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The morning of July 24th dawned grey and soft over the cottage, the kind of British summer morning that couldn’t quite decide between rain and reluctant sunshine. Harry Potter was already awake, sprawled across his bed with a dog-eared copy of Frankenstein propped against his knees, though he’d read the same paragraph four times now without absorbing a single word.
Tomorrow, they were going to Diagon Alley. Tomorrow, he’d buy his wand, his cauldron, his books—everything he needed for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He’d known about magic his entire life, of course.
There had never been a dramatic revelation, no Hagrid crashing through a door on a rocky island, no astonished discovery that he was a wizard. Harry had grown up with floating candles at breakfast on his birthday, with his father charming the garden gnomes into elaborate little hats on weekends, with his mother teaching him to read star charts before he could properly tie his shoelaces. Magic was as ordinary and extraordinary as breathing.
Still, the reality of Hogwarts—of leaving home, of sleeping in a castle tower, of learning proper magic from professors who weren’t his parents—had begun to settle into his bones like tidewater rising. He was excited. He was also, if he was honest with himself, a little nervous.
A soft knock came at his door.
“Harry? Up and at ‘em, love. Your father’s made pancakes, and I refuse to let them go cold while you dawdle over Mary Shelley.”
Harry grinned, folding the book closed.
His mother, Mikaela Starveil, had a voice like honey but with an undertone that suggested she always knew exactly what you were doing, thinking, or attempting to get away with (Harry knew better than to put that to the test). She was an astronomy professor at Hogwarts, a witch of considerable reputation, and she’d raised Harry with an open, cheerful affection that left no room for doubt about his place in the world.
“Coming, Mum!” he called back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
The cottage smelled of butter and cinnamon and something faintly smoky from the enchanted stove that Barty Crouch Jr.—Harry’s father, though most of the wizarding world knew him as Professor Crouch—had insisted on installing three years ago after one too many near-disasters with Muggle gas. Harry padded downstairs in his bare feet, hair sticking up in twelve different directions despite his mother’s best efforts over the years to tame it, and found his parents already at the kitchen table.
Barty looked up from the Daily Prophet—which was moving slightly, as if agitated by the headlines—and raised an eyebrow at Harry’s appearance.
“Good morning, chaos incarnate. Sleep well?”
“Fine,” Harry replied, sliding into his chair and reaching immediately for the stack of pancakes. “Thanks for asking, Dad. Love you too.”
Mikaela set a cup of tea in front of Harry—mild, with one sugar cube, just how he liked it—and pressed a kiss to the top of his untamable head.
“One more day, sweetheart. Are you ready?”
“I think so.” Harry poured syrup over his pancakes with the careful precision of someone who’d learned the hard way what happened when you got too enthusiastic. “I’ve read Hogwarts: A History twice. Well, mostly. The bits about plumbing were a bit much.”
“The plumbing is historically significant,” Mikaela told him, sitting down with her tea. Her dark hair was loose today, falling past her shoulders, and she wore a soft grey jumper that made her look more like a Muggle artist than a distinguished professor. “You’ll appreciate it when you understand why the third-floor girls’ lavatory floods every full moon.”
“Every full moon?” Harry frowned. “That seems like a design flaw.”
“It’s a feature,” Barty mused dryly, turning a page of the newspaper. The headline—MINISTRY CONFIRMS NEW DRAGON RESERVE IN ROMANIA—shimmered in gold ink as said dragons soared on the paper. “Hogwarts was built by people who thought ‘indoor plumbing’ was a passing fad. The castle has its own logic. You’ll learn to respect it or you’ll learn to carry a waterproof cloak.”
Harry laughed.
Home is where he grew accustomed to his mother’s gentle teasing; his father’s dry wit; their family cat (a Birman named Nebula, who had a habit of waking Harry up just at the right time on school days and somehow let him sleep on weekends); an endless wonder for literature—a habit he got from his parents; and enchantments woven into the property to keep the garden booming even in winter.
He couldn’t imagine growing up anywhere else.
July 25th was exactly one week before Harry’s eleventh birthday.
He dressed in his favorite trousers (comfortable, broken in, with a small patch on the left knee that his mother had sewn into the shape of a constellation—how she was able to was one of the greatest mysteries of the universe) and a dark green jumper. His father had laid out a light jacket by the door because even in July London had a way of being colder than expected, even with the already warm jumper.
“Emergency kit?” Mikaela asked as they gathered by the fireplace.
Harry patted the small satchel slung across his body. “Charm-laced handkerchiefs, a silencing device for crowded spaces—Dad’s idea—chocolate, and a map of the London Underground in case we get separated.”
“Good boy.” Barty took a pinch of Floo powder from the ornate jar on the mantelpiece. “You remember the etiquette? Speak clearly, keep your elbows in, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t look down.”
“I’ve been using Floo travel since I was four, Dad.”
“And you screamed the first three times.”
“I was four.”
Barty’s mouth quirked into a small smile.
“The principle remains.”
They traveled together—Mikaela first, then Harry followed by his father, the world dissolving into a whirl of green flames and spinning hearths before solidifying into the grand fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry stumbled slightly on the dismount, but Barty caught his arm, steadying him with the easy reflex of long practice.
The Leaky Cauldron’s barman, Tom, greeted them with a bow that was almost theatrical. “Professor Starveil, Professor Crouch! And young Harry—my, how you’ve grown. Eleven this year, isn’t it?”
“Next week,” Harry said politely, because his mother had taught him that manners cost nothing and bought everything.
“Hogwarts-bound,” Tom beamed. “They grow up so fast. Your parents have done you proud, I can tell.”
Harry smiled, warm and genuine. He liked Tom—the old man had a kind face and always remembered Harry’s name, even when Harry had been small enough to need lifting to see over the bar.
The brick wall to Diagon Alley opened at Barty’s practiced wand points, and Harry stepped through into the bustling and wonderful of the wizarding world’s most famous shopping thoroughfare. The summer crowd was thick but not overwhelming, witches and wizards streaming between shop fronts that glittered with enchantments. An owl the size of a small dog swooped overhead with a parcel clutched in its talons. Somewhere, a wizard was demonstrating self-stirring cauldrons to a crowd of appreciative shoppers.
“Right,” Mikaela said, pulling a long, scroll-like list from her coat pocket. “Standard first-year supplies. We can split up if you’d like, Harry—your father can handle the apothecary and the bookshop while you and I tackle the interesting bits.”
“The apothecary is interesting,” Barty defended quietly.
“You’re the only person in Britain who thinks so, darling.”
Harry grinned, slipping between them as they walked. This was familiar, too—the gentle bickering, the easy division of labor, the way his parents orbited each other and him like planets around a shared sun. He’d seen other families in Diagon Alley before, harried parents dragging reluctant children through crowded shops, and he’d always felt grateful that his parents actually liked spending time with him. Not many children were too lucky; he knew that much.
Their first stop was Flourish and Blotts, which Barty had claimed despite his earlier protest about the apothecary. The bookshop was towering and slightly chaotic, shelves reaching toward a distant ceiling, ladders on rails that moved on their own, and a smell—that distinct scent of old paper—that Harry inhaled like perfume.
Mikaela read from the list of books that were standard for incoming first years.
“We’ll need the new editions,” Barty said, already scanning the shelves with the focused intensity he brought to everything. “The 1985 printing of A History of Magic has better annotations on the Goblin Rebellions.”
Harry wandered away while his parents debated editions, his fingers trailing along spines. A book bound in deep blue leather caught his eye—One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore—and he added it to the mental list of things he might want to buy with his own money. His parents had given him a small pouch of galleons for incidental purchases, and Harry had been hoarding it for weeks, dreaming of everything from a telescope of his own to a pocket-sized guide to magical creatures.
“Excuse me.”
The voice came from behind him, high and drawling, with a tone that seemed to add a certain flare to his words. Harry turned to find a boy about his age, white-blond hair and sharp-featured, standing with the particular posture of someone who had never been told to wait in his life. He wore robes of impeccable cut—not the simple, ordinary wizard robes, but dress robes in dark gray that had gold stitches embroidered on the sleeves—and he was looking at Harry the way one might examine a mildly interesting insect.
“Yes?” Harry said.
“Are you here for school supplies as well?” The boy’s gaze swept over Harry’s jeans and jumper with something that might have been disdain. “I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”
“Harry Potter,” Harry replied, because his mother had taught him that introductions were civil even when the other person wasn’t. “Nice to meet you.”
Draco’s eyebrows rose fractionally.
“The Harry Potter? The one who—well.” He seemed to catch himself, smoothing his expression into something more carefully neutral. “I’d heard you were being raised by—are those your parents over there?”
He nodded toward Barty and Mikaela, who were now deep in discussion with a shop assistant about a misprinted rune index. Barty’s hand gestured emphatically; Mikaela was smiling in that particular way she had when she was about to win an argument. And he wondered if they would let him buy that particular book he’d been eyeing unknowingly this whole conversation.
“Yes.” He nodded. “My mum and dad.”
“Professor Starveil and Professor Crouch,” Draco acknowledged, and there was something different in his voice now—less condescension, more assessing the situation. “My father speaks highly of them. He says Professor Crouch’s work on dark artifacts is unmatched, and my mother attended one of Professor Starveil’s guest lectures on lunar magic last year. She was quite impressed.”
“That’s kind of her.” Harry could tell Draco was trying—in his stiff, privileged way—to find common ground. Though he wasn’t sure if they’d level with each other so soon. “Are you starting Hogwarts this year, too?”
“Obviously. I’ve been waiting for my letter since I was six. My whole family has gone to Hogwarts—my father, my grandfather, and his father before him. It’s tradition.”
“That’s nice. My parents teach there, so I’ve visited a few times. The castle’s amazing.”
Draco’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“You’ve been to Hogwarts? What’s it like? I’ve only seen photographs.”
“Big,” Harry answered. “Really big. And the stairs move, which is cool until you’re trying to get somewhere specific. My dad says first-years get lost for at least the first month, no matter how good their sense of direction is.”
“I won’t get lost. I’ve memorized the floor plans from Hogwarts: A History.”
“The floor plans in Hogwarts: A History are wrong,” Harry said, perhaps a bit more bluntly than necessary. “The castle changes. That’s kind of the point.”
Draco’s expression turned to one of annoyance.
“The published floor plans are certified by the Ministry’s Historical Archives. I doubt the castle changes that dramatically.”
“It grew an entire new turret in 1742 because the headmaster at the time insulted the Fat Friar. My mum told me. She’s the astronomy professor, so she has access to the old charts. The turret’s still there, by the way. It’s where they keep the spare brooms.”
Draco stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
“You’re not what I expected at all, Potter.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone more—awkward? Or maybe less aware of how things work.” Draco’s pale cheeks colored faintly, as if he’d admitted something embarrassing. “You’ve grown up in the magical world. That’s—that’s good. Most people like us; we know each other. Our families move in the same circles.”
Our families move in the same circles; Harry didn’t know how to take that information.
He knew that his mother had grown up in a half-magical household and still called her Muggle grandmother every Sunday, his father, who had survived his own father’s Imperius Curse and rebuilt himself into someone worthy of trust and respect. Their circles were wide and varied, including everyone from Ministry officials to Muggle-borns to the old pureblood families who still remembered the dark days and chose a different path.
“Maybe,” Harry nodded carefully, “we move in the circles we choose, not just the ones we’re born into.”
Draco frowned.
“That’s a very—noble—sentiment. But you’ll find, Potter, that some circles are better than others.”
Before Harry could respond, his mother appeared at his elbow, her hand warm on his shoulder. “Harry, we’ve got the books. Are you ready for—oh, hello.” She smiled at Draco, that open, genuine smile that made everyone feel welcome. “You must be starting Hogwarts this year, too. I’m Professor Starveil—I teach Astronomy.”
Draco straightened. The swiftness in how he held himself amazed Harry.
“Draco Malfoy, ma’am. My mother attended your lecture on lunar magic at the Wiltshire Witching Society last spring. She said it was illuminating.”
“That’s very kind of Mrs. Malfoy. Please give her my regards.” Mikaela’s smile didn’t waver, but Harry noticed the slight tension in her shoulders—the barely perceptible shift that meant she was being careful. “Are your parents here with you today?”
“My mother is at Madam Malkin’s, having to pick up my robes,” Draco told her. “I was told to wait here.”
“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Draco.” Mikaela squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “We’d better continue our shopping—so much to do before Hogwarts. Dear, say goodbye.”
“Nice meeting you,” Harry said, and meant it, even though Draco Malfoy was clearly going to be a lot to handle.
Draco inclined his head, a gesture that was almost a nod. “Likewise, Potter. I expect we’ll be seeing each other at school.”
As they walked away, Harry glanced back once and saw Draco watching them go, his pale grey eyes unreadable.
“Interesting boy,” Mikaela murmured, low enough that only Harry could hear.
“He’s a bit… intense?”
Mikaela paused. Harry noted that she was debating whether to tell him or not.
“His father was a Death Eater,” she recalled. “During the war. He claimed the Imperius Curse, and the Ministry believed him—or chose to believe him. But the damage to the family name hasn’t entirely faded. Draco’s probably been raised with a lot of pressure to restore it.”
Harry frowned. He knew about the war—his parents had never hidden the darker parts of wizarding history, though they’d always framed it carefully, age-appropriately. He had to know these things because the majority of the magic folks knew it too.
“Is Draco like his father?”
“I don’t know yet,” Mikaela admitted, sighing. “But I know that nobody is doomed to be their parents. You’re proof of that.”
Harry thought about his own father—though not by blood, Harry often forgot, because to him, Bartemius Crouch Jr. was the person he always thought of whenever the concept of “father” was brought up—a man whose own father had kept him under the Imperius Curse for years, who had emerged from that horror scarred but unbroken, who had chosen love and kindness and teaching over the bitterness that could have consumed him. And then he thought about Draco Malfoy, standing alone in a bookshop while his mother was retrieved his robes, already carrying the weight of a family legacy he hadn’t asked for.
“Maybe,” Harry said slowly, “someone just needs to show him a different way.”
Mikaela smiled and kissed the top of his head.
“That’s your mother talking, you know. Your father would probably just tell him to stop being a prat.”
Harry laughed.
“Dad’s not wrong, though.”
Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was bustling with back-to-school traffic when they arrived. The bell above the door chimed merrily, and Madam Malkin herself—a short, round witch with kind eyes and pins in her mouth—waved them toward the fitting platforms.
“Professor Starveil, Professor Crouch, what a pleasure! And this must be Harry—my, how you’ve grown since Lily brought you in for christening robes. Goodness, that was a lifetime ago.”
Harry blinked.
“You knew my birth mother?”
Madam Malkin’s eyes softened. “Lily was a dear. Always polite, always cheerful, even when her friends tried to convince her to wear Gryffindor colors that clashed horribly with her complexion. I was heartbroken when I heard what happened. But you’ve landed on your feet, I see.” She beamed at Mikaela and Barty. “Fine people, the Starveil-Crouches. Fine people indeed.”
Harry felt a complicated knot of emotions in his chest—gratitude for his present parents, sadness for the parents he’d never known, and a strange, distant curiosity about the woman who had given birth to him. He knew the story, of course. He knew that Lily and James Potter had died protecting him, that they’d loved him fiercely in the brief time they’d had. But knowing wasn’t the same as feeling, and Harry had never quite known how to feel about people who existed only in stories and photographs.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, because it was the only thing to say.
The fitting itself was tedious but quick. Madam Malkin had him stand on a small revolving platform while enchanted measuring tapes swirled around him like overeager snakes, jotting numbers onto floating parchment. A short, chubby boy was on the platform next to him, similarly surrounded by tapes, and he caught Harry’s eye with a look of profound expression that looked like sulking.
“First year, too?” the boy asked.
“Yeah. Harry.”
“Neville Longbottom,” the boy—Neville—had a round, kind face and an air of gentle bewilderment, as if he wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up on a rotating platform being measured for magical robes. “My gran’s over there.” He nodded toward a stern-looking witch in an emerald green cloak and an impressive vulture-topped hat. “She’s more excited than I am, I think. My parents are on sabbatical for a week.”
“My parents are the ones arguing about sleeve length,” Harry smiled, glancing toward Barty and Mikaela, who were indeed having a low-voiced debate about whether the standard first-year cut would accommodate Harry’s growth spurt.
Neville’s face lit up with recognition. “That’s Professor Crouch and Professor Starveil! My Mum speaks very highly of them. Professor Crouch was instrumental in the case that—well.” He flushed, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. Mum talks about ministry business a lot, but it’s also Gran who has a lot to add. I don’t always understand it.”
“It’s fine,” Harry reassured. “My dad doesn’t talk about work much at home, but I know he does something with dark artifacts and legal defense. It’s all a bit over my head.”
That seemed to ease the boy’s nerves.
“Do you know what house you want to be in?” Neville asked, changing the subject with visible relief. “My whole family’s been in Gryffindor. Gran says she’ll disown me if I’m not, but she’s joking. Mostly.”
Harry considered the question. He’d visited Hogwarts enough times to have opinions—the common rooms he’d saw and the stories his parents told about their own students.
“My mum was in Ravenclaw,” he noted. “My dad was in Slytherin. So I’ve got options.”
Neville’s eyes went wide.
“Your dad was in Slytherin? But—I mean—Professor Crouch is one of the bravest people my gran knows. She says he testified against his own father, that he—Sorry, I’m doing it again. Gran’s stories.”
“It’s okay,” Harry replied, though he felt a familiar flicker of discomfort.
His father’s past was complicated, full of shadows and sharp edges that Harry had only begun to understand. What he knew was this: Barty Crouch Jr. had been placed under the Imperius Curse by his own father, Bartemius Crouch Sr., to control him, to use him, to keep him silent about the darker deeds of the Ministry during the war. When the truth had finally come out—thanks in large part to Alastor Moody’s investigation and Mikaela’s unwavering support—Barty had chosen to testify against his father, to break the cycle of fear and control, and to build a new life from the wreckage.
It wasn’t the story Neville’s gran told, probably. But it was the truth Harry carried.
“Houses aren’t destiny,” Harry said finally. “My dad’s the bravest person I know, and he was in Slytherin. And my mum’s the kindest, and she was in Ravenclaw. It’s about what you do, not where you sleep.”
Neville smiled, some of the tension leaving his round face.
“That’s—that’s really good. I’m going to remember that.”
“Neville!” The stern witch in the vulture hat had finished her conversation and was beckoning imperiously. “Stop gossiping and stand still. You want your robes to fit properly, don’t you?”
“Yes, Gran!” Neville gave Harry a quick, apologetic grin. “See you on the train, maybe?”
“Definitely.”
Lunch was at a small café tucked between a potions shop and a purveyor of magical instruments. The café was Muggle-run—a deliberate choice on Mikaela’s part, who believed in supporting local businesses regardless of magical ability—and the sandwiches were excellent. Barty ordered tea that he didn’t drink because it was too hot, then too cold, then too something-else (Mikaela just charmed it to fit Barty’s preference, for which he nodded delightfully), while Mikaela made a detailed list of everything they still needed to purchase.
“Cauldron,” she reminded, tapping her quill against the parchment. “We can get that at Potage’s. Telescope—Harry, do you want the brass one or the collapsible one?”
“Collapsible,” Harry answered immediately. “The brass one is too heavy for travel.”
“Agreed. I’ll make sure you get the quality ones—though I’m still not sure why they still included this when the school provides equipment at the Observation Tower. Scales for potion ingredients, a basic crystal phial set, and—oh, your father insists on dragon-hide gloves.”
“Potions accidents are no joke.” Barty shook his head. “I’ve seen third-years lose eyebrows.”
“I’ll be careful, Dad.”
“Famous last words, really.”
Harry rolled his eyes but smiled. The afternoon stretched ahead of them, full of possibility. After lunch, they visited the apothecary—which did, in fact, smell exactly as terrible as everyone said—and the menagerie, where Harry spent a long time looking at the owls before deciding he wanted a beautiful snowy owl.
(The family cat named Nebula has been with him since he was five and would have been deeply offended by the choice of replacement—but she’ll understand, eventually. The cat was, after all, his parents’ familiar, meaning he’ll be able to see Nebula while at Hogwarts.)
It was at Quality Quidditch Supplies that Harry met Dean Thomas.
The shop was spectacular, even to someone who’d grown up around magic. Brooms lined the walls in gleaming rows—the new Nimbus 2000 displayed prominently in the center, its handle polished to a mirror shine. Quaffles hovered in enchanted display cases, and a Golden Snitch fluttered inside a glass sphere, its tiny wings beating in frantic, beautiful motion.
Harry was staring at the Snitch when a voice beside him said, “Is that really solid gold?”
He turned to find a boy his own age, dark-skinned and bright-eyed, wearing a West Ham United T-shirt and jeans. His face was open and curious, without any of the guarded calculation Harry had seen in Draco Malfoy.
“The outside is,” Harry nodded. “The inside has some kind of magical core so it knows how to fly. My dad says they’re enchanted to avoid capture for as long as possible.”
“That’s mad,” the boy said with genuine wonder. “Everything here is mad. I keep expecting someone to tell me it’s all a prank, you know? Like I’m on some hidden camera show.”
“First year?”
Harry could only guess, but he wasn’t far off from his usual guesses. So far, he’s met a lot of schoolmates already.
“Is it that obvious?”
The boy laughed, sheepish.
“I’m Dean. Dean Thomas. My mum’s a Muggle, so this is all—well, new doesn’t even cover it. I got my letter three weeks ago, and I thought it was a joke until this really tall bloke in a purple cloak showed up at our door and explained everything.”
“That would be your magical liaison,” Harry supplied. “They send someone for Muggle-born families to explain things. My mum’s done that a few times.”
“Your mum’s a witch?”
“Yeah. Both my parents are magical. Well, my mum’s half-blood, so she’s got a Muggle family too. We visit them sometimes.”
Dean’s eyes widened.
“So you’ve known about magic your whole life? That must be brilliant.”
“It’s normal,” Harry said, and then realized how that sounded. “I mean—it’s normal for me. But I can see how it would be weird to just find out. What do you think so far?”
Dean looked around the shop, taking in the gleaming brooms, the hovering Quaffles, the posters of famous Quidditch players that moved and winked. “I think I’m really glad it’s real. I used to make up stories when I was little—about dragons and castles and magic wands, you know? And now it turns out some of it was true. My mum cried when she found out. ‘Happy tears,’ she said. She always knew I was special.”
Something warm unfurled in Harry’s chest. He liked Dean immediately—his openness, his wonder, the way he didn’t pretend to know things he didn’t know.
“Do you have any idea what you want to buy here? The list doesn’t require Quidditch supplies, but—”
“I don’t even know what Quidditch is,” Dean admitted. “The purple cloak bloke tried to explain it, but he got really excited and started talking about the Wimbourne Wasps, and I got lost.”
Harry grinned.
“Quidditch is the main magical sport. There are seven players on a team, four balls, and the point is to get the Quaffle through the other team’s hoops while the Bludgers try to knock you off your broom. Also there’s the Golden Snitch, which is the tiny gold ball over there, and catching it ends the game and adds a hundred and fifty points to your team’s score.”
Dean stared at him.
“That’s—a lot.”
“It makes more sense when you see it played. My dad’s a huge fan of the Tutshill Tornados, so we go to matches sometimes. I could explain the rules properly if you want, just not here where everything costs more than my entire school budget.”
Dean laughed.
“Yeah, that’d be great. I don’t know anyone else yet who’s going to Hogwarts. I mean, I’ve met a few people today, but everyone seems to already know each other from some—I don’t know—magical baby group or something.”
“There are magical families who’ve known each other for generations,” Harry acknowledged. “But there are plenty of people like you, too. Muggle-born or half-blood or just from families who aren’t really connected to the big social scene. You won’t be alone.”
Dean’s smile softened. “Thanks. That’s—that’s good to hear.” He paused, then added, “Are your parents here with you?”
Harry nodded toward the front of the shop, where Barty was deep in conversation with the shopkeeper about broomstick maintenance and Mikaela was examining a display of Quidditch gloves with thoughtful interest.
“That’s them. My mum’s the astronomy professor at Hogwarts, and my dad teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
“Your parents are professors?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s brilliant. Maybe they can help me not accidentally curse myself in the first week.”
“My mom would be a great help. My dad would probably say that accidentally cursing yourself is a rite of passage,” Harry replied, grinning. “But yeah, he’s good. Strict, but fair. And he’s really passionate about defensive magic—like, really passionate. You’ll probably hear a lot of speeches about the importance of knowing how to protect yourself before trouble finds you.”
“He sounds like my mum,” Dean agreed. “She’s always going on about looking both ways before crossing the street and not talking to strangers. I guess danger is danger, whether it’s a car or a curse.”
Harry liked Dean more with every sentence. He was easy to talk to.
“Do you want to get ice cream? There’s a place at the end of the alley—Florean Fortescue’s. Best sundaes in London. I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind if you joined us.”
Dean’s face lit up. “Yeah, that sounds great. I just have to tell my mum—she’s at the bookshop, I think. She wanted to find me some books about magical history so she could ‘catch up,’ whatever that means.”
“My mum says Muggle parents are the bravest,” Harry admitted. “They don’t have magic, but they still support their kids going into a world they can’t fully understand. That takes real courage.”
Something flickered in Dean’s eyes—gratitude, maybe, or relief. There was a thin line between the two.
“I’ll tell her that. She’d like to hear it.”
Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor was a Diagon Alley institution, famous for its hundred flavors and its proprietor’s encyclopedic knowledge of medieval witch trials.
Harry ordered a triple-scoop sundae with chocolate, toffee, and something called “dragon’s breath caramel” that smoked gently and tasted like cinnamon and fire. Dean, more cautiously, chose vanilla with strawberry sauce and sprinkles.
Barty and Mikaela sat at a nearby table with their own sundaes, giving Harry and Dean space to talk. Harry could see his mother watching him with soft, pleased eyes—she loved when he made friends—and his father pretending to read the Daily Prophet while obviously eavesdropping on every word.
“So what’s Hogwarts actually like?” Dean asked, digging into his sundae. “I mean, the liaison said it’s a castle with ghosts and moving staircases, but he also said the food appears out of thin air, and I’m not sure if that’s true or if he was messing with me.”
“The food actually appears out of thin air,” Harry confirmed with a thoughtful nod. “Well, technically the house-elves cook it in the kitchens and then enchant it to appear on the tables. But it looks like magic, which is the important part.”
“House-elves?”
“They’re—um.”
Harry paused, trying to remember how his father had explained this.
“They’re magical creatures who like to work. Some wizards treat them badly, but Hogwarts treats them well. My dad says it’s complicated and I should read more about it before forming an opinion.”
Dean nodded slowly. “My mum always says you should learn about something before judging it. Sounds like your dad’s smart.”
“He’s okay,” Harry shrugged, but he smiled as he said it.
They talked for an hour—about Hogwarts houses, about classes, about the strange and wonderful things Dean had seen in Diagon Alley. Harry told him about the moving staircases and the giant squid in the lake and the way the ceiling of the Great Hall looked like the actual sky, enchanted to show the weather outside. Dean listened with wide-eyed fascination, asking questions about everything, and Harry found himself enjoying the role of explainer.
It was nice, sharing his world with someone who appreciated it so genuinely.
“You should sit with me on the train,” Dean said finally, as they finished their sundaes and Mikaela came over to suggest they start heading home. “If you want, I mean. I don’t know anyone else, and you seem—nice. Friendly. Even though you grew up with magic and everything.”
“I’d like that,” Harry replied. “And you’ll know plenty of people by the time we get to Hogwarts. The train ride’s hours long. People walk up and down the corridors, visiting different compartments. You’ll probably meet our whole year before we even arrive.”
“That’s—actually kind of terrifying,” Dean admitted. “But also exciting. I’ve never been good at meeting new people, but I guess I’ll have to learn.”
“You’ll be fine,” Harry reassured. “You’re easy to talk to. People will like you.”
Dean’s smile was bright and grateful.
“Thanks, Harry. Really.”
The walk back to the Leaky Cauldron was slower than the walk in, weighed down by packages and the pleasant exhaustion of a long day. Harry insisted on carrying his cauldron (lightweight pewter, the collapsible kind his mother had recommended) and a bag of books, while Barty juggled the telescope, the scales, and a large bag of miscellaneous supplies (even though Harry was sure his father knew a charm to just have the supplies floating and following them all the way home).
“Good day?” Mikaela asked.
“Really good.” Harry nodded. “I met a few people. Draco Malfoy—he’s interesting, in a prickly sort of way. And Neville Longbottom, he seemed nice. And Dean Thomas. He’s Muggle-born and doesn’t know much about magic yet. I told him he could sit with me on the train.”
“That was kind of you,” Mikaela hummed in approval. “He must be nervous, starting somewhere completely new without any background knowledge.”
“He seemed excited more than nervous,” Harry added. “His mum cried happy tears when she found out he was a wizard.”
Mikaela’s expression softened.
“Muggle parents often do. They want their children to be special, to have opportunities they never had. It’s a different kind of love than magical parents give, but it’s just as strong.”
Harry thought about his own parents—again, because today was a day for a lot of realizations regarding his parents, the ones who had died and the ones who had raised him. He thought about Lily Potter, a Muggle-born witch who had been brave and brilliant and gone too soon. He thought about Mikaela, who had chosen to raise a child who wasn’t biologically hers, who had given him star charts and bedtime stories and a home full of laughter. He thought about Barty, who had survived unimaginable cruelty and chosen tenderness instead of bitterness and who taught Harry to be strong without being cruel.
“I’m lucky,” Harry confessed.
Mikaela glanced at him, tilting her head.
“What do you mean?”
“I have you. And Dad. And I had—I had them, too, even if I don’t remember them. My biological parents. They loved me enough to die for me. That’s—” He swallowed, trying to find the right words. “That’s a lot of love for one person.”
Mikaela stopped walking.
She turned to face him, her midnight blue eyes bright with unshed tears, and cupped his face in her hands. “Harry Potter,” she said softly, “you are the best thing that ever happened to us. And your birth parents—they would be so proud of the boy you’ve become. Kind and clever and brave. A little sarcastic, maybe, but you got that from your father.” She smiled, and a tear slipped down her cheek.
“Both of them.”
…
Barty cleared his throat. “Are we having a moment? Because I was promised tea at the Leaky Cauldron, and I’m not above interrupting a moment for tea.”
“Darling,” Mikaela sighed, wiping away the stray tear.
“What? It’s quite early to be bawling your eyes out in the middle of the street, love.”
Harry laughed, the sound breaking the intensity of the moment.
“Dad, you’re hopeless. There was a moment.”
“I prefer ‘charmingly persistent.’” Barty shifted his armload of packages and raised an eyebrow. “But yes. Tea. Now. Before I drop this telescope and have to explain to the goblins why we need a new one.”
They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the summer evening settling around them like a blanket. The Leaky Cauldron was warm and golden when they stepped inside, Tom waving them toward a corner table with a pot of tea already waiting. Harry sank into his chair, exhausted and happy and full from the ice cream, and listened to his parents talk about lesson plans and staff meetings and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum Barty was planning for the upcoming year.
Tomorrow, they’d visit Gringotts for his leisure spending money and pick up a few last-minute supplies. Next week, he’d turn eleven—his parents had agreed to having a birthday party in the garden with Harry’s friends from Brookfield Academy invited and sure to come. And then, on September 1st, he’d board the Hogwarts Express and begin the next great adventure of his life.
But for now, he was here.
With a whole world of magic waiting just beyond the horizon. All for him to map out.
Harry smiled into his tea and let himself be happy.