Harry Potter and The War Mage.

by charliefermata

Summary:

What would've happened if magical education worldwide started at age 17, instead of 11? Let's see how Hogwarts handles a young adult Harry, one who was able to escape his abusers, and came to terms with his own persona before the magical community took him in.

This will be Harmonie all the way, no bashing, and not so slow burn. Maybe I'll include smut if I'm feeling right for it.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Breaking free.

When Hogwarts was founded in 990 AD, the four Founders realised that ripping Muggle-raised children from their families at age eleven and immersing them in magic too early caused catastrophic culture shock, obedience issues, and dangerous accidental magic surges during puberty. To protect both the children and their families, they cast the Concord of Maturity: deliberate magical training and wand ownership are forbidden worldwide until the witch or wizard's magic fully stabilises at seventeen. Instead, every magical community maintains a discreet Childhood Watch who monitor, gently guide, and Obliviate when needed until the child's seventeenth birthday. This is why Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and every accredited school on the planet all begin at seventeen; it has simply always been that way for a thousand years.

July 31st, 1989 - Privet Drive, Little Whinging. 

It was a hot summers' day. The suburban lawns once green, were now parchment yellow. There was hardly any breeze, let alone a tree's shadow to shield oneself from the heat. A tall, lean teenage boy with broken glasses was walking down Magnolia Lane, drifting off in his own thoughts, ignoring his surroundings. He had black raven hair, piercing green eyes, and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. 

Harry Potter was, in all accounts a stellar student. Too quite for his age, some would say, but all in all kind and respectful. He attended Stonewall high, and was top of his class since he had started four years before. 

Harry chuckled. His primary teachers could not believe it when they had heard of the Potter boy having the best scores in the district. What they didn't know was that Harry had to keep his scores low or face punishment at his relatives' place. 

Harry grimaced.

Every time he thought of his living conditions, a sense of hopefulness took over his body and the air around him stiffened, almost as if it became charged with energy. He had learned the hard way to keep control of his emotions, or else have a disaster in his hands. 

Ever since he turned seven years of age, strange and inexplicable accidents happened around him, things he couldn't possibly explain no matter how much he tried. They only got worse when he hit puberty; electronics exploding whenever he got distressed, glasses shattering when receiving a beating from uncle Vernon, furniture flying across the living room whenever aunt Petunia talked badly about his parents. 

He made the connection that those accidents happened whenever he lost control and so he began researching for meditation technics and other activities that could help him gain some resemblance of control over himself. 

He had to, or he reckoned his life would've been a very short one. 

Vernon and Petunia Dursley and their son, Dudley. They were Harry's relatives, and for reasons he was never able to comprehend, they hated him. Not in the way a school kid hates his bully, or the way you hate the guy that steals your girlfriend. They hated him like nazis hated jews, or white supremacists hated colored people. 

Yet, every day he had to return to his own personal hell. Number 4, Privet Drive. After all, Harry Potter had nowhere else to go. 

He let out a sigh, trying to keep his composure. Today was his birthday and causing a accident by losing control of himself was not the way to celebrate it. 

He had endured much physical pain throughout the years, he had become used to it. Belts, frying pans, sticks, punches, slaps, burns, bottles thrown at him. For some reason they kept referring at him as freak, what was that supposed to mean? 

Another spike of energy surrounded him. Taking another calming breath, he kept walking down the neighbourhood with no specific aim, just trying to buy himself some alone time away from his abusers. 

Harry had come to think of them as just a necessary evil, one he had to endure before he could finally start living. Sadly for him, he had to get back soon or face his aunt and uncle's wrath. 

When Harry entered Number 4, he faced a familiar view. Vernon once had been a petulant but somewhat successful business manager at Grunnings selling drills of all things. However, he had fallen of the wagen when Harry was 12, due to aggressive behaviour in the workplace. After facing many lawsuits, he was finally fired. And so he quickly became the sorrowful excuse of a man that Harry was faced with everyday. Food and liquor stains in his shirt showed he was drunk again, and feeling sorry for himself. Again. 

Uncle Vernon's outlet had been intensifying his nephew's punishment whenever he felt like it, specially when he was in that drunken state. In uncle Vernon's worldview, everything, including him losing his job, was Harry's fault. Vernon had been in between employments, but none of them ever stuck. Turned out nobody wanted a bully for an employee.

The next thing he saw was his aunt Petunia, loudly moving around in the kitchen, trying to cook whatever food she could with the little ingredients they still had in the house. She had point blank had refused to find work herself, so they had forced Harry into working for scraps since his early teens. 

That fact was the only thing he was actually thankful for, in his life with the Dursleys. 

Working since early teens, had enable him to find his own persona, and thankfully gave him much life experience and tools he wouldn't have gotten otherwise. Talking to one of his co-workers in a chinese supermarket, he learned what abuse was, and had begun identifying it in his own life. 

"I tell you man, Audrey's family are sick fucks." Brandon, a tall blond fourteen year old, was ranting none stop about his girlfriends issues, and Harry could not comprehend what was wrong with it. 

"What do you mean?" Harry asked tentatively. 

"What do I mean? Jesus fuck, Harry, haven't you been listening?" Brandon let out an exasperated breath before continuing. "They beat her, Harry. They fucking beat her, and she's scare for her life every time she has to go back to that house." 

So, it was wrong for your own family to beat you? Harry felt something shattered inside of him and he couldn't keep up with the conversation anymore. 

Thinking back to that moment, that conversation, it had sparked his path to freedom. Next day, he walked straight to the counselor's office at Stonewall high, Mr. Brown, and asked for a meeting. After that day, he had gone regularly to his office and started his journey to healing himself mentally and emotionally. 

After about three months into counseling, Mr. Brown suggested self-defense classes, a suggestion he took to heart. Ever since, he had begun taking control of his life, what little he could get anyways. 

Harry was brought out of his thoughts by a shriek. Startled, he saw Vernon lunging, surprisingly, at Petunia. Harry was in shock, his mind in overhaul racing through millions of thoughts at the same time. 

His aunt Petunia had been horrible to him, for sure. The constant comments about him being a freak, or the silent approval of her husband' punishments, or her spoiling nature towards her own son, Dudley. Everything hurt, at an emotional level. But she had never raised a hand at him. Sometimes he even got the distinct feeling, she was also surviving, same as him. 

"Freak!" Uncle Vernon had lost his mind when he saw through Harry's satchel and found his school reports. He was being rather pompous about Dudley coming back from Smeltings, and seeing his son had passing grades. As it was back in primary school, Vernon quickly took Harry's own report to show that his son was smarter than his freak nephew. Only this time was different. Harry didn't had to hide his brains, didn't need to run from Dudley's gang all the time. 

"There's no way you could've scored higher than Dudley, you cheated!" It didn't matter how many times Harry screamed he hadn't cheated, Vernon kept hitting him with all his might. Across the room he locked eyes with Petunia and Dudley. His cousin was looking smug, like an early Christmas present was being handed to him. But Petunia, Harry could've sworn she had a tear in her cheek. 

Harry passed out, and thought it had been an illusion. 

His brain engaged again, and he knew he hadn't imagined it. Petunia was putting up an act to survive, she was as much a victim as a perpetrator to Harry's abuse. She had to spoil Dudley or get beat, she had to call him names or get slapped, she had to rationalize his meals or she would be on the end of Vernon's belt. It all clicked into place in Harry's brain. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he let out a roar that seemed to have stopped time itself. In the blink of an eye, Vernon turned to him and before one step was taken in Harry's direction, Vernon flew across the kitchen and into the backyard. 

Glasses shattered, and lights flickered. Harry was standing at the front door heavily breathing, whilst Petunia was silently crying and shivering. 

Calm down. Breath. Settle your emotions. 

Harry's chest was moving up and down fast, adrenaline porting through his veins. With each breath he took, his heart grew calmer, and the energy surrounding him began receding. Slowly, he took a few steps towards his aunt. 

Seeing her up-close, he confirmed his earlier thoughts. Petunia was as much a victim as he was. She was crying, shaking and visibly pale for what almost happened to her. 

"Aunt Petunia?" Harry's voice echoed across the silent kitchen, cutting through the tension that had been built with Vernon's aggression. Harry was confused by what had happened, uncle Vernon usually lashed out against him, not his aunt. Petunia locked eyes with him, and he saw her regrets in them. 

"H-Harry, c-call the police." He widened his eyes, in all of his fifteen years he had always wanted to report them, but Vernon's words that nobody would believe a freak had left him discouraged. Now, aunt Petunia was giving him the small push he had needed to report everything. 

He dialed 999. In the next ten minutes, he and his aunt sat in the kitchen with their eyes firmly looking into space instead of each other, neither of them dared to go outside looking for Vernon. The doorbell rang, and they jumped in surprise at the sound. Walking slowly towards the front door, Harry began dreading what would happen next. 

"Good evening, Mr. Potter I take it?" The broad, tall, bald officer addressed Harry in a familiar tone, something he wasn't exactly used to except for his counselor at school, or his self-defense teacher. 

"Good evening, officer." Harry took one side step back letting the officer into Number 4. 

Everything that came next was a blur for Harry and Petunia. The moment he crashed on his bed, he tried to list the highlights of what had happened. Vernon had been severely injured, and due to his intoxicated state when it happened, his body just gave up in its entirety. Vernon Dursley was found dead at 7:39 pm on July 31st 1989. 

The next thing he was mostly sure of, was the fact that Dudley had been arrested for juvenile delinquency, with a possibility to do time in a correctional for the next three to five years. His entire gang had been caught up in their schemes to nobody's surprise; not even his aunt Petunia seemed all that distraught by it.

Harry, however, felt strange about the entire incident. His memory of the fight with uncle Vernon was fuzzy. He looked at his knuckles and they weren't injured, if he had hit his uncle the way he remembered it, then there was no way his knuckles wouldn't be bloodied. 

His daily meditations since he had begun self-defense lessons had taught him that his mind was and would always be his greatest tool. And he felt that it had been tampered with, but no matter how much or how hard he tried, he couldn't figure out a way to untangle it. 

Everything had been to... neat. To easy. Harry knew for a fact that things in life hardly went that way, specially for him. If he had killed a man, how was it that the state hadn't taken him in? How was he able to lay in his own ragged bed, and Dudley was in prison? It didn't make sense for Harry. 

Forcefully he decided to just sleep and see if the morning brought more sense to what had happened. 

====

It was a restless night. On top of the summer's heat driving him insane, and drying up his mouth, his mind was even more convinced that something had been done to him, and he couldn't understand why or what had happened. 

Turning to his side, he saw the time. It was 5:49 am. With a deep sigh, knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he decided on a morning run before coming back and make breakfast as he always did since he could remember. 

Not bothering with his glasses, he put on his trainers, a pair of sweats and a shirt, and began his stretching routine. This was something he had taken accustom to since he began his physical training at school and at his defense classes. 

Thinking fondly to those few adults, Mr. Brown mostly, that had actually cared for him put a small grin on his face. Regardless of the hour, the heat was still overwhelming, but he didn't care, he needed the run, needed the outlet. 

Something he couldn't explain had happened the day before, and he couldn't remember what it was. Maybe it had something to do with the energy within him that always threaten to surface whenever he lost control of his emotions. Even if there were other people like him, he just knew that was different. 

Deep in his thoughts, organizing the alleged events from the previous night, Harry began to calm himself and more importantly, convince himself of letting the topic go. One thing he had learn in counseling was that if one didn't have an answer, or sufficient facts to find an answer, then it didn't do any good to linger on it, wasted energy as Mr. Brown often told him. 

Sweat crept his back and chest, drops falling down his forehead. He had run faster than he was used to, but he felt calmer because of it. Entering Number 4, he was assaulted by the image of aunt Petunia waiting for him in the living room. That wasn't so surprising, what shocked was how relaxed she seemed. For someone who had quite literally lost her husband and son not even twenty four hours before, she was almost... happy? No that couldn't be right, could it? 

"How was your run, Harry?" She called him by his name? What exactly was going on? 

"Alright, I guess." Harry answered as truthful as he could be. 

"That's nice." Petunia's voice was soft and apologetic. Locking eyes with him, the lips of her mouth crept upwards in a slight smile, the first she had genuinely giving Harry since forever. "Go and take a shower, we're going out today." 

That shocked him even more. Not trusting his voice to say anything, he simply nodded, and went upstairs to his room. 

A cold shower, and clothes later, Harry found himself standing in front of his aunt, wary of her  new attitude towards him. In all of his fifteen years of life, she had never once treated him with affection, let alone, love. Not even with cordiality. And all of the sudden, one death and one imprisonment later she was a decent person?

Aunt Petunia took his silence for what it was, and simply grabbed her purse and exited the house knowing Harry would follow shortly after. Taking a car ride to London, they stopped at Piccadilly street in a small cafe, first one he had ever went to. 

Black floors and dark green walls, it was a private setting, almost as if saying 'your business is your own'. They ordered a small English breakfast, Earl Gray tea and some orange juice, and ate in silence, which was enerving for Harry. 

"Aunt Petunia," Harry broke the silence, hesitant of the answer, "Why are here? What's going on?" 

His aunt smiled, but he could see her face was saddened not only by the events of the previous evening, but by years of pent up regrets and sorrows. He didn't know how he knew it, but it was true nonetheless. 

"Harry..." A single tear fell from the corner of her left eye, and Harry couldn't help the need to comfort her. He moved his chair next to hers, and slowly but steadily he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The damme broke down. He had never seen his aunt behave this way. She was sobbing her heart out, trying to be as quite as possible at the same time. 

Harry began to panic, he had no idea what to do in that situation. This was a women that had stood by watching him get beaten and tortured his entire life, and her she was breaking apart in his shoulder, clinging to him for dear life. 

He didn't know how long it was, but after what had seemed to be an eternity, she relented her crying and let him go. When he saw her face, it was swollen and red-eye from crying. Fuck, what do I do now? 

"H-Harry," she began again after pulling herself back together as much as she could, "I'm sorry." 

There it was. The words gave him a flashback while he stared at his aunt's pleading face. 

"What is forgiveness, Harry?" Mr. Brown asked nonchalantly. It was the second year of their counseling, and Harry had made steady progress in his emotional growth. 

"I don't know, I assume you'll tell me?" His cheek was already known as an endearing treat  for Mr. Brown. 

"Funny, but not this time, chap." Harry saw his seriousness. It was one of those sessions. 

"I don't know, Mr. Brown. Just forget what happened, and move on?" Harry looked at the floor.

"And how would that make you feel if you did that?" 

Harry took a few moments to answer. He felt a surge of rage inside of him. 

"Angry. I will never forget what they have done to me, or what they will continue to do to me. Fuckers deserve to die." Harry spat the last bit almost to himself, hoping Mr. Brown didn't hear it. He did. 

"Many people who live deserve to die, yes. Many who die deserve to live. Can you be the judge, Harry?" Mr. Brown's soft voice made Harry's anger deflate as if a balloon had been pinched. 

"... No." Harry had the feeling this session would change his life forever. 

"So, if trying to forget their abuse to you makes you angry, that's probably not the answer, right?" 

"Then I honestly don't know, sir. This topic is not one that is often talked about in class, you know?" Harry tried to lightened the mood. Mr. Brown chuckled. 

"Come on, Harry. Search deeper. I'll give you a clue. I think you already forgave them." 

"What!? No! How can you say that?" Harry stood from his chair and had the feeling of wanting to punch his counselor. The energy from inside him began to stir, and he had to take a few calming breaths to avoid destroying everything around him. 

"Alright, let me try a different angle, then." Mr. Brown motioned for him to sit down again. When Harry did, he continued. "Answer with yes or no, Harry. Do you want their abuse to define you?" 

"No." 

"Alright, do you want to carry their abuse with you forever?"

"No!" 

"Perfect!" He smiled as if he was getting to his point. "I think we've established before, that since you are no judge, you don't get to decide if they deserve to die, right?"

"Yes." Harry was getting annoyed, now. 

"So, if you don't get to decide if they live or die, you don't want to and you won't carry their abuse of you forever, and you certainly will not let that abuse to define you, what is the only thing that is left for you to do?" 

Realization hit Harry like a brick. He hadn't let their hits break him, he hadn't let them change who he was, he didn't define relationships like they did. He was different than them. He didn't want to punish them, he didn't want revenge, he just wanted to leave them behind and never look back. 

"Forgiveness." Harry answer was but a whisper, too chocked up in the realization that his relatives didn't have a hold on him, that no matter the hits, the insults, the degrading, he was already free from them. 

Mr. Brown smiled warmly at his charge. He had always known Harry was made of harder mater than anybody else. The kid's resilience and heart was completely overwhelming at times. He was kind, brave and compassionate. Still kept to himself, not many friends. But he was a kid, he had time to build relationships. Yes, Harry was going to be alright. 

Harry focused back on the present, seeing how his teary aunt was just staring at him. He wanted to yell at her, wanted to scream and ask why she had left him alone against her husband, why she had stood by and let him get beaten up. He was hurt by her inaction. 

Mr. Brown's words brought him back to calmness. He wouldn't let his aunt define his life. He said the only words that his heart could speak. 

"I forgive you, aunt." 

Harry finally had broken free. 

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: When Harry met Hermione.

Notes:

Sorry for the pun in the chapter's name, lol. In the 90s, the highschool system graduated its students at age 16 with the GCSE, so, Harry and Hermione would have both graduated by 1990 in this specific fic, giving them a whole sabbatical year, pretty much.

June 15th, 1990 - Privet Drive, Little Whinging. 

Harry Potter was doing his morning run as usual, against a somewhat less heated summer than the previous summer. He used his morning runs to clear his head, but also to reflect on his own personal life. Ever since his fifteenth birthday, life in Privet Drive had improved dramatically. Aunt Petunia had changed her name back to Evans, after confirmation of Dudley's imprisonment. His cousin had vandalized a police car, and had tried to rob a groceries store the previous year around the time uncle Vernon died.

One major piece of information his aunt had given him that morning after the incident, was the fact that magic was real. Remembering his reaction to that major bombshell brought a small chuckle out of him. 

"What do you mean 'magic is real'?" Harry all but shouted. Thankfully, the cafe they were in was mostly empty, and people seemed to be paying no attention to them. 

"Calm down, Harry, please." Aunt Petunia stared at him with a hint of fear in her eyes. 

"How do you want me to stay calm when you're one second crying your eyes out, and on the next one telling me magic is real!? Do I need to take you to a hospital?" Harry was dead serious with his question. Aunt Petunia could've been suffering from a mental breakdown from the previous night's incidents. 

"No, Harry, for God's sake." Aunt Petunia was visibly irritated now, and he could see it as clear as day. Harry stared at her trying to decide whether or not he should ignore her and take her to a hospital, or to try and get more information out of her first and decide if believed her or not. Why am I so fucking curious? He thought with an exasperated sigh. 

"Alright, I'll bite. Explain this to me, please." 

It made sense. So much so, that he started laughing by the end of his aunt's explanation. His mother, Lily Evans had been a witch. When her magic began to manifest it was clear Lily had a instinctive control over it, and often used it to manipulate reality with small things - levitating things, or growing flowers out of season. 

“A witch?” Harry laughed, high and sharp. “Aunt Petunia, people don’t just— levitate teacups. That’s not—” 

“Your mother made roses bloom in December when she was nine,” Petunia cut in, voice trembling. “I watched her do it. And I hated her for it.”

One day, a neighbour - pale kid with greasy hair, by the name of Severus - caught both sisters in a park near their home, and told Lily she was a witch and she would be going to a special school when she turned seventeen. Petunia had been so scandalized and utterly jealous at the same time that their relationship was never the same. 

Severus had began hanging around with them almost obsessively, and trying to wedge the sisters apart even more than what was naturally occurring. It became so much that by the time Lily got her Hogwarts letter, they had also grown apart. Lily was the kindest person Petunia had ever known, but not even Lily could stand Severus by the end of things. 

Many times Petunia and Lily had tried to fix their relationship, but the fact of the matter was that Lily was a witch, and Petunia wasn't. They couldn't empathize with each other, couldn't relate. So by the time Lily went on to Hogwarts, Petunia decided she hated her sister and everything related with her. 

Their parents were distraught about it, of course. But there really wasn't anything they could've done to prevent it, or even fix it. 

At Hogwarts, Lily met James Potter and they had fallen in love quite fast. As destiny would have it, Severus Snape became James's enemy at school, his jealousy of Lily was completely unhealthy. 

And then became the fated night of  Halloween, 1975. Some dark wizard had come to his parents home and had killed them, and what was more unbelievable was that the fucker had tried to kill him! A baby! That's how he had got landed with the Dursleys. 

Harry read the letter that had been dropped with him on a late November night, and instantly distrusted this Dumbledore character, or at least his motives. 

Vernon of course knew about Lily and James, and when they took Harry in, he swore he would put a stop to all that magic rubbish. Petunia had always known Vernon was an aggressive man, but she honestly had believed that would be the best she could possibly get in life, so she had settled in, and let Vernon do whatever he wanted. 

When Dudley was born she thought that would temper the man's proclivities, but it only made him worse. She regrettably let everything played out, and told Harry she would anything she could to repair the damage she had caused with her inaction. 

Since that day, he began meditating on his energy, what now knew to be magic. 

When he began his counseling sessions, everything had to do with managing his emotions, instead of controlling them. When he got angry, he would temper it with purpose; on the rare occasions he was joyous, he would manage it with grounding; when feeling sad, he would remind himself to have hope. People often believed that emotions were to be controled, Mr. Brown had explain to him what a wrong idea that was. 

Controlling one's emotions would be the equivalent of trying to temper an overflowing river. The best one could hope for was managing, and directing those emotions towards a higher goal. So, he meditated on managing his emotions so that his energy didn't went out of control. 

Now, however, he meditated on his magic, not controlling it but flowing with it and compelling it to do the changes he wanted to make to reality. Very quickly, he began feeling everything around him, in the earth, the grass, the air, the people. 

Turned out, every person had magic in them, just not every person could manipulated. When he mentioned that to his aunt, she broke down asking his mother for forgiveness. Thinking that if she had known that, she wouldn't have been such a horrible person to her sister. Harry thought differently, but he wasn't about to tell her that. 

He hadn't got to far with his magic other than feeling for it. Surprisingly, he had yet to find a single magical person in London, which was very strange. Apparently, the entire things was completely secret from the non magicals, just like his aunt had told him. 

They had spent many days after uncle Vernon's death talking about many different things. His mother, or more accurately, the person Petunia had known before magic came along; his schooling, what he wanted to do, how had he been coping with the abuse. 

Eventually, his aunt decided to try counseling as well. Uncle Vernon's death had triggered a life insurance, and Petunia had come out of it with enough money to not have to work for at least a few years in the future. Given the circumstances, she decided to get help dealing with her own form of abuse. 

Vernon for all intents and purposes, Dudley as well for all that matter, were violent and aggressive people. Petunia, regardless of how much hurt had caused Harry, was also a victim. Vernon intimidated her on a daily basis. Dudley as well. She had no self-worth, no self-esteem, she was every bit as broken as Harry himself minus the physical aspects of it. 

Turned out Mr. Brown had a private practice, small due to his insistence of working at Stonewall high. When Harry found out about it, he immediately suggested him to his aunt. Mr. Brown was a married man, and in Harry's opinion, a very good counselor. 

His self-defense classes were now more about keeping fit rather than keep learning techniques and such. He was now a black belt in jiu jitsu and purple belt in kickboxing, this meant that anybody tried to bully him would get a serious beat down, which every time he thought about it, brought a wide grin to his face. 

Bringing himself back to the present, his mind went to what the day would bring to his life. His final examinations would be taking place in London, instead of Stonewall High. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason as to why he was so excited, but the fact of the matter is that he was. 

Since he had stopped going to the same school as Dudley and his gang, Harry had let loose on his studies, earning the best marks of his year without so much as a hiccup. Was he a bookworm? No, absolutely not. But he had a way of understanding the subjects that hardly anyone else could match. 

And now, the final exams had come and he was feeling as if his life would change yet again. 

Harry stepped in North London Collegiate School, and was marveled by the sight of it. It was a big building, designed in a romantic style of the late 1800s. The entrance hall was large enough to fit the hundreds of students that poured every day through its halls. Harry was mesmerized by it all. 

When he walked into his assigned classroom, the world simply stopped. He spotted a girl, slimmed, golden-brown bushy hair, long neck, but not too long, and deep and somewhat sad chocolate eyes. Students were moving around him, but he didn't care, he wanted her to see him, to lock eyes with him and see if she felt the same pull. She was magical, he just knew it. But more than being magical, she was beautiful. His heart was pounding hard inside his chest, faster than ever before; for a moment, he wondered if everyone else could hear it, if she could hear it. 

She must've felt his gaze on her because in the next beat she looked at him. Her mouth fell slightly open, taking a deep breath, her eyes narrowed and a flick of sweat fell down her brow. Yes! She felt the pull as well. Seeing there was an empty seat next to her, he made a beeline towards it before anyone else could get to it, not once taking his eyes away from her. 

Her eyes widened when she realize where he's headed. A small smile crept in her mouth, and Harry can't help but feel his chest swell from it. I caused that. When he reaches his destination, he grins triumphantly. 

"Is this seat taken, miss?" The girl's smile widens, and shakes her head in response. He thinks is adorable. 

"Perfect, do you mind if I take it?" Another shake. Harry truly couldn't figure out why he was acting this way, so forward, and so outgoing. Ever since he had started counseling with Mr. Brown, one of the things he kept hearing from his therapist was that he needed to open up to people, and have friends. He never truly felt he could do that. 

The Dursleys had done too much damage, and he felt himself being broken and unworthy. He had taken big steps into his own recovery, and even bigger ones since uncle Vernon died and Dudley went to jail, but still, he mostly kept to himself. Is not that he didn't talk with his classmates, or his teachers, or his co-workers, it was more of being cordial with his peers, but keeping everyone at an arms' length. If his own blood relatives could hurt him, who knew what other people could do to him? 

But she was different. He could feel her magic swirling inside her, he could almost see it. But more than that, he could feel a kindred spirit, someone who could understand him more than anyone else. 

"I'm Harry Potter." He extended his hand towards her with a smile plastered in his face. She looked at his hand, smiled and took it gently. 

"I'm Hermione Granger." Shakespeare. 

"I do not doubt then but innocence shall make / False accusation blush and tyranny / Tremble at patience."  Harry takes a gamble, hoping it pays off and she won't take offense. Hermione smiles. Yes! 

"Shakespeare enthusiast?" Hermione asked with a hint of incredulity and no small amount of amusement. Harry chuckled. 

"I am now." God, what was happening? Why was he being like this? He couldn't fight the blush crawling down his face. 

"Smooth, Harry, smooth." Hermione laughed, blushed and not once did she let go of his hand. 

They let go of each other when the examiners walked into the classroom. Harry had almost forgotten why he was where he was. Where am I? He snapped himself back under control, remembering he needed to take his exams now, not that they would be very import for the next eight years or so, but he wasn't taking any chances, if things went south with Hogwarts, he would need something to fall back on.  

Harry diligently starts writing his answers, while sending side stares at his new friend, potential girlfriend? Where did that come from? He couldn't deny it though, he wanted to kiss her badly. God, where did that come from!? Get a grip, Potter. 

The exams were fairly easy, in his opinion. When he put his pen down and looked at Hermione, he noticed that she had finished slightly faster than him, which surprised him endearingly. He also noticed they were the first ones to finish as well. 

"Looks like you found your soulmate, beaver!" Harry saw red. He squared his shoulders, his magic flared without control, and faced the blond prick who dared to insult Hermione. 

A hand gently touched his shoulder and his magic was back in control, and he could now focus his eyes back. When he turned, he saw Hermione's grateful smile and eyes that said It's not worth it. Harry took a few deep breaths to completely regain control of himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw the entire classroom was looking at him in fear and awe. 

"Piss off, Mike. Thank God I don't have to put up with you anymore." Hermione's icy tone was enough to cut through the prick's confidence. "Let's go, Harry." 

She took his hand, threw her bag over her shoulder, took his and handed it to him, never letting go of his hand, and decidedly walked out of the North London Collegiate School. When they stepped outside, both of them breathed deeply as if taking in their sudden freedom. 

They took one look at each other and smiled. 

"Coffee?" They said at the same time. Grinning, they went to a nearby cafe and settled down comfortably. 

"Hermione Granger, brightest student of her age, Shakespeare enthusiast parents and the best hair ever. I'm glad I met you today." Harry smiles broadly and looks at her reaction. She blushes deeply, but smiles right back at him. 

"Harry Potter, second brightest student of his age, newly Shakespeare inducted and the greenest eyes ever. I'm also glad I met you today." 

They descended into a easy going conversation over a couple of cappuccinos. She learned he was working on a chinese supermarket since age twelve which was appalling to her; he learned she loved books more than anything which was adorable in his opinion; she learned he came from an abusive home, but that things had gotten better the past year and couldn't be happier for him; he learned she wanted to study literature, fitting career for someone who loves books; she learned she was a year and a few months older than him; he learned she had been bullied for her brains and her teeth and her hair; she learned he was basically a martial arts expert; he learned she didn't have any friends. 

"Looks like we are very much alike, Mrs. Granger." Harry spoke softly and with warmth in his voice. 

"And very different at the same time, Mr. Potter." She replied in the same tone. Could he kiss her now? Was it too soon? It was too soon, they had only met each other just a few hours before. 

"Did you have any plans for tonight?" Harry asked blushing furiously. Fuck, Potter you are almost 16 years old. Get it together. 

"Not that I can think of, no." She matched his blush. Bloody hell, Hermione. Get it the fuck together, he's just a boy. 

"How about dinner and a movie, then? I promise I'll get you home by 10 pm." He grinned cheekily. 

"I would like that." Her eyes were soft, and her blush was pink. She looked adorable. Harry did something he almost instantly regretted it. He took her hand in his, palm down, and kissed her knuckles like he had seen posh aristocrats do in a period movie with aunt Petunia. 

When he looked at her eyes though, he knew he had done the right thing. She was smiling widely at him, with approval in her eyes. 

The movie chosen was 'Ghost', and they both thoroughly enjoyed it. When they met at the theater, Harry's mouth fell open. Hermione was wearing a little summer's dress with low heel shoes, her hair was tied in a loose bun, and she had the softest pink lipstick in her wide smile. he was breathtaking. 

Dinner was a blur, same as the movie. Harry couldn't even tell what the plot was, his entire focus was on Hermione; her reactions, her twicks, her hair. The conversation flowed same as it had in the morning after the exams. It felt natural, right. 

He wanted to tell her his life's story, he wanted to tell her everything. She was much of the same, the amount of trust they were displaying was staggering, so much that they had to address the elephant in the room. 

"Harry, why do you trust me so much already?" Her voice was soft and he could hear the fear in it. 

"Because I know I can." In contrast, his voice was confident. His magic told him so. 

"But how?" Now she was curious, and he liked curious Hermione. 

"Do you feel an energy inside you sometimes, Hermione? Something that you can explain, when you're angry, or scared?" Her eyes widened, and her mouth was comically in the shape of an 'O'. 

"You feel it too!?" She all but shouted, and the people around them startled at her outburst. He couldn't help but chuckle. 

"Calm down, I had the same reaction when my aunt told me. I promise you, it'll be alright." She took a deep breath before replying. 

"You better start talking, Potter." She tried to mock annoyance, she really did, but it came across as more curiosity and he widened his grin.

"I'm a wizard, Hermione." Her face brightened. "Magic is real, and no offence, but, you are a witch." 

Hermione tried to hold it together, but she burst out laughing, and soon Harry followed suit. They had found each other, and everything would be alright. 

 

Notes:

Harry meeting Hermione played out similarly as to how I met my wife in real life. I don't know if I write the romance and feeling right or not, but I did the best with my limited skills.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Learning about magic.

Notes:

This chapter was a pain to write, and being honest I'm not too happy about it, but its too late to change it. Enjoy! By the way, I don't have a publishing schedule, I write in my spare time while at work, so I'll publish when I can. Sorry in advance.

When the laughing stopped and Harry didn't say he was joking, Hermione's temper flared. Just when she thought she had finally met a decent boy, he called her a witch. In Hermione Granger's book, that simply wouldn't stand.

"I'm a WHAT!?"

Her tone was utterly adorable to Harry. He knew she was furious and probably hated him in that moment, but she looked beautiful even when angry, and that brought a smile to his face.

"Relax, Hermione, please," Harry pleaded. On an inspired impulse, he reached for his magic and willed a gentle pulse of it toward her. Better for her to feel it than for him to levitate objects in front of normal people.

She gasped, chocolate eyes widening. "W-What was that? Did you do that? I've never felt anything like it before. Can you manipulate it at will? Why haven't I sensed it before? Why are you telling me this?"

Harry chuckled and placed a hand over hers, his thumb caressing her skin gently. "Calm down, alright? Can you do that for me?"

He locked eyes with her. They softened, and she nodded. Letting out a sigh of relief, he continued. "I didn't know what it was either. Things just used to happen around me. A few years ago, I realised that the calmer I was, the more control I could exert. I always assumed it was some sort of energy, but I didn't know it was magic until last year."

Harry's face darkened at the false memory of Vernon's death.

Unfortunately for Harry, his new friend was far too perceptive. "What happened last year?" she asked softly, her tone almost comforting.

"My uncle died. I'm pretty sure my memory was modified, and my aunt told me about magic." The seriousness in Harry's voice was all Hermione needed to believe him. He had a suspicion that he was the one who had killed uncle Vernon, and the thought far from scaring him, made him feel nothing. Was he a bad person? If he was, he didn't want Hermione to find that out about him. 

They sat in silence for long minutes, each trying to read the other's thoughts and feelings. They stole glances, traded tender smiles, and never let go of each other's hands. Their breaths synchronised, and slowly they lost themselves in each other's eyes.

Hermione's gaze turned determined. She gave him a short nod before speaking.

"Say I believe you — what does it mean? Why did you tell me? How did you find out before me? And where do we go from here?"

She fired the questions in rapid succession, not giving him time to answer. Harry took a moment to smile warmly at her before replying.

"Listen, I'm not really sure what's going on either. I only know what my aunt told me, and it isn't much." Harry sighed in exasperation. He truly wished he knew more, but at this point all he could do was wait for his letter — which wouldn't come until next year. "I don't know what it all means. I don't know how I sensed you were magical like me, and to be honest... I don't really care. All I care about right now is that I met you. Is that alright with you?"

Harry didn't want to beg, but he was dangerously close. He had been a boy who felt alone, unwanted, and undeserving of love or affection for most of his life. Mr Brown had been a godsend, and — if he was honest with himself — Vernon's death and Dudley's imprisonment had been too. Aunt Petunia had freed herself just as he had, and she had joined him on the road to healing they both needed.

Taking everything into account — the fact that he had found another magical person in London, raised in the normal world, a girl his own age no less, and breathtakingly beautiful in his eyes — he desperately hoped she would want to be his friend. Perhaps more in the future, but he would settle for friendship at that point. It was only their first date... ish.

She seemed to be weighing her answer, deciding whether to call the psychiatric ward or truly believe him. He knew that was what she was thinking because it was the same reaction he'd had with Aunt Petunia the year before.

The tension in his shoulders was palpable, and his resolve not to beg was crumbling. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, she started to giggle.

Harry startled. When she saw his panicked expression, she burst into full-blown laughter.

Harry didn't know what to do or say. She was tearing up, clutching her ribs from the force of it. He couldn't help himself — he joined in. It was an unbelievable thing to say to someone, when you thought about it. How else could a person react? He realised then that laughing was actually the most normal response in the world.

Once they settled down again, Harry promptly paid the bill and grabbed Hermione's hand as they left the café. He took a deep breath of fresh air and made a beeline for the nearby park. It was a perfectly beautiful summer's day — not all that common in London. Surprisingly, they were still holding hands, letting the breeze blow past them, feeling the nature around them, serenely guiding them to a secluded spot where they could have some privacy.

Of all the things he could have imagined for that day, sitting in Canons Park with a beautiful and obviously smart girl had not been one of them. He had to smile at the thought. Merely a year before, Harry had been counting the days until he could be free from his abusers. Oh, how the tables had turned.

Hermione tugged gently at his hand, and Harry was brought back to the present.

"You went away for a moment. Is everything alright?"

Harry wondered how she had picked up on that so quickly; it was like she could read him like an open book. He should have felt uncomfortable with the notion, but he didn't. I like not having to wear a mask with someone.

"I was thinking about how this last year has been for me." He gave her a reassuring smile, hoping to convey that it was a conversation for another time. She smiled back in understanding. His heart skipped a beat. OK. This is getting embarrassing. Get a grip, man.

"So, magic is real. I'm a witch, you're a wizard. The magic is highly tied to our emotional responses. What else can you tell me?" She was curious, and he could feel her excitement.

Harry took a deep breath. "There's this whole world that's separate and secret from normal society. The official education doesn't start until seventeen, by which time we should get our acceptance letters. My mum and dad went there, apparently, though I never knew them — they died when I was just a baby."

He didn't see it coming; he hadn't met anything that moved that fast before. Hermione crushed into him in a fierce hug, one that made his eyes tear up in equal measures of sadness and joy. For all the improvement in his relationship with Aunt Petunia, hugs — or any sign of affection — were scarce at best; they were both too hurt to trust each other's hearts.

In fact, this was Harry's first ever hug, and by God he would treasure it.

When Hermione released him, she looked at him sheepishly and shrugged. "I don't know why I did that."

"I liked it, so don't worry." They stared at each other for another moment before Hermione continued.

"I turn seventeen next September, so I guess I'll be going to magic school then?" Harry could hear the disappointment in her voice. Why? Does she not want to be a witch?

"I'm actually not sure, to be honest. Aunt Petunia said term starts on the first of September, and you have to be seventeen before then, so maybe you'll get your letter but won't go until the following year?" Harry replied with a shrug of his own, and he saw her eyes brighten at his response.

"So we'll be going together, then?" He couldn't help but catch her excitement.

"I guess so!" This is crazy! What in the name of God is happening to me?

They decided to call it a day for the time being, exchanging phone numbers and promising to call as soon as possible. Harry walked Hermione to the Tube; she had a bit of a journey to get to her parents' practice — Drs Granger were dentists, so she really couldn't stay much longer than she already had, or she'd miss her ride home.

When Harry woke up the following morning, he had a terribly hollow feeling in his chest. Hermione.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he began his morning routine. He took a shower, letting the hot water cascade over him, washing away the remnants of sleep and the faint ache of longing that had settled in overnight. The steam filled the small bathroom at Privet Drive, fogging the mirror and blurring his reflection — a tall, lean boy with messy black hair and those piercing green eyes that always seemed to carry too much weight for someone his age.

He brushed his teeth mechanically, staring at the foam in the sink, his mind wandering back to yesterday. The way her hand had felt in his. The hug — God, that hug. It replayed in his head like a loop he didn't want to escape. First hug ever. The thought made his chest tighten again, a mix of warmth and something almost painful. He spat, rinsed, and splashed cold water on his face, trying to ground himself. Get a grip, Potter. It was one day.

Drying off quickly, he pulled on his running gear: an old pair of shorts, a faded T-shirt, and his trainers that had seen better days. Aunt Petunia had offered to buy him new ones a few months back, but he'd turned her down — old habits died hard, and wasting money on himself still felt wrong somehow. He tied his laces with quick, practiced motions, the routine anchoring him like it always did.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Petunia was probably still asleep; she'd been seeing Mr. Brown more regularly these days, and the sessions left her drained but... lighter, somehow. Harry grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen tap, downing it in one go, then slipped out the front door without a sound.

The morning air was crisp, cooler than the summer heat that had baked London yesterday. Little Whinging was just stirring — a milk float rumbling down the street, curtains twitching in a few windows. Harry started his jog at an easy pace, his feet pounding the pavement in a steady rhythm that matched his breathing. In, out. Left, right.

But today, the run didn't clear his head like it usually did. Every stride brought flashes of her: bushy brown hair catching the sunlight in the park, chocolate eyes widening when he'd sent that pulse of magic her way, the way she'd laughed until tears streamed down her face. Hermione Granger. The name felt like a secret he was carrying, something bright and new in a life that had been grey for so long.

He picked up speed without realising it, pushing harder as he looped around the familiar streets. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples. His lungs burned a little, but it was a good burn — the kind that reminded him he was alive, in control, stronger than he'd been a year ago. Black belt in jiu-jitsu, purple in kickboxing. He smirked at the thought. If only the old Dudley gang could see him now.

By the time he circled back to Privet Drive, the sun was higher, warming the air. Harry slowed to a walk, hands on his hips, catching his breath. The hollow feeling was still there, but softer now.

She has my number. I have hers.

He glanced at the house, then at the sky. Today felt different. Like the start of something he couldn't quite name yet.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he headed inside. Breakfast next — maybe he'd even make enough for Aunt Petunia. And then... well, then he'd see if the phone rang. 

It did, and Harry knew his life would be all the more exciting for it. 

July 27th 1990 – Outside the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square.

Harry couldn't believe he was here again, standing under the shadow of those massive stone lions, waiting for Hermione. It had only been a couple of weeks since the exams, since that crazy day that had flipped his world upside down in the best possible way. They'd seen each other almost every other day since — walks in the park, coffee in little cafés, hours on the phone until one of their parents yelled about the bill.

He spotted her before she saw him, weaving through the crowds with that determined stride, her bushy hair bouncing with each step. She was wearing a simple sundress, light blue, and carrying a small picnic bag. When her eyes found his, her face lit up in that way that still made his stomach flip.

"You're early," she said as she reached him, a teasing smile on her lips.

"So are you." Harry grinned back, feeling that familiar warmth spread through his chest. They'd been dancing around this for days — the almost-kisses, the lingering touches, the way their hands always found each other.

They wandered into the square, finding a quiet spot away from the tourists. Hermione spread out a blanket she'd brought, and they sat with their backs against one of the fountains, sharing sandwiches and talking about everything and nothing. Magic mostly — testing what they could do when no one was watching, laughing when Hermione accidentally made the pigeons flock to her like she was Snow White.

The sun was starting to dip low, painting everything golden. Harry turned to her, watching the way the light caught in her hair.

"Hermione," he started, then stopped. God, Potter, just do it.

She looked at him, those chocolate eyes curious and soft. "What is it?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn't. Their lips met — soft, tentative at first, then deeper when she sighed against him. Harry's hand found her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin just like it had that first day in the café. It was everything he'd imagined and more — warm, sweet, and magical.

When they pulled apart, both breathing harder than necessary, Hermione rested her forehead against his.

"That was..." she started.

"Yeah," Harry finished, unable to stop smiling. "That was."

They sat there until the sky turned pink, hands intertwined, neither wanting the moment to end.

Of course, some of their dates were in secluded places — locations where they couldn’t be seen or overheard. These were the ones when Harry would coach Hermione into tapping into her magic. It was a slow process, however. She theorized on one occasion that it was probably because Harry must have had an innate talent for using his own power, and in reality what he did was not normal for the standard witch or wizard.

He had argued against that notion stubbornly. Ever since he could remember, all he had ever wanted was to be normal; knowing he had what he had once called his “energy” told him that he wasn’t, and now with Hermione’s theory hanging over him, it turned out he wasn’t normal even by wizarding standards.

He wouldn’t accept it. Couldn’t accept it.

Soon enough, though, Hermione was able to feel her own magical core from within and was able to give Harry a small magical touch similar to what he had done back in June. Harry grinned widely at the gesture.

When she was able to use her magic willingly, they began to expand on their applications. They could levitate objects — small ones, of course; change colours on flowers or make them blossom like Harry’s mother had done all those years before. For Harry it was all instinctual: if he wanted a result, he willed his magic to make it happen. For Hermione it was methodical — if she wanted something, she had to understand the how before she could make it happen.

When September arrived, both of them were equal parts excited and nervous. Hermione’s birthday was coming up, and they knew — if what Aunt Petunia had told him was correct — that Hermione would be getting a visit from a witch or wizard to explain the situation and bring her parents into the loop.

Harry didn’t really know what to think about it. On the one hand, he was grateful for his magic. It gave him something that felt unique to him, regardless of the fact that he wasn’t the only wizard alive. On the other hand, he had at one point thought of making a career out of his martial arts abilities, or perhaps pursuing a career in counselling, following in the steps of Mr. Brown.

Perhaps there was a magical equivalent of being a fighter, and he could pursue that path. Then he thought of Hermione, and everything else just vanished from his mind. He would go to the magical world if only to be with her.

After suffering for so many years in a loveless and abusive home with his relatives — up until Vernon’s death — he had come to the conclusion, through multiple counselling sessions, that if he ever was granted the gift of a family of his own, he would do it as best as he possibly could. And even though they were very young, he was quickly starting to see Hermione as the woman who would stand by his side throughout his life.

Perhaps magic had something to do with it. He hadn’t been able to figure out how he had been able to pinpoint her in a classroom full of people, how he had known she was magical like him. In all of his practical experience with his own power, not once had he felt something similar. Magic existed everywhere and in everyone; the only difference between non-magicals and magical people was the ability to access it. So if there was no true difference, why had he been able to identify Hermione among the others? Why had she stood out so brightly above the rest?

Yes, he would go to the magical world, and he would dive deep into it if only so he could share his life with his girlfriend.

True enough, Harry got a call from Hermione one afternoon in early September.

“Harry, they came! I want you to come to my house as soon as you can. I told them I had a friend who had already told me about magic, and they want to meet you. They thought it would only be me in this area who needed the introduction, so they’re fairly surprised there’s another one who slipped through their notice. Can you come? Please, tell me you can come…”

“Hermione!” Harry all but shouted, chuckling fondly. “Calm down, please. Yes, I’ll come meet you. Can they wait for me about thirty to forty-five minutes? You know I’m fairly far from your house.”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Come quickly. They’ll wait even if I have to tie them up myself!”

Harry could hear a hearty laugh in the background, one he recognised as Dr Michael Granger’s. He had met Hermione’s parents a couple of times before, and they were caring and easy-going people. They loved their daughter dearly and were quickly becoming surrogate parents to Harry himself.

Aunt Petunia had been making big steps in healing her wounds from her marriage to Vernon, from her criminal son, but mostly from her broken relationship with her sister — one she was trying to mend through her connection with Harry. Regardless of her efforts, both of them knew Harry would never see her as a mother, or even truly as an aunt. The best they could both hope for was a friendly relationship with one another.

Arriving at the Granger residence, Harry was met with a brown missile crashing against his ribcage. I love it, was his only thought. Hermione’s hugs always gave him a calming effect, a feeling that he could do anything in the world.

After exchanging chaste kisses and big smiles, both of them went inside to meet the magical people. Entering the Grangers’ living room, he saw two figures standing ready to greet him. When they took a look at who he was, they went pale, then red; a wide grin spread across the older woman’s face, while a deep scowl plastered itself on the pale-looking man’s.

The woman was dressed in a business suit coloured in red and gold, her hair tied in a bun on top of her head, probably in her mid fifties. The man was dressed in an all-black suit and shirt; he had long, greasy hair that fell onto his shoulders; Harry thought the man couldn't be more than thirty years old.

Not waiting for an introduction, the older woman took one step forward. “I have to say, I did not expect this today. It’s good to see you again, Mr Potter.”

It was Harry’s turn to widen his eyes in shock. “H-How do you know who I am?”

Hermione, sensing his shock, shifted into a somewhat defensive stance in case these people were not to be trusted. Her parents noticed it, and so did the woman.

“Why, I was one of your parents’ teachers, and eventually became their friend, Mr Potter. I would recognise James’s face and Lily’s eyes anywhere.”

The woman smiled warmly at Harry, but his expression told her something was very, very wrong.

“If you knew my parents, why did I grow up with an abusive uncle and cousin?” Harry had quickly reined in his raging emotions to ask the only question that truly mattered to him.

Hermione, of course, had known about what had happened the previous year and about Harry’s life before. His counselling, his self-defence classes, his emotional control to keep his magic in check, what he thought he had done despite his memory being altered. Michael and Helen, though, hadn’t known anything of the sort. All they had seen was a very well-mannered and kind boy who was smitten with their daughter. Hearing from his own mouth that he had been abused put a deep frown on their faces.

The older woman’s voice came out in a stuttering whisper. “A-Abusive?”

Her face went red with fury, and her own power began to slip out of control. The man’s face hadn’t betrayed anything, but he too was beginning to lose some of his composure.

Hermione took a brave step forward and placed a hand on the woman’s arm. “Professor McGonagall, please, calm down.” Her voice was a calm balm, much needed given the circumstances. After a few moments of silence, the room’s tension finally began to ease enough for everybody to breathe again.

“I told him. I told that old bastard they were the worst sort of Muggles imaginable! But does he listen? No! Because he’s Albus bloody Dumbledore!”

The woman Harry had heard Hermione address as Professor McGonagall sat down in a slump, breathing heavily. The man kept standing, but his scowl had lessened considerably. He was now looking at Harry with evaluating eyes, and Harry met his gaze with determination.

Breaking eye contact with the other — whom he assumed was also a professor — Harry’s eyes returned to the older woman. “I know Dumbledore left me with my aunt and uncle. I read the letter. If you were there and tried to warn him off, I guess we can just move past it and start over.”

Harry took a few steps towards the professor and extended his hand. “My name is Harry Potter, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

McGonagall's eyes watered at the display, and was momentarily stunt by it. Harry understood that reaction however, often he have had the same conversation with Mr. Brown. 

"Harry, how are you this week? Any progress in the friends department?"

"No, sir. You know that." Harry shifted in the worn armchair, staring at the carpet pattern like it held answers. "I don't like to socialise too much. Besides... I'm happy helping others without anything in return. I want to keep to myself, you know?"

Mr. Brown leaned back, his expression soft but searching. "I hope you know how unusual that is, Harry."

"Sir?" Harry looked up, genuinely puzzled by the shift.

The counsellor’s eyes held something warm — pride, maybe, with a trace of awe that Harry wasn’t sure he deserved. "Children who’ve been through what you have... they don’t usually turn out so well-mannered. Or so capable of still being part of society at all."

Harry frowned, feeling a familiar knot tighten in his chest. He knew what Mr. Brown meant, even if the words were careful. Most kids in his situation — the ones who came through the school’s referral system — ended up angry in ways that spilled everywhere. Shouting in corridors. Fighting in the playground. Stealing, lying, pushing everyone away with teeth bared.

Or worse: they disappeared inside themselves completely. Blank stares. No eye contact. Flinching at every raised voice.

Harry wasn’t like that. Not on the outside, anyway.

"I guess..." Harry started, then stopped. His fingers worried at the cuff of his sleeve — a habit he hated but couldn’t shake. "I guess I decided early on that I didn’t want to be like them. Uncle Vernon and Dudley... they hurt people because they could. Because it made them feel big. I didn’t want to be big like that."

Mr. Brown nodded slowly, waiting. He was good at waiting.

"If I lashed out," Harry continued, voice quieter now, "if I let myself get angry the way I wanted to... I’d just prove them right. That I’m a freak. That I’m worthless. That I deserve it." He swallowed hard. "And if I let people in... they might see how broken I am. They might use it. Or worse — they might leave."

The room felt heavier for a moment. Harry’s throat burned with the truth of it. Helping from a distance — holding a door, picking up dropped books, listening when someone needed to talk — that was safe. It let him matter without risking anything real.

"But you still help," Mr. Brown said gently. "That’s not nothing, Harry. That’s kindness born out of pain — and choosing not to pass the pain on. Most adults never manage that."

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "It’s just... easier alone."

"Is it?" Mr. Brown asked, not accusing, just curious. "Or is it what you’re used to?"

Harry didn’t answer right away. He thought of the empty bedroom that used to be Dudley’s second one. The cupboard stains he still remembered. The way laughter in the corridors at school always seemed to happen somewhere he wasn’t.

"Maybe both," he admitted finally.

Mr. Brown smiled — small, sad, proud all at once. "Then we’ll keep working on it. One step at a time. You’re already further along than you think, Harry. Further than most."

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. He didn’t feel further along. He felt like a boy holding himself together with string and stubbornness.

But for the first time, in that quiet office, he let himself wonder what it might feel like to loosen the string — just a little — and still be okay.

Harry brought himself back to the present when he felt the professor’s hands wrap around his. “Mr Potter, I’m Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Professor McGonagall stood up and motioned to the standing man next to her. “This is Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House and Potions Master at Hogwarts.”

Harry extended his hand with a tight smile; he could feel the man’s apprehension towards him, and he did not appreciate it. Snape took his hand nonetheless and shook it briefly.

“Now that introductions are out of the way, I think it’s safe to say that the story of how it is that you’re here tonight is worth telling, Mr Potter?” Professor McGonagall once again smiled warmly at Harry, and he felt a sense of familiarity towards the woman.

“Not much to tell, really.” Hermione took the lead, and Harry smiled to himself. “He somehow noticed I was magical when we both took our GCSEs back in June this year. He already knew about magic, and when the exams were over, he took me to a café and told me everything he knew — which wasn’t much, to be honest.” Harry smiled and gently bumped his shoulder against hers.

Harry glanced over at the professors and saw they were shocked at the story. Why?

“Miss Granger, what do you mean he noticed you were magical? Did you perform accidental magic and he recognised it?” Snape spoke for the first time. His voice was low and grave, and Harry could feel the hurt beneath it. He filed that piece of information away for later.

“No, I mean exactly what I said. He somehow knew I was magical just by looking at me,” Hermione said, almost in a deadpan tone.

“That’s… impossible.” Professor McGonagall’s tone was one of awe and excitement. Gathering herself, she continued. “Magic doesn’t work that way. We can cast diagnostic charms that reveal the magical power of a witch or wizard; the amount of power can increase over time, of course — like any other muscle, it needs exercise to do so. But instinctively knowing another person is magical is something I have never heard of anyone being able to do. The only thing I can think of that can do it is the Hogwarts Book of Admittance, which was spelled by the Founders to register every magically born child in the British Isles. The rest of the magical communities emulated such a device, but the Founders were the ones who cast the original enchantment.”

“I’m sorry — the Founders?” Harry asked with curiosity.

“The Hogwarts Founders: Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. They were the greatest witches and wizards of their time. When they decided to create Hogwarts, the initial idea was to take children from age eleven and teach them how to harness their magical powers. However, Rowena saw the risk in doing so. Being so young and not fully developed magically, they could shatter entire families — especially for the Muggle-borns.”

Hermione picked up swiftly. “Muggles?”

Professor McGonagall smiled fondly at her. “Non-magical people are called Muggles in the British Isles. In the United States, however, they are called no-maj.” Hermione nodded along in understanding.

“Anyway,” Professor McGonagall continued, “the fact that you could identify her as a magical being is unusual, to say the least. Would you mind if I cast a quick diagnostic charm on you? It’s painless — just to see the nature of your magical signature.”

Harry nodded excitedly. He was finally going to see real spellwork, not just the instinctive tricks he’d pieced together on his own. He glanced at Hermione; her eyes were bright with the same anticipation. Even her parents looked supportive, leaning forward slightly. Harry’s heart skipped at the sight.

Professor McGonagall drew her wand — simple and elegant, with faint vine patterns etched into the handle — and waved it in a slow, intricate circle toward him. A soft golden light enveloped Harry, warm and tingling, like sunlight on skin. He felt his magic stir in response, rising gently to meet it.

The light shifted, and faint threads of silver and emerald began to extend from Harry… reaching out toward Hermione.

Without the charm even being cast on her, Hermione’s own magic responded. A matching glow bloomed around her, sending threads back — weaving between them like delicate filaments, pulsing in perfect harmony.

They locked eyes, grinning widely at the display. Hermione’s hand found his under the table, squeezing tight.

“I don’t know what to make of this,” Professor McGonagall said quietly, her voice laced with awe. She lowered her wand slowly. “I haven’t seen anything quite like it before. Your magics are… resonating. Entwining. It’s as if they recognise each other.”

Snape, who had been silent, leaned forward slightly. His dark eyes narrowed, but there was no sneer — only sharp curiosity. “A mutual resonance without intent or ritual. Rare doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Hermione’s parents exchanged wide-eyed glances, but Michael Granger managed a small smile. “Is it… dangerous?”

“No,” McGonagall said firmly, though her brow furrowed in thought. “Not from what I can see. But it’s extraordinary. The closest I’ve read of is in ancient texts — soul harmonies, or echoes of the Founders’ own bond-magic in the castle wards. Have you felt any effects? Unusual pulls, shared emotions?”

Harry thought of how he’d pinpointed her in that exam hall, the way her presence had always felt like a calm in the storm. He glanced at Hermione; she was thinking the same.

“A little,” Harry admitted. “But nothing bad. It just… feels right.”

McGonagall studied them for a long moment, then nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on it at Hogwarts. For now, if it’s not harming you…” She trailed off, a wondering smile breaking through. “It might even be a gift.”

Harry took a deep breath and willed the glow to fade. The threads dissolved gently, and the room returned to normal. McGonagall’s eyes widened again — this time at his effortless control.

“If you don’t know what it is,” Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant but unable to hide his own curiosity, “and we’re obviously not being hurt by it… maybe we can figure it out together at school?”

Hermione squeezed his hand in agreement.

“Yes,” McGonagall said, her smile warming. “Quite right, Mr Potter. Here’s your letter, Miss Granger. It contains the book and school materials you’ll need. If you’re up for it, I can take you both to Diagon Alley — our magical shopping district.”

Both teenagers locked eyes with each other, excitement sparking between them.

“Yes,” they said at the same time.

It was the beginning of their new life.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: The legend begins.

Notes:

I'm sorry if this is too agnst for your liking. I went through several panic attacks when I was seventeen for different reasons, and I didn't even had the same abused life as Harry's character did, so I tried to stay as honest as possible as to how a trauma child/teenager would react hearing he could see and hear his dead parents. Hope you enjoy.

Michael and Helen were just as excited as their daughter to see the magical shopping district. Before anyone could say or do anything, both doctors took their things and urged everyone else to start moving.

Harry still had a silly grin on his face, the same as Hermione. They were getting their first glimpse at the wizarding world, and magic would stop being this abstract thing they could both manipulate.

Harry took notice of the different expressions from the group. Professor McGonagall, although quite stern, also had warm eyes and the hint of a smile on her face. Hermione’s parents, of course, continued their excited faces, the same as their daughter, but the pale man’s look had Harry confused.

Throughout many years of counselling with Mr. Brown, Harry had become quite adept at reading people. He had an almost instinctual knowledge of what people were thinking, no matter how blank they wanted to keep their expressions.

Professor Severus Snape was one of those people. The confusion swirling inside Harry came from the realisation that Snape had contradictory emotions towards him, and the most confusing part was that they were not just showing; they were battling to see which one would win. On one side there was pure, unaltered hate, but on the other side was the deepest form of regret, sorrow, and love.

Harry filed that information for future use and decided to keep going with the experience. He was wondering how they were going to get six people to wherever they were planning on going when Professor McGonagall interrupted his thoughts.

“Dr and Dr Granger, I assume you have a car?” At their nods, the professor continued. “Excellent! Severus and I will take Mr Potter in ours, and you can bring Miss Granger along with you. Just follow us, and don’t worry about traffic; magic can be quite helpful.” She smiled widely at their stunned expressions and simply walked out of the house.

Harry hadn’t noticed it when he arrived earlier, but in front of the house there were two parked vehicles. One was a black Jaguar XJ model, four doors and quite beautiful, whilst the other was a dark-red Land Rover Discovery, well equipped for camping trips and the like.

“Why don’t you go with the Grangers, Minerva? I’m sure Mr Potter and I will be more than… fine in each other’s company,” Professor Snape suggested. Harry could see Professor McGonagall’s face that clearly said are you serious right now?, but she merely nodded. Hermione also caught it because she shot Harry a worried look. With a small smile he simply sent her a little magical nudge to let her know it was alright.

The Land Rover belonged to the Grangers, so they promptly got inside the car, giving Harry the cue to get into the Jaguar. When he was finally alone with the pale man, Harry felt that something was about to happen because he went on guard as much as he could.

Nothing happened during the ride, much to Harry’s relief. Professor Snape simply pulled out his wand at some traffic lights and at some cars that got in the way, causing them to breeze through London’s streets as if it was the middle of the night and nobody but them was driving. It was amazing.

He couldn’t contain himself anymore. “I had imagined wizards and witches were not savvy with the normal world.”

There was a long pause, and Harry thought for a moment that he had insulted the professor. Thankfully he hadn’t. “A little over a thousand years ago, Hogwarts School was founded, as Minerva briefly mentioned a few minutes ago.” Harry wasn’t sure the man was looking at him, but he nodded in understanding. “Back then, we weren’t separated from the normal world as we are today. Magicals and non-magicals, or as we called them, Muggles, lived somewhat harmoniously together. Then came the witch hunts.”

Harry grimaced. He had read about it, and from the modern world’s perspective, it seemed like a misogynistic way to kill women randomly or, in some cases, exert political and religious power over the population. He had actually written an essay about it for social studies a few years back.

“When they started, the magicals simply laughed at it or, in the most important cases, tried to reason with the Muggles to stop the hunts. More often than not, they killed their own, thinking them to be witches and wizards.” Professor Snape took a deep breath before continuing.

“Then came the Statute of Secrecy in 1692. It was decreed, much as it had been for magical education to start at seventeen years old, that the entire magical population worldwide would go into hiding and we would conceal all knowledge of magic from the Muggle world.”

Harry could see it playing out in his head. Endless debates, negotiations, spells, perhaps rituals? How did you hide an entire world from existence?

“That’s when the magical governments came into existence, basically to ensure the enforcement of the Statute. However, there was an unforeseen consequence. You see, before this came to be, magicals lived in the open, so when a person from a Muggle family started showing accidental magic, every community had a special group that dealt with informing and convincing the families their children were not in some deal with the devil and such nonsense. So the children grew up knowing about magic, learning how to harness their emotions until they came of age to begin their formal magical education and got their wand rights. With the Statute, however, these magicals — or as we call them, Muggle-born — grew up seventeen years with no knowledge of their gifts. Can you see what the ripple effect of this was, long-term?”

Harry could definitely see it. If the Muggles — Harry thought the term was weird, but he would have to get used to it quickly — had no knowledge of magic, they would raise their Muggle-born wizards and witches as Muggles. When they entered the wizarding world, they would have a hard time adjusting to a different society, to say the least. The result would be that eventually both societies would merge seemingly while maintaining their separate ways. Throughout the years, Muggle-borns would bring Muggle ways into the wizarding world. Professor Snape noticed Harry had come to a conclusion.

“So, as you can imagine, magicals have evolved at the same rate as the Muggle world. We know about technology and science; we’ve helped with Muggle conflicts, and more often than not we are consultants at different levels of Muggle society — in secret, of course.”

"So, basically we're hiding in plain sight." Harry summarize the facts. Being the case, he could see how some of the historic events on the last three centuries could've had magical influence of some kind. From negotiations to confrontations, to outright wars. 

"Quite." Professor Snape didn't say anything else, and Harry didn't feel the need to add anything of his own, either. 

Soon enough they parked on Charing Cross Road. Between a bookshop and a record shop he saw a worn-down pub with an old and dusty sign that read “The Leaky Cauldron”. Harry smiled to himself. He and Hermione had walked past it a couple of times and always had the same feeling of wanting to go in there, only they hadn’t, fearing getting kicked out due to their ages.

Now that he was seeing the pub again, he understood the pull they had felt before. It was a wizarding pub. Muggles simply glanced at it with disinterest and went either to the bookshop or the record shop. This fact alone brought Harry a wide grin at what magic could do. Before going into the pub, however, he made a mental note to bring Hermione to the bookshop for a date.

When he exited the car, he quickly took Hermione’s hand in his, reassuring themselves for what was to come. Professors McGonagall and Snape took the hands of Michael and Helen. When they did, Harry saw the look of recognition at the old pub; Harry and Hermione quickly made the connection: Muggles couldn’t see the pub unless they were taken to it by a magical person.

After Michael and Helen shook off their surprise at seeing an entire building seemingly appear out of thin air, the group made their way into the pub. Upon entering, the chattering and clinking stopped abruptly. Harry took one quick glance around the room trying to find the source of the obvious commotion, only to find that every pair of eyes was on him.

Before he could react, however, Professor McGonagall took the front with a stern presence while Professor Snape took guard of the group. “Now, listen here, you lot.” The professor suddenly had a thick Scottish accent that told Harry in no uncertain terms she was getting angry. “Mr Potter has only recently learned he is a wizard. I will not have you mob the young man. Now, get back to your business and we’ll get to ours.”

Harry was surprised, to say the least. Why would anyone want to mob me? Professor McGonagall turned to face the group and decisively led them to the back of the pub, passing through the still-staring eyes. Harry took a moment to read their expressions. Some of them had tears in their eyes, some were glowing with joy, others had looks of admiration and awe.

And all looks were directed at him. Well, I can always ask the professors. Harry decided to just enjoy the day. He was entering a world where he could practise magic, where he could develop. He was with his girlfriend and her parents, and he had two seemingly knowledgeable professors guiding them.

Hermione also noticed the looks directed at him, and if Harry was correct, she already had a million questions in her mind. He chuckled at the thought. Finally, mere minutes after entering the pub, they exited through the back door to find an old courtyard with a red brick wall separating the pub from whatever lay behind it. Professor McGonagall turned to them, and he knew she was in lecture mode.

“This is the entrance to Diagon Alley, London’s magical shopping district. Here you will find the wizarding bank Gringotts, shops for books, clothes, potions ingredients and equipment, Quidditch, pets, and anything else a young witch or wizard will need, especially when starting your formal education.”

She paused for a moment to make sure the students—that’s what they were at the moment—were following. Satisfied, she turned again to the red brick wall. Pulling out her wand, she tapped a specific brick above the dustbin—three up and two to the left, to be precise.

Amazingly, the brick wiggled and a small hole appeared. However, that hole began to grow bigger and bigger until it wasn’t just a hole but an archway. Past that archway there was a long alley with shops twisted in odd shapes on both sides of it. The colours were all over the place in comparison to London’s Harrods Mall, for example. There were purple, green, sun yellow, pink, and more purple. It was the oddest view he had ever laid eyes on.

The alley was not all shops and colours. It was filled with people wearing stylish clothes that were, in a single word, snobbish. They looked to be part of a 1940s movie, if they were honest with themselves. The men wore suits with long tails and big hats, tailored with pocket watches or monocles. The women, however, wore medium-to-long dresses, small handbags, and elongated hats.

The colours, however, were not snobbish at all. They were bright and flashy, and if they went into Muggle London they would definitely stand out.

Regardless of the clothing styles, Harry thought the alley was brilliant. He couldn’t keep his eyes on a single store; he wanted to take it all in and never let go. Glancing at Hermione, he could see she was of much the same opinion as Harry.

Professor McGonagall took the group first to Gringotts. Harry had little money on him, so he would have to make do with second-hand clothes and supplies. I’ve done it my entire life. Memories of oversized hand-me-downs filtered through his mind, remembering how things were before he started working and paying for some of his necessities himself. He just wished fifty quid would be enough for now. 

When they entered Gringotts — a big, white-marbled building — he noticed it wasn’t run by witches and wizards, but by little people with pointy ears and sharp fingers. Seeing the looks of bewilderment on their faces, Professor McGonagall took pity on them and began to explain.

“Gringotts is run by goblins. They are, by far, the best race to handle financial affairs, so the wizarding world turned to them around the time the Founders started Hogwarts.”

That shocked Harry. He couldn’t imagine the Muggle world trusting their finances to other races that weren’t human; racism and bigotry were an issue in the modern world, yet the wizarding world had no issue trusting an entirely different race with their money.

Quickly falling behind a line in front of a teller, Harry took out his wallet with his fifty quid. Professor McGonagall, however, saw it and addressed him very warmly.

“Mr Potter, you won’t need to exchange currency here. I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting to find you when visiting Miss Granger; had I known, I would’ve tried to find and bring your vault key. That being said, I think you will be able to access your vault regardless.”

Wait, what?

“Professor?” Harry asked, and he saw the look of shame on her face for a split second.

She looked at him with a slight smile. “Can I call you Harry?” Her question threw him off balance, but he quickly agreed with a nod. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, and I’m even sorrier you know so little of your own world and your parents. Harry, the House of Potter is an old and respected magical family. As such, they have a Gringotts vault with all the family assets, to which you will have access.”

What? Vault? Family assets?

“W-Why wasn’t I told about this?” He stammered a little, but he was grounded enough to shake it off.

“I don’t know, Harry. I wish I could tell you more, but I don’t have the answers.” She looked ashamed, and Harry knew she knew more than she was letting on, but he figured it wasn’t the time or place to press her about it.

Hermione and her parents had just finished exchanging their currency when he looked at her. She had heard. She had heard it all. Her smile was sad and supportive, and he felt lighter for the gesture.

When he came up to the teller, Professors McGonagall and Snape tailing him, Harry addressed the goblin. “Good afternoon. My name is Harry Potter. I’m told I have a vault here at your fine establishment. Sadly I don’t know how to access it. I was hoping you could help me?”

The goblin looked at Harry with distrust in his eyes. Harry could understand that reaction; it was their job to guard the wizarding world’s finances. They couldn’t just give access to whoever claimed to be this or that witch or wizard.

“Good afternoon, Mr Potter. Unfortunately, since you don’t have your vault key, I’m afraid we will have to prove you are who you say you are. I’m sure you can understand.” Harry did.

“Of course.” With a slight nod of acknowledgement, the goblin stood and walked down from his stool, motioning for the group to follow him. Without hesitation, Harry addressed the goblin one more time. “Excuse me, could my girlfriend and her family join us? We’re just learning about the wizarding world today, and I’m sure she would love to learn more about the people who guard the financial aspects of it.”

Hermione beamed at him, and her parents looked pleased with his behaviour and actions. The goblin, however, took a few moments to give his answer. Holding his breath, Harry was beginning to think he had insulted the goblins without realising it.

“Very well, follow me.” Harry released his breath and smiled back at Hermione and her family. He extended his hand to her, and she readily took it, letting him guide her through the bank’s maze of corridors.

It was imposing, to say the least. The ceiling was over sixty feet high, marble columns throughout the lobby, the tellers’ desks were shining gold, and the goblins themselves were dressed in posh suits signifying their stance in the economic world. But entering the long corridors, Harry saw different goblins. These wore armour, axes, and spears. Their looks were fierce, and Harry instinctively knew not to mess with this race.

They came to a stop, and Harry focused back on the present. In front of him was a red-and-gold door with what looked to be a half-eagle, half-lion creature. Harry thought it looked majestic and imposing; it had its beak opened almost as if giving a cry of battle. On top of the creature’s image were words in polished black:

The House of Potter. Account manager: Eagleclaw.

The goblin who had taken them thus far knocked on the door and waited. A full minute later, they heard a rough voice from inside.

“Come in!”

The goblin turned the knob and pushed the door inwards. The group was greeted with a big office, big enough to house two large couches with a sitting table in the middle. At the end of the office was a big black desk with a stern-looking goblin sitting behind it. His clothing was more like Professor Snape’s outfit rather than what Harry had seen on the general populace back in the alley. The office was simple yet imposing, and it made Harry nervous.

“Greetings, Master Eagleclaw. May your vaults bathe in your enemies’ blood.”

“Greetings, Teller Griphook. May your knife pierce through your foe’s heart.”

The exchange was a statement of how the goblins ran their society. They were financial animals, Harry could see that, but they were also terrifying warriors. He silently reaffirmed his earlier assessment: Don’t mess with the goblins. Eagleclaw motion for Griphook to wait outside the office, and then motioned for the group to take a seat in one of the couches. 

There was some tension in the air. Then he felt it. The goblin’s magic was tensing the environment to cause discomfort in the gathered people. Two can play this game. Let’s see if I can disrupt their magic. Harry pulled from his own power and released it in a calming manner to his companions. When he saw them relax, a grin spread across his face. It worked. Harry then turned to look at the goblins and saw their eyes widen.

“Who did that?” Eagleclaw asked in a measured tone.

“I did, sir.” Harry used the same tone the goblin had given him. His gamble paid off because the next thing he knew, both goblins were laughing hard.

“Mr Potter, welcome to Gringotts.” Eagleclaw extended his hand over the sitting table towards Harry, who took it with as much confidence as he could muster.

“You don’t need me to prove I’m indeed Harry Potter?” Harry felt puzzled.

“This office has Gringotts-sanctioned wards provided by the Potter family. If anyone who is not a Potter tries to come inside this office, he or she dies on the spot. Subsequently, if a Potter brings companions, they are exempt from the rule and can come inside. You’ve already proven you are indeed Harry James Potter, last heir of the House of Potter.”

Harry’s eyes were bewildered. He had so many questions he didn’t know where to begin. What are wards? How important is my family? Why did I grow up with the Dursleys? What the fuck is going on?

“Do not fret, young Mr Potter. I believe you still have one year before you go to Hogwarts?” At Harry’s nod, Eagleclaw continued. “Excellent, so you have time to adjust to the wizarding world, time to get acquainted with your family’s legacy, and most importantly time to digest it all. So, do not fret.” The goblin smiled with his lips sealed. It was a tad disturbing, but Harry figured it was a cultural gesture. Seeing Harry calming down, Eagleclaw carried on.

“I have to tell you, Mr Potter, we’ve been waiting for this day for some time, and having you here almost one year earlier is cause for great joy. However, I have to ask you if you want to continue this conversation without your companions.” Harry didn’t even hesitate with his answer.

“They stay, Mr Eagleclaw. Hermione is my girlfriend, so whatever we discuss here she’ll know about it later today, so it doesn’t make sense for her not to be here. Same goes for her parents.” Hermione was visibly happy with Harry’s statement, but her parents were serious about what was happening in front of their eyes. “As for Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, well, I’ll leave it up to them.” Harry turned towards them directly. “We’ve just met today, but both of you have shown glimpses of being trustworthy to me. That doesn’t mean I trust you, or even like you at the present time; it just means that I wouldn’t turn down having a friendly relationship with either of you. As such, if you want to stay, you’re welcome to do so.”

Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape were visibly surprised by the statement. Different thoughts were going through the professors’ minds, but Harry stayed there, resolute in his statement, waiting for their answers.

“Mr Potter, since you’ve given me permission, I would like to stay.” Professor McGonagall nodded at Harry. Snape just nodded as well, and Harry took it as a yes. Turning back to Eagleclaw, Harry nodded at the goblin to carry on.

“There are a number of things we need to discuss, Mr Potter. First and foremost, we have a memory video from James and Lily Potter to be given to their son on his first entrance into Gringotts or on his seventeenth birthday, whichever came first.” The room’s temperature fell, and McGonagall sucked in a deep breath.

Harry’s mind went into short-circuit. He couldn’t process what he had just heard. His heart was beating fast and hard, his skin went pale, he began sweating uncontrollably. He knew the symptoms; he had been through them before, locked inside his cupboard after Vernon had beaten him for whatever reason, when he wanted to simply run away and never come back. He was having a panic attack.

What did Mr Brown say about panic attacks? Breathe? Or run? Running sounds good now. Maybe I could run into a bus and be done with it.

A hand on his cheek brought him out of himself. When his eyes focused on his surroundings, all the adults and the goblin were standing. Why are they standing? He focused once again on his surroundings and saw the office completely trashed. Papers scattered, the desk had been shattered, the sitting table had been broken.

Shit.

“I’m sorry, Eagleclaw! I didn’t mean to do any of this. Hermione, please don’t be afraid of me. I don’t lose control like this, please, you have to believe me. Professors, I can still go to Hogwarts, right? I can still go? Please, please, don’t leave me.”

Hermione deepened her touch on Harry’s cheek to make him focus on her. When he locked eyes with her, he could see her crying. He felt a gentle push of magic coming from her, and instinctively let it in. The moment he allowed it entrance, his breathing began to regulate and the tension began to subside. Harry was still looking at Hermione when she started talking.

“You’re safe, my love. I’m not leaving you, not now and not ever. You’re still going to Hogwarts, you are going to be a great wizard, and you’ll have a great witch by your side. Do you believe me, love?”

Harry couldn’t keep it inside anymore. For the first time in oh, so many years, Harry Potter started crying. For his lost parents who had left him a memory so he could see and meet them, for the amount of hurt he had suffered for years on end, for the excitement of discovering he had magic, for Mr Brown’s help throughout his life, but above all else, he cried for the life that was starting for him — the life meeting Hermione had given him.

Harry took some necessary moments to calm himself and bring himself back to some semblance of control. He hadn't cried in years, so there was a lot pempt up. When he emerged from his stupor he did the only thing there was left to do. 

"I want to see my parent's memory." 

 

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: A path ahead.

Harry's mind tuned out the group surrounding him as his mind and heart raced with dread. Eagleclaw had left the office to retrieve the memory orb his parents had left for him from the Potter family vault. As seconds turned into minutes, Harry thought his heart would pump out of his throat at any moment; the only thing keeping him grounded was the hand holding his own.

Hermione. Ever since he had found her, his life had taken on a different meaning, and it had been only a couple of months. For whatever reason, their magics resonated with each other, as if they were kindred spirits, kindred magics. He wasn't really sure about Professor McGonagall's hypothesis of them being soul-bonded or whatever she had called it, but he was dead sure their magics talked to one another.

More than that, however, was the fact that they had — bar the abuse — similar lives. Hermione had been a lonely child growing up, always buried in her books and not really caring about the world around her. Often teased and bullied for her teeth, her hair, or her know-it-all tendencies, she had withdrawn into herself, only slightly coming out for her parents.

Harry, for different reasons, had been the same, except he hadn't come out for anyone — perhaps for Mr Brown, but no one else. In that regard, they had both thrown themselves into their studies, and in Harry's case his self-defence classes and counselling as well. Books had a way of pulling one into pages of wonder and courage — courage he often doubted he even had.

Hermione, however, had brought him out of his shell, and he had done the same for her. They were now more caring and outgoing, especially towards the adults in their lives. When Harry had broken down after hearing his parents had left him a memory so he could hear and see them, Hermione had been the anchor that put him back together, and he would be forever grateful for it.

The office doors opened and in walked Eagleclaw, carrying a small wooden box. Looking at it in detail, Harry could see carvings in intricate patterns that resembled some of the Norse language he had seen in his World History class at one point. Instead of being written from left to right as all languages were written for reading, these patterns were carefully interconnected in triangles that all pointed at the box's lock.

"Mr Potter." Eagleclaw addressed Harry with a soft yet commanding voice. "This is the concealment box your parents designed to guard their memories. They were recorded in a goblin memory orb, which will allow us to project the memory for everyone you desire to witness." At Harry's nod, Eagleclaw pushed forward. "This box will only open to one with Potter blood. No one else. Just a drop will suffice."

His parents were geniuses. He could tell by the looks on Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape that they were surprised by the level of security guarding the Potters' message to their son. Hermione was also intrigued by the box's mechanics, and he could tell she wanted to examine it, even though she didn't yet know what to look for.

Eagleclaw placed the box on the sitting table and went over to his desk, where he took out an ornamented knife from one of his drawers. Its handle was slightly curved at the bottom, and the blade itself had more of those intricate Norse patterns he had seen on his parents' box.

"This is a ceremonial knife. Made by our people, its magic seals whatever wound the wielder inflicts on themselves once the deed has been achieved." The goblin handed the knife to Harry, who took it by the handle with trembling hands. "Just a slight cut on your thumb should be enough, I should say, Mr Potter."

With a deep breath, Harry made a deep cut on his left thumb which surprisingly didn't sting, and without hesitation he pointed his blood towards the box's lock. There was a small glow coming from the box's carvings the second the blood hit the lock. They were different colours — green, red, and gold — and Harry's own magic started reacting to it at the same time. He could feel the tendrils of his power reach out to the box, and when they touched it, it sang to him in recognition.

The box opened.

Everything was over in under a second, but for Harry it felt longer. He could feel and almost see the box's patterns calling out to him, singing a welcoming tune — only there was no sound to be heard.

Magic.

When Harry touched the box's lid, he could feel its magic coursing through the carvings. It was exhilarating, to say the least. The box revealed a hexagonal orb that had smaller but similar patterns to the ones carving the box; the orb glowed a bright light blue and it pulsated every other second. The orb is alive, somehow. There wasn't any other conclusion Harry could have come up with. Seeing the look on his face, Eagleclaw brought everyone back to the task ahead with a wide, toothless smile.

"The memory, Mr Potter — it's the memory within the orb that's alive." Harry looked at Eagleclaw with wonder in his eyes. Magic is awesome. "We've learned through Muggle science that the part of the brain that stores memories is actually divided into different sections: short-term memory and long-term memory. When we first learned of this, we asked ourselves: How can the brain know the difference? Well, the answer came fairly easily. The memories are life imprints of the person's soul, so in more sense than one, they are in fact alive."

Harry was amazed at that explanation. It meant that life was a continuum and the brain allowed any race to basically break it down into what was known as time. It also meant that magic was more than just a simple tool to bend the world's continuum.

"But that would imply we could all be living in an illusion, Mr Eagleclaw. If that were the case, how can we know we are 'alive' and not some figment of imagination?" Of course Hermione came to the same conclusion. Harry chuckled to himself.

"Indeed, Miss Granger. However, knowing you can be in an illusion makes any difference to who you are or what goals you have for yourself?" At Hermione's look of realisation, Eagleclaw continued. "If we are indeed in an illusion, someone or something created said illusion with its rules and limits. If we aren't in an illusion, it would imply someone or something created our universe with its rules and limits all the same. Sometimes, Miss Granger, the simplest conclusions are often leading towards truth."

The room fell silent, not expecting to have a deep talk about reality sprung on them. Harry saw how Michael and Helen were still wearing serious faces, and he couldn't help but address it before activating his parents' memory orb.

"Dr Granger? Is everything alright?" Harry asked with a worried tone; for a moment he thought they would take their daughter away from him and the magical world, and being honest with himself, he couldn't blame them if they did so.

Michael looked at him and his seriousness evaporated, replaced by concern and sadness. Helen gave him a small smile, conveying worry and care.

"No, Harry. Everything is not alright." Helen answered. Before anybody could reply she pushed forward. "We don't know you very well yet; however, you, young man, are one of the kindest and most unselfish people we've ever met." Harry was gobsmacked at that declaration. She was right — they didn't know him very well yet — the fact she would say such a thing about him at the present time struck a chord in Harry's chest.

"The way you have behaved yourself with our daughter, the way you've handled today's meetings, the way you've handled your previous life..." Michael carried on. "It is nothing short of amazing. And the fact that you've suffered so much, so young, makes it that everything is not alright."

He tried to conceal it, but after the dam had broken before, a single tear slid across his cheek. He had people who cared for him in his life. I'll make them proud. That was all he could think about. Not trusting his voice, he smiled and nodded at the Grangers before turning back to Eagleclaw.

"Please, Mr Eagleclaw, I want to see my parents." Everyone took their seats on the couches while Eagleclaw placed the orb in the centre of his desk. With a wave of his long and sharp fingers the orb shone brighter and began to shake. Eagleclaw took his seat among the group and prepared himself for the emotional journey they were about to endure. For all that the goblins were known for ruthlessness in finances and battle, they weren't strangers to the hardships of orphanage and solitude.

From behind the orb, a misty grey shadow emerged. For a moment Harry feared the memory had been corrupted, but before he could voice it, the shadow became clear and he could see the inside of a cosy house. Multiple frames hung on the white walls; a small couch and a sitting table finished the setting. But what struck Harry the most were the figures inside the shadow.

My parents.

They were moving in the little living room, setting one thing or another in different locations — too far for him to distinguish any details about them. Finally they stood in front of each other and Harry was able to take the first good look at them. The man was tall, with white-tanned skin, messy black hair, and round glasses. Harry could see where he had gotten his physical build: broad shoulders and an all-in-all imposing figure. That's how I'll look as an adult, he mused.

The woman, however, was somewhat petite. She had long and sleek red hair, white skin somewhat less tanned than his dad's, but her presence was warm and kind. Harry could see them smiling at each other before they shared a tender kiss. Harry smiled at the scene.

They turned to face the group while sitting on the couch. Harry could see their faces now. His dad's face was angular, almost aristocratic, with hazelnut eyes. His mum's face, however, was the opposite: more rounded with emerald-deep eyes, much like his own.

"Well, this was a bit of an ingenious idea my darling wife had, if I do say so myself." Harry saw his dad's expression full of mirth and pride. "See, right now we're talking to a mirror — strangely as that sounds. We don't know if this has ever been done before, so hopefully it'll work."

"It'll work, alright." Her tone was similar to Hermione's, one that said I know what I'm doing and did not admit margin for error. "Anyway, never mind your dad; he was always the prankster back at school." His dad smirked at that comment and kissed his mum on her temple.

"Harry, pumpkin, if you're seeing this it means we didn't make it." Harry had to swallow hard at that statement. "We're not sure when you'll see this — perhaps Sirius will take you to Gringotts while you're still underage, or perhaps he won't do it until you've turned seventeen." Harry heard a sharp gasp from the rest of the room, but he didn't dare take his eyes from his parents.

"Sirius, if you're hearing this, thank you for taking care of our son." James continued with a solemn look.

"If the worst happened, it means that Peter betrayed us, and we hope he's rotting in Azkaban or six feet underground." Another gasp, this one shuddering as if trembling.

"There are a couple of things only a Potter can explain about our family's magic. And there are some things only a parent can tell their child." His dad pushed forward. "Since we don't know how much or how little you know by the time you're seeing this, I'll start with a bit of context. My name is James Charlus Potter, current head of the House of Potter." He turned his gaze to his mum. "This is Lily Marie Evans, the brightest witch I've ever met and the love of my life."

Silence. Nobody dared to say a word or even breathe.

"There's a war going on, Harry. Sadly, for all of our efforts, we are losing." His mum paused for a moment. "This war is being carried on by a group called Death Eaters. Their leader is the darkest wizard ever to live; he calls himself Lord Voldemort. Silly name if you ask me, but that's neither here nor there. The motive? He disagrees with the Founders' choice of starting formal magical education at seventeen, arguing that it limited the wizarding population's ability to enforce our power over the Muggles. He wants the wizarding world to rule over normal society, and who will rule it all? You have three guesses." His mum finished with a smirk on her face.

"It's the stupidest motive as it gets, son. But for someone with the amount of magical power he has, he might as well succeed." His dad took over. "His followers are either pure-bloods who think themselves above everybody else or magicals who crave power. We've been fighting them for nearly ten years now, and being honest with you, it'll take a miracle for us to win."

His mum continued. "Harry, the reason we went into hiding is because Voldemort didn't just target us — he targeted you." There was a shriek, but Harry ignored it. "We don't know why he's after you, but as you can probably understand by now, we can't risk your life. We'll die before we let anything happen to you."

"We are hiding under a specific charm called the Fidelius. It's an incredibly powerful charm that conceals a secret location inside one Secret-Keeper. Ours is Peter Pettigrew." Professor McGonagall stood abruptly with a pale face. Only Professor Snape's hand on her shoulder stopped her from ranting. "We let people think Sirius is the Secret-Keeper as a decoy of sorts; however, as your mum here so eloquently put it, if you're seeing this, then Peter betrayed us. Be that as it may, as we said before, there are some things we wish to tell you."

His mum took a deep breath and closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts. "Harry, if you ever meet a man named Severus Snape, please tell him I forgive him and he should forgive himself. Hopefully he turned his ways and is back on the side of sanity. If he's not, well, you have my permission to kill him." Harry widened his eyes at that declaration. My mum is a badass.

"Harry, love. There are so many things I want to live with you that I don't know if I have the strength to say them." A tear fell from her eyes as she continued. "I want to be there when your first tooth falls, when you ride your bike for the first time; I want to be there when you fall from your broom the first time so I can patch you up and tell you to stand up and try again. I want to teach you gardening and be there when your first flower blossoms. Teach you how to be a gentleman, unlike your father." His dad snorted with amusement at that comment. "Harry, always be kind, eat your vegetables, and find joy in doing the boring day-to-day things. Respect your teachers as long as they are deserving of your respect, and challenge them when you find them lacking. Follow the rules of the land, but be brave enough to break them for a just cause. Always remember, kindness is its own power. Honey, I love you, and we'll always be with you."

Harry was sobbing silently, hearing his mum's words. There was a hole in his chest that he had forgotten about many years ago that was filling up with his mother's words.

"Son." His dad called his attention. When he focused on the shadow, he saw his dad was crying silently as well. "We Potters have always been spearheads of the changes in our world. A Potter stood with the Founders when they founded Hogwarts; a Potter stood with the International Confederation of Wizards and Witches when the Statute of Secrecy was enacted. We will always be at the front of any conflict or major turnaround for our society. Son, no matter what life throws at you, you are a Potter. You will thrive and you will succeed. We're proud of you, Harry. Everything we have, we leave to you. We love you, Harry. We will always be with you."

His parents stared into the mirror and smiled warmly at it. Harry's throat was closed, his heart hammering in his chest. My parents are proud of me. My parents loved me. Those thoughts kept repeating in a loop inside his head. The hole in his chest was filled, and his magic was humming in exhilaration. He was whole.

 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: A sixteen year old lie.

Notes:

I know it's a slow start, there are too many things that I need to go through to lay the groundwork before Hogwarts starts. I know Sirius' situation may feel like its too early, but don't worry, I don't plan on releasing him right away, he'll probably have to still break out of Azkaban, not too sure about that yet. Regardless of the overall more integrated wizarding society, corruption is still a thing, like all governments, only that this one is less in the open like it was in canon, or at least that's my aim, hence, Sirius doesn't get released right away if that makes sense. Anyways, thank you for the support, it's been awesome reading you guys! By the way, I stand by the tag of 'no bashing', however, it doesn't mean people can get away with anything, it just means that I'm not into humiliating characters just for the fun of it, I like to read it for a good laugh, but I don't like to write it in overall. No offense intended =)

A/N: Yes, Sirius does spend fifteen years in Azkaban instead of the canon twelve.

The silence that descended on the office was oppressive. Harry glanced across the room and saw the stunned expressions on everyone's faces. Beyond the shock, however, there were several emotions at play. He first noticed the Grangers holding each other for dear life. Michael and Helen were hugging Hermione tightly, almost as if she would disappear from their lives at any moment. Hermione was no better; she was silently crying. Harry couldn't see it, but he knew she was. Eagleclaw was in total contrast to them, however. His face was one of fierce determination, and Harry knew something else had transpired that the account manager had not foreseen.

Turning his eyes away from the goblin, Harry looked at his professors, and what he saw floored him. Both McGonagall and Snape were crying inconsolably, muttering words to themselves. What had Professor Snape done that Mum had to forgive him? He obviously wasn't expecting that. Professor McGonagall looked more angry than sorrowful, although she seemed to have cared for my parents deeply.

Harry gathered they would remain in such a state until he spoke up to break the silence. I'm not ready yet. He decided to wait a few more moments to try and internalise what his parents had told him. They loved me. That was enough to bring a smile to his face.

The core of their message was beyond brilliant. He had never even dreamed of hearing his parents or even seeing them, so having had the chance to do so was incredibly valuable to him. However, some bits and pieces of their memory struck some concerns in him.

Who is Peter? Who is Sirius, and why were they expecting him to take care of me? It certainly looked like my mum wasn't even considering Aunt Petunia if the worst ever happened, so why was I sent to the Dursleys?

"I can imagine all of us have some questions?" The silence was broken, and the people around him chuckled at his understated comment.

"Indeed, Mr Potter." Eagleclaw turned to the office door and asked Griphook for something in a strange language he couldn't quite place. When he came back, he motioned for everyone to take their seats on the couches. "Griphook will come back with refreshments. I suggest we wait for him." Everyone nodded and resumed their inner thoughts. Harry, however, leaned into Hermione, grabbing her hand, letting her know he was alright. The smile she gave him, along with the tears on her face, told him she felt for him and for what had been a hard life thus far.

The office door opened and Griphook entered with two trays floating behind him. Placing them on the sitting table, Harry saw they were a batch of biscuits, jars of jam and some others of cream cheese, and a tea tray of Earl Grey with honey and milk on the side.

The adults scowled at the honey and milk but said nothing about it. Harry noticed it and chuckled; until that moment he had never understood the need to have tea without anything sweet in it. Everybody helped themselves to the biscuits and tea and enjoyed a comfortable silence that the food provided.

"Harry," Professor McGonagall leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, "what do you know of your parents' deaths?"

Harry took a deep breath and put down his tea. "Not much, Professor. Aunt Petunia showed me last year the letter this Dumbledore fellow left with me when I was dropped at the Dursleys. Beyond that somewhat vague explanation of what happened, I truly don't know much else."

The professors exchanged darkened looks between them. Professor McGonagall continued. "The circumstances of your survival are not known, or even the few facts we do know are not well explained, for that matter, so forgive me if our explanation follows the same pattern." At Harry's nod, she pushed forward. "Lily was correct, although she was a bit cheeky with her comments, if you ask me. The dark wizard known as Lord V-V-Voldemort was winning." 

The professor had to pause and take a breath; after a brief moment, she continued. "Think of the still-ongoing Cold War in the Muggle world; at the time nobody knew who to trust, where to hide, or even how to fight back. Magic, as you can begin to understand, makes whatever conflict we have that much more terrifying than a Muggle conflict. After all, we are still human, and as such are capable of the most evil acts."

Professor Snape took over. "At the time, many wizards and witches fell to the manipulations and lies of this dark wizard. We nearly lost everything. Some of us did." His voice was grave and deep. Harry could feel his repentance.

"The Ministry was in disarray; our own government was chasing its own tail trying to come up with a solution. You have to understand something, Harry, Hermione. The British wizarding world, ever since the founding of Hogwarts and the rest of the magical schools worldwide, the establishment of magical communities, and moreover the sanctioning of the Statute of Secrecy, has known nothing but peace. Not even World War II hit us as hard. The Death Eaters were threatening everything we've ever known. Your parents, and a few others fought back." Professor McGonagall looked distressed at recounting what had happened.

His parents had been brave people who weren't afraid to stand up for what was right. He still had multiple things to process, but he thought he would at least get some answers before the day was over.

"Your parents went into hiding once they learned of V-Voldemort's target." Professor Snape also seemed to pause at the wizard's name. "As Minerva said, nobody truly knows what happened that night; however, there are a few facts that your parents' memory will disprove. The wizarding world has been led to believe your parents' betrayer was one Sirius Black." The pale man took a pause before pushing forward. "Black was found hysterically laughing in a Muggle street with twelve Muggle corpses in front of him, completely torn apart. He was kneeling at their feet, repeating over and over that it was his fault. When the Aurors arrived at the scene, they arrested and threw him in Azkaban without a trial and reported that he had betrayed your parents, killed his friend Peter Pettigrew, and destroyed a Muggle street, killing twelve Muggles with it."

"The thing is, Harry," professor McGonagall seemed saddeden, "that if Sirius was not your parents' Secret-Keeper, it stands to reason that perhaps what we know of the day Sirius was arrested has been a lie all these years. Maybe he did kill Peter in a fit of rage, but the Sirius I knew — the Auror — he wouldn't have killed him. Every person who knew him then, seeing this memory, would begin asking questions."

The oppressive silence fell once again in the room. Harry's mind reeled at the different paths he had at his feet. Ever since he could remember, he had always thought he was an unremarkable, easy-to-ignore person. He had tried to be kind and forgiving, as Mr Brown had pointed out multiple times in their sessions, applied himself to his studies, his defence classes, and his job at the Chinese supermarket. Sure, he excelled in those areas, but he truly didn't believe he was anything more than a standard teenage boy with an abusive history.

Now, however, he was learning his parents had fought in a war, they had been betrayed by their friend, a dark evil wizard had wanted to kill him as a baby. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself it was all a hoax, some plot to drive him insane. Can I fight for what's right, like my parents did? Can I, like Dad said, be the spearhead of change? He didn't know, if he was being honest with himself. Just a little over a year ago he was saving his aunt from Vernon and learning to control his power, and now what? Was he supposed to be on the front lines of whatever this world would face in the future? What can you say to something like that?

His heart was racing, pumping fiercely in his chest. His panic attack was returning; however, before it took full force, he felt a familiar touch in his hand. Hermione had taken his hand in hers and was caressing it soothingly. He calmed down enough for his brain to begin forming some questions.

"I would assume you don't know why Dumbledore left me at my aunt's house, right?" Professor McGonagall shook her head, a flash of anger crossing her face. "I thought so." Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on what he wanted to achieve at the bank before leaving. With one deep breath, he addressed the goblin. "Mr Eagleclaw, can I go to my family's vault, or do I have to wait until I turn eighteen?"

"Seventeen, Mr Potter. That's the legal age of adulthood in the wizarding world. And to answer your question, you do have a trust vault you can access at any point in time. When you come of age, this trust vault will return to the Potter family account." Harry's eyes widened; the only families that talked about trust accounts were the truly rich ones. Why did I spend all these years wearing hand-me-downs and fighting for scraps?

"Thank you, Mr Eagleclaw. Did my parents leave a will behind as well as the memory?" Harry's question surprised the professors.

"Yes, Mr Potter, with the same conditions as the memory they left for you." Eagleclaw moved his hand towards the desk and a piece of paper flew straight to him. "With your permission, I will begin the reading."

Harry only had the strength to nod.

We, James Charlus Potter and Lily Marie Potter (née Evans), of sound mind and body, write the following words as our last testament and will.

To our dearest Sirius, since you don't need money, we leave you the Godric's Hollow cottage in hopes you raise Harry with love and care.

To the kindest soul we've ever met, Remus, we leave the amount of 100,000 galleons. Moony, stop the pity party and take the money, or we'll haunt your bed until you do.

To Peter Pettigrew, we leave thirty silver sickles and the desire that he should rot in hell if this will is to be executed.

To Minerva McGonagall, we leave James's transfiguration journals in hopes she finds them amusing enough to forgive some juvenile pranks.

To Severus Snape, we leave Lily's potions and charms journals with the wish that they can bring warmth to a hardened heart.

If the worst comes to pass and we do not live to raise our son, then under no circumstances is Harry to go to Petunia Evans. Any magical or Muggle family would be better than him growing up with Petunia's husband.

To our son, Harry James Potter, we leave the entirety of the Potter family wealth. Son, no matter what happens, we will always love you.

James Charlus Potter - Lily Marie Potter (née Evans)

Harry had spent many years locked in a cupboard, thinking his life was meaningless — not that a child would think in such terms, but he had rationalised them over time — and many more years studying and working, thinking that perhaps Vernon was right and he was a freak. Even with his uncle’s death and his cousin going to a correctional facility, those thoughts had never truly stopped haunting him.

Then 15 June 1990 came, and his entire life shone with colour. Hermione.

In the few short months since that single event had happened, Harry had started appreciating his life a bit more every day. Sure, he was hurting, but he now had something similar to a reason to live on. He knew it wasn’t healthy to put all of his hopes into one person like that. What if she decided she wanted someone else? They were still technically teenagers, right? What were the odds she would stay with him? Mr. Brown will scold me for thinking this way. 

But now he had a path — or at least the beginning of one. Honour his family’s legacy. James and Lily loved him, and reading and hearing between the lines, they had left him more than just wealth; they trusted him to carry on and had bet everything on his survival. They had to have done something to ensure I would survive. There’s no chance I could’ve done anything as a baby. Pride and love — that’s what they felt for him. Pride for what? What can a toddler possibly do to earn his parents’ pride? Nothing, really. But he could understand it came with the job of being a parent: you’re intrinsically proud of your brood.

Not every parent was like that, of course. It was too much to ask for the majority of human society to be exactly that — human. But his parents embodied everything he had always admired in human nature: kindness, bravery, will, humour, fierceness, critical thinking, honesty. Not that he knew them in depth after just one short memory and will reading, but it was his impression.

In a little over a year he had gone from being aimless, just passing through the days, to now having a purpose. Out of reflex he brought his hand to caress his lightning scar. Every so often he did it, although he never truly knew why. The group took notice of the gesture, but nobody uttered a word about it.

“Mr Eagleclaw.” Harry’s tone was soft but commanding; everybody paid attention. “Obviously an account manager in Gringotts does more than just manage the family money. Am I correct in assuming this?” The goblin looked pleased and simply nodded. “Great. Based on my parents’ will and memory orb, do you think whatever magical law enforcement there is can start an investigation on this ‘Sirius’ person? It’s been fifteen years. If he’s innocent, I don’t want him imprisoned much longer.”

Eagleclaw was impressed. Normally wizards and witches with account managers wanted to know how they could get richer, not to help others regardless of friendships or bonds. Still, this young man — who had yet to come of age and had just been through such emotional turmoil — had the strength of character to think of others before himself. The goblin nation would do well to keep an eye on Harry Potter, Eagleclaw thought to himself.

“It will be done, Mr Potter.” The goblin said solemnly.

“Next piece of business.” Harry took a deep breath; he didn’t want to know the answer to his next question would hurt no matter what, but he had to know. “How rich am I?” Another oppressive silence fell in the room.

“H-Harry, are you sure you want us in here to discuss your finances?” Hermione asked with trepidation. Harry had to smile at her. “Of course I want you here — all of you. If you were with me hearing my parents for the first time, I certainly want you here to discuss my finances.”

Everyone understood the underlining. Harry placed little to no value on his potential wealth; regardless of the number Eagleclaw told him, it wouldn’t matter to him other than the fact he had had to struggle all his life for scraps while being secretly rich.

He would give all of his money if he could’ve lived with his parents instead of those abusive wastes of air. Hermione had to rein in her thoughts or she would lose it like Harry had earlier.

Eagleclaw held his sharp fingers pointing once again at his desk. From it a thick red-and-gold folder flew gently to the goblin’s hands; he grabbed it with a tight grip. He opened it and started scrolling through the paperwork until he reached what he was looking for.

“Liquid galleons in the main vault: a little over three and a half million. Add monthly royalties on three potions and substantial Muggle investments your ancestors made through us — British Petroleum, British Telecom, Glaxo Holdings — and the Potter estate is currently valued at roughly the equivalent of twenty million pounds in Muggle currency.”

He paused, letting the number hang in the air.

Harry blinked. Twenty million pounds. He had worn Dudley’s cast-off socks with holes in them until he was fourteen.

Hermione’s hand tightened around his. The Grangers looked stunned. Even Snape’s eyebrow twitched.

Eagleclaw gave a small, sharp smile. “There are also properties, heirlooms, and a detailed inventory, but the headline figure is this: you will never need to worry about money, Mr Potter.”

Hermione's hold on him was the only thing keeping him grounded. He needed to focus. One calming breath later, he address his future professors. 

"I don't know how to deal with any of this. What I do know, and I stand by it, is that I want the situation with Sirius resolved soon. Take a copy of my parents will, and if Eagleclaw approves, a copy of the memory orb and take it to the magical authorities. Eagleclaw will provide whatever document you need." 

Professor McGonagall and professor Snape exchanged glances at each other, before turning back at Harry and nodding. Grateful with their support, he turned to Hermione. 

"Hey." 

"Hey." She replied shyly. 

"I think is too late, now, to do our shopping." Hermione looked disappointed, but nodded in agreement.

"Yes, we have practically an entire year before we have to go to Hogwarts." She said with a sigh. 

"My point exactly. What do you say we go out for dinner, all of us, my treat?" Harry looked hopeful at the professors, the Grangers, and the goblin. 

"I can't speak for the rest, but I could do with some dinner." Michael pitched in with a smile, Helen smiling and nodding at the teen. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but I do have remaining work I need to do." Harry looked dejected at Eagleclaw' refusal but said nothing. 

"I'll be happy to have dinner with you, Harry." Professor McGonagall told him with a small smile on her face. Professor Snape simply nodded in agreement. 

"Great! Eagleclaw, I don't know what the conversion rate if from... galleons you said?" At the goblins confirmation, Harry continued. "Right, from galleons to pounds, but I would need some money in muggle currency, say three hundred pounds would do the trick?" Harry looked at Hermione for approval. She smiled at him and it was all he needed. 

He was still broken in places, but for the first time he could see the shape of something whole ahead of him.

 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Of wands and familiars.

Notes:

I do hope you like this very big change I'm making.

He needed some time away from the magical world to process what he had learned. Thankfully his dinner invitation was exactly what they all needed. They had decided on a Muggle restaurant down Maiden Lane called “Rules”. It was a somewhat posh place that made Harry sweat thinking he wouldn’t be able to afford it with the money he had taken from Gringotts. Seeing his panicked look, Hermione took his hand and gave him a gentle squeeze of “everything will be alright” that made Harry visibly relax.

Harry couldn’t stop staring at the menu. Everything sounded like it belonged in a storybook. Roast grouse. Spotted dick. Treacle tart. He felt like a kid again, only this time the magic was real and sitting across the table from him.

They had been given the best table at Rules. It was upstairs on the second floor, in a quiet corner with red velvet walls and candlelight that made Hermione’s eyes look even darker. The waiter, stiff-backed and polite, had already taken their orders and disappeared. Now it was just the six of them, the clink of wine glasses, and the low murmur of the restaurant around them.

The starters arrived first.

Potted shrimps for Helen and Hermione (little ramekins of buttery brown shrimp with nutmeg and toast points). Michael and Professor McGonagall had the game soup (dark, rich, smelling of autumn woods). Harry’s smoked salmon came with capers and thin brown bread. Snape had ordered half a dozen oysters and was eating them with lemon and nothing else.

Hermione leaned over and whispered, “You’re staring at the oysters like they might bite you.”

“I’m just trying to decide if he’s eating them or interrogating them,” Harry whispered back. She had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

The main courses were even better.

Roast grouse for Harry and Michael (tiny game birds with crispy skin, bread sauce, and redcurrant jelly). Hermione and her mum had roast beef with Yorkshire puddings the size of fists. McGonagall’s venison steak came with rowan jelly. Snape’s Dover sole looked simple, but the butter smelled like heaven.

Harry cut into his grouse and took a bite. It tasted like forest and smoke and something he couldn’t name. He closed his eyes for a second.

“Good?” Hermione asked softly.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Perfect.”

They shared roast potatoes and buttered carrots from the middle of the table. Hermione stole one of Harry’s game chips; he stole a corner of her Yorkshire pudding. Michael told a terrible dad joke about beef and dentists. Even Snape’s mouth twitched once.

Dessert was chaos in the best way.

Sticky toffee pudding for Harry and Hermione (they asked for one to share and two spoons). Treacle tart for Michael. Spotted dick and custard for Helen (she insisted on trying it “when in Rome”). Sherry trifle for McGonagall. Snape took the cheese board and a glass of port.

The sticky toffee arrived warm and dark and swimming in toffee sauce. Harry took the first spoonful and passed the spoon to Hermione without thinking. She took it, cheeks pink, and didn’t look at anyone else.

McGonagall watched them with something soft in her eyes. Snape pretended not to notice.

When the bill came, the waiter brought it straight to Harry. He didn’t even look at the number — just handed over the rest of the cash and said “keep the change”. The waiter actually smiled this time.

Outside, the September air was cool. They stood on the pavement for a moment, full and quiet.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said, slipping her hand into his.

Harry squeezed it. “Any time.”

Tonight, though, there was sticky toffee sauce still on his tongue and Hermione’s fingers laced through his, and the feeling — for the first time in his life — that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Despite how the dinner had progressed, it had been somewhat awkward at times. Harry had never gone to dinner with anyone before; his dates with Hermione were in daylight, and they usually just walked around talking about nothing and everything at the same time. Having been through the emotionally taxing day he had had, all the adults had been keen on making light talk and not discussing the elephant in the room.

Harry felt thankful for the gesture.

Before everyone departed, Harry gently took Hermione’s hand and started walking to a specific location he had in mind. A few blocks from Rules, the group stopped. It was a small, enclosed garden with simple landscaping: flower beds, benches, some plane and ivy trees spread around, and gravel paths with benches adorning its sides.

He was content breathing the clean air the gardens provided him. It was peaceful and made him feel as if he could blend into nature and not have to deal with his own life.

I wish things were simpler. The professors’ explanation of his parents’ murders and his own survival gave sense to the pub’s reaction when the people recognised him, and to Professor McGonagall’s reaction to it as well.

I will probably always be recognised in public. If the war had been that bad before that Halloween, then it stood to reason that the people would be grateful to the one who had put an end to it, regardless of the fact he had been a toddler at the time.

Then there is the Sirius Black issue. It is out of my control anyway, but I can't help feeling that something is wrong with him being in prison. People — and particularly scared people — were prone to believe almost anything if it meant the problem went away, even if it meant not having to deal with its consequences. Sirius Black might very well be one of those sad consequences.

The Potters have always been on the front lines of major changes or conflicts. That meant Harry would also be there, worst come to worst. Do I have to, though? He had no connection to his family’s history; he had barely a year of knowing that magic was real. Furthermore, his control over it was rudimentary at best. How could he be the spearhead his dad said all Potters were?

When he opened his eyes, everyone was staring at him, silently asking why he had taken them there. After one more pause, he took a deep breath and started talking.

“I have so many questions I don’t even know where to begin.” He said truthfully. Hermione, he noticed, was having the same issue as him.

“Mr Potter, Miss Granger. You have had — pardon my language — a shit-ton of information thrown at you at once.” Professor McGonagall’s eyes widened and a small curve appeared on the corner of her lip. “You need time, a lot of time actually, to process it.”

“Minerva is right. You don’t have to figure everything out in haste.” Professor Snape agreed without hesitation. “My suggestion is this: go home. Get some rest. You can make your school purchases tomorrow, and whatever questions you have for us, you can always send us an owl.”

Harry looked incredulous. “An owl, sir?”

The pale professor snickered before answering. “Yes, Mr Potter, an owl.” Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes at her colleague’s antics.

“A magical owl, Mr Potter, not a regular one. You see, the wizarding world has many means of communication, but the most commonly used method is a letter delivered by owls. They can always — and I mean always — find their recipients. There’s no climate they can’t endure, and there’s no magic that can stop them, merely redirect them if the magic is strong enough.”

“I would imagine that takes a very long time to exchange letters, does it not?” Helen was also incredulous at that tidbit of information.

“Again, magical owls, Dr Granger. They travel faster than regular owls. We tried with the telephone a few years back, but unfortunately there’s just no way for the wires to work with magical ley lines, and our best spellcrafters and inventors have yet to come up with a solution to the problem.” Professor McGonagall replied in her teacher’s tone.

They all nodded in understanding. “There’s an owl post office in Diagon Alley, so when you go there for your school supplies, you can always send us a letter.” Harry was already thinking of getting himself an owl; maybe Hermione would like to share it with him.

“We will, professor.” Hermione was already excited about their following shopping day; Harry could feel it.

“Very well. Mr Potter, Miss Granger, Drs Granger, it’s been a pleasure.” Professor Snape turned to leave without a second thought. Harry was still intrigued by the professor’s first reaction when they met all those hours ago, but now the man seemed to be more amenable, at least.

“Harry, it’s good to have finally met you. I…” Professor McGonagall hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, and I will do my very best to right the wrong I was a part of.”

Harry choked at the apology; he wasn’t used to people treating him with respect or consideration. “I-It’s alright, professor. I’m sure you did the best you could considering the circumstances.”

I would be very glad to have this young man as a son-in-law in forty years from now. Michael and Helen thought at the same time.

Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand in support. Professor McGonagall simply stared at him with teary eyes before nodding and walking away. It was finally time to call it a day and go back to Privet Drive.

Harry had trouble getting out of bed the following morning. When he arrived back at Privet Drive, he relayed what had happened to Aunt Petunia. To say she was heartbroken to hear her sister would not have wanted her son raised by his aunt opened up the wounds in her spirit.

Memories of screams and fights with Lily had her feeling the deepest regret possible. She knew she had acted poorly, to say the least; her only consolation was that her relationship with Harry was beginning to heal, and in time she perhaps would have enough face to meet her sister in the afterlife.

With that conversation out of the way, Harry had plummeted to his bed, completely exhausted from the day’s events. Meeting the professors at the Granger residence, then his first entrance into the magical world, then… the bank. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that much emotional turmoil, but he took it in his stride as best he could.

Now, trying to get himself out of bed, he was going through the entire previous day in his head, trying to come to terms with it. Turning slightly towards his night-stand, he saw the time. I overslept. He had no time to do his morning run if he wanted to meet Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron at 9 a.m. as they had agreed.

Willing himself out of bed, Harry went quickly to the bathroom for a shower. Once that was done, he brushed his teeth and got dressed with the first thing he found. He found Aunt Petunia downstairs, silently drinking a cup of tea. Her eyes were puffy and teary.

“Good morning, Aunt Petunia,” he said softly, trying not to startle her.

“Oh, good morning, Harry,” she replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

They continued their separate doings in silence, a silence he knew was of grief more than anything else. He had met — if somewhat artificially — his parents the previous day, and his aunt had confirmed what she had feared the most: her sister had died without forgiving her. Harry knew there was more to what had happened between the two sisters than what he already knew. However, he also was aware it was not his story to tell.

His aunt had made staggering progress towards healing, but some things were just too painful to tell, at least for now. Mr Brown had taught him the virtue of patience. Aunt Petunia would talk to him when she felt ready.

“I’m off for the day, Aunt. I’m meeting Hermione for our first shopping day at Diagon Alley. Do you need anything when I get back?” Harry felt split in two emotions; on one hand he was excited to go to Diagon Alley and spend the day with Hermione, but on the other he still felt the grief of what he had seen the day before. It was maddening.

“No, dear. Say ‘hi’ to Hermione for me.” His aunt again tried to smile, but it was to no avail. She was too sad to do it sincerely. Harry nodded and placed a tray of toast and scrambled eggs in front of his aunt; he had doubts she would feed herself if he didn’t do it.

When he walked out of number 4, he couldn’t hear Petunia Evans mumbling “I’m sorry” over and over again to no one. He also missed the small lily flower that flew into the kitchen from the backyard.

Entering the Leaky Cauldron, Harry found himself being hugged tightly by Hermione. Without hesitating he wrapped his arms around her waist and breathed in the scent of her hair. The vanilla that crossed his nostrils gave him a jolt of pleasure nothing else could match. A soft cough from behind Hermione broke the two teens from their hug.

Michael and Helen were standing there with knowing smiles and looks of mirth that promised blackmail material in the future. Harry had to gulp in dread. Hermione reacted quicker than Harry and blushed deeply when she saw the looks on her parents.

Exchanging pleasantries, they walked to the back of the pub after asking Tom — the bartender — if he could open the entrance to Diagon Alley for them, as they didn’t have wands yet. Tom was a bald, toothless man with a mischievous look on his face. He looked like nothing could bring his spirit down.

When he saw them, he instantly recognised them from the previous day, so without much preamble he took them to the back and opened the archway to Diagon Alley without a fuss. They promised they would come back by noon and have lunch at the pub, to which the bartender smiled gratefully.

The first stop had to be Gringotts. With everything that had happened the day before, Harry had not made a withdrawal of galleons to pay for magical supplies. When they saw Griphook — the teller who had taken them to Eagleclaw — Harry quickly made a beeline towards the goblin.

“Greetings, Teller Griphook. May your knife pierce through your foe’s heart.” Harry repeated Eagleclaw’s salute from the previous day in an effort to be respectful to the goblin race.

The teller widened his eyes for a split second before schooling his features into a blank stare. “Greetings, Heir Potter. May your vaults bathe in your enemies’ blood.” Griphook bowed slightly at Harry, who returned the gesture. “Those greetings are not the standard way of saying hello, Mr Potter. They are saved for meetings of high importance and reserved only for our most influential account managers. I appreciate your effort, but it is unnecessary.”

“I try to be as cordial as possible, Mr Griphook. I hope I have not insulted you?” Griphook merely nodded in recognition. “I’m here to make a withdrawal from my trust vault?”

“Did Mr Eagleclaw give you a new vault key yesterday?” Harry simply nodded and handed Griphook a small gold-and-silver key with a ruby on its hilt.

After inspecting it thoroughly, the goblin teller simply nodded and asked Harry to accompany him to a back door behind the stand. Harry asked the Grangers if they wanted to accompany him, but the doctors respectfully declined — although not before nudging Hermione to go down to the vault with him.

Behind the ornamented door they found bare rock walls with little to no light. Griphook took an oil lantern and began to descend towards the mines.

“Mr Griphook, is there a reason you use oil lanterns instead of battery-powered ones?” Hermione asked with curiosity.

“As a matter of fact, Miss Granger, there is.” Griphook kept walking forward, turning his head towards the teens. “These tunnels are hidden from the naked eye; only a specific magical fire can light the way.”

Harry was impressed. He was seeing the first magical defence of Gringotts; he thought that if there ever was a thief trying to enter the tunnels, the fire wouldn’t ignite, trapping the thief until a goblin pulled him out. It was terrifying but awesome at the same time.

Harry reached for his magic and pulled it out to feel his surroundings. What he found left him speechless. Every inch of rock was covered in layers of magic; tendrils that ran deep into the ground made Harry’s eyes widen at the depth of the goblin nation and its mines.

Harry whispered his findings to Hermione, who had the same reaction as he did. She also tried to do the same as Harry but had less practice, so she couldn’t see as much as he had. Hermione pouted at that fact, which caused Harry’s heart to skip a beat. Will I ever get tired of that gesture? Unlikely.

They finally reached an archway, and they had to stop in their tracks at what they were seeing. Rails — endless rails and minecarts. It felt bottomless; the number of vaults under Gringotts and the depth to which the goblins had dug was a humbling experience for the teens. The rails swirled and crossed each other without interfering with one another. There were so many paths and minecarts that they thought not all of them could be for vaults; they had to also function for goblin transportation.

Griphook motioned for them to step inside one of the minecarts. When they seated themselves, Griphook placed the lantern in a slot at the front of the cart and locked it in place. Before they could ask anything more, the cart shot forward at an impressive speed. After the initial shock, Harry and Hermione simply grinned at each other and raised their arms in the air, laughing as hard as they could. Harry had never been on a rollercoaster before, but he doubted it could be more fun than riding a Gringotts minecart. Could I come here for a few rides just for the fun of it? Maybe I’ll withdraw one galleon a day — no way they’ll tell me “no”, right? Harry had to laugh at the thought.

Eagleclaw had explained that the trust vault was capped at 8,000 galleons, replenished automatically every 31st of July — a tradition for the Potter heir that went back centuries. The number had sounded enormous at the time, but when the vault door swung open, Harry and Hermione had to grip each other’s arms to stay upright.

Vault 687 was a cavern. Small mountains of gold galleons glinted under the lantern light, flanked by orderly hills of silver sickles and scattered bronze knuts. Harry’s stomach twisted.

He had also learned the exchange rates: twenty-nine bronze knuts to one silver sickle, seventeen sickles to one gold galleon, and each galleon worth roughly five pounds in Muggle money. The maths came easily to him — it always had. Eight thousand galleons meant forty thousand pounds, every single year since his parents died.

Forty thousand pounds a year, sitting untouched while he starved for scraps and wore clothes with holes in them.

He had asked Aunt Petunia, carefully, if the Dursleys had ever received money for keeping him. She had denied it fiercely, eyes flashing with something like shame. He believed her — and hated that he’d had to ask at all. Hermione’s hand tightened around his. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. The silence between them said enough.

He asked Hermione if she wanted him to pay for her school supplies as well, a suggestion that earned him a scowl and a hard stare. Not waiting for a verbal answer, he apologised and took five hundred galleons from the vault. He had consulted with Eagleclaw before about how much would be enough for a Hogwarts first-year, and that had been the amount they had settled on — just enough for schooling and spending money throughout the year.

A fun ride back to the surface later, both teens emerged from the same door they had entered and quickly said their goodbyes to Griphook before exiting the bank with Michael and Helen.

The Alley wasn’t as full as they had expected it to be in the middle of the week. Since the school year had already started, they figured most families just attended their jobs and very few of them had needs to cover in a shopping district to keep it as occupied as Harrods, for example, in the Muggle world.

Unanimously they decided to leave the bookstore as the last visit of the day, even after lunch. Hermione had to blush when she agreed to the plan; her bibliophile tendencies were legendary within her own family — no shame in admitting it.

That being settled, the first stop was a clothing shop called Madam Malkin’s Suits and Dresses for All Occasions. It was a small departmental store with a black interior covered in all kinds of fabrics, dummies, and colours. When Harry opened the door, a small bell on top of it rang, and from the back of the store a small woman with a wide grin approached them.

“Hello, darlings. How can I help you today?” the witch asked them politely.

“Hello, ma’am. We are looking for Hogwarts uniforms for my girlfriend and me.” Harry’s cheeks were slightly pink from excitement. He could afford good clothes now, and being honest with himself, he actually liked the wizarding world style. 

It was very 1940s, if Harry had to put a name to it — like something out of those old black-and-white films Aunt Petunia sometimes watched. The boys’ uniform was a proper three-piece suit: crisp white shirt, tie, waistcoat, tailored jacket with subtle padding at the shoulders, straight trousers, and polished black shoes. A plain black robe went over the top, falling to mid-calf, and of course the pointy black hat.

“Oh, deary, of course, of course. Would you like them in wool or velvet? Scottish weather can be harsh at this time of year, so I would suggest velvet, although it is slightly more expensive than wool.” Harry pondered the options for a moment before deciding on velvet, Hermione following suit. 

Hermione’s was the feminine version: fitted blouse, jacket with those same square shoulders, pleated skirt just below the knee, thick silk stockings, and low-heeled shoes. The robe was the same cut, but somehow it looked elegant on her. The whole thing felt formal, old-fashioned, and strangely exciting.

The witch immediately began taking their measurements, and to the group’s astonishment the measuring tape was doing its own thing while the witch — whom they assumed to be Madam Malkin — selected a few black and white velvet fabrics.

When Madam Malkin came back with the fabrics, the measuring tape finished its work and a single piece of paper appeared in front of the witch. She took one glance at it and pulled out her wand — cream-coloured with a gold handle — waving it over the fabrics she had selected.

The fabrics began shifting and changing, moulding themselves into the shapes the tailoress was willing them to take. The group watched wide-eyed as the uniforms for both teens appeared in front of them. When Madam Malkin saw their shocked expressions, she had to laugh warmly at them.

“Oh my, you’ve never seen magic like that before, have you?” They all shook their heads. “Don’t worry, dearies. Not every tailoress can do what I can; I just have more than fifty years doing this.”

“WHAT!? You can’t be more than forty years old, ma’am.” Harry’s shocked expression brought another fit of laughter from the tailoress.

“Oh, deary, you are a flatterer. You’d better keep this one, young lady.” Hermione blushed deeply. “Witches and wizards live longer, my boy. But thank you for the compliment.”

They were amazed at that new piece of information, and both internally wondered if they would ever cease being amazed by magic.

“Now that that’s done, how many sets would you like? I know the Hogwarts letter says three, but usually students take more just to be comfortable.” The witch’s smile was warm and motherly. Harry had to think about it for a moment, but before he could come up with an answer, Hermione had already made the calculations for him.

“Harry will take five sets; I’ll take seven. Also, we would like one winter coat each in the same fabric.” Harry saw her in a new light; he truly admired how her mind worked. He had come to the same conclusion, but she had a way of articulating things he didn’t think he could ever match.

“Perfect, dearies. Dragon-hide gloves and boots, and one hat each as well, yes?” At the teens’ nod, the witch went back behind the counter. Pulling out a calculator, she began doing the maths. “That’ll be 115 galleons for the young gentleman and 140 galleons for the young lady.”

They each handed the witch a sack of galleons, and she handed them a parcel with their uniforms. Saying their goodbyes, the next stop was Slug & Jiggers for their potions supplies. The second they walked inside, they wanted to leave. The smell was thick and the environment was grotesque. Jars full of viscous substances, dying and dry herbs, others full of life and moving on their own, eyes, hearts, and guts from animals they didn’t know existed were on display.

They shared a look that said I don’t want to be here. They decidedly pushed through and got their cauldron and potions ingredients in under five minutes. When they went outside, they drew a big breath to avoid gagging.

Quickly realizing they needed somewhere to carry all of their supplies, the went straight for Trunks for Everyday, to get their school trunks. The shop itself was unimpressive, very veige and very tidy. Harry bought one that included a feather light charm on it, and a push button rune to shrink and resize it at convenience, for 100 galleons and a school satchel with a small expansion charm and feather light charm for 15. Hermione just went for the same satchel as Harry and a trunk with feather light charm; she understood Harry's decision, he had to go everywhere on the tube or walking, it'd be very impractical to carry a school trunk everywhere. 

The Magical Menagerie smelled of straw, owl droppings, and something faintly like catnip. Every wall was painted scarlet with gold trim, and the noise was deafening — hooting, hissing, croaking, and the occasional indignant squawk.

A hand-painted sign above the counter caught Harry’s eye:

FAMILIARS ARE FOR LIFE Owls · Cats · Toads (Hogwarts-approved list)

Underneath, in smaller letters:

Bonded familiars share their witch or wizards' lifespan. Choose carefully.

Hermione read it aloud, eyebrows climbing. “They live as long as we do?”

The witch behind the counter — frizzy grey hair, half-moon spectacles — overheard and grinned. “Only if the bond takes, dearie. Happens more often than you’d think.”

Hermione was already kneeling in front of a large, battered basket that held the ugliest, fluffiest ginger cat Harry had ever seen. The cat stared at her with intelligent yellow eyes and gave a low, rumbling purr that sounded suspiciously like approval.

Harry found himself in front of a high perch before he’d even decided to move. A snowy owl — pure white, amber eyes — stared down at him like she’d been waiting.

Something tugged behind his ribs, the same pull he’d felt the first time he saw Hermione in that exam hall. His magic reached out on its own, gentle, curious. The owl tilted her head, and he felt an answer — a soft brush against his mind, like cool feathers.

Across the shop, Hermione had knelt by a battered basket. The ginger half-Kneazle inside fixed her with bottle-green eyes and gave a low, rumbling purr that sounded almost like a question. Hermione’s hand hovered, then settled on the cat’s head. Her breath caught.

Hermione looked up at him, eyes shining, and smiled like she’d just found the last piece of a puzzle she hadn’t known was missing.

"Can you feel them?" She asked him in a marveled tone. Michael and Helen's look shocked at the question. 

“Yeah, pretty amazing, right?” Harry was mesmerised by the feeling of this snowy owl in his mind. He sensed adoration and approval, as if she had already seen his entire life and had deemed him worthy. His heart felt content when he had that thought.

The attendant witch was in disbelief. “You bonded with her?” Harry nodded. “A-And you bonded with him?” Hermione nodded as well, wondering what the witch was on about. “Well, I’d say you two are something else, then. Those two are beyond temperamental; if I didn’t know any better I would say they were waiting specifically for you.”

Harry and Hermione felt a rush of amusement coming from their new friends. They were waiting for us. As soon as Harry thought it, the snowy owl trilled in approval, batting her wings lightly. The teens chuckled at the owl’s antics. Once they paid for their new familiars — including cages, treats, and other goods for them — they went straight for the most thrilling part of the shopping day, at least for Harry. Hermione’s number one was and would always be the bookshop.

It was time to get their wands.

Walking into Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., Harry was beginning to feel anxious and excited. The walls were covered top to bottom in small and long boxes of different colours. There was a gloomy atmosphere in the air; the lights were dimmed and the feeling of walking into mystical territory was beginning to feel overwhelming. The entire group jumped when a rough voice spoke from somewhere undetermined.

“I wondered when I’d be seeing you again, Mr Potter.” An old man appeared from behind the counter, not even looking at them directly. He was carrying several boxes with him; his glasses were hanging from the crook of his nose, and he was seemingly out of balance as he zigzagged his way towards them.

“Oh, and I see you’ve brought a friend already. I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Miss…”

“Granger, sir. Hermione Granger.” She held out her hand in greeting. The man put the boxes down on the floor before taking Hermione’s hand. When he did, a measuring tape started moving around her in quick succession. The Grangers introduced themselves, and Harry just tried to blend into the walls of wand boxes. This guy’s weird.

“Mr Potter, if you would join us over here please, that way we’ll take your measurements.” Harry sighed in defeat; he thought he would just choose a good-looking wand and that’d be it. Now he had to get measured for whatever reason. “It’s not your length the tape measures, Mr Potter; it is your personal characteristics.”

The teens looked puzzled, especially Harry. How did the old man know what I was thinking? “You see, Mr Potter, it is the wand that chooses the wizard,” the man continued as if nothing could disturb him, “not the other way around. So we wandmakers have specialised measuring tapes that read the magical cores and personalities.” Harry’s jaw dropped slightly. “It gives a rather precise reading and allows us wandmakers to try and match you with a number of potential new companions, for the wands are not mere tools to be wielded, Mr Potter.”

When the measuring tape finished with both teens, the man — whom they could only assume to be Mr Ollivander — began taking box after box of wands and placing them in front of the teens with a serious frown on his face.

Wand after wand, the teens felt absolutely nothing coming from them when they started grabbing them; it was as if their magic knew those weren’t right for them, and the wands knew it as well. However, Ollivander continued pulling wand after wand, his seriousness deepening further by the minute. Alright, enough is enough, Harry thought.

“Mr Ollivander?” The old man looked up with serious worry on his face. “Is there something wrong? Are we doing something we shouldn’t?”

The old man’s eyes widened at Harry. “Oh, heavens no, Mr Potter. It’s just that we are in a very rare situation and I’m not sure what it could possibly imply.” After a few moments of staring into nothing, Ollivander sighed and began walking to his back room. After a few moments he came back to the counter carrying two identical electric-blue boxes and placed them in front of the teens.

“I thought I would never see this day. If the measurements are correct, you two are the only witch and wizard who could possibly wield these wands. If you can’t, then we’ll have to build your wands from scratch.”

“Does that happen very often?” Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her.

“No, it doesn’t, Miss Granger. Custom-made wands are for fully trained witches and wizards who are going into specific careers — such as curse-breaking, Auror, or professional duellist — where they need the extra… punch, if you will. The main difference between custom wands and standard wands is that the custom wands are made in such a way they channel more of their user’s magic into each spell.”

“And why do you think we could use these wands in particular?” Harry asked the man, not sure if he could trust him.

“Well, Mr Potter, that is a very fascinating story.” Ollivander’s eyes misted over as he lifted the two narrow boxes from the counter.

“These,” he said quietly, “have waited fifty-two years for the right hands.”

He set the boxes on the counter once more and opened them with the reverence a priest might show relics. Inside each lay a single, perfect iridescent blue wand with faint silver lightning and a white handle. The only difference between the two was the length.

“Thunderbird feather core,” he murmured. “From the same bird. The only two that have ever crossed the Atlantic.”

Harry and Hermione leaned closer, hardly daring to breathe.

Ollivander’s voice dropped to the hush he used for the oldest stories.

“In the spring of 1939, before the Muggle world tore itself apart again, my father — Gervaise Ollivander — joined a small party of British wandmakers invited to Arizona. The Americans called it a ‘research exchange’. We called it desperation. Grindelwald was rising, and we needed cores that could match his darkness.

“They took us into lands the red-rock people still guard. For weeks we camped beneath cliffs while thunder rolled overhead and lightning walked the canyon rims like a living thing. Then one dawn an elder thunderbird — Stormcaller, the shamans named him — came down to die.

“He was ancient. His wings cast shadows the size of houses. When the shamans sang the death song, he let fall twelve perfect tail feathers — no more, no less. A gift.

“Six stayed with the tribes. Four went to Ilvermorny’s way. My father was permitted two. He carried them home in a cedar box lined with phoenix feathers down so they would not spark and burn the ship.

“He tested them for years until he was able to create these two wands. No witch or wizard in Britain have been chosen by them. Too wild. Too proud. Defeated, he locked them away and told me, ‘One day, Garrick, someone will come whose magic sings the same storm.’

“He died knowing he would never see it, but believing that I would.”

Ollivander looked from Harry to Hermione and back again, wonder softening the sharp lines of his face.

“Today, the wait is over.”

He laid one wand in Harry’s palm, the other in Hermione’s.

The moment skin touched wand, the shop lights flickered blue-white. A low roll of thunder — impossible inside four walls — rumbled through the floorboards. The wands flared, then settled, humming contentedly.

Ollivander gave a soft, almost boyish laugh.

“Welcome home, little storms.”

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Christmas, Valentine, coming of age, and summer.

Notes:

This was a hard chapter to write, and it's a long one, but I do hope you enjoy it.

December 25th, 1990.

Harry was standing in the backyard of the Granger residence in Hampstead Garden, reflecting on what had transpired in the last few months since the first visit to Diagon Alley. I can't believe it's been only months since then; it feels like forever ago.

The Grangers and he had gone back to the Leaky Cauldron right after getting their Thunderbird wands, to grab a bite of lunch before spending hours and hours at the bookshop. It was a good opportunity to try wizarding cuisine, which wasn't that much different from the Muggle world anyway, except for the beverages. When Tom brought them all bottles of something called butterbeer they lost their minds over the sweet concoction.

The rest of the lunch went by in deep conversation on the meaning of having twin-core wands, and the fact that those cores belonged to a creature that wasn't even native to the British Isles. Hermione had decided to get as many books as she could on wandlore and on Thunderbirds, to try and understand the significance of it all.

Mr Ollivander had been very helpful with his retelling of how the cores came to be, but not much else beyond that; it seemed the old wandmaker liked to be cryptic. It didn't matter anyway — Hermione would uncover whatever information was available. Harry was sure of it.

Regardless of the ins and outs of the Thunderbird wands, Harry couldn't deny the strong connection both he and Hermione now shared with their new companions. Mr Ollivander was right: they were more than just tools. He could feel the life in his own wand like a quiet hum in the wood, listening. It was intoxicating, so much that more than once he had to shake himself out of his stupor.

Before leaving the wand store, Mr Ollivander had told Harry in no uncertain terms he was not to use his wand until he turned seventeen, and even then it had to be done without any Muggle witnesses — the Statute had to be preserved. He remembered thinking that despite that minor setback, there was nothing stopping him from learning magic from books, and maybe he could even replicate the spells without a wand.

The group had moved on to the stationery shop — Ink, Quills & Parchment, the sign read. Harry had expected dusty scrolls and feather quills like something out of a history book, but the place looked surprisingly modern.

Shelves were lined with neat parchment notepads, planners, even ring-bound organisers. Harry stared. He'd only ever heard of parchment from old stories — centuries-old stuff. Hermione was already running her fingers along the covers, eyes wide.

The shopkeeper, a cheerful middle-aged witch, noticed their confusion and smiled.

"Parchment's still the only material that properly holds a magical signature," she explained. "Ink and quill tips carry the magic into it — nothing else works quite the same. But we've moved on from loose sheets and ink pots, thanks to Mrs Knox."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Mrs Knox?"

"Sandra Knox, Muggle-born, brilliant woman, class of '72. Hated lugging rolls of parchment around, so she invented the notepad — binding parchment sheets without breaking the signature conduction. Took her years to get the charms right. Then she made the self-inking quill-pens — look like Muggle fountain pens, but the nib's real quill, and they refill themselves from a little bottle you carry. No more dipping and no more spills. She's a hero."

Hermione picked up a sleek black quill-pen, turning it over in her hands. "That's... actually really clever." Harry took one too. It felt light, balanced. He could already imagine writing with it. He smiled to himself. Even here, in a world of pointed hats and velvet robes, someone had looked at the old ways and thought, there has to be a better way.

Getting the supplies had been easy enough; Hermione even got herself a colour-coded planner that Harry knew she would use for him as well — or more like on him.

Then had come the bookshop Flourish and Blotts, the one place everyone knew they would spend the most money and time on. The shelves were packed with books of all different sizes and thicknesses, classified in different categories: Transfiguration, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, History of Magic, Herbology, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Muggle Society, Wizarding Society and Politics, Care of Magical Creatures, Quidditch and Other Sports, Divination, and other different subjects.

Hermione was in heaven.

She quickly grabbed the books on their core subjects, Harry quickly following behind her, and after they were done with the required list of books, they grabbed a couple of extras about wizarding customs and politics, magical creatures, and wandlore they could find within their budgets. It came to a staggering fifteen books each, which felt weird for Harry; he had always read from the public library, so that was the first time he had ever purchased books to read at home.

By the time the store was about to close, Hermione was finally broken out of her trance and they were able to pay and leave. Safe to say she was blushing furiously about the way she had acted. Harry thought it was beautiful, so he had given her a soft kiss to let her know it was alright to love books as much as she did.

The following weeks had been different from anything he had ever experienced before — in a good way, he mused. First it had been Hermione's seventeenth birthday. He was saddened to learn she had never had anybody other than her close family come to her house and celebrate her birthday with her.

It made sense to Harry; she was unbelievably intelligent, resourceful, courageous, and kind. In his mind she was overwhelmingly beautiful both in looks and in heart, and those traits, unfortunately for her, could be intimidating among their peers. And what do children and teenagers do when they feel threatened or overshadowed? They turn to bullying the threat or isolate it so the danger is no more. It's the way human behaviour goes.

He had met those types of people many times at Stonewall High. If not for his control, he was sure he would've put several people in hospital with his bare hands. Thankfully, word had gone around and the bullying and isolation tactics had lessened, if not entirely disappeared.

Shaking his head away from those days, he continued reminiscing on the last couple of months. Remembering Hermione's birthday had brought a smile to Harry's face. He had gifted her something she had not expected: a set of teardrop-shaped sapphire earrings. It was a bit expensive — he knew it, she knew it — but neither of them cared about it. 

She was teary and overwhelmed, and he was proud of his boyfriend skills. She tackled him almost to the ground in a fierce hug that took the air from his lungs, but he didn't care, from his point of view, almost everybody would gift her something useful for school or day-to-day activities; nobody would think of jewellery, and he'd be damned if he didn't get her nice things for her birthday. 

They had spent the following days split between Hampstead Garden and Privet Drive. Harry had quit his job at the Chinese supermarket — Hermione was not too happy about it, but he reasoned with her that he wanted to spend time with her and Aunt Petunia before leaving for Hogwarts, and the fact he was now apparently loaded with money made his need for work moot. They had begun reading the course material, and he began having a deeper understanding of how magic actually works, and he knew that what he was capable of was not normal.

Magic was essentially the ability to change and manipulate energy from within the witch or wizard or from their surroundings. He understood in principle that energy never dies, merely transforms, so when he read that definition it made complete sense to him.

Through Muggle science, the magical world had determined that what makes magical beings different from Muggles were a series of pathways that spread throughout their bodies and were linked to their centres. This centre was not a physical location but a metaphysical one, one that no Muggle or magical could reach, and it was what they referred to as a "magical core".

Every magical being could reach their cores with training; for witches and wizards they needed their wands to be able to channel their magic into the physical world; for goblins, however, their magic was so wild — linked to their warrior nature — that they could channel it outwards with their hands and fingers. Other beings couldn't wield magic to transform the world around them, but they could wield it to transform their bodies; that is how some sentient beings had come to be.

There were other magical creatures that predated humans and had magical properties in their bodies which could be harvested after their deaths. Harry was fascinated by the concepts, but upon understanding them he realised he was somehow different from the rest. After a slight panic attack about it — one that Hermione was able to calm him out of — Harry decided to put that thought out of his mind for the time being. There was no point in worrying about something he couldn't change.

Soon the Christmas fever arrived, and the Grangers — especially Hermione — were caught up in it. There was so much to buy that Harry felt dizzy just thinking about it: food, ornaments, presents, more food. It was overwhelming compared to how little he had lived up until that point. He had to remind himself that he could now actually afford it, to stay grounded and enjoy the outing.

He had only a few people to buy presents for, but all of them were important to him. For Hermione, he chose a beautiful blue-and-silver jewellery box with a card that said:

I promise I will spend my days filling this box for you, as long as you'll have me.

She would love it — or at least he hoped she would. For Michael and Helen, he bought dress suits charmed to always keep their wearers cool. Mr Brown was trickier; aside from the fact that he had helped Harry with his trauma, Harry didn't really know the man. In the end he decided that every man would appreciate a luxury fountain pen. It was shiny black with gold details.

He considered sending something to Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, but he didn't know them at all. Moreover, he was certain they weren't supposed to know him yet, so sending them a gift would be inadvisable. The thought made him flinch slightly. Albus Dumbledore had left him with his aunt and uncle along with a letter filled with pretty but misleading words. Considering how the professors had reacted when they met Harry, it was clear his living conditions had been kept secret from most people. Yes, sending them anything would be reckless, to say the least. He still wasn't sure what he would encounter at Hogwarts.

Aunt Petunia. Her gift had been the most difficult one to choose. Harry had forgiven her fully; he understood she had been as much a victim as he was, simply trying to protect herself and her son from her husband. That wasn't an excuse, of course. Forgiving her didn't mean he had forgotten the neglect or the inaction in protecting him. Regardless of the past, he wanted this Christmas to be different from the previous ones.

It had been a difficult year for Petunia Evans. After the death of her husband — something she still didn't understand how neither she nor Harry had been imprisoned for — she had opened her eyes to what her son had become and felt disgusted by what she saw. Dudley was on a one-way track toward becoming the same kind of abusive man Vernon had been, and she didn't know what to do about it.

Months passed, and after beginning sessions with Mr Brown at his private practice — on Harry's suggestion — she realised that Dudley would have to face real-world consequences if he was ever to become a better man, or even a better person.

Another aspect of her life was her relationship with Harry, which was slowly becoming integral to her emotional and mental well-being. Harry, thinking about all of this, struggled to choose a present for his aunt. He didn't truly know her — not really. What could he possibly give her? Then one morning he came across a flower shop with beautiful roses, tulips, and lilies. He picked a lily sprout, some fertiliser, and a Christmas card for his aunt.

On the card he wrote:

"I know a flower can't ever replace my mum, but I hope this lily can help you heal — HP"

He hoped she would plant it and nurture it as best she could. After all, she always did love her garden, and despite having him take care of it, she usually was right there by his side working on it as well. Because of the type of present he was getting her, the present had to be delivered before Christmas Day. He could still remember her eyes watering because of it and her trembling hands when she gave him a photo album containing pictures of his mum growing up with the Evans. The album had given him his first real contact with his mum, and it was something he would forever treasure. 

A hand gently caressed his back, and he was pulled from his thoughts. Hermione was standing next to him in a winter coat and scarf, smiling broadly at him. Harry smiled back at her and took her hand in his, not caring about the cold. The winter breeze, the London night, the family inside the house — it was the perfect moment. He whispered it, almost as if he wanted to speak inside her mind instead of with words.

"I love you."

Their eyes locked on each other. Hermione's breath caught in a calm she had never felt before. No insecurities, no hesitation, no doubt. She knew they were far too young to even think about family, but if what she was feeling was right, she knew, deep down, this was the person she wanted beside her for all the big moments moving forward.

"I love you too," she whispered back, and Harry's eyes filled with happy tears. Hermione had given him his first hug, his first kiss, and his first "I love you" in his life. He would do everything so that he could have more first times with her.

The dinner had been great. The Grangers had really put in the work to make everything look as delicious as possible. Of course, Harry had volunteered his help in the kitchen, a gesture that Helen fully appreciated. The roast turkey looked crispy brown, and Harry could smell the orange from it so much that his mouth watered. There were roast potatoes topped with rosemary and a tad of olive oil, gravy, cranberry sauce, and Brussels sprouts, carrots, and parsnips.

The Christmas pudding was no joke either; Harry was actually considering asking if he could move in just so he could have more of that pudding. Helen Granger is a witch in the kitchen. He chuckled at his bad inside joke.

At one point he just stood near the fireplace, looking at the Grangers talk about whatever topic they had in mind, and he couldn't help but smile at the sense of familiarity he had with these people. My life has truly changed.

February 14th, 1991.

Fuck, I'm nervous. Why am I feeling this way? It's Hermione. I love her, she loves me, we know each other. Why am I feeling so fucking scared? Get a grip, Potter. You are not going to screw this up. You're going to get out of this house, pick up your girlfriend, and you'll have a lovely Valentine's Day with her, because it's fucking Valentine's Day.

Harry stared harshly at his own reflection. He couldn't believe the amount of freaking butterflies living for free in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't as if he had invited them; they had just allocated themselves there without asking or even signing a lease agreement. It was maddening. Is Hermione feeling the same way?

The plan had been simple enough; it was Thursday afternoon, and he had miraculously managed to get a couple of tickets to a musical play that was quickly turning into a major hit in London called Les Misérables, being performed at the Palace Theatre. It was based on the historical novel by Victor Hugo, and he just knew Hermione would completely love the performance. He had thought of The Winter's Tale by Shakespeare, but he thought it would be too much in her face.

After the play, they would get dinner at a restaurant called The Ivy, supposedly a place for high-end celebrities and famous personalities, that served British classics and some international delicacies.

Finishing the evening with a nice stroll at St James's Park before taking her back home before midnight like he had promised her parents. Simple.

It wasn't simple. It was Hermione — beautiful, smart, and amazing Hermione. Breathe, man, breathe. It's going to be okay. You made the plan, now execute the plan. Stop fretting. Breathe, breathe, breathe...

Harry had to force his mind to engage with reality once again. What he saw couldn't possibly be real. He had knocked at the Grangers' front door and waited for Hermione to come out, but the girl who opened it wasn't the bushy-haired, book-clutching Hermione he knew. 

She was wearing a soft periwinkle blouse that caught the porch light, tucked into a matching skirt that fell just past her knees. Her hair — usually wild and untamed — was pulled into a loose bun, with a few deliberate strands curling down to frame her face. A gentle touch of makeup highlighted her eyes (darker, warmer) and brought out the faint freckles across her nose he'd never really noticed before.

She looked... older. Elegant. Like someone who belonged on a stage or in one of those old photographs his aunt kept hidden away.

Of course it's her, you idiot. Say something.

"Wow." Not that! Say something else. "Y-You l-look b-breathtaking." There you go. Now calm the fuck down and take your girlfriend on a nice date.

Hermione's cheeks went pink, but her smile was bright and sure as she took his offered hand.

"You look quite dashing yourself, Mr Potter."She truly was a beautiful sight to behold.

Thankfully everything went according to plan. The musical was awesome; he hadn't thought he would enjoy it so much having read the book before, but the music was endearing, the story was well adapted, and the emotion the singers brought to the characters was heartfelt.

The restaurant had been a vision in decoration and taste. The restaurant was coloured in bright yet somehow soothing colours, the tables were well placed and welcoming, with comfortable chairs to boot. The food had been incredible, making Harry vow they would go at least once a year on a special occasion. Hermione smiled warmly at him, giving her own approval.

The walk in the park was the best part of the evening, however. They were both so relaxed and comfortable with each other that the conversation simply flowed from one topic to the next, never interrupting the other, never stepping on the other's ideas or opinions, always speaking from the heart in loving whispers.

They sat on one of the benches to have a quiet moment. Harry looked into her eyes — warm, chocolate, deep eyes — and lost himself in them. Hermione did the same, calming her breathing as much as she could. Neither of them were much for public affection, but when one lives with her parents and the other with his aunt, there aren't many moments in which they can just indulge in some physical exchanges.

Harry wanted to savour the moment, not wanting it to end. He leaned in slowly, tasting the air around them. His eyes went to her perfectly thin lips just as she bite her lower one in preparation; that gesture almost made him lose his mind, but he waited. He wanted her to finish the distance and meet him in the middle.

He also licked his lips, and Hermione wasn't as controlled as he had been. She launched at his mouth, not wanting to waste a single second. The kiss was slow and firm, and soon she slipped her tongue out questioningly; his answer was opening his mouth to it, letting her in.

Their tongues were exploring, tasting, claiming to prove to the other who wanted it more. One of his hands was caressing her lower back while the other gently gripped the back of her hair, letting her know with no uncertainty he wasn't letting her go. Her hands were on his neck pulling him down to her while caressing his hair with as much love as she could give him.

Neither of them wanted to breathe; they couldn't fathom whatever for it was needed. Kissing each other was all that mattered in the world. Eventually they did broke apart to breath, ther jaws were sore from being wide open for so long, but their goofy grins were everything they needed to know that the experience had been enjoyable by both of them. 

This, was a Valentine's day neither would forget. 

As time went by after Hermione received her Hogwarts letter, they had decided to exchange correspondence with both Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape. It had started with small topics, but the more letters went back and forth, the deeper the conversations became.

Hermione was the only one who could practise wand magic — within her parents’ house, of course — while Harry settled for learning the wand movements and theory. Through the professors’ letters, they began to understand the new world opening up to them.

Hogwarts’ curriculum served as both secondary school and higher education — modern specialised degrees didn’t exist in the Founders’ time, so they built everything into seven years. It had been a difficult decision to delay formal magical education until seventeen. Before schools, most learned through expensive, hard-to-find apprenticeships even in the Muggle world, leaving the general population knowing little if anything — not even the simplest concepts.

The Founders had debated taking in children and letting them develop from early accidental magic. They quickly discarded the idea after seeing an immature child use excessive force against someone defenceless. Rowena, ever the scholar, ran the necessary arithmancy and determined the average age at which a witch or wizard reached full magical and emotional maturity. When the others saw her findings, they agreed seventeen was far safer than eleven.

Harry and Hermione were surprised to learn the Founders had created an early decree — a precursor to today’s Statute of Secrecy — compelling magical communities to help Muggle-born teenagers control accidental magic, so families wouldn’t cast them out or worse, fearing devilry. It was a deeply superstitious time. When the statue came into fruition, and magical governments came to existence, controlled obliviation or memory blocks were included in the everyday practices. 

With that settled across many communities, they laid the foundation for the curriculum. The first three years were the equivalent of secondary school, ending with N.E.W.T.s at the end of third year. At the end of second year came mid-level exams called O.W.L.s — enough qualification for most jobs in the magical world. Many from poorer families left after O.W.L.s; two years of schooling was cheaper than seven.

The final four years were dedicated to university-level specialisations called Masteries. A student could choose anything — healing, defence, charms, enchantment — the possibilities were vast. Unfortunately for Hermione, they could only take two or three at most due to the demanding workload, though they would have until the end of third year to decide.

It humbled Harry to learn there was so much they still needed to learn — that it wasn’t all flashy spells and party tricks. Magic could very well be a destructive force if not controlled, if not harnessed with the correct approach.

The entire curriculum included seven core subjects and up to three electives per student from the beginning. The core subjects were Transfiguration, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, and History of Magic. It was a good mixture of theoretical and practical classes. The electives were Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Society/Wizarding Society, and Divination. They had found a nice little pamphlet in Hermione’s Hogwarts letter that gave them time to make an informed decision.

Students could take Masteries in any individual subject, or combine them into specialised ones. For example, Charms and Runes together led to an Enchantment Mastery — Hermione’s eyes had lit up at that. Defence, Charms, and Transfiguration could form a Duellist Mastery, which Harry quietly thought might suit him. Healing Mastery combined Charms and Potions. The possibilities were vast.

Unfortunately for Hermione, they could only take two or three at most due to the demanding workload, though they would have until the end of third year to decide.

Throughout the letters, he was also kept in the loop about Sirius Black’s case. It was difficult, to say the least, and moving slowly. Because of his prolonged stay in prison, his mental state wasn’t the best; it was his word against some very powerful people. Memories and wills weren’t admissible in magical court — magic made most evidence tamperable. Memories could be altered, documents forged, even truth serum wasn’t fool-proof against skilled Occlumens (mind magic experts).

Harry’s stomach twisted reading that. Powerful people could bury the truth, and no one could stop them. It felt too familiar.

Unfortunately, the only way to prove Sirius’s innocence was to find Peter Pettigrew — if he was still alive and Sirius hadn’t killed him, as he claimed. The reason the professors knew so much was the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones — a friend of Sirius and Harry’s parents — was quietly pushing the case forward. Harry didn’t know her, but he was grateful for the effort.

July 31st, 1991.

He was finally of age. It felt strange somehow, because he had spent his entire life in the Muggle world; seventeen didn’t actually feel like adulthood. The legal age of majority in Muggle Britain was eighteen, so he still wasn’t allowed a pint in any pub. How could he be an adult and not be allowed to drink? It was unnerving.

Throughout the year he had learned more and more about his parents: how they were as people, what their views on politics and society had been, what Masteries they had achieved, who their friends were.

It was information he didn’t even know he needed, but as he learned it, his heart grew that much fuller with all kinds of warming feelings. Lily had been an enchantress and a potioneer, and in fact had been on the verge of inventing a cure for lycanthropy — which was something to be said. She had wanted to do a Healing Mastery, but the war was already raging and she just didn’t have the time to get to it. His father, on the other hand, had always been a transfiguration prodigy. At one point he had wanted to go for the Duellist Mastery, but he settled for just Transfiguration and a Law and Finances Mastery. He had needed those to be able to manage the Potter vault and investments.

He had also realised he had taken more after his mum than his dad. Lily Evans had been a kind and giving person who didn’t shy from defending others. His dad, on the other hand, had been a brash and unhinged jokester as a young adult — something his mum did not approve of at the beginning. It was only when they were at Mastery level that she saw his pranks were always directed at people who misbehaved with others, and they were as unharmful as possible.

By the time they began fourth year, they had started going out, and soon they were joined at the hip. They were, for all intents and purposes, Hogwarts’ Golden Couple. Coincidentally, Hermione was also a Muggle-born like his mum had been, and he was sure they would earn the same nickname throughout their schooling.

They had also been Head Boy and Head Girl by their third year, and Assisting Teachers when they started on Mastery levels. Safe to say, they were both very popular in their school days. Harry now knew his parents’ legacy went beyond just his last name; they had been the kind of people others followed — not because of servitude, but because they inspired loyalty.

Shaking away his thoughts, he got ready for his first-ever birthday party — gathering? He wasn’t sure a couple of people could be considered a party. The Grangers and Aunt Petunia had agreed to host it at the Granger residence; Harry had too many bad memories at Privet Drive to want to have a party there. Being his first-ever party, they went all out on presents and decorations. The cake had been a red velvet chocolate cake covered in fondant and with figurines resembling a mixed martial arts fight. He completely loved it.

When it came time for presents, Harry had become overwhelmed. Michael and Helen had given him a beautiful wristwatch — it had leather straps, a gold frame, and black hands. Aunt Petunia had gone out of her way to give him a good present. When he opened the big box she handed him, he gasped. Inside there were first editions of The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia. He had always wanted to have his own collection of fantasy novels. He looked at his aunt and saw a genuine smile on her face, and he felt that much lighter, the fact that it was Vernon's death anniversary gave more weight to the gift. 

When it came time for Hermione’s gift, Harry’s stomach flipped.

She handed him a small velvet pouch, cheeks pink. “It’s not much,” she said quickly. “I made it myself.”

Inside was a thin silver chain and a flat disc of polished moonstone, no bigger than a Galleon. On one side she had engraved a tiny lightning bolt curling around an open book. On the back: their initials — H.P. & H.G. — and the date they met, June 15th 1990.

Harry stared. He turned it over in his fingers, and the stone caught the light, flashing faint silver like distant lightning.

“I thought…” Hermione bit her lip. “The moonstone holds reflections. I don’t know how to explain it, but when I was working on it, I kept thinking about you. And it started to feel… warm. Like it knew.”

Harry slipped the chain over his head. The pendant settled against his chest, right over his heart. It was cool at first, then — almost like a breath — it warmed.

He looked up at her. “I can feel you in it.” Hermione’s eyes went wide.

“Really?” She was amazed, it was something she had not expected. 

He nodded. The warmth wasn’t strong, just a quiet pulse, like her hand on his when she calmed his panic attacks. He pulled her into a hug, the pendant pressed between them. “It’s perfect,” he whispered into her hair. “Best thing anyone’s ever given me.”

She held him tighter, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

August 1st, 1991.

Harry had had trouble sleeping. He had enjoyed his birthday for the first time in his entire life (he didn’t remember his baby years) — the presents, the cake, but especially the people who had taken the time to be there for him. When he got home to Privet Drive he felt knackered; however much he had tried to sleep, he couldn’t. He would be able to spend the entire month of August practising real wand magic with Hermione. She had done all the first-year spells already, and some extras as well. He had the wand movements down, and he could perform some of the spells wandlessly because of his unknown ability, but he just knew that with a wand he would feel that much more right.

It was 5 a.m., so he got out of bed and started getting ready for his morning run. He went downstairs, made his usual stretches, and without pause started his morning routine. Running always gave him peace, centred his thoughts, and calmed his magical core. It always felt like a storm on pause, and it was unsettling to feel. When he didn’t know it was magic, he thought he was a ticking time bomb, which is why he had dived into the counselling with Mr Brown and all of his suggestions. He had needed to control whatever was happening to him.

The meditations and runs had helped him loads, and what was once a raging storm now felt like a calm whirlwind waiting to be unleashed at will. He didn’t know how his magic would react to him using a wand, and that made him anxious and nervous. Concentrate, man. You’ve got this. Sometimes his inner thoughts felt almost like talking to someone else entirely; he knew that wasn’t the case — otherwise he would have to go to a mental facility — but it gave him pause and allowed him to rationalise whatever he was thinking about at any moment.

Right then, on his run, his mind kept going back to what had happened two years ago on his birthday. He knew he had done something, that his magic had reacted; however much he tried, he couldn’t remember it. Vernon had died, his cousin had gone to a correctional facility, and his aunt and he had been acquitted.

The official story had been that Vernon had stumbled drunk as one could possibly be and hit his head on the kitchen counter, splitting his head and bleeding out. In an enraged state he had launched himself towards Aunt Petunia just when Harry came back home. Upon seeing Harry, they got into a fight that ended with Vernon severely injured and, due to his intoxicated state, he quickly died before the police or paramedics could arrive.

That’s a bullshit lie if I ever heard one. He knew that hadn’t happened; he couldn’t remember it clearly, but he knew something was there, and it rattled him to no end. When he turned the corner back towards Number 4, he saw a black car parked in front of their home. He slowed to a fast walking pace and headed to the front door. When he was about to turn the knob, two voices stopped him.

When he turned around, he saw a man and a woman in business suits and sunglasses. They had a no-nonsense attitude, which Harry appreciated in people, and strict posture. The man was the same bald man who had answered the call two years prior, and the woman had autumn-red, shoulder-length hair and sharp facial features. His magic recognised them as magical people, so he cut to the chase straight away.

“Magical Law Enforcement, I take it?” Harry whispered while raising an eyebrow in their direction. Their shocked expressions brought a smile to Harry’s face. “Don’t worry, officers. Your secret is safe with me. Please, do come in.”

The magicals shook their heads out of their surprise and walked inside the house after Harry. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get my aunt and maybe we can have a word.” The witch and wizard took seats in the living room while Harry went to get his aunt. Two minutes passed, and Harry came back with Aunt Petunia quickly following behind him.

“Mr Potter, my name is Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. With me is Kingsley Shacklebolt — Senior Auror for the Department.” Harry’s eyes almost fell out of their sockets at the positions these magicals held.

“Pardon any disrespect, ma’am, but why are such high officers visiting me? Am I in trouble?” Harry’s voice had become slightly icy; he didn’t mean to sound threatening, but high-ranking magical officers were visiting his house early in the morning after his seventeenth birthday, and he didn’t know why. I’m paranoid; sue me.

“You’re not in trouble, Mr Potter. We are just here to do our jobs.” Amelia motioned for them to sit down before continuing. Aunt Petunia had brought a tray of tea she had already made for when Harry returned from his run. “Do you remember what happened two years ago?” His blood turned cold; he merely nodded in response. Aunt Petunia was pale.

“You have to understand, Mr Potter. When accidental magic is used — especially one so strong as yours — the law is to Obliviate the people involved or to put memory blocks if Obliviation is not advisable.” Mr Shacklebolt spoke, taking the thread from Ms Bones. “We are here to remove said blocks from both of you.”

Something didn’t make sense to Harry. “Why would you put a block on me if I’m the one who used accidental magic? Shouldn’t I be made aware of what happened? According to the Founders’ statute, your role in Muggle-born or -raised families is to ensure the safety of the family, not to hide the truth from the magical child.” He was angry, and the storm inside him was starting to slip its leash.

Amelia held up a hand, calm but firm. “You’re right to question it, Mr Potter. And you’re right about the statute. But this wasn’t ordinary accidental magic. You sent a deliberate shockwave at your uncle — one that would have knocked him unconscious if he hadn’t struck his head on a rock. You defended your aunt, yes… but you didn’t just react. You chose.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I… attacked him?”

Kingsley nodded slowly. “That shockwave wasn’t normal accidental magic. Nobody knows how you did it — it shouldn’t have been possible at your age, not with that kind of control. We blocked the memory to protect you from what it would have done to you back then. A fifteen-year-old boy believing he’d killed someone with magic… do you see why we did what we did?.”

They decided what I could handle? The anger flared hotter for a second, then ebbed. He looked at Aunt Petunia’s pale face, at her trembling hands on the teacup.

They’re right, he realised. I would’ve exploded in shame and self-hatred. 

Harry exhaled slowly. “Thank you… for protecting me. Even if I hate that you had to.”

Amelia’s expression softened. “We wait until seventeen for a reason, Mr Potter. Some burdens need a mature mind to carry them.” Harry nodded in gratitude. “Now, for the reason we came ourselves directly — well, you probably already know by now, but you’re quite the celebrity in our world. The Minister for Magic insisted we took care of this personally; when Mr Shacklebolt here came in two years ago, I was waiting for him outside. We thought two officers would be too much.”

After Harry’s approval for them to remove the blocks, they pulled out their wands in a flourish and pointed them at their foreheads. One quick spell afterwards, and Harry remembered everything. He started hyperventilating.

Before he knew what he was doing, he let out a roar that seemed to have stopped time itself. In the blink of an eye, Vernon turned to him and before one step was taken in Harry’s direction, Vernon flew across the kitchen and into the backyard. Glasses shattered, and lights flickered. Harry was standing at the front door heavily breathing, whilst Petunia was silently crying and shivering.

Harry’s chest was moving up and down fast, adrenaline pouring through his veins. With each breath he took, his heart grew calmer, and the energy surrounding him began receding. Slowly, he took a few steps towards his aunt. Seeing her up close, he confirmed his earlier thoughts. Petunia was as much a victim as he was. She was crying, shaking, and visibly pale for what had almost happened to her.

“Aunt Petunia?” Harry’s voice echoed across the silent kitchen, cutting through the tension that had been built with Vernon’s aggression. Harry was confused by what had happened; Uncle Vernon usually lashed out against him, not his aunt. Petunia locked eyes with him, and he saw her regrets in them. “H-Harry, c-call the police.”

Before the police arrived, Harry walked towards the backyard to check on Vernon. What he found made him gasp in shock. Vernon had always been a heavy man; his drinking problem had only worsened the issue. But the sight made Harry gag.

Vernon’s body lay twisted against the garden wall, limbs at wrong angles, blood pooling beneath his crushed skull. Harry gagged. The storm inside him had done this. He was a monster, a freak. Vernon had been right all along.

Thankfully Aunt Petunia hadn’t seen the body, still in shock from Vernon’s outburst. Harry went back to the kitchen and waited to be taken away. At least he wouldn’t have to live with his relatives anymore.

Harry didn’t know what to do or think. He was dangerous — that much was true. Was it in the best interest of the magical world that he learned magic? Wouldn’t he be a monster if he did?

Hermione.

His heart began to race faster. How could he be with Hermione now? How could she be with him? He had viciously killed his uncle; he could smell the blood and guts coming out of his body. How would she see him? She wouldn’t love a freak.

Tears began falling down his cheeks as he felt all his hopes fall apart. Flashes of his own torture — the beatings Vernon had given him: belts, whips, pans, fists, stove burns. There was a reason he always wore long sleeves.

His knees buckled; the room tilted.

He couldn’t help but feel his magic had returned everything that had been done to him — that if Harry was a monster, so too was Vernon. But still, the realization he had done something so horrific, made him start to lose his control. 

Someone yanked his shoulders and his eyes focused back on the present. Mr Shacklebolt and Ms Amelia were standing, wands pointed at him with wide eyes filled with fear. Aunt Petunia yanked him again, and he focused on her. She was also scared, but he could see it wasn’t of him, but for him.

“Harry! Breathe, honey. Breathe. Please, you need to calm down. Come back to us. Breathe with me, honey, breathe.”

The storm began to subside; his heart started to beat progressively slower. Aunt Petunia had him by the shoulders and was crying silently. She offered him a shy smile.

“Harry, it doesn’t matter what happened. You defended me when you didn’t need to. You, Harry, saved my life. I saw Vernon’s body, Harry — I remember it still — and I gotta say, if you wanted to conceal the trauma from me and my nephew, you should’ve blocked that too.” She turned to the magicals, deadpan. He hadn't remembered the body in the fake memory, because after his declaration he was sent to his room, before the body was taken out of the house. “The point is, Harry, you did nothing wrong. You are not a freak; you are not a monster. You acted out of the goodness of your heart. You could’ve hurt me too, and you didn’t, Harry. It was magic entirely directed at the one person who was tormenting us.”

Harry calmed slowly, breath by breath, until the storm inside him settled into something quiet and tired. Aunt Petunia kept her hands on his shoulders the whole time, steady and warm. When he finally met her eyes again, the fear was gone — only sadness and something like pride remained.

Mr Shacklebolt lowered his wand first, then Ms Bones. They exchanged a glance — cautious, but relieved.

“You’re back with us, Mr Potter,” Amelia said softly. “We’ll leave you to talk. If you need anything — anything at all — send an owl to the Department.”

Harry managed a nod. They Disapparated with two soft cracks, leaving only the faint smell of ozone in the air.

The rest of the summer passed quietly.

Harry told Hermione everything one evening in late August, sitting on the low wall at the bottom of her garden while the sky turned purple. He expected her to pull away — to look at him differently — but she just listened, eyes steady, hand in his.

When he finished, voice rough, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“You endured too much for too long,” she whispered. “I’m not scared of you, Harry. I’m proud of you for surviving it.”

He didn’t cry — not quite — but the relief that washed over him felt close enough.

September 1st, 1991.

King’s Cross was loud and crowded, full of Muggle families rushing to trains. Harry pushed his trolley through the bustle, trunk balanced on top, Hedwig’s cage covered with a cloth. Hermione was already waiting by the barrier between platforms 9 and 10, her own trolley beside her, Crookshanks basking in his basket like he owned the station.

She smiled when she saw him — that same bright, certain smile from the day they met.

“Ready?” she asked, taking his free hand.

Harry squeezed it. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They leaned into the brick wall together.

The barrier gave way with a rush of cool air and scarlet steam.

Platform 9¾ stretched out in front of them — bustling with families, owls hooting, trunks clattering, the great escarlet engine waiting with a low, impatient whistle.

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself. He took Hermione's hand in his, and with a gentle squeeze, the pushed their trolleys towards a new world. 

 

Notes:

I'll try to keep wording around 3.5k-4k per chapter, so not to long and not to short.