nope. Absolutely not," he muttered before slipping from his seat. He barely avoided a grasping hand from the short, determined menace and darted out of the Great Hall.

He weaved through the corridors, dodging another trio of singing dwarfs along the way. "Who even paid for this insanity?!" he hissed under his breath, barely sliding past Peeves, who was cackling as he directed a dwarf toward an unsuspecting victim.

Eventually, he reached the fourth-floor corridor and wrenched open the door to their warded hideout, slamming it behind him. He leaned against it, catching his breath.

Theo, Blaise, Neville, and Luna all looked up from their usual spots.

"Let me guess," Blaise smirked. "Dwarfs?"

Harry groaned. "I hate this day."

Luna, completely serene, handed him a chocolate heart. "At least you’re loved."

Theo snorted. "Yeah, a little too loved if those letters are anything to go by."

Harry scowled. "I still don’t get most of them."

Blaise smirked, patting him on the shoulder. "You will when you’re older, mate. You will when you’re older."

~

The heavily warded room had become their unofficial meeting space.

Theo leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "We have to figure out how to tell the professors what we know without them brushing us off. If we just walk up and say ‘It’s a Basilisk,’ they’ll think we’re mad."

Neville frowned. "They didn’t even listen when people said they saw shadows moving. Why would they believe a bunch of second-years?"

Luna side-eyed Harry at that, laughter in her eyes.

"We need proof," Blaise said simply. "And we don’t have any. Just theories."

Harry tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Then we find proof. But maybe there’s someone who knows more than they’re saying. Someone who was around when this happened before."

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "Hagrid has been here for over fifty years, hasn’t he? He might know something."

Blaise smirked. "Tricking Hagrid into talking? That should be interesting."

The next afternoon, they made their way down to Hagrid’s hut, knocking on the massive wooden door. Hagrid beamed when he saw them, ushering them inside with a warm smile. "Ah, 'Arry, Luna, the lot of yeh! What brings yeh here?"

Harry glanced at the others before stepping forward. "We were wondering… about the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened. You were here back then, weren’t you?"

Hagrid stiffened. "Now, why’d yeh be askin’ about that? That was a long time ago. Nothin’ but trouble, tha’ was."

"We just want to understand," Luna said softly. "So we can stop whatever is happening now."

Hagrid’s expression darkened. "I dunno what yeh think yer goin’ to find, but Aragog didn’t kill nobody! It was a terrible accident!"

Harry’s eyes widened. "Aragog?"

Hagrid paled. "Forget I said tha’! Yeh best be gettin’ back ter the castle, now."

With that, he all but pushed them out of his hut, leaving them standing outside, the chill in the air feeling even sharper.

"Well, that was interesting," Theo muttered. "Aragog? He gave us a name."

As they walked back toward the castle, Harry separated from the group, taking a different route to clear his thoughts. As he passed the second-floor bathroom—the one where Mrs. Norris had been found petrified—he noticed something odd.

Water was seeping out from under the door.

He hesitated, then heard soft sobbing from within.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped inside. Myrtle was hovering over one of the stalls, wailing dramatically. "Go away! I was here first!"

"Myrtle, why is the bathroom flooding?" Harry asked.

She sniffled. "Someone threw something at me! It went right through me and landed over there!" She gestured toward the far side of the room.

Harry moved closer and spotted a small, black-bound book lying in a puddle of water. He picked it up, flipping it over to read the name inside: T M Riddle.

"T. M. Riddle?" Harry muttered. He had never heard the name before, but something about it tugged at his curiosity.

Later that evening, Harry sat in the Ravenclaw common room, staring at the journal.

He flipped the diary open. Nothing. No writing, no spells he could recognise. On a whim, he dipped his quill into ink and wrote: Hello. My name is Harry.

The ink vanished. A moment later, words appeared in elegant script.

Hello Harry.

Harry’s breath caught.

You write back, Harry wrote, heart pounding.

Of course. I am Tom Riddle. Tell me, Harry, do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?

Harry’s pulse quickened. He hesitated only a moment before responding, I do. But I need to know more.

The words shimmered before fading away. Then let me show you.

Before Harry could react, the world shifted around him, and he was pulled into a memory.

The Hogwarts of fifty years ago materialised before him. Students in old-fashioned robes milled about, unaware of his presence. And there, in the middle of it all, stood a boy with strikingly handsome features—dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and piercing eyes that made Harry’s breath catch.

Harry felt an odd warmth rise to his face before he shook himself. Focus, Potter.

As he watched, the memory unfolded, revealing Riddle’s conversation with Dumbledore, the accusations against Hagrid, and the moment the Basilisk’s supposed attacks had been pinned on an innocent party.

When he was finally ejected from the memory, Harry sat back, heart racing.

"That was… incredible," he murmured. His mind was filled with questions, but one thing was clear—this diary was powerful, and Tom Riddle was at the heart of whatever had happened all those years ago.

And he needed to know more.

~

Harry made his way to the warded room, the diary tucked under his arm. He had spent the night mulling over the memory Riddle had shown him, feeling uneasy about how real it all seemed. When he pushed open the door, he barely had time to register Luna’s presence before realising something was very wrong.

Luna was pacing the room, her fingers twisting together, her normally dreamy expression clouded with something raw and frantic. Her breath was shallow, her normally ethereal calm replaced with visible distress.

"Luna?" Harry hesitated, stepping closer. "What’s wrong?"

Luna’s head snapped up, her wide silver eyes locking onto him. "You’re going to die, Harry." Her voice wavered. "I—I keep seeing it. Over and over. A dark, wet cavern. It smells of death, and the air is thick with whispers. And yellow eyes, so large they fill the darkness. Screaming."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. "Luna—"

She surged forward, reaching for him, but then her gaze fell on the diary tucked under his arm. In an instant, her breath hitched, and a strangled cry left her lips. "No!" Her hands flew to her head as though trying to physically shake away what she was seeing. "It—it speaks in the echoes! Shadows clinging to pages! Twisting, pulling, whispering things that should not be heard—"

"Luna!" Harry grabbed her shoulders to steady her, alarmed at how pale she looked. She struggled against his grip, her wild eyes locked onto the diary.

"It’s wrong, Harry! It’s alive! It latches onto thoughts and burrows into them! It will not let go!" Her breathing was erratic, hands clutching at his robes as though she could force him to understand. "It does not belong in your hands! He can’t have you!"

Harry felt something cold slither down his spine. He had never seen Luna like this—not since just after her mother died, when her visions had first started overwhelming her. He had spent hours sitting beside her back then, grounding her, pulling her back from the edge of whatever reality she sometimes slipped into.

His grip tightened. "Luna. Look at me. It’s just a diary."

She shook her head violently. "No. No, it’s not. It breathes, Harry. It feeds off you. It—" she let out a shuddering breath "—it sees you the same way the eyes in my dreams do. The same way the darkness waits for you to come closer."

Harry's stomach twisted. Without thinking, he yanked the diary from under his arm and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall and fell to the floor, its cover closing with an innocent thud.

Luna sagged slightly, trembling. "Please, Harry. Please don’t touch it again."

He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. "Alright. I won’t. Just—just breathe, okay?"

Luna nodded weakly, but she still looked haunted, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Harry cast a wary glance at the diary lying on the floor. Everything in him screamed that this was more than just a gut feeling. Luna’s visions had never been this urgent before.

After a long moment, he took a slow breath and stretched out his hand. Flames flickered to life in his palm, dancing between his fingers.

He lifted his hand, willing the flames to stretch out and consume the diary.

The fire licked at the black cover—but nothing happened.

Harry’s breath hitched as the flames passed over it harmlessly, flickering wildly but leaving no mark, no scorch, no sign of damage. It remained as pristine as before, absorbing the fire like a void swallowing light.

He pulled his hand back abruptly, extinguishing the flames with a sharp flick of his fingers. His heart pounded in his chest.

"That—that should have worked," he murmured.

Luna’s gaze flickered between him and the diary. "It doesn’t want to burn," she whispered. "It won’t burn. Not without hell fire or the tooth."

They stood in silence, the weight of that realisation settling over them. The diary was wrong. And now, Harry knew it wasn’t just some relic of the past.

It was something much, much worse.

~

With Luna’s warning still echoing in his mind and the diary’s unnatural resistance to fire fresh in his thoughts, Harry knew they couldn’t ignore it any longer. He, Luna, Neville, Blaise, and Theo redoubled their efforts, determined to uncover the truth about Tom Riddle and his connection to the Chamber of Secrets.

Their search led them deep into the school’s archives, scouring old records, abandoned trophies, and forgotten hallways. Eventually, they found something—Riddle’s name inscribed on a golden plaque, alongside a polished medal for Special Services to the School, dated fifty years prior.

"So we know he did something that got him recognised," Neville said, running a hand over the worn engraving. "But what?"

Blaise frowned. "If it was connected to the Chamber, why isn’t there more? It’s like the whole thing was… erased."

"Or buried," Theo muttered. "Someone didn’t want people looking too closely."

They found little else, but their gut told them they were onto something. It was only when they gathered in the library to compare notes that disaster struck.

Harry had placed the diary on the table, momentarily distracted by a hushed conversation behind him. He strained to catch the words and stood up walking towards them, but before he could get close enough, the students whispering quickly moved away. Meanwhile, the others were scattered among the shelves, retrieving books for further research.

By the time Harry reached for the diary again, it was gone.

His stomach lurched. "Where is it?" he demanded, frantically patting down his pockets and searching the floor beneath the table.

Luna returned first, her eyes widening when she saw his panicked expression. "Harry?"

"The diary—it’s gone!"

The others arrived seconds later, their faces mirroring his concern. "What do you mean it’s gone?" Blaise asked sharply.

"I had it right here," Harry insisted. "Someone took it!"

They scoured the area, asking nearby students if they had seen anything, but no one admitted to witnessing anything suspicious. Anxiety clawed at Harry’s chest. That diary is dangerous.

Luna bit her lip. "We have to find it. It’s… it’s not safe in anyone else’s hands."

"Whoever took it must have been watching us," Theo muttered. "Waiting for the right moment."

Despite their efforts, they found nothing. Frustrated and out of leads, they decided there was only one other person they could ask about Riddle: Hagrid.

Under the cover of night, they slipped out of the castle, following the winding path toward Hagrid’s hut. The flickering light of his fireplace was visible through the window, but before they could knock, the sound of voices made them freeze.

Harry motioned for them to hide in the treeline just as three figures approached the hut. From the shadows, they watched as Cornelius Fudge, Dumbledore, and Lucius Malfoy knocked on Hagrid’s door.

Straining their ears they caught the tense exchange within.

"I’m sorry, Hagrid, but we have no choice," Fudge’s voice came. "With what’s been happening, the Ministry needs to take action."

"Take action? By arrestin’ me?" Hagrid’s voice thundered. "I told yeh, I never opened the Chamber of Secrets!"

Lucius Malfoy’s drawling voice followed. "Yet here we are, with history repeating itself. You were expelled for a reason, after all."

Dumbledore’s voice remained steady. "If the Ministry wishes to remove Hagrid, there is little I can do to stop it."

Harry clenched his fists. They’re arresting him? For what? As much as he disliked Hagrid being Dumbledore’s man, he didn’t seem like he would hurt anyone.

Hagrid let out a heavy breath before muttering, "If anyone wants ter find the truth... follow the spiders."

Fudge, Dumbledore, and Malfoy didn’t seem to notice the cryptic words, but from their hiding place, Harry and the others exchanged glances. Follow the spiders?

As Hagrid was led away, the five of them remained in the shadows, their minds racing. The diary was gone, Hagrid had been taken, and they were no closer to finding answers.

But now they had a new clue.

They had to follow the spiders.

Luna was the first to notice the skittering movement along the ground. "They’re retreating," she whispered, pointing toward a line of spiders scuttling into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. The group exchanged glances, uncertainty heavy in the air.

"We really shouldn’t follow them," Neville muttered, shifting uneasily. "You all know this is a bad idea."

"Of course it is," Theo sighed. "But we’re doing it anyway."

They moved cautiously, keeping close together as they followed the trail of spiders. The deeper they went, the more the towering trees blocked out the moonlight, leaving them surrounded by eerie shadows and the distant sounds of the forest.

It wasn’t long before they stumbled into a massive clearing, the earth beneath them thick with webbing. A hulking figure emerged from the darkness—a monstrous spider, its legs creaking as it moved. Dozens of smaller arachnids surrounded them, waiting.

"Aragog," Harry murmured, recognition setting in from what Hagrid had said.

The massive Acromantula loomed over them, his blind eyes shifting toward their voices. "Who dares enter my domain?"

Harry took a hesitant step forward. "Hagrid sent us. We need to know what happened fifty years ago."

At the mention of Hagrid’s name, Aragog hesitated before letting out a slow, rattling breath. "Hagrid was my friend. He protected me. But I was blamed for the attacks all those years ago. The true monster—the one that killed the girl—was not me."

Luna’s voice was calm but urgent. "Then what was it?"

"A creature of the deepest darkness… it moves through the pipes, unseen. It speaks in whispers no human should understand." Aragog’s voice grew fainter, almost regretful. "But I cannot let you leave. My children are hungry."

A rustling sound filled the clearing as hundreds of clicking legs surrounded them. The spiders began closing in, their eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"Move!" Theo shouted, raising his wand and sending out a blast of fire toward the nearest cluster of spiders. Neville and Blaise joined in, their spells knocking back the swarming creatures, but there were too many.

Harry clenched his fists, his heart hammering. "Luna, get behind me."

She obeyed without question, standing close as Harry took a deep breath. He had no choice—he had to act now.

He dropped to his knees, pressing his palms flat against the ground. Summoning his magic, he urged the earth beneath them to wake up.

The response was immediate. The ground trembled, then burst to life as thick roots shot up, twisting and tangling like living vines. They struck outward, slamming into the spiders, knocking them back, trapping them in tangles of earth and wood.

Neville, Blaise, and Theo froze, watching in awe as the very forest obeyed Harry’s command.

"Bloody hell," Blaise breathed. "That’s not just wandless magic… that’s elemental control."

Harry gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of the magic pulse through him. "Go! Now!"

They didn’t hesitate. Using the moment of chaos, the group scrambled out of the clearing, dodging the remaining spiders. They hurled spells over their shoulders, blasting away anything that got too close. By the time they broke free from the forest’s grasp, their breaths were ragged, and their hearts pounded in their chests.

They collapsed onto the grass near the castle, gasping for air. Theo was the first to speak. "Harry… that was insane. You controlled the earth like it was part of you. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

Blaise wiped a hand down his face. "More than rare. It’s nearly unheard of to have that kind of control over an element. Let alone at our age."

Harry hesitated before answering. "It’s not that big a deal. Right?" He looked between them, feeling self-conscious.

Neville exhaled sharply. “I knew you had the affinity for Earth but…Harry this is amazing!”

 "I haven’t told anyone outside of Luna."

Luna smiles and pins the others with a determined look. “And you won’t tell anyone will you?”

Neville, Theo, and Blaise exchanged glances before Neville reached out and gripped Harry’s shoulder. "We won’t say a word. But Harry—this is big."

Blaise smirked. "Yeah. And if you ever feel like throwing another forest at someone, let us know first next time."

Despite everything, Harry smiled. For now, at least, his secret was safe.

~

The next morning, the air in the Great Hall was thick with tension. Overnight, news had spread that there had been two more attacks—this time, Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater. The students were filled with fear, whispering anxiously amongst themselves. And then came the second announcement: Professor Dumbledore had been temporarily removed as Headmaster.

For most of the school, this was a cause for distress. But for Harry, it was a relief. Without Dumbledore looming over him, he felt as though a weight had been lifted. He wasn’t sure if it was paranoia or simply justified caution, but having the old man constantly keeping tabs on him had never sat well.

"I don’t think we can wait any longer," Harry murmured to his friends as they stood corner of the Great Hall after dinner, keeping their voices low. "It’s time we tell McGonagall what we know."

Luna nodded, her eyes steady despite the lingering worry in them. "The clues are all there—the spiders, the voice you’ve been hearing, the petrification’s. It has to be a Basilisk."

Neville hesitated. "But what if she doesn’t believe us?"

"Then we go to Flitwick," Blaise said simply. "Someone has to listen."

They left the Great Hall together and made their way to Professor McGonagall’s office. When they explained their theory to her, she listened with a composed expression, but when Harry finished, she sighed and shook her head.

"That is quite the assumption, Mr. Potter," she said, a hint of condescension in her tone. "A Basilisk is an incredibly rare and deadly creature. If one had been lurking in Hogwarts, the attacks would have been far worse. What you are suggesting is improbable."

Harry clenched his fists. "But we have proof! The victims weren’t killed because they saw it through reflections. And the spiders—"

"That is enough, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said firmly. "While I appreciate your concern, the staff is handling the situation. Do not let your imagination run away with you."

Frustrated and feeling dismissed, the group left her office in frustration.

"That was a waste of time," Theo muttered as they descended the staircase.

"No, not entirely," Harry said, determination hardening his voice. "We’re going to Flitwick."

The small Charms professor listened to them far more intently, his sharp eyes studying Harry as he recounted everything once again. Unlike McGonagall, Flitwick didn’t dismiss them outright.

"A Basilisk…" he murmured, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "It’s not impossible. You make a compelling case, and if true, this would explain many things." He looked at them seriously. "I will do my best to convince Professor McGonagall that this needs further investigation. But in the meantime, you must be careful. If you are right, this is a danger none of you should face alone."

While they appreciated Flitwick’s open-mindedness, Harry and the others were still frustrated. The longer it took for the professors to act, the more danger the school was in.

As if their day couldn’t get worse, Ron Weasley decided to make things personal.

"This is your fault, Potter!" Ron’s voice echoed across the courtyard where they had been heading. He stormed toward them, his face red with anger. "If you’d just helped Hermione research instead of staying away from us, maybe she wouldn’t be lying in the hospital wing!"

Harry turned to face him, unamused. "That’s ridiculous, Weasley."

Ron scoffed. "Oh yeah? Then why is it you who hears the monster? Why is it you who speaks to snakes? Admit it! You’ve got something to do with this!"

Before Harry could respond, Parvati and Padma Patil stepped in between them.

"Oh, shut up, Weasley," Parvati snapped. "Do you even know what Parseltongue is?"

Padma nodded, her expression cold. "The ability to speak to snakes is a divine gift. In India, it is incredibly rare, and those born with it are considered blessed by the gods. The fact that Harry has it after generations of it not showing in the Potter line means it must be a very strong, pure gift."

Ron gaped at them. "But—"

Parvati rolled her eyes. "Honestly, do some research before you start spouting nonsense."

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron. "Anything else you want to say?"

Ron’s face burned with frustration, but he turned and stomped away without another word.

"Thanks," Harry said to the Patil twins.

Padma smiled. "You shouldn’t have to explain yourself to people who don’t understand."

A couple of weeks later just as the day was winding down, a Ravenclaw prefect approached their table in the common room.

"Potter," she said, "Weasley was knocking on the common room door. Said a professor requested you."

Harry exchanged glances with his friends before standing. "Alright. Let’s see what this is about. I’ll be back soon I guess."

Ron stood in front of Harry, his face grim as he looked at Harry. "McGonagall asked for you. She needs help opening the Chamber of Secrets."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Let’s go."

As they hurried through the castle toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, Ron spoke in hushed tones. "I overheard some of the professors talking about the writing on the wall. Something about ‘her remains staying in the Chamber forever.’ And then—Ginny. She’s gone, Harry." His voice was tight with emotion that made Harry feel sorry for him, even with everything he’s said and done. "This morning, I got this letter. It said the entrance was in Myrtle’s bathroom." His hand clenching the letter in his hand.

Harry took the letter, eyes scanning the words quickly. The note explained that a professor may require assistance opening the chamber, citing that soon someone may be taken and will not return. To have a parselmouth open the chamber which could be found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. His stomach clenched at that, but something else caught his eye—the handwriting.

It was a script he had seen a few times before. It was Dumbledore’s.

Harry felt a flicker of doubt. Why had Dumbledore never mentioned the location of the chamber when people started getting petrified? Why now? He thought, pocketing the letter.

When they entered the bathroom, Lockhart was already there, looking impatient. He turned at the sound of footsteps and immediately scoffed. "Ah, finally! Where is Professor McGonagall? Honestly, I have much more pressing matters than standing around in a bathroom. A damsel is in distress, and it is I who must come to the rescue!"

Harry exchanged a look with Ron, but before he could say anything, Ron lunged forward, knocking Lockhart’s wand out of his hand and levelling his own at the man’s chest.

"What are you doing?!" Lockhart sputtered, looking scandalised.

Harry took a step back, shocked by Ron’s sudden aggression. "Ron, what the hell?"

"He’s going in first," Ron said, nodding toward the pompous professor. "I want to see him ‘rescue’ my sister."

Harry folded his arms, his voice cool. "You lied. McGonagall never asked for me. You just wanted me here to open the Chamber."

Ron didn’t even look guilty. "You’re the only one who can open it. If we went to a professor, we’d waste time, and Ginny doesn’t have time."

Harry clenched his jaw, furious but unable to argue against the logic. As much as he disliked Ron and his sister, he couldn’t let someone die. If he opened the chamber, then he could convince Ron to go get an actual teacher.

He turned his attention to the room, scanning for anything that could be the entrance. His eyes landed on the row of sinks, and something caught his attention—a small carving of a snake on one of the taps.

Stepping forward, he placed his fingers on the cold porcelain, fingers sliding over the snake carving. In a quiet hiss, whispered, “Open.”

There was a deep rumbling, and the sink moved, revealing a large, gaping pipe leading into the darkness below.

Lockhart paled. "Oh, dear. That’s rather ominous, isn’t it? Well, no matter! I suppose I should—"

Ron wasted no time. He shoved Lockhart forward, sending him tumbling headfirst into the hole.

"Ron!" Harry snapped, but before he could react, Ron turned and shoved him too.

Harry had not been expecting that. He barely had time to curse as he fell, twisting midair. He pushed his hands outward, calling on his wind magic instinctively, slowing his descent until he landed lightly on his feet at the bottom of the pipe.

Lockhart, in contrast, had landed awkwardly in a heap, groaning as he clutched his back.

Harry dusted himself off, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. Ron pushed me. He had never expected Ron to physically attack him. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

Lockhart struggled to his feet, his bravado flickering. "Well, that was quite unnecessary! I could have broken something important!"

Harry barely spared him a glance. His focus was on the dark tunnel stretching ahead of them.

Lockhart was pacing back and forth, running his hands through his golden curls, muttering to himself. "This is madness! Absolute madness! I should be anywhere but here!"

Harry had enough. "Shut up, Lockhart," he snapped, his patience wearing dangerously thin.

Before Lockhart could retort, there was a loud thud and a yelp from above. Ron tumbled out of the pipe and landed gracelessly onto the stone floor. Before he could even fully register where he was, Harry was on him.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry summoned his magic, tendrils of unseen force pinning Ron against the cavern wall. Ron let out a startled gasp, struggling but unable to move.

"What were you thinking?" Harry growled, stepping closer. His voice was dangerously low, his anger simmering. "You pushed me into a bloody death trap!"

Ron squirmed, his expression shifting between anger and defensiveness. "I—I panicked! I didn’t think you’d get hurt!"

Harry’s grip tightened before he forced himself to let go. The moment Ron dropped to the floor, they all turned their attention to their surroundings. The cavern stretched before them, dark and unwelcoming. There was no clear way back up.

"No choice but forward," Harry muttered, marching ahead.

The path was treacherous, lined with ancient, crumbling stone. As they moved further in, the air grew heavier, the shadows longer. Then, Lockhart let out a strangled shriek causing them all to jump.

A massive snake skin lay curled ahead of them, pale and dry. It was enormous—far larger than anything Harry had ever seen before.

Ron yelped and stumbled back. "That thing was alive once? Bloody hell!"

Lockhart, however, was breathing heavily, his eyes darting about with something that looked suspiciously like calculation rather than fear.

Before either of them could react, Lockhart moved.

Quick as a flash, he lunged at Ron and snatched his wand right from his grip. Ron staggered backward in shock, his mouth hanging open.

"Oh, my dear boys," Lockhart said, shaking his head with mock sympathy, "this is most unfortunate. You see, I have a reputation to uphold. The loss of two heroic young students—it’s tragic, really. But just think of the story! I fought bravely, but alas, I was too late to save you both, and the poor Weasley girl was already lost. Oh, it’ll be a bestseller, I’m sure."

Harry’s blood ran cold and he prepared his magic to blast the man away. "You absolute coward."

Lockhart merely smiled. "All it will take is a little—Obliviate—"

The moment he raised Ron’s wand, Harry moved to stop him, but it was too late.

The spell backfired.

A loud explosion erupted from the wand, sending Lockhart flying backward with a strangled cry. The cavern trembled violently as the unstable magic triggered a collapse.

Harry barely had time to react before he was thrown backward, the world around him shaking and crumbling. Dust and debris filled the air as the ceiling above caved in, separating him from Ron and Lockhart entirely.

"Harry!" Ron’s voice was muffled on the other side of the rockfall. "Lockhart’s oblivated himself! I’ll find a way through from here!"

Harry pushed himself up, coughing through the dust. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." He glared at the pile of rubble, resisting the urge to blast it apart.

Now he was alone.

Steeling himself, Harry turned and pressed forward. The tunnel narrowed as he walked, the silence stretching thick and unnatural. The atmosphere shifted, colder now, as he approached a massive round door engraved with snakes.

Harry inhaled sharply. This was it.

Stepping closer, he placed his hand on the surface, his voice low as he whispered in Parseltongue, Open.

The stone shifted and groaned as the serpents uncoiled, slithering aside to reveal the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry stepped inside cautiously, his eyes scanning the dimly lit chamber. The first thing he saw was Ginny Weasley’s body lying motionless on the cold stone floor.

He looked around, expecting to see whoever had taken her, there was no one else there.

It was just him, Ginny, and the lingering sense that he was not as alone as he thought.

As Harry approached Ginny’s still form, his breath caught in his throat. Kneeling beside her, he placed two fingers against her neck, relief flooding him when he felt a faint pulse. She was still alive.

Before he could do anything else, a smooth voice echoed through the chamber.

"She won’t wake."

Harry stood quickly, wand gripped tightly, his eyes scanning the dim chamber until they landed on a figure leaning against one of the massive serpent carvings. His heart skipped a beat. He knew that face.

Tall, dark-haired, and strikingly handsome, Tom Riddle stood with an air of effortless confidence. His pale skin was illuminated by the eerie glow of the chamber, and his sharp, intelligent eyes gleamed as he watched Harry.

"You," Harry breathed. "You're the one from the diary. Tom Riddle."

Tom smiled, tilting his head. "Very good, Harry. I was hoping you’d be clever enough to figure it out."

Harry wasn’t fooled by the friendly tone. Luna’s warnings rang in his head. He knew better than to trust this version of Tom Riddle. And yet…

He found himself caught, if only for a moment, by the sheer presence of him. Riddle was undeniably handsome, his chiselled features and aristocratic posture making him seem almost unreal. The way his lips curved in amusement, the sharp gleam in his dark eyes—it made something in Harry’s stomach twist.

Then, without a word, Tom flicked his fingers. Harry’s wand shot out of his grip and flew into Riddle’s waiting hand.

Harry froze. Wandless magic.

His breath hitched as he realised that, besides himself, he had never seen anyone use it before. His fascination warred with his instinct to be wary.

"You see, Harry," Riddle mused, rolling Harry’s wand between his fingers, "Ginny told me everything. Her foolish little obsession, her dreams of marrying you, how she poured her heart into my pages. I know all about you—how you defeated the Dark Lord as a mere baby."

Harry clenched his jaw. "So?"

Tom’s eyes darkened with something unreadable. "How is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent was able to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

A chill ran through Harry’s body as Riddle’s smirk widened. The air between them seemed to shift, growing heavier with tension.

“You were a student 50 years ago…who are you really?” Harry’s mind was slowly connecting the dots.

Using Harrys wand, he writes his name into the air with glowing letters then swipes to reveal the name hidden within.

I am Lord Voldemort

Tom stepped closer, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate movements. "And yet, I have no desire to kill you, Harry. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Harry took a step back, his pulse quickening. "What do you mean?"

Tom’s gaze was intense, almost predatory. "You belong with me. You’re a Parselmouth—just like me. You must be very powerful, Harry. I felt it. When you touched my diary, I could feel the power within you," His voice dropped lower, silkier. "Stay by my side, and I will show you wonders you cannot even imagine."

Harry swallowed, feeling heat rise to his face as Tom reached out, fingertips ghosting against his cheek. The moment their skin met, a spark jolted through him, like static electricity, but stronger. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine, his thoughts momentarily fogged.

Riddle’s thumb brushed along his cheekbone, his expression unreadable. The moment stretched between them, the air charged with something Harry couldn’t quite name.

Then—

"Harry!" Luna’s voice screamed in his mind, breaking the trance. His vision cleared, and reality slammed into him. The diary is evil. This is Voldemort.

With a burst of magic, Harry shoved Riddle away with a wave of force. Tom staggered backward, his expression twisting from obsession to fury.

"Fine," he sneered, eyes flashing dangerously. "If you won’t belong to me, then you won’t belong to anyone."

Riddle turned sharply and hissed in Parseltongue, "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!"

The stone mouth of the serpent statue groaned open. A massive shadow slithered out.

The Basilisk.

Harry immediately averted his gaze to the floor, his heart pounding. He hissed out, "Wait! I mean no harm!"

The Basilisk’s furious hiss rattled the chamber. "Lies. A pretender. Only the Heir commands me."

“I am the heir of Slytherin!” The basilisk seemed to pause for a moment before shaking itself.

Riddle’s laughter echoed. "You see, Harry? She only listens to me." He flicked his wrist. "Kill him."

Harry dodged just in time as the serpent lunged, fangs snapping where he had just stood. He landed in a crouch, hands ablaze with fire. Without hesitation, he hurled the flames forward, striking the serpent’s thick hide. The fire rolled across its scales but barely left a mark, the heat absorbed into its ancient, magic-infused body.

"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "Of course a thousand-year-old snake has magic-resistant skin."

Above him, a sudden cry rang out. Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, swooped into the chamber, diving at the Basilisk and clawing at its face. A scream of fury filled the chamber as the bird struck again and again until—

The Basilisk shrieked in agony. Its eyes had been clawed out.

Harry felt a surge of hope. I don’t have to look away anymore.

The Sorting Hat dropped at his feet, delivered by Fawkes. Harry barely had time to register it before the Basilisk lunged again. Harry acted on instinct. He raised his hands, pulling at the water in the chamber, twisting it into a swirling mass. With a powerful thrust, he sent a massive surge of water slamming into the serpent, wrapping around its body and limbs. As the Basilisk thrashed, he froze the water solid, encasing the monster in thick ice.

Riddle’s furious shout rang through the chamber. "Enough! Surrender Harry and I will let you live."

With Harry’s own wand, Riddle unleashed a blast of energy that shattered the frozen beast free. The Basilisk hissed in fury, thrashing wildly.

Harry’s gaze darted to the Sorting Hat, where something gleamed within. The hilt of a sword.

As the Basilisk lunged again, Harry threw himself forward, gripping the hilt and pulling free the sword. In one smooth motion, he turned, raising the blade just as the massive snake’s fanged mouth came down upon him.

With all his strength, he drove the sword straight through the roof of the Basilisk’s mouth.

A sharp pain pierced his arm—one of its fangs had sunk deep into his flesh.

The Basilisk let out one final, rattling hiss before its body collapsed.

“NOOOO!” Riddle’s enraged scream tore through the chamber.

Harry gasped for breath, vision swimming, venom burning through his veins. Above him, Riddle’s expression twisted from fury to something far more dangerous. Loss.

"You should have been mine, Harry," Riddle murmured, eyes glinting. "A true elemental and the Dark Lord. We would have been unstoppable. The world would have worshipped us. Would have worshipped you."

Harry barely had the strength to keep his eyes open as pain throbbed through his body, his breaths coming shallow and uneven. He felt the sharp burn of venom coursing through his veins, his limbs heavy as if the very air around him was weighing him down.

Tom let out a soft, almost affectionate sigh, kneeling beside him as he picked up the diary and held Harry’s body in his arms. "It’s almost done, Harry," he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Harry’s sweat-dampened forehead. "Just a little longer, and I’ll be whole again. I can’t save you."

Harry stared up at him, the edges of his vision blurring. There was something strangely wistful about it all, something tragic in knowing that a version of Tom Riddle could have been different. That in another life, perhaps, they wouldn’t have been enemies.

But this wasn’t that life.

Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Harry’s fingers closed around the basilisk fang still slick with his own blood that he yanked out of his arm. With a mournful sort of determination, he lifted the fang and in one swift motion, plunged it into the diary.

Tom’s eyes widened in horror. "No!"

A deafening scream echoed through the chamber as Tom lunged, arcs of light shooting from his body, weakly grasping at Harry’s wrist, his expression twisted in panic. "Harry, don’t! Please, don’t!"

Harry grit his teeth and stabbed again.

Tom let out a final, agonised wail as his form began to unravel, dark tendrils of magic fraying and breaking apart. His desperate fingers clawed at the air, reaching for something—for Harry—before he was gone.

Silence filled the chamber.

And then, Harry felt nothing but emptiness.

His body wavered, exhaustion pulling him under. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, Luna’s voice echoed like a soft wind, dreamlike and distant.

It’s okay, Harry, she whispered. You’re going to join the stars.

His lips curled faintly at the thought. He liked that idea. Maybe he could rest, finally—

A sharp, burning sensation cut through the haze, snapping him back to the present. A trill rang out, warm and reassuring, and Harry forced his eyes open just enough to see golden tears dripping onto his wound.

The phoenix’s luminous eyes met his, and Harry felt the fire spread through him—not painful, but cleansing, driving out the venom that had been eating away at him. Slowly, his breathing steadied, the ache in his chest fading into something tolerable.

He exhaled shakily, rolling onto his side to look at Ginny. She was still unconscious but had more colour in her cheeks. She was alive.

Pushing himself up with effort, he glanced around the chamber. Now that the danger had passed, the sheer size of the basilisk registered properly. The thing was massive.

A weak laugh bubbled from his lips, almost hysterical. He had actually killed it. He, a second-year, had taken down a thousand-year-old monster with a sword.

His gaze drifted to the weapon. He traced the ornate hilt with his thumb before turning it over to read the inscription.

Godric Gryffindor.

A strange feeling settled in his chest—Mine, his mind supplied, unbidden.

His fingers curled around the hilt as a thought crossed his mind. In stories, warriors took the spoils of their hunts or claimed trophies through conquest. Luna would have loved that comparison.

“In the name of the Mother, let it be known—the serpent is no more, and its remains shall serve the hand that struck it down.” He said jokingly lifting the sword. His magic heated through him as though in agreement with his claim.

How the hell am I going to get the sword out of here without anyone knowing?

Realisation struck him, and he groaned, smacking his forehead. "I’m an idiot."

Summoning the energy he had left, he called, "Tilly!"

With a pop, his house-elf appeared, her wide eyes immediately locking onto him before filling with horror after glimpsing the basilisk. "Master Harry! You is hurt! What has you been doing!"

"I’ll live," he assured her, wincing as he shifted. "But I need you to take something."

He held out the sword. "Be very careful—there’s basilisk venom on the blade. Hide it at the cottage."

Tilly hesitated, torn between tending to him and following orders, but finally took the weapon with reverence. "Tilly will keep it safe. Tilly will take Master Harry from this place."

"Best not Tilly, I’m not alone and we can’t have anyone see you." Harry said, exhaling. "Now go, before anyone sees you."

The moment she vanished, he heard voices from the tunnel.

"Harry?!"

Ron’s voice echoed through the chamber, followed by Lockhart’s more confused muttering. Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Of course."

Ginny let out a soft groan, her eyelids fluttering.

"Welcome back, Weasley," Harry muttered dryly, pushing himself to his feet.

Fawkes trilled again, spreading his wings. Harry knew what that meant. It was time to leave.

With Ron’s help, he gently pulled Ginny up, and together, they took hold of the phoenix.

And with a burst of golden fire, they rose out of the darkness, leaving the Chamber of Secrets behind.

~

Harry barely had time to process what had happened before Professor McGonagall descended upon him, her face red with fury and disbelief. She grabbed his shoulder, steering him firmly through the corridors of Hogwarts instead of the infirmary. "To the Headmaster’s office. Now."

As they walked, Harry spoke in a controlled voice. "Professor, you should know that Ron came to the common room claiming you had requested me. Then he forced me to go with him, held Lockhart at wand point, and made me open the Chamber of Secrets. He pushed me in right after Lockhart, where I then had to fight a basilisk." He gave her a pointed look. "I sincerely hope Weasley will be punished for his part in this." Happily throwing Ron under the bus.

McGonagall’s mouth thinned, her grip tightening momentarily before she exhaled. "Mr. Weasley’s actions were reckless, and rest assured, he will be dealt with." She hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "I owe you an apology, Potter. I dismissed your concerns about the Basilisk. I should have listened."

Harry nodded sharply but didn’t say anything. He had been right, but being right didn’t make up for the people who had been hurt because she hadn’t listened.

When they reached the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, McGonagall muttered the password, and the statue leapt aside. She gave him one last look before gesturing for him to ascend the stairs alone.

Harry climbed steadily, his stomach twisting in irritation. He had barely gotten rid of Dumbledore, and now the old man was back in his throne-like chair, waiting for him.

Fawkes trilled softly from his perch as Harry entered, but he barely spared the phoenix a glance. His focus was on Dumbledore, who watched him with those twinkling, unreadable blue eyes.

Beware the Phoenix, Harry.

"Quite the adventure, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said smoothly, folding his hands on his desk. "Would you care to explain what happened?"

Harry schooled his expression into one of nervous discomfort, choosing his words carefully. "The diary—it had him in it. The Dark Lord, when he was young. He was controlling Ginny Weasley, making her do things. There was a basilisk and I had to stab it through the mouth."

Dumbledore leaned forward, sharp as ever. "And what did he say to you, Harry?"

Harry hesitated, making sure to avoid looking directly at Dumbledore. "Not much. Just that he was a memory and wanted to come back. Things that Ginny told him. I stabbed the diary with a basilisk fang, and he disappeared."

He deliberately left out how Tom had treated him—how the other boy had whispered his name with reverence, how he had wanted Harry by his side.

Dumbledore’s gaze was heavy. "I see." He let a moment of silence pass before his tone became more measured. "And the sword, Harry? The Sword of Gryffindor?"

Harry kept his face as neutral as possible. "It disappeared after I stabbed the Basilisk. I couldn’t find it."

A flicker of frustration crossed Dumbledore’s face, but he quickly schooled his features. "That is unfortunate."

Before Harry could reply, the office door banged open, and Lucius Malfoy strode in, his cane tapping against the stone floor. Dobby scurried in behind him, looking frightened.

"Dumbledore," Malfoy sneered. "Back so soon, I see."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Indeed, Lucius. It seems the crisis has been resolved."

Malfoy’s eyes flickered to Harry, cold and calculating. "And who, exactly, is responsible for this mess?"

"That would be a diary that was slipped into Ginny Weasley’s possession, probably when she was in Flourish and Blotts." Harry said flatly, crossing his arms.

Malfoy’s expression darkened. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t over Dumbledore." Giving one last glare to them both he span around and stormed back out.

The air was filled with tension before Harry suddenly turned to Dumbledore, a new plan forming in his mind. "Sir, I’d like to borrow the diary."

Dumbledore studied him for a moment before nodding and sliding the damaged diary across the desk. Harry snatched it up, slipping off one of his socks discreetly and stuffing it inside the ruined book. He hurried down the stairs catching up to Malfoy, shouting his name causing him to turn around.

Then, without warning, he shoved the diary into Malfoy’s chest. "I believe this belongs to you."

Malfoy’s eyes flared with anger as he instinctively threw the diary aside. "I have no knowledge of—"

The book landed in Dobby’s trembling hands. The little house-elf froze, eyes wide, before looking down in shock.

A slow, dawning realisation crossed his face as he lifted the sock from the pages.

Harry barely had time to step back before Dobby straightened, magic crackling in the air around him. Malfoy’s eyes widened as he realised what he had just done.

"You freed me, Master has given Dobby a sock…Dobby is a free elf!" Dobby whispered, his voice shaking with something between awe and excitement.

Malfoy took a step forward, his face contorted with rage, lifting his wand. "You little—"

With a snap of his fingers, Dobby blasted Lucius Malfoy off his feet, sending him crashing into the wall with a heavy thud.

Harry’s eyes widened, but a smile tugged at his lips. "Nice one, Dobby."

The house-elf turned to him, tears welling in his enormous eyes. "Master Harry Potter is great and kind! Dobby is forever grateful!"

Malfoy groaned, picking himself up with a glare that promised retribution. But with Dobby standing protectively in front of Harry, he knew he had no ground to stand on.

Adjusting his robes with as much dignity as he could muster, he spat, "This isn’t over, Potter."

"Oh, I’m sure," Harry replied dryly.

With one final glare, Malfoy stormed from the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

Dobby turned back to Harry, beaming. "Dobby will never forget this!"

Harry nodded, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. "You take care of yourself, alright?"

Dobby sniffled before vanishing with a pop.

Harry barely had time to take a breath as he stepped into the Ravenclaw common room before he was suddenly collided into. A blur of blonde hair and soft robes enveloped him, and for a moment, all he could hear was the muffled sound of Luna sobbing against his chest.

"You’re alive!" she cried, her fingers gripping his robes tightly. "You changed it, Harry. The vision—it changed! You changed your fate!"

Harry stiffened for a moment, absorbing her words, before carefully wrapping his arms around her. He felt the shudders wracking her small frame, heard the way her breath hitched between her words.

"I—Luna, I’m fine," he said, though the words felt hollow even to him.

She pulled back abruptly, her normally dreamy gaze burning with anger. "Fine?!" she snapped, swiping at her wet cheeks before glaring at him. "You died, Harry! Over and over—I saw it! And then you were gone! Do you have any idea what it was like watching that happen?!"

Harry blinked, thrown off by her intensity. He had never seen Luna so shaken before. Before he could respond, she seized his wrist and dragged him toward the exit.

"What are you—?"

"Taking you to the infirmary. You need to be checked out. I won’t have you collapsing on me just because you think you can handle everything alone."

There was no room for argument. Luna’s grip was surprisingly strong, and Harry let himself be pulled through the corridors, his exhaustion weighing heavier with each step. When they finally arrived at the hospital wing, they were greeted by the last people Harry wanted to see.

Mrs. Weasley and her husband were standing with Ron and Ginny. The moment Molly Weasley laid eyes on him, she let out a strangled sob and launched herself at him, squeezing him so tightly he could barely breathe.

"Oh, Harry! You brave, wonderful boy! You saved my little girl! You’re such a good friend to my children!"

Something inside Harry snapped.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed her away—firmly but not harshly—and took a step back, his expression cold.

"No, I’m not," he said flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "I saved Ginny because it was the only thing I could do. I had no intention of going to find the chamber of secrets. I certainly don’t want to be dragged into your family’s obsession with me."

Molly reeled back as if struck. "Harry, dear, what—"

"I’m not your son," he cut in, eyes flashing. "And I don’t want to be, so please stop acting so familiar. Do you have any idea what Ron did? He lied about McGonagall asking for me. He dragged me down there with Lockhart at wand point, shoved me into a death trap, and abandoned me to fight a thousand-year-old monster alone."

Molly turned toward Ron in shock, but before she could say anything, Harry pressed on.

"I want both of you to leave me alone in the future," he said, levelling his gaze at Ginny and Ron both. "You are obsessive. You make me uncomfortable. I want nothing to do with either of you."

Ron’s face was bright red, his hands clenched into fists. "That’s not fair!"

"No, Ron, it’s more than fair," a new voice interjected. Mr. Weasley stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he studied Harry carefully. Then he turned to his wife. "Molly, Harry’s right. He has no obligation to this family."

"Arthur!" Molly gasped, but he shook his head.

"No, Molly. We have to respect his wishes."

Harry gave Mr. Weasley a brief nod before turning away. "I need to get checked out now. Excuse me."

Madam Pomfrey ran diagnostic spells over him and, despite everything, declared him in remarkably good health, save for magical exhaustion. She instructed him to rest, but he and Luna were already moving before she could argue further.

Once back in their warded room, Harry felt the last of his strength slip away. He sank onto the couch, running a hand through his hair, breathing unevenly. "I feel like I lost something," he admitted quietly. "Like something was ripped away."

Luna curled up beside him, her fingers lightly resting against his sleeve. "Tell me everything."

And so, he did. He told her about Tom—how he had looked at him, spoken to him. How he had wanted him. How, despite knowing the diary was evil, it had called to him. How hard it had been to resist, to stop himself from giving in.

"It felt like—like my soul was reaching for him," Harry confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like it would have been so easy to just—let go and belong to him."

Luna let out a choked sob. "I know, Harry. I know. I was screaming for you. I saw it. I felt it." She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. "I saw you hear me. And I was so scared you wouldn’t listen."

Harry turned to her, eyes stinging, and before he knew it, they were clinging to each other, tears silently slipping down both their faces.

"I’m sorry," he whispered into her hair.

"Me too," she murmured back.

They stayed that way for a long time, neither speaking, just breathing, just existing in each other’s space.

"You changed your fate," she whispered.

He exhaled. "Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "I guess I did."

The day after defeating the Basilisk, it seemed that the entire castle knew what had happened. Whispers followed Harry wherever he went, students stealing glances at him with a mixture of awe and curiosity. He had expected as much, but what he hadn’t expected was Ron loudly embellishing the tale at the Gryffindor table, making himself sound like the hero of the entire ordeal.

"Yeah, well, you see," Ron was boasting loudly to a group of first years, "it was all a bit touch and go. I had to take charge, obviously. Had to make sure Lockhart didn’t mess things up too much, you know? Harry and I went down into the Chamber together—real dangerous, of course—but I kept my cool."

Harry rolled his eyes, not bothering to stop and correct him. He didn’t have to—Luna had already told Neville, Blaise, and Theo the real version of events, and the truth had spread faster than any of Ron’s exaggerations. By breakfast, most of the student body knew exactly what had happened: that Ron had forced Harry to go with him under false pretences, pushed him into the Chamber, and done nothing to help him once they were down there.

Now, Ron’s grand retelling was being met with sceptical looks, and more than one student was outright ignoring him. The Slytherins, in particular, looked amused, while several Ravenclaws whispered amongst themselves, casting glances at Harry with a mixture of admiration and wariness.

At the Gryffindor table, Ginny Weasley was making cow eyes at Harry, her gaze practically glued to him. Every few minutes, she would sigh wistfully, her cheeks turning pink whenever their eyes so much as met across the hall. Worse still, she was glaring daggers at Luna, who sat comfortably beside him, completely unbothered by the Weasley girl’s simmering jealousy. The others had decided to sit with them at the Ravenclaw table and looked slightly amused.

"She keeps looking at you like you're some knight in shining armour," Theo murmured over his goblet of pumpkin juice, smirking. "How tragic."

"Not interested," Harry muttered back, stabbing his fork into his eggs. "And she needs to stop glaring at Luna."

Neville snorted. "Good luck with that. After what you did, you’re basically a legend now."

Harry groaned. That was the last thing he wanted. He’d had enough of being famous for things he barely had any control over. But the attention didn’t seem like it was going to fade anytime soon.

The only bright spot was that the Mandrakes had finally matured, and their potion was ready. Later that afternoon, the petrified students were revived, the effects of the Basilisk undone at last.

As the day wore on, the celebratory atmosphere only grew, but Harry found himself growing more withdrawn, the weight of everything settling in his chest. He knew he should be happy—it was over, everyone was safe—but something still felt off.

Luna noticed, of course. She always did.

She leaned close to him as they made their way to the Ravenclaw common room later that evening, her voice soft. "You’re still thinking about him."

Harry exhaled slowly, glancing at her. "Yeah."

She didn’t press him, simply slipping her hand into his, offering comfort in the way only she could.

For now, it was enough.

~

A few weeks later, as the Hogwarts Express rumbled along the tracks back to London, Harry sat in a compartment with Luna and the others. The atmosphere was light, the weight of the past weeks easing slightly as they settled into the familiar rhythm of the train ride home.

Blaise leaned back, eyeing Harry with curiosity. "So, what are you going to do with the Basilisk? That thing’s worth a fortune."

Theo smirked. "Since you slayed it, it’s yours, mate. That’s how it works."

Harry raised an eyebrow before shrugging. "I guess it is. I claimed it in the name of the Mother, so it’s mine to sell if I want." He drummed his fingers against the seat. "I’ll talk to Grimbok about it, see what can be done."

Neville let out a low whistle. "Even just the venom is insanely valuable. You’re sitting on a small fortune just from that."

Luna, who had been listening quietly, smiled. "And you should take us to see it sometime. I’d love to see a Basilisk up close—well, a dead one."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I can ask Tilly to take us down at some point. Should be interesting."

The conversation lifted his spirits somewhat, distracting him from the lingering exhaustion of everything that had happened. He let himself relax, closing his eyes and resting his head on the seat.

Then, just as he was beginning to finally push the memories of the Chamber away, a whisper curled around the edges of his mind, as if it was being whispered into his ear.

You belong with me, Harry.

Harry stiffened, his breath catching. His eyes flicked his side desperately, but all he saw staring back at him was his own reflection.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He said nothing.

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, fingers steepled as he watched the sun dip below the horizon. Fawkes cooed softly from his perch, the only other presence in the room. The events of the past day replayed in his mind—the Chamber of Secrets, the shade of Tom Riddle, and Harry Potter.

A twelve-year-old should not have been able to survive that. And yet, not only did Harry survive, he had defeated the basilisk and destroyed the diary. A feat no ordinary child could have managed. No… not ordinary at all, Dumbledore mused. His eyes glancing at the damaged diary on his desk.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He composed his features into a kindly smile. "Come in."

Ron Weasley stepped inside, shoulders hunched, and face twisted in annoyance. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, though his mind was calculating.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley," he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit."

Ron slumped into the chair, his expression sullen. "You wanted to see me, Professor?"

Dumbledore leaned back, adopting his grandfatherly demeanour. "Yes, yes. I wanted to congratulate you on your bravery. Leading Harry to the Chamber of Secrets… very noble indeed."

Ron’s face twisted. "He’s not very grateful. Barely even spoke to me afterward."

Ungrateful, is he? Dumbledore suppressed a frown. I will have to find another way to alienate him. The Parseltongue business didn’t isolate him much at all.

Outwardly, he sighed, feigning disappointment. "Harry can be… stubborn. But I am pleased you were able to bring him to the Chamber. Ginny’s safe, and the school is secure once more."

Ron perked up at the mention of his sister, then quickly looked sour again. "Yeah… but he’s still not my friend. No matter what I do."

Dumbledore’s eyes hardened, just for a moment, before the twinkle returned. A Ravenclaw Harry Potter. Unacceptable. He’s too cautious, too clever. The letter should have worked better. Perhaps the compulsion wasn’t strong enough, faded to quickly…

His mind wandered back to the enchanted letter he had sent Ron—a little compulsion, a touch of recklessness weaved into the parchment. He needed Harry to be reckless, brave to the point of stupidity. Ravenclaw made him too calculated. Too prepared. Not like James at all…

Still, Ron had played his part, albeit reluctantly and slightly more reckless from touching the letter. Dumbledore’s smile widened. "I understand it’s frustrating, my boy. But you must keep trying. Harry is… special. He needs guidance, friends to help him along the way. Friends like you."

Ron’s eyes flickered with doubt. "Can’t Hermione just do it? She’s better at following him around anyway."

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter. "Ah, yes. Miss Granger has proven to be… very useful. And she will have her own tasks soon enough. There’s a… project I need her to research."

His gaze drifted to the cabinet in the corner, where several old, dusty tomes lay hidden—Potter grimoires he had taken from Harry’s family vaults. The answer was in there, he was positive.

Ron perked up. "Does that mean I don’t have to—"

"You," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice suddenly cold, "will continue to befriend Harry. You will continue to be by his side, influencing him. I don’t care how you do it—be creative. Use his naivety against him. But you will do this."

Ron paled, nodding quickly. "Yes, Professor."

Dumbledore’s face softened, the kindly headmaster once more. "Good lad. I will make sure your family is compensated accordingly. Expect some… extra spending money in your account soon."

Ron’s eyes gleamed with greed, his mood immediately improving. "Thanks, Professor!"

Dumbledore leaned back, satisfaction curling through him. So easy to manipulate. Just like his mother.

He watched Ron leave, his mind already shifting to the next phase. Harry had proven to be resilient, difficult to break. The boy had fought the Basilisk and survived. Just like he survived the Killing Curse. The family magic must be stronger than he thought.

Dumbledore’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his desk. "You will be the one, Harry. Whether you like it or not."

He turned his gaze to Fawkes, whose eyes gleamed with ancient knowledge. The phoenix trilled softly, its mournful song echoing through the room.

Dumbledore’s lips curved into a cold smile.

~

The summer before Harry’s third year was beginning much like the last—trapped at Privet Drive, forced to endure the Dursleys while sneaking out to see Nox whenever he could.

Luna had left in early July for an expedition with her father, following some mystical creature trail across the globe. She wouldn’t be back until August, but they had their journals to keep in touch. He was always worried that Xeno would suddenly up and leave her alone in some magical killer jungle. Luna was constantly checking in, always asking how he was really feeling after everything that had happened in the Chamber.

I’m fine, he always wrote back.

It was a lie, of course.

Harry still dreamed of Tom. Not the monstrous spectre Voldemort had become, but the boy—the beautiful, dangerous boy who had whispered his name like a promise and looked at him like he was his. The boy who had reached for him, only to be destroyed by his hand. The worst were the dreams where Tom wasn’t angry, where he begged Harry not to kill him.

But it was getting better. Slowly.

When Harry wasn’t sneaking out to the cove to see Nox, he spent his days replaying everything that happened in the Chamber, over and over again in his mind, trying to figure out how it all went so wrong.

What was I thinking? he wondered for the hundredth time, glaring at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom. Why did I let Ron get away with so much?

Ron, who had dragged him to the Chamber under false pretences. Ron, who had pushed him down that hole without a second thought. Harry’s fingers tightened into fists. I shouldn’t have let him off so easily. I should’ve been more careful.

It was pure luck that Ron hadn’t noticed when Harry used wandless magic to pin him against the wall after getting shoved down the tunnel. If Ron had seen, if he had realised… Harry shuddered at the thought. Dumbledore would have known. And then everything would’ve fallen apart.

Even facing the Basilisk, he had been reckless. Why didn’t he just run? He could’ve saved himself and come back for Ginny later. Sure, he would’ve felt awful leaving her to die, but if he had been killed… then who would’ve saved her anyway?

I was lucky, Harry thought bitterly. Stupidly, foolishly lucky. If the Basilisk’s venom hadn’t destroyed the diary, he would have died. He wasn’t sure if Fawkes would have healed him with Tom still at his side.

A shiver ran through him as he remembered the fight—the searing pain of the Basilisk’s fang piercing his arm, the rush of victory quickly replaced by the poison’s burn. But even more haunting were his memories of Tom.

Harry could still feel the phantom touch of Tom’s hand against his cheek, the soft caress that made his heart stutter. The boy who had begged, voice raw and broken, “Don’t kill me… Please, Harry…”

He hated himself for the way his heart ached at the memory. For the way he had felt as Tom faded from existence.

Why did he feel this way? Harry’s fists clenched. He set the basilisk on him for Merlin’s sake! He wanted him dead!

He rolled onto his side, glaring at the wall, his chest tight. It’s just guilt, he told himself. Just guilt because I killed someone-again. Someone who was just a boy.

Would it have been so bad, to stay by his side?

He shook his head fiercely, trying to banish the thought.

~

To keep himself distracted, he had worked on something new—an improved version of his communication journal for him and his friends. He had five journals, all connected. He had managed to create a main journal where he could adjust the runes and add to them, he didn’t want to end up with a hundred journals after all. To keep everything clear, he had also ordered them different coloured Never-End Ink Quills.

It wasn’t quite as private as Luna’s shared journal with him, but it was the best way to keep everyone connected over the holidays.

Putting his project aside, he waited for the lights in the hallway to go out.

The moment the Dursleys were asleep, Harry called for Tilly, and with a soft pop, she took him to the cove.

The night air was cool and salty, the crash of the waves against the shore instantly relaxing him. It was late, but that didn’t matter—this was the only place he could breathe freely.

"Mother!" A loud, joyous voice echoed across the sands before something large barrelled into him.

Harry let out an oof as he was knocked to the ground, staring up at the shimmering form of Nox, who had pinned him under one massive foreleg.

She had grown.

Over a year old now, Nox stood at an impressive nine feet tall, her midnight-black scales shimmering in the moonlight. Her eyes, still the bright gold of her hatching days, gleamed with delight as she nuzzled him.

"Mother, you’re late!" she huffed, though she still chirped happily, pressing against him. "I missed you!"

Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around her massive head. "I missed you too, little terror."

She huffed, offended. "I am not little anymore."

He snorted. "Fine. Big terror."

After a few more minutes of affectionate headbutting, Harry finally extricated himself and moved toward the shore. The sea was calling him tonight. His magic thrummed in time with the waves, restless and ready to be worked. The moon was full and high in the sky illuminating the water.

Stripping off his shirt, he stepped into the surf, letting the cool water lap around his ankles before he started moving through his exercises.

Water bent to his will, rising and curling with the flow of his body. His control was sharper now, more refined. The larger his movements, the bigger the results—so tonight, he went big.

His arms swept out, and twin pillars of water rose, twisting into serpentine shapes before collapsing forward in a surge of power. He twisted, and the waves followed, swirling around him, lifting him off the ocean floor for a moment before settling back down.

Swift, fluid, powerful. Deadly.

Behind him, Nox watched, fascinated. "You move like the sea, Mother."

Harry smiled. "That’s the goal."

Nox took a few steps forward, water splashing against her scaled legs. "I want to try."

Harry turned. "You can try, but remember—you’re a hatchling of fire."

Nox flared her wings, determination gleaming in her eyes.

Harry chuckled, stepping back. "Alright, let’s see what you’ve got."

Nox mimicked his stance, awkward now that she was so much bigger, but she had been copying him for months. She raised her wings as if they were arms, sweeping them in a grand arc. The ocean didn’t move.

She tried again. And again.

Then, on the fifth attempt, something happened, and Harry felt his magic stir.

Harry had just turned to offer advice when the air crackled with energy. Nox lifted her wings one last time—

—and the sea answered.

A wave surged up from behind her, rolling forward as if responding to her command. It wasn’t large, but it was unmistakable.

They both froze. The wave crashed back down, leaving only stunned silence in its wake.

Harry’s mouth went dry. "...Nox?"

She turned to him, eyes wide. "I felt something. I don’t—"

Heart pounding, Harry swallowed hard. "Try again."

She did.

This time, Harry felt it again—a small, subtle pull on his own magic, like something was tethered between them. And then another wave answered, lifting and cresting in sync with her movements.

Nox slowly lowered her wings, breathing hard. "Mother… what was that?"

Harry didn’t know.

But one thing was certain.

Nox—his dragon, his fire-breathing dragon—had just bent water.

Harry's mind raced as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Nox wasn’t supposed to be able to manipulate water—dragons were creatures of flame, not fluid. And yet, there was no denying what had just occurred. He had felt it, the pull of magic, subtle but unmistakable, like a thread connecting them.

His thoughts spiralled, piecing together the possibilities.

"I think," he said slowly, watching as Nox shifted uncertainly in the wet sand, "it has something to do with my magic."

Nox’s head tilted. "I don’t understand."

Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, thinking. "Magic—especially elemental magic—operates on a deeper level than just control. It responds to intention, emotion, and affinity. What if… what if some of my magic settled in you?"

Nox blinked at him. "Settled?"

Harry nodded, growing more certain as he spoke. "Like an imprint. A bond. Ever since you hatched, we’ve been together. I’ve used magic around you constantly, trained in front of you, with you. When you were first hatched, I used to bathe you in my magic to keep you calm. Magic is reactive—it adapts, it learns. And dragons are inherently magical creatures. What if, over time, you absorbed some of my magic? Or—" He hesitated, thinking deeper. "Or what if my magic recognised you, accepted you as an extension of myself? A partner? A—"

"Hatchling?" Nox offered brightly.

Harry laughed. “Yes, a hatchling. My Hatchling" He reached out, placing a hand on her warm scales. "I think you’re using my magic when you do that. Maybe not consciously, but it’s there. Like a tether, linking us. That’s why I felt the pull when you moved the water."

Nox’s tail flicked, sending up a small spray of sand. "So… what else can I do?"

Harry chuckled. "That’s what we’ll have to find out."

Nox chirped in excitement, then suddenly perked up, her wings twitching. "But first—" she said, her voice turning playful. "You owe me a flight."

Harry blinked. "A flight? Nox, I can’t fly. Not like you."

Nox huffed, nudging him with her snout. "You can lift yourself with the wind. But you can’t go very high yet."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting?"

Nox grinned, all sharp teeth and amusement. "I’m saying I’m big enough now. I can carry you!"

Harry took a step back, eyes widening. "You want me to ride you?"

"Yes!" Nox flared her wings for emphasis. "I’ve seen you look longingly at the sky. You want to, Mother. Don’t deny it."

Harry hesitated. The idea was thrilling, but—"It’s dangerous. I could fall."

"Then hold on tight, I will catch Mother." she said simply, lowering herself so he could climb onto her back.

Harry took a deep breath, heart pounding. He’d dreamed of flying like this, soaring through the sky without a broom. Tentatively, he stepped forward, gripping the ridges of her spine, climbing and swinging himself onto her back. Her scales were warm beneath his hands, shifting slightly as she adjusted to his weight.

"Alright?" she asked, glancing back at him.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, his grip tightening. "Alright."

With a powerful push of her wings, Nox launched them into the air.

The first few moments were sheer chaos—wind rushing past him, his stomach lurching as the ground fell away. Harry clenched his thighs around Nox’s body, gripping onto her ridges for dear life as she climbed higher and higher.

Then, something shifted. He could feel instincts that weren’t his taking over. He adjusted his weight, moving with Nox rather than against her, and suddenly—

He was flying.

The sensation was indescribable. The sky stretched endless above them, the sea glimmering like liquid silver below. The wind wasn’t fighting him—it was carrying him. Supporting him.

"This," he whispered, awed. "This is amazing."

Nox let out a delighted trill, twisting slightly to test his balance. "Told you!"

Harry laughed, exhilaration thrumming through him. He released one hand, stretching it out into the open air, feeling the currents whip around his fingers. For the first time in forever, he felt free.

Nox banked sharply, tilting her wings, and Harry instinctively leaned into the motion, his mind already mapping out how she moved, how the air worked around her. His elemental magic responded, guiding him, whispering secrets of the wind.

"Faster!" he called, grinning.

Nox obeyed immediately, pumping her wings harder. They shot forward like an arrow, slicing through the sky. Harry whooped, throwing his head back in sheer joy.

They spent what felt like hours soaring through the sky, looping around clouds, diving toward the water before pulling up just in time, twisting and turning in patterns that felt entirely natural.

Eventually, Nox began a slow descent back toward the cove. Harry’s muscles ached, but he didn’t care. As they landed, he slid off her back, stumbling slightly before steadying himself.

"That," he said breathlessly, "was the best thing I’ve ever done."

Nox preened. "Now you’re a dragon.”

Harry ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair, still grinning. "We’re doing that again. A lot."

She purred happily, curling around him. "Whenever you want, Mother. Whenever you want."

As the night settled in around them, Harry lay back against Nox’s side, still buzzing with excitement.

~

By late July, Harry had sent out the connected journals, and his friends had begun writing in them almost immediately. It wasn’t long before a plan formed—one that had them all buzzing with anticipation.

Neville: Alright, so when are we doing this? I need to make sure Gran won’t be around to question me when I suddenly vanish for hours.

Theo: Same here. Father’s in France, but some of the portraits are nosy. I’ll make sure I have an alibi.

Blaise: I don’t need an excuse. Mother’s off dealing with her latest unfortunate husband candidate. She won’t notice.

Harry: I say we do it in the next few days. I’ve had Tilly cast a preservation spell on the Basilisk, so nothing decays before Luna gets back.

Luna: About that… my trip has been extended. Daddy wants to follow the migration of the Veela up through the Russian forests, and it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. I won’t be back until mid-August.

Neville: Are you sure we should do this without you?

Luna: Yes, yes. You boys go ahead. Take some pictures for me?

Harry: Alright, we’re set then.

Theo: Well, the school is empty, but we still have to be careful about the wards. The only way in is by house-elf.

Harry: Which means we’re relying on Tilly. She can pop us into the Chamber without anyone knowing.

Blaise: Good.

Neville: I’ll make sure my Gran is visiting some old pureblood friends. She’ll be gone for the whole day, which means I won’t have anyone questioning me.

Theo: I’ll just tell the elves I’m ‘studying magical history’ and not to interrupt me. That’ll keep them from snooping. The trick is to sound as boring as possible.

Blaise: And I’ll just exist as usual. No one watches me too closely anyway.

Harry: Perfect. Tilly will get us in and out. Once we’re inside, we’ll secure the chamber, make sure nothing dangerous is left behind, and then figure out what to do with the Basilisk.

Luna: You should also check for any secret passageways. Hogwarts is full of them, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the Chamber held more secrets than just the snake.

Harry: Good point. We’ll search for anything useful.

Theo: Alright, so when exactly are we doing this?

Harry: Tomorrow night. Midnight. Everyone be ready, and make sure you don’t get caught sneaking out of your houses.

Luna: Floo to the Rookery. Don’t forget the password is Nargles.

Blaise: Oh please, have some faith in us, Potter. See you all tomorrow.

Harry closed his journal, heart thrumming with excitement. The plan was set. Tomorrow night, they would return to the Chamber of Secrets and uncover whatever mysteries it still held.

~

Early the next morning, they all gathered at the Rookery, their excitement and nerves a tangible energy in the cool summer air. Tilly was waiting, ready to take them two at a time to the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry was the first to go, with Theo accompanying him. The instant they popped in the vast, dimly lit cavern, Harry’s breath caught slightly. The chamber was eerily silent, the weight of what had transpired here pressing down on him like an unseen force.

His heartbeat quickened as fleeting flashes of memory surfaced—the glow of Toms form, the deafening hiss of the Basilisk, the bone-deep pain of venom searing through his veins.

Theo, who had been taking in the sight of the carved serpent statues lining the walls, turned to him, frowning. "You alright?"

Harry blinked rapidly and took a slow, deliberate breath, shaking off the remnants of the past. "Yeah. Just—memories. I’m fine."

Theo gave him a searching look but nodded, letting it go for now.

Moments later, Tilly popped back in with Blaise and Neville. The second they laid eyes on the enormous corpse of the Basilisk, Theo, who had turned around, let out a low whistle.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "I knew it was big, but this—" He shook his head, stunned.

Neville and Blaise were less composed.

"Merlin’s saggy robes!" Blaise yelped, staring at the Basilisk’s massive coils. "That thing could have swallowed a house!"

Neville let out an undignified squeak before clearing his throat. "You fought that? By yourself?"

Harry smirked slightly. "Well, Fawkes helped. Took out its eyes."

"Still, mate," Theo said, running a hand through his hair. "This is insane."

Blaise finally snapped out of his shock and grinned, stepping forward. "Alright, before we start working out what to do with this thing, we need to document this moment."

He nudged Theo, who immediately pulled out a sleek black magical camera.

Theo smirked, adjusting the lens. "Harry, stand next to it for comparison."

Harry groaned but did as he was told, stepping beside the massive serpent’s head. Theo snapped several shots, the enchanted camera capturing subtle movements and the shifting glow of the enchanted lights Harry had conjured to illuminate the cavern.

Blaise clapped his hands together, looking positively delighted. "This is Slytherin heaven. Look at this place, the history, the sheer magnificence of it!"

Neville shook his head in amused exasperation. "I think you two are a little too happy about standing in an ancient chamber that housed a thousand-year-old murder snake."

"Legendary thousand-year-old murder snake," Theo corrected, still snapping pictures. "And it belongs to us now. Well, to Harry, but you get what I mean."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. Despite the eerie familiarity of the chamber, the energy of his friends lightened the atmosphere.

With the initial shock of the basilisk’s sheer size settling, Harry and the others turned their focus to exploring the Chamber properly. If Salazar Slytherin had hidden one secret within the castle, who was to say there weren’t more?

Theo ran a hand over one of the serpent carvings. "There have to be hidden passages here. Hogwarts thrives on them."

Neville nodded, eyes scanning the dimly lit stonework. "We should check every nook and cranny. This place is ancient—who knows what’s buried here?"

Blaise grinned. "Then let’s get to work."

They split up, scouring the cavernous space, pushing against walls, tapping on stones, and muttering incantations meant to reveal hidden pathways. After nearly twenty minutes of searching, Theo let out a triumphant noise.

"Over here! I think I found something."

Harry hurried over to where Theo was pressing against a section of the wall where the serpent carvings curled into an intricate design. Harry took a deep breath and whispered, "Open."

The stone groaned and slid inward, revealing a narrow passage. They shared a look before stepping inside.

The chamber beyond was lined with shelves and filled with the scent of old parchment and aged wood. Glass jars containing various substances lined the walls, and old cauldrons sat in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust but still intact.

Neville’s breath hitched. "These… these are ancient ingredients. Some of these plants went extinct centuries ago!"

Harry turned to him, eyebrows raised. "You recognise them?"

Neville nodded fervently, stepping forward and tracing his fingers over the labels. "This is Silphium. And this—this is Moonsap! They don’t even exist anymore." He looked up at Harry, awe-struck. "Do you know what this means? There are seeds in here. If we can plant them, we can bring them back—this could change potion-making entirely."

Harry grinned. "Then take a couple. Whatever you think can be revived. I would like some cuttings though."

Neville hesitated, as though touching them would break the spell of discovery, then carefully pocketed two vials. "This is incredible, Harry."

Blaise let out a low whistle as he ran a hand over a large tome on a nearby table. "Slytherin really had his own research going on down here. We need to catalogue all of this."

Harry’s eyes glinted. "Agreed."

Once they had checked every corner of the potions lab, they continued their search. The thrill of discovery was an intoxicating thing, and the knowledge that this place belonged to him only fuelled Harry’s excitement.

After a while, they all regrouped in the main chamber. A thought struck Harry then, one that made his pulse quicken.

"Stand in different corners of the chamber," he instructed.

The others exchanged puzzled glances but did as he asked, moving to separate areas around the massive space.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry drew on his magic and cast a Sonorous Charm on himself before shouting one word that echoed off the chamber’s walls, bouncing through the space with almost tangible force.

"Open!"

A deep rumble shook the ground beneath them. Cracks spiderwebbed through the floor, and then—

Several sections of the chamber shuddered and shifted.

Near Theo, a portion of the wall melted away to reveal another passage lined with statues of hooded figures. On Blaise’s side, a hidden stairwell spiralled upward into darkness.

And in the very centre of the chamber—where the Basilisk had once emerged—an enormous, circular slab of stone ground open, revealing a set of stairs that led deep below.

Harry’s heart pounded. He had known there was more.

Blaise let out a slow breath. "Now that was dramatic."

Theo smirked. "Of course it was. Harry the Heir of Slytherin, after all."

Harry turned to them, his grin widening. "Let’s see where these stairs lead."

With cautious steps, the four of them descended the spiral staircase, Harry taking the lead. In his palm, a glowing orb of magic hovered, illuminating the passageway ahead with a cool, steady light. The air was heavy with age, thick with the scent of stone and something magic, raw and undisturbed for centuries.

Stretching his magic outward, Harry reached into the unseen space ahead, searching for any sign of danger. The tunnel pulsed with power, but there was nothing hostile—just a quiet hum, like a place waiting to be awakened.

"Feels… dormant," he murmured.

"Let’s hope it stays that way," Theo muttered, keeping a hand on his wand.

The passage twisted downward for a few more minutes before ending abruptly at a lone wooden door. Unlike the stonework around them, this door was unmarked, simple but sturdy, with a tarnished brass handle.

Harry hesitated for only a moment before reaching for the knob. The instant his fingers brushed the metal, a sharp prick shot through his palm. He hissed, jerking back as a single drop of blood welled at the surface of his skin.

"Harry?" Neville asked, stepping closer.

The blood was drawn into the handle, the metal pulsing with a faint glow before a series of clicks echoed from within. Then, slowly, the door creaked open.

"Blood magic," Blaise murmured in appreciation. "It recognises you."

Harry flexed his fingers, stepping forward.

They entered cautiously, and the moment the last of them crossed the threshold, the sconces lining the walls flared to life, casting the room in flickering golden light.

Their breath caught as they took in their surroundings.

It was a library.

Ancient tomes lined the towering bookshelves, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and leather-bound knowledge. The room was larger than it appeared from the outside, filled with shelves, cabinets, and scattered furniture—old desks, worn armchairs, and tables covered in scrolls and astronomical instruments.

In one corner, a large, ornate telescope stood positioned near a domed section of the ceiling made entirely of enchanted glass, through which the night sky gleamed with unnatural clarity. Ancient maps—some rolled, some pinned to the walls—detailed unfamiliar constellations and markings that none of them immediately recognized.

Above a grand fireplace, a portrait hung, depicting a man who bore a striking resemblance to the carved statues in the Chamber of Secrets. His long black hair framed a sharp, aristocratic face, and even in sleep, his presence radiated authority.

"This is incredible," Theo breathed, his voice hushed with awe.

Blaise ran a hand over the spine of a thick tome, eyes glittering. "A personal archive… untouched, preserved for centuries."

Neville moved toward one of the tables, carefully picking up a scroll. "Some of these plants—I've never even heard of them. If this is Salazar Slytherin’s collection, then some of these may not even exist anymore."

Harry took a slow step forward, his fingers tingling as he let his magic stretch into the room. It was welcoming him. "This wasn’t just a library," he murmured. "It was a study, an observatory, a sanctuary."

Theo turned toward the portrait. "Think he’ll wake up if we get too noisy?"

Blaise smirked. "Only one way to find out."

Neville shot him a look. "How about we don’t antagonise the ancient wizard’s portrait?"

Harry chuckled, though his gaze lingered on the sleeping figure. If this truly was Slytherin’s private chamber, then there was no telling what knowledge lay hidden here.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together. "We have a lot to uncover. Let’s get to work."

With the initial shock of discovering the library settling, the four of them moved further into the room, each drawn to different corners of the vast space. Dust particles swirled lazily in the golden light of the sconces, disturbed by their quiet footsteps.

Neville ran his fingers over the fragile pages of an open tome on one of the central tables, his eyes scanning the delicate script. "This handwriting—it's not in any language I recognise."

Theo, flipping through a book of his own, hummed. "A lot of this looks like archaic Latin. But some of these symbols…" He trailed off, running his fingers over a series of strange diagrams. "They don’t match any known magical scripts."

Blaise, who had wandered toward the astronomical instruments, adjusted one of the delicate lenses on a brass telescope, peering through it. "The constellations here are… wrong. Either Slytherin was tracking something no one else was, or this was enchanted to show the stars as they were thousands of years ago."

Harry, standing before the massive portrait above the fireplace, felt something stir deep in his magic. The portrait’s occupant, the regal-looking man with piercing eyes even in slumber, looked eerily like the carved statues in the Chamber. There was no plaque, no identifying name. But Harry knew.

"It has to be Salazar Slytherin himself," he murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear.

Neville glanced over his shoulder. "Do you think he’ll wake up? Portraits are usually enchanted with sentience."

Harry hesitated, then reached out with his magic, letting it pulse forward in a gentle wave. The air in the room grew still. Then, almost imperceptibly, the painted eyelids twitched.

A sharp intake of breath sounded from Theo. "Did he—?"

Before he could finish his sentence, the portrait’s eyes snapped open. They were a striking green, eerily similar to Harry’s own. For a long moment, the figure remained still, as if assessing them, before his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Ah," the voice was rich and smooth, carrying the weight of centuries. "It appears that I have guests."

Blaise let out a low whistle. "Well, that’s not unsettling at all."

Salazar Slytherin’s portrait tilted his head slightly. "Who stands before me?"

Harry took a steady breath and bowed his head slightly. "Harry Potter."

Something flickered in those ancient green eyes. "Ah. The Heir."

Theo stiffened. "How do you—?"

"My chambers do not open to just anyone, boy," Slytherin replied, his gaze sharp as he took them all in. "For centuries, this place has remained untouched. That you stand here means my blood recognises you."

Harry swallowed hard. "Through blood and conquest." Recalling his inheritance test.

Slytherin leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps. But blood is not always the sole marker of worth. You, child, have the right magic. That much is clear."

Neville shifted uncomfortably. "So… is this library only meant for your descendants?"

Slytherin chuckled, the sound like rolling thunder. "Knowledge is meant to be earned. Those who prove themselves worthy will find the doors opening for them." His gaze flickered to Blaise and Theo. "Your blood sings to this place as well. Descendants of old houses, are you not?"

Theo nodded. "Nott. And Zabini."

Slytherin smirked. "Fitting. And you?" He turned his gaze to Neville, scrutinising him.

Neville hesitated before squaring his shoulders. "Neville Longbottom." Making Salazar nod.

Harry cleared his throat. "Why was this place hidden? Why lock away all this knowledge?"

Slytherin sighed, leaning back. "Because knowledge, in the wrong hands, is dangerous beyond measure. The other founders… they did not all agree with my methods. But I had no wish to see centuries of study lost to ignorance. So I created this refuge."

Blaise, always one to appreciate hidden power, grinned. "Well, lucky for us."

Slytherin’s gaze darkened. "Do not be so quick to celebrate, boy. Secrets have a way of demanding their price."

Harry felt a shiver go down his spine at the warning. Still, the promise of what they could learn here was too great to ignore.

"Can we study here?" Harry asked cautiously. "We want to uncover what was lost."

Slytherin’s expression remained unreadable before, finally, he gave a slow nod. "You may study. But know this—knowledge is a gift, and a curse. Tread wisely."

The four exchanged glances, determination gleaming in their eyes. Whatever lay ahead, they were ready.

And so, with the watchful gaze of Salazar Slytherin’s portrait upon them, they began their search through the past.

As the others continued their exploration, Harry lingered near the portrait, feeling the weight of Slytherin’s gaze upon him. After a moment, the ancient wizard spoke again, voice quieter, more measured.

"You have questions," Slytherin said knowingly. "Ask them."

Harry hesitated before nodding. "I do. A lot, actually. But I suppose the most important is… do you know what became of your bloodline?"

Slytherin’s expression darkened. "I have been asleep for many centuries. I can only sense fragments, echoes of those who carried my magic. But tell me, child, what has become of my heirs?"

Harry took a steadying breath. "The last known heir of your line… became a Dark Lord. Tom Riddle, or as he renamed himself, Lord Voldemort. He drenched himself in so much black magic that he lost most of his human features. People fear even his name."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Slytherin’s painted features before he hummed thoughtfully. "And what of him now?"

"Defeated. Twice, technically. First as an infant when he tried to kill me, and again in recent years, when his lingering presence was destroyed." Harry met Slytherin’s gaze. "He was clever and powerful. I think you might have liked him… at least, when he was young. Before he lost himself."

Slytherin let out a long, contemplative sigh. "A shame. To have fallen so far… reduced to a shade. My house was meant for greatness, not for blind ambition devoid of wisdom."

Harry tilted his head. "Then why did it fall so easily?”

Slytherin studied him for a long moment before finally speaking. "Because ambition is a fire, and without guidance, fire consumes everything—including itself. It seems my house has been left without a guiding hand for far too long."

Harry exhaled. "Well, I suppose it’s a good thing I can control fire then, isn’t it?"

Slytherin’s eyes gleamed. "An elemental? That is rare even in my time, but that alone won’t make you a true heir."

Harry smirked. "Then I guess I have work to do."

A small chuckle escaped Slytherin’s lips. "Indeed."

A voice called from across the room. "Harry! We should probably get going before gran gets back!"

Harry turned to see Neville waving him over. He nodded before glancing back at the portrait. "I’ll come back soon. There’s a lot I would like to talk about, if you like." Sending an unsure smile at the portrait.

Slytherin inclined his head. "Then I shall be here, waiting."

With one last look at the ancient library, Harry turned and made his way toward his friends, already planning his next visit to the hidden chamber.

~

The night air was cool and crisp as Harry sat on the soft sand of the cove, staring out over the dark, endless sea. The waves lapped gently against the shore, shimmering under the silver glow of the moon. Above him, the stars twinkled in quiet celebration, though tonight, they felt a little lonelier than usual.

It was nearly midnight—his birthday was minutes away—and for the first time since he had met Luna, she wouldn’t be here to celebrate it with him. She had sent him messages through their journal all day, making sure he wasn’t feeling too alone, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t begrudge her spending time with her father, he was just feeling a little lonely.

Beside him, Nox stretched her massive wings before curling them in, settling down next to him with a soft thump. The fire in front of them crackled warmly, golden embers floating into the night sky as the scent of roasting fish filled the air.

"Mother," Nox purred, nudging him with her snout, her large eyes glowing in the firelight. "You are sad."

Harry huffed a small laugh, reaching up to scratch behind one of her large horns. "Not sad, exactly," he admitted. "Just… missing our Moon. It’s the first time she won’t be here for my hatching day."

Nox chirped in understanding and then gestured with her head toward the fire. "I caught these for you. They are fat fish! They will make you strong!" she declared proudly.

Harry grinned, his heart warming at her effort. "They look amazing, Nox. Thank you."

Nox rumbled happily and stretched out her long neck, resting her head on the sand. Her gaze flickered thoughtfully to the flames, and she hummed. "You caught many fish for my first hatchday. And the big soft creature!" Her wings twitched excitedly at the memory. "It is still warm! Still soft! Still mine!"

Harry chuckled at her enthusiasm. "Yeah, that thing was huge. Eleven feet of pure fluff." He remembered how she had curled around it possessively the moment he had enlarged the stuffed toy hippocampus for her, purring in delight as she nuzzled into its warmth. He had charmed it to be resistant to damage and always warm, making it the perfect comfort object for a growing dragon.

"Best gift!" Nox declared firmly, her tail swishing in the sand. "But now, I give you gifts."

Harry smiled, glancing at the fire, at the stars, at the vast ocean stretching out before them. Despite the ache of missing Luna, he felt content. He leaned back on his hands, listening to the crackling fire, counting down the last moments of his birthday.

One more minute.

He sighed, closing his eyes. I wish Luna was here.

"I hope I’m not late."

Harry’s breath hitched.

He turned so quickly that he almost fell over, eyes widening in disbelief. Standing just a few feet away, illuminated by the fire’s glow, was Luna.

She was slightly windblown, her long blonde hair a little messy from travel, but she was smiling, her bright eyes filled with warmth and mischief.

"Luna!" Harry exclaimed, surging to his feet.

She barely had time to react before he threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She laughed, wrapping her arms around him in return, her hands gentle against his back.

"Happy birthday, Harry," she murmured against his shoulder.

He pulled back slightly, staring at her in astonishment. "How—? You were supposed to be on an expedition!"

Luna tilted her head, her usual dreamy expression in place. "I was. But I asked Tilly to bring me here. Just for a little while. I couldn’t miss your birthday, Harry."

Something in Harry’s chest unclenched at her words. She had travelled all this way—just for him.

Nox let out a delighted trill and nudged Luna with her snout, almost knocking her over. "Nestmate Moon! You are here!"

Luna giggled and reached up to stroke the dragon’s snout affectionately. "Hello, Nox."

Harry shook his head, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I can’t believe you did this."

Luna’s eyes twinkled. "Of course you can."

He let out a small laugh. "Yeah. I suppose I can."

They sat down together by the fire, the warmth of the flames warding off the cool sea breeze. Nox stretched her wings behind them, creating a protective curve around their little gathering.

Harry reached for one of the roasted fish, handing another to Luna, who took it with a pleased hum. They ate in comfortable silence, the crackling fire and the rhythmic sound of waves filling the air.

After a while, Luna leaned her head against his shoulder. "Did you make a wish?"

Harry glanced at her, then at the fire, a soft smile forming. "I did."

Luna’s fingers played idly with the hem of her robe. "And did it come true?"

Harry looked at her, at Nox curled up beside them, at the vast night sky above, and felt something settle deep inside him.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It did."

Luna smiled, and they sat there together, letting the stars celebrate his birthday with them.

~

August 6th arrived, and with it, the continued nightmare of Aunt Marge’s visit. She had arrived the night before, and each moment was more insufferable than the last.

Harry stood in the kitchen, carefully flipping a slab of steak in a pan, the sizzling sound momentarily drowning out the drone of Marge’s grating voice from the dining room. He had spent years perfecting the art of tuning her out, but tonight, she was especially determined to get under his skin.

"Vernon, I just don’t know how you’ve put up with this boy for so long," Marge sneered, cutting into her meal. "From what you’ve told me, he’s been nothing but a burden. And with his breeding—well, it’s in the blood, isn’t it?" She took a sip from her wine glass, smacking her lips. "Bad blood will always tell."

Harry gritted his teeth, gripping the handle of the pan tightly. Stay calm. Just get through the night.

"Now, take my dogs," Marge continued. "Ripper’s got the right pedigree, good breeding! But you let in a stray—one of those nasty mutts off the street—and before you know it, you’ve got a menace on your hands! It’s the same with that lot, isn’t it?" She tilted her head toward Harry with an unpleasant smirk. "Your parents were no better. A drunk and a layabout—"

Harry’s grip on the pan trembled. Breathe. Don’t react. Don’t give her the satisfaction. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

"You see, Vernon, if there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong with the pup!"

Something snapped inside Harry.

The kitchen lights flickered dangerously, and an eerie silence fell over the room. A low hum of raw, untamed magic curled around his spine, reacting to his growing fury. His vision blurred, not with tears, but with sheer frustration. He clenched his fists, forcing his magic down, suppressing it—

And then, the most ridiculous thing happened.

Aunt Marge let out an odd choking noise, her fork clattering against her plate. Her hands flailed as her body expanded—not in weight, but like a grotesque balloon filling with air. Her face stretched, her cheeks puffing out, and before anyone could react, she was floating out of her chair.

"Vernon!" she screeched, her voice high and panicked as she began rising toward the ceiling. "What’s happening?!"

Dudley had dropped his fork, staring in stunned horror. Petunia let out a strangled gasp, while Uncle Vernon lunged forward, trying desperately to grab her legs before she floated completely out of reach.

"BOY! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" Vernon roared, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he clawed at the air.

Harry glared at him, his heart racing. He hadn’t meant to do it—he’d just been trying to contain his anger, but his magic had responded in the most dramatic way possible.

Marge flailed helplessly, bumping into the ceiling, her skirt flipping as she rotated slowly. "Put me down this instant!"

Harry took one look at Vernon’s murderous expression and knew he was done with this house. It would be hard to scare Vernon into submission if the obliviate squads showed up to reprimand him for his accidental magic. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed up the stairs. He grabbed his trunk, stuffing it with his belongings as fast as he could.

Hedwig hooted from her cage, sensing the tension.

"We’re leaving," Harry muttered. "I don’t care where, but we’re leaving. Go to Nevilles for now, okay?"

He went to write a quick message to Luna, but when he opened the journal there was already one there: Don’t go to the Cove, the Phoenix is watching.

Don’t go to the Cove? It had been his plan to lay low there, but he had never been one to ignore Luna’s warnings, he wasn’t going to start now.

Within minutes, he had everything packed. He shrunk his trunk and Hedwigs cage placing it in his satchel and went down the stairs, ignoring the continued screeches from above. Vernon made a move toward him, but Harry shot him a look so furious that the large man hesitated.

"I’m done," Harry said flatly. "I’ve had it. I’m leaving for the rest of the summer. I’ll send the obliviators to sort out Marge."

And with that, he shoved open the front door and marched out into the darkened streets.

The night air hit him like a slap, but he kept walking, his mind buzzing. He couldn’t stay at the Cove, not if Dumbledore is watching, but maybe the Leaky Cauldron? Anywhere was better than Privet Drive.

A flicker of movement in the distance made him pause. A large, dark dog sat on the corner of the street, watching him.

Harry frowned, taking a cautious step forward.

Before he could make reach the shadowy canine, a loud BANG erupted from the empty road beside him. He jumped back as the massive, violently purple triple-decker bus screeched to a halt in front of him, its golden lettering shimmering in the dim light.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard!" A lanky young man stepped forward, beaming. "My name is Stan Shunpike, and I’ll be your conductor for this evening. Where ya heading?"

Harry hesitated for only a moment before adjusting his grip on his bag. "The Leaky Cauldron."

Stan nodded and gestured for him to climb aboard. "Right then! Hop on."

The moment he settled into one of the violently bouncing beds, the bus lurched forward, sending him sprawling. This was as bad as he remembered it the first time, but Harry just sighed, rubbing his temples.

At least he was free.

As he stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, he wondered what the rest of the summer would bring. He had just blown up Aunt Marge like a human balloon, run away from Privet Drive, and was now speeding through the streets of London in a chaotic magical bus.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly.

As the Knight Bus screeched to a halt outside the Leaky Cauldron, Harry let out a steadying breath, shouldering his bag before stepping down onto the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley’s entrance. The warm glow from inside the pub cast flickering shadows onto the pavement, and the murmur of voices within was a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of Privet Drive.

Pushing open the door, Harry was met with the familiar scent of firewood, ale, and something faintly spicy that always seemed to linger in the air of the Leaky Cauldron. Tom, the barkeep, glanced up from polishing a tankard, his wrinkled face splitting into a grin.

"Well, well! If it ain’t young Mr. Potter. Bit early for the school crowd, eh?"

Harry nodded, stepping closer. "I need a room for the rest of the summer, Tom."

Tom gave him an appraising look, then nodded toward the stairs. "That can be arranged, but before you get settled, there’s someone waitin’ for ya upstairs. Minister of Magic himself, in the meeting room. Been here a while, in fact."

Harry stiffened slightly, though outwardly he kept his expression neutral. Fudge? Waiting for me? That couldn’t be good. He barely managed to resist the urge to scowl. This had all the hallmarks of an ambush. What does he want, and more importantly, how did he know?

"Right," Harry said, keeping his voice calm. "Before I head up, could you let the proper authorities know about an… accidental magic incident? My uncle’s sister got inflated, and I doubt the Muggles can handle a floating woman indefinitely."

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. "Already taken care of, lad. Seems the Ministry caught wind of it right quick, though they don’t seem all that fussed over it."

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly but nodded.

Straightening his shoulders, Harry made his way toward the stairs, his mind racing through possibilities. The past two years had taught him to be cautious—especially when it came to authority figures. And after the manipulations he had uncovered surrounding Dumbledore’s involvement in his life, he wasn’t about to trust anyone without carefully considering their motives.

As he reached the door to the private meeting room, he took a deep breath, schooling his expression into polite curiosity. He pushed the door open.

Cornelius Fudge was seated at the large wooden table, his bowler hat placed neatly in front of him. The Minister’s fingers tapped against the polished surface, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked up at Harry’s entrance and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Ah, Mr. Potter! There you are! Please, do come in, my boy, come in!"

Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He made sure to keep his posture relaxed, though every sense was on high alert. "Minister," he greeted, inclining his head slightly. "I didn’t expect to have such an official welcome."

Fudge chuckled, though it sounded a bit too high-pitched. "Yes, well! We’ve been keeping an eye on things, of course. What with everything that happened last year, we wanted to ensure you were… comfortable."

Harry resisted the urge to scoff. Since when has the Ministry ever cared about my comfort? "That’s very considerate," he said instead, his voice smooth. "What exactly can I do for you, Minister?"

Fudge dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Well, my dear boy, it’s more about what we can do for you. We at the Ministry are always looking out for young wizards such as yourself, and given your unique circumstances, we thought it best to—ah—extend an offer."

Harry arched a brow. "An offer?"

Fudge cleared his throat. "Yes, yes! You see, we were quite distressed to hear that you’d left your relatives so suddenly. We wouldn’t want you all alone in the world, now would we?"

There it is.

Harry smiled slightly, though there was no warmth in it. "I appreciate the concern, but I’m perfectly fine here in Diagon Alley."

Fudge shifted in his seat. "Ah, well, my dear boy, wouldn’t you be more comfortable somewhere… safer? Perhaps with a trusted family?"

Harry’s smile didn’t waver. "The Leaky Cauldron is safe enough, Minister. Unless there’s something specific I should be worried about?"

Fudge chuckled weakly. "Well, no, no, of course not. Just… you never know, do you? Best to have plenty of people looking out for you."

Ah. So that was it. The Ministry—or someone in it—wanted to keep very close tabs on him.

Harry’s mind raced. Is this Dumbledore’s doing? Or is the Minister trying to play his own game?

He met Fudge’s gaze and made a show of appearing thoughtful before nodding slightly. "I see what you mean. But, Minister, I think I’d rather stay in the Alley until school starts. There’s plenty to do here, and it’s safer than anywhere else for someone like me, don’t you think?"

Fudge’s fingers twitched against the table. "Er—well—yes, I suppose, but—"

"Excellent!" Harry said brightly. "And, of course, it’ll be good to keep up appearances. Unless you want me to stay with one of my friends, Augusta Longbottom has been wanting to meet me, or perhaps Lord Nott…”

Fudge looked as though he had swallowed a lemon. "No, no, let’s not be hasty, dear boy, but—"

"I appreciate you looking out for me, Minister," Harry continued, "but I’ll be just fine here. Thank you for your time."

Fudge opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally forcing a smile. "Yes, yes, of course. If you need anything, do let us know."

Harry inclined his head. "Of course."

As he turned and left the room, he could feel Fudge’s eyes burning into his back.

Once he was safely out of the Minister’s sight, Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t entirely sure what Fudge was after, but one thing was clear:

Harry had no intention of making it easy for them.

Not anymore.

~

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Harry’s Leaky Cauldron room as he sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping open the enchanted journal. The moment his quill touched the page, neat cursive handwriting appeared.

Neville: You’re staying in Diagon Alley for the rest of summer?

Blaise: That’s a power move, mate. Bet half the Alley will be gossiping about you in a week.

Theo: More like half a day. When are we coming to visit?

Harry smirked and penned his reply.

Harry: Come whenever. I’ll be here until September.

As he set the journal aside, a message appeared in the other journal, this one in Luna’s distinct, flowing script. Unlike the others, it was addressed only to him.

You made the right choice, Harry. The phoenix would have searched for if you went to the cove. He would have been closer to the truth than ever.

Harry stiffened, gripping the quill tighter. Can’t have the old man was growing suspicious just yet. Harry exhaled slowly, tapping the end of the quill against the journal.

~

Grimbok, sat across from Harry in a heavily warded meeting room deep within Gringotts. The goblin’s sharp, beady eyes studied him with approval, a rare expression for his kind.

"It has been some time since our last face-to-face meeting, Lord Peverell," Grimbok stated, folding his hands together. "Your letters have been most illuminating."

"And your replies have been helpful," Harry replied, leaning forward. "But we need to go over everything again, especially what you’ve uncovered recently."

Grimbok nodded. "Very well. To summarise: Over the past two years, Albus Dumbledore has continued to make several unauthorised transactions from accounts under your name. Some of these funds were transferred into obscure accounts, but we traced a significant portion directly into the coffers of the Order of the Phoenix, which has had many outgoing transactions into multiple accounts. We are still slowly going around the confidentiality clauses but once you accept your heirships, we can cut the red tape so to speak."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "So he’s been using my money to fund his little vigilante group?" Remembering the research he and Luna did on the group a couple of years ago.

"Precisely," Grimbok confirmed. "Additionally, he has removed artifacts of notable value from the Potter main vault, claiming them for ‘safekeeping.’ These include several ancestral grimoires, and a number of enchanted heirlooms."

Harry inhaled sharply. "And you recently discovered he was sending books to another vault?"

Grimbok’s expression darkened. "Yes. Several high-value tomes have been funnelled through indirect transactions, all leading to one recipient: Hermione Granger. She does not have an account manager, and the account is less than 5 years old so we have more leeway."

Harry froze at that. "Granger?"

"Indeed," Grimbok confirmed, sliding a ledger toward him. "She received these books over the past two years. A large portion of them were magically sealed volumes containing restricted magical knowledge—knowledge only your bloodline were meant to inherit."

Harry gritted his teeth. The pieces were clicking together too easily now. "And you also said… Dumbledore paid for her medical treatment? When she was in a coma?"

Grimbok inclined his head. "Correct. Records indicate that Dumbledore personally funded her stay at St. Mungo’s following the troll incident in your first year. It appears she was under specialised care until her return to Hogwarts."

Harry clenched his fists. The timeline made sense now. Hermione had barely spoken to him before the troll attack unless it was to pester him about his grades—but after? She had latched onto him like glue. Had Dumbledore tried planting her in his life? Groomed her to keep an eye on him?

"I want it back," Harry said, voice sharp with anger. "I want every stolen book, every heirloom, everything tracked down. She was never given permission to access any of it. When were ready, we take everything back."

Grimbok’s lips curled into something resembling a pleased smirk. "It will be done, Lord Peverell."

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. "Now, let’s move on to something else. What can be done with a thousand-year-old Basilisk?"

Grimbok’s expression turned calculating. "Ah. The legendary serpent."

"It’s massive," Harry said. "Fully intact, aside from the eyes. What can be salvaged?"

"Nearly everything," Grimbok answered, eyes gleaming. "The hide alone is worth a fortune—stronger than dragonhide, resistant to nearly all magical elements. The fangs, still venomous, are invaluable for both potion-making and weaponry. The bones could be used for crafting wands or magical conduits."

Harry nodded. "And the blood?"

Grimbok leaned forward. "Highly potent. A rare ingredient in high-level rituals. If properly preserved, it could be sold to select buyers or used in spellcraft of immense power."

Harry’s mind whirred with possibilities. "I want to keep some of it—especially the venom, fangs and hide. The rest, I want catalogued and prepared for sale to trusted clients only. No Ministry, no Dumbledore." He pauses for a second recalling something he had heard, “and none shall be sold to Potions Master Severus Snape.” Feeling a bit vindictive.

Grimbok’s smirk widened. "A wise decision. We will ensure that your assets are handled with the utmost discretion."

Harry exhaled slowly. He had come in with questions, but now, he had a plan.

Harry leaned forward, arms resting on the polished wood of the meeting table, his emerald gaze locked with Grimbok’s sharp eyes. "I want to finalise the plans for the Basilisk. There's too much value in it to let it go to waste. And the preservation charm is fading fast because of its magical resistance."

Grimbok nodded, steepling his clawed fingers. "Agreed. Its worth is unparalleled. However, proper extraction and processing will require expertise. I propose we survey the corpse in person."

Harry smiled. "That was my next suggestion. We go tomorrow. That way, we can determine exactly how we want to divide the parts."

The goblin's eyes gleamed with interest. "Now, onto terms of distribution. Standard broker fees are fifteen percent."

Harry scoffed. "Absolutely not. I know the value of what I have. Gringotts gets five percent."

Grimbok narrowed his gaze. "Ten. This requires discretion and special handling."

"Six," Harry countered. "And you get first access to purchase select parts at a discounted rate."

Grimbok’s lips curled into a faint smirk. "Eight percent. Final offer."

Harry tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness before nodding. "Seven percent. And half of the meat stays with the goblins."

Grimbok exhaled through his nose. "Done. I shall get the contract drawn up."

Harry tapped his fingers on the table. "Would dragons be able to consume Basilisk meat?"

Grimbok’s brows lifted. "A fascinating question. The venom might pose a risk, but properly treated, it could be one of the most nutrient-rich meats in existence. Why do you ask?"

Harry smiled. "I have a growing dragon to feed."

Grimbok let out a low chuckle. "Then I shall have our specialists analyse the viability of such a diet."

Harry leaned back. "Next, I want to keep over half the skin. The fangs—I want to keep half the largest ones, and some of the smallest. And the Skull. I would like the skull intact."

Grimbok’s gave a short nod.

Harry produced a small stack of photos, sliding them across the table. "Theo took these in the Chamber. You can use them to showcase the Basilisk to potential buyers."

Grimbok picked up one of the images, his usual neutral expression shifting to something closer to awe. "By the ancestors…" He traced a claw over the glossy surface. "This size…this is not merely a kill. This is a conquest."

Harry arched a brow. "Meaning?"

Grimbok set the photo down carefully. "To slay such a beast alone marks you as a warrior in the eyes of my kind. Even if it was out of necessity, it is a feat worthy of recognition."

Something warm settled in Harry’s chest at the goblin’s tone. He hesitated before reaching into his pocket and pulling out one of the largest Basilisk fangs he went back for. Without a word, he extended it toward Grimbok.

The goblin’s brows lifted in clear surprise. He took the fang, running a thumb over its smooth, deadly surface. "You are gifting this to me?"

Harry nodded. "Consider it a token of appreciation. You’ve been upfront with me when most aren’t. I value that."

Grimbok turned slightly, as if checking something on the far wall, but Harry caught the small, hidden smile before it vanished beneath the goblin’s usual professionalism. "A rare gesture, Lord Peverell. I accept."

Harry smiled. "Good. Then we’ll meet here tomorrow, and I’ll have my house elf take us there.”

Grimbok tapped the fang against the table. "A profitable venture indeed. I look forward to it."

~

Harry rose early the next morning, his instincts on high alert as he stepped into the streets of Diagon Alley. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against him, and he suppressed the urge to tense.

Aurors.

They weren’t obvious—never standing too close, never looking directly at him for too long—but he could feel them, the flickers of movement in the corners of his vision. They were watching him, tracking his movements.

Why now? He knew he had rattled Dumbledore and the Ministry with his refusal to stay at the Dursleys, but this level of surveillance was excessive.

Without breaking stride, he let his magic ripple outward as soon as he was hidden by a stall. Magic curled around him, drawn by his will, clinging to him like a living veil. In moments, he became a flickering mirage in the morning light, his presence blurred.

Moving smoothly through the Alley, he slipped unnoticed into Gringotts, making his way down to the private meeting chamber where Grimbok awaited him, slowly removing his veil.

The goblin looked up from a set of scrolls and gave Harry an approving nod. "Clever trick, Lord Peverell."

Harry dropped the Veil of Shadows. "People are watching me. Aurors. Any idea why?"

Grimbok’s expression darkened slightly. "Only whispers of an escaped convict. But I have yet to find out who. Come, we have work to do."

Harry called for Tilly and she took both their hands and left the bank with a pop.

Even though Harry had been here multiple times now, the sheer enormity of the Basilisk still made his breath catch.

Grimbok, however, was stunned.

The goblin took slow, measured steps toward the fallen serpent, his sharp eyes scanning its length. He exhaled slowly, tracing a hand along its hardened scales. "Fifty-eight and a half feet," he murmured, almost reverently. "This… is a masterpiece of nature and magic combined."

Harry nodded. "And now it belongs to me."

“Yes, I can feel your claim upon it.” Grimbok shot him an approving look before beginning to take more precise measurements. "With the proper extraction methods, nearly every part of this beast can be harvested. The venom alone—still potent—will fetch fortunes. The hide is nearly impenetrable, far beyond dragonhide in resilience. And the bones…"

He trailed off, shaking his head in admiration. "Lord Peverell, do you realise what you have here?"

"A rather large payday?"

Grimbok chuckled. "That, and a legendary feat. If word of this gets out, you will not just be seen as a wizard, but a hunter among magical communities."

Harry let that sink in, then gestured toward a side passage where the collapsed tunnel lay. "Before we do anything, there’s something I need to deal with."

Grimbok followed as Harry led him to the cave-in site. Massive chunks of rock and debris blocked the passage where the explosion had separated him from Ron and Lockhart during the battle.

Harry stepped forward, closing his eyes. The air around him shifted, thickened with power as he reached into the earth itself. He could feel the broken stone, the way it had fallen unnaturally, the weight pressing down in layers.

Raising his fists, the rock groaned.

With another, it moved.

The earth shuddered as the cave-in unravelled, dust rising as the heavy slabs lifted and slid back into place. Within moments, the passage was open again, as if the collapse had never happened.

Grimbok watched in silent awe.

"I see you have been practicing your gift. And you command it with ease," the goblin finally said, his tone bordering on hushed respect.

Harry turned back, rolling his shoulders. "I avoided doing this that day because I didn’t want Dumbledore to find out about my gift…seeing as you already know, I don’t mind showing you."

Grimbok let out a sharp breath before shaking his head, muttering something in Gobbledegook. "You continue to surprise."

They moved further into the chamber until Grimbok suddenly stopped, eyes widening as he spotted something in the corner. "By the ancestors…"

Harry followed his gaze.

He had forgotten about that, the massive shed skin of the basilisk. It was translucent, tinged with green and gold, the scales still shimmering faintly despite being discarded.

"This is… remarkable," Grimbok breathed. "The magic is weaker than the living beast, but even this carries immense value."

Harry ran a hand over the smooth surface. "How valuable are we talking?"

Grimbok’s eyes gleamed. "Spell-resistant. Can be reinforced into armour, clothing, even high-tier spell-absorbing materials. Not as potent as the actual hide, but still worth fortunes."

Harry grinned. "Then let’s add it to the sale list."

Grimbok nodded before reaching into his robes, producing a small, rune-carved stone. He pressed his claw against it, and the air around them pulsed. A ripple of magic spread outward, vanishing into the chamber walls.

Moments later, there was a crack.

A group of five goblins appeared, transported via portkey, their sharp eyes immediately falling on the Basilisk.

A stunned silence fell over the chamber.

Then—

"BY THE ANCESTORS!"

"IS THIS—"

"…KILLED THIS?!"

The goblins erupted into excited chatter, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of disbelief and admiration.

Grimbok let them babble for a few moments before clearing his throat. "Enough. We have work to do."

The goblins quickly composed themselves, though their eyes continued flickering between Harry and the massive corpse with barely contained excitement.

Harry crossed his arms. "Well, gentlemen, let’s get started, shall we?"

~

A few days after their expedition to the Chamber, Harry received a note from Grimbok, its contents short but weighty.

 Sirius Black, your godfather, has escaped Azkaban. Tread carefully—we do not yet know the full story behind his imprisonment, but it is said he murdered 12 muggles and a wizard, Peter Pettigrew. We have been unable to find his trial transcript or records.

Sitting in his room at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry tapped the parchment against his palm, his mind racing. He had heard of Black before, in passing and from his inheritance test, but never anything beyond the fact that he had betrayed his parents. He had always wondered why Black had made him his heir?

Determined to get more perspectives, he waited for Neville, Blaise, and Theo to meet in his room. When they arrived, Harry wasted no time, throwing up a silencing spell before turning to them.

"What do you know about Sirius Black?" he asked.

Blaise exchanged a glance with Theo before shrugging. "Not much," he admitted. "Other than the standard. He was your father’s best friend, he betrayed your parents, and then he went mad and killed Pettigrew and twelve Muggles."

Neville nodded. "Gran always said he was dangerous, but she never talked about him much beyond that. Just that he was a Black and trouble followed him."

Theo leaned back, thoughtful. "My father never mentioned him as a Death Eater, and believe me, he would have—he liked parading his connections when I was younger. The Blacks were always a… complicated family. Powerful, but divided. If Black had truly been loyal to the Dark Lord, my father would have used that to his advantage. But he never spoke of him in that way."

Blaise tilted his head, studying Harry. "But that’s not the most interesting part, is it? The real question is—why did you ask us? You clearly know something more."

Harry hesitated for only a moment before exhaling sharply. "Sirius Black made me the Black heir."

Blaise sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "You’re heir Black?"

Harry nodded. "It was something I found out when I took an inheritance test. I didn’t bring it up before because…well."

Theo let out a low whistle. "Draco is going to lose his mind. He’s been bragging that he’d claim the Black lordship when he turns seventeen."

Harry scoffed. "That’s impossible. It can’t be contested. But that raises an even bigger question—why would he name me heir if he was a Death Eater? If he really betrayed my parents? That doesn’t add up."

Neville frowned. "Maybe he regretted it? Tried to make amends?"

Harry shook his head. "No. He named me heir before he went to Azkaban. If he was really the one who betrayed my parents, why would he ensure I inherited the Black fortune and magic? It doesn’t make sense."

Blaise looked like he had a sudden epiphany, “Black hasn’t accepted the Black lordship yet though, his grandfather Arcturus Black held it until he passed in 1991, and Black was in Azkaban. Which means Arcturus named you heir as well! It also means that he didn’t disown Black. It would be strange to make you heir if they followed the Dark Lord, wouldn’t it?”

They all took a moment to think about that. Harry was slightly saddened that he had family still living until the year he entered Hogwarts.

Theo was silent for a moment before saying, "There’s something else, isn’t there?"

Harry nodded and passed them Grimbok’s note. As they read it, Blaise’s jaw clenched. "No trial?"

Neville’s fingers tightened around the parchment. "They threw him in Azkaban without a trial?! That— That’s—!"

"Illegal," Theo finished darkly. "If there’s no record of a trial, then we don’t know what really happened."

Harry sighed. "That’s why I wanted your thoughts. I don’t know if he’s innocent. I just know things aren’t adding up, and until I get more answers, I’m not trusting anyone’s version of events."

Theo leaned forward. "Alright. What else? I can see it in your face—you’re holding something back."

Harry exhaled slowly. "I need help. I need to be emancipated."

There was silence for a moment before Blaise asked, "Why now?"

Harry’s jaw clenched. "Because of Dumbledore. He’s my magical guardian. I never told you everything, but I trust you. You’re my friends. He’s been stealing from my vaults since the night my parents died. Even the family grimoires, sending tomes to Granger’s vault."

"What?" Theo looked stunned. "That— That’s practically spitting on family magic! The sheer disrespect!"

Neville was shaking his head in disbelief. "And he put you with your Muggle relatives? Knowing they hated magic?"

Harry nodded grimly. "And had a squib spy on me the entire time. If I hadn’t found a magical snake when I was eight, I wouldn’t have even known about magic until my Hogwarts letter."

Theo’s expression darkened. "That man has no right to call himself your guardian."

Blaise leaned forward. "You said you need to be emancipated. But if you take up your heirship rings, wouldn’t that lock him out of your vaults?"

Harry exhaled sharply. "Yes, but it would also alert him and he would still be overseer of everything. Without proof, Dumbledore could petition the Wizengamot to keep his position. But if I’m emancipated, the ancient laws will see me as an adult and I can accept the Lordships instead. We all know he has something planned for me, we just don’t know what."

Theo crossed his arms. "Then we need to make sure you have everything in place before you make a move. If we do this, we do it right."

Harry nodded. "That’s the plan. And I need all of you with me, if you’re up for it."

Blaise smirked. "I was in the moment you said Draco would cry."

Neville’s grin was fierce. "I’m with you."

Theo nodded, his blue eyes serious. "Let’s bring down a manipulative old man."

~

Over the next few days, Harry and his friends kept in constant contact through their enchanted journals, meticulously compiling everything Dumbledore had done. Every theft, every manipulated move, every stolen book and misappropriated Galleon, the letter about the Chambers location, everything. The money trail they had traced so far was extensive.

As they gathered more information, Harry turned his attention to researching emancipation. The majority of options required petitioning the Wizengamot, but with Dumbledore as Chief Warlock, that was impossible. The only other way was to have two Ministry officials declare him an adult, even just verbally. But how in Merlin’s name was he supposed to get that to happen?

Frustrated, he flicked open his private journal with Luna and wrote. How have you been?

I’ll be back on the 19th! We should go shopping together in Diagon Alley. The Wrackspurts are particularly excited—they say Stubby Boardman might be there. He’s famous, you know.

Harry chuckled at her usual cryptic way of speaking.

Looking forward to it. We can get all our supplies, and maybe even check out a few new shops I found.

~

Harry was sipping his tea in the Leaky Cauldron when the door swung open, and a familiar voice called out his name. He turned just in time to catch Luna as she launched herself into his arms. Laughing, he lifted her into a twirl, her weight light as air.

"You're back!" he said, grinning as he set her down.

Luna beamed up at him. "Of course. I told you I would be. The wrackspurts were insistent I'd find you here."

They wandered down the cobbled streets as Luna regaled him with stories of her adventures with her father. Harry was relieved—this time, Xeno seemed to have actually been present for her, and Luna glowed with happiness.

After some time, she suddenly stopped and turned to him with a serious expression. "You need a haircut. And new clothes."

Harry raised a brow, crossing his arms. "Oh? And what about you?"

Luna twirled a strand of her pale hair thoughtfully. "I suppose it’s only fair if we both get a change."

They ducked into a boutique filled with elegant wizarding attire. As they browsed, Harry told her about the negotiations with the goblins over the Basilisk.

Luna listened attentively, then handed him a bundle of clothes. "The nargles showed me you wearing these. Try it on please."

Harry looked down at the pieces sceptically. The main feature was a deep emerald tunic with flowy, layered sleeves, accompanied by an ornate black corset embroidered in gold filigree, with some kind of black leather pants.

"Luna... this is a corset," he pointed out dryly.

She nodded. "Yes, you’ll look very handsome in it."

With a sigh and some hesitation, he changed in the fitting room, stepping out and looking to Luna for a verdict.

She clapped her hands together. "Oh, you look magnificent, Harry."

Turning to the mirror, Harry took in the way the embroidery caught the light, emphasising his frame. The outfit was striking—more regal than anything he’d ever worn.

"You like the gold embroidery," Luna observed with a knowing smile. "You should see if they have more."

Harry snorted. "I doubt I’d ever have the chance to wear something like this."

Luna tilted her head. "You never know. It suits you."

Unable to argue, Harry asked the shopkeeper if they had more pieces with the same embroidery. He had a feeling that, even if he never wore them, Luna would be adamant about him keeping them. And truthfully… he didn’t mind. His back never felt more supported, he thought amused.

They continued browsing, Luna picking out an array of outfits for herself that reflected her usual eccentric tastes—flowing skirts embroidered with celestial symbols, a deep blue blouse with tiny golden runes stitched along the collar, and a cloak that shimmered like shifting stardust when she moved.

He picked out a deep green wool blazer, a set of crisp shirts, some corduroy trousers and a couple of cosy turtlenecks. A long, charcoal overcoat caught his eye, along with a pair of leather boots.

"This one reminds me of you," she mused, holding up a robe made of dark midnight fabric that rippled with silver threads resembling constellations.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Because I’m brooding and dark like the night sky?"

Luna laughed. "Because you're the kind of person who looks up at the stars and wonders if they're looking back."

He blinked, startled by her insight, before shaking his head with a fond smile. "Alright, I’ll get it."

Once their selections were made and some charms added on for growing, they stepped outside into the bustling alley. Harry carried their bags while Luna tucked her newly purchased hat—one adorned with a small, jewelled snidget—onto her head.

"So, what now?" she asked.

Harry exhaled, glancing around at the shops. "I think we should get some new books—I've been meaning to look up more about magical familiars, given how things have been with Nox."

Luna nodded sagely.

They wandered into Flourish and Blotts, where Harry found a section on magical creature bonds. As he flipped through one of the texts, Luna wandered off, only to return with a book on divination methods and the history of oracles.

"For research purposes, of course," she said with a smile.

Harry chuckled. "Of course."

After purchasing their books, they made their way to Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream. As they sat down, enjoying the quiet of the afternoon, Harry found himself more relaxed than he had been in weeks. Luna had a way of making things feel lighter, even with all the weight on his shoulders.

"I’m glad you're back, Luna," he admitted.

~

The last two weeks at the Leaky Cauldron passed in a blur of quiet planning, training sessions at the cove with Nox, and catching up with Luna. Harry had settled into a comfortable routine, but the ever-present awareness of being watched had not faded.

August 30th arrived, and with it, chaos.

The Leaky Cauldron was invaded by redheads.

Harry had been enjoying a quiet morning in the common area, flipping through one of his new books on familiar bonds, when the unmistakable shriek of Molly Weasley nearly made him spill his tea.

"Oh, Harry dear! What a surprise to see you here!"

Harry barely had time to brace himself before Molly stormed over, arms outstretched, looking far too eager to smother him in a hug. He twisted slightly in his seat, forcing her to miss and awkwardly pat his shoulder instead.

"Mrs. Weasley," he said politely, schooling his expression into neutrality. "I didn’t know you were back from Egypt."

"Just arrived this morning!" she declared, beaming. "Arthur and the boys needed to exchange the last of the money, and we decided to stay here until school starts. Isn’t that wonderful? You’ll have so much company now!"

Harry’s fingers curled slightly around his book. Company.

"Oh, and I’ve already spoken with Tom about arranging for Ron to stay in your room!" she continued cheerfully. "Since you have extra space, there’s no need for us to book an additional room."

His grip on his book tightened. He could feel the heat rising in his chest. The audacity of this woman!

"Mrs. Weasley," he said, voice calm but firm, "I’m not sharing my room with Ron."

Molly blinked, as if she hadn’t considered that he might refuse.

"Nonsense, dear! You two are such good friends—"

"No, we’re not," Harry cut in sharply, his patience snapping. "I made it clear—I don’t want anything to do with Ron after what he pulled. I don’t understand why you’d think otherwise."

Molly’s smile stiffened. "Harry, dear, I’m sure whatever misunderstanding you had—"

"It wasn’t a misunderstanding," he said icily. "And I’d appreciate it if you respected that."

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, Tom, who had been watching with a wary expression, stepped in.

"Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Potter has already paid for his accommodations. If he doesn’t wish to share, that’s his right."

Molly’s expression darkened, but she huffed dramatically and turned away, muttering about "ungrateful children" as she stomped off to her family.

Harry exhaled slowly, pushing down the irritation bubbling in his chest. He knew the Weasleys were usually short on money—even more so after just returning from a luxurious trip to Egypt. So why would they waste the last of the money on 2 days in the Leaky Cauldron, when they have a perfectly good home.

Suspicion curled in his stomach.

That night, he wrote to his friends in the shared journal.

Harry: The Weasleys just got back from Egypt, and they’ve booked FOUR rooms in the Leaky Cauldron until the 1st. That’s a lot of money for a family that constantly claims they’re struggling. Mrs. Weasley emphasised that I would have plenty of company.

Theo: Dumbledore. The Weasley’s have always been fanatics.

Blaise: Has to be. You already suspect they’ve been getting your money—what if this is part of it?

Neville: It’s too convenient. They suddenly win money for a trip AND want to shove Ron into your space? Sounds like they’re trying to get close to you again.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Luna: Wrackspurts cloud the mind when deception is involved. They are particularly thick around those who lie to themselves the most.

Harry stared at the words for a long time before closing the journal.

~

The 1^st of September arrived, and the day started out with a cryptic warning from Mr Weasley about Sirius Black.

Having everything packed and ready, he made his way to the Floo Network inside the Leaky Cauldron. As he reached for the Floo powder, he heard the shrill voice of Molly Weasley behind him.

"Harry, dear! We’re taking a Ministry car to the station! You can ride with Ron and Ginny—"

Harry barely repressed a groan. He could think of nothing worse.

"That’s alright, Mrs. Weasley," he said with forced politeness. "I’ve already made arrangements. Wouldn’t want to be a burden."

Before she could protest, he threw the powder down, stepping into the emerald flames and calling out, "Platform 9 ¾!"

As he disappeared, he felt a distinct sense of triumph. He had avoided another Weasley ambush—and any last-minute attempts from Dumbledore’s spies.

Shikaku...maybe?

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express bustled with students as Harry made his way down the corridor, searching for Luna and the others. The train had filled up quickly, and finding an empty compartment was nearly impossible. Finally, he spotted a familiar head of blonde hair through the window of one of the doors.

Sliding it open, he stepped inside to find Luna, Neville, Theo, and Blaise already seated.

"You're late, Potter," Theo drawled lazily, smirking as Harry dropped into the seat next to Luna.

"Had to dodge a few last-minute Weasley encounters," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. "Didn’t fancy getting shoved into a compartment with Ron."

Blaise chuckled. "Understandable. We were just discussing plans for this year."

"Plans?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Theo leaned forward. "Keeping an eye on Black, for one. If he’s really after you, we need to be prepared."

Blaise nodded. "And there’s still the matter of our research. The more we learn from the Chamber, and what Dumbledore’s been up to, the better."

Harry sighed. "Agreed. But let’s not make the entire train ride about doom and gloom. Let’s at least pretend we’re normal students for a while."

"Well, the Moonsap is thriving," Neville said excitedly, "its luminescent properties are even stronger than I expected. If we refine it correctly, it could enhance night-vision potions or even be used in moonstone-infused spellwork."

Blaise nodded. "And the Silphium? Any luck?"

"It’s growing, but it’s finicky. Apparently, it used to be a major component in high-level healing potions and even had contraceptive properties before it supposedly went extinct. The fact that we have it now is a miracle."

Luna twirled a quill between her fingers. "Perhaps it remembers what happened to the others of its kind and is reluctant to grow. Plants have memories, you know."

Harry chuckled. "Maybe. I was thinking about using my earth magic to coax some of the other seeds to life, but I wanted to see if someone who doesn’t have my magic could do it first so we can document its natural growth."

Neville looked thoughtful. "It might take longer without your help, but that’s a solid approach. If they do grow without intervention, then we can eventually cultivate them on a larger scale. If not… well, then you’ll have to work your magic. Literally."

Blaise smirked. "Either way, once we get enough Moonsap, I think it could be refined into a shielding balm against lunar-based curses. Some werewolves use diluted versions in Wolfsbane potions."

Harry leaned back, considering. "Good to know. If we get enough yield, we could test its other applications too. Imagine Snapes face when he finds out Neville brought back extinct plants.”

The group exchanged nods, then all burst out laughing.

They spent the next hour in light-hearted conversation, sharing stories about their summers. Luna, as always, had the most whimsical tales to tell, including an encounter with what she claimed was a moonfrog colony that danced under starlight.

Just as Harry was about to bring up the ridiculous outfits Luna had convinced him to buy, she suddenly froze.

Her eyes became unfocused, her expression slack, and then her lips parted as she whispered, "Harry…"

The atmosphere in the compartment shifted. Harry sat up straighter, his stomach tightening. "Luna?"

"They’re coming…" she murmured. "They’re coming…"

“Shh it’s okay Luna. We’re okay.” Harry said, wrapping his arms around her. The others looking worried having never really seen Luna go into one of her visions.

A shiver ran down his spine, and then he noticed it—the temperature had dropped. His breath came out in misty puffs. The warmth of the compartment was being sucked away, leaving only an unnatural cold.

Everyone stiffened, eyes darting toward the door.

A shadow passed outside the glass.

Luna’s breathing hitched. "No, no, no," she whimpered.

Harry felt something stir within him, his magic pulsing in warning.

Then a skeletal hand gripped the carriage door and slowly, agonisingly pulled it open.

Darkness seeped into the compartment like a living force. A hooded figure loomed in the doorway, its very presence suffocating.

Harry’s vision blurred.

Screaming.

A woman’s voice, desperate, terrified. Take me instead! Not Harry, please not Harry!

Somewhere distant, Luna’s voice echoed the same words, her normally serene tone rising to a near-hysterical shriek. Take me instead! Not Harry!

He barely registered Theo and Neville frozen in place, Blaise paling as if all warmth had been drained from him.

The Dementor drifted closer.

Harry’s body felt heavy. He couldn’t move. Cold tendrils wrapped around his mind, pulling him down into the memories of that night—

The green flash.

His mother’s cry.

The nothingness that followed.

And then—

Light.

Blinding, pure, warm.

The Dementor recoiled violently, darkness retreating as a wave of luminous energy flooded the compartment.

Harry collapsed back against his seat as the figure in the doorway was forcibly pushed away, leaving only an echoing screech in its wake.

His vision blurred, the sounds around him distant. A warmth touched his cheek—Luna’s hand, trembling slightly.

Then the world tilted, and everything went dark.

The world swam back into focus, blurry shapes gradually sharpening into the dimly lit compartment. Harry groaned, his head pounding, his body cold to the bone. The first thing he registered was warmth—Luna, clinging to him like a lifeline, her entire body trembling. Her usually bright eyes were blank, distant, and she hadn’t spoken a word since the Dementor left.

A quiet rustling caught his attention. A man in shabby clothes was handing out chocolate, his expression weary but kind. He pressed a piece into Harry’s hand.

"Eat," the man said simply.

Harry looked at the chocolate, then at Luna. Instead of immediately eating it himself, he broke off a piece and gently pressed it into her hand, his fingers curling around hers.

"Luna, come on," he urged softly. "You need to eat."

She didn’t react, just stared through him, her fingers barely responding to his touch. A deep unease settled in Harry’s chest. This wasn’t just the Dementor—this was her. Her visions were getting worse. More frequent. More consuming.

Instead of going to the welcoming feast, Harry made a decision. "You lot go ahead," he told Theo, Neville, and Blaise. "I’m taking Luna to Pomfrey."

None of them argued. Neville looked particularly worried, but he nodded in understanding.

Guiding Luna carefully off the train and through the castle corridors, Harry ignored the curious looks from passing students. When they reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey took one look at Luna and pursed her lips.

"Set her down over there," she instructed, pointing to a bed. "What happened?"

"Dementors," Harry said shortly. "But this—" He gestured to Luna’s still form.

Pomfrey waved her wand, running diagnostic spells over her before sighing. "Her mind is overloaded. Her magic’s reacting violently to whatever she experienced. It’s like an aftershock—her body is struggling to process it all."

Harry’s stomach twisted. "How do we fix it?"

"Rest. Something warm. Something familiar." Pomfrey disappeared for a moment before returning with a small vial. "This will help settle her mind. But she needs time."

Harry took the vial, helping Luna drink it slowly, but she remained silent, her fingers barely twitching in his grasp.

That night, when the feast was in full swing, a house elf popped into the infirmary with two plates of food, bowing low before placing them on the bedside table. "Mister Harry Potter must eat too."

He murmured his thanks, but barely touched his food, instead focusing on Luna, brushing her hair back from her face, whispering quiet reassurances she didn’t respond to.

Hours passed. Midnight came and went. Then—

A soft inhale. A twitch of fingers. A slow blink.

Harry sat up straighter. "Luna?"

Her unfocused gaze shifted to him, her voice hoarse and barely audible. "Lily Potter loved you so much."

Harry’s breath caught. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I wish you didn’t have to see these things."

Luna’s lips trembled, her fingers tightening around his. "I think… I was meant to."

Harry didn’t respond, just leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers.

They stayed like that for a long time, clinging to each other in the quiet sanctuary of the hospital wing.

~

The morning after the Dementor attack, Harry and Luna sat at the Ravenclaw table, still feeling the weight of the previous night. Their housemates chattered around them, filling them in on what they had missed at the Welcoming Feast.

"You should’ve seen it," Terry Boot said, passing them a plate of toast. "The new Defence professor, Lupin, looked half-asleep when he was introduced. Didn’t say a word, just nodded."

"But at least he’s not Lockhart," Padma added with a smirk.

Harry hummed in response, not quite in the mood for conversation. He reached for his goblet of pumpkin juice when a stack of schedules landed in front of him and Luna.

Scanning his timetable, Harry immediately noticed something wrong.

"I didn’t sign up for Divination," he said, eyes narrowing.

Luna blinked at him. "It must be a mistake."

Professor Flitwick approached their table, catching the tail end of their conversation. He frowned as he looked at Harry’s schedule.

"That’s odd," Flitwick murmured. "I was informed that you had dropped Runes and Arithmancy. Dumbledore himself approved the change."

Harry’s grip tightened on his parchment. "I never dropped them. I was never asked."

Flitwick’s eyes darkened slightly, irritation evident in his usually cheerful expression. "I will fix this immediately, Mr. Potter. For today, follow the schedule as you originally intended. Attend Runes, Arithmancy and creatures with the others."

Harry nodded, filled with frustration. Another mark against Dumbledore. What is he up to?

Later that afternoon, Harry made his way to his first Care of Magical Creatures lesson. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he saw Hagrid standing at the front of the class, beaming.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs gathered around as Hagrid clapped his hands together. "Right, today we’re gonna start with somethin’ special—Hippogriffs!"

Excited murmurs filled the air as Hagrid led them toward a paddock where a magnificent silver Hippogriff stood, watching them with intelligent eyes.

"This here’s Buckbeak," Hagrid introduced proudly. "First thing yeh gotta remember—hippogriffs are proud creatures. Yeh approach ’em slow, make eye contact, and bow. If they bow back, yer good. If not, best step away."

Hagrid’s gaze swept over the class before settling on Harry. "Harry, why don’t yeh come up first?"

Harry hesitated before stepping forward. He met Buckbeak’s gaze and bowed deeply. The Hippogriff’s piercing orange eyes studied him for a long moment before it lowered its head in return.

A grin broke across Hagrid’s face. "Well done, Harry! Now, try givin’ him a little pat."

Moving cautiously, Harry stroked the Hippogriff’s beak, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingers. Buckbeak let out a soft snort, shifting his weight.

"Go on, climb on," Hagrid encouraged.

“Wait. What?”

Harry barely had time to react before Buckbeak nudged him forward. Hagrid lifted him like a sack of potatoes over the Hippogriff’s back.

Then, without warning, Buckbeak spread his powerful wings and launched into the sky.

The ground fell away beneath them as they soared into the air. The wind whipped past Harry’s face, and he let out a laugh, gripping Buckbeak’s feathers tightly.

"Faster!" he called, exhilarated.

As if understanding him, Buckbeak responded, angling his wings to pick up speed. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. This was like flying with Nox. The sheer freedom of the skies.

For a few blissful moments, there was nothing but the wind, the rush of air, and the weightless thrill of flight. Memories of the previous night fleeing with the wind.

After circling the paddock, Buckbeak glided back to the ground, landing smoothly. Harry slid off, his grin wide.

"That was brilliant, Hagrid!"

"Knew yeh’d like it!" Hagrid boomed. "Who’s next?"

As the class ended, Harry returned to his friends, still buzzing from the experience.

As they were leaving, they passed the Gryffindors and Slytherins arriving for their lesson.

Theo smirked at him. "You looked very at home up there, Potter. Getting ideas about replacing your broom?"

Harry snorted. "No broom could compare."

~

Rumours of Draco’s injury spread through the school like wildfire, but anyone with eyes could see he was exaggerating. He paraded through the halls, arm in a sling, dramatically sighing whenever a professor was near. Harry and his friends barely paid him any mind, focusing instead on their upcoming lessons.

Their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson was shared with the Gryffindors. The classroom buzzed with anticipation as Lupin stood at the front, casual yet commanding.

"Can anyone tell me what a boggart is?" he asked, scanning the room.

Harry raised his hand and, at Lupin’s nod, answered, "A boggart is a shape-shifter that takes the form of whatever frightens a person the most."

Lupin smiled approvingly, but across the room, Hermione shot Harry a glare. He met it evenly, remembering that she was a thief who had been hoarding stolen Potter heirlooms. He made a mental note to have Tilly search her trunk later.

Lupin instructed the class to form a line as he rolled out an old wardrobe. "The best way to defeat a boggart is laughter. The spell to use is Riddikulus. Now, let’s begin."

Harry quickly moved to the back of the line, unwilling to show his fear in front of everyone. With all his secrets, he couldn't afford to. He watched as Neville faced his boggart, which transformed into Snape, only for him to dress it in his grandmother’s clothes, prompting laughter from the class. Parvati’s boggart became a giant cobra, which she turned into a comically wiggling jack-in-the-box.

When his turn was inevitable, he tried to refuse, stepping back with a firm shake of his head. Lupin’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t argue, merely flicked his wand, forcing Harry forward.

The wardrobe rattled ominously before bursting open. At first, what emerged was Luna—her form draped in ancient robes, eyes clouded and unseeing, muttering unintelligibly like a maddened Priestess of Pythia.

Harry’s breath hitched. Cold dread seeped into his bones. The boggart flickered, feeding off his fear, twisting his perception. Then, the sensation changed.

The room chilled as a deep, suffocating cold wrapped around him. The boggart shifted, melting into a Dementor. The light dimmed, the air thickened, and the echo of his mother’s last scream whispered at the edge of his hearing. The students gasped, clutching at their robes as the temperature plummeted.

Unlike the previous boggarts, this one felt stronger—almost too real. Shadows crept toward Harry, his mind spinning as the Dementor loomed closer, its presence overwhelming.

Lupin reacted instantly. With a flick of his wand, he shoved Harry aside, stepping between him and the boggart. The form changed immediately, morphing into a glowing, full moon before Lupin forced it back into the wardrobe with a snap. Warmth flooded back into the room, though a lingering discomfort remained. Harry turned a glare at Lupin, blaming him for everything that just happened.

"Class dismissed," Lupin announced hastily, his gaze slightly guilty as he looked at Harry.

Neville was visibly shaken, staring at Harry with wide eyes. "Why did it turn into Luna like that first?"

Harry forced himself to breathe evenly. "Because I’m afraid of losing her."

The answer sat heavily between them, unspoken fears hanging in the air. As they left the classroom, Harry clenched his fists.

As they sat in the warded room on the fourth floor, Harry exhaled sharply, his anger bubbling to the surface. "Lupin forced me in front of the boggart after I refused. I wasn’t going to do it, and he made me. Who does that?" He clenched his fists.  

Luna tilted her head slightly, her voice calm but firm. "It is done, Harry. The Wrackspurts will make them forget—or at least dismiss it as nothing important."

Theo scowled. "Still, forcing someone to confront their worst fear in front of a class? That’s beyond reckless. What if the boggart had done something worse? What if it revealed something truly dangerous?"

Blaise crossed his arms. "I overheard some of the Gryffindors saying that it felt like a real dementor."

Neville nodded. "I felt it too. It wasn’t just reacting to your fear, Harry. It was feeding off of it, like it knew exactly what to turn into to cause the most damage."

Harry shook his head. "I don’t know, but I didn’t like it. And I don’t like that Lupin dismissed it like it was nothing."

Theo sighed. "We need to be careful. If someone starts pestering Luna..."

Luna smiled softly. "Don’t worry. I can handle myself."

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I just…keep an ear out if you hear anything?"

~

Over the next couple of months, Harry and his friends spent their free time deep in the Chamber of Secrets, exploring its hidden magic and practicing duelling. The space provided them with complete privacy, allowing Harry to teach them spells that weren’t covered in standard Hogwarts curriculum.

Harry had already told them the truth about his elemental abilities and wandless magic a while back, and rather than fear or scepticism, his friends had reacted with excitement. They begged him to teach them wandless magic, eager to learn. While it was difficult, they persisted, and Harry found himself enjoying their enthusiasm as they honed their skills together.

One evening, after an exhausting duelling session, Harry and Luna remained behind in the Chamber. The others had left, but Luna lingered near the statue of Salazar Slytherin, her eyes thoughtful and distant.

Harry approached her quietly. "Luna, let’s ask Salazar if he knows anything about your visions. Maybe he can help."

Luna nodded, her usual dreamy expression subdued. She had been struggling more with her visions lately, and it was taking a visible toll on her.

They stepped into the library, heading towards the portrait. "Salazar, I have a question. Do you know anything about visions? Or anything about the Priestesses of Pythia?"

The portrait above the fireplace flickered to life, and Salazar Slytherin’s sharp gaze fell upon them. "The Priestesses of Pythia… ancient seers, once the most powerful oracles in the world. They were hunted down by an ancient Greek wizard who feared their power."

Luna tilted her head slightly. "Who was he?"

Salazar’s expression darkened. "A Greek Dark Lord named Ἕρπων ὁ δεινός, given the nickname of Herpo the Foul. He was given a prophecy detailing his demise, so he sought to erase all prophecy and chased after immortality, trying to defy the fates. He led a purge, burning their records, executing those of the bloodlines of Pythia. The daughters of Pythia scattered, forced into hiding. Those who survived… many of them went mad. Their magic consumed them."

Harry felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. He glanced at Luna, whose face remained eerily calm. "Is there any way to suppress the visions?"

Salazar hesitated before shaking his head. "Not that I know of. The gift of prophecy is not like ordinary magic—it does not bend to will. There have been efforts to dull its effects through potions and charms for seers, but nothing has ever truly suppressed a vision of an oracle."

Luna closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, resigned. "I thought as much."

Salazar’s expression softened slightly. "You have my sympathies, child. It is a heavy burden. One no child should have to bear."

Harry clenched his fists, hating that there was no solution. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that Luna wouldn’t face this alone.

"We’ll find a way," he promised her. "No matter what it takes."

~

Halloween night had always been an eventful time at Hogwarts, but this year, something felt different. Professor Flitwick gathered all the students out of their beds, his usually cheerful demeanour grim. The Ravenclaws murmured among themselves, exchanging worried glances as they were led down the corridors and into the Great Hall.

Harry and Luna immediately scanned the crowd for their friends, his heart easing slightly when he spotted them standing near the Ravenclaw table. He quickly made his way through the students to join them.

"What’s going on?" Harry whispered.

Neville looked shaken, his face paler than usual. "Black. He tried breaking into the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady wouldn’t let him in, so he… he slashed her portrait."

Harry’s breath caught. The hall was filled with murmurs, students exchanging panicked whispers.

"So he’s actually here," Theo muttered, his brow furrowed. "This isn’t just rumours anymore."

Blaise crossed his arms. "And yet, he didn’t go after you, Harry. You’re right here, untouched. If he really sold out your parents, why wouldn’t he be hunting you down?"

Theo hesitated before nodding. "Unless… unless he thinks you’re in Gryffindor."

They all shared heavy looks. "He’s been in Azkaban for a long time. He probably has no idea where I was sorted."

Neville swallowed. "And that means he’s not in his right mind anymore."

Harry exhaled slowly, piecing together what they knew.

"If he was really after me, he had plenty of chances," Harry whispers. "I think we’ve been right all along—we need to find him and find out the truth."

Luna was humming slightly then said, “Stubby Broadman isn’t lost at all.”

~

Harry had finally done it—Tilly had secretly searched through Hermione’s belongings, and the results were worse than he had expected.

While he and his friends were deep in the Chamber of Secrets, searching for ways to track Black—whether through blood magic or the godfather bond he shared with Harry—Tilly popped in with an armful of old tomes. The moment she dropped them onto the stone table, dust scattered into the air.

"These belong to you, Master Harry," she said, her ears twitching with barely contained anger. "Taken from the thief."

The chamber fell into stunned silence.

Theo’s eyes narrowed as he picked up one of the books, flipping through the pages before quickly putting it down. "These are Potter family histories.”

Neville scowled, carefully handling another book. "The disrespect… These are sacred to your family, Harry. They had no right to take them."

Blaise’s gaze sharpened as he inspected the collection. "Not just history books…" He lifted a heavy tome with a cracked spine. "A lot of these lean toward the darker arts. Why would Dumbledore, the so-called paragon of the Light, hand dark books over to a thirteen-year-old girl?"

Luna, who had been quietly running her fingers along the spine of a book covered in runic symbols, finally spoke. "Perhaps he wants her to have knowledge without the wisdom to wield it."

Harry clenched his fists. "I can’t wait to file the charges against him."

As they continued flipping through the books with Harry’s permission, something even more disturbing caught their attention. Scattered within the pages were sheets of parchment covered in Hermione’s neat, cramped handwriting. They weren’t just notes—they were obsessive.

Theo frowned as he scanned one of the pages. "She’s been fixating on the Peverells. Look, she keeps mentioning ‘ancient yews’ and the ‘House of Death.’ She’s marked every reference in these books."

“Why would she be researching about a bedtime story?” Blaise said looking sceptical.

"I need you all to swear an oath of secrecy before I tell you everything," making everyone but Luna widen their eyes in surprise.

One by one, his friends gave their oaths, magic sealing their words. Only then did Harry admit the truth. "I am Lord Peverell. I couldn’t take up my other heirships, but the Peverell house was one Dumbledore didn’t have to be told about. On the test it showed an unplottable Keep. "

Harry exhaled sharply. "I haven’t found the Keep yet, but I know Dumbledore’s been stealing from my vaults for years. This just confirms he’s looking for something more."

Theo turned to Harry, “you know there hasn’t been a Peverell Lord in centuries, right?”

“The house faded into legend. Even the Wizengamot seat has been inactive for centuries.” Blaise added. “You don’t know how to find the Keep?”

Luna chimed in then, repeating the poem “Follow the path of the ancient yew. Where the gates open, the bridge of the tree will guide you to the house of Death.”

Neville tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Yew trees were common in ancient magical forests, but most of them were cut down for wand-making centuries ago. If the Keep was hidden in one of those forests…"

Harry nodded. "Which makes it more difficult to find. It would make sense why Dumbledore is so adamant about controlling my vaults if he knows the Potters descend from them. If he thinks the Keep holds something important…"

Luna tilted her head, her voice lilting with her usual dreamy wisdom. "A house that is no house, a place that is not a place. The Peverells were never meant to be found, not by anyone but the master."

Harry glanced at her, feeling the weight of her words.

Silence stretched across the room as the reality of his words sank in. Blaise was the first to speak. "Then that means… the Master of Death?"

Harry shook his head. "The story is just that—a story. But the Peverells had a strong affinity for artifact creation. Whatever they left behind is important, and Dumbledore wants it."

Theo exhaled, shaking his head. "Then we have to find it first."

Reluctantly, they organised their findings, stacking the books carefully before making their way back to the Great Hall. The weight of their discoveries pressed heavily upon them, but one thing was certain—Dumbledore would not get his hands on the Peverell legacy.

~

December had arrived, and with it came heavy snowfall and the first Hogsmeade trip of the season. Harry, however, had been refused. Apparently, since Petunia hadn’t signed his slip, and with Black still on the loose, it was deemed "too dangerous" for him to go.

He had expected Ron to be denied the privilege as well after McGonagall had promised to punish him for what he had pulled in the Chamber of Secrets, but, as usual, Weasley seemed to get away with everything. He and Hermione were still harassing him at every turn, making the rejection even more infuriating. Hermione in particular was looking very frazzled and worried, looking at everyone in suspicion. Harry assumed it was because of the missing books.

Harry and Luna stood near the entrance, watching Theo, Blaise, and Neville make their way to the carriages. Just as he was about to turn away, a strong hand grabbed his arm and yanked him into a nearby alcove. Luna followed without hesitation humming to herself.

"Easy there, lad and lady" Fred grinned, his twin appearing beside him with a matching mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Now, we know you’ve had a bit of a rough go of things lately," George added, glancing at Harry meaningfully. "And we think you deserve a bit of a… workaround."

Fred pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. "We solemnly swear that we are up to no good."

As he tapped the parchment, ink lines spread across the surface, revealing the intricate layout of Hogwarts.

"This, dear Harry, is the Marauder’s Map," George said proudly. "Shows every secret passage, every person wandering the castle, even the ghosts."

"We don’t need it anymore," Fred continued, handing it over. "And we figure you’ll make better use of it than we ever could."

Harry took the map, stunned. "But—"

"No buts," George cut in, smirking. "Consider it an early Christmas present."

Fred’s grin faltered slightly. "And… sorry about Ron. We wrote to Dad about his behaviour, but all we got in return was a Howler from Mum telling us to mind our own business."

"Hopefully, this makes up for it," George said, winking.

Luna, who had been quiet until now, suddenly tilted her head and murmured, "I heard that the Wrackspurts are very fond of mischief. I think they must have whispered this idea into your ears."

Fred and George exchanged delighted looks before Fred bowed theatrically. "A compliment of the highest order!"

Harry chuckled, tucking the map into his robes. "Thanks, you two. This’ll definitely help."

"Mischief managed," George said with a mock salute before the twins slipped back into the shadows.

Harry and Luna watched them go, grinning to themselves as they stepped back out into the snow-covered courtyard. Hogwarts had just become a little more interesting.

~

Christmas morning arrived quietly for Harry. Unlike previous years, there were no loud voices, no excited chatter. Luna, Neville, Theo, and Blaise had all gone home for the holidays, leaving him alone in the Ravenclaw dormitory. He sat up, stretching, when his eyes landed on something near the foot of his bed. A broomstick.

Not just any broomstick. A Firebolt.

His breath caught. This was the most expensive racing broom on the market, sleek and polished to perfection. He reached for it, fingers tracing over the smooth handle. No note. No indication of who had sent it.

Harry frowned. Who would be foolish enough to buy this for me?

The broom was perfect, too perfect. And after everything he had learned about people trying to manipulate him, he had no choice but to be suspicious. Still, it was his now, and he'd be damned if he let paranoia ruin this completely. His magic spread and he couldn’t feel anything malicious about it, just the normal spells you find in brooms. Making him smile in excitement.

The Great Hall was decked in shimmering lights and towering Christmas trees, the scent of roasted turkey and spiced cider filling the air. Harry took the seat furthest away from the head table, keeping his head down as he picked at his meal.

He could feel Dumbledore’s gaze on him—intense, unrelenting.

What, exactly, the Headmaster was looking for, Harry wasn’t sure. But he refused to meet those piercing blue eyes. He would not let Dumbledore worm his way into his mind or his plans.

Once the feast was over, Harry quickly made his way out of the hall, relieved to escape the weight of the unwanted attention. He had just reached the viaduct when a voice called out to him.

"Harry!"

He turned to see Professor Lupin catching up, his usual warm but tired expression in place. Despite that first lesson, he found Lupin to be a pleasant man, even if his magic would reach out to Lupins, telling him something he didn’t understand. He had briefly spoken to Harry about his parents and Harry had felt a bit upset that no one had said they had a best friend aside from Black still alive.

"I’ve been meaning to talk to you," Lupin said. "Would you mind walking with me?"

Harry nodded, falling into step beside him.

"I was wondering if you wanted to learn the Patronus Charm," Lupin began. "What happened during the boggart lesson, I’ve never seen such a strong reaction."

Harry hesitated before replying, "I’ve tried researching the Patronus Charm, but there’s hardly anything useful on it."

Lupin nodded knowingly. "It’s a difficult spell. One of the most advanced defensive charms there is. But I think you’re ready to learn it. If you’d like, we can start after the holidays."

Hope flickered in Harry’s chest. "I’d like that."

Lupin gave him a reassuring smile. "Good. It won’t be easy, but I think you’re capable of mastering it."

Harry nodded, determination settling in his gut. He needed to learn this spell. If Dementors were going to be around Hogwarts, he refused to be defenceless again.

Even if he hadn’t forgiven Lupin for making him face that boggart, he decided he could take advantage of the man’s knowledge.

~

Harry's lessons with Lupin on the Patronus Charm were not going well. He had managed nothing more than a thin mist when attempting to conjure it against the boggart-Dementor. Each failed attempt left him frustrated, wondering if he even had enough happy memories to fuel the spell properly.

"You’re improving, Harry," Lupin reassured him after yet another unsuccessful attempt.

Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead and frowned. "A mist isn’t going to stop a Dementor, though."

Lupin smiled in that tired but patient way of his. "It’s not just about a happy memory, Harry. It has to be powerful. Keep searching."

Meanwhile, he and his friends had turned their attention to the Marauder’s Map, hoping to track Sirius Black’s movements. So far, they had no such luck, but something else had caught their attention.

"Look at this," Theo murmured, tapping the map with his finger. "Ron and Hermione… they keep showing up in Dumbledore’s office."

Neville frowned. "That’s happened at least twice this month."

Blaise leaned back, arms crossed. "This just confirms what we’ve been thinking. They’re pestering you because Dumbledore wants them to. And if I had to bet, he’s paying them."

Harry scowled. "Wouldn’t surprise me."

Now back in the common room with Luna, sitting on one of the couches.

"Good thing I asked Grimbok to put all the basilisk earnings into my Evan Birch account," Harry muttered to himself one evening. "Otherwise, Dumbledore would be sniffing around like a niffler."

Luna, lounging nearby, twirled her wand between her fingers. "You could always tell him you spent it all on moon frog relocation. He might believe it."

Harry snorted. "I’ll keep that in mind."

~

Lunas headaches had been increasing lately, and after what Salazar had told them about the madness of Pythia, Harry couldn’t shake his concern.

"It’s Hermione," Luna said one evening, rubbing her temples. "She’s everywhere at once."

Harry, confused but used to Luna’s cryptic statements, didn’t press her—until one day in February, when he was watching the map and saw something that made him blink twice to see if he was really seeing it.

Hermione’s name appeared in two different places at the same time.

"I’m seeing things… right?" Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes.

But there it was. Clear as day.

Luna, peering over his shoulder, hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe she’s been split into two. That would explain why she’s so tense all the time. I imagine having half your soul somewhere else is quite stressful."

Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh or start panicking. Whatever was going on with Hermione, it wasn’t normal.

The group had grown increasingly suspicious of Hermione’s erratic behaviour. Not only was she constantly exhausted, but she also seemed to be everywhere at once, popping up in places she had no right to be considering their class schedules.

Harry and the others decided to keep a closer eye on her. It didn’t take long to notice the impossible—Hermione was attending every elective offered at Hogwarts, something that should have been physically impossible given the overlapping class times.

One afternoon after Ancient Runes, Harry and Neville decided to quietly follow her. She moved with purpose, constantly checking over her shoulder. Just as she rounded a corner, she ducked into an alcove. Harry and Neville peeked around the edge, watching as she pulled something from beneath her robes—a delicate golden necklace with a small hourglass.

Before they could react, she spun the hourglass.

Neville let out a sharp gasp as Hermione shimmered out of existence.

"Bloody hell," Harry whispered. "Did she just—"

"She has a Time-Turner," Neville finished, still staring at the now-empty alcove. "They actually gave her a Time-Turner."

When the group reconvened later in the Chamber, the mood was a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

"Of all the things to use time travel for," Theo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "She’s using it to take two extra electives?"

Blaise leaned back, crossing his arms. "Who in their right mind gives a thirteen-year-old a bloody Time-Turner? Do they even know what kind of damage she could cause?"

Luna hummed. "Perhaps she’s already caused irreparable paradoxes and hasn’t noticed. That would explain a lot."

Neville, still looking rattled, muttered, "I always thought she was intense, but this is insane."

Harry exhaled sharply. "This just confirms that Dumbledore and the Ministry don’t care about responsibility. We’ll keep an eye on her, but for now, let’s not do anything to tip her off. Good thing she didn’t use it to go back in time to see who stole the books from her trunk."

~

February 6th arrived with tension hanging thick in the air. For the past week, Gryffindor’s new portrait guardian, Sir Cadogan, had been an absolute menace, constantly changing the passwords at random. Neville, being the resourceful and ever-prepared friend he was, had managed to charm the eccentric knight into giving him the week's worth of passwords in advance. He had written them down and kept them safely in his bedside table, checking them daily.

He had been telling everyone for days how insufferable Sir Cadogan was. No one, however, had anticipated what was about to happen.

Harry, Luna, Theo, and Blaise noticed Neville’s absence at breakfast that morning. Concerned, they decided to find him. They eventually tracked him down in an empty classroom, sitting alone with a lost look on his face.

"Neville?" Harry called cautiously, stepping forward. "What happened? You weren’t at breakfast. Are you okay?"

Neville looked up, his face pale and tired. "You wouldn’t believe it," he said, his voice laced with bitterness. "Last night, Sirius Black broke into Gryffindor Tower."

The four exchanged stunned glances before Harry urged him to continue. Neville let out a shaky breath and recounted everything.

"I had written down the passwords for the week and kept them in my bedside table. Sir Cadogan kept changing them, and I didn’t want to get locked out. I thought it was safe. But—" he swallowed, his hands clenching into fists. "Someone must have stolen the paper. Somehow, Black got hold of it."

Luna frowned. "The…the ginger might be in cahoots with Stubby Broadman."

"Yeah, well, I doubt Ron is in cahoots with black," Neville muttered, missing Luna’s frustrated face. "Black got in. We all woke up to Ron screaming. Black was standing over him with a knife. By the time everyone else woke up, he was gone."

Theo swore under his breath, while Blaise let out a low whistle. "That’s insane. What did McGonagall say?"

Neville’s expression darkened. "She blamed me. Said I was irresponsible and endangered the house. I tried explaining that the passwords must have been stolen, but she didn’t care. She banned me from all Hogsmeade visits, gave me detention, and—get this—I’m not allowed to know the password to the common room anymore."

Harry felt his temper flare. "That’s ridiculous! You didn’t do anything wrong!"

"Tell that to the Gryffindors," Neville scoffed. "They’ve turned on me. Ron and Hermione have been on my back all morning. The twins said they would let me in when they can, but otherwise, I’ve been locked out."

Harry exchanged a look with Luna, Theo, and Blaise. That was the final straw.

"You’re staying with us," Harry said firmly. "Flitwick will approve it. You’re welcome in Ravenclaw."

Neville hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Luna smiled. "Of course. Wrackspurts don’t linger where friends belong."

When lunchtime came around, Harry was furious.

Neville quietly made his way to the furthest seat at the Gryffindor table, Ron and Hermione weren’t shy about making their opinions known.

"Unbelievable," Ron muttered, shaking his head as he stabbed his eggs. "Neville, I swear, you’ve outdone yourself this time."

"Honestly," Hermione huffed, "how do you manage to be this careless? You lost the passwords! What did you think would happen?"

Neville didn’t say anything, only clenched his fists, shoulders hunched in shame.

Harry saw red. He stood abruptly, startling those around him, and stalked over. "That’s enough."

Hermione scowled at him. "Harry, you don’t understand—"

"I understand perfectly," he cut her off coldly. "Neville did nothing wrong. His passwords were stolen from inside his dormitory. How exactly is that his fault?" Looking at Ron suspiciously.

Ron scoffed. "Mate, he lost them—"

"And you lost your rat, should I hold you responsible for that too?" Harry shot back. Ron’s ears turned red. "I don’t want to hear another word from either of you about this. And I’m not your mate."

Without another word, Harry grabbed Neville’s arm and pulled him towards the Ravenclaw table. "You’re sitting with us."

Anthony, Michael, and Luna all made space for Neville without question. Luna smiled dreamily at him. "Wrackspurts must have invaded Gryffindor Tower. That’s the only explanation for why they’re behaving so horridly."

Neville looked down at his plate, voice barely above a whisper. "I just didn’t want to get locked out all the time. I thought writing them down was the best way to keep track."

Michael scoffed. "You were being prepared. Something those Gryffindors clearly don’t appreciate. Besides Black could have easily gotten into the Ravenclaw common room by solving a riddle. Its no different."

"If McGonagall doesn’t notice Neville isn’t in Gryffindor Tower, she clearly doesn’t care about her students as much as she claims," Anthony added.

That night, Harry approached Professor Flitwick to request permission for Neville to stay in the Ravenclaw dorms. The tiny professor had been sympathetic, shaking his head at McGonagall’s excessive punishment. "If Mr. Longbottom finds himself more welcome in Ravenclaw, I see no reason to deny him. Consider it done, Mr. Potter. And twenty points for helping a friend in need."

As soon as they entered Harry’s dorm, an extra bed appeared beside his. Neville let out a breath of relief. "Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me," Harry said firmly. "You’re not alone, Neville. We’ve got your back."

Over the next week, Neville was officially one of them, sharing meals at the Ravenclaw table and spending time in the warded fourth-floor room. The whole ordeal solidified one thing in Harry’s mind: they needed to watch the Marauder’s Map at all times. Sirius Black was still out there, and Harry wasn’t going to let anyone catch them off guard again.

And if McGonagall wasn’t going to protect Neville, then Harry would.

~

Harry and the others visited Buckbeak after his trial at the Ministry, meeting a disheartened Hagrid who delivered the grim news. "They’ve sentenced him to execution," Hagrid muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "It ain’t right."

Harry was furious at the unfairness of it all. For a brief moment, he considered breaking Buckbeak out before the execution, but the risk to Hagrid was too great. He sighed, frustrated. We’d get caught, and Hagrid would take the fall. As much as I hate it, we can’t risk it.

Later that day, the group sat by the Black Lake, watching the Marauder’s Map as they idly discussed humorous gossip that Blaise heard. The peaceful moment was broken when Theo suddenly exclaimed, "Black is on the map!"

Harry's eyes snapped to the parchment, scanning for the name. Sure enough, there it was—Sirius Black, moving quickly along the edge of the castle grounds.

"It’s a risk," Neville muttered, glancing at Harry. "But if we track him carefully..."

Harry was already making a decision. "With the map, we can sneak up on him unseen. We have to try."

The group moved swiftly but cautiously covered with Harry’s shadows, following Black’s name as it made its way toward the outskirts of the map toward the Forbidden Forest. When they arrived, instead of a man, they saw a large black dog lurking just beyond the tree line.

Harry froze. The dog looked eerily familiar—the same one he had seen at Privet Drive before catching the Knight Bus.

Luna tilted her head and murmured cryptically, "That’s Stubby. We should take him with us."

Blaise whispered, "Black could be an Animagus."

Harry nodded. "Stay hidden behind the trees. I’ll go up to him."

He approached slowly, softening his voice into a friendly tone. "Hey there, boy. Are you lost? Are you Hagrid’s?"

The dog stiffened but then wagged its tail, ears perking up as if delighted to see him. Hesitantly, Harry knelt and ran a hand through the thick fur. As he did, he extended his magic subtly, scanning the presence before him. There—beneath the surface—was something undeniably human.

Without hesitation, he wandlessly cast a stunning spell.

The dog yelped softly before collapsing. Harry turned and gestured for the others to hurry. "We need to move, now. We’re taking him to the Chamber."

Luna draped Harry’s invisibility cloak over the unconscious form while Harry cast a levitation charm, making Black’s dog form float behind them as they navigated through the castle. Neville and Luna went ahead to clear the path, ensuring they weren’t seen.

Upon reaching the Chamber of Secrets, Blaise took control, tying Black securely in Slytherin’s library. He made a satisfied noise as the bindings glowed faintly. "My mother taught me well. You don’t grow up in a Slytherin household without learning how to properly restrain a prisoner."

Harry snorted, but before he could say anything, Theo gently tugged him aside. His usual smirk was absent, replaced with quiet concern. "Harry... are you sure about this? Whatever we learn, it might not be what you want to hear."

Harry swallowed, taking in Theo’s worried expression. He barely noticed when Theo reached out and placed his hand on his arm hesitantly.

"I need to know. I can’t live with uncertainty."

Theo studied him for a moment longer before giving his arm a brief squeeze and letting go. "Alright. Just… be prepared."

Before the moment could linger, Neville and Luna entered, breaking the tension. Theo hastily stepped away, his face tinged pink. Harry cleared his throat, refocusing on the task at hand.

It was time to get answers.

Sirius Black groaned as he regained consciousness, blinking blearily as his surroundings came into focus. The dimly lit chamber, the ancient books lining the walls, and—most importantly—the five students standing before him, Harry at the forefront with his wand trained directly at him.

"Change back," Harry ordered, his voice firm, his green eyes dark with suspicion.

Black hesitated for a moment before nodding, shifting seamlessly from his Animagus form into a ragged man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The magical bindings that Blaise had cast adapted instantly, tightening to keep him securely restrained.

Harry stepped forward and quickly searched him for a wand, finding none. Only then did he take a measured step back, allowing himself to truly take in the sight of the man before him.

Sirius was staring at him like a dying man who had finally found water. "Harry," he breathed, his voice raw with emotion.

"Be quiet," Harry snapped. "You're going to answer my questions, honestly, or I will hand you over to the Aurors myself."

Sirius flinched but nodded, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

Harry took a deep breath and steadied his grip on his wand before speaking. "On October 31st, 1981, Voldemort was given the secret to the Potters' house... Were you or were you not their Secret Keeper?" His voice rose in intensity. "Did you betray my parents to the Dark Lord?!”

Sirius sucked in a sharp breath, his body tensing. "No," he rasped, shaking his head violently. "No, Harry, I didn't. But it was my fault."

Harry's magic crackled around him, the room feeling suddenly suffocating, heavy with raw power and killing intent. His fury threatened to boil over, but before he could say another word, a gentle hand grasped his own.

"Let Stubby finish," Luna murmured softly, her calm presence grounding him.

Sirius exhaled shakily, nodding at Luna in gratitude before turning back to Harry. "It was my idea," he admitted bitterly. "Voldemort was hunting them, we knew that. Everyone expected me to be the Secret Keeper, so we decided to switch it at the last minute. Peter Pettigrew—he was their real Secret Keeper."

Silence stretched through the chamber as the truth settled in.

"You expect us to believe that?" Neville asked, his voice sharp with doubt. "Even if Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper, you still killed him. You killed him and twelve Muggles!"

Sirius shook his head frantically. "I didn't!" he swore. "Peter set me up! I confronted him in the street, demanded he take responsibility for what he’d done. But the rat—he was always good at playing the victim—he shouted for help, accused me before anyone even knew what was happening. Then he blew up the street himself, cut off his own finger, and transformed into the rat he’s always been. He escaped down into the sewers before anyone could react."

Blaise looked sceptical. "And we’re supposed to believe that Pettigrew was an Animagus?"

Sirius let out a harsh laugh. "Believe what you want, but I swear it’s the truth. Peter’s alive. He’s been alive this whole time."

Harry's mind reeled. The image of Ron’s rat—Scabbers—flashed through his thoughts. The missing toe, the unnatural longevity... It made sickening sense. “You weren’t after Ron Weasley…you were after his pet rat.”

“Yes.” Sirius’ voice dropped lower. "Harry, I thought you were in Gryffindor. I couldn’t let that rat sleep in the same dorm as my godson. It was a shock—seeing James’ son, in Ravenclaw. But looking at you now... it makes sense. You have Lily’s sharp mind. I should have been there. I should have protected you."

Harry clenched his fists. "You should have. But you weren’t. And I don’t trust you. Not yet."

Sirius nodded solemnly. "Then let me earn it. Help me prove Peter’s alive, and I swear, Harry, I will make things right."

Harry exhaled slowly, meeting the hopeful, desperate gaze of the man who claimed to be his godfather.

Harry crossed his arms, fixing Sirius with an unwavering stare. "You’re not leaving this library until we catch Peter Pettigrew."

Sirius sighed heavily, slumping slightly in his chair. "Harry, I appreciate your concern, but I can help you—"

"No," Theo interrupted, shaking his head. "You don’t get it, Black. The Wizengamot won’t listen to a bunch of kids, not without Pettigrew as proof. If they catch you, they’ll throw you to the Dementors before you even get a trial."

Sirius clenched his jaw, frustration clear in his gaunt features. "I can’t just sit here while the rat runs free."

Blaise scoffed. "Well, you don’t have much of a choice, do you? You’re safer here than out there."

Harry turned, calling out, "Tilly!"

With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared, her large eyes widening in recognition as she saw Sirius. "Master Black!"

Sirius looked stunned for a moment before a watery smile crossed his face. "Tilly… it’s good to see you."

The house-elf, however, crossed her arms, her expression stern. "It is not good to see yous, Master Black! You left Young Master Potter alone! Left him to those horrible Muggles!"

Sirius flinched, guilt flashing across his face. "I didn’t mean to, Tilly. I—"

"Enough," Harry said, rubbing his temple. "Tilly, can you and the others get Sirius some food and clothes? And make sure he’s confined to the chamber until further notice."

Tilly huffed, clearly displeased with Sirius, but she nodded. "Yes, Young Master. Tilly will see it done."

“Thank you.” Harry pointed to a smaller door off to the side of the library. "Through there’s a small bedroom. You’ll stay there, Sirius. You’re free to read whatever the library allows, but the portrait will be keeping an eye on you."

Sirius’ expression twisted, and for a brief moment, Harry regretted confining him, the memory of his own time in the cupboard under the stairs surfacing. But he pushed it down—Sirius needed time to heal before he could run off chasing Pettigrew.

The tension in the room was thick, but it was getting late, and dinner time was approaching.

Harry turned to Blaise. "Can you release the bindings?"

Blaise waved his wand, muttering an incantation. The magical ropes loosened, and Sirius rolled his shoulders with a wince.

Meanwhile, Theo and Neville, who had been hunched over the Marauder’s Map, exchanged uneasy looks. "He’s not on it," Theo announced.

Sirius' eyes widened in recognition as he saw the map in their hands. "The Marauder’s Map… you have it?"

Harry nodded. "It was in Filch’s possession, but the twins nicked it and passed it down to me."

Sirius let out a low chuckle. "Merlin’s beard. I thought it was lost forever. We spent years making that thing…" He trailed off, staring at the parchment with something close to reverence.

"Right now, it’s our best tool for catching Pettigrew," Harry said. "We’ll keep watching it. When he shows up, we’ll be ready."

Sirius exhaled sharply, looking around at the group of determined teenagers before him. "You lot are sharper than we ever were at your age. James would be proud."

Harry swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "We’ll talk later. For now, get some rest."

The group exchanged glances before turning to leave. As they made their way out of the chamber, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that things were only going to get more complicated from here.

~

The next couple of months since they had caught Sirius had flown by. Despite his initial protests, he slowly began to enjoy the peace of the Chamber of Secrets. Though he grumbled about being confined, he spent more and more time speaking with Salazar Slytherin’s portrait. What started as reluctant conversations had grown into long discussions, with Sirius learning far more about Hogwarts’ past than he ever expected.

One evening, as Sirius reclined in a chair near the fireplace in Slytherin’s study, he listened intently as Salazar explained the true history behind his supposed hatred of Muggle-borns.

“I never despised Muggle-borns,” Salazar said with a sigh. "The stories have twisted the truth. My concern was never about their magic—it was about their safety. Muggles feared magic, and they were burning those they suspected of having it. I wanted to remove those children from danger, to shelter them at Hogwarts, but Godric and Rowena saw it differently. They believed separating them from their families was immoral, even if it meant saving their lives. Our argument became the legend you now know, though history has misrepresented it."

Sirius was quiet for a long moment before letting out a low chuckle. "I spent years thinking Slytherin was all about blood purity and ambition, yet here you are, telling me you wanted to protect magical children from being slaughtered.”

It was at that moment that Harry and Theo walked in, catching the tail end of the conversation. They both exchanged glances before approaching.

"Did we just hear correctly?" Theo asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sirius Black, famous Slytherin-hater, having an enlightening conversation with the founder himself?"

Sirius smirked, running a hand through his now cleaner but still untamed hair. "I suppose even I can admit when I’ve been misled. Turns out, you Slytherins aren’t all bad."

Theo gasped dramatically. "We’ve converted him!"

Harry snorted but then became serious. "We need to be careful. Ron and Hermione have been following us."

Theo’s face darkened. "They don’t give up, do they?"

Harry nodded. "We’ve been splitting up to make sure they don’t pinpoint where we’re going, but we saw on the map when Hermione used the time turner once and nearly ran into herself."

Sirius’ eyes widened. "She what?"

"She’s been trying to follow us, but she’s not as subtle as she thinks," Harry explained. "Still, it’s only a matter of time before they get desperate."

Sirius exhaled, shaking his head. "That’s dangerous, Harry. If she slips up, she could expose herself—and you."

They nodded, filing that worry away for later.

As the days passed, Harry found himself growing closer to Sirius. He soaked up every story about his parents, hanging onto every word about James’ mischievous antics and Lily’s fiery intelligence. Sirius took it upon himself to teach them about Animagus transformations, describing the deep connection one had to build with their inner magic and instincts.

"Becoming an Animagus isn’t just about magic—it’s about knowing yourself, feeling your magic in its rawest form," Sirius explained as he guided Harry through the first steps. "It’s not easy, and the Ministry regulates it heavily, but your father and I... well, we figured it out on our own. And you, Harry, you’ve got your mother’s intelligence and your father’s stubbornness. You’ll get it."

One evening, as they sat in the library, Sirius leaned back in his chair and stretched. "Speaking of family history, have you ever looked into the Black family, Harry?"

Harry frowned. "Not much, no. I know I’m the heir, but you were apparently disowned."

Sirius scoffed. "Disowned or not, blood is blood. The Blacks have a long, complicated history. You’ve probably noticed how most of us are named after stars and constellations. There’s a reason for that."

Theo leaned forward, interested. "What reason?"

Sirius grinned. "Legend says the Blacks are descended from a god. A Greek one, to be precise."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You’re joking."

"Not at all," Sirius said, a gleam in his eyes. "The story goes that our ancestor, long before the wizarding world we know today, was a direct descendant of Nyx, the primordial goddess of the night. The Blacks have always had a powerful affinity for magic—especially the more esoteric kinds. Divination, shadow magic, elemental control—it’s why we always married within the most powerful families. The closer to that original power, the stronger the line."

Harry was silent for a moment. "So, what does that mean for me?"

Sirius shrugged. "That’s for you to figure out. You’ve already displayed rare abilities, haven’t you? Maybe it’s just in your blood. And with Aunt Dorea’s blood, I wouldn’t be surprised if those gifts activated in you."

Harry absorbed this information, filing it away with all the other mysteries surrounding his inheritance.

Harry hesitated before asking, "Sirius… what do you know about Dumbledore?"

Sirius immediately perked up, his expression shifting to one of admiration. "Dumbledore? Harry, he’s a great man. The greatest wizard alive, if you ask me. He fought Grindelwald, he’s always stood against the Dark Arts, and if we go to him about me, I know he’d do everything in his power to get me a trial."

Harry felt hesitant. "And what if I told you he’s been stealing from me? From my family’s vaults?"

Sirius frowned. "That’s impossible. Dumbledore would never—"

"He did!" Harry snapped, voice sharp. "He’s stolen family grimoires and heirlooms from my vaults. He’s taken money, books—hell, he even put himself down as my magical guardian the day after my parents died! Don’t you think that’s suspicious? You weren’t even in Azkaban yet!"

Sirius shook his head, his disbelief evident. "Harry, that doesn’t make sense. Dumbledore has always looked out for you. He left you with your mother’s family because it was the safest place for you. He—"

"Don’t," Harry interrupted, voice filled with barely contained fury. "Don’t talk to me about the Dursleys. That ‘safe place’ left me locked in a cupboard for ten years."

Sirius paled, mouth opening and closing like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. Harry shook his head, chest tight with disappointment. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the chamber, his emotions a tangled mess.

Theo exhaled sharply, then turned to Sirius with an unimpressed glare. "Are you serious? You had one job—be on Harry’s side."

"I am on his side!" Sirius protested. "But this is Dumbledore we’re talking about! He’s been protecting Harry since he was a baby!"

Theo scoffed. "Protecting him? By stealing from him? By using his votes to pass laws? By keeping him ignorant of his own inheritance?" Theo’s voice dripped with sarcasm. "Yeah, that sounds like real protection."

Sirius looked bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"The goblins have proof, Sirius. If you want to see the documents, we can get them," Theo said, crossing his arms. "But right now, you’ve probably just shattered what little trust Harry was starting to place in you. Nice job."

Guilt flickered in Sirius' eyes, but Theo didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and rushed after Harry, who was pacing furiously in an empty corridor just outside the Chamber’s entrance.

"Harry," Theo called softly.

Harry stopped pacing and looked up, his green eyes glassy with barely restrained tears. "He doesn’t believe me, Theo. After everything… he still doesn’t believe me."

Theo sighed and pulled him into a firm hug. "He’s been locked up for twelve years, Harry. He’s not thinking clearly. That doesn’t mean he won’t come around."

Harry buried his face in Theo’s shoulder for a moment before pulling back slightly. "I just… I thought he’d listen."

"We’ll make him listen," Theo assured him. "We’ll gather everything—the statements from the goblins, all the research we’ve done on Dumbledore, even his connections to Grindelwald and how he’s been using your votes to push anti-creature laws while acting like the saviour of the oppressed. If he sees the evidence, he can’t deny it."

Harry exhaled slowly, nodding. "Yeah… yeah, maybe you’re right."

Theo smirked. "Of course I am. I’m always right. It’s a Slytherin trait."

Harry let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Arrogant snake."

"Brilliant eagle," Theo shot back with a grin.

Harry rolled his eyes but felt some of the weight on his chest lift. "Thanks, Theo."

"Anytime," Theo said, his smile softening. "Now, let’s go shove some hard facts down Sirius’ throat, shall we?"

~

May passed in a blur of lessons, research, and secret meetings in the Chamber of Secrets. Neville was still staying in Ravenclaw Tower, and despite the obviousness of it, McGonagall had yet to say a word about it. She merely cast him disappointed looks in class, which made them suspect she hadn’t even realised he wasn’t returning to Gryffindor Tower at all.

One afternoon, while the group was lounging in one of the hidden courtyards, Luna let out a sudden, excited gasp, her wide eyes fixed on the Marauder’s Map. She turned to Harry, grabbing his arm in excitement. "Harry! Look! Newt Scamander is in the castle!"

Harry’s eyes widened, and he leaned over to confirm. Sure enough, the name ‘Newt Scamander’ was moving through the castle. "No way. The Newt Scamander? The magizoologist?"

Luna nodded rapidly. "He’s one of the best in the world! He wrote Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!"

Harry's mind whirled. He had read about Newt Scamander’s legendary expanded suitcase, which housed countless magical creatures in different environments—entire climates stretched across vast, enchanted spaces inside the case. The idea had fascinated him, and he had been researching similar enchantments, wondering if he might one day need to move Nox from the cove or even rescue other magical creatures in need.

"This is perfect," Harry murmured. "If anyone knows about expanding spaces for magical creatures, it’s him. I need to talk to him."

They watched the map carefully, tracking Scamander’s path through the castle. His name moved steadily toward the grounds before stopping near Hagrid’s hut.

"He’s with Hagrid," Neville observed.

"That’s our chance," Blaise said, already standing. "Let’s go."

The group made their way quickly but quietly toward the edge of the grounds. As they approached Hagrid’s hut, they saw the elderly magizoologist standing beside Buckbeak, carefully examining the hippogriff while Hagrid watched with a heavy expression.

"I’m so sorry, Hagrid," Newt said, his voice tinged with regret. "I tried petitioning again this morning, but they rejected it outright. They won’t budge on their ruling."

Hagrid sighed, running a massive hand over Buckbeak’s feathery neck. "I appreciate ya tryin’, Newt. I really do. But they’ve made up their minds. They ain’t listenin’ to reason."

Buckbeak’s fate had been sealed, and even someone as influential as Newt Scamander couldn’t overturn the Ministry’s decision. He exchanged glances with Theo and Blaise. If they were going to save Buckbeak, they would have to do it themselves.

Harry and the others approached Buckbeak cautiously, watching as Newt Scamander continued his examination. Hagrid noticed them first and beamed. "Ah, yeh lot found yer way here, did yeh? Come on over."

Luna, ever unpredictable, practically skipped ahead, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She stopped in front of Newt and gave him a bright smile. "Mr. Scamander! The Wrackspurts must have led us straight to you."

Newt chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Well, that’s a new one. And you must be Luna Lovegood. I’ve heard about you from your father—you look just like him."

Luna nodded sagely before grabbing Harry’s wrist and pulling him forward. "And this is Harry, my best friend. He has lots of questions. And did you know he's a Parselmouth?"

Newt’s eyes widened in sheer delight. "A Parselmouth? Truly? That’s fascinating! Most Parselmouths isolate themselves, and meeting one is quite rare—especially outside of India. The last Parselmouth I encountered was well over fifty years ago."

Harry shifted awkwardly, unused to such enthusiastic interest in his abilities. "Er… yeah, I guess. It’s not something I really talk about."

Newt’s expression turned thoughtful. "I understand. There’s quite a stigma around Parseltongue. But did you know that in some magical communities, particularly in India, Parselmouths are revered as speakers of the ancient language of serpents? The Ministry there even requires special permission to meet one. They have an incredible connection with magical creatures, particularly snakes.” He paused taking a breath. “But—hold on, we’ll return to that. Introduce me to your friends properly, will you?"

Harry quickly introduced Neville, Theo, Blaise, and Luna. Newt greeted each of them warmly before clapping his hands together. "Now, Harry, you had questions?"

Harry nodded, glancing at the enchanted case at Newt’s feet. "Your briefcase… I’ve read about it. You created an entire sanctuary inside it, right?"

Newt grinned, clearly proud. "I did! Built it myself. It took years of work and research into expansion charms, environmental stabilisation runes, and time-dilation magics."

Harry’s eyes gleamed. "How does it work? I mean, beyond the basic expansion charms? If it’s closed, how does it get air inside?"

Newt knelt and ran a hand along the case’s exterior. "Ah, excellent question! The trick is a series of runes—ancient Norse and modified Egyptian designs. There are two key runic schemes: one on the inside and one on the outer shell. The exterior set draws in oxygen, filtering it through a stabilisation rune that ensures proper atmospheric balance within. This way, the creatures never suffocate, even when the case is fully closed."

He allowed Harry to run his hands over the case to see first-hand. Harry sneakily let his magic scan the case to feel out all the enchantments and was awed at the number of layers he could feel and identify. Giving one last scan he let go and thanked Newt.

Neville leaned in. "And what about getting a creature inside? What if it doesn’t want to go?"

Newt chuckled. "Another good question. There are a few techniques—some creatures can be guided with food or calming spells. For larger or more resistant creatures, I developed a gradual spatial compression rune that makes the entrance feel more natural, rather than forcing them through a small opening."

Blaise whistled. "Impressive. And if, say, you needed to transport something huge?"

Luna tilted her head innocently. "Like a dragon?"

Newt laughed, shaking his head. "That would be quite the challenge! A dragon’s sheer magical energy disrupts most spatial expansion spells, making them highly resistant to being confined in magical spaces. You’d need a reinforced stasis charm combined with a high-tier displacement rune to even attempt it. Of course, the bigger the landscape inside the more settled they would feel, but it takes an impressive amount of power to extend that far."

Harry took mental notes, already planning future research. "Which books would you recommend if I wanted to study rune-based magical habitats?"

Newt looked genuinely impressed. "You’re very bright, Harry. I’d start with Ancient Runes and Environmental Magics by Elara Henshaw. It details rune sequences used for spatial expansions and climate control. For living enclosures, Magical Sanctuaries and You by Albrecht Von Heldenburg is excellent."

Harry committed the names to memory. "Thank you. This will help a lot."

Newt beamed. "I must say, it’s refreshing to meet such inquisitive young minds. Most students are too busy worrying about their OWLs to care about creatures or magical artifact creation. It’s been a pleasure talking with you all."

Hagrid smiled proudly. "They’re good kids, Newt. Real sharp."

Harry exchanged glances with his friends, all of them feeling an immense sense of accomplishment. Meeting Newt Scamander had not only been enlightening but had given them a clearer idea of what was possible with magic—especially for Harry, who now had more ideas for how to protect Nox.

Newt patted Buckbeak one last time before standing up. "Well, I best be going. Keep studying, all of you, and don’t stop asking questions. Curiosity is the root of great discoveries. Feel free to contact me if you have any more questions."

As Newt left, Luna sighed happily. "I knew today would be a good day."

~

Harry had finally stopped avoiding Sirius. He wasn’t sure when the tension between them had started to fade, but one evening, while they were alone in the Chamber’s library, he finally decided to ask the question that had been on his mind.

“Sirius, can I ask you about Lupin?”

Sirius, who had been flipping through an old tome, glanced up, his expression shifting into something mournful yet guarded. “What about him?”

Harry hesitated before continuing. “I’ve been practicing the Patronus charm with him since January. It’s been going… well, I guess. I can produce a strong mist, but he called the lessons to an end. He avoids talking about my parents, though. He isn’t very open about anything, really.”

Sirius sighed, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, that sounds like Remus. He has his reasons, Harry. Life hasn’t exactly been kind to him.” His voice held a quiet anger, but it wasn’t directed at Harry. “There was a time when James and I thought Remus was the spy in the Order. He started distancing himself from us, and I…” Sirius trailed off, looking regretful.

Harry frowned. “You thought he was the spy?”

“For a brief time, yeah,” Sirius admitted, shaking his head. “It was stupid of us. Looking back, I realise he was just trying to protect himself, not betray us.” His voice softened, his tone more hesitant. “Remus… he’s always been cautious about letting people in, especially when it comes to his… condition.”

Harry set his quill down. “Because he’s a werewolf?”

Sirius’s eyes widened in shock. “How—how did you—?”

Harry shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to figure out. His magic feels a little feral, and there’s a certain way he carries himself, he’s always sick on the full moons. The Wolfsbane potion in Snape’s possession didn’t help keep it a secret, either.”

Sirius let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really are Lily’s son.” He chuckled, but there was sadness in it. “I don’t think he meant to keep it from you, Harry. It’s just… it’s hard for him. People haven’t exactly been understanding.”

Harry nodded but didn’t press further. Instead, he turned his attention back to his project spread across the library table—a trap box designed to hold an Animagus and block their access to magic. He’d been experimenting with different runes, having bought a pet box for rats as a base. The engravings had to be precise, or else the containment spells wouldn’t hold.

Sirius watched him work in silence for a while before hesitantly speaking. “Harry….”

Harry looked up, sensing the shift in Sirius’s tone. “Yeah?”

Sirius swallowed thickly, setting his book aside. “I owe you an apology.”

Harry straightened, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For not believing you about Dumbledore,” Sirius admitted, his voice heavy with regret. “I didn’t want to see it, but now… after everything you’ve shown me, I can’t believe I ever trusted that man. I’ve been looking back at all my past interactions with him, and I see it now. The manipulations, the careful nudges in certain directions. He always had too much interest in James, especially when he and Lily got married.”

Harry stared at Sirius, stunned. He had expected resistance, but not this level of raw honesty.

Sirius continued, his hands balling into fists. “He let Peter betray us, Harry. He had to have known something—he was the one who cast the Fidelus charm. And yet, he did nothing. He let me rot in Azkaban without a trial. He kept you with those awful Muggles.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He’d spent years trying to put words to the feeling of betrayal that burned inside him, but hearing it from Sirius—someone who had also been manipulated—made it all the more real.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “I wonder how different things would have been if we had seen through him earlier.” He sighed, looking Harry in the eyes. “But you—you saw it. You figured it out. And you’ve done everything to keep yourself safe despite everything he’s thrown at you.”

Harry felt his breath hitch as Sirius stood and walked over to him. Slowly, hesitantly, Sirius pulled him into a hug. Harry stiffened for a moment before melting into it, his arms wrapping tightly around Sirius’s back.

“Thank you,” Sirius whispered. “For everything you’ve done. For keeping me safe when I should have been the one protecting you.”

Harry clenched his fists against Sirius’s shirt, feeling his eyes sting. A silent, shuddering breath left him as he realised—this was the first time he had ever been held like this, with warmth, with care, with family.

“When I’m free,” Sirius continued, voice thick with emotion, “I want you to live with me. If you’ll have me. I know I haven’t been there for you, but I want to be. I want to make it right. We can be a family.”

Harry’s shoulders trembled as he nodded, burying his face into Sirius’s shoulder. The dam inside him cracked and he allowed himself to cry.

Sirius held him tighter. “It’s going to be okay, Harry. I swear it.”

And for the first time, Harry believed him.

~

The Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match was underway, and the excitement in the air was almost tangible. Harry, Luna, and Neville sat among the Slytherins with Theo and Blaise, the five of them enjoying the match from a different perspective than usual. The first-year Slytherins were gathered around them, eagerly listening as Harry and Blaise explained the finer points of Quidditch.

Harry found himself enjoying the role of mentor more than he expected. Over the past year, he had been helping both Slytherin and Ravenclaw first-years navigate Hogwarts, shielding them from bullying, especially from Gryffindors. Despite house rivalries, he saw no reason to allow younger students to suffer for the pride of others.

Midway through the match, a shift in the atmosphere made Harry’s skin prickle. The sky darkened ominously, and a bone-chilling cold swept through the stadium. Whispers of fear rippled through the crowd as Harry’s sharp gaze caught sight of shadowed figures circling the pitch. Dementors.

Panic erupted in the stands as the hooded creatures swooped down, their presence draining all warmth and light from the world. Students screamed, clutching each other, their breaths visible in the frozen air. Harry and Theo immediately gathered the first-years, keeping them close as the creatures advanced.

Luna had frozen, her wide, silvery eyes locked on the approaching darkness. Harry barely had time to react before Neville grabbed her, pulling her along toward safety as she trembled in his grasp among the first-years. Harry sent him a thankful look.

The Dementors moved past the pitch, drawn by the large number of young souls huddled together in fear. Harry’s pulse pounded in his ears. The first-years were vulnerable, and the Professors were too far away to intervene in time. He had to act.

Swallowing his fear, Harry forced himself to focus on the happiest memories he could summon. Luna, his sister in all but blood. Nox, his sweet hatchling dragon. The unwavering loyalty of Theo, Blaise, and Neville. Tilly and the Pritchards. And—Sirius. The warmth of that hug, the security of knowing someone wanted to protect him, care for him, be there for him.

The Dementors drew closer, and suddenly, silence engulfed the chaos.

He whispered with all the feelings he had conjured, “Expecto Patronum!”

A bright light erupted from Harry’s wand, illuminating the pitch with rings of brilliant white mist spreading out sending the dementors away from the students. The mist thickened, glowing brighter, pushing against the darkness. Then, from the very core of the light, something burst forth—a magnificent, silver stag.

Gasps of awe rippled through the stands as the stag galloped forward, antlers shining with ethereal light. It charged the swarm of Dementors, its very presence banishing the despair they spread. More Dementors arrived, drawn by the energy, but the Patronus did not falter. It leaped, driving them away with powerful strides, sending them scattering beyond the stadium’s borders.

The oppressive cold lifted, replaced by the warmth of Harry’s magic filling the air. The students shivered, not from fear, but from the overwhelming sense of safety that the Patronus left in its wake. The stag stood before Harry, its deep, intelligent eyes locking onto his. With a graceful bow of its head, it nudged his shoulder before turning, galloping away into the mist, and fading from sight.

Silence fell upon the stands. Then, suddenly, the first-years burst into tears and scrambled toward Harry, clinging to him as if he were their lifeline. Even the older students were left speechless, some murmuring their thanks in reverence.

Harry, flustered by the attention, tried to brush it off. He hadn’t done it for the recognition—he had simply refused to let those monsters hurt anyone, especially the younger ones.

Finally, the Professors arrived, panting from their sprint across the pitch. Flitwick’s expression was one of sheer pride, his eyes twinkling as he approached. “Mr. Potter, that was a truly magnificent Patronus. I daresay that is an achievement few adult wizards could match.”

Remus Lupin stood beside him, his usual calm demeanour shaken by awe and recognition. “That was—extraordinary, Harry. The power behind it… I knew you had potential, but this…”

Flitwick beamed. “One hundred points to Ravenclaw for your outstanding magical prowess.”

Before Harry could respond, the crowd surged forward, moving toward the castle in case the Dementors returned. Dumbledore attempted to approach Harry, but he was quickly pushed aside in the commotion.

Harry turned to Flitwick, his voice steady despite the lingering tremor in his limbs. “Professor, I think it would be best to take the first and second-year Slytherins to Madame Pomfrey. They were hit the worst.”

Flitwick nodded, his sharp mind already moving to act. “An excellent suggestion, Mr. Potter.”

Harry glanced toward Luna, who was still trembling slightly. He placed a steady hands on her shoulder, moving them to cup her face and make her look at him. “Luna, you alright?”

She blinked up at him, her usual dreamy expression momentarily replaced with something distant. Then, slowly, she nodded. “The wrackspurts were particularly cruel today, but your dad was very bright” she murmured. What she said made Harry confused, but he pushed it aside to focus on her welfare.

Neville stepped up beside her, his grip firm but reassuring. “We should all head inside.”

Harry cast one last glance at the sky, his jaw tightening. He had stood against the darkness today. He had protected his friends. And he would do it again.

Because no one—no one—would take away what he had fought so hard to keep.

The next day in the chamber, everyone was telling Sirius what happened at the match, and when Harry produced his patronus again, Sirius burst into tears.

Stopping long enough to whisper, “Prongs”. Officially naming Harry’s great guardian.

~

The night air was thick with the scent of summer grass and the lingering warmth of the day. The sun was setting quickly, the grounds of Hogwarts covered in a light evening glow. Harry, Theo, and Blaise moved silently across the grounds, with Sirius as Padfoot trotting excitedly beside them the cloak carefully draped over his body, barely containing his glee at finally being outside after four long months in the Chamber of Secrets.

"You better not start howling," Theo muttered under his breath as Sirius wagged his tail, brushing against them.

Harry sighed. "Just stay under the cloak until we reach the trees, then we will try and save Buckbeak."

They maneuvered carefully across the grounds, heading towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They were passing the whomping willow when a loud voice cut through the night.

"Oi! What are you doing sneaking around with them, Potter?" Ron Weasley's voice was unmistakable, filled with self-righteous anger.

Harry turned, gritting his teeth, and saw Ron and Hermione emerging from the path leading from Hagrid’s hut. Ron had a smug, self-satisfied look on his face, arms crossed as he glared at Harry. Hermione, on the other hand, looked slightly unhinged, her hair frizzing wildly as she clenched her wand.

"What do you want, Weasley?" Theo asked coolly, stepping forward slightly to shield Harry.

"What do I want? I want to know what Potter's doing skulking around with a bunch of slimy Slytherins!" Ron shot back, his face red. "What are they giving you, huh? What are you doing for them to keep you around?" His face leering slightly, making Theo and Blaise look angry.

Harry stiffened. "Excuse me?" A small growl could be heard from his right, luckily drowned out by Hermione’s grating voice.

Hermione sniffed. "Honestly, Harry, I don’t understand why you’re keeping company with someone like Nott. We all know what kind of spells his family deals in. Dark Arts, right?"

Theo smirked coldly. "Oh, Granger, do enlighten me about the Dark Arts. What exactly do you think I do? Sacrifice first-years to my cauldron?"

Before Hermione could respond, Ron suddenly shrieked, "SCABBERS!"

All eyes snapped to where the rat scurried frantically in Ron’s hands, its tiny body writhing in his grasp.

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. "Ron, pass him to me—"

But before Ron could react, Padfoot burst from under the Invisibility Cloak, lunging at the rat with a deep, guttural snarl.

"WHAT THE—?" Ron shouted as he dropped Scabbers in terror as the grim pounced on him, teeth digging into his arm making him drop the rat.

The rat hit the ground running, making a beeline for the Whomping Willow. Sirius was after him instantly, Rons wand in his mouth.

"Wait!" Harry shouted, taking off after him. Theo shoved Hermione aside when she grabbed at Harry’s arm, and Blaise shot a parting glare before sprinting after them, subtly pocketing the fallen cloak.

Harry reached the tree just in time to see Pettigrew darting towards a gap in the roots. Thinking fast, he directed a sharp burst of wind at the base of the tree, striking the knot that froze the Whomping Willow in place that Sirius told them about. The branches stopped their furious thrashing, and Sirius wasted no time in barrelling inside after Pettigrew.

Harry and Theo exchanged a quick look before diving in after him, Blaise following quickly after.

The tunnel was dark and smelled of damp earth and decay, the narrow path sloping downward into what was unmistakably the entrance to the Shrieking Shack.

They emerged into a dusty old room just as Sirius, now human, held Ron’s wand at a quivering Peter Pettigrew, who was backed against the wall, his small, watery eyes darting around like a cornered rat.

"Please, Sirius," Pettigrew whimpered, shaking violently. "You don’t have to do this. I was scared—he would’ve killed me!"

"You sold them out!" Sirius roared, his face contorted in rage. "You handed James and Lily over to Voldemort like they were nothing!"

Pettigrew fell to his knees, sobbing. "I—I didn’t want to! I had no choice! Please, you have to understand—"

"Oh, I understand plenty," Sirius growled, his grip tightening on the wand.

Harry stepped forward. "Sirius, stop! We need him alive! If we kill him, you’ll never be free."

Sirius’ expression twisted, his breathing ragged. He turned sharply to Harry, his wild grey eyes softening. "Harry, he’s the reason you grew up alone. He deserves—"

"I know what he deserves," Harry interrupted, voice firm. "But you deserve justice. We need to take him to the Ministry." He said, pulling the complete warded rat box out of his extended pocket.

Sirius hesitated, then slowly lowered his wand, though his hands were still shaking with fury.

Theo stepped closer, glaring down at Pettigrew. "He still killed all those Muggles, though."

Pettigrew’s head snapped up. "No! No, that wasn’t me! I—I blew up the street, yes, but it was to escape!"

"So you admit it," Blaise sneered. "You framed Black, faked your death, and left him to rot in Azkaban while you ran free."

Pettigrew shrunk under their stares. "It—it wasn’t personal—"

"NOT PERSONAL?!" Sirius bellowed, making the room shake. "You destroyed everything! My best friends—my family! You left Harry an orphan!"

Harry clenched his fists, magic simmering under his skin. The air grew charged, as if the room itself was responding to his fury.

"He’s coming with us," Harry finally said, voice like steel. "We’ll make sure people see him then make him transform back and put him in the box, then call for the Aurors."

Sirius nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But if he tries anything—"

"We’ll deal with it," Theo finished.

Blaise conjured bindings, and they secured Pettigrew tightly before Harry turned to Sirius. "You trust me?"

Sirius stared at him for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. I trust you."

As they were leaving the shack, Hermione and Ron intercepted them again, blocking their path with furious expressions.

"You’re helping Black!" Hermione accused, her voice shrill. "You let him into the castle, didn’t you? You’ve been sneaking around with him this whole time!"

Ron, red-faced and shaking, jabbed a finger at Harry. "I knew you were up to something! I knew you were dodgy, but this? Helping a murderer? How could you?!"

Harry clenched his fists, his patience snapping. "You don’t know the whole bloody story!" he shouted. "That ‘murderer’ isn’t the traitor! Your pet rat, Ron! Scabbers! He’s an Animagus! He’s Peter Pettigrew, the real betrayer of my parents!"

Ron’s face contorted in confusion and horror. "That’s not—That’s insane! Scabbers is just—he’s just—"

"He’s been hiding for twelve years as a rat!" Theo cut in coldly, eyes sharp as he watched Ron flinch back. "Think about it, Weasley. Why would a normal rat live that long? Look at the proof!" He shouted, pointing to the fat rat-like man next to them.

Hermione still looked sceptical, but before she could open her mouth, the night suddenly grew even colder.

The chill slithered up Harry’s spine in warning. Then, without another second’s notice, the shadows around them thickened as a swarm of Dementors descended upon them, dark and suffocating, a tide of pure terror.

"Run!" Harry ordered, heart pounding. He turned to Sirius. "Run now! Get out of here!"

"I’m not leaving you, pup!" Sirius shot back, his ragged face twisted in defiance.

The Dementors came in waves—three times as many as during the Quidditch match. Harry raised his wand, a powerful mist already forming around them, but the sheer number pressing in suffocated the warmth his Patronus was meant to provide.

Pettigrew, in the chaos, stumbled into Hermione, and before she could react, he wrenched her wand from her grasp and into his bound hands. There was a sickening pop—Peter was gone, replaced by a rat once more, his beady eyes gleaming in desperation.

Blaise cursed, his restraints on Pettigrew excellent, but an Animagus transformation seemed to be a loophole. The moment Pettigrew regained his rat form, he scurried away into the underbrush.

"No!" Harry snarled, wrenching the enchanted box from his pocket. He hurled it to Blaise. "Trap him in there!"

Blaise fumbled for a moment before launching himself after the rat, Theo following right behind him.

They came back moments later unable to get past the dementors. Harry’s Patronus mist flickered under the growing swarm of Dementors. "GO! Take Sirius and go!" he shouted again, forcing all the strength he had into the spell. "I’ll hold them off!"

Blaise and Theo hesitated. Their eyes darted to Harry, raw fear and frustration evident. "Harry, we have to go!" Theo screamed.

But Harry could see it. The way the Dementors shifted their focus. They were moving towards Sirius.

"Blaise, Theo, run! Get Sirius out of here!"

For a moment, Theo looked torn, but Blaise grabbed his arm and yanked him away. With a curse, they vanished into the dark, a struggling Sirius in tow.

Harry gritted his teeth, forcing his Patronus to take more shape and bring forth Prongs, but it wasn’t strong enough—not yet. He could feel the despair creeping up on him, the cold clinging to his very soul. It was worse than the quidditch match. In his other hand he conjured flames hoping to catch some of the tattered cloaks, but it moved through them like smoke.

Then a sharp, snarling bark cut through the air.

"NO!"

Sirius had broken free from Blaise and Theo leaving them safe but unable to make their way back. He bolted back towards Harry, his large black dog form moving like a blur across the ground.

"SIRIUS! NO, RUN!" Harry screamed, but Sirius didn’t listen.

The momentary lapse in Harry’s concentration caused his Patronus to flicker and weaken. The Dementors seized their opportunity.

The darkness closed in, thick and heavy. The air was too cold to breathe, the shadows pressing against him.

Then—screaming.

His mother’s scream.

Not Harry, please not Harry! Take me instead! Not Harry, please!

It tore through his mind like jagged glass, the pain and fear so overwhelming that he fell to his knees. The wand slipped from his fingers, and he barely registered Sirius collapsing beside him, writhing as his soul was pulled toward the void.

The edges of his vision darkened. His body felt unbearably heavy, the pull of unconsciousness undeniable.

A small ball of light—Sirius’ soul—began to slip away.

Harry barely had the strength to whisper a final thought.

I hope the others got away…

Then—

Blinding light.

Warmth.

A presence so powerful it pushed the darkness away.

And then—nothing.

~

Pain. That was the first thing Harry registered. A dull, aching throb in his limbs, as though he’d run a marathon before being trampled by a hippogriff. His body felt heavier than usual, his mind foggy. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open, the bright candlelight of the infirmary stinging his vision.

A sharp gasp rang out beside him, and suddenly, four figures surged forward.

“Harry!”

Before he could react, Luna launched herself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. She was shaking, and when she pulled back, Harry saw her pale blue eyes were rimmed red, tear tracks still visible on her face.

“I—I didn’t see it,” she whispered, voice thick with anguish. “There were too many branches… too many threads of fate. The vision was tangled, obscured… I—I should have tried harder to untangle it. I should have known.”

Harry’s confusion only deepened at Luna’s cryptic words, but before he could ask, Theo cut in, his face a mask of anger and grief. “We lost, Harry.” His voice was thick with restrained emotion. “Sirius has been captured… and Pettigrew got away in the chaos.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“We tried, Harry,” Blaise muttered, running a hand through his dark curls in frustration. “We told Dumbledore, told everyone what happened—that Peter Pettigrew is alive, that Sirius is innocent. But he said that there was no proof and theres a Kiss on Sight order still.”

“It’s not your fault.” Harry clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. “Dumbledore?”

“Came in with his usual cryptic wisdom,” Theo scoffed bitterly. “Told us how disappointed he was that you didn’t feel like you could go to him with this information, and how unfortunate it was that the Ministry wouldn’t listen to our claims. And then he dropped the real bomb.” Theo looked Harry dead in the eye. “Sirius is being Kissed within the hour.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then they crashed into him like a tidal wave. His breath caught in his throat. His chest tightened painfully.

“No,” he croaked, voice barely above a whisper. “No, we—we can’t let that happen.”

“We tried, mate,” Neville said softly, his face drawn with grief. “There’s nothing more we can—”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop suddenly as Luna’s entire body stiffened. Her irises flickered silver, her pupils dilating unnaturally. And then she spoke—not in her usual whimsical tone, but in a voice layered with something ancient and powerful.

“The stars do not lie, and fate is not set. The past is the key to the present, the present the key to the past. A prisoner undeserving, a traitor escaping. Time bends, but trust wrongly and the rat will slip away once more. Two lives hang in the balance, yet only one stag will shine.”

A silence fell over them like a thick, suffocating blanket. The air itself felt charged, as though the castle had momentarily held its breath. Harry swallowed thickly as Luna swayed on her feet, Theo quickly reaching out to steady her and making her lie on Harry’s bed. All of them looking in shock at her sudden change.

Harry pulled her close. “You’re okay Luna. It’s okay, just let it pass.” He had never seen her speak a prophecy like this before. This was something beyond the usual intuition she would share in the form of riddles and dreams. It took a larger toll on her body too; he could see her limbs rattling with the force of the prophecy.

She blinked up at Harry, her voice softer now, carrying that familiar dreamy lilt. “You need more time.”

Neville was the first to break the silence, repeating Luna’s words under his breath. And suddenly, Harry knew exactly what she meant.

His head snapped toward Hermione’s unconscious form. Ignoring the pain in his limbs, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded toward her. Gently, he reached for the delicate chain around her neck, lifting the small, hourglass-shaped pendant into view.

“A Time-Turner,” Blaise breathed, realisation dawning in his sharp eyes.

Harry turned back to the others, heart hammering. “We can fix this. We can go back and do it right.”

Theo, who had been eerily quiet since Luna’s prophecy, suddenly straightened. “You’ll need a second person.”

Harry hesitated. “Theo—”

Theo’s jaw was set with determination. “No arguments. The prophecy said two lives can be saved. That means we need to make sure Buckbeak doesn’t get executed either.”

Blaise frowned. “The problem is, we don’t know how far back to go.”

“Three hours should do it,” Luna murmured, staring at the device in Harry’s hand. “Enough to make the difference we need.”

Harry turned to Theo, their gazes locking. “You sure about this?”

Theo smirked faintly. “You’re not leaving me out of this adventure, Potter.”

Harry nodded, shifting the chain so that it looped around both of their necks. As they positioned themselves, Luna suddenly reached forward, grasping Harry’s hand.

“Be careful, Harry,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand in return. “I will.” He turned to Blaise and Neville, “can you make sure she stays in bed…we can explain everything later.” Referring to Luna’s prophecy. They had never fully divulged her gifts to them before, but they had also never hid them fully waiting for the right time to tell them.

Theo gave Blaise and Neville a nod before grasping the Time-Turner. Harry inhaled sharply, then, together, they turned the hourglass three times.

The world around them spun, colours blending into a chaotic whirlwind before everything snapped back into place.

They were back.

Theo exhaled shakily. “Right. Step one—find Buckbeak.”

Harry nodded. “And step two—save Sirius.”

They shared a determined look before slipping into the shadows, time itself now bending to their will.

~

Harry and Theo stood in the shadowed cover of the Forbidden Forest, waiting for the figures of Dumbledore, the Minister of Magic, and the executioner to approach the hut. They had roughly twenty to thirty minutes before they needed to be in position to stop the Dementors. Buckbeak stood tethered nearby, rustling his wings in agitation.

"We need to wait for them to see Buckbeak first," Theo murmured. "If we act too soon, they'll notice he's missing before we even get him away."

Harry nodded, his gaze sharp as he scanned the area. "We'll cause a distraction when the time is right. You lead Buckbeak away while I keep them occupied."

As they waited in silence, Theo turned to Harry, his expression unusually serious. "Harry... about Luna. What happened back there? That prophecy... she looked like she was barely holding on."

"No one can know," Harry said firmly. "Not Dumbledore, not your father, and definitely not Voldemort. No one."

Without hesitation, Theo nodded. "I swear, Harry. On my magic, I will never reveal what you've told me." A pulse of magic flaring between them.

A small wave of relief passed over Harry. "Thank you, Theo."

Harry exhaled heavily, recalling Luna wanting to tell the others the truth. "Luna has a special bloodline," he admitted carefully, choosing his words. "It's been getting worse, the visions. If we don’t find a way to stop them, they could take her sanity, just like those before her who had the gift."

Theo stiffened beside him. "Does anyone else know?"

Their attention was snapped back to Hagrid’s hut when they saw movement. Ron and Hermione were leaving, walking a short distance away. Harry and Theo crouched lower, listening carefully as their voices carried through the quiet night.

"We should follow Potter again," Ron grumbled. "Dumbledore will want to know what he’s up to. Where he’s been going."

Hermione, looking frustrated, snapped back, "We don’t have time for that, Ron! I need to finish my research and find the missing books before Dumbledore finds out I lost them."

Harry and Theo exchanged dark looks, confirming what they had long suspected—Ron and Hermione were actively spying for Dumbledore.

"Figures," Theo muttered. "I knew they were watching you, but to hear it straight from their mouths..."

Harry clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. He would deal with Ron and Hermione later. Right now, they had a mission to complete.

Once the two disappeared down the path, the Minister, Dumbledore, and the executioner entered Hagrid’s hut.

Harry took a steadying breath. "Alright. They’re inside. Now’s our chance."

They hurried over to Buckbeak, who eyed them warily. Bowing quickly in respect, Harry took the lead in coaxing him forward. The hippogriff shifted, hesitant, until Theo held up a bundle of ferrets Hagrid had left hanging outside. The promise of food won Buckbeak over, and he began following them into the dense cover of the forest.

"Come on, Buckbeak," Theo murmured, leading him deeper into the trees. "Just a little further."

Their hearts pounded as they maneuvered their way toward the clearing near the Shrieking Shack, where they would hide until it was time for the next part of their plan.

Harry glanced up at the sky, measuring the time left. They were cutting it close, but if all went well, they’d save both Buckbeak and Sirius before the night was over.

The cool night air clung to Harry’s skin as he crouched low behind the thick underbrush of the Forbidden Forest. He and Theo had watched as the past versions of themselves and their friends played out the night’s events, unable to interfere too soon.

Harry’s fingers curled into the dirt as frustration surged through him. He could see it all now, the mistakes he had made—things he should have done differently. He should have forced Pettigrew to transform in the shack instead of letting him remain human. He should have bound him properly, taken every precaution to ensure he never escaped. But instead, he had let his emotions dictate his actions, and now they were here, trying to fix the damage.

Theo, beside him, was tense, his grey-blue eyes flicking between Harry and the unfolding chaos near the Whomping Willow. “What’s the plan?” he whispered.

Harry was about to answer when movement caught his eye. A small, scurrying figure darting through the underbrush.

Pettigrew.

The rat was desperately making his way toward them, unaware of their presence. It was pure luck—fate, even—that he had run right into their path.

Harry wasted no time. Summoning the rune box that had been dropped by Blaise in the earlier commotion, he reached for his magic. The ground beneath them trembled slightly as thick, twisting vines burst from the earth at his command, wrapping around the rat in a matter of seconds.

Pettigrew let out a high-pitched squeal, struggling violently against the enchanted vines.

Theo exhaled sharply. “Merlin—”

Harry didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the squirming rat and shoved him inside the rune box, sealing it shut with a burst of magic. A pulse of protective energy rippled through the air as the runes activated, ensuring that Pettigrew would remain contained. The Oxygen runes Newt Scamander told him about ensuring he wouldn’t suffocate.

For a brief, fleeting moment, victory settled over him.

Then the temperature plummeted even more.

Harry’s breath hitched as his magic faltered. The oppressive, soul-draining presence of the Dementors pressed down on him, and his stomach turned at the overwhelming sense of dread that came with them.

A cold sweat formed on Theo’s brow. “They’re coming,” he whispered, barely audible over the distant echoes of past screams.

Harry turned his gaze toward the distant figures by the lake. His past self was struggling against the Dementors, Sirius barely conscious beside him. He knew what was coming—he had lived it. The hopelessness, the weight of his own despair crushing him into the ground as the Dementors closed in.

He had to act.

The wand in his hand felt like an extension of himself for once, as he lifted it high, but for the briefest of moments, doubt crept in. Could he do it again? Could he produce a Patronus strong enough to fight off a whole swarm?

His heart pounded.

Theo’s hand clasped his.

Harry blinked, glancing at him in surprise. Theo’s grip was tight, grounding, and despite his pale complexion, his expression was unwavering. “You can do this, Harry.”

Harry swallowed hard, pushing everything else away. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to reach deep into his core.

Happy memories.

He thought of Luna—the first friend he ever made, the sister of his soul. He thought of Nox, his beautiful, wild, mischievous dragon, and the first time she had curled against him, calling him Mother. He thought of all the times he had spent with Blaise, Theo, and Neville, laughing, training, scheming together in their secret sanctuary.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

He thought of Sirius, his godfather, the first adult who had ever wanted him, who had offered him something he had never dared to hope for—a family.

And above all, he thought of the love his parents had for him. They died for me. They loved me.

He had made his own family now.

The magic surged, burning through him with an intensity he had never felt before.

A soft whisper echoed in his mind.

"Always."

His eyes snapped open, and he shouted, “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

Light exploded from his wand.

Brilliant, pure, dazzling. Rings of white mist pulsed outward in powerful waves, filling the night air with a chiming resonance so strong that the Dementors recoiled. The radiant energy grew, taking shape, solidifying—

A magnificent silver stag, Prongs, erupted from the tip of Harry’s wand.

The creature landed with an earth-shaking impact, its antlers gleaming like moonlight, its presence exuding untouchable strength. It stood between Harry and the Dementors, lowering its head before charging.

The Dementors screamed.

They were thrown back, the force of the Patronus sending them scattering like shadows under the sun. Wherever the stag went, the darkness receded. It drove through the thick swarm of monsters, its powerful hooves crushing any remnants of despair in its path.

By the lake, Harry saw his past self collapse, his Patronus fading.

He clenched his teeth, pouring every ounce of his strength into the spell.

The stag thundered forward, reaching the dying Sirius, standing protectively over him. It lowered its head once more and unleashed another wave of light, pushing back the last of the Dementors.

The darkness lifted.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Harry’s body trembled as his magic settled. His Patronus, still glowing softly, turned back toward him.

His breath hitched.

The stag walked forward with deliberate, regal grace. When it reached Harry, it nudged him gently, its intelligent eyes filled with something knowing—something almost familiar.

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat.

The stag bowed.

Then, like mist caught in a breeze, it faded, dissolving into threads of silver light that vanished into the night.

Harry staggered slightly, breathless.

Theo caught him, steadying him with a firm grip. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of awe, concern, and something else Harry couldn’t quite place.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered. “That wasn’t just a Patronus this time, Harry. That was power. Tangible.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think… I think I understand now.”

Theo tilted his head. “Understand what?”

Harry glanced toward the lake, where his past self lay unconscious, Sirius barely clinging to life beside him.

The realisation settled over him like a gentle weight, remembering what Luna said the first time he manifested Prongs.

“My father,” he whispered. “That Patronus… it wasn’t just mine. It was his too. Part of his soul within my guardian.”

For the first time in his life, Harry felt a true connection—not just to his magic, not just to his parents, but to something greater. He would remember this.

~

Time was slipping through their fingers like grains of sand.

Harry and Theo crouched in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, cloaked by Harry’s magic, as they watched Dumbledore and Snape rush toward the lake where Harry’s past self and Sirius lay motionless but alive.

Harry’s breath was coming fast and sharp.

This is it. We have one chance.

Dumbledore and Snape came to a halt at the scene, both momentarily stunned. Snape’s lip curled into a sneer, but Harry’s eyes were on Dumbledore—on the strange, almost hungry look in his piercing blue gaze.

“A most spectacular Patronus,” Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard. His eyes gleamed in the dim light. “Yes… a power beyond anything I have seen in decades…”

Harry’s stomach churned. The way Dumbledore spoke, the way he looked towards Harrys prone body—it wasn’t admiration. It was want. And it made him decidedly uncomfortable.

Beside him, Theo tensed. “He’s not talking about the Patronus itself,” Theo whispered. “He’s talking about you.”

Before Harry could reply, Snape took a step forward and, with a gleeful smirk, kicked the unconscious Sirius in the ribs.

Harry saw red.

His fingers twitched at his side, and shadows curled at his feet, responding to his rage.

“Shame about the criminal,” Snape drawled, his voice dripping with false concern. “It would be a waste to let the Dementors kiss him before we get some use out of him.”

Dumbledore sighed dramatically, as if burdened. “Yes, it is unfortunate. But he will have to be… out of the way.”

Harry stiffened, every muscle in his body locking up.

Out of the way.

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

Dumbledore continued, his voice gentle, almost grandfatherly. “We cannot have him interfering, leading young Harry astray. It is vital that the boy remains in the Light. His destiny must not be compromised. He has strayed too far already.”

Theo sucked in a sharp breath beside him.

Harry barely breathed.

So that’s it.

Sirius had never mattered to Dumbledore. His innocence had never been a factor. All that mattered was keeping Sirius away from him.

Dumbledore turned to Snape. “Take Black to the dark tower. Ensure he is… comfortable until the Dementors arrive.”

Snape smirked, flicking his wand, and Sirius’s unconscious body lifted into the air like a ragdoll. As they walked away, Snape made a deliberate effort to let Sirius’s body knock against the stone path—once, twice—until they disappeared into the darkness.

Harry’s hands trembled with suppressed fury.

Theo placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Now we know,” he whispered. “Now we know what kind of man he really is.”

But there was no time to dwell on it.

They had one hour.

Harry’s mind sharpened like a blade. “Come on. We need to move.”

They made their way swiftly back to the trees where Buckbeak was waiting, the proud hippogriff watching them with keen eyes.

Theo exhaled. “How the hell are we getting him into the tower without being seen?”

Harry grinned grimly. “We fly.”

Theo gave him a look but didn’t argue.

After quickly untying Buckbeak, they mounted, and with a powerful surge, the hippogriff took off into the night sky. The wind whipped at their robes as they soared higher, the castle looming beneath them.

“There!” Theo pointed. “That’s the tower.”

Harry adjusted their angle, urging Buckbeak forward. The window to Sirius’s cell was barred, but that wasn’t a problem.

Raising a hand, Harry summoned his elemental magic. The very stone of the tower groaned and cracked as he commanded it to break. With a final pulse of magic, the stone shattered, the fragments dissolving into dust leaving a hole near the door.

Sirius barely had time to react before they landed. His eyes widened as he saw them.

“Harry?”

Harry barely had time to breathe before Sirius was in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “How—”

“No time,” Harry cut in. His heart was pounding. “We caught Pettigrew.”

Sirius froze. “You—” His breath hitched. “You caught him?”

Harry nodded. “We have him in the warded box. We’re going to take him to Madam Bones—”

Excitement lit up Sirius’s tired face. “Then I’m free. I can finally—”

“No,” Theo interrupted.

The happiness flickered. “What?”

Theo’s voice was grim. “We overheard Dumbledore talking to Snape.”

And in quick, clipped words, Theo told Sirius exactly what they had heard.

Sirius’s expression twisted with fury. “That bastard,” he whispered. “He was never on our side. He never cared about justice—only about keeping Harry under his thumb.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the raw anger in Sirius’s voice. He didn’t want this for him. He didn’t want him to feel hopeless again.

“Sirius,” he said, voice softer now. “You have to go.”

Sirius’s head snapped up. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” Harry insisted. “We don’t have time—Dumbledore will make sure you never walk free. We need time to get to Bones, to build a case. If you stay, they’ll take you tonight.”

Sirius clenched his jaw. “Harry—”

“Live today,” Harry cut him off. “Fight tomorrow.”

Sirius’s expression crumbled, a deep vulnerability showing. “But we were going to be a family.”

Harry swallowed thickly, blinking back the sting in his eyes. “We still will be.”

Sirius looked like he wanted to argue. To fight. To rage at the injustice of it all.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew Harry was right.

Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out a slip of parchment and quickly writing on it and imbuing his magical signature into the paper. “Here.” He pressed it into Sirius’s hand. “Coordinates. It’s a safe place. Get to the edge of the wards and call for Tilly. She’ll let you in. Keep the paper on you until you pass.”

Sirius frowned, glancing at the paper. “What’s this place?”

“The Cove.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Harry, what’s in this Cove?”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t have time to explain everything.

So he settled for a bit of humour, “My Nox.”

Theo shot him a suspicious look. “Even I don’t know what’s in the Cove.”

Sirius eyed him warily. “You’re not throwing me into a death trap, are you?”

Harry smirked slightly. “Not intentionally.”

Sirius groaned. “Brilliant.”

Harry squeezed his arm. “Just don’t forget to call for Tilly before you go in. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise?”

“Nox will probably eat you.”

Silence.

“What.”

Harry grinned.

Even Theo looked confused. “What the hell is a Nox?”

“No time!” Harry shoved Sirius toward Buckbeak. “Go!”

Sirius swore under his breath but climbed onto Buckbeak. Before he could say another word, the hippogriff took off, carrying him away into the dark sky.

Harry watched until he was just a shadow on the horizon.

A knot loosened in his chest.

Theo tugged his sleeve. “We need to go.”

Harry exhaled.

They ran.

The clock was ticking.

They made it back to the infirmary under the invisibility cloak just in time, slipping inside to see their past selves use the time turner and disappearing.

Theo pulled out the Time-Turner. “We made it,” he murmured.

Harry let out a breath and hurriedly placed the time turner back on Hermione’s neck. No one can know what they did, he thought.

Sirius was free.

Pettigrew was captured.

And now, they just had to set things right.

~

The infirmary was quiet.

The only sound was the soft, even breathing of the unconscious patients. Luna lay curled on her side beside Harry, deep in sleep, recovering from her episode. Across the room, Ron and Hermione occupied separate beds, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around them.

Harry, however, was wide awake.

A silencing charm surrounded his bed, shielding their conversation from prying ears. He, Theo, Blaise, and Neville sat in a tight circle, voices hushed but urgent as they recounted everything that had happened.

“So, what you’re saying,” Blaise murmured, arms crossed, “is that Dumbledore basically admitted to needing Black out of the way?”

Theo nodded. “He can’t have Sirius influencing Harry. He needs him dependent. Isolated.”

Neville’s hands clenched into fists. “That bastard.”

Blaise exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I knew Dumbledore was manipulative, but to keep an innocent man imprisoned just to control you? That’s a whole new level of vile. We suspected, but to have it confirmed.”

Harry, who had been quiet throughout their recap, finally spoke. His voice was low, but steady.

“I don’t trust the minister. I don’t trust Dumbledore. And I don’t trust that Sirius will be safe unless we make sure of it.”

Theo frowned. “Are you thinking of telling Bones?”

Harry hesitated. “Maybe. But I want to be sure she will get Sirius a trial before we do. I want something they can’t ignore.”

Blaise, ever the strategist, tapped his chin. “And in the meantime?”

“We wait,” Harry said simply. “We watch. We play their game until we have the upper hand.”

A beat of silence passed between them, each lost in their own thoughts.

Then, suddenly, Harry felt it—magical signatures, pressing against his senses.

“Get rid of the silencing ward,” he muttered. “Now.”

Theo flicked his wand, dissolving the charm just in time.

The infirmary doors slammed open.

The sudden noise made Neville jump. Blaise merely straightened, his face carefully blank. Theo tensed beside Harry, his expression cool and unreadable.

Luna didn’t stir.

Harry schooled his features into something neutral as he turned to face their visitors.

Minister Fudge.

A handful of Aurors.

And Dumbledore, with his twinkling blue eyes set firmly on him.

Showtime.

“Young man,” Fudge barked, stepping forward with the air of someone who thought himself very important. “I believe you and your friends have some explaining to do.”

Harry feigned confusion. “About what, Minister?”

Fudge huffed, flustered at being questioned so easily. “About everything, Potter! Black’s escape! Pettigrew’s supposed return! And what in Merlin’s name you children were doing in the middle of it all!”

Blaise gave a practiced pause before speaking, as if considering his words carefully.

“We already explained it to Professor Dumbledore,” he said, voice calm. “I assume he gave you the full report?”

Dumbledore, silent until now, finally spoke. “Perhaps, it would be best if Harry told the story himself.”

There it was.

The push.

Harry bit back a scoff. He’d learned enough from watching Slytherins over the years to recognise exactly what Dumbledore was doing.

He wanted to control the narrative.

Fine.

Let’s play.

Harry sat up straighter, schooling his face into something appropriately innocent yet serious.

“We were going to Hagrid’s,” he began, carefully measured. “To tell him how sorry we were about Buckbeak’s execution.”

The mention of Buckbeak made Fudge grimace.

Harry noted that and felt a small victory.

“Before we got there, we were stopped by Hermione and Ron. Ron saw his pet rat—Scabbers,” Harry continued. “He was alive. Ron had thought he was dead, but he wasn’t.”

Fudge waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes. And then?”

“Then a large dog lunged at Ron,” Theo picked up smoothly, voice neutral. “It startled him, and he dropped the rat. Scabbers ran toward the Whomping Willow.”

Fudge frowned, exchanging a glance with one of the Aurors.

Harry kept his voice steady, “We followed the dog because… well, it had Ron’s wand.”

A small lie.

A necessary one.

“We didn’t want to leave a Gryffindor wand lying around, even if it belonged to a prat.” Neville added helpfully.

“Language, Mr Longbottom.” Dumbledore hummed, as if considering their words. “And then?”

Harry exhaled. “We followed the dog into the tunnel and found Sirius Black holding a man at wandpoint.”

A sharp intake of breath from one of the Aurors.

Fudge frowned. “A man?”

Harry nodded. “Peter Pettigrew.”

Silence.

Fudge stared at him.

Dumbledore, however, was unreadable.

Harry pressed forward. “Black forced Pettigrew to tell the truth. About how he wasn’t the secret keeper. About how he faked his own death, cutting off his finger before escaping to the sewers and living as the Weasleys pet rat for 12 years. About how he killed those Muggles.”

The Aurors whispered among themselves.

Fudge, ever the idiot, scoffed. “Preposterous!”

Harry tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Fudge snapped. “I refuse to believe it! If Pettigrew was alive, where is he now?”

Harry hesitated.

The weight of the warded box in his pocket was heavy.

He could hand it over.

He could.

But as his eyes flickered to Dumbledore—at the carefully crafted disappointment on his face—he made his decision.

He wasn’t ready to play that card.

Not yet.

“I don’t have proof,” Harry said, watching Dumbledore’s face closely. “But I do know one thing.”

He met Fudge’s gaze, unblinking.

“Sirius Black never received a trial. Until he does, I refuse to believe anything.”

Fudge turned red. “You dare question—”

“I dare to ask for justice,” Harry interrupted, voice sharp.

Silence.

Dumbledore’s twinkle had faded.

Harry saw it.

Not approval.

Not even concern.

But anger.

Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “Ah, Harry… I do wish you had come to me with this information.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Dumbledore gestured toward Hermione and Ron. “I imagine your friends would have wanted to help you.”

Harry smiled thinly. “I did have my friends.”

A beat of silence.

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened.

Fudge waved them off, clearly uninterested. “Hmph. This is all nonsense. Likely some big Confundus mess.”

Theo snorted softly. “Of course, Minister.”

Fudge nodded, pleased. “Stay out of adult affairs, Potter. Do not meddle again.”

With that, the Minister and Aurors left.

Dumbledore lingered.

“I do hope,” he said lightly, “that you will be careful at your relatives this summer, Harry. Black is still on the loose, after all. I would appreciate it if you inform me of any contact you may have.”

Harry didn’t flinch.

Dumbledore left, his robes sweeping behind him.

The moment the door shut, Harry exhaled.

Theo scoffed. “That man is a snake.”

Blaise smirked. “I thought we liked snakes.”

Neville groaned, rubbing his face. “What the hell just happened?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “We won.”

Theo smirked. “For now.”

But they all knew the truth.

The real fight was just beginning.

~

The late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, casting long, golden streaks of light across the cluttered wooden desk. Books were stacked haphazardly, parchment rolled and bundled into his old briefcase, and Remus Lupin stood by a half-packed trunk, carefully folding his threadbare robes with tired hands.

Harry hesitated at the threshold. He wasn’t sure what had brought him here—perhaps curiosity, or maybe something deeper, something like guilt.

Lupin must have sensed his presence, because he turned with a small, tired smile.

"Ah, Harry," he said, voice soft. "I thought you might stop by."

Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Is it true? You’re leaving?"

Lupin sighed, giving a small nod. "Yes. Word got out about my... condition. Parents started writing in their complaints before breakfast even ended. I imagine the Howlers will be arriving by morning."

Harry scowled. "That’s ridiculous. You’re the best Defence professor we’ve had! Exams haven’t even started yet."

Lupin chuckled. "Thank you, Harry. But I’ve learned not to fight battles that are already lost."

A heavy silence settled between them, and Harry knew now was the time.

He took a steadying breath before saying, "I need to tell you something, Professor."

Lupin paused in his packing, giving Harry his full attention.

"Sirius is innocent," Harry said, the words feeling heavier than he expected.

Lupin stiffened. "What?"

"Pettigrew is alive. He’s been hiding as Ron’s pet rat for the last twelve years."

Lupin’s face paled, his hands tightening around the fabric of the robe he had been folding. "Peter?" His voice cracked slightly. "Harry, are you certain?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "Sirius didn’t betray my parents. He wanted people to think he was the Secret Keeper, but it was Pettigrew all along."

Lupin slowly sat down, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he absorbed the information. "Where is he now? We have to go to Dumbledore at once—"

Harry’s stomach twisted. He had expected this, but it still grated on him.

"Professor," he interrupted carefully, "do you really think we can trust Dumbledore to do the right thing?"

Lupin blinked, visibly thrown. "Of course. Dumbledore—"

"Dumbledore knows Sirius is innocent," Harry said coolly, watching Lupin's reaction closely. "We already told him everything."

Lupin's face was a mixture of confusion and denial. "That’s impossible," he whispered.

"Is it?" Harry challenged.

Lupin stared at him, looking almost... lost.

Harry took a step back, expression carefully neutral. "I don’t know where Sirius is now. He broke out of the Dark Tower and fled Hogwarts without saying anything." A well-practiced lie. He didn’t trust Lupin’s blind faith in Dumbledore, and he wasn’t going to take any risks.

Lupin exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of his desk. "Merlin..." His voice was thick with emotion. "All these years..."

"I thought you should know," Harry said simply.

Lupin swallowed hard and looked away. "Thank you, Harry," he murmured.

For the first time, Harry saw something flicker in his eyes—doubt.

Maybe, just maybe, Lupin wasn’t as blind as he thought.

~

The weeks leading up to the end of term passed in a blur of exams and restless anticipation.

Luna, who had spent so much of the year lost in tangled visions, seemed lighter.

"The branches have finally stopped shifting," she murmured one evening, tracing absent patterns in the air with her finger. "Everything feels... clearer."

Harry exhaled in relief. He had been worried. Luna’s headaches, the strain of so many overlapping timelines because of Hermione’s reckless time travel, had weighed heavily on both of them. He had kept her secret close, guarding it fiercely, but it had taken a toll on them both.

"Does that mean she’s stopped using it?" Theo asked from where he was flipping lazily through a book.

Luna nodded. "Yes. The Wrackspurts aren’t so loud anymore."

Neville looked confused. "What exactly was causing the problem?"

Harry answered. "The Time-Turner. Every time she went back, she added more layers to the timeline. Too many possible futures at once, and Luna could feel them all."

Luna tilted her head. "It was like standing in a hall of mirrors, but instead of reflections, they were all futures."

The group fell silent, letting that sink in.

Eventually, Blaise huffed. "Well. At least that’s over."

"Finally," Harry muttered, rubbing his temple.

Luna leaned against him, eyes half-lidded. "I’m sorry for being such a mess this year, Harry."

Harry shook his head, squeezing her hand. "You’re not a mess, Luna. You’re you. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything."

Her smile was small but real.

On their final night at Hogwarts, they made one last trip to the Chamber of Secrets.

The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows along the ancient walls as Harry called for Tilly, who popped into existence with a cheerful crack.

"Young Master!" she greeted brightly.

Harry smiled. "Hi Tilly. How’s Sirius?"

Tilly huffed. "That one! He is... how does the young master say it? A menace!"

Blaise smirked. "That sounds about right."

"He keeps trying to sneak out!" Tilly grumbled. "But Young Nox keeps nipping at his heels. He is not sneaky enough!"

Harry chuckled. "Nox is chasing him?"

Tilly nodded furiously. "The Black is most dramatic about it! Falling over and whining like a puppy!"

Theo and Blaise burst into laughter.

Harry grinned. "Serves him right."

The conversation lulled, and a weight settled between them.

There was something left unsaid.

Harry inhaled deeply. "I think it’s time we’re honest with each other."

The others looked at him curiously.

But Luna spoke first.

"I should go first," she said dreamily, but there was something in her voice. A seriousness, a weight.

Harry nodded. "Alright. But first—" He lifted his wand, magic humming in the air. "Swear on your magic that you will never share what is said here without permission."

There was no hesitation.

One by one, they spoke the oath.

When the last vow was sealed, Luna turned to them.

"I see things," she murmured. "Not just in the way you see the sky or the trees, but deeper. Further."

Blaise frowned slightly. "You’re... a Seer right?"

Luna tilted her head. "Not quite. A Seer receives glimpses. I live in them. I am..." She hesitated, then whispered, "an Oracle."

The air shifted.

Blaise looked startled and Neville’s mouth parted slightly, stunned.

Harry stayed silent, watching their reactions carefully. Theo of course knew some of it already.

"An Oracle?" Blaise repeated, voice softer than usual. "That’s... rare. Rarer than an elemental even."

"It’s more than rare," Theo murmured. "It’s dangerous."

Luna smiled slightly. "That’s why no one can know."

Harry’s grip on her hand tightened. "And no one ever will."

His voice left no room for argument.

The Chamber of Secrets was quiet, filled with the soft crackling of torchlight against stone and the occasional rustle of parchment as they all settled in. The weight of Luna’s revelation still hung in the air, heavy yet oddly comforting.

Harry shifted, exhaling slowly before deciding it was his turn now.

"Since we’re all sharing secrets," he started, watching their eyes sharpen with curiosity, "I suppose I should tell you about Evan Birch."

Blaise, Theo, and Neville sat up straighter at that, all looking equally intrigued.

"Your alias?" Theo asked. "You actually have one?"

Harry smirked slightly. "Yeah. I’ve been using the name Evan Birch whenever I go to Knockturn Alley, since I was 8. Dumbledore’s spies are all over Diagon, but in Knockturn, no one really cares who you are if you mind your own business."

Blaise let out a low whistle. "You’ve been to Knockturn Alley?"

"More than a few times," Harry admitted. "I’ve actually been working there, learning a few things from this really nice couple who owns the bookshop—wandless spellwork, curse-breaking, enchantments, warding. It’s how I started making real money outside of Gringotts."

Theo blinked. "You have a job?"

Harry chuckled. "Of course. I like having extra that Dumbledore definitely can’t track."

Blaise looked highly impressed. "You, my friend, are the definition of a true Slytherin."

"That’s not even the best part," Luna chimed in, humming lightly as she leaned her head against her palm.

Harry smirked. "Right. The best part is that I bought a property."

Silence.

The boys all stared at him, completely gobsmacked.

"You bought a property?" Neville asked, looking as though he might choke on his own breath.

"Yep," Harry said smugly. "Right by a secluded beach, warded against everything. I named it The Cove."

Blaise and Theo exchanged a look, something dawning in their expressions.

"Wait a minute," Theo muttered.

Neville’s mouth dropped open. "Harry—"

"You mean to tell us—" Blaise cut in.

"That The Cove is real?!" Neville finished, looking completely betrayed.

Harry couldn’t help himself—he laughed at their expressions.

"You guys have been so curious about where I disappear off to at least once or twice a week," he teased. "And Luna always knew where I was but never told you?"

Theo groaned, rubbing his temples. "You evil man."

"Honestly, Harry, we’ve been dying to know," Blaise said, shaking his head. "And all this time, you owned a place and just didn’t say anything?"

Neville looked torn between exasperation and awe. "You bought a beach house?!"

"Technically, it’s a heavily warded cottage by the sea," Harry corrected, amused. "But that’s not the most interesting part."

Theo narrowed his eyes. "I knew there was more. When you sent Sirius to the Cove I thought it was code for something. Who is Nox?"

Harry tapped his chin in thought, feigning hesitation. "Maybe I should wait to show you instead of telling you…"

Three collective groans filled the chamber.

"Harry, no—"

"Just tell us—"

"We’re begging you—"

Luna giggled into her sleeve, clearly enjoying their suffering.

Harry grinned before finally relenting. "Alright, alright. You remember back in first year, Neville? Hagrid had an egg in his hut?"

Neville frowned, clearly thinking back. "Oh, yeah. A dragon egg, wasn’t it?"

The realisation must have hit him all at once, because his face drained of colour. His eyes widened in complete disbelief.

"Harry. Harry, you didn’t—"

Harry smirked. "I might have taken an interest in that egg."

Theo and Blaise leaned forward, completely engrossed now.

"Wait, are you serious?" Theo demanded.

"You stole a dragon?" Blaise asked, eyes practically sparkling with excitement.

"Not stole," Harry corrected. "It hatched when Hagrid wasn’t around, and I… well, I guess you could say it imprinted on me."

Luna grinned. "She was calling to you, but you didn’t know it yet," she said dreamily.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling slightly sheepish now. "So, yeah. The dragon understands Parseltongue. She’s very intelligent, and there was no way I was just going to let Hagrid hand her over to the Ministry when she eventually burnt down his hut. So… I kept her."

A stunned silence filled the chamber.

Then—

"YOU HAVE A DRAGON?!"

The three boys exploded at once, looking at Harry like he had just announced he was the reincarnation of Merlin himself.

Neville started laughing, pure disbelief written all over his face.

Blaise and Theo, on the other hand, were practically vibrating.

"What kind of dragon?" Theo asked eagerly.

"How big is she now?" Blaise demanded.

Harry crossed his arms, looking a bit smug. "She’s about fourteen feet tall now."

Theo whistled.

Blaise looked positively gleeful. "This is amazing."

Luna suddenly nudged Harry. "Tell them the best part."

Harry groaned, rubbing his face. "Luna—"

She giggled behind her hand.

Theo and Blaise perked up again.

"What?" Theo asked suspiciously.