The approaching milestone of his eleventh birthday filled Harry with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. His Hogwarts letter would come in a year's time, but he wasn't sure how to approach the inevitable. Facing the Wizarding World as himself, and with Dumbledore the Headmaster of Hogwarts it was also inevitable that he would meet the man who was keeping such close watch on him.
Should he act as though he knew nothing about magic, playing the naive child Mrs. Figg and the Dursleys thought him to be? Or should he take control of his life, embracing the magic that had become second nature to him over the past few years? It was difficult because the night his parents died put a limelight on him that he truly didn't need. Even now the witches and wizards spoke in awe of the Boy Who Lived, as if hes some mysterious hero.
To distract from the topic, Harry immersed himself in books. Among the many tomes he borrowed from Oddments and Obscurities, one in particular caught his attention: The Ancient and Noble Houses of Britain: A Genealogical Exploration.
The Potter name appeared in a chapter detailing the oldest pureblood families. Harry read with wide eyes, absorbing every detail:
The House of Potter is among the most ancient and noble of wizarding lineages, tracing its roots back to the Peverells through Ignotus, the youngest brother. Renowned for their wisdom and magical prowess, the Potters have held seats on the Wizengamot and have contributed significantly to advancements in magical medicine and defensive spells.
Harry's fingers tightened on the page as he read on.
Though the family has maintained its fortune and treasures for centuries, its influence has waned in recent generations due to its progressive stance on Muggle integration and the war with Grindelwald. The Potters' primary vaults remain among the oldest in Gringotts, safeguarded by enchantments and goblin protections.
The word "vaults" sent Harry's thoughts spinning. Did that mean there was still a fortune, untouched and waiting?
The book offered little guidance on the specifics of how one might reclaim their heritage. It mentioned the existence of family grimoires, heirlooms, and magical properties tied to ancient houses, but nothing concrete.
For the first time, Harry wondered if he had any family left. The book made no mention of other living Potters, but what if someone had been overlooked, the book was a bit dated after all? His fingers brushed the page, lingering on the crest of the Potter family: a dragon rising from a wand entwined with vines and the motto: In igne formatum, per honorem temperatum.
Forged in fire, tempered by honour. Appropriate, he thought, thinking of the element he first learnt to control.
That weekend, Harry brought the topic to Luna as they sat in a quiet corner of the Pritchard's' shop. She listened intently, her expression dreamy but focused.
"I read about my family in a book," Harry began hesitantly. "The Potters. It said they were an ancient and noble house. Do you know what that means?"
Luna tilted her head, her silver-blue eyes glimmering with curiosity. "It means you're part of something very old, like the roots of a great tree that stretches across the ages. Ancient houses they carry power, but also responsibility."
Harry frowned, her words both clarifying and mystifying. "The book said there might be vaults at Gringotts. Do you think I could access them?"
Luna's gaze drifted as if she were looking at something far away. "You could. But you must be careful. Inheritance magic is ancient and binding."
Her tone grew more cryptic as she continued, her voice lilting like a chant. "The Potters descend from the House of Peverell, the House of Death. Do you know the story of the three brothers, Evan?"
He nodded, recalling the tale she had told him months ago.
"The youngest brother, Ignotus, was clever. He didn't seek power or immortality, only peace. But the House of Death walks a fine line. There are secrets hidden in your blood, Harry. Secrets that the Phoenix watches closely. Because with Death comes Life, and all those who covet it." She seemed to be stuck in a haze as she said this.
Harry blinked. "The Phoenix? What do you mean? Luna, are you okay?"
Luna shook herself, her gaze turning back to him. "The Phoenix burns away in lies and shadows. If you seek your heritage now, it will notice. And it will want to know why."
Her words sent a shiver down his spine. "How do I even start?"
"I think theres a way," she said softly. "An inheritance test at Gringotts. It will tell you everything—your lineage, your vaults, and your magic. Wait until you get your Hogwarts letter, and it will be safer."
Lunas gift truly has become more powerful since her mother's death. Harry vowed to try and find something to help her before it takes its toll.
~
That night, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, Luna's words echoing in his mind. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all.
If the Potters were so important, why had no one come for him? Why had he been left with the Dursleys, unloved and forgotten? Did his parents' death sever all ties to their world.
The mention of the Phoenix unnerved him. Luna always spoke in riddles, but her insights were rarely wrong, especially since pandoras death. Who—or what—was watching him? He only knew of Dumbledore watching him…Dumbledore…sitting up suddenly, his thoughts turning to back to the book about houses…a phoenix. The Dumbledore crest has a phoenix on it.
It made a feeling of dread rush through him. Maybe he's just overthinking this.
Wanting to think about something less daunting, his mind drifted to the possibility of family vaults. If he could claim his heritage, he might gain the resources to take control of his life. He wouldn't have to rely on odd jobs in Knockturn Alley. He could prepare for Hogwarts, for the future, on his terms and away from the Dursleys.
The following day, Harry returned to the Pritchards' shop with renewed determination. During a quiet moment, he slipped away to the small backroom where he kept his personal books and notes. Pulling out a scrap of parchment, he began to sketch a plan of what to research and how.
As he wrote, Flick perched on his shoulder, peering at the parchment with a curious flick of his tongue.
"You think this is a good idea?" Harry asked, glancing at the serpent.
Flick tilted his head. "Your heritage is your right, little speaker. But even I can sense the weight of it. Do not be hasty."
For the next few weeks, Harry threw himself into research. He scoured the Pritchards' collection for anything on magical inheritances, bloodlines, and the Potter family. Luna, ever eager to help, brought him an old book on magical genealogy she'd found in her father's study.
By the end of August, Harry would feel more prepared. He didn't have all the answers, but he had a direction. The next step would be venturing into Gringotts to request the test.
For now, he kept Luna's cryptic warning close to heart. The Phoenix might be watching, but Harry Potter was determined to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
~
The Pritchards' shop had been busier than usual, and Harry was more than happy to get away from Knockturn Alley for the day. The customers had been unusually unpleasant, and the weight of their sneers and comments had followed him home like a dark cloud.
Back at Privet Drive, the Dursleys were also in a particularly foul mood, Vernon muttering under his breath about "that boy" while Petunia slammed pots and pans in the kitchen. Dudley, as always, had contributed by stealing the remote to ensure no one else could touch the television and annoying Vernon even more.
Harry couldn't stand it anymore.
Grabbing his satchel and throwing on a cloak, he slipped out of the cupboard and made his way to the Lovegoods home. He didn't bother with subtlety this time; he just needed to be somewhere else. Taking his portkey to the shop, he floo'd to Lunas.
The Lovegood house was as whimsical as ever, its mismatched towers and circular windows giving it an otherworldly charm. Harry knocked on the door and waited.
When it opened, it wasn't Mr. Lovegood who greeted him, but Luna. She stood there in her mismatched socks and a jumper that looked hand-knit, her usual dreamy expression brightening when she saw him.
"Evan!" she said, beaming. "Come in."
Harry stepped inside, the warmth of the house washing over him. The scent of lavender and something vaguely metallic lingered in the air.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said, setting his satchel down.
"Not at all," Luna replied, leading him into the kitchen. "Daddy's not here. He's on an expedition."
Harry blinked. "An expedition? For how long?"
"A month," Luna said casually, as if this was entirely normal. She began filling the kettle with water.
Harry frowned. "And you're here by yourself?"
Luna nodded, setting the kettle on the stove and turning to him. "It's not so bad. I've got plenty to read, and the wrackspurts have been quiet lately."
"Luna..." Harry began, his voice tinged with concern. "Who's looking after you? What about food?"
She tilted her head, as though the question puzzled her. "Daddy left some money for groceries. I've been managing. He said to floo Mrs. Weasley if I needed anything."
Managing? Harry's chest tightened at the thought of her alone in this big, eccentric house for weeks, relying on herself to get by.
"Luna, that's not right," he said firmly. "You shouldn't have to—"
She interrupted him with a small smile. "It's alright, Evan. I'm used to it. Daddy's always been like this. He gets very excited about his work."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "You're nine, Luna. You shouldn't have to take care of yourself. And it might have been okay before, but your mot-" He paused not wanting to upset her and he felt a bit hypocritical considering hes been taking care of himself all these years. "It's just not okay."
Her smile faltered slightly, and for a moment, he saw the loneliness behind her usual dreamy demeanour.
Harry spent the rest of the afternoon helping her clean up the house. They fixed a wobbly chair, organized the cluttered kitchen, and Harry taught her how to prepare a proper meal. As they worked, Harry couldn't stop thinking about how unfair it was. Luna deserved better than this.
After they sat down to eat, he leaned back in his chair, his resolve hardening.
"Luna," he said gently, "I'm going to check in on you. Every weekend, if I can. And if you need anything—anything at all—you tell me, alright?"
She looked at him, her wide eyes shimmering with something he couldn't quite place.
"But you shouldn't worry so much. I'm stronger than I look," she said softly.
"Even the strongest people need help sometimes," he replied.
She didn't argue, instead offering him a small, grateful smile.
That evening, as Harry walked back toward the Leaky Cauldron, he couldn't shake the image of Luna alone in that big house. The thought gnawed at him, sparking a determination he couldn't ignore.
No one had ever looked out for him before. But maybe he could do that for Luna. He could make sure she never felt as alone as he so often did.
~
A few days after Mr Lovegood came back from his expedition, Harry stood at the doorstep of the Lovegood home, his jaw set. Luna answered the door, her wide eyes lighting up at the sight of him.
"Evan!" she said, stepping aside to let him in. "I didn't know you were coming today."
"I needed to talk to your dad," Harry said, his voice softer as he met her gaze.
Luna's expression dimmed slightly, but she nodded. "He's in his study. He doesn't like being disturbed, though."
Harry didn't care. He found Xenophilius Lovegood hunched over his desk, scribbling notes on a parchment filled with nonsensical diagrams. The man barely glanced up when Harry entered.
"Mr. Lovegood," Harry began, his tone firm but respectful. "I need to talk to you."
Xeno waved a hand absently. "Later, boy, I'm in the middle of something important."
"Later won't cut it," Harry snapped, his patience thinning and the term 'boy' rankling him further. "Luna's been on her own for weeks. She's barely eating, and you're not here to see what's happening to her."
That got Xeno's attention. He looked up, his pale eyes narrowing. "I provide for my daughter—"
"Do you?" Harry interrupted. "She's been alone for days at a time because you're off chasing who-knows-what. She's grieving, Mr. Lovegood. She needs you."
Xeno opened his mouth to argue, but Harry pressed on.
"You're all she has left," Harry said, his voice quieter but no less intense. "And if you can't see that, then you're letting her down. Do better."
For a moment, Xeno looked as though he might lash out, but his shoulders sagged instead. He turned away, staring at his chaotic desk.
"I'll... think about what you've said," Xeno muttered.
Harry left the room, hoping his words had struck a chord.
~
Harry leafed through yet another thick tome, the dusty smell of aged parchment filling his nose. He was seated in the Pritchards' back room, the cluttered space filled with stacks of unsorted magical artifacts. Flick lounged by the fire, his head resting near the flames, while Harry squinted at the latest chapter of Legends of the Noble Houses.
The Peverell section was disappointingly sparse—just a few paragraphs about their ancient ties to the Deathly Hallows and their supposed extinction over the centuries.
"Nothing," Harry muttered, slamming the book shut in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, already mussed from hours of research. "It's all bedtime stories. Bridges of trees and houses of death. No one ever mentions them like they're real."
The Pritchards had offered some help, but even their knowledge was limited. Mr. Pritchard suggested looking through old wizarding families' archives, but without access to the Potter heir ring, Harry couldn't even set foot in Potter Manor.
The bell above the shop door jingled, pulling Harry from his thoughts. Donning his persona of Evan, he pushed aside the books and stepped into the front room of Oddments and Obscurities.
A hag hovered near the shelves of cursed trinkets, her gnarled fingers tracing a dusty amulet. A goblin argued with Mrs. Pritchard about the price of a rare artifact. Harry quickly stepped behind the counter, his expression neutral but watchful.
The door opened again, and the atmosphere shifted. A tall, pale man in expensive robes entered, his cane clicking on the stone floor and his stark white hair tied back with a black bow.
"Ah," The man drawled, his sharp eyes scanning the shop. "I believe my order is ready."
"Your name, sir?"
With a curl of his lips he responded, "Lucius Malfoy."
Harry nodded, retrieving a carefully wrapped package from behind the counter. He felt Malfoy's gaze linger on him as he placed the package on the counter.
"You're new," Malfoy remarked, his voice smooth but laced with curiosity. "I don't recall seeing you here before."
"I'm just helping out," Harry replied evenly.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Helping? Unusual for a boy your age to be working in such a... unique establishment. Who are your parents?"
"I'm an orphan," Harry said simply, keeping his tone light but distant. "Never knew them."
Malfoy's lip curled slightly. "Ah, I see. A half-blood, then?"
Harry didn't respond, pretending to adjust the package on the counter. Malfoy took his silence as confirmation and gave a faint sneer.
"Unfortunate," Malfoy muttered, more to himself than Harry. He took the package, dropped a few coins on the counter, and swept out of the shop without another word.
Harry let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing. He had avoided giving anything away, but the encounter left him uneasy.
~
He was leisurely browsing a colourful stall selling enchanted trinkets—tiny figures of dragons that roared softly and miniature brooms zooming in tight circles—when the sound of a familiar voice froze him in place.
"Potter?"
The name was said with uncertainty, and Harry's stomach clenched as he instantly recognized the voice of Dedalus Diggle. The excitable wizard had bowed to him once, years ago, when Harry was much younger and had no idea why a stranger would do such a thing. Also, the man that was in Mrs Figgs house so long ago.
His fingers tightened around a small, glowing orb he'd been inspecting. Thinking quickly, Harry set the orb down and ducked behind the stall, pressing himself against the wooden crates stacked there. His heart thudded as he swiftly cast his Veil of Shadows, his go-to charm for moments like this. The spell settled over him like a cloak, warping the light around him and making him appear as little more than a shadow to anyone nearby.
Moments later, Dedalus Diggle appeared, his purple top hat bobbing as he darted between shoppers. His head swivelled from side to side, scanning the bustling crowd.
"I could've sworn I saw him," Diggle muttered, his voice tinged with both excitement and confusion. He adjusted his hat nervously and squinted down the alley, craning his neck to see past a group of witches examining cauldrons.
Harry stayed perfectly still, holding his breath as Diggle lingered near the stall, his eyes darting over the merchandise and the nearby shoppers. A few seconds passed, feeling like hours, before the wizard finally gave up with a sigh and wandered off, mumbling to himself about needing new spectacles.
Harry exhaled quietly, releasing the tension in his chest as he cautiously peeked out from behind the stall. Diggle was gone, but the adrenaline still coursed through him, making his hands tremble slightly.
He didn't drop the Veil until he'd moved several streets away, weaving carefully through the crowd to ensure he wasn't being followed. As he ducked into a quieter side alley near the apothecary, Harry leaned against a cool stone wall and took a deep breath.
That had been far too close.
He knew his decision to use the name Evan Birch and to mask his identity in the magical world was vital, but it was moments like this that reminded him how fragile that anonymity was. Someone like Diggle recognising him, even briefly, could unravel everything.
Back in the busier parts of Diagon Alley, Harry kept his hood up and avoided lingering near any stalls or shops for too long. The encounter had made him more cautious, his senses heightened as he scanned the crowd for familiar faces.
As he passed a window displaying enchanted telescopes, he thought grimly about how much he still didn't know. He clenched his fists, feeling a wave of frustration.
It wasn't just Diggle; it was the whole wizarding world. The idea of being "The Boy Who Lived" still felt surreal and distant, but to so many others, it was everything. They saw him as a symbol, a story—but not as a person.
Harry resolved to double down on his efforts to stay unnoticed. He needed more precautions, more layers of protection. He couldn't let a single slip-up expose him—not until he was ready to face that world on his terms.
Back at Privet Drive, Harry crouched behind the low garden wall bordering Mrs. Figg's house, keeping as still as he could. His heart was pounding, though not from exertion—it was the tension of knowing he was eavesdropping on someone who was supposed to be his caretaker, at least in a superficial sense. The faint hum of her Floo conversation filtered out through the open window.
"…been home all day," Figg was saying, her voice brisk but tinged with irritation.
The figure in the flames shifted, their face obscured by the green flicker of magical fire. Harry couldn't hear their response, but Figg's tone hardened as she continued.
"I'm keeping an eye on him. He's quiet, but we can't be too careful. If anything changes, I'll inform Dumbledore immediately."
Harry clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Dumbledore. It always came back to him, didn't it?
"Are you certain you saw him?" Figg asked, her brows furrowing as she leaned closer to the fire.
The voice from the Floo grew more distinct, and Harry recognized it with a jolt—Dedalus Diggle.
"I was sure of it!" Diggle said earnestly. "In Diagon Alley, near a stall selling trinkets. It was only a glimpse, and he wasn't wearing glasses or those rags, but—"
"He's been here all day," Figg cut him off, her tone clipped and final. "Either you saw someone else, or your eyes are playing tricks on you. Now, leave the boy to me."
Harry's jaw tightened. He'd made it back unnoticed, but only just. Still, the way Figg dismissed the possibility of him being anywhere but home stung, even if it worked in his favour.
The Floo connection ended with a soft swish. Figg stood and began bustling about, setting a kettle on the stove. Harry slipped away, careful not to disturb the gravel underfoot.
The next afternoon, Harry sat cross-legged in the patchy grass of the Dursleys' front yard, fiddling with a stick and trying to look as aimless as possible. He needed to think, to plan his next move, but keeping up appearances was equally important.
He heard the telltale shuffle of Mrs. Figg's orthopaedic shoes before she spoke.
"You've been out here a lot lately," she said, her sharp eyes narrowing at him over the fence. "What exactly have you been doing all day?"
Harry glanced up, feigning confusion. "Just sitting, Mrs. Figg. There's not much else to do."
Her eyes scanned him, as if trying to uncover a lie. "Funny, I could've sworn you'd been up to something."
He shrugged, keeping his expression blank. "Don't have anywhere to go, do I?"
Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she harrumphed. "Well, I suppose not."
Harry forced a small smile.
She muttered something under her breath and shuffled back toward her house, leaving Harry to exhale slowly.
As he sat there, Harry glanced over at her house. He could almost feel her eyes on him, her suspicions lingering. He'd need to tread carefully around her, especially now that Diggle's near-sighting had roused her attention.
Still, Harry couldn't shake the anger simmering in his chest. Figg's words to Diggle had been clear: Leave the boy to me. What gave Dumbledore or Figg the right to control his life like this?
~
The last weeks of July crept by, each day bringing Harry closer to a milestone he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to face. Eleven. It seemed like such a small number, yet the weight of it pressed heavily on his shoulders.
One night, Harry retreated to the sanctuary of his forest hideaway. The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting a soft silver light over the clearing. The stars above glittered like shards of glass, and Harry found himself staring at them, feeling both small and significant all at once.
Flick was curled beside him, his scales pressed against his side. The Old One lay nearby, perched on a low branch of a gnarled tree. Her golden eyes, as luminous as the stars themselves, watched him unblinkingly.
Harry had brought one of his favourite books—a worn volume filled with myths about the constellations—but it lay forgotten beside him. His thoughts were far too restless to focus on stories tonight.
"My birthday will come soon enough," he murmured to himself, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of the tree.
The cool night air was a balm to his restless thoughts, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds of the forest around him. The rustling of leaves, the faint chirping of crickets, the rhythmic rise and fall of Flick's breathing.
What would it be like to finally step into the world of magic as himself, and not just as "Evan Birch" or the shadowy figure lurking in Knockturn Alley?
Harry opened his eyes and looked up at the stars again, letting their vast, infinite beauty fill his vision.
Harry reached out and gently touched the worn cover of his constellation book. Maybe he didn't have all the answers yet, but he knew one thing: he would face whatever came next with the same resolve he always had.
"Soon," he whispered, stroking Flick's scales absentmindedly, "I'll take one step forward."
~
The first light of dawn filtered through the thin curtains of Harry's tiny bedroom. It was a Wednesday morning, and the rest of Privet Drive was still wrapped in the lazy quiet of early summer. But Harry was awake.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, stretching.
Harry was about to get up and start his usual routine when the sound of letters being pushed through the letter box startled him. Coming out of his cupboard, he approached the door and he noticed a thick envelope lying on the worn carpet.
Harry crouched by the door, picking up the envelope with careful fingers. It was heavy, the parchment rough beneath his touch. Written in emerald-green ink was his name:
Mr. Harry Potter
The cupboard under the stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
His breath hitched. He turned the envelope over and saw a wax seal stamped with a crest—a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle surrounding a large "H."
He stared at it for a moment, his heart pounding.
He broke the seal with trembling hands and pulled out several pages of the same thick parchment. His eyes skimmed the contents, widening with each line:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry read the letter twice, his fingers gripping the parchment tightly. A strange mixture of vindication, relief, and dread swirled inside him.
He folded the letter carefully, placing it back into the envelope before standing. He needed to see the Dursleys' reaction. He knew Petunia was aware of Hogwarts and was probably expecting this, but did Vernon and Dudley know about it all too? He might as well get it out the way. After all, this presented him an opportunity.
In the kitchen, Vernon was seated at the table, a newspaper spread before him. Dudley was shovelling cereal into his mouth while Petunia fussed with the tea kettle. None of them noticed Harry at first as he walked in, holding the envelope at his side.
"What's that?" Vernon grunted, catching sight of Harry from behind his paper.
Harry stepped forward and placed the letter on the table. "It's for me."
Petunia's hand froze mid-pour. She turned, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the crest on the envelope. "Where did you get that?" she hissed.
"It came this morning," Harry said calmly, though his voice was tight. "What do you know about it?"
Petunia's face paled, her bony hands clutching the edge of the table. "Vernon," she whispered, "it's happening." Well, that answered that question.
"What's happening?" Harry asked sharply. "You've known about this, haven't you?"
Petunia's lips thinned, and she avoided his gaze. "We— We thought it might not—"
"Thought it might not what?" Harry demanded, his voice rising. "Happen? That I wouldn't find out what I am?"
Petunia's composure snapped. "You think we wanted this?" she spat. "You think we wanted to take in your kind? We were left no choice! Dropped you off like a bottle of milk with some letter saying to look after you. Look after you!"
Harry's fists clenched. "So, what? You just decided to treat me like a servant instead?"
"We didn't ask for any of this!" Petunia shouted, her face blotchy with anger. "We didn't ask for you! We thought we could get rid of the magic in you!" That statement made Harrys magic pulse along with his anger, pressing down on the occupants of the kitchen.
"Enough, Petunia!" Vernon barked, but his face was pale, sweat beading on his brow from the way Harrys magic was pressing down on them. Vernon felt as if he would die at any moment. "The boy's going to some… freak school, isn't he? Let them deal with him now."
Harry stood his ground, his anger simmering beneath the surface.
"I think I should get Dudley's second bedroom, don't you? After all, this letter is addressed to my cupboard, what would happen if they found out you put me there?"
Vernon made to argue, Dudley was coming out of the shock from Harrys magic but Petunia had enough sense to seethe at him in anger and spit, "fine! But you clear it out yourself and you never ask us for anything ever again!"
He wanted to say more, to unleash years of resentment, but a flicker of movement outside the window caught his eye.
Mrs. Figg was standing on her front lawn, watering her roses, but her gaze kept darting toward the Dursleys' open kitchen window. Harry swallowed his rage and forced himself to calm down. He couldn't let her hear too much, couldn't risk her reporting anything to Dumbledore.
"I'll deal with it," he said coldly, snatching the letter from the table.
Petunia glared at him, trying to hide her trembling, but Harry didn't wait for a response. He turned and left, his mind racing.
Back in his cupboard, Harry sat on his bed, the letter clutched in his hands. Flick slithered up beside him, nuzzling his arm. He stroked his head absentmindedly, his thoughts tumbling over one another.
For now, though, he had a letter to respond to.
Harry grabbed a piece of plain parchment from his stash, dipped his quill into a bottle of ink, and began crafting his response. He carefully chose his words, ensuring he sounded like an overwhelmed, unknowing child:
Dear Professor McGonagall,
Thank you for the letter and the invitation to attend Hogwarts. I'm excited and a little nervous, as I've never been around other magical people before. I don't know how I'm supposed to get to Diagon Alley for my school supplies or how to pay for them. Could you please let me know what to do?
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He read the letter twice to ensure it didn't give anything away. Satisfied, Harry sealed it in an envelope and went outside to summon an owl.
"Take this to Professor McGonagall," he said softly, scratching the head of the owl that appeared. "And be careful."
It gave a soft hoot and took off into the evening sky. Harry watched it disappear into the horizon, his mind spinning with plans.
Two days later, an owl returned with a letter. Harry untied the parchment and opened it with anticipation.
Dear Mr. Potter,
Thank you for your response. I understand your concerns and will come to collect you on the morning of the 27th of July to assist you in acquiring your school supplies. Please be ready by 10 a.m.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry folded the letter, his mind already working through the next step. He couldn't let McGonagall—or anyone else—know just how much he already understood about magic.
For the next few days, Harry carefully crafted his appearance. He pulled out his old pair of oversized glasses, their lenses long since replaced with plain glass. The frames were bent, giving them a scruffy, well-worn look. His clothes—baggy hand-me-downs from Dudley—added to the image of a neglected child.
He took extra care to muss his hair and practiced a look of wide-eyed innocence in the cracked mirror of his new room. "Lost, confused, and utterly unremarkable," he murmured to himself, satisfied with the effect.
~
On the morning of July 27th, Harry stood by the door of Number Four, Privet Drive, waiting for Professor McGonagall. His scruffy clothes and round glasses made him look every bit the neglected boy he wanted to present. When a sharp knock sounded, Harry opened the door to find a stern-faced woman in emerald-green robes and a pointed hat.
"Mr. Potter?" she asked, peering at him over her square spectacles.
"Yes, Professor McGonagall," Harry said, his voice shy but polite.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced over his clothes. "Are your relatives home?"
"No," Harry lied smoothly. "They went out early this morning."
McGonagall sniffed, clearly disapproving, but said nothing. "Very well. Let us proceed to Diagon Alley."
They arrived at the Leaky Cauldron via Side-Along Apparition. The sensation of being squeezed through a tube was uncomfortable, but Harry masked his reaction, pretending to be bewildered by the dimly lit pub instead.
McGonagall led him through the establishment, nodding to Tom, the barkeep, who thankfully seemed distracted with other customers. Harry kept his head down, relieved not to be recognized as Evan Birch.
When they reached the brick wall, McGonagall tapped the bricks in a familiar sequence with her wand. As the archway unfolded, revealing Diagon Alley in all its bustling glory, Harry feigned wide-eyed amazement.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," McGonagall said with a small smile, clearly pleased by his reaction.
"It's… incredible," Harry murmured, and for once, it wasn't entirely an act. The sight of it left him near speechless each time.
Their first stop was Gringotts. The gleaming marble building loomed above them as they stepped inside, the clink of gold and murmured goblin voices filling the air.
"Do you have your vault key, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked as they approached the counter.
Harry froze, pretending to look panicked. "I—I don't think I do," he stammered. "I've never seen one."
McGonagall's expression turned grim. She glanced at the goblin teller and explained the situation.
The goblin, with a sharp-toothed grin, said, "We can reissue the key for a small fee."
"Of course," McGonagall replied briskly. She turned to Harry. "We're fortunate this is easily resolved."
Harry agreed to the fee to be taken out of his vault. This oversight would give him a plausible excuse for requesting an inheritance test later.
As they walked from Gringotts to the next stop, McGonagall gestured to the various shops. "You'll need to visit all of these for your supplies. Hogwarts requires students to be well-prepared."
Harry nodded, taking mental notes to maintain his act.
"Professor," he asked hesitantly, "why were people staring at me back there?"
McGonagall stopped mid-stride. Her sharp gaze softened as she studied him. "You truly don't know, do you?"
"Know what?" Harry tilted his head, playing innocent.
McGonagall's shoulders sagged slightly. "Let's find somewhere quiet to talk."
She led him to a secluded bench in a small park off the main street. Sitting down, she motioned for Harry to join her.
"Mr. Potter," she began, her voice gentle but firm, "you're famous in our world. On the night you were born, the wizarding world was in the grip of a dark wizard—Lord Voldemort."
Harry listened as she recounted the events of that fateful Halloween. Even though he already knew, hearing it from her—someone who must have known his parents—struck a nerve.
"Your parents, Lily and James Potter, were some of the bravest people I've ever known," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "They gave their lives to protect you. And in the end, their sacrifice defeated Voldemort."
Harry looked down at his hands, his act of overwhelmed confusion almost genuine now. "So that's why people stare at me," he whispered.
"Yes," McGonagall replied. "You're known as the Boy Who Lived."
After a moment of silence, McGonagall rose, brushing off her robes. "We've much to do, Mr. Potter. Let's continue."
Harry followed her as they visited the various shops, acquiring robes, books, and potion supplies. He carefully avoided saying anything that would reveal his prior knowledge, instead asking questions about magical currency and the use of cauldrons.
At Flourish and Blotts, Harry picked out the required textbooks, as well as a few extras he claimed "sounded interesting." McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly assuming his curiosity was natural.
When they reached Madam Malkin's for robes, Harry made a point of looking uncomfortable when the tape measure worked its magic. The assistant chattered away, oblivious to his feigned awkwardness.
Their last destination was Ollivanders. The ancient, narrow shop stood slightly apart from the rest of the alley, its dusty windows hinting at the treasures within.
McGonagall paused before opening the door, glancing down at Harry. "Choosing your wand is a special moment, Mr. Potter. No two wands are the same, and the wand chooses the wizard."
Harry nodded, his heart genuinely racing.
As they stepped inside, the soft chime of a bell announced their arrival.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," a soft, wispy voice greeted them. "I've been expecting you."
Harry's eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and he saw an old man with silvery hair and pale eyes emerge from the shadows.
Harry stood in the dimly lit shop, shelves packed high with boxes of wands. Mr. Ollivander approached him with an air of excitement, his pale, moon-like eyes glittering.
"Ah, yes," Ollivander murmured, circling Harry. "I've been waiting for this moment for quite some time. Let us begin." Flicking the tape away from Harry, he went to the back to choose a box.
He reached for a box and handed the wand inside to Harry. "Oak and unicorn hair, eleven inches. Supple. Give it a wave."
Harry grasped the wand and gave it a flick. The tip sputtered weakly before the wand emitted a shower of sparks that burned a hole in the rug.
"Hmm," Ollivander said, snatching the wand back. "Not quite."
The process repeated, wand after wand. Each felt wrong in Harry's hands, as though the magic within them rebelled against him.
"Curious," Ollivander muttered, his expression shifting from puzzlement to delight. "Very curious indeed."
"What's curious?" Harry asked, genuinely intrigued despite himself.
Ollivander leaned closer, his voice a soft whisper, his eyes felt as if they were looking through him. "You are unlike any wizard I've met, Mr. Potter. Magic flows through you differently." He stepped back, rubbing his hands together. "Let us try this."
He pulled a wand from a high shelf, brushing off the dust. "Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches."
As Harry held the wand, warmth shot up his arm, and his magic surged forward in a harmonious symphony. The connection was intoxicating. For a moment, he felt as though the wand amplified everything within him, bright and powerful.
But then, with a deafening crack, the windows of the shop blew outward, scattering glass across Diagon Alley, prompting everyone to duck down and take cover.
Ollivander clapped his hands together, beaming. "Magnificent! The wand has chosen."
Harry shook himself and stared at the wand, still vibrating in his hand. The power was exhilarating, yet the intensity left him uneasy. Wandless magic was different—more personal, more natural. This felt like being the magic was being funnelled through something foreign after being yanked from his very core. Blissful to begin with, but not as freeing as what he's used to.
"Thank you," Harry said quietly, placing the wand carefully back in its box.
Ollivander watched him with an unsettling smile. "Mr. Potter, I'm sad to say that I sold the wand that gave you that scar. It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar." he said, pointing to his forehead, his voice low and cryptic, "this wand much like theirs is a tool, but it is not your destiny. Be mindful of what you seek."
Harry frowned but nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not always clear why. But I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible! Yes. But great." With that, Mr Ollivander turned around and went to the back, leaving Harry and McGonagall to stare at the mess of glass surrounding them.
As they exited the shop, McGonagall turned to Harry, her sharp eyes scrutinizing him. "That was quite the display," she said.
"Sorry about the windows," Harry replied sheepishly.
"Don't worry about that," she said with a slight smile. "Ollivander enjoys a bit of excitement." She checked her watch. "It's late. Let's return you home."
They Apparated back to Little Whinging, landing near the edge of Privet Drive. Harry adjusted his glasses and looked up at McGonagall, who seemed reluctant to leave him there.
"Mr. Potter," she said carefully, "if you ever need assistance, please don't hesitate to write."
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, grateful for the sentiment despite knowing he'd manage fine on his own.
She reached into her pocket and handed him an envelope. "Inside is your train ticket. The Hogwarts Express departs from King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock sharp on September 1st. To access the platform, walk straight into the barrier between platforms nine and ten."
"Straight into the barrier?" Harry asked, feigning bewilderment.
"Yes," she said, her lips quirking up in a small smile. "It will allow you through. Just don't stop or hesitate."
"Got it," Harry said.
As McGonagall vanished with a soft pop, Harry stared at Number Four. The curtains twitched—Mrs. Figg's house across the street. Harry turned on his heel and walked toward the Dursleys' front door, already planning how he'd keep his true activities hidden until school began.
The weight of the wand in his pocket was a constant reminder of the day's events, and Ollivander's words echoed in his mind. Whatever lay ahead, Harry was ready to face it on his own terms.