Chapter Text
It's been a week since the letters first started arriving.
It's been two days since Uncle Vernon made everyone pack their bags and leave Privet Drive.
It's been sixteen hours since they arrived at the Hut on the Rocks, a massive storm brewing around them.
It's been twelve hours since the strange man blasted down the door with a thin stick of wood and revealed to Harry the truth about who he was.
It's been twelve hours since Harry had met his father, and Harry wasn't happy.
Granted he should be happy; this is what he's wanted for his entire life, wasn't it? For his parents to be alive and free him from the shackles of the Dursleys. To have a family who will love and care for him, who won't yell at him for burning the food or throw him into a cupboard for hours if not days on end, with little food or water. And now his dream has finally come true, but that didn't stop the gnawing feeling in Harry's stomach from growing.
Harry and his father sat on one of the patio tables in front of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour with two untouched small bowls of ice cream and an awkward silence between them. Since the revelation that his father was not–in fact–dead, Harry had seldom said a word, which frustrated him to no end. There were so many things he wanted to say: Where were you? How are you alive? Why haven't you ever visited?
Why did you abandon me?
Despite the numerous questions burning the tip of his tongue, the only thing Harry could say was, "It's sour."
His father frowned, making the same face Harry does when he's upset, which was strange to think about. For years Harry had tried to get his aunt and uncle to tell him something–anything–about his parents, to learn what they were like. The only thing they ever told him was that they died in a drug-induced car crash when Harry was a baby, leaving them the burden of taking care of him. Only now did he know it was all a lie. Only now did he see that he looked just like his father. The same tanned skin and messy head of hair; the same round glasses needed due to his poor eyesight. The only difference between them were the colors of their eyes. Harry's eyes were a deep green, which differed from his father's dark brown.
"I can get you another one," said his father, rising from his seat.
"No, it's okay," Harry replied.
"It's really no-"
"I said it's okay!" Harry replied, much more aggressively.
His father looked stricken at Harry’s outburst but sat back down. They ate their ice-cream in the continued silence after that. The day they had should have been the best day of Harry’s life, it should have had him jumping with joy, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to feel much at all. He thought back to how the day started, replaying every moment in his head.
When they arrived in Diagon Alley that morning after breakfast, his father took him straight to a tall, imposing building made of polished marble, a bank called Gringotts, owned and managed by short creatures known as Goblins. After presenting a Goblin named Skull Carver a set of golden keys, they mounted a precarious looking minecart and rode what was essentially a very long and terrifying rollercoaster (not that Harry had any experience with rollercoasters having never been on one before). That led to Harry learning he had a large vault filled with coins made of bronze, silver, and gold, all of which was in his name; a vault that he vowed to never let his aunt and uncle learn existed lest they begin hounding him for money, declaring it as payment for having taken him in. Inside the vault was a pedestal with a small green reptile-skin pouch, which his father informed him was connected to his vault.
“You can withdraw up to three hundred galleons a year, until you reach the age of majority, which for wizards is seventeen years old. Once you're seventeen, you can withdraw however much you want" his father had explained with a smile. “But don’t worry about using it for your school supplies, I’ll be responsible for that.”
Harry returned his smile, but it was forced. In the back of his mind, he could hear a soft, cold voice whisper: Like you were responsible for me?
After that they stopped at another vault, the main family vault, which made Harry’s jaw drop. His vault had been big, about the size of the lunch hall back in primary school, but this vault–it could probably contain half of his primary school's gymnasium and still have some room left over. The vault wasn’t just filled with money, on the left wall were shelves filled with old books, protected by a shimmering glass. In the back of the vault was a wall with dozens, if not over a hundred wands on display. Beneath each wand was a plaque with what had to be the name of the wand’s owner–former owner–and dates written on them.
Richard Potter, 1303 - 1410.
Jane Nott-Potter, 1527 - 1602.
Lord Parson Potter, 1700 - 1809
Lady Christina Macmillian-Potter, 1803 - 1897
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said his father, walking right up to him, gripping his shoulder. “This wall is a memorial to our family. Each and every Potter to have ever lived has their wand stored here for future generations to see.”
His father gently grabbed a dark wand with a spiral design on the handle, the name Fleamont Potter 1909 - 1981, on the plaque below it. His father sniffled and caressed the wand, looking teary at the sight of it.
“This...this is my father’s wand. Your grandfather,” his father said in a shaky breath, “he was a great man. I wish-I wish you had the opportunity to meet him. He would have loved you.”
Harry could tell there was something else his father wanted to say, something he had to restrain himself from uttering. Instead of focusing on that, he looked at the wand belonging to his grandfather. Harry wondered what he was like; was he tall with a handlebar mustache, short and stocky with a bald head? Was he kind? Arrogant? Harry wished he knew.
Once they concluded their business in the Potter Vault, the once again rode on the minecart of certain terror, stopping at one final vault–one Harry wasn’t allowed to enter–where his father had grabbed a non-descript brown paper bag, which, from what Harry could see from the minecart, was the only thing inside the vault. Soon after they exited the bank and Harry was taken to a pet shop where he was allowed to pick out a pet for himself. Harry was shocked his father was allowing him something like that. Not even Aunt Petunia, who would give Dudley almost anything he wanted, would permit a dog in the house. The sole exception to this was Ripper, Uncle Vernon’s sister’s dog, whom the terrible woman would always have at her side.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Harry began wandering the store, looking at the different animals the store had to offer. While many of the animals were fairly normal, it was clear that some of them were of magical origin, such as the newt that had two heads on either side of its body, the flying seahorses, and a talking ferret that had less than kind words for Harry. After taking a left past the two-tailed dogs, Harry found himself in the reptile section of the store. When Harry made eye contact with a white cobra with purple eyes he was reminded of the python he'd inadvertently freed from the zoo weeks ago. Harry wondered if he could speak with these snakes as well, and if that was something that was common in the Magical World. (How he didn't realize he was a wizard much earlier was a mystery to him). His father however, who had trailed behind him, had forbidden him from selecting any of the snakes, glaring at the serpents with contempt. He instead redirected Harry towards the owls, talking how wizards use them for communication. Harry was annoyed at his father's interference, but complied, seeing no reason to make a big deal out of it. Looking over the owls available, his eyes landed on a beautiful, but small, owl with dark brown feathers and hauntingly large reddish-orange eyes–eyes that resembled a rising sun. Minutes later Harry and his father walked out of the store with the tiny owlet in a shiny cage. He hadn't decided on a name for her yet; he wanted to wait, to name her something special.
With this new animal companion by his side, Harry and his father spent the rest of the morning walking through Diagon Alley, going store to store to buy his school supplies. His father held on tightly onto Harry, his eyes shifting constantly with a look of barely concealed fear in them, as if he expected them to be attacked out in public. Harry tried to get him to loosen his grip, but his father was unresponsive. Harry was thankful first place they entered was close by. It was a shop filled with suitcases, trunks of various sizes, and other luggage named: Trivia’s Travel and Luggage. On the front door was an ad of a witch on a broomstick flying towards Italy.
His father had allowed him to wander around to find a trunk to place his belongings in when he went to school. A school that his father had had only briefly mentioned during breakfast that morning. Hogwarts, one of the best magical schools in the world, and the only one in the United Kingdom, hidden up north in the mountains of the Scottish Highlands. Harry wanted to ask why it was the only one, and what other magical schools existed around the world, but he couldn’t find the words. Nor did he have the time, they had to eat their food in ten minutes as his father had overslept that morning and rushed him to eat, stating they had a very busy day.
Speaking of his father, he seemed to have a tightness to his face, like he was uncomfortable. He placed a hand over his stomach from which emerged a loud grumble, making his father even more distressed.
“Excuse me, are there any public restrooms here?” his father questioned one of the employees. The man pointed to a hallway in the back of the store where other men were already waiting in line for the restroom. His father let out a soft squeak before turning back to Harry, taking out a small blue pouch, similar to Harry’s green pouch and talked into it. “I, Lord James Emilio Potter, authorize Henry Silas Potter the use of this pouch to make a purchase of an indefinite amount. If I’m not back soon, use that to buy any trunk you want.”
Handing the pouch to Harry, his father ran towards the restrooms. Harry looked down at the pouch in his hands, remembering the absurd amount of gold in the Potter Vault, all of which was-for the time being-Harry's to use. To his right, Harry saw a shelf with some very nice, high-quality looking trunks. The leather they were made of had a polished shine to it and were quite large. Harry was almost convinced he could fit into them if he sucked in his stomach enough. (A depressing thought given how skinny he was.)
“You have a good eye, little one,” said an aged woman with greying black hair pulled up into a bun. “These are from our Deluxe Traveler’s collection. They’re enchanted with a Feather-Light charm to make them easy to carry. Along with that, they also have various spatial-alteration charms added to them; one to shrink the trunk, allowing you to carry it in your pocket, the other makes it larger on the inside, giving them multiple rooms where you can store books, clothes, and other belongings. The size of the rooms depends on which trunk you chose. The one on the far left lets you store a hundred books and a standard wardrobe, while the one on the far right lets you store five hundred books and three wardrobes.”
Harry’s eyes widened at the shopkeeper’s description of her wares. The sheer volume of things he could store in the trunks was unthinkable. How could magic increase the space inside the trunks to such a degree? Harry could only wonder if this was something he’d learn at magic school.
After a further discussion with the shopkeeper, Harry chose a trunk that held two hundred books and a wardrobe and a half. The price had been rather large, a hundred fifty galleons, plus an extra twenty galleons to add a password protected Locking charm. Harry probably should have felt guilty for spending such an exuberant amount of money, but remembering the things he went through with the Dursleys, all those years in the cupboard, any guilt he may have felt was thoroughly squashed, with only a burning feeling left in its place.
After being shown how to change the password on his trunk, Harry shrunk it and stood by the front door, waiting for his father to arrive. His father arrived five minutes later, a look of relief on his face.
“Sorry about that, son. I guess I ate breakfast too fast; my stomach always gets like that when I do,” he apologized with embarrassment. Leaving the shop, he led Harry to various other stores to buy the rest of his supplies. At Apotha-Carrie’s, Harry purchased his cauldron, scales, and a three dozen phials, along with a large potion-kit filled with ingredients, from regular non-magical plants such as nettles, to the body parts of magical beings, like the wings of a fairy. At Flourish and Blotts, Harry collected his textbooks for school plus a few extra books that caught his attention.
Once his books were paid for, Harry placed them in his trunk along with his potion supplies. His father took him to a shop with extensive astronomical imagery named Castor's Constellations. Entering the shop, Harry marveled at the bright glowing globes floated in the air above, each one representing a different planet. The ceiling was covered in stars; lines connected them to make constellations. Harry saw a dark-haired boy on the second-floor loft reach out to touch one of the planets, Neptune, when it got close to him, his fingers grazing its blue surface.
Harry’s father had showed him to the back of the store, wherein laid a wide selection of telescopes with constellations and planets painted on the sides. His father picked up a red telescope with a golden lion on it, looking at it with a proud smile. At his father’s touch, the lion began to move, opening his maw in a silent roar.
“This is my favorite constellation, Leo the Lion,” said his father, handing Harry the telescope. “When you get to Hogwarts, you’ll be sorted into one of four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and…Slytherin.”
The way his father got when he mentioned Slytherin didn’t escape Harry’s notice. His eyes darkened and his hands started shaking ever so slightly, his fingers cured into a fist. The word was filled with venomous animosity, as if Slytherin House was to be blamed for all his problems. It honestly scared Harry how suddenly his father’s demeanour had changed. It reminded him of the way his Uncle Vernon would get when Harry did anything wrong. One second, he’d be happily sitting down on the couch watching the tell, the next he’d be yelling at the top of his lungs, barreling his fists down on Harry.
Harry’s heart began racing, and his ears began to pound. He didn’t know what look he had on his face, but whatever it was seemed to bring his father out of his dark mood.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get like that,” he apologized, looking ashamed of himself. Taking a breath, he took back the telescope, placing it back on its stand, looking at it longingly. “Each House is represented by a different animal, with Gryffindor House being represented by a lion. Gryffindors are bold, we’re courageous and brave. Our family has a long history of being sorted into Gryffindor, going back several generations. It’s a point of pride for us, for me.”
Harry nodded, eyeing the telescope. So, his whole family had been in Gryffindor, huh. Harry didn’t think of himself as particularly brave or courageous. If he were brave, he would have told someone about how the Dursley’s treated him, he would have told them about the cupboard. If he were bold, he would have rebelled against them, refusing to do any work. If he were courageous, he would have run away a long time ago and never looked back. If he were brave, he would confront his father about…about…
Harry let out a deep sigh, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He wasn’t brave, he was smart–he had to be. He had to learn to bite his tongue when he had the impulse to say something less than pleasant about the portions Uncle Vernon and Dudley were given at meals so that he would at least get the scraps. He had to keep himself from making sarcastic remarks when Aunt Petunia gossiped about the neighbors’ lives, about the secrets they kept hidden, as if she didn’t also have things she didn’t want anyone to know about. He learned how to hide at school when Dudley and his gang of bullies decided it was a great day to play Harry Hunting, running towards the library–the last place they’d ever willingly go into–before they could see him.
Harry wasn’t brave; he wasn’t a Gryffindor.
He didn’t choose the lion telescope, making his father subtly deflate from disappointment. Instead, he chose a silvery telescope with the image of a mighty eagle carrying a lightning bolt in its talons. Aquila, the shopkeeper called it when they went to pay, the divine eagle.
Leaving the telescope shop, they passed by a large crowd gathered in front of a store window, Harry's father gasped in excitement, pushing through the crowd to gaze at a sleek broom with a polished handle and gilded footrests. The words Nimbus 2000 were written near the top of the handle.
His father explained the concept of broom racing and Quidditch, which fascinated Harry, causing his father to beam with pride. But as the crowd grew more and more, Harry began feeling crammed in by the people around him, prompting him and his father to leave. The two headed for a clothing shop painted purple, the words Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasion painted on the sign above, so Harry could be fitted for his uniform. As they neared the shop, a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair exited the shop, smiling at the young boy at her side, her son most likely. When the woman saw Harry’s father the look of happiness she had melted away, replaced by a look of utter loathing.
“Draco, stay close to mummy,” she said to the boy in a serious tone, placing herself in between her son and Harry’s father. Harry’s father did the same.
“Narcissa,” his father greeted the woman coolly.
“Potter,” the woman sneered.
The two of them stared each other down, the air filled with tension and hostility. Harry peeked past his father only to lock eyes with the other boy. The boy's eyes widened, looking back and forth from Harry to his father, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Mother,” the boy said in a loud whisper.
“Not now, Draco,” his mother answered.
“But–”
“Not…now!” she replied through gritted teeth.
“I think your son would like to leave,” said Harry’s father, eyeing the boy.
The woman looked back at her son and grabbed him by the arm.
“Yes, I think that wise,” she answered before disappearing with a loud crack!
Harry and his father stood there, looking at the spot where the woman once stood.
“Who was she?” Harry asked.
“Not the type of person you’d want to associate with,” his father responded, glaring at the ground.
The fitting took much longer than Harry would have liked. He kept spacing out every few minutes from the boredom, moving ever so slightly, causing the tailor to keep poking him with her pins. But after nearly fifteen minutes of standing still, Harry had his school uniform, along with a brand-new wardrobe that his father had bought him. The shopkeeper said she’d have to put an order in for some of the clothes, but that they should arrive within a few days.
It was past noon when they arrived at their penultimate shopping destination, a small shop with the words Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. written in peeling gold paint over the door. When they opened the door, the smell of wood and varnish oppressed Harry’s nostrils. The store was rather cramped; behind the counter, tall shelves filled the back of the store, with long, narrow boxes stacked on them going up to the ceiling. Harry heard footsteps approach, and from within the shelves emerged an elderly man with white Einstein-like hair and wide, eerie eyes.
“Mr. Potter!” the man exclaimed, smiling at Harry’s father. “My I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, what brings you–”
The elderly man froze when his eyes fell on Harry, widening so much, they looked like they would have burst out at any second. Like the boy from earlier, he was looking back and forth between the two like he was looking at something unbelievable.
“Hello again Ollivander. I came here to purchase a wand for my son,” his father said, placing a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“Your...but I thought...he’s supposed to...HOW!?” Mr. Ollivander stumbled through his words.
“That is a long story,” his father sighed.
“I would expect so,” Mr. Ollivander nodded. “Has he met–”
“No,” his father replied immediately. “I wanted him to get used to his new reality before adding more.”
“Yes, I understand. Now young one, if you would please present me with your wand arm, we can get this started,” said Mr. Ollivander, extending his hand.
“Your writing hand,” his father clarified.
Giving Mr. Ollivander his right hand, the elderly man took out several measuring tapes and tools, taking all sorts of measurements, from the length of each individual finger to the width of his forearm. Harry quietly stood still, curious as to why all of these measurements mattered.
When he was finally allowed to hold a wand, things didn’t go as well as Harry would’ve liked. Harry went through several different wands, trying to find the right one. When he gave them a wave, things would explode or fly off the shelves, that is if they did anything at all. After each failure Mr. Ollivander would look more and more excited. His father however became anxious and tense, his forehead shone with a sheen of sweat and his fingers dug into Harry’s shoulder with every wand that passed.
What if I don’t get a wand, Harry worried. If I can’t do magic, what will happen to me? I won’t get sent back to the Dursleys…right?
The cold voice from before spoke again, louder than before: He already left you there once, and you don’t know why. Who’s to say he won’t do it again.
Fear gripped Harry’s heart at the thought of returning to Privet Drive. He couldn’t go back–he wouldn’t, he refused to do so. He couldn’t run away before, not knowing what he’d do for food and shelter, but now he had his trunk-now he had money. If he could somehow transfer them to pounds, he could run toward the countryside and live there. Anywhere is better than the Dursley’s.
“Tricky customer, eh? Well Mr. Potter, this has got to be the most fun I had since–” Mr. Ollivander trailed off, looking at Harry’s father. “...since a while, but I think I’m close. Not to worry, not to worry… Ah… yes, I wonder… why not… might be interesting, if nothing else…”
He grabbed a box from the top of one of the shelves, opening it and presenting the wand inside to Harry. “Holly with a phoenix feather core, eleven inches long, nice and supple.”
Harry reached out for the wand, desperate for it to be the one. Closing his fingers on the handle, Harry felt a rush of warmth pouring into him, filling him with energy. Slowly raising the wand, Harry gave it a small swish, causing a shower of golden light to erupt from the tip. Mr. Ollivander clapped with joy. Harry’s father silently sobbed, tears welling in his eyes and cascading down his face onto Harry.
And Harry–Harry felt a huge weight fall from his shoulders knowing he wasn’t going back to the Dursleys.
Don’t be so sure, the cold voice said, anything can happen.
As they paid Mr. Ollivander, Harry’s father looked pensive. “You said his wand had a Phoenix Feather, is it from the same–”
Mr. Ollivander shook his head. “No, the two cores come from two different phoenixes. One from a reserve in Arcadia, the other was sourced here in Britain.”
Harry’s father nodded, settling seven galleons into Mr. Ollivander’s hand before leading Harry back to the Alley.
“So, where to know?” Harry asked, finishing his ice cream.
“There’s someplace I want to take you,” his father said, looking worried. “I-I don’t know how you’ll react, but you deserve to know.”
Harry stayed silent but nodded. After placing his owl in his trunk at his father’s suggestion, (Harry had to apologize profusely to her as he left her in the dark space), Harry took his father by the hand and his father apparated–a skill that was essentially teleporting, if teleporting felt like being crammed into a spinning straw–them to what looked like a hospital lobby. Unsure of where this was going, Harry followed his father onto a lift where he pressed the button for the fourth floor. Stepping off the lift, Harry’s father continued straight, going past a nurse’s station, to a room at the end of the hall. Before his father wrapped his hand on the doorknob, he turned to Harry, kneeling so both of them would be on eye level.
“Son, Harry, I know this is going to be hard to see. But just know, I’m here for whatever you need. Always.”
Now Harry was nervous. What was so distressing that his father had to give him a pep-talk before he had to see it? Just who was behind that door?
Slowly turning the knob, Harry and his father stepped into the room. In a bed lay a figure obscured by a curtain. The only thing visible was their hand.
Step-by-step Harry moved closer to the figure. And the closer he got the more scared he became. Just who was this person? Why did his father assume he would have some sort of negative reaction from seeing them. With a slightly shaky hand, Harry moved the curtain, revealing an unconscious, red-haired woman.
At once, Harry knew who it was, despite having no memory of her, he still recognized her. She looked so different compared to her sister, but there were still similarities. They shared the same bumpy nose and long neck, though hers was shorter than his aunt’s. They had the same hands, long and slender, but while Aunt Petunia kept hers well-manicured, she had cuts and burns on her hands, similar to Harry’s when he got injured while cooking.
She was beautiful. One of the most beautiful women Harry’s ever seen. Much more beautiful than the woman from earlier.
Harry turned back at his father, tears welling in his eyes, desperate for an answer. “Is this–?” he asked, unable to finish the question. His father solemnly nodded, his face nothing but mournful.
Looking back at the woman in the bed in front of him, Harry softly whispered, “Mum?”