Chapter Text
Harry stared blankly down at the heavy letter in his hands. It was made out of fancy paper - parchment, he recalled. Some of the older books in the library had pages made from it. He'd had to be extra careful when reading those ones.
It wasn't the expensive feel of the paper that caused him to freeze, though. It wasn't even the lavish wax seal on the front. Instead, it was the address.
To him.
In all eleven years of his life, Harry Potter had never received a letter, certainly not one as important-looking as the one he was holding. Nevertheless, he quickly slipped it into the large pocket of his oversized jeans and hurried back into the living room. He'd examine it more closely once he was back in the privacy of his cupboard.
Vernon stuck his hand out and grunted, demanding Harry hand him the mail. Harry obliged, somehow managing to keep the sneer off of his face. Outward revulsion towards his relatives would get him nowhere, that was a lesson he'd learned long ago.
As Vernon thumbed through the mail, Harry melted back into the shadows before slipping out of the room. His existence was quickly forgotten once he was out of plain view. Ducking back into his cupboard, he withdrew the heavy letter and sat back against the stairs.
The measly glow from the singular lightbulb was too dull to read by, but, as Harry willed it to brighten, it did so, completely illuminating the room. It was an odd trick he'd discovered years before, when he'd brought home his first stack of books from the library, though he never did figure out how it worked. There were a lot of things like that, things Harry could do just by wanting hard enough.
Harry held the letter up to his face, cursing his poor eyesight as he took in the dark, cursive writing.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
How did they know? Harry considered the fact that the letter might be a prank, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hardly cared enough about him to feed him, much less orchestrate an elaborate letter-based prank, and Dudley and his friends were all so stupid he doubted they even knew how to spell Little Whinging.
As carefully as he could, Harry used his small fingers to ease the envelope open and withdraw the parchment inside.
Dear Mr. Potter, the letter began. Harry allowed himself a few seconds to admire the penmanship before scanning his eyes over the rest of the writing. His heart caught in his throat.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
His green eyes flickered suspiciously to his cupboard door. He had no doubt what Petunia would do if she found him with this letter, and it wouldn't be pretty. Still, he thought, forcing himself to relax, Aunt Petunia has no reason to come barging into my cupboard.
Harry's stomach fluttered with anticipation. Combined with the deep hunger gnawing at his gut, it was an uncomfortable sensation.
Ignoring the unpleasantness, he flipped to the second page of the letter. He didn't recognize a few of the words, like Transfiguration or Herbology, but he did his best to absorb all of the new information. The school, Hogwarts, required a large number of materials, and Harry found himself panicking slightly at the idea of affording them all. Perhaps there was some kind of scholarship he could get? Harry knew he was smart - though his grades didn't show it - but he wondered if he was smart enough that Hogwarts would let him in for free. These subjects were all new to him, after all. Surely there were other students who were already way ahead of him.
Harry shook his head, pushing the spiraling thoughts away. There was no use worrying about it now. Harry knew he would do whatever he had to in order to attend Hogwarts.
His attention turned back to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall's original words.
We await your owl no later than July 31st.
What on earth did that mean? Was 'owl' some sort of Wizard term meaning 'letter'? Surely they didn't mean an actual owl. Harry definitely didn't have one to contact them with.
Still, he had to find some way of writing them back. Today was July 24th, he only had a week before the deadline closed. Harry thought for a moment, considering his options. The only return address on the envelope was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Harry was pretty sure that no self-respecting mail service would ever take that seriously. Perhaps, though...
If the school really was magical like they claimed - to be honest, Harry was still having a hard time believing it - maybe they had a special way to transport letters through the post without the non-Magical people reading. Harry nodded absently to himself. That made sense. He doubted a professor would demand he contact them but then leave him with no way to do so.
With newfound resolve, Harry withdrew a single piece of printer paper from the small stack at the end of the cot and began to pen a short letter. In addition to confirming his enrollment at Hogwarts, Harry wrote out a list of questions, too. For instance, Where would I find the course books and materials listed in your letter? and Is there a scholarship fund for students with less money that I can apply to?
He did his best to keep his handwriting as clear and steady as possible, trying to emulate McGonagal's penmanship.
He folded the page in half once he was done and carefully peeked his head out of his cupboard door.
Uncle Vernon had left earlier that morning, yelling something about golfing with work friends. Harry didn't know how anyone could stomach being friends with Vernon of all people. Dudley had left soon after. There was no doubt that he was currently terrorizing the neighborhood with his little gang of friends. That meant that the only person in the house with him at the moment was Aunt Petunia. Aunt Petunia, who would be completely enraptured in whatever soap opera was playing around this time.
Perfect. Harry thought to himself. Now would be the perfect time to sneak into the upstairs closet and steal some of his aunt's stationery for his letter.
Harry eased the cupboard door open just wide enough for him to be able to slip through. He rushed up the stairs, quieter than Dudley had ever managed, and, with quick, slim fingers, sorted through the stacks of paper organized into neat piled in the upstairs closet. Petunia remained blissfully unaware of his snooping as he finally found the blank envelope he was looking for and zipped downstairs.
The tension in his chest eased as he climbed back into the safe, comforting darkness of his cupboard. Hesitantly, he wrote out Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the back of the envelope, feeling foolish. He sealed the letter inside by licking it like he'd seen Aunt Petunia do and grimaced at the taste.
He melted back against the door, suddenly feeling tired. It had barely been two hours since Harry had first gotten the letter, but he could feel the way it drained him. Regardless, he pushed himself back onto his weak legs and tiptoed to the front door. There was no way Aunt Petunia would've been able to hear him from all the way upstairs, but it was a habit ingrained in him since early childhood.
Harry fingered the letter in his pocket. It was Sunday, which meant no post, but that didn't mean he couldn't put the letter in the Dursley's mailbox in preparation for tomorrow. Harry stepped out onto the front porch, intent to make his way past Petunia's - Harry's, really - garden and to the end of the driveway. However, before he could even take his first step off of the doorstep, a large brown bird swooped down on him, nearly causing him to shriek.
Harry bit down on his tongue to avoid making any noise. He couldn't risk disturbing his aunt. Didn't want to imagine what horrible punishment she would come up with if she looked out her window and the absolute freakishness that was her nephew getting dived bombed by an owl.
And wasn't that just hilarious? The letter hadn't been referring to some obscure form of wizard post, it had meant an actual owl. The Wizarding World was still stuck in the age of the carrier pigeon.
Frantically, Harry did the only thing he could think to do to stop the rampaging owl and stuck out his arm, like he'd seen people do on TV. Thankfully, the bird quickly settled on his outstretched arm, its talons resting dangerously on Harry's pale, thin skin.
With the bird's movement paused, Harry noticed the small leather tube attached to one of the bird's foot, most likely intended to hold the letters the bird was meant to deliver.
"Err," he said as he awkwardly tried to roll up his pre-written letter with one hand. Scowling with annoyance, he tore off the envelope he'd worked so hard to get and rolled up the now-thin paper. Fidgeting with the contraption on the bird's leg, he finally slid it inside.
Once it was properly secured, Harry removed his hand and let it fall limply at his side. Unsure of how to proceed, he simply stared at the bird. After a few moments of nothingness, the owl glanced away fidgeting as if nervous.
Harry had been told before that his eyes were odd (creepy, freakish, said a voice in the back of his mind). Too green, too bright. He'd done his best to hide his gaze beneath his fringe, but it was strange to see that even an animal was disconcerted by his stare. The snake he'd spoken to at the zoo didn't seem to think anything of it, but perhaps that was because it had been a magical snake. It had spoken to him, after all.
Looking back on it, Harry felt a little stupid for not realizing he was using magic earlier. In his defense, he had just assumed the snake incident had been a hallucination due to lack of food.
Growing impatient, the owl on Harry's arm began to squawk and flap its wings, making way more noise than Harry was comfortable with.
"Shhh, shh" Harry hushed, "Okay. Okay, uh. Can you take that letter to Hogwarts for me? To Deputy Headmistress McGonagall?"
The owl shrieked its affirmative, causing Harry to flinch, but before Harry could do anything to quiet it down, the bird was off, flapping its powerful wings until it disappeared against the skyline.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Harry watched the bird curiously. Were all magical animals able to understand human speech? The owl hadn't spoken back to him though, not like the snake.
Shaking his head, Harry headed out into the garden, preparing himself to spend the rest of the day knee-deep in weeds and overgrown pomegranate bushes.
//
The doorbell rang at exactly 8:30 the next morning.
Harry, who'd been in the kitchen making breakfast, didn't even think to glance up at the interruption. Petunia's shriek of horror interrupted his carefully constructed calm, causing Harry's neck to snap upward and his eyes to widen in terror.
Oh no.
There was a woman at the door who was dressed like no woman Harry had ever seen before. Despite her ridiculous hat - a witch's hat, Harry realized with growing horror - she somehow managed to appear regal and professional.
Harry snuck close enough to see the woman raise a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "Good morning Mrs. Dursley. I am here for Mr. Potter? Is he home today?"
"Get out of my house!" Petunia screamed, pointing a single, shaking finger at the woman in her doorway.
The woman - who Harry was beginning to suspect was Headmistress McGonagall - ignored her, instead, turning her attention to Uncle Vernon, who had finally overcome his shock and was lumbering over to her furiously, face red with anger.
Dudley, attracted by the sounds of yelling, stomped down the stairs before coming to a halt directly behind his mother.
McGonagall spared Dudley a single glance before she dismissed him, lips thinning with contempt. Finally, after scanning the living room for a few more seconds - and ignoring the outrage of the Dursleys - McGonagall spotted him, her pale green eyes widening with recognition before frowning with displeasure. Harry did his best not to shrink under her gaze, unwilling to be seen as weak by the first member of the world he was entering.
"Mr. Potter," the Professor said in a heavy Scottish accent. Vernon had somehow been frozen in place, fist raised over his head and spittle flying from his unmoving look. Petunia and Dudley were cowering in the corner as McGonagall strode into the house, dusting imaginary dust from her robes. "I received your letter yesterday morning admitting your ignorance to the wizarding world. As Hogwarts' coordinator for Muggleborn and Muggle-raised children, I thought it best to investigate this situation myself." She looked over at Petunia for the first time since the start of their interaction, "I would have sent Severus, but I feared there may be some underlying hostility between the two of you." If possible, Petunia's face paled even more and she grabbed Dudley's hand with her own.
McGonagall turned the full force of her attention back on. "Am I correct in assuming that, before you received your Hogwarts letter yesterday morning, you did not know you were a wizard?"
Harry wet his lips nervously before answering a short and simple, "Yes."
McGonagall's eyes darkened with displeasure, "I see." She placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and Harry resisted the urge to flinch. "Well, it looks like there is much for us to talk about. Perhaps we can discuss things while we shop for your school supplies?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Petunia, who had seemingly regained her courage, beat him to it, "He won't be going anywhere with you! I won't have any of this! My husband and I have worked tirelessly over the last ten years to stamp any and all freakishness out of that boy, and this is the thanks we get? That boy will go to H-Hogwarts over my dead body!"
"Mrs. Dursley," McGonagall's voice was calm and collected compared to Petunia's spitting rage, "As you have so kindly made clear, Harry Potter is a wizard, as am I. You have no magic," she gestured absentmindedly, her wand glinting dangerously in the overhead light, "Knowing all of this, would you really like to try your hand at stopping me?"
Petunia stiffened, eyes still cold with anger as the Professor led Harry out of the Dursley residence.
"Now, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, purposefully oblivious to Harry's Aunt's murderous intent, "I am about to perform a piece of magic called Side-Along Apparition. I am going to place my hand on your shoulder and, essentially, teleport us to a place called the Leaky Cauldron. You will most likely feel an uncomfortable pull in your stomach, but do not be alarmed. That is completely normal. Are you ready?"
Harry nodded.
Gently, McGonagall placed her hand back onto Harry's shoulder, and then everything squeezed.
//
Harry stumbled and, in his panic, latched on to McGonagall's robed wrist. Realizing what he had done, he withdrew his hand as if burned, curling into himself.
McGonagall didn't hit him, though. Instead, she laced her fingers together and simply observed him. "Mr. Potter, are you quite alright?" she finally said, after Harry's tensed shoulders had slowly lowered.
Harry stared up at her with wide, suspicious eyes, "I'm fine."
McGonagall nodded, "Alright, then. I take it you haven't yet had breakfast? Come with me, we'll have our discussion over some biscuits."
McGonagall and Harry walked into a nearby pub - the aforementioned Leaky Cauldron, Harry assumed - but instead of sitting down and ordering food, the Professor continued walking, past the bar and into a back room that contained nothing but a brick wall.
"Watch closely, Mr. Potter," she said in her clipped, Scottish accent. With deliberate carefulness, she withdrew her wand and touched its point on specific bricks. By the time she pulled her wand away, the bricks were splitting down the middle, revealing a previously concealed doorway.
Harry's breath caught in his chest. Behind the bricks lay a loud, bustling alley, unlike anything he had ever seen before. The cobbled streets were lined with old-timey shop fronts, advertising things like dragon leather gloves and invisibility potions.
It was overwhelming, to be honest. And while he appreciated Professor McGonagall's helpfulness so far, he didn't enjoy being watched as he tried to grapple with this undiscovered reality. Thankfully, McGonagall quickly broke Harry's awed silence.
"Where we are right now is Diagon Alley. You can access it by tapping the pattern I showed you on the wall, by Floo, or, when you're older, apparition. We will complete your school shopping later but, for right now, let's go eat."
//
The cafe McGonagall picked was called Dibbin's Delightful Danishes, and was stocked full of treats Harry had never had the opportunity to try. Nevertheless, the only thing he ordered was a buttered croissant and a hot chocolate (McGonagall had insisted on the hot chocolate).
As he nibbled on the pastry, McGonagall quickly and methodically told his life story, only pausing to clear her throat when speaking about Harry's parents who, coincidentally, hadn't been druggies. Harry didn't know exactly how to process that information, so he just waited for McGonagall to finish her tale.
"So..." Harry began after a long silence, "This Dark Lord who killed my parents."
McGonagall winced at his blunt phrasing, "Yes?"
"Does he have a name? Is there a book store where I could buy books on him and the rest of the War?" That was another new thing. Apparently, his dead father had been descended from a rich, noble wizarding family. That meant he had more than enough money in his trust vault alone to cover his school expenses.
The professor smiled at the mention of books, but the expression quickly flattened into now of discomfort, "It is not often that we say his name, Mr. Potter. In fact, I'd say it is a bit of a taboo, so it would be best not to repeat it in polite company. However, I suppose that since you were the one who defeated him, it would be appropriate for you to know his name." The professor's voice quieted so she wouldn't be overheard, despite the privacy wards she had erected earlier, "Lord Voldemort," she said, managing to keep the tremor out of her voice.
Harry kept his face impassive (as it often was) as he nodded. He didn't recognize the name, but it sounded vaguely French. He would definitely need to look into it more. After all, McGonagall had explained that, as a wizarding hero, the majority of the Wizarding World would expect him to have received the epitome of education, or at least expected him to be raised with some sort of knowledge of magic. Harry wasn't eager to appear weak or ignorant, which meant he had lots of catching up to do.
"As for books, I believe that is our queue." McGonagall stood from the table, "First, we must go to Gringotts Wizarding Bank and access your vaults. Then, we may go and complete your school shopping. But because of the spontaneous nature of your letter and my subsequent visit, I have another errand to attend to at 10:00. Unfortunately, we most likely won't be able to collect most of your materials by then but I'm sure you can finish up by yourself and we can meet back at the Leaky Cauldron at 2:00. Does that work well for you, Mr. Potter?"
Harry nodded, attempting to conceal his eagerness. He'd always preferred to do things alone and, after years of independence, he was quite good at it. Despite the unfamiliar territory, he highly doubted that he was incapable of navigating a shopping center.
Sipping the last of his hot chocolate, Harry hurried after McGonagall's poised form, stepping into the bustling street and doing his best to appear invisible.
//
Gringotts Bank was the large, glistening building at the end of the alley. At the top of the steps, an inscription carved into the stone read:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn,
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
Harry's lips ticked up in amusement, he could appreciate the drama. When Harry had been younger, back when the malnutrition hadn't been severe enough to make him significantly smaller than his peers, Harry enjoyed singling out each of Dudley's goons and intimidating them into leaving him alone, particularly through the use of his "freaky" eyes and various dramatic words stolen from novels he'd read in the library. Of course, that had backfired once the other kids started getting taller and Harry just... didn't. His expression soured at that thought.
Now, though, Harry had something better than the brute strength of an eleven year old. Harry had magic, and he would never allow himself to be weak ever again.
Hurrying through the large, gold-encrusted door, McGonagall directed him to one of the bank tellers. A small, scowling man with pointed ears glared at him from behind the test. Goblins, Harry's mind supplied, recalling the information from the short explanation McGonagall had given on their walk to the bank.
Stepping forward, McGonagall withdrew a large key and placed it in front of the goblin, "We are here to visit Mr. Harry Potter's vaults, thank you."
The goblin studied the woman with a sneer, before relenting and grabbing the key. "Come with me!" he barked, already walking away. Harry and the professor hurried after him and were led to a collection of rickety looking minecarts. Harry paled, there was no way he was going on one of those.
Still, at the goblin's expectant look, Harry steeled himself and stepped into one of the carts, McGonagall behind him. The ride down to his vault was terrifying - much more terrifying than necessary, in Harry's opinion, didn't wizards have magic? - but it was worth it.
Harry stepped out of the cart on shaky legs and watched as the goblin easily stood and walked over to the large doors labeled with the number 687. Inserting the key McGonagall had given to him, the goblin stepped back and the doors swung open, revealing piles and piles of gold. Despite himself, Harry's jaw dropped open, and he glanced up at the professor to confirm that yes, this was really his. She was looking down at him with an indulging smile, and he quickly looked away, shutting his jaw with an audible snap.
The overwhelming disbelief had lessened slightly at the look in McGonagall's eyes, regarding him like he was a small child. Harry hadn't been a child in a long, long time, and he wasn't interested in pretending to be one.
The goblin grunted impatiently to get Harry's attention, "You are Muggle-raised?"
"Yes."
He nodded, "I thought so. You stick out like a sore thumb." Harry ignored his rising shame. It would do him no good right now. Instead, he would just have to study proper wizard customs until he blended seamlessly into this new society. The goblin continued on, oblivious to Harry's thought process, "One Galleon, this gold coin here, is equal to around $6.50 of Muggle pounds. Griphook, the Potters' account manager, will be able to tell you more than I can about the contents of your vaults. I recommend meeting with him sometime later today and familiarizing yourself with our financial systems."
Harry nodded, appreciative of the goblin's advice.
"You may live in the Muggle world, I suggest you should purchase an auto-refilling satchel so you can access the money in your trust vault whenever you want."
McGonagall, who had remained quiet throughout their entire conversation, cleared her throat, "I'm not sure that will be necessary. We're only shopping for school supplies today."
Harry, used to these kinds of misdirections, turned to McGoaogall with the most pathetic expression on his face he could manage, "You heard my Aunt and Uncle, Professor McGonagall. They don't ever want me coming back here, so who knows the next time I'll be able to access my vault?"
McGonagall's resistance melted in the face of his request and nodded her consent. Harry turned back to the goblin, keeping a look of satisfaction off his face with practiced ease.
The goblin raised an eyebrow but said nothing, pulling out a small leather bag from seemingly nowhere and handing it over to Harry. "As payment for the automatic withdrawal services, Gringotts will subtract five galleons from your vault."
Harry mentally did the math. Over 30 pounds. The thought was difficult to process. Never in his life had Harry had access to that kind of money. Still, he judged it a worthy investment. He wasn't interested in letting his finances be dictated by meddling adults.
After the exchange was made, Harry made his way into his vault to look around. Inside, along with the stacks of gold, bronze, and silver coins, Harry found a myriad of other useful items. A trunk that, upon further inspection, had limitless library storage and shrunk into a ring whenever he wasn't using it. A pair of sandals that, when worn, caused you to float into the air. There were even stacks of perfectly preserved clothing that, unfortunately, McGonagall informed him were hundreds of years out of fashion.
In the end, the only things Harry ended up bringing with him out of his vault were a few ancient-looking books with curious titles and the trunk he'd found.
The goblin made note of the things he took on a small tablet and, once he was done, ushered the two wizards back into the cart. Somehow, the cart magically began to move upwards on the tracks, completely ignoring the rules of gravity. Harry clutched the side of the cart with a white-knuckled grip and hurried out of the cart as quickly as he could. McGonagall and the goblin - Harry really should learn his name - followed after him at a measured pace.
"Griphook will be available to meet with you at 12:00, Heir Potter," Griphook began, unprompted.
Harry nodded, unfamiliar with the title but willing to accept it. "That is acceptable," Harry said, trying to emulate the goblin's formal tone. The goblin only snorted in response, turning away and heading back to his bank teller's post before either Harry or the professor could say anything.
//
McGonagall left shortly after that.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Potter. Our time at the bank took much longer than anticipated, and I'm expected at another Muddleborn's house in five minutes in order to help aid with their introduction to the Wizarding World."
"I understand, Professor McGonagall," Harry agreed easily. After spending time with the woman, Harry was easily able to predict the right things to say to get her out of his hair. Hours and hours of people watching did that to you, "I can manage clothes shopping and books, professor."
"Alright then. I'll see you in a few hours, then. Be safe."
"I will."
With that, the woman turned on her heel and cracked out of existence. Harry let himself stare for a second in wonder at the blatant display of magic before he steeled himself and headed back out onto the main street. At first, Harry began to head towards the clothing store McGonagall had recommended, a shop called Madam Malkin's, but quickly changed his mind once he saw the hordes of people crowding around the front of it. Instead, he walked a little farther and opted for a small, tasteful looking boutique.
He stepped through the doorway, causing a bell sound to echo through the shop, although there didn't appear to be a tangible bell anywhere in the store.
Immediately, a fashionably dressed wizard stepped out of a back room and behind the front desk. He studied Harry's beaten up Muggle clothes with distaste, but concealed the expression once he realized Harry was watching him. His lips spread into a polite smile, "What can I do for you today, sir?"
"A full wardrobe, please," Harry said, stepping further into the shop.
"I see. I feel obligated to inform you that the clothing here at Rutherford's Robes tends to be... expensive."
Harry stared at him, expression unfaltering, "I can afford it," was all he said, unwilling to offer any more of an explanation.
The man - Cornell, according to his nametag - blinked, "Very well, then. If you'll just step up here-" he gestured to a small, raised platform that sat in front of a mirror. harry easily made his way over to it and grimaced when he caught sight of his reflection. At least the long, flowy robes that wizards tended to favor would cover the unnatural skinniness of his body.
"Are there any particular styles you were interested in today Mr..."
Harry ignored the prompt at his name and studied the man. Despite his general attitude, the man did seem to know what he was doing when it came to fashion.
"I think I'll leave that in your capable hands, sir."
Cornell's pale blue eyes lit up in delight at the possibility of creative freedom, "Of course, of course," he agreed readily. "For your pale complexion and coloring, I would recommend darker, muted tones. Dark blues, greens, and purples would work best. Black and grey too, of course. Yes, yes I'll get started right away. And, just to clarify, you're looking for formal pieces as well as casual ones?"
"Er- Yes."
"Wonderful. Maggie!" Cornell yelled suddenly, summoning the presence of a round, kind looking woman, "Take this boy's measurements, please. He needs a completely new wardrobe."
"O-of course, right away." She rushed towards Harry's still form, materializing a measuring tape from thin air.
While Harry was occupied with following Maggie's instructions, the bell sound rang again, indicating another customer. While Cornell was occupied searching for patterns and fabrics he believed would best fit Harry's form, Maggie directed the new boy to stand on a platform beside Harry.
The boy was dark skinned with black hair and a straight, aristocratic nose. He appeared to be Harry's age, although clearly much taller, and was watching Harry with an unprecedented intensity.
Noticing Maggie's attention turning back to him, Harry's passive expression quickly morphed into a kind, appreciative smile. Maggie met his eyes and smiled back, writing something down on her notepad with a quill.
"Just about done, sir. Here, stick out your wrists for me?" she asked in a sweet, clear voice. As Harry did what he was told, he could still feel the other boy's intense stare on the side of his face.
As Cornell came rushing back into the room, Maggie fluttered away, no doubt attending to the other customer. While Harry was distracted by the man in front of him, he barely heard the boy introduce himself as Zabini and ask only for a pair of Hogwarts robes.
"And how do you feel about these styles?" Cornell was asking him. Harry studied the pattern design in front of him and nodded his agreement. "Excellent, excellent. I have some sample pieces I'd like for you to try on.
Minutes later, Harry was standing in front of the mirror still, only this time, he was wearing dark, handsomely cut robes. The dark green color of them matched beautifully with his eyes, a fact Cornell must have noticed because he was staring at them in Harry's reflection.
His lips thinned with distaste. "Just a suggestion, but perhaps you would consider seeing the clinic here on Diagon about your eyesight? They're a beautiful, vibrant color, and I hate for them to be obscured by your... glasses."
The glasses in question, held together by cellphone tape and pure willpower, hadn't matched Harry's vision in many years. Harry was definitely interested in getting his eyesight magically repaired. He bowed his head in gratitude, "Thank you, sir. I'll look into that."
"Very well, then." Cornell said, clapping his hands together with finality, "Your robes will be completed by tomorrow evening. Would you prefer them be owl-delivered directly to you or would you like to pick them up yourself?"
Harry weighed his options carefully, balancing the punishment he might receive if his relatives saw him getting packages from owls versus the trouble of getting back to Diagon Alley himself.
"Owl-delivery, thank you."
"Alright. Now, follow me over to the desk and we can deal with payment. That will be..." Cornell fiddled with something behind the desk, "481 galleons and 15 sickles please."
Harry nodded, withdrawing the small paper card from the bag he'd gotten and Gringotts and writing his desired amount on it. Then, after setting the small paper on the desk, he bit his thumb and pressed a small drop of blood onto the parchment. Typically, a wizard would activate the card with a pulse of their magic but, seeing as Harry had yet to buy a wand, a drop of his blood would do. Slowly, small stacks of galleons began to appear as they were transported out of Harry's vault and into Rutherford's Robes. Cornell stared at them eagerly.
Finally, once the payment was complete, he smiled, "Thank you for doing business here, sir. I hope you'll come again once the expansion charms on your robes have worn out.
Harry left the store wearing the sample robe Cornell had had him try on, having bought it for an extra fee. For the first time in his life, he felt like he belonged.
//
The dark skinned boy - Zabini - had been waiting for him outside the shop. He'd left a few minutes earlier than Harry, and, to be honest, Harry assumed him gone for good. And yet here h was, standing outside the boutique with his hands in his pockets and a casual grin on his face.
"You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" the boy opened. This close, Harry could hear the faintest traits of an Italian accent in his speech.
Harry raised an eyebrow challengingly, "And if I am?"
Zabini whistled, looking up at the sky in a gesture that seemed distinctly non-wizard. "Harry Potter. Muggle-raised. I'd never have guessed it. Then again, neither would most of Wizarding Britain." He bowed his head formally, "Blaise Zabini. A pleasure, Potter."
"Is there anything you need, Zabini?" Harry asked, picking up on the use of last names.
Zabini shrugged, "Just here to offer you some advice. And a reading list. Most of the history books you find in Flourish and Blotts are complete rubbish, so I've done you a favor and written up a list of the ones that, in my opinion, represent the least biased view of Wizarding Britain." He held out a hand, holding a piece of paper towards Harry. Harry took it cautiously, "Ha! No need to be so suspicious, Potter. You're a powerful ally to have, so consider my help an investment of sorts. No concealed motive here, I'm afraid."
"Thanks," Harry bit out, but the boy was already turning away.
"Oh! And another thing!" he shouted over his shoulder, "It's creepy as hell when you go from blank-faced to charming smile in less than a second. Work on that."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley.
//
Despite the boy's irritating arrogance, his recommendations seemed to be legitimate. Harry flipped through the first few pages of A Muggleborn's Guide to the Wizengamot, his interest piqued. He placed the book in his weightless basket and continued browsing.
There were a lot of people in Flourish & Blotts, much more than Harry preferred, but the presence of hundreds of books helped calm him down. In Harry's mind, there was no place safer than a library and, while Flourish & Blotts wasn't quite that, it was close enough.
Harry thumbed through a copy of An Introduction to Magical Theory, allowing himself to be caught up in memories of hiding the school library to avoid Dudley, spending hours holed up behind the safety of stacks upon stacks of books. The book he was holding snapped shut with an audible noise as inexplicable rage coursed through him.
Never again. Never again would he be forced to cower in fear. With the knowledge and power he now had at his fingertips, Harry would rise to the top of the food chain, never again to be picked on by someone stronger than him.
//
Harry finished at Flourish & Blotts soon after that, shoving a couple dozen more books into his bag and making his way back over to Gringotts for his appointment with his financial manager.
Stepping into the lavish building, Harry was immediately intercepted by the goblin from before. "This way," he barked, jerking his head in the direction of the bank teller posts. Harry followed behind him silently, knowing that neither of them was much a fan of unnecessary small talk.
Eventually, the goblin led him to a small room, most likely designed to house the exact meetings that Harry was having. He nodded in thanks to the goblin and stepped through the doorway.
The room was professionally furnished. A dark red rug was spread across the floor and a deep mahogany desk was settled towards the back of the room. On the side closest to Harry, a chair was set. The chair was probably too small to properly hold an adult-sized witch or wizard, but it looked just the right size for Harry's tiny frame.
Before Harry could make a move for it, though, another goblin entered the room from the opposite side. "Sit," he commanded, moving behind the desk and doing the same. Harry did as he was told. He didn't enjoy mindlessly obeying orders, but he understood when it was necessary to listen to others. "Toothheart has told me you were Muggle-raised," the goblin - Griphook, presumably - "So I take it that you are uninformed in ways of your inheritance and duties."
"I've been taken to see my vault, sir."
Griphook's lips curled back into a snarl, revealing small, needle-like teeth, "I was speaking of your heirship, and eventual lordship, should you live long enough to reach your 17th birthday. Though I suppose you've just proved my point. You, Hadrian James Potter, are the last remaining descendant and heir to the Noble House of Potter. This title comes with certain duties, most notably management of our estate's funds and appointing a regent to represent you while you are still a minor. Thankfully, because it is in my best interest to do so, I have been appropriately managing House Potter's funds. However, in your absence, Headmaster Dumbledore has essentially taken over House Potter's vote on the Wizengamot. I would recommend looking into the man's politics and determining whether you see him as fit to be your regent."
"Headmaster Dumbledore?" Harry frowned, recognizing the name but being unable to place it.
"The Headmaster of the Wizarding school." If possible, Griphook's sneer deepened.
"Ah, thank you," Harry said, pondering over the new information. It was odd that a principal had been declared his regent, even odder that he had been declared so without the heir's permission. Harry - Hadrian, he hadn't even known that was his full name - also consider the details of his heirship and what that would mean for his future. A guaranteed spot on the Wizarding government meant that Harry would have a lot of influence when he was older, even outside his fame.
Griphook slapped a long scroll of parchment down in front of him startling Harry out of his thoughts. "List of shares and properties that the Potter line has accumulated over the last few centuries. We'll review it before you make any further financial decisions. Understood?"
Harry nodded, and the two spent the next hour or so going over the Potter's financial statements. Finally, after they had finished, Griphook rerolled the scroll and laced his hands in front of him.
"Heir Potter, the object I am about to impart upon you is of utmost importance. The wards around this room have already confirmed your identity as Hadrian Potter, but giving you this item requires further verification." He withdrew a small, silver knife and matching bowl from behind his desk, "Your blood will be necessary to do so."
Harry's eyes narrowed as he examined the goblin. Confident that he had no malicious intentions, Harry reached out and took the knife from its place atop the desk. A few moments later, the small bowl was filled with blood from Harry's sliced palm. Griphook nodded in acknowledgment, taking the blood and pouring it over a piece of enchanted parchment. Slowly, the blood sank into the paper and revealed lines of cursive. The writing was facing away from him, but Harry thought he could read his name, upside down.
Griphook placed the back parchment behind his desk and withdrew a small, velvet box. "Very well, Heir Potter. You may open this." He pushed the small box across the desk and into Harry's short reach.
"That is your Heir ring, passed down through your family for centuries." He continued as Harry opened the box, "It is replaceable, but it is prudent that you do not lose this. That ring, like all Heir rings of Noble families, has been imbued with many generations as family magic. To lose it would be a devastating setback for your House."
Harry nodded, understanding the importance. He'd never had anything resembling a family heirloom before, and he would be sure to treasure this one.
"The ring has had several forms of magic woven into its wards. It will warm when near poisons, protect you from assaults on your mind, and overall act as a status symbol to others. Treat it well."
"Thank you," Harry said, more reverence slipping into his voice than he meant.
Griphook snorted, "It's what you're paying me for. Regardless, I have done all that I can at the moment regarding your inheritance and finances. Our meeting is done."
Harry rose at the obvious dismissal, "Well met, Griphook," he said, stumbling through the formal wizarding greeting and farewell he had seen in one of the books Zabini had recommended.
Griphook grinned, but it didn't look very nice. "You best not use your frilly wizard language with us boy. May your coffers fill with gold and flow with the blood of your enemies."
Harry blinked before simply nodding in return, unsure how to reply.
The moment he stepped out of Griphook's office, he was ushered to the front of the bank by another goblin. No doubt they were uncomfortable having a wizard in their backrooms. Harry, too, was eager to leave.
He had another appointment to make.
//
The singular Medi-wizard building in the alley was non-descript. Harry wouldn't have been able to find it if not for the directions from a random witch he had asked. He stepped into the shop, clearing his throat as he did. The frazzled-looking man from behind the counter's head snapped upward.
His face instantly split into a wild smile, "Hello! Welcome to my humble abode! What can I get for you today, kiddo?"
Harry's expression pinched at the use of the word kiddo, "I was wondering if you could do anything to fix my eyesight? I had someone tell me you could..." Harry let himself trail of uncertainty, sure that the eccentric man would fill in the blanks.
"Am eyesight repair potion? Oh, yeah, sure, we've got some of those in stock." He flitted back into the storage room, calling out different comments as he did so, "These babies are a marvel of medical potions. Repairs light-focusers near the retina almost immediately. Definitely a worthy investment." He slammed a glass bottle full of a murky, purple liquid down on the counter. "Two hours after you've downed one of these bad boys and your vision is back to 20/20. That'll be 12 galleons, please."
Harry repeated the process he had used to purchase the rest of his materials and handed over the coins.
"Er- I just... drink it?"
"Yep! Down the hatch!"
Harry twisted off the top of the bottle and took a curious sip. It tasted like metallic water. He shrugged and drank the rest of the bottle, wincing slightly at the odd taste. A tingling sensation began to appear behind his eyes. He could already feel his vision focusing for the first time in years.
With one last 'thank you' towards the strange man, Harry hurried out of the shop. He had one more place to go before meeting with McGonagall.
//
The walk to Ollivander's was a short one. Harry glanced up at the sign, ignoring the glare of the sun. Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC.
The shop was dim and crowded. Boxes upon boxes were piled up on top of each other, so tall that it was a miracle they didn't topple down on top of Harry. The shop reminded him a little of his cupboard back at the Dursleys, slightly claustrophobic and dark.
A frail hand appeared on Harry's shoulder, causing him to flinch violently. He hadn't seen Ollivander appear.
"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."
Harry said nothing, watching him wearily.
Ollivander continued, clearly unbothered by the lack of response, "I suppose you're here for a wand, aren't you? Most people are. Dominant hand?"
"I'm left handed."
"Hmm, curious, curious." Then, the man was off, rummaging through the boxes of wands that filled the shop. He held out a wand to Harry, "Unicorn hair core, stiff cherry wood. 12 Inches exactly."
Harry took the wand, causing a bolt of electricity to course through his body. Ollivander snatched it back and Harry angrily attempted to flatten down his hair.
"Hmm, its just as I thought-"
You knew that was going to happen? Harry thought, annoyed.
"Try this, Mr. Potter. Apple wood with a Dragon core 12 and 1/2 inches with a rigid flexibility." This time, the old wizard stole the wand back before Harry even had the chance to wave it.
It went on like that for many more minutes and many more wands. Again and again, Harry would try a wand given to him by Ollivander, only to have the man snatch it back. With extreme effort, Harry beat down his rising panic. He would find his wand. He would.
Finally, after they had seemingly exhausted most of the wands in the shop, Ollivander stopped him. "Just one moment, Mr. Potter," he said, stepping further into his shop. Then, to himself, he said, "Yes, I suppose I'll try that one. It would be fitting, wouldn't it?"
Harry couldn't see what he was doing, but several moments later ha returned with an extremely dusty box. He opened it, staring at the wand inside almost with reverence.
"Try this one, why don't you? Holly, 11 inches, phoenix feather. Give it a go."
The moment Harry's fingers brushed the wand, a current of energy raced through him - much more pleasant than the electricity of the first wand.
"Curious, curious..."
Harry glanced back over to the man, who was studying him like he was a puzzle in the morning paper. "What is it?"
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother why... its brother gave you that scar." The man moved closer, looking like he wanted to touch Harry's forehead. Harry took a step backward, "Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great."
Harry left the shop quickly after that, wand and matching holster in hand. He wasn't quite sure what to think of Ollivander.
//
McGonagall was waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron when he arrived. She smiled at him kindly when she spotted him in the crowd. "I trust you found everything easily?"
Harry nodded, matching her easy smile, "Yes, ma'am. And I asked for directions whenever I wasn't sure."
"Very well. You'll be wanting to return home, then?"
In actuality, that was the very last thing Harry wanted to do.
"Don't worry about your relatives. I've spoken to them, and they should be treating you much better from here on out."
Harry supremely doubted that, but, instead, he smiled bashfully up at the woman, "Thank you, Professor. I appreciate that so much."
"Of course, Mr. Potter. Now, prepare yourself."
That was the only warning he got before McGonagall's hand was on his shoulder and there was a tugging feeling in his gut.
When he re-opened his eyes, he was standing in front of 4, Privet Drive. Harry let the scowl overtake his expression. After hours of spending time on Diagon Alley, he'd forgotten how dull the Dursley's home was in comparison.
McGonagall said goodbye with a final, "I will see you at the start of term, Mr. Potter," and Harry was once more alone. In the Muggle world.
Everything looked the same, but Harry himself felt irrevocably, irreversibly changed.
Taking a deep breath, Harry took his first step up the Dursley's driveway with three words echoing in his mind.
Terrible, but Great.