The winter afternoon in Little Whinging was stingy with its sunlight—thin shards of gold hiding behind the clouds, barely cutting through the mist to lay a faint warmth over the spotless streets.
Julien gently steered Harry by the arm as the two boys stepped out through the Dursley gate. Behind them, Aunt Petunia's low, muttered complaints trailed off like sour notes carried away by the cold wind.
Harry had pulled on an oversized old duffel coat, the sleeves rolled up multiple times and still swallowing half his hands. His faded jeans were frayed at the hems, speckled with faint dust. He walked with his head slightly down, black fringe falling forward to hide the lightning scar. Only when he glanced up did those emerald-green eyes catch the light—like quiet stars winking in the dark.
"Winters here are way colder than Bordeaux," Julien said, exhaling a visible puff of white breath that vanished instantly. He turned to Harry with a smile. "The wind back home always carried a hint of the vineyards—wet and earthy. Here it just feels like tiny ice needles on your face."
Harry blinked, surprised to be spoken to so casually. After a second he answered softly, "Yeah… it snowed a couple days ago. I hate snow. The cupboard under the stairs gets freezing at night."
His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact, like he was stating something as ordinary as the weather.
Julien's chest tightened. He'd known Harry's life with the Dursleys was rough, but hearing it said so simply still hit hard. He noticed the boy's reddened ears and cracked fingertips and thought of his own childhood at the winery—crackling fires, Grandma's hot chocolate, Grandpa's patient voice in the hidden chamber teaching him real magic.
Two completely different childhoods, side by side like a painting split down the middle.
"You're from France?" Harry asked, surprising Julien by speaking first. "Does it snow there too?"
"Yeah, sometimes. And when it does, it's beautiful." Julien pointed toward the distant clouds. "In Bordeaux the vineyards turn into a white ocean. Every vine is covered in ice crystals that sparkle like diamonds. When the sun comes out, the whole place steams and smells like wet earth and grapes."
Harry lifted his head, following Julien's gesture. For a moment his eyes held real longing. All he'd ever known was Little Whinging snow—cold, dirty, always mixed with Dudley's taunts and Aunt Petunia's scolding. No one had ever told him snow could be magical.
Seeing that look, Julien gave his shoulder a light pat.
"Don't worry, Harry. Time's like a river—rushing through rocky valleys but eventually opening into wide, peaceful plains. Just trust the current. The good stuff is waiting downstream."
"Wow, that sounded really poetic." Harry's small smile peeked out. "Can I call you Julien?"
"Of course, Harry."
"You talk like you've read a ton of books."
"Haha, most of it's just stuff I stole from them."
Both boys laughed—quiet, genuine, the kind of laugh that felt brand new in that tidy little street.
After saying goodbye to the Dursleys, Julien rode back to the family's duplex on Charing Cross Road with his parents. The old building loomed softly through the evening fog, looking like a half-finished oil painting.
Down the street the bookshop owner and the record-shop guy were still arguing loudly about whether the Beatles were greater than Bach. The Leaky Cauldron's leaky sign hung crooked as ever, threatening to drop on the next unlucky pedestrian.
Business was going well. Black Vine Estate wines were already turning heads in the UK market; several distributors had shown serious interest. Even the Daily Mail had run a feature on Dad, calling the 1985 vintage "velvet and moonlight in a bottle."
Mom spent the next few days handling Julien's school enrollment. After comparing options, she settled on St. George's Primary School in central London—excellent reputation, mostly middle-class kids, and close enough to walk or take a short bus ride.
The first day back after Christmas, Clara drove him herself and stopped right at the arched entrance. Ivy crawled over the gate, brown and stubborn in winter, looking like a wizard's hat that had been knocked sideways.
Red-brick buildings, pointed windows, perfect lawns—classic British schoolyard. Even the kids running around the playground looked like they'd stepped out of a miniature Pride and Prejudice rehearsal in their neatly pressed uniforms.
"Study hard. Call if you need anything," Clara said, smoothing his hair.
Julien nodded, slung his bag over one shoulder, and walked through the gate.
The moment he stepped into the classroom—deep-blue blazer, crisp white shirt, tie knotted sharp enough to measure with, those striking green eyes and the natural Black-family posture—quiet whispers rippled through the room.
"Who's that? Never seen him before."
"He looks like Oliver from Oliver Twist!"
"No way—he's more like a little prince."
A few outgoing girls immediately came over to say hi. Julien answered every curious question with easy politeness.
"He's from France? Does he eat snails every day?"
"His name's super long… Caelum Julien Black?"
His form teacher, Mrs. Davies—a kind middle-aged woman—brought him to the front.
"Class, this is our new transfer student, Caelum Julien Black. He's just moved from France to London, so let's all make him feel welcome."
A small buzz of excitement went around. Everyone stared openly.
Julien gave a textbook-polite smile and a slight nod. "Hello, everyone. You can just call me Julien. I'm really glad to be here with you."
Mrs. Davies pointed to an empty desk near the back. "Julien, you can sit there."
He walked over and slid into the seat. The blond boy next to him grinned straight away. "Hi, I'm Thomas. You really from France? Do they have loads of vineyards and wine there?"
"Yeah, I used to live in Bordeaux—my family owns a winery."
Thomas's eyes widened. "Whoa! You must've tried loads of good stuff. My dad says Bordeaux wine is the best in the world."
"I'm still too young to drink," Julien laughed, "but Dad says the same thing."
They chatted a little longer until the bell rang.
St. George's curriculum was a bit different from the French system, but for Julien the lessons were almost laughably easy. Two lifetimes of knowledge plus private tutoring meant he could handle primary-level English, maths, and science without breaking a sweat.
So while Mrs. Davies explained things at the front, Julien's mind drifted. He thought about Grandpa teaching him spells in the hidden chamber, the willow wand warm in his hand, and the old runes carved on the wall:
Blood does not make the man. Choice does.
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