"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, his own little world where no one sneered at him, no one forced him to cook breakfast or weed the garden until his fingers bled. 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.
He 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, his 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 on his tongue.
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 yet, 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. Something that would easily apply to runes...
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, but then 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 siz 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.
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 hissing 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..."
"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."
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."
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 rememberd 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, 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.